Despite the welcoming décor, however, and the fact that the customers were far less rough than I’d expected, it was clear from the moment I stepped inside that I was out of my depth.
I was, I noted, dressed in a similar way to the few women in the pub, though their dresses were cut lower across their busts than mine. One woman, walking across the floor with two cups of ale, paused as she reached me.
‘Lost?’ she said. There was a mocking tone to her voice.
‘No,’ I said carefully. ‘I am exactly where I intended to be.’
The woman put the cups on a nearby table, where two men in waistcoats hunched over a game of cards. They ignored her and she sighed.
‘Looking for someone then,’ she said to me. ‘And I reckon I know who.’
I shifted my paintings under my arm and looked at the woman. ‘Who?’
‘Nice girl like you? Red hair?’ the woman began. She nodded at my bundle. ‘Drawings?’
I bit my lip, feeling like a silly schoolgirl.
‘He’s over there,’ the woman said, pointing to the corner of the inn. ‘Usual place.’
‘Who?’ I said again, hoping it was Millais but not daring to look.
‘Who she says, who,’ the woman laughed. She looked sympathetic. ‘Gabriel,’ she said. ‘But don’t expect nothing from him. He’s silver-tongued when he wants to be but he don’t give his heart easily. Least not to anyone but Lizzie.’
I smiled, a thrill coursing through me. Dante Gabriel Rossetti was here. Here. In the same room as I was. And if Millais wasn’t with him, then he’d know where I could find him.
‘Thank you for your help,’ I said to the woman. ‘My heart belongs to another.’
The woman gave a disbelieving snort and stood aside to let me past. I walked over to the table that was crowded with young men and a few women. I tried to look as though I did this all the time. I scanned the group for any sign of Millais – I’d studied pictures of him so closely that I was confident I’d recognize him – but I couldn’t see him.
Gabriel, or at least the man the barmaid had pointed out so I assumed it was Gabriel, had his back to me. He was wearing a velvet jacket and he was arguing furiously with the man next to him about money.
‘It seems wrong to let it go for the sake of £5,’ he was saying.
The other man laughed. ‘Well that’s fine for you to say, Gabriel,’ he said. ‘But I don’t have £5 …’
I cleared my throat. ‘Excuse me,’ I said.
No one heard.
‘Excuse me,’ I said again, louder this time. ‘Mr Rossetti.’
The man next to Gabriel gave him a violent nudge. ‘Gabriel,’ he said. ‘Gabriel.’
Gabriel stopped talking and turned to look at me. At the same time, I noticed that while he was talking to the man on his left, his right hand rested on the upper thigh of the woman to his other side, casually caressing the inside of her leg. She was carefully ignoring him and talking to the woman she sat next to, though I could see her chest heaving as she took deep breaths in time to Gabriel’s caresses.
Tearing my eyes away from Gabriel’s fingers, and blushing furiously, I met the artist’s gaze.
‘I was wondering, sir, if you knew of the whereabouts of Mr Millais?’
Gabriel grinned. His eyes were crossing slightly and though I had little experience of such things, I thought he was drunk.
‘Millais?’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Millais …’
I waited patiently.
‘I might know,’ he said. ‘But why should I tell you?’
The women on his right giggled and I felt myself blush even more.
‘I have some paintings to show him,’ I said. My voice quivered and I hated myself for it.
‘Your paintings?’ Gabriel asked.
I bit my lip, reluctant to admit they were mine. But I nodded eventually.
Gabriel looked me up and down. ‘Show me,’ he said. He was very handsome but I was scared of his flashing eyes and sharp tone.
‘I’d rather show Mr Millais, sir,’ I said boldly. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No idea,’ Gabriel said.
‘You are a pig,’ said a voice behind me. I turned round and saw Millais himself standing behind me. He was looking at Gabriel with a disappointed, yet tolerant, expression.
‘No wonder you annoy everyone,’ he said to Gabriel. ‘You’re always so rude.’
