Fox Hunt

By Chris Quinton

Rob is under commission to clean two Elizabethan portraits painted on wooden panels. But other collectors want them as well, and one will stop at nothing to get his hands on both panels.

 

The portraits were stolen from Fox Courtney's home, and he wants them back. He, too, will stop at nothing. He has the advantage—he's a vampire.

 

The inevitable clash will endanger Rob and his family, but as he grows closer to Fox, there's even more at risk—his heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kouros Books
• Release date: Jan 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798224716906

Chris Quinton

Chris Quinton  Chris started creating stories not long after she mastered joined-up writing, somewhat to the bemusement of her parents and her English teachers. But she received plenty of encouragement. Her dad gave her an already old Everest typewriter when she was ten, and it was probably the best gift she'd ever received – until the inventions of the home-computer and the worldwide web. Chris's reading and writing interests range from historical, mystery, and paranormal, to science-fiction and fantasy, writing mostly in the male/male genre. She also writes the occasional male/female novel in the name of Chris Power. She refuses to be pigeon-holed and intends to uphold the long and honourable tradition of the Eccentric Brit to the best of her ability. In her spare time [hah!] she reads, or listens to audio books while quilting or knitting. Over the years she has been a stable lad [briefly] in a local racing stable and stud, a part-time and unpaid amateur archaeologist, a civilian clerk at her local police station and a 15th century re-enactor. She lives in a small and ancient city not far from Stonehenge in the south-west of the United Kingdom, and shares her usually chaotic home with an extended family, three dogs, a Frilled Dragon [lizard], sundry goldfish and tropicals

Book preview

Chapter One

Falling off a ladder is not a good idea. For someone of my dad’s age, pushing seventy, it was an extremely bad one. He ended up in hospital with concussion, cracked ribs, a broken hip, and very lucky that a reasonably sober Uncle Joe had chosen that particular time to drop in for a chat.

What, I asked him as I gave him a brief and careful hug that was quickly fended off, do you do for your next trick? Going for flippancy meant I could hide how upset I was. Dad had come late to marriage and fatherhood and he was of a generation that hated emotional displays. My brother and I had long ago learned not to indulge in them. My cousin Lisa was the only exception to that unwritten rule. She’d come to live with us as a child and Mum and Dad had cosseted her as if she was a fairy princess.

Fire walking, he wheezed. Don’t make me laugh, Rob, it hurts. What are you doing here? You should be at work.

When I get a phone call from Lisa saying you’re at death’s door, what else am I supposed to do? Tell her to call back after library hours, or drop everything and hotfoot it from London to Salisbury?

He tried to give one of his disparaging snorts. She always exaggerates. You know that.

Yes, which is why I assumed you were in no danger of popping your clogs, but were badly hurt. How far wrong am I?

We-ell...

Exactly. I peered at his bandaged forehead and wondered uneasily about concussions, haematoma, other trauma. I’d already been briefed by his doctor, of course, and he’d assured me there were no signs he’d suffered a mini-stroke or anything else that might have caused him to lose his balance, but even so... You old fool. What were you doing up the damned ladder in the first place?

Can’t remember, he muttered. Blast it, Robert, stop fussing over me! I’m not made of glass.

No, and you’re not immortal, either, I reminded him. You happen to be the only father I’ve got, and I’d just as soon you stayed around for a few more years yet.

I fully intend to, my lad.

Good. Which means you’ll be doing what the doctors and nurses tell you without argument?

Of course! I never argue!

Somehow I managed not to laugh. Sorry, wrong word. How stupid of me. I gave him an affectionate smile. Discuss? Debate?

Huh. Any sharper and you’ll cut yourself. Something like his old twinkle showed in his hazel eyes. Did they tell you how long I’m likely to be in here? I asked Lisa and Mike, but couldn’t get any sense out of either of them.

Probably because your doctor won’t commit himself to a date yet, I pointed out. He says it depends on how you respond to treatment. But it’s going to be weeks rather than days, Dad, so don’t build your hopes up.

Damn! The anger and frustration in that one word spoke volumes.

What have you started that can’t wait? I sighed. Who have you promised delivery dates?

Baverstock. Remember the van Dyck you helped with? He brought me a couple of Sixteenth Century panels. I’ve almost finished Ann, but I’ve only done the preliminary work on Adam. He fixed a thoughtful gaze on me, and a slow smile lightened that carved-in-oak face of his. Robbie-lad...

Dad, I warned, don’t start. I’ve only taken a week’s leave.

That’ll be enough to finish Ann.

I’m a librarian, not a fine art restorer. Oh, but I wanted to be... The hard realities of life meant it could be no more than a pipedream. For Dad, it was a beloved hobby. For me to make it a career, I’d need official qualifications, degrees, letters after my name, and they don’t come cheap. My monthly salary from the library gave me money to live on with a bit to spare, nowhere near enough to fund university courses.

