by Mez Blume
“We still haven’t got any money, remember?” Imogen said impatiently.
Dobbs reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins.
I gave him a look. “Where did that come from?”
“It’s clean money, I swear it! The Inspector said I was to earn respectf’ly. Made me spend the whole afternoon blacking shoes outside the Temple Courts.” He showed us both his hands which were covered in black shoe polish.
I smiled my approval. “Feels good doing honest work, doesn’t it?”
He looked uncertainly at a big blister on his thumb and grimaced. “Not sure I’d go as far as that.”
Dobbs managed to flag down a cab in ten seconds flat, much to the relief of the swarming butterflies in my stomach. At least we were going to get there on time. As to what happened when we got there… We would cross that bridge soon enough. Or sink in the attempt.
“Wha’s the address?” The cabbie grunted.
Imogen read it off the card: “Number sixty-four, Bloomsbury Square Gardens.”
The cabbie sat up straight, then turned on his perch and gave us a look as if he’d just seen a ghost. “I know the place. Phineas Warwick Webb’s house. Took a young lady there once before. Beautiful lady she was.”
My tummy butterflies took off swarming again, and the words tumbled out of my mouth. “Was she dark? With dark hair?”
He gawked. “Tha’s right. Sorta exotic like, she was. But ‘ow’d you–”
“How long ago?” I interrupted. My heart was in my mouth.
He bit his thumbnail in thought for what felt like a long moment. “Law, must’ve been ‘bout this time last year. Tha’s right. Was ‘bout the new year.”
Imogen and I looked at each other. “Thank you,” I said to the cabbie, and we leapt into his cab as fast as our petticoats would allow.
It was raining hard when we drove up along a row of beautiful brick houses lining the four sides of a snow-covered garden square. All the houses looked the same, except for the colour of their doors… all except the last one on the row. It was twice as big, half-hidden by hedges and creeping vines, and enclosed by a tall iron gate. A brown-skinned man with a turban stood at the gate with a crimson umbrella. I thought it was the strangest sight, and then I realised the cab was stopping in front of the house. The man in the turban approached the cab as if he’d been expecting our arrival and opened the door.
“Miss Humphreys, I believe?” he said in an air of perfect gentility, then held out his hand and helped Imogen, then me out of the cab, all the while holding his crimson umbrella over our heads with the other hand.
We paid the cabbie, then followed the man up the stone path to the house’s entrance beneath a grand, pointed archway. Dobbs and Betsy followed behind, getting drenched.
After he had led us into the foyer, the man in the turban turned and looked down his long, straight nose at Dobbs. “Perhaps the gentleman and his dog would like to dry themselves by the kitchen fire? I will show you. And may I take the ladies’ shawls and bags?”
I thanked him and handed over my shawl.
“And madam’s bag?”
I handed over my satchel somewhat reluctantly; but it wasn’t as if I’d be able to take notes while we were right under Phineas Webb’s nose, so I let it go. He bowed, then addressed Dobbs. “Right this way, if you please.”
As the two of them turned down a corridor to the left, a maid entered the foyer. She greeted us politely with an efficient curtsey, but not warmly. “Mr. Webb welcomes you to Camelot.” Again she curtseyed, then offered us each a beautifully embroidered cashmere shawl.
Catching each other’s wowed eyes, we wrapped the shawls around our shoulders and followed the maid into the main entrance. If I’d been wowed before, I was floored now. In front of us was a carved wooden staircase with golden banisters. Lanterns with coloured glass hung from chains attached to a ceiling so high up above, it could not be seen. The walls were wild with prints of peacocks, hares, dogs and vines, and a great black bear rug carpeted the floor at the foot of the stair.
“Mr. Webb requests that you wait for him in the gallery,” the maid said, shaking us out of our amazed stupor. We followed her down a long corridor with violet silk-covered walls and golden vaulted ceilings. We passed marble statues of saints and fauns, suits of armour and heraldic shields, and finally stopped at a carved wooden door beneath a pointed arch. Two gargoyle heads stared at us from either side of the door as the maid opened it and invited us to pass through.