Gabriel sat back on his bench, and grinned his wolfish grin again. ‘Everyone loves me,’ he said with the arrogance of one who knows he is right. ‘It doesn’t matter how rude I am, they love me all the same.’
Millais shrugged. ‘One day, Gabriel, your luck will run out,’ he said. He glanced at me for the first time and I felt my face redden again. Inwardly I cursed my fair skin. ‘Who are you?’
‘She is an artist,’ Gabriel said, laughing. ‘An artist who wants to show you her paintings.’
He made the words artist and paintings sound like insults and I flinched.
‘She wants to show the great, the wonderful, the famous John Everett Millais how good she is at drawing,’ he went on.
I looked at my feet. This was not going the way I’d hoped.
Gabriel put on a shrill voice. ‘Oh, Mr Millais, let me show you what I can do,’ he said. He hoicked an imaginary bosom and thrust it towards Millais. ‘Let me show you what I can do for you in exchange for your oh-so-clever advice on how to draw a pretty picture …’
‘Gabriel,’ warned a man on the other side of the table. He had blond curls and I thought he might be William Holman Hunt, another member of the Brotherhood and someone I’d have ordinarily been excited to meet, but everything was ruined now and I found I didn’t really care any more. ‘Enough, Gabriel.’
‘Are you an artist?’ Millais asked me.
I nodded numbly.
‘May I?’
Millais gently tugged at the rolled-up paintings under my arm. Suddenly it was all too much for me. My confidence – already more affected than genuine – deserted me all at once. I knew – I absolutely knew – that there was no way I could stand there while Millais looked at my work. So I pushed my artwork towards him, then I spun round on my heels and fled.
Chapter 43
I didn’t know exactly where I was going. I marched down the road in the direction I’d come in, feeling angry, upset, embarrassed – a mixture of emotions – and wishing that I’d never come up with this harebrained idea to come to London. I would go back to the hotel, I thought, then rise early and get the first train back to Sussex. And I would stay there.
I reached the corner of the street and, unsure of which direction to take, paused to catch my breath. It was getting dark now and soon the lamplighter would be out. I peered through the gloomy twilight, hoping to see something I recognized that would tell me which way to walk.
A shout behind me made me start.
‘Miss!’
My stomach lurched in fear. How foolish I’d been to risk coming to an unfamiliar, quiet part of town, late in the evening. I began to turn away from the voice, but it followed.
‘Miss, wait,’ it called. ‘I just want to speak to you about your work.’
My work? I stopped and turned to see Millais himself hurrying out of the mist towards me.
‘In a hurry?’ he said as he reached me.
I shrugged. I eyed him cautiously, afraid I was going to be mocked again.
‘Would you join me for a cup of coffee?’
He nodded a little way down the road, where I could see the illuminated windows of a coffee house.
‘Please?’ he said.
I nodded and he led the way inside.
We settled at a table and I took off my gloves and bonnet and shook out my hair. I tried my best to look as though I always took coffee with famous artists, but I felt very young and ill at ease as Millais laughed with the waitress and ordered coffee and cake on my behalf.
‘Forgive me,’ Millais said, as the waitress disappeared through th
e doors to the kitchen. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘Violet,’ I said. ‘Violet Hargreaves.’
Millais nodded to me politely. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I am John.’
I gave a small smile.
‘I know,’ I said.
John put my rolled-up work on the table between us and touched it gently with his long fingers. ‘This is very good,’ he said. ‘It’s yours, I trust?’
I trembled with disbelief. He thought my work was good?
‘It is,’ I said. ‘Except for the Mariana. That’s yours.’
John smiled at me. ‘With your own touch,’ he added.
I smiled back. I played with the raffia mat on the table, trying to think of how best to explain my connection to Mariana.
‘I do a lot of waiting,’ I said.
John nodded in understanding. ‘I know all about waiting,’ he said, with a faraway look in his eye. ‘As does my wife.’
He paused, then gathered himself.
‘So why did you come to me?’
Distracted momentarily by thoughts of his wife – I remembered reading reports of his marriage but couldn’t remember the details – I blinked at him.