But you’re damn good at it, all the same, he countered. Taught you all I know, didn’t I? And you have a talent for it, more than Mike does, but he could help you. Between the two of you, you could finish Adam in a couple of weeks, and I’d be able to rest easy in here knowing you’ll be taking care of them.

That is blackmail! I snapped. You should be ashamed.

No, it’s not! It’s a matter of the family honouring commitments. Come on, son. I know you can do it.

I’ll think about it, I said reluctantly, a part of me turning happy cartwheels. It had been too long since I’d done any restoration. But it isn’t entirely down to me, you know. There are the people I work with who’ll have to cover my job for longer if I extend my leave. Knowing how difficult he could be about obeying doctors and staying put, and that my brother and cousin were simply not capable of controlling the old tyrant, I’d already arranged another two week option. But he didn’t have to know that or I’d be accused of fussing again. And talking about family, where is Mike?

I sent him back to the workshop. I’d made a bit of a mess landing on things, and the bench was knocked over. There’s a fair amount of cleaning up to be done, Joe said. Luckily I wasn’t working on Ann, just an eighteenth century Orkney spinning-wheel for Beau. Didn’t you go there?

No, I said with an indulgent smile. Oddly enough I came straight to the hospital. How about Uncle Joe? Who was also conspicuous by his absence.

Mike took him away with him. He doesn’t get any better, you know.

I know. And Lisa?

Had to collect Beth from the playgroup and couldn’t get hold of Simon or a neighbour to do it for her. His voice sounded strained, and there were frown-lines of pain as well as worry on what I could see of his forehead. Rob, the paintings... And keep an eye on Mike. He’s - drifting.

Dad, he’s twenty-two, not twelve, I said gently. Dad had never played favourites between us, taking my homosexuality in his stride, but he always worried more about my brother. God knows Mike gave him enough cause.

Dad didn’t say a word, just looked at me as if he really believed the four years’ difference between Mike and me actually gave me some kind of authority over him. So I nodded and smiled, and patted his hand instead of hugging him. Yes, I said. I’ll do what I can about all of them. I promise.

Something knotted in my stomach. Here we go again. Robert the Ever-Sensible is expected to take charge. Again. Mum had died eleven years ago of a totally unexpected aneurysm, and Dad took it very hard. Because I was the eldest, fifteen years old, it had fallen on me to hold the fort until he came out of his grief-induced isolation. It took him nearly three years.

Just for once, I reflected wistfully, I’d like to be able to say no, indulge myself in a stupidly frivolous and irresponsible piece of nonsense, just for the hell of it. I flattened the thought guiltily and concentrated on Dad. I wanted to ask him about the paintings, but didn’t. He always kept detailed notes and I could find out all I needed to know from them. Or ask him tomorrow.

I didn’t stay long after that. He was looking very tired, old and frail, and if I let him see how it upset me, it would make him even more uncomfortable. So I meekly accepted the inevitable words of wisdom, discussed finances briefly, then put on my brightest smile and trotted out a few teasing remarks before retreating.

According to the doctor, Dad was in no real danger, his heart was as sound as a bell and he had the constitution of an Army tank. There was no reason why he shouldn’t make a full recovery, it would just take time.

Reassured to an extent, I drove through a dismal November afternoon to Wilsford. On the outskirts of the village I turned into the unsurfaced lane leading to Dad’s cottage. Mike’s beloved Kawasaki was parked outside the converted two storey stable-block that did duty as Dad’s main workshop, and a tarpaulin had been thrown over it to give some protection against the weather. I left my car beside the bike, and splashed through the puddles to the workshop door.

Mike? I called as I entered. And stopped in my tracks. Holy shit! The barn-like room had once been three loose-boxes with stalls opposite. The partitions had been taken out years ago, work benches set up, floor-to-ceiling shelving put in against the walls, and a proper staircase replaced the ladder to the hayloft. Now the reasonably ordered place looked as if a whirlwind had gone through it. The chemical reek was amazing. I thought you were supposed to be clearing up this mess!

I am! That came from above me. The hayloft had become a storeroom mostly filled with Dad’s magpie collection of interesting things or items to be mended, and were either too large to get into the cottage or had overflowed from the shelves below.

Mike loped down the stairs, wiping cobwebs from his shoulders and dark hair. Even unshaven, dust-streaked and dishevelled, he was too damned handsome for his own good. He took after Mum’s side of the family. Me, I looked like Dad, rather angular in face and build, a brown-haired, brown-eyed Mr Average.

