by Karen Odden
“Oh,” I said in surprise. “I was told he wasn’t allowed visitors.”
He brushed one hand against his vestments. “They make exceptions for us.”
I bit my lip. “Of course.”
“I attended him twice a week when he was there, and we saw each other less regularly afterward—but still, once a fortnight or so.” He hesitated and glanced toward my aunt, who was talking with Mr. Martin. Instinctively I took a few steps away from her. He inclined his head toward me, his voice lowered. “The rector said it was sudden. May I ask, was it an accident?”
A tremor ran over me. “No.”
His face crumpled with sorrow and frustration. “What a terrible waste. His life before prison . . . I know it was . . .” He spread his hands wordlessly, then let them fall to his sides. “But he was a brilliant and sensitive man.”
“He was neither brilliant nor sensitive,” came my aunt’s voice over my shoulder. “He was selfish and calculating and never, not a day in his life, did he consider the feelings of anyone else! He killed my brother and your mother, and he never repented of it. He only got what he deserved, and we all know it!”
I whirled to find her gray eyes blazing in her round pasty face. “Aunt Caroline, stop it! You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Mr. Martin was at her side. “Mrs. Hastings, please.” He put his hand on her elbow and drew her away.
My heart was beating furiously in my chest, and my breath was coming in gasps.
Mr. Pascoe’s brown eyes were full of sympathy. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t hold with your aunt’s opinions.” A pause. “He spoke of you often, you know.”
It was, of course, the sort of thing one said to a surviving sister, but I sensed he meant it kindly, and a conventional response rose to my lips: “Did he?”
He drew me toward a pew, and we sat down. “He felt a terrible weight of grief and guilt for what he’d done to you and to your parents—the truancy, the opium, the forgeries, all of it.”
I started in surprise. So the vicar knew.
“A terrible weight,” he repeated soberly. “He had discovered a different path, you know, during his time in prison.” His expression was full of regret. “I just wish . . .”
Haltingly, I said, “Our friend Felix said so as well.”
“Edwin understood your skepticism. He told me how many times he promised that he would change, only to relapse into his old habits.” I felt my throat tighten, and I remained silent. His head tipped. “Did you know he made a will?”
I started again. “What?”
He nodded. “He made it the week after he was released from prison, and I witnessed it. With the exception of a few sentimental bequests, you’re his sole heir.”
I felt the blood drain from my face, and he peered at me anxiously.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t intend to add to your distress. I thought it might be some comfort to you.”
I stared at the back of the pew in front of us. There was a knot in the wood, and the grain ran around it, like a stream would run around a boulder.
“Miss Rowe, I . . .”
“There are so many things he didn’t tell me,” I blurted. “About Felix’s visits and the painting he was cleaning and—and you. But a will that leaves me our parents’ house? Why wouldn’t he tell me that?”
“I think—” The vicar averted his eyes for a moment. Then he sighed and met my gaze. “I think he didn’t want you to feel obligated to forgive him.”
It took me a moment to understand, and then I did.
Of course. Edwin wanted me to forgive him from my heart, not because he filled my purse.
I couldn’t think of a word of reply. I just sat stunned and silent, staring at the knot and the grain in the wood, until the vicar shifted and gave an exhale that I felt near my left ear. “The will is with a solicitor. Mr. Jamison, on Yarrow Street. I’ll send a note round to him about what has happened and tell him he can expect you. Will that do?”
Mutely I nodded.
“Our church door is always open. If you ever wish to speak with me, you’ll find us on Pancras Road, just north of the railway station.”
I swallowed and said for what must have been the hundredth time, “Thank you.”
He rose and stepped out of the pew, but before he left he put a gentle hand on my shoulder and said tenderly, as if to a child, “God bless you, my dear.”
And for the first time since I’d heard the news that Edwin died, when tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, I let them come.
ONLY HALF A dozen of us made the walk from the church to the gravesite for the burial, which Felix had arranged. A recent storm had stripped the branches of the elms, and I felt as though I were looking upon the scene from above, through the bare limbs of the trees.
The rector shepherded me through the remainder of the service. Felix stood at my side; Mr. Hallam remained at a distance, watching to the end, I believe, for any unexpected faces at the gravesite. The moment the casket was lowered into the ground, my aunt turned away with a resolute sniff. Felix stepped aside with a sigh, and the last to leave was Mr. Martin. He stood beside me and spoke a few priestly words of comfort that I barely heard.