‘Why did you come to me?’ he repeated.
‘Because I want to be an artist,’ I said simply. ‘And my friend Edwin said you or Mr Ruskin could help me.’
John looked confused. ‘Edwin?’
‘Edwin Forrest,’ I said. ‘I believe he is a friend of yours.’
I told him about meeting Edwin on the beach, about his links to the art world, and his friendship with Mr Ruskin. I mentioned how he’d come back from London with disappointing news from Mr Ruskin but hadn’t managed to meet with John, so I’d decided to come myself. I left out, of course, any mention of my relationship with Edwin.
‘Edwin Forrest?’ John said when I paused for breath. His brow was furrowed. ‘Forrest?’ He took a sip of coffee. ‘Tall chap? Blond? Pleased with himself?’
I smiled at his succinct summing up of Edwin. ‘Yes,’ I said.
John nodded. ‘Met him once,’ he said. ‘At some do at the Academy. Haven’t seen him since, though. And Ruskin’s in Venice so I doubt he’s seen him either – though we’re not really talking at the moment …’
With a start I remembered what was newsworthy about John’s marriage – his bride was Effie Ruskin, who’d been married to the critic for many years before they divorced. No wonder he looked tired – his personal life was the talk of London and Effie had suffered all sorts of degrading and intrusive tests before her divorce was allowed.
‘He’s spinning you a yarn,’ said John.
I shook my head. ‘No, not Edwin,’ I said. ‘He told me he’d seen Ruskin and he couldn’t be a patron for me because he spent too much money on Lizzie Siddal.’
John gave a bark of laughter. ‘Well that’s true enough,’ he said. ‘Perhaps this Edwin has been to Venice after all.’
‘Or perhaps you are mistaken and Mr Ruskin is in London,’ I said, knowing very well that Edwin had only been away for two or three days.
John shrugged. ‘So you want me to be your patron?’ he said, getting to the point.
I flushed. ‘I thought if you saw my work, then you’d want to help,’ I said. ‘Support me, teach me …’
John studied me and I lowered my eyes in embarrassment.
‘You have confidence in your work,’ he said. ‘I like that. You should be confident.’
‘My father wants me to get married,’ I said. ‘Then my confidence will all be for nothing.’
There was a pause. I was painfully, acutely aware that whatever John said next would change my life.
‘If you’d come to me last year, or two years ago, then I could have helped,’ John said. He looked genuinely sorry. ‘I could have taught you, and introduced you to Ruskin. But now …’
‘Now …’ I said. My voice shook.
‘Now I have no spare money with which to help you, and no leverage with Ruskin,’ John said. ‘And my reputation is shaky to say the least. I can’t help you.’
I closed my eyes briefly. Then I forced myself to smile. ‘Perhaps Mr Holman Hunt?’
But John was shaking his head. ‘He is off to the Holy Land again soon. He may be away for some time.’
‘Mr Rossetti?’ I couldn’t imagine working with Rossetti but needs must.
John shook his head again.
‘Any money he has pays debts and supports Lizzie,’ he said, his mouth twisting slightly in disapproval.
‘Lizzie,’ I repeated in disgust. My heart contracted in pure brilliant envy of the woman who had somehow got the life I wanted.
John reached out and touched my hand briefly. ‘Lizzie lives a chaotic life,’ he said. ‘Not one you should wish to copy.’
I felt ashamed. I gathered my things and pulled on my bonnet. ‘I must go,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your time.’
John stopped me with a hand on my arm. ‘Keep in touch,’ he said. He pulled a pencil out from his jacket pocket and wrote an address on the back of one of my sketches. ‘Send me drawings, write to me of your work. And maybe in a year or two from now, things will change.’
‘Really?’ I said, my mood swinging violently from desolation to delight.
‘Really,’ he said. ‘Wait like Mariana.’
‘Mariana waited in vain,’ I pointed out.
John smiled. ‘Your time will come.’
