by Mez Blume
A church bell tolled the half hour. Dobbs slapped his hand to his forehead. “Crikey, I ‘bout forgot! I’m s’posed to meet the Inspector in ‘alf an hour!” He spun around to make a dash for it, then spun back again. “Nearly forgot.” Taking off his hat and flipping it upside down, he reached his arm in up to the elbow like a magician feeling for a white rabbit and pulled out two hats, one green and one maroon, two pairs of white gloves and two lace handkerchiefs.
Returning his own hat to its perch on his ears, he gave the rim a little tip and was off. We watched as he and Betsy leapt onto the back of an omnibus which carried them around the corner and away through the streets of London.
I was thinking how I should like to learn to catch a moving vehicle like that when Imogen sighed deeply.
“Well, what should we do first?” she asked, turning for the door. “Try on our new clothes or do our homework?”
That was easy. “I’m dying to find out what’s in that folder,” I answered. By the time we’d got back to the privacy of our room the night before, it had been too dark to properly sort through the contents of the Phineas Webb files, and I had been itching to discover what information the Inspector had collected on him. “We’ve only got a few hours before the exhibition opens. I want to get through as much of it as we can so we know who we’re dealing with.”
An hour later, I sat sprawled over documents on the bed while Imogen twisted around with the tiny hand mirror trying to see the back of her dress. “That Dobbs might have a future career in fashion. This fits like it was made for me, don’t you think?”
“What?” I glanced up for half a second – “Oh, yea. Looks lovely.” – and resumed reading the newspaper clipping I was in the middle of. It was a review by an art critic from many years earlier. “Listen to this, Im.” I cleared my throat and read:
Since his earliest days in the Royal Academy, Mr. Webb has stood apart from his peers as a daring artist with little regard for the rules of classical painting. He has controversially been known to portray the scenes from the Scriptures and even the Holy Family with shocking naturalism, causing the viewer to blush as if he were peering through a vestry window at these sacred events.
But never before has Mr. Webb’s naturalism risen to such a height as in his newest and most lauded work, The Wedding Feast. The eternal banquet itself brings to mind a heraldic scene, perhaps a feast at the mythic King Arthur’s table. The painting is executed with such a sense of reality, such an attention to detail, that it is almost impossible to believe Mr. Webb did not, by some magic, journey to medieval times himself, the way the naturalist travels to the Galapagos Islands to bring back living specimens. Webb’s paintings admittedly do not have a heartbeat, but they are all but alive.
“Katie, you really ought to get dressed. We’ll be late.”
I pulled my eyes away from the review. But as I undressed, the line kept playing itself over in my head. “By some magic…” Could there really be some magic in Phineas Webb’s painting, or was this just the critic’s imaginative style? I felt the old tingling sensation. Could it mean that, perhaps, we were getting closer to Ramona?
My mind was full of possibilities as I pulled on the green dress. “We can’t botch this up tonight,” I said as Imogen fastened up the back.
“You’re the one who wanted me to do the acting, you know.”
“I know,” I admitted. “And you’ll do a great job. I just meant … I feel like we’re on to something here. I don’t want to blow it when we might be getting close.”
Imogen walked around to face me and braced my shoulders. “Just try to calm down Katie. We just got here a couple days ago, remember? You know I want to find Ramona too, but just don’t get your hopes up too high.”
I nodded, but inside, my heart was galloping with expectation. Phineas Webb just had to be the key to unlock this mystery.
The bells tolled seven o’clock just as we took cover in the shadows of the triple-arched carriageway of Somerset House.
“What am I supposed to do with this handkerchief?” Imogen stuffed the cloth into her neckline, shook her head and pulled it out again.
“I don’t know. Just carry it, I suppose.” I reached up to make sure my little straw brimmed hat was straight, then took a bracing breath. “Ready?”
“Yup.” Imogen nodded, then, “Oh wait.” She stuffed the handkerchief up one of her ruffled sleeves. “Ok.”
We linked arms the way we’d seen so many elegant ladies do, and stepped out into a pool of gaslight. There were crowds of people locked in enthusiastic conversation coming out of the open doors of the Exhibition Rooms. Two policemen stood on either side of the door. One of them caught my eye, and I quickly turned away, taking Imogen with me.
“How are we supposed to have a private word with Phineas Webb if all these people are waiting to see him?” Imogen whispered.
I shook my head, frustrated with myself. Why hadn’t I bargained on all of Mr. Webb’s admirers having the same bright idea to ambush him outside of the Exhibition Room? Only now did I realise how outlandish my idea had been, like trying to get an autograph from a Victorian rock star.
The sound of hooves drew my eye to the carriageway where a pair of beautiful white horses pulled a luxurious carriage. The driver, a man in a tall top hat, called them to a halt in the middle of the carriageway and looked at a small door in the passage as if waiting for someone to come through it.
I gasped. “Come with me,” I whispered, taking Imogen’s arm.
“Where are we going?”
“Remember what Janklow said about Phineas Webb? How he’s a hermit and avoids crowds?”
A light switched on in Imogen’s eyes. “You think that could be his getaway carriage?”
Just then, the side door opened, and two men stepped briskly out. The first wore a turban. He opened the carriage door and took out a fur blanket from inside. The other man was casting about anxiously, as if hoping not to be seen. He was very tall and impressive, even in the dim lighting, with thick, bushy sideburns that came right down to his chin.
Although the picture I had seen of Phineas Webb in the case file was from his younger days, there was no mistaking the dignified face. “That’s him,” I said hoarsely in Imogen’s ear, and gave her arm a tug. “Quick, before he gets into the carriage!”
Without a second’s hesitation, she rushed forward waving her hand as if to flag him down. “Oh, Mr. Webb. Thank heavens we haven’t missed you!”
He froze, his foot was already on the step. Then, cautiously, he peered around the carriage door.
Imogen, like a champion, dove right into conversation as if the whole thing had been rehearsed. “Oh, Mr. Webb, we’ve had such bad luck, you’ve no idea. I’m so glad we caught you. My father is the greatest admirer of your work. He wanted to attend the exhibition more than anything but he couldn’t because… because he’s away on business in…”
I caught up to her just in time to blurt out, “India!”
“Exactly,” Imogen said with a nod. “He’s in India working for… the Queen. So he sent me on his behalf. I’m very interested in art, you see. And–”
“Pardon me, Miss.” Mr. Webb interrupted. He shook his head as if clearing it. “Your Father is…?”
“Oh, how silly of me not to say. Lord Humphreys. You’ve probably heard of him?” Imogen paused hopefully.
My heart pumped audibly.
“Or if you’ve not heard of him, I’m sure that’s because he spends such a lot of his time in India… on business for the Queen.”
Mr. Webb seemed to be searching his memory. “Yes. Yes, I dare say. Lord Humphreys. The name does ring a bell. And do I understand that your father has sent you to advise him on the purchase of one of my new paintings?”
“Exactly. Only, unfortunately,” Imogen became suddenly forlorn, “our horse went lame on the way here and we’ve missed the exhibition. Such a pity… but maybe next time…” We both curtseyed and slowly, as slowly as we could manage, began to t
urn away. My heart was in my throat.
“Wait.”
My heart skipped a beat. We turned back to find Mr. Webb fingering for something inside his coat.
“Why don’t you come for a private viewing of the paintings at my home. Would tomorrow at noon suit you? I shall have my butler set out a light luncheon.” He offered Imogen the card. In the carriage’s lamp light, its gold letters glimmered.
Imogen took it. “Awesome!” She froze as soon as the word left her mouth.
I glanced sideways at Imogen who looked petrified at Mr. Webb.
He looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“I meant,” Imogen cleared her throat, “I can hardly wait to see your AWE-inspiring work, Mr. Webb. Thank you for this wonderful opportunity.”
He bowed. “Bid you good evening.” We watched the painter climb into his carriage, and the servant cover his lap with the fur blanket. The driver cracked his whip, the white horses sprang into an elegant trot, turning about in the courtyard past all the waiting admirers and out again through the carriageway.
Only when the carriage was out of sight did Imogen and I do something that I confess was not very detective-like. We clasped hands and jumped up and down.
“We did it!” she shrieked.
“You did it!” I said, laughing. “That was your best performance yet!”
“Except for that one little slip.” She covered her eyes with her hands. “Awesome?”
“But you recovered brilliantly,” I reassured her.
“You think?” She smiled. “Guess I was rather good, wasn’t I?” She tucked the little card with the gold inscription Phineas Warwick Webb into her jacket pocket, then linked her arm through mine. “You know, when we get back home, I might just try out for the school play.”
13
The Lady of Camelot
We spent the next morning in our room getting ready for our private visit with Phineas Webb. I pored feverishly over the art reviews and newspaper clippings in the folder while Imogen practiced putting on aristocratic airs.
“If only I’d known, I would have watched a few more costume dramas before coming here,” she lamented.
“Oh, you’ll do fine. Although…”
“Although what?” she demanded.
I smiled. “It might not be a bad idea to practice your Queens’ English… you know, just to avoid any more slips like yesterday’s.”
She crossed her arms defensively over her chest. “I speak Queen’s English. I am English, remember?”
I kept my eyes firmly on the article I’d been reading. “Yes, but you speak a different Queen’s English to Phineas Webb. Maybe if you read a few of these articles, it’ll help you make the switch from Elizabeth II to Victoria.”
She sank onto the bed with a frustrated sigh and began rifling through the stacks of papers I’d so carefully sorted into reviews, articles, letters and photographs, and then again by date.
“On second thought,”– I winced – “why don’t I just read out to you the notes I’ve made so far. The most important thing is that you appear to know something about Phineas Webb’s paintings.”
She stopped rifling and fell back onto the bed. “Go on, then. Brief me on the facts, Watson.”
“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “First of all, the reviews show a sort of pattern. In Webb’s early days at the Academy, people couldn’t get enough of him. Even Charles Dickens and the famous critic John Ruskin thought he was the best thing since Michelangelo. It seems his paintings were unlike anything people had ever seen. And he had a sort of brotherhood of other young artists that wanted to paint like he did. They believed that the best art was medieval art, and that England ought to return to a sort of heraldic age.”
“You mean like Webb’s exhibition? The Age of Chivalry? King Arthur and Queen Guinevere, and Lancelot and all that?”
I nodded. “They even called themselves the Round Table, only Webb was definitely their Arthur by the looks of it. Even his younger brother had to live in his shadow.”
“Ouch. So his brother was a painter too?”
I nodded. “There’s a photo of them together in here somewhere, when they were young.” I flipped through the stack of images until I found what I was looking for.
Imogen sat up and looked over my shoulder at the photograph. It was a little faded, but someone had handwritten beneath it, Gabriel and Phineas Webb, Royal Academy Annual Exhibition, 1848. Taken over thirty-five years ago. The two handsome, distinguished young men stood with their arms around one another’s shoulders.
“Huh. Well that’s interesting.” Imogen fell back again. “What’s next?”
I slipped the photograph into the flap in the back cover of my detective notebook – I’d examine it more closely later – then flipped back to my notes. “Right. There are a bunch of articles about The Wedding Feast. You know, the stolen painting,” I added, seeing Imogen’s confused look. “It went on a world tour, and it seems everyone who was anyone saw it: maharajas, the Emperor of Russia, even the Pope.”
Imogen pulled a face. “What’s so special about it?”
I shook my head. “I guess it was just … different. But after that painting, he kind of lost his touch.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, apparently, after 1851, nobody liked a single painting he did. There’s not a single good review. They’re all brutal. The newspaper articles say Phineas Webb had to sell The Wedding Feast to St. Paul’s Cathedral just to keep from going bankrupt.”
Imogen scratched her head. “So … explain how he’s now the best thing to come to England since Victoria sponge cake?”