And then, at last, I was alone by the grave. I looked down into the hole and saw the coffin, several shades paler than the nut-brown earth around it. The white flowers I placed on top had rolled off, or been blown to the side, dropping into the crevasse between the wood and the dirt, leaving only the oblong box, devoid of ornament and polished to a dull sheen.
God, what a fool I’d been.
The feeling of self-loathing struck me as fiercely as a bitter wind on naked skin. There was no getting away from the consequences of my stubbornness and my stupidity, keeping myself at a distance from him. Of course I knew that people could die swiftly. My parents had taken ill and were gone in a matter of days. But Edwin was only twenty-five! I had counted on there being time—time enough for me to be angry with him; to hold myself aloof so that he might learn what it had felt like to be abandoned; to inscribe indelibly my uncertainty and fear upon his heart, so that he would never, ever do it to me again. And then, at last, I would let him see I’d forgiven him. That, really, I’d forgive him anything, so long as he came back for good.
I thought there would be time for all of that.
Now there wasn’t time for any of it.
And while I had been tending my resentment and distrust, Edwin had made sure I’d be taken care of, if anything happened to him.
The wind stirred the trees, shifting the shadows of the limbs across the ground and tumbling detritus into the grave. The dampness of the late-afternoon air knifed its way into my insides, and I shivered. Yet again, Edwin’s death took on a fresh, startling clarity. Perhaps it was because everything seemed to be moving, while the coffin remained so still.
Mr. Hallam came to my side and took my elbow, nudging me gently away from the grave, through the trees, and onto the gravel path, the small stones rough through the thin soles of my shoes. He asked if he should come and fetch me the next day, prior to going to the Sibleys’ house to speak with Mr. Pagett. I told him there was no need. I would come to the Yard.
Felix appeared beside us and muttered something to the effect that whatever Mr. Hallam had to say could wait until tomorrow. I heard the coldness in his voice, and I sensed Mr. Hallam’s resentment, but I was in no state to conciliate either of them.
I let Felix lead me away. He helped me into a cab, settled me in my flat with a cup of hot tea, and asked several times if there was anything else he might do. Each time I replied in the negative, and at last he left me. I held the cup until the tea had gone cold and then I set it aside undrunk and fell into bed, feeling as weary and worn as if I’d been marched from one side of London to the other.
Chapter 8
If I hadn’t promised Mr. Hallam, I might not have risen from bed the next morning. I had a sense of profound aimlessness, a h
ollowness at my core, and a heaviness in my hands and feet that made me clumsy. Apathetically I got up, donned my dark gray dress, and made my way down to the street. The milky fog kept me from seeing more than a few paces ahead, and I was only steps from the entrance to the Yard when I saw Mr. Hallam waiting for me under the arch. As we got into a cab, he said again how sorry he was about Edwin. Perhaps I should have told him about the will, but for some reason I wanted to keep it to myself. So I merely thanked him and kept my eyes on the street outside, watching the crowds of people appearing and vanishing like apparitions in the swirling haze.
Before we reached the Sibleys’ house, Mr. Hallam let drop into the silence something to the effect that he was glad to have me with him, as Mr. Pagett might be more amenable to conversation with someone who was knowledgeable about art.
I turned. “Was he unpleasant when he came to the Yard?”
“He took it upon himself to educate me about Boucher.” He rocked with the motion of the cab. “So now I know that Boucher was one of the most celebrated practitioners of rococo style, both in painting and the decorative arts, and a personification and embodiment of eighteenth-century French sophistication.”
The phrasing was so different from Mr. Hallam’s usual naturalness that I winced. “He said that?”
“Mm-hm.” He shrugged philosophically. “Clearly paintings are his passion. He considers himself responsible for his stepfather’s legacy. He’s compiling some sort of book about the family collection.”
“A catalogue raisonné?”
“I think that’s the term he used.” The carriage took a corner sharply, and he grabbed at the leather strap on the wall. “I gather it’s a listing with descriptions of all the items.”
I nodded. “Well, I don’t promise to know everything Mr. Pagett does, especially as he sounds like the sort who will be determined to prove that I don’t.”
“He’s a prickly one, and a bit peculiar.” He paused. “As he left, he made a comment—in German, under his breath—about how I’d be at home in Antwerp. What did he mean by that?”
