Chapter 1.
If it hadn’t been for the sheep, I might have managed to be bored.
The converted cottage was doing its best to look like a serious city gallery, but all I could see was “former farm stay accommodation with delusions of grandeur.” Whitewashed weatherboard walls, polished Tallowwood floorboards that still creaked like old bones, and the faint, lingering scent of eucalyptus oil that no amount of patchouli incense could quite mask. Paintings hung on every available surface, propped on easels in corners and leaning precariously on low bookcases that had once held tourist brochures about local bushwalks.
Cressida Upthorpe, in a dress that could only be described as a traffic hazard, clutched my arm in excitement. The dress was a violent clash of crimson and lime with enormous black polka dots, like someone had tried to repaint a tomato and given up halfway through.
“Isn’t it marvellous?” she breathed. “Algernon says the starkness of the white walls will really bring out the gore.”
She meant colour, I hoped, but this was Cressida, so gore was equally likely.
Mr Buttons hovered on my other side, immaculate in his beige suit and navy bow tie. His bushy eyebrows were bunched together in a way that suggested deep concern, which was saying something, given they always looked fairly concerned to begin with.
“I’m not entirely convinced about the lighting.” He gazed up at the track-mounted spotlights. “Those bulbs are at least two hundred lumens too bright for Victorian sensibilities.”
“It’s a converted farm cottage,” I reminded him.
“Precisely my point,” he said, as if that explained everything.
We’d driven out of Little Tatterford and along a gravel track to reach this sheep farm bed and breakfast. One of the guest cottages had been cleared out, its floral bedspreads and pine furniture banished to some unfortunate shed, and Algernon Pemberton’s travelling pop-up gallery had sprung up in its place overnight. The entire town had turned out to see it, or at least everyone who vaguely suspected they might be artistic if given the right lighting and a glass of free wine.
Cressida had several paintings on display. I could tell, because they were the ones that made people recoil.
A woman in a sensible cardigan stepped closer to one particularly large canvas and clapped a hand over her mouth. The painting depicted what appeared to be a jockey mid-fall, several horses trampling over him while tiny, disturbingly realistic teeth flew in all directions.
“Goodness,” the woman whispered. “Is that…?”
“Movement!” Mortimer Fyfe-Waring materialised at her elbow, his spray-on tan glowing like an orange beacon under the spotlights. “Dynamic, visceral movement. Look at the brushwork, the composition, the drama!”
The woman backed away, murmuring something about needing air.
Mortimer smoothed his three-piece grey suit and beamed at Cressida. “They’re responding. This is what we want. Emotional engagement. Revulsion is still engagement.”
“Oh, Mortimer,” Cressida sighed happily. “You always know just what to say.”
Before I could edge away, a man glided towards us. Algernon Pemberton looked as if he’d stepped straight out of a lifestyle blog—slim, immaculate chinos, a linen shirt the exact colour of unbleached organic flour, and a faintly smug smile. His hair was so carefully styled it probably had its own Instagram account.
“Mortimer,” he said, with the kind of warmth one might use for a distant cousin one had successfully avoided for years. “I simply had to thank you again for allowing me to include Cressida’s work in our regional tour.”
Mortimer’s smile disappeared. He stared at Algernon.
“I did not,” he said, in a voice that had lost its usual theatrical bounce, “allow you anything. Cressida requested that I allow her paintings to hang here so I agreed. I usually place her work where it will be appreciated and properly curated.”
“Exactly,” Algernon said. “And here we are.” He gave Cressida a sparkling smile. “Your pieces are the linchpin of the entire exhibition. People are talking about them in every town we visit.”
“Some of them fainted in Narrabri,” Cressida said proudly. “Mortimer says that’s a very good sign.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Algernon said. “We’ve had people step right back and bump into furniture. And one gentleman in Warwick said he’ll never eat calamari again.”
“That’ll be the one with the octopus,” Cressida said modestly.
While this heart-warming conversation about traumatised attendees continued, Mortimer’s jaw tightened. His eyes, always a little sharp, had gone flinty.
“You’ll understand,” he said to Algernon, “if I find your presence in my territory vexing.”
“Oh, Mortimer,” Algernon said, laughing lightly. “Art transcends territory. Besides, I’m only here for a week. Think of it as healthy competition.”
Vlad, Mortimer’s ever-present shadow, shifted slightly behind him. Vlad never looked quite right indoors, as though he ought to be standing beside a black car in a windswept paddock. His dark eyes flicked from Mortimer to Algernon, amused.
“Healthy competition,” Vlad repeated.
Algernon’s smile slipped, just for a heartbeat. Then he clapped his hands together.
“Speaking of healthy,” he said, “I’m on a weeklong juice cleanse. Transformative.” He pronounced the last word as though he’d invented it. “I must go and prepare my next concoction before the speeches. Cold-pressed kale and various greens. One must keep up one’s vigour when bringing culture to the regions.”
“Quite,” Mortimer muttered. “Wouldn’t want to wilt halfway through undercutting the local galleries.”
Algernon sailed past the remark. “Enjoy,” he said, with a little bow to Cressida and, as an afterthought, to me and Mr Buttons. “Soak in the creativity. Feel the vibrations.”
I hoped he meant the artistic kind and not the sort that suggested the floorboards were about to give way.
As he disappeared through a doorway, Mortimer hissed something under his breath that I strongly suspected wasn’t an appreciation of Algernon’s entrepreneurial spirit.
“This pop-up nonsense,” he said loudly enough for us to hear, “is ruining the professional gallery business. A man with a van and a credit card machine swoops in, undercuts everyone, and drives back to the city with the profits. It’s barbaric.”
“Now, now,” Cressida said, patting his arm. “Don’t be upset, Mortimer.”
We drifted further into the cottage, carried along by the tide of people clutching plastic wine cups and murmuring about brushstrokes. Everywhere I looked there were familiar Little Tatterford faces, scrubbed and shining for a night of culture. The old fireplace had been stripped of its crocheted doilies and porcelain sheep; in their place stood a tall metal plinth bearing one of Cressida’s more restrained works—a simple decapitation, tastefully rendered.
“I must say, Cressida,” came a new voice behind me, “your work is, um, startling.”
We turned to see a tall, neatly dressed woman gliding towards us. Everything about her was precise: sleek dark bob, tailored jacket, a scarf knotted just so. She carried herself as though the floor belonged to her and the rest of us were clutter.
“Felicity!” Cressida beamed. “Sybil, Mr Buttons, this is Felicity Fyfe, a local artist.”
“World-famous artist,” Felicity corrected smoothly, not bothering to look at me or Mr Buttons. “My work is collected internationally.” Her lips twitched.
“Of course,” Cressida said. “How silly of me. World-famous artist.”
Felicity gave Mortimer a brief nod. “I had to see this for myself.” Her gaze travelled up and down Cressida’s dress, lingering on the clashing colours, the enormous red glasses, the lipstick applied with its usual generous enthusiasm. “Oh, how brave of you to wear a dress like that.”
“Thank you,” Cressida said, clearly delighted. “I bought it online. It was on clearance for some reason.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Felicity murmured, before turning suddenly as a woman nearby said, “I love the blue in that one.”
Felicity stiffened. “It is not blue,” she said, striding over. “It is cerulean. There is an ocean of difference between the two.”
The poor woman took a step backwards. “Oh”
“If you cannot distinguish between blue and cerulean, you have no business attempting to interpret art,” Felicity said crisply. “It’s like trying to discuss literature when you can’t tell the difference between a comma and a full stop.”
I exchanged a look with Mr Buttons.
“She seems charming,” I muttered.
“Quite,” he said. “In the way vinegar is charming when poured into one’s tea.”
Felicity, apparently satisfied that she had defended the honour of cerulean, sailed off into the next room, no doubt looking for someone else’s opinion to correct.
Cressida, oblivious, hooked her arm through mine again. “Come on,” she said. “We must do the full tour.”
We wandered through the cottage, room by room. Where there had once been a double bed with a floral doona, there was now a stark white wall covered in landscapes and portraits from various regional artists. The bathroom had been stripped of towels and toiletries and now hosted a series of small abstract pieces above the old claw-footed bath. Thankfully, no one had tried to make a statement with the toilet.
In the largest room, the former living area, abstracts led to muted rural scenes, which segued into more challenging works, ending in what I could only describe as Cressida’s people-being-eaten collection.
“That one’s new,” I said, eyeing a painting of an enormous crocodile and what might once have been a fisherman. “I don’t remember seeing it at the boarding house.”
“Oh, yes,” Cressida said happily. “I finished it last month. It’s called Lunch. Mortimer says the red really sings.”
It screamed, actually, but I didn’t say so.
Mr Buttons was less interested in artistic flow and more concerned with fingerprints. His polishing cloth had made its inevitable appearance, and he was surreptitiously buffing a smudge off a gilt frame.
Raised voices caught my attention. They weren’t loud enough to be obvious, but they had that strained, hissed quality that meant somebody was trying very hard to have an argument without anyone noticing.
Near the far wall, partially hidden by a large painting of a storm, Algernon stood almost nose to nose with a man I hadn’t met before. The stranger was sharply dressed in a navy suit, his dark hair styled as meticulously as Algernon’s. He held himself with the kind of straight-backed efficiency that screamed committee meetings and agendas.
“That’s Evan Ultra,” Cressida whispered, following my gaze. “The new mayor. Isn’t he lovely? He’s so efficient. He wants to modernise everything.”
From the look on Algernon’s face, everything currently included him.
The two men apparently became aware of our attention at the same moment. Algernon’s expression smoothed over into something approximating charm; Evan’s became blandly mayoral.
“Enjoying the exhibition?” Evan called, voice suddenly hearty. “Wonderful turnout. Great for the town.” He clapped Algernon on the shoulder—a shade too hard—and they moved together towards the hallway, their voices dropping again as they stepped into the narrower space.
Mortimer appeared at my other elbow as if summoned. “Who on earth is that man Algernon’s locked horns with?”
“The mayor,” Cressida said. “Isn’t he efficient?”
Mortimer’s eyes followed the two men, narrowing. “He doesn’t look at all artistic.”
The argument in the hallway grew louder, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakably snappish. Then a group of people squeezed past them from another room, separating them slightly, and the voices subsided.
Before we could drift closer in the guise of looking at a still life of apricots, a small ripple of laughter travelled through the crowd. It rolled towards us like a gentle wave, followed by a murmur of puzzled appreciation.
“What now?” I asked.
We soon found out.
A sheep had wandered into the gallery.
It stood just inside the open front door, a plump, woolly Merino with a spray-painted blue number on its flank. It looked around calmly, chewing, as if mildly surprised to find art and canapés.
“Oh!” gasped a woman in a floral dress. “How clever. Look at that. A performance piece.”
Her companion clasped her hands. “Yes! It represents the incursion of agriculture into the realm of high art. The juxtaposition is stunning.”
The sheep took a few leisurely steps onto the polished Tallowwood, its hooves clicking. It paused beside one of Cressida’s most dramatic canvases—a shipwreck scene with dismembered sailors—and sniffed it.
“Brilliant,” someone breathed. “It’s interacting with the work.”
The sheep lost interest in the shipwreck and ambled further into the room. A man near the door frowned.
“Should it be doing that?” he asked hesitantly. “Won’t it… make a mess?”
“Nonsense,” said the floral-dress woman. “It’s clearly part of the exhibition. These pop-up galleries are so innovative these days. I read about one in Berlin that used live snails.”
As if on cue, the sheep flicked an ear and made a small, disgruntled noise.
A second woman peered at it, tilting her head. “Do you think it’s animatronic?” she whispered. “The movement is so natural. Look at the way the ears pivot.”
The sheep chose that moment to sneeze. Tiny droplets flew. Several people stepped back, impressed.
“Incredible realism,” someone said reverently. “The artist must have done a residency on a farm.”
“It just came in from the farm,” I said, but no one was listening.
A harassed-looking man in a checked shirt hurried in from the verandah.
“Sorry, folks,” he said. “Mabel’s not part of the show. She’s just nosy.”
A collective sigh went up, as if he’d ruined the ending of a film.
“I thought it was a metaphor,” the floral-dress woman muttered, clearly disappointed.
“I still think it’s a metaphor,” her friend replied. “Just not an intentional one.”
The farmer ushered Mabel out, the sheep departing to a smattering of reluctant applause.
“I’m so glad you invited me,” I told Cressida. “I’d have hated to miss that.”
She gave my arm a squeeze. “Art is meant to challenge, Sybil.”
We drifted on. The rooms blurred together into a haze of colours, murmurs, and the clink of plastic wine cups. I was starting to think idly about whether I c should have a second glass of Chardonnay, when a high-pitched shriek cut through the low hum of conversation.
For a fraction of a second, no one moved. Then a woman’s voice rang out from somewhere near the back of the cottage, on the other side of the former kitchen.
“He’s dead!”
Wine sloshed. Someone dropped a plastic cup. It bounced on the floor and spun in an arc of red droplets.
Cressida’s fingers dug into my arm.
“Oh dear,” she whispered. “Not again.”
