Publicity for the Galerie Genèvre was sorely needed. Initial critical response to Antony Scarlett’s return to the London art scene had been mixed. While there were those who had praised his bold change of direction from the natural to a more abstract style, others deplored it, saying that the white chocolate moulding of his naked form was the best part of the show, and the rest, roughly speaking, was self-indulgent rubbish. Even the nude, significant though it undoubtedly was, must likewise leave the artist open to the charge of self-indulgence. It was (said some) a mere echo of the bread, cheese and caviar nudes of his earlier period—with one obvious exception. He would have made his point (whatever it might be: opinion was sharply divided) with greater force had he used not a male but a female body.
Where were the delicious (in more ways than one) curves of Kristeena Holloway, his former model? Did Scarlett’s new rejection of the individual symbolise a wider rejection of the burgeoning women’s liberation movement? Did the substitution of Scarlett for Holloway express hitherto unrecognised Communist sympathies? On the other hand, Holloway was a well-known women’s prison. Did Scarlett, in his symbolic denial of Kristeena’s right to exist, wish to express reactionary condemnation of the Red prison system and (in his more abstract pieces) of the treatment of political dissidents behind the Iron Curtain?
And so on and so on. Everyone who went discovered different meanings and different levels of meaning; everyone enjoyed arguing with everyone else about What It Meant ...
Everyone who went. The trouble was that after the first few days there hadn’t been many who did, including critics. Even the damage done to Desires of the Heavenly Flesh, telephoned at first light to every Art Editor in the land, failed to arouse any interest, despite a concentrated attempt by Miss Watson to promote the incident as a serious political gesture on the part of the Communists, the Fascists, or (a last, desperate throw) the Women’s Liberationists. Antony Scarlett groomed himself in preparation for interviews about this Contextually Valid Artistic Vandalism with radio, television, and newspaper reporters ...
And nobody had thought him worth interviewing.
Antony was annoyed. He felt that he was being slighted. Had he not already that week allowed himself to indulge in an Artistic Temperament, storming up and down the street wringing his hands and delivering in loud and impassioned tones a grandiloquent oration on the Oppressive Torment of the Struggling Creative Soul, and the convenient proximity of the River Thames?
The film and television crews, sensitively alerted by Miss Watson to this display, had preferred the spectacle of a Member of Parliament bravely informing the cameras that she would stand by her husband, despite his confession that he had committed adultery with each of the household’s last five au pair girls ...
Thus matters had become desperate. Genefer Watson, as we have seen, had spent a day in urgent consultation with her partners: who had, in the end, between them concocted yet another Idea—which, they were sure, was a corker. The Galerie Genèvre announced its umpteenth press conference and this time spiced its announcement with dark hints that the Reputation of Britain might well be at stake. A dastardly plot to undermine the nation’s psyche would be revealed by one who had suffered from perhaps its earliest manifestation ...
And the gallery was packed. The press, television, and radio had elbowed and jostled their several ways to the most favourable positions. Genefer Watson, looking anxious, kept consulting her watch and sighing. Antony Scarlett did not appear. A series of questions from the floor about his likely state of mental health went studiously unanswered, firing speculation to fever pitch. (The initial questioner had received a down payment in cash and the promise of a bonus to be calculated according to the number of spontaneous questions subsequently asked.)
Twenty minutes after the appointed hour, the main door to the Galerie Genèvre was hurled open. Antony Scarlett—eyes flashing, hair wild—strode into the room in a swirling black velvet, red satin-lined cloak, brushing aside hysterical demands from Genefer (and, of course, the reporters) as to where he had been, how he was feeling, and what was the matter.
“I,” began Antony Scarlett, “have been wrestling with myself.” There was no time to ask who had won. “It has been a long, laborious encounter. I have ... suffered.” His face writhed in remembered suffering. “I have been riddled with doubt and uncertainty. I have been torn in two”—here he flung out his arms—“on the horns of a spiritual dilemma the like of which few artists in recent years have had to endure.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if seeking advice from the spirit of any artist, recent or otherwise, who might be flitting about the neighbourhood. “Should my personal inclination, I asked myself, be allowed to triumph? Should I yield gracefully—submit to the selfish desire of the Artist for that peace of mind, that freedom from anxiety so necessary to the creative process?”
Again he flung out his arms in a far from peaceful gesture. Reporters in the front row instinctively ducked as black velvet billowed over their heads, and forgot to make their half-formed comments on Antony’s previous claims that anxiety and its associated mental restlessness together served to induce that spiritual tension so essential to the Creative Mind.
“But,” went on Antony Scarlett as the billows subsided, “I have made my choice, difficult as it was—and I have not chosen the craven path of peace.” His chest swelled as he drew himself up, deepening his voice to a growl. “I am no coward and I am resolved. I shall not yield! I shall not flag or fail. I shall go on to the end ...” Some of his audience wondered whether he also proposed fighting in the fields, the streets, and the hills; but again they had no time to put the question to him.
“I will not be intimidated!” boomed Antony Scarlett. “We British are renowned throughout the world for our hatred of bullying and for our love of fair play. I do not point the accusing finger at any one nation—any one individual—in particular, but I say to you all that I, a red-blooded, true-blue Englishman, will not allow this—this shameful attempt to intimidate me to deter me from entering the Stuttaford Competition, to do so! I appeal to you all—I appeal to everyone who means to try for the Prize—that no matter what the provocation to abandon your entry might be, you must never surrender! This is a free society, and we rejoice in our freedom. England will not stomach tyranny, whether it be political, ethical, or artistic! It has been tried in the past—it has failed in the past, and so it must fail today!”
His voice was growing hoarse. He shuddered, flung out his arms once more, then gathered himself and the folds of his cloak for the final verbal assault. “Maybe my claim will sound immodest—but I believe that I speak for England.” He threw up his head, his eyes gazing into a Union Jack infinity. “Where one man leads, others are bound to follow. I will be but the first to set an example by starting the fight against those Philistines who would suppress the free competitive spirit, the spirit of equal rights, of equal chances for all ...”
At this point the speaker’s eloquence was drowned out by the cheers from more than several journalistic throats and the thunderous clapping of forty pairs of hands.
Genefer Watson, part owner of the struggling Galerie Genèvre, hid a smile of satisfaction as Antony Scarlett took his bow—and bowed again—and again.
For some reason she had the impression that the wolf wouldn’t for much longer be licking the paint from her door ...
chapter
~ 5 ~
THE THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE in London found an echo fifty miles away in the heavy mutterings of genuine thunder trapped in clouds above the Kentish skies. Pedestrians in Brettenden’s busy streets cast anxious glances to the brooding greyness above and walked a little faster to their destinations or slipped into providential shops until the worst of the storm should be over; shopkeepers whose properties had been flooded in the last heavy downpour rushed for the buckets and mops they had hoped would not be needed again before the insurance claims were sorted out. Drivers, peering through the sudden gloom, switched on lights and
wipers as the first chilly drops began to fall.
A small, slim female figure wearing galoshes, a tweed mackintosh, and a preposterous hat put up her umbrella, tilting it over her face as the wind dashed vicious needles of sleet against, then through, the thin fabric. She fluttered her way among the few brave souls who had not sought cover and came to the edge of the pavement, where she dithered on the kerb waiting for the flow of traffic to ease, and while she waited repeating to herself the litany she had learned long ago at school and which she had always taken such pains to impress upon her pupils.
“Look right, look left, look right again. If all is clear, cross the road.” She looked—and kept looking, her head flicking from side to side, the cockscomb hat giving her the appearance of some tiny, exotic bird.
The cars kept coming. The sleet fell harder and more like hail. The wind grew stronger. The little lady with the umbrella shivered as cold air whipped about her ankles and icy trickles filled her galoshes to puddle nastily around her toes. She looked right, left, right again ...
There was a lull in the traffic as someone farther along the road stepped on the zebra crossing. No cars came from that direction; those coming the other way slowed to a halt and formed a queue. The umbrella made its cautious progress down from the kerb to pass between the throbbing front bumper of one queueing car and the puffing exhaust of another. A knee-level smoky stain on the tweed mackintosh was immediately washed away as the wearer stepped into the sleet from the shelter of the metallic vehicular sandwich to the empty half of the road ...
Empty for just a few moments more. The people on the pedestrian crossing were safely across. In waiting cars, hand brakes were released and accelerators gunned. The queue of stationary traffic turned into a steady, flowing stream. Windscreen wipers lashed along with the sleet ...
Which lashed its way around the fabric shield of the lady with the umbrella, stinging her eyes, making her start. The brolly slipped from her feeble grasp. Wildly clutching, she lost her balance—stumbled—and fell ...
Into the path of an approaching car whose driver simply could not stop in time.
On the desk of Superintendent Brinton, the telephone rang. The superintendent glanced over to Foxon at the other desk.
“I’m out. Unless that’s someone confessing to the armed hold-up at the jeweller’s, I don’t want to know.”
Foxon, muttering under his breath about dogsbodies and exploitation, picked up the extension. “Mr. Brinton’s office ... Yes, it is.” His voice changed. “Yes, it is! What’s happened? What’s wrong? Calm down now, like a good girl, and tell me all about it.”
Brinton’s attention, which had been on the point of returning to his files, now focused on his junior. The lad might be a wow with the ladies—though Brinton couldn’t imagine what they made of his peacocky taste in clothes—but he’d never been one to let his private life interfere with his work. Offhand, his superior couldn’t think of a single occasion when any of his girlfriends had rung him at the office. He might go through the odd giddy spell, but Foxon was basically sound. Professional. He was putting in for sergeant any day now. Whoever this was on the blower, she must be something special ...
Foxon’s superior wondered glumly if this uncharacteristic call presaged another little chat with Percy Jestin about an extension to his overdraft. Wedding presents didn’t come cheap. If the lad asked his advice, he’d tell him to wait a few months for the warmer weather—unless, of course, there were good reasons for the girl to be in a bit of a state. You couldn’t expect a baby to wait to suit the convenience of another bloke’s bank balance ...
“Look, love, you’re not making much sense.” The eavesdropping Brinton’s eyes popped. It’d be “sweetie” next. He’d never thought he’d live to see the day. “Take a deep breath,” advised Foxon, “and try again. Slowly. Now I know you’re upset—but I need to know why you’re upset if you want me to do anything about it, which I suppose you do or you wouldn’t have phoned me here.” With a rueful, though (to Brinton’s surprise) far from apologetic grin to his superior, he addressed the telephone sternly.
“You’ve phoned me at work, and the super’s pretty strict about wasting police time. You don’t want me busted back to uniform, do you? Well, then,” he continued as the telephone squawked at him in an agitated soprano. “Take a good, long breath and try again. Slowly,” emphasized Foxon, himself speaking more slowly to drive the message home.
The telephone, after a few moments, appeared to heed his instruction, for he did not speak again for some time. His face, as he listened, grew grave. He did not ask questions; he let her, whoever she was, speak without interruption. He frowned and made a few jottings on his blotter; he nodded and jotted some more. Once or twice he glanced across at Brinton, although the superintendent could make nothing of his junior’s expression. In the end, as the telephone ran out of hysterical steam, he spoke.
“You were quite right to ring me,” he said. “I’m glad you did—no, really, I am. You try not to worry about it any longer, though that’s easier said than done, of course. I’ll tell you what!” It was as if inspiration had suddenly dawned. “I’m flattered you think I’ve got all the answers, but I haven’t, you know. It needs someone with experience—someone like the super.” Brinton let out a startled yelp, which Foxon studiously ignored. “Would you mind very much if I asked for his opinion? They say two heads are better than one, and—”
The lad hadn’t been joking. This was too much. Brinton snatched up the phone on his desk. “Now see here, miss, if young Foxon’s trying to involve me in his personal business, I can assure you—what?”
“Mrs.” repeated the telephone loudly in his ear. “Not miss—I’m a respectable woman, I’ll have you know!”