Hi, Rob. I’ve rescued Beau’s spinning-wheel, mopped up most of the spillages, and hauled all I could upstairs. How the hell can one old man and a ladder create this kind of devastation?

Natural talent. I sighed. What actually happened? Does anyone know?

Nope. He shrugged. And Dad doesn’t remember a thing about it. Uncle Joe found him with the ladder on top of him and the bench on its side. Looked as if he’d fallen on one end of it and a leg had collapsed, throwing it over. That glop of his was everywhere. Just as well he’s stripping the wheel. Half his work’s done for him now.

For us, I corrected. There was no sense in prolonging the bad news. He wants us to finish off his projects.

What? No way! Mike’s reaction was predictable. "Rob, he can’t! I can’t! I’m no good at this sort of thing, you know that and so does he!"

Look at it this way, I said. It’s going to be a while before he can do it himself, and he needs us to honour his commitments for him.

Mike groaned and sat on the edge of the overturned bench. When you put it like that... he said gloomily, but there isn’t a lot I can do without risk. Beau’s wheel is about my limit. At least it’s vaguely mechanical. Mike had a talent with anything involving moving parts, and Dad had called upon it more than once. Last year Mike had done a wonderful job on a late Victorian music-box Beau had brought in.

Beau, otherwise known as Cecil Hedges Antiques, owned and ran a small but select shop in Amesbury, and had subsequently sold the music-box for a tidy profit. He professed himself eternally grateful to the Rees family in general and to Mike in particular, which made Mike very nervous in his presence. Beau had a fondness for fine-looking young men.

Don’t sell yourself short. I smiled. Dad has every faith in us both. As far as I can gather, it’s just the spinning-wheel and a couple of portraits he’s cleaning for George Baverstock. They weren’t in here, were they? I asked, suddenly horror-struck. Before I’d left the hospital, Dad had told me he was relying on the fee for the two cleanups to go towards the desperately needed rethatching of the cottage next summer.

No. They were in the tack room, wrapped up in sacking inside the mash-copper. That was a large copper barrel inside a brick-built container with a small hearth inset beneath it. Many years ago, the groom who lived in the cottage had cooked up the porridge-like mash for his charges in winter. Now it was Dad’s safe, anonymous beneath stacks of old picture frames and assorted paraphernalia. The one of Ann is a stunner, Mike continued. Dad fell for her in a major way, and I can see why. My kind of girl, right down to the fortune in jewels she’s wearing. She and her old man are way out of my league, though. Dad says they are almost certainly by Hilliard. They’ll be for you to deal with.

I was both elated and panic-stricken. Their probable price ticket didn’t bear thinking about. You can help, I suggested, but he shook his head.

Wouldn’t dare. They are worth a fortune, Rob. I’d be scared to breathe on them, let alone start cleaning them.

Okay. I ruffled his rather over-long hair. It flopped over his forehead, making him look even more like the archetypal gypsy charmer. Mum’s side of our family, the Wells, had links with the Romani as well as local itinerant tinker communities, and it showed up in Mike’s rather spectacular features. How much of Hepple’s jungle-juice is left, or did it all end up on the floor?

No, it’s safe. Tucked away with the portraits in the usual place, but there’s only half a bottle. Enough to finish Ann, probably. Most of this is Dad’s patent wood stripper and various dyes, glues and solvents. Don’t strike a match whatever you do. He paused, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather motorcycle jacket, all humour gone. Rob, the doc said Dad would be okay, it’s just going to take a lot of time and common sense on his part. Is that what he told you?

Yes. Against all conditioning, I leaned forward awkwardly and put my arms around him. He freed his hands and wrapped his arms around my shoulders in an answering clumsy embrace. Don’t worry. Dad will be back to his old impossible self before we know it.

I believed it, I swear I did, but all the might-have-beens came crowding into my thoughts and by the tension in him, Mike shared the same waking nightmares.

Of course he will, he said gruffly. Go and have a look at Ann while I put the kettle on. I’ll finish in here later.

Okay. We broke apart and gave each other mutually reassuring slaps on the back, and I went to inspect Dad’s latest miracle in the making.

The tack room was across the yard from the workshop, and the extra windows he’d fitted were adding a lot of natural light. Here was the only place where Dad kept a steady ambient temperature. Special bulbs hung from the ceiling and were fitted in the two Anglepoise lamps, combining with the north-facing double-glazed windows to give all the illumination a restorer could need.

This workroom was solely for the cleaning of paintings, though at first glance it looked more like a miniature version of a cross between a library and a mad scientist’s laboratory. Apart from the easel, and the large magnifying glass on an extendable arm clamped to it.

Carefully I extracted the paintings from their safe place, and once again I discovered Dad had excelled himself. The portraits had been painted on wooden panels about thirty centimetres by twenty, and while one was dull and all but