“Because of this.” I handed her a bundle of articles and pointed to the titles: Phineas Warwick Webb re-emerges like a phoenix from the ashes. The Muses revisit Phineas Warwick Webb. Phineas Warwick Webb to be knighted on New Year’s Eve in honour of his contribution to Great Britain’s artistic milieu.
“Strange, isn’t it?” Imogen said through a yawn.
“Think you can remember all this when you meet him?” I asked, trying not to sound worried.
“Sure I can.” Then noting my less-than-confident expression, she added, “Well he’s not exactly going to give me a quiz on his life, is he?”
“Don’t forget what Inspector Janklow said. No direct or overly personal questions. We’ve got one chance, so we can’t afford to put him off. Stick to flattery and keep him talking as much as possible.”
“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” She lazily moved to the window and gazed out, then twirled around. “Oh crumbs! It’s half past eleven! We’ve got to get all the way to Bloomsbury in half an hour, and it looks like it’s going to rain.”
My heart skipped a beat. How had we forgotten the time? “We really need to get a watch,” I said, stuffing my detective notebook into my bag. We both grabbed our hats and bolted out the door and down the first flight of steps, nearly colliding with Agatha Turvey who was just emerging from her bedroom.
“Good heavens!” she cried, leaning against the wall with one hand to her forehead.
We both apologised, though she hardly seemed to hear us.
With a whimper she said, “I’ve been meaning to ask… about your father… the donation…”
“Oh yes,” Imogen said. “He wrote this morning about it, Miss Turvey.”
Before she could ask any more questions, we flew down the next flight of stairs with Miss Turvey’s moans of “Oh, my poor nerves” following us out the door.
We were in such a hurry, we didn’t even notice the bulldog or the jutting-out ears of the figure leaning against the gate.
“Oi! Wha’s the rush?”
“Dobbs?” Now I was looking right at him, but I hardly believed my eyes that this was the same boy. He had the same impish face sure enough, though several shades cleaner. He had on a new pair of fitting trousers, polished leather boots with no holes, and a tidy, brown jacket with all its buttons intact. When he removed his wool cap, I was shocked to see a valian
t attempt had been made to comb his lion-like hair down flat.
“You look… different,” I said, unable to hide my surprise. I looked down and noticed even Betsy’s coat gleamed with cleanliness.
Ears glowing, he rubbed his nose on his clean sleeve. “Inspector Janklow said I ‘ad to look respectable if I was to pass as your chaperone. Mrs. Janklow stitched these up for me.” He tugged at his trouser leg. “Feels a bit like spreadin’ butter on bacon, if you ask me. But Janklow’s the boss, so…”
An awkward moment passed in which we all just stood looking at each other before Dobbs remembered something and snapped his fingers. “I was to deliver a message. Janklow says meet him at the tea shop outside St. Paul’s at three o’clock, if that suits you. An’ Mrs. Janklow says come ‘round for a cup o’ tea whenever you like in the meantime.”
“What happened to all your suspicion that Inspector Janklow is in cahoots with the bobbies?” Imogen asked snidely.
“On me honour,” Dobbs said, solemnly laying his hand over his heart, “Inspector Janklow ‘n’ his missus are the finest folk in her Majesty’s Kingdom. Gave Bess ‘n’ me the first bed as we can remember sleeping in … though Mrs. Janklow did make us both wash ‘afore she’d let us into it.”
Imogen sniffed the air in Dobbs’s direction. “So she did. Not bad, Dobbs.”
“You two don’t look ‘alf shabby yourselves,” Dobbs commented with a nod to our new clothes.
“We’ll look shabby soon enough in this mizzle,” Imogen groaned.
Sure enough, beads of mist clung to the strands of hair around her face. Soon our borrowed fine clothes would look just like bags of soggy fabric.
“Dobbs, we’ve got to get to Bloomsbury, and quick,” I explained. “We’re having tea with Phineas Webb in twenty minutes. Know any short cuts?”
His mouth and eyes had grown circular. “Tea with Phineas… God ‘elp you, you’ll be a right mess if you walk up to Bloomsbury in this stuff. He’ll never take you for ladies then. ‘Ow ‘bout I call you a cab?”