Brinton groaned. Not a shotgun wedding, then—which would’ve been bad enough—but seduction. Adultery. There would be a court case—an irate husband yelling about loss of conjugal rights—yards in the local paper, maybe even the nationals if things on the world front were a little slack—he’d have to kick Foxon out for bringing the force into disrepute, when the lad would’ve made a damned good sergeant some day ...
“Hang on.” Brinton gaped at the telephone, which was still haranguing him in a stern soprano—no, not soprano. Not now that it had calmed down a bit. It was a contralto—a mature, not to say elderly, contralto. “Hang on!” bellowed Brinton. “Madam,” he added, a grim suspicion having formed in his mind. He shot a furious look at Foxon, who was grinning. “I swear I’ll kill you one day, laddie,” he said.
“Don’t you talk to him like that!” scolded the telephone at once. “Threats and curses—a fine example for a young man at the start of his career!”
“If he goes on the way he’s started,” returned Brinton, “he won’t have a career much longer, Mrs. Biddle.” He saw Foxon grin again and was assailed by doubt. “Er—it is Mrs. Biddle, isn’t it?”
“Not miss.” The elderly contralto still sounded indignant. “I married Biddle a full year before my eldest was born, I’ll have you know, and a better husband never drew breath. Poor Addie!” Indignation gave way all at once to lamentation. “If only she’d had a good man to look after her ... It’s dreadful—dreadful, poor soul. But there,” the woman said in brighter tones, “I’m sure you’ll find out what’s wrong, Mr. Brinton, and help my grandson put it right.” Brinton could not meet Foxon’s glittering eye. “It’s wicked,” went on Mrs. Biddle. “At her age, to get in such a state and not one of us knowing, and us thinking we were her friends ...”
The contralto was quavering now, and Foxon rushed into the tremulous breach. “I told you before to be a good girl and stop worrying, Gran. You’ve done your bit and told me, and in a minute I’m going to tell the super, and then it’ll be official business, so you won’t need to bother your head with it anymore. In fact, you mustn’t. Mr. Brinton gets dead stroppy with amateur detectives poking their noses into official business—don’t you, sir?”
“I damned well do,” he g
rowled. “So if he’s got all the details of ... uh, your statement, how about letting us get on with it, eh?”
“Bless you, Mr. Brinton.” Mrs. Biddle’s relief was obvious. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am—and I’ll be off up the hospital the minute it stops raining to tell Addie to stop being such an old silly. Poor soul!” And, with a few grandmotherly admonitions for Foxon, she was gone.
The superintendent looked that irrepressible young man straight in the eye and breathed deeply several times. “Whatever it is, laddie, I don’t want one word about Miss Seeton. Amateur detectives, indeed! And trying to make me think ... Well, never mind. Just tell the tale and make it short. I won’t need the details at first. I know your gran—she isn’t one to make a fuss about nothing—and, by the look of you, you didn’t think it was nothing from the minute she started talking.”
“No, sir.” Foxon was now completely sober. “Once she’d stopped, well, babbling, it did sound ... serious, sir. One more for the files, if you ask me.”
Brinton sat up. “I’m listening.”
“My gran’s a tough old bird, sir, as you know, and she’s not the only one around these parts. That generation, they took on Kaiser Bill and won: they aren’t the sort to give up without a fight. But that’s apparently what this Miss Addison—Adelaide Addison, of all the daft names—has gone and done. Been starving herself to death, it seems, without a word of complaint.” He paused. Brinton looked at him. He went on: “Got knocked down by a car in Brettenden this morning, ended up in hospital with a broken leg. And they say she’s nothing but skin and bone, sir, and can’t have eaten properly for months, according to Gran.”
“How does she know? No—daft question.” Neighbours in Brettenden were ... well, neighbourly. “Women’s Institute? Some church group? The milkman?”
“Sort of the latter, sir. One of Gran’s bingo cronies lives next door to Miss Addison, and she was the one the hospital rang about cancelling the milk and taking care of the cat. You know the grapevine when it’s just ordinary gossip, sir. Something like this ...”
Sweet Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 20) Page 6