Blood on the Wood by Gillian Linscott Read Free Book Online Page B

She put a hand lightly on my arm to stop me by a chest of drawers painted in a wild rose pattern. ‘That’s mine. I do the painting, though wood’s so beautiful it sometimes seems a crime to paint it at all.’
    â€˜Do you and Mr Sutton do all this on your own?’
    â€˜There’s another craftsman and two apprentices from the village, but we give them Saturday afternoons off. In time, we hope to be employing a lot more people from round here – maybe encourage them to set up their own workshops all over the village. The point is to show what can be done by craftsmen working with love, not having to think of profits all the time.’
    I noticed a small oval mirror in a carved stand on top of the chest of drawers, of an unusual design. The mirror was cradled by two beautifully worked female hands in some glowing golden wood.
    â€˜Your hands?’ I said.
    I’d noticed that hers were particularly fine and slim. She laughed and blushed a little.
    â€˜You’re observant, aren’t you? Yes, we can’t run to professional models.’
    But in spite of the casual tone I could see it pleased her. She stared into the mirror and the reflection of her face was clasped between her golden carved hands. The sound of the lathe faltered and when I turned Mr Sutton was watching her, a little smile on his face like a man trying to contain his pride. Not surprising because the mirror stand was a masterpiece. While we’d been walking round, Daniel had followed us, looking fidgety and trying to get Carol on her own again. We almost completed our circuit and came up to the big cabinet she’d been examining when we came in. It seemed out of place. The rest of the furniture in the workshop had a light and airy feel about it. This thing was massive, made in dark bog oak and corrugated with carvings.
    â€˜This isn’t one of ours. It’s Jacobean. It belongs to a friend of mine who wants it restored. It’s not the kind of work we normally do but it’s an interesting piece.’
    The front of the cabinet was divided into eight panels, four on each door, with what looked like scenes from a play or story carved on them. The top left hand one showed a man riding away on a horse and a lady waving him goodbye from a tower. Below that was a window in a house with what looked like some demon or hobgoblin creeping through it. The carving was rough but spirited, showing the creature with unnaturally long fingers and a grisly grin. The next panel had the hobgoblin standing full length with a girl who might be a serving wench, each on one side of a cradle. The hobgoblin figure was carrying a short sword and the wench a bowl. The bottom panel on that side and the top one on the other had been damaged so it was hard to make out what was happening but the next one showed the wench and the hobgoblin with a lady. He had his long fingers in her hair and her body was tilted backwards, mouth open in a little dark ‘O’. The last two panels showed the wench burning in a tire and the hobgoblin creature hanging from a gallows, eyes popping and tongue lolling all the way down to its splayed knees. I asked what the story was.
    â€˜Janie and I were just trying to work it out when you came in. Janie doesn’t like it one bit, do you?’
    The young mother had moved aside, clasping the baby to her more tightly than before. Her hands were square and blunt-fingered. She shook her head but didn’t say anything. Carol turned to Daniel.
    â€˜You know about legends and ballads. See what you make of it.’
    He came over, but more to please her than because he was interested. While he was looking at it, the workshop door crashed open and a man came in like a sudden gust of wind.
    â€˜All right then, where’s this workers’ co-operative?’
    I’d seen Harry Hawthorne at various meetings so recognised both him and his method of making an entrance: in a hurry and loudly. He was