Chapter 44
Present day
Ella
‘I think everything you need is here,’ said the police archivist. She was young and pretty with bright red hair and a ring through her nose, and looked absolutely nothing like I had expected. She handed me a pair of cotton gloves and slipped a similar pair on her hands. She had chunky silver rings on both her thumbs. I smiled at her, grateful she was being so helpful.
‘Thanks for getting all this out for me, Lainey,’ I said. We were sitting at a large table in the cool airy new police archives building in Lewes, a large box of books and files in front of us. It was all fairly intimidating even though I was no stranger to research, so I was very pleased Lainey was so enthusiastic about it. Priya had wanted to come with me, but Amber was sick so she’d reluctantly stayed behind.
Lainey heaved one of the leather books out of the box and opened it at a marked page.
‘This is my bread and butter,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘I love this kind of stuff. Now look.’ She ran her finger down a handwritten list of numbers. ‘We’re going right back to the early days of Sussex police here, but their record-keeping was brilliant.’
I squinted at the writing, but I couldn’t make head or tail of it.
‘Each crime was given a number,’ Lainey explained. ‘And the name next to it is the policeman who investigated – for yours it’s Inspector Croft. You’ll get the hang of reading the writing.’
She pointed to a row of tight script. ‘Then here, is the type of crime it was, and next to it, the names of the victims. This is your one.’
I pulled the book back towards myself. ‘Murder,’ I read aloud. ‘Attempted murder. And, erm, what’s that last one?’
‘Missing person,’ Lainey said.
‘And the names.’ I looked carefully at the tiny writing. ‘Edwin Forrest, Frances Forrest, William Philips, Violet Hargreaves.’
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. This was it.
‘That’s them,’ I told Lainey. ‘Is there any more?’
She looked thrilled to be asked. ‘Oh yes.’ She stood up and pulled another, even larger, book out of the box, her skinny, sinewy arms straining.
Again the right pages were marked – she’d got everything ready for me, bless her. She opened the book using both hands to turn the heavy pages.
‘Crime reports,’ she said in a triumphant manner. ‘Everything they recorded about it – it’s all here.’
I couldn’t believe it. I checked the name of the investigating officer on the report and sent a si
lent prayer of thanks to the long-dead Inspector Croft who’d written everything down in such detail.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Lainey said. ‘Give me a shout if you need a hand.’ She looked stern for a minute. ‘And no food or drink in here. It’s all too precious.’
I’d been about to ask where I could get a cup of tea, but instead I nodded meekly. Then I turned my attention to the book.
I resisted the temptation to read ahead, instead making notes on the crimes diligently. Then when I’d copied it all into my notebook, I turned to the witness statements. They were disappointing to say the least.
The housekeeper – Agnes Hobb – had seen nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing. Frances merely said she, her husband, and Violet had been chatting in front of her house when someone attacked them from behind. She’d been knocked unconscious, she said, and could remember nothing. And the Hargreaves family’s gardener – William Philips – died. In Inspector Croft’s writing, it said Philips expired three days after the attack.
I sat back in my chair, feeling unaccountably sad for the gardener, who’d not even merited a mention before now. And of course I felt awful about Edwin and Frances who were the other victims of the brutal attack. But where was Violet?
I leafed through the reports, skimming to see if Inspector Croft had found another body, but I could see nothing. ‘Some post-mortem reports would be nice,’ I muttered, missing the brilliant bureaucracy of the modern police.
‘There’s a doctor’s report,’ Lainey said from behind me. I hadn’t noticed her approach. She leaned over and rifled through the pages. She smelled like joss sticks and made me think of my university days.
‘Here it is,’ she stuck her finger in the right page and pushed the heavy book back to me. ‘Also, I thought you might want this.’ She held out a Post-it Note. ‘It’s our login for the newspaper archive,’ she explained. ‘Probably worth checking what was reported at the time.’
‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘I’m going to get a cup of tea – in the canteen,’ I added as I saw her disapproving face. ‘Then I’ll be back.’
The Girl in the Picture Page 17