It became instantly clear why the two gargoyles were stationed outside the door. They were guarding a treasure vault. The room we entered was the most stunning part of the house yet: a large, hexagonal room lit by stained glass windows and a single skylight high above in the vaulted ceiling. The walls were canary yellow and adorned with tapestries of medieval banquets. There was a tea table in front of a giant stone hearth surrounded by expensive-looking, cushiony furniture.
Perhaps most extraordinary of all were the bird cages. At least a dozen of them hung near the stained glass windows inhabited by the most exotic-looking birds, each chirping and whistling its own unique song. They were so beautiful, and yet I felt sad to hear them calling and cooing from behind bars. They should be free, I thought. Not used for decoration.
“This place is insane,” Imogen whispered as the maid pulled the door closed and left us alone. “It’s like Cinderella’s castle meets the Hunchback of Notre Dame. No wonder Phineas Webb hardly ever leaves home.”
I slowly revolved on the spot, taking in the fairy world we had stumbled upon, then stopped. There was so much to see in the room, I hadn’t noticed a row of easels lined up on the far side, each one with a covered canvas. “Do you think those are the paintings we’ve come to look at?” I asked, checking the door over my shoulder as I moved for a closer look.
Imogen followed on my heels. “Only one way to find out.”
I reached out and caught the corner of one of the velvet covers. Carefully peeling it back, I caught my breath and heard Imogen’s breath catch beside me.
The painting was beyond beautiful, all in deep, rich, earthy colours. It showed a window in a stone tower surrounded by a moat. Wisteria vines grew up the tower and framed the window, drawing my eye to look inside. When I did, my eyes met the dark, glistening eyes of a woman with long, flowing black hair. She appeared as proud and lovely as a Queen, yet as lonely as a lost child. She was as exotic and wild as Webb’s birds and, like them, had a sad longing for freedom in her eyes. I knew her at once, and my heart reached out to her with an aching longing to unlock her tower door and set her free. She was, after all, my great-great-great-grandmother.
“Ah, I see you’ve met my lady,” a deep, velvety voice spoke from behind. My hand dropped, letting the cover fall.
14
Clockwork Canary
“Miss Humphreys.” Phineas Webb took Imogen’s hand in his and held it to his lips, revealing his full head of thick grey hair. He looked older than I had thought last night.
“And I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of learning your friend’s name.”
“Oh, sorry.” Imogen presented me. “This is my cousin, Katie Watson. She’s a great admirer of your paintings as well, Mr. Webb.”
“Enchanted.” I observed him as he bent over to kiss my hand as well. He was still very handsome for a man rather older than my dad, and was dressed to the hilt in a peacock-blue waistcoat and paisley cravat. But his eyes had the far-off look of someone who is weary with the world. There was something familiar in that look too, though I couldn’t think why.
He turned to the paintings and lifted the velvet curtain I had let drop, then proceeded to lift the other covers from the other canvases, all but one. As my eyes flitted from one painting to the next, my heart all the while raced faster. Every single painting featured a woman I knew could only be Ramona, each time depicted as a medieval maiden, and each time with the same sad eyes.
Mr. Webb cleared his throat, making me
suddenly aware that he was waiting for our reaction.
“They’re wonderful,” I said enthusiastically.
“Yes, the reviews were right, Mr. Webb,” Imogen chimed in enthusiastically. “I do feel transported to an age of chivalry just looking at these. My Father will just adore them.”
The smallest, polite smile appeared on his lips. “I am pleased to hear your father favours the bygone days as I do. There are very few modern men who appreciate the greatness of our lost past.” He paused a moment, transfixed on the painting of the woman in the tower, then seemed to come back to himself. “All of these you see represent women of the Arthurian Legends. Here, as you can see, I’ve depicted the Lady of Shalott.” He moved on to the next canvas. “And here we have Nymue, the Lady of the Lake, offering Arthur the sword Excalibur.”
“And what’s under here?” In Imogen’s show of enthusiasm, she had rushed past Phineas to lift the cover of the final painting.
“That is–” Phineas held up his hand to stop her, but too late. The cover dropped to the floor revealing an only partially painted canvas, the beginning outlines of a king and queen sitting on thrones. “Unfinished.” Hastily, he swept up the velvet cover from the floor and threw it back over the canvas. He didn’t turn back to us immediately, but seemed to be gathering himself. When at last he did turn, there was the same polite smile, still in place. “Excuse me,” he said apologetically. “It is just that I never reveal my works in progress. I find it spoils the final effect.”
Imogen’s cheeks glowed. She seemed to have lost confidence and gave me a pleading look for help.
“I… I was wondering, Mr. Webb,” I launched in without knowing where I was going, “about the lady in your paintings. I’ve never seen anyone quite like her. Is she someone you know?”
I watched him closely, but his face didn’t betray the least sign of emotion. After a moment in which he toyed with a ring on his little finger, he answered matter-of-factly, “She was my housekeeper, years ago. An exceptional beauty. She possessed such a… an otherworldly aura, I was simply compelled to paint her.”
“Your housekeeper?” I repeated, trying to sound much less interested than I really was. In reality, the next question was ready to explode from my lips; but I took a breath and smiled. “And … you said she was your housekeeper. Does she still work for you? I mean,” – I cast a glance at the paintings – “you still paint her, don’t you?”
The searching look he gave me, as if he’d just seen me for the first time, caught me off-guard. “From memory, yes,” he answered.
My heart plummeted into my stomach. “Memory?”
“But,” he continued, “my memories of her are as vibrant as if they were made only yesterday.”
“But you don’t mean…” I was afraid to ask, but I had to. “She didn’t…”
“She never belonged to this city,” he cut me off. “Or this world of machines and soot and modern madness. No.” His eyes swept lovingly over The Lady of Shalott. “She belonged to that world. A world of beauty, chivalry, fantasies come true.”
I felt my legs giving out beneath me for fear of what this meant. It was too straightforward a question, but I had to know the truth. “Mr. Webb, you’re not saying she’s dead?”
To my bewilderment, he actually smiled, as if the idea amused him. “Dead, Miss Watson? How could she be dead? I have made her immortal.”
I cast a confused look at Imogen where she stood just behind Phineas.
He caught the look and chuckled. “In my paintings, of course. In my paintings.”
Then, with such a sudden shift in mood that it left my head spinning, he said cheerfully, “But how very bullish of me not to offer you any refreshment! I did ask my butler for tea on the quarter of the hour precisely.”
He reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out the most extraordinary pocketwatch. When he gave it a flip with his thumb, a tiny golden canary bird popped up and began actually to flap its delicate golden wings and chirp.
It had only sung the first few notes of a melody when a tingle travelled up my spine. I could tell from Imogen’s eyes, as round as Miss Turvey’s currant buns, that she recognised the song too. It was the very same sad, sweet song Ka-Ti had sung to bring the painted horses to life. Ramona’s song.
Mr. Webb snapped the pocketwatch shut with an abruptness that shattered the song’s spell but left me in a daze.
“What an extraordinary watch,” Imogen was saying. “Wherever did you get it? I must ask my father for one just like it.”
“I found it. At a pawn shop,” Mr. Webb answered disinterestedly. “I thought it pretty, and as you can see, I have a fascination with birds. I carry this little canary in my pocket as a sort of good luck charm.”
“Oh, may I see?” Imogen held out her gloved hand with an innocent, girlish expression.
Mr. Webb eyed her hand for a moment, then smiled and placed the watch in it. “Of course.”
“Look, Katie.” Imogen held up the watch so that I could get a better look at it. “Isn’t it sweet?”
“Mmhmm,” I answered, perusing the watch for a clue, perhaps an engraving of a name. I found only the tiny inscription Salomon & Botts etched into the back case with a crack down the middle. The case appeared to have been broken in two, then welded back together.
“Ah, here is the tea now,” Mr. Webb said brightly as the door opened and a trio of maids entered with silver trays. He held out his hand for the pocketwatch, then returned it to his waistcoat pocket before offering us each an arm and leading us to the cushiony sofas.
An extravagant spread of sandwiches, scones and cakes was laid before us, but my mind was far too agitated to leave room for an appetite. I filled my plate, though, while trying desperately to think of some way of bringing up the subject of Mr. Webb’s model again. But it was no good. Mr. Webb was asking questions of his own about Imogen’s father and his work in India. Something he was saying caught my attention.
“I quite understand the challenges of living in two different worlds at once.” He paused to take a gentlemanly sip from his teacup, then continued. “My work often takes me abroad. In fact, I only just arrived back to London in time for the exhibition yesterday.”
“Oh? Where did you go?” Imogen asked in her girlish way that was so disarming. “Somewhere exciting?”
Mr. Webb appeared to be lost in his teacup as he gave the answer. “Somewhere very, very far from here.” He took another sip.
“And what are you planning on painting next?” Imogen asked when he’d risen out of his cup and placed it on the tea table.
He sat back and crossed his legs. “As a matter of fact, I am approaching the end of my career. You may have heard, but I am to be knighted by Her Majesty on New Year’s Eve at Buckingham Palace. That night shall also mark my retirement.”
“You mean you aren’t going to paint anymore?” Imogen asked in a tone of concern.
Phineas thought a moment before answering. “I may. But I should like to try some new venture. Leave London and all of its raucous and ugly machinery.”
His words struck panic in me. He meant to leave London in only a few days’ time, which meant our chances of finding out what he knew of Ramona were quickly running out. In a moment of recklessness, I asked, “Will you see your housekeeper before you go?”
“My housekeeper?” His look was uncertain.
“I mean the one from the paintings. Your model. She lives in London, doesn’t she?”
As soon as I’d asked it, I knew I’d gone too far. His whole body went stiff, his expression cold and distant. As if he hadn’t heard me at all, he stood. “Thank you for favouring me, ladies. If you’ll excuse me, I have some pressing matters.” He bowed and left the room before we could so much as stand to curtsey.
15
Disappointment and Deductions
“Well? ‘Ow’d it go?” Dobbs asked in a confidential whisper as soon as we were on the other side of Camelot’s iron gates.
“Imogen w
as brilliant,” I grumbled, causing Dobbs to take a step away from me as we crossed the street to Bloomsbury Square Gardens. I could have kicked myself if I hadn’t been wearing a skirt and petticoat. “How could I be so stupid?” I groaned, running my hands down my face in utter self-contempt.
“You weren’t stupid, Katie.” Imogen rested her arm over my shoulder. “How could you have known he would react like that?”
I made straight for a bench under a knobbly old chestnut tree and sank down onto it, regretting it a moment later when dampness soaked through my skirt. “I can’t believe after telling you to be careful, I’m the one who went and scared him off. I completely blew it.”
Imogen slumped down on the wet bench beside me. Meanwhile, Dobbs propped himself against the tree and Betsy rooted for chestnuts in the wet dirt. “I really think you’re being too hard on yourself,” she said. “And anyway, you didn’t blow it. The very fact that he responded the way he did means something.”
I lifted my face out of my hands and looked her in the eye. “That’s what I thought too. But Im, what if it means something… something bad?” I couldn’t bring myself to say what I feared. “He looked sort of… hurt, didn’t he? And all that about immortalising her… about her not belonging to this world… Im, what if Ramona is… you don’t think she’s…”
“If she were dead, he would’ve just said so,” she answered confidently. “Sounds more to me like she ran off and broke his heart.”
I looked at her surprised. “You think so?”
She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Katie. You’re a great detective, but you don’t know the first thing about romance. Why would he paint all those pictures of Ramona as Guinevere and himself as Arthur if he wasn’t in love with her?”
“So you thought Arthur looked like Webb too?”
“It was obvious. Embarrassing, really.”
My mouth dropped open, self-hatred giving way to excitement. “And what about the musical pocketwatch? I nearly choked when I heard the song come out of that little canary.”