“Oh . . . er . . .” I stammered and then abandoned the attempt to soften the insult. “In the sixteenth century, paintings were often valued by weight, particularly in the Antwerp market.”
“Ah.” A faint smile flickered.
We lapsed again into silence, and a few minutes later the carriage drew up to an elegant house with a black wrought-iron fence at the front. Mr. Hallam helped me out of the cab and paid the driver. “To be fair,” he said, “the day I met him, the news of the painting coming to auction was fresh. He’s had some time to regain his composure. I think you’ll be able to hold your own.”
“I hope so,” I said. He lifted the latch and swung open the gate, and as we started toward the cascade of marble steps I said hurriedly, “Mr. Hallam, please don’t tell him I’m a student at the Slade.”
He halted. “Why not? I imagine that’s the very thing that might cause him to trust you.”
I shook my head. “I don’t think it will impress him. He’ll probably take it to mean I’m . . . a dilettante or . . . or some sort of present-day bluestocking. You might just tell him I know something about art.” I hesitated. “And perhaps . . . well, please don’t tell him about me being Edwin’s sister. I’d prefer not to have to accept the sympathy of a stranger.” I’d had enough of that yesterday.
He gave an understanding nod.
“I assume you’re planning to tell him that the painting was stolen,” I ventured.
He raised the brass knocker. “Eventually, yes. Not least because I want to see whether he knows anything about its disappearance.”
The thought that I might be facing a man who’d had something to do with Edwin’s murder gave me a chill.
But just then the door opened, and a footman looked at us expectantly.
“Mr. Hallam from Scotland Yard, and Miss Rowe,” the inspector said. “For Mr. Pagett.”
“I shall see if Mr. Pagett is at home.”
“We have an appointment,” Mr. Hallam added.
The man stiffened, and he forced an emphasis upon nearly every other syllable: “Mr. Pagett returned from travel abroad late last night. I shall see if he is available for visitors.”
He held the door for us to enter the foyer, a lovely oval room with square marble tiles on the floor. Against the beige walls, fine white moldings that framed pairs of brass sconces hung at regular intervals.
“Please wait here.” The footman turned away, and the inspector and I exchanged glances.
Given that the walls were curved, there was only one flat enough for a painting; upon it hung a formal portrait. We approached, and I read the engraved brass plate secured to the dark wood frame. “‘Lord Anthony Sibley, MP.’”
“His stepfather,” Mr. Hallam observed.
The man appeared to have been about twenty-five when the portrait was made. The lighting was well done, illuminating the subject’s honey-colored hair. He had a nose that might have become beakish later in life, but attractive blue eyes, a firm chin, and a pleasing smile that brought out a dimple in his left cheek. Lord Sibley’s right hand rested tranquilly on top of a wooden desk with an emerald-green leather inset. Beside his hand was a book that bore the Oxford coat of arms with its distinctive azure background.
“Handsome fellow” was Mr. Hallam’s comment. “So is this a three-quarters?”
I stepped back to take the measure of the painting. With surprise, I realized what it was. “No. It’s similar in style, but it’s a kit-cat.”
“Kit-cat? Like the club?”
I nodded. “All the members of the Kit-Cat Club had their portraits done. The walls of the club were quite low, so they could only accommodate portraits of a certain height, if the member was painted true to life. So kit-cat came to refer to both the style—the subject painted life-size—and to the size of the canvas—three feet by roughly two and a half.” I paused. “Like the Boucher.”
Understanding lit his eyes. “Thirty-six by twenty-eight. I remember from the catalog.”
“That’s part of what’s so unusual about the portrait. I’ve never heard of a kit-cat of a woman.” I smiled. “I wonder if Boucher meant it as a tribute to her originality.”
The footman returned, and I fell silent. The expression on his face reflected how much he disapproved of us having moved from our original marble squares. “Mr. Pagett requests that you wait in the front parlor.”
He led us down the hallway to the third door, motioned us in with a stiff hand, and closed the door behind us, as if to prevent us from wandering about the house.
“At least he’ll see us,” Mr. Hallam muttered.
I wasn’t sorry to be left alone to admire the room, which to my eye was tastefully masculine. The walls were painted an impractical pale blue-gray, a shade incapable of hiding the stains from oil lamps or pipe smoke but which set off the gilt frames to perfection. The walls were crowned with moldings painted a pearly white. Long maroon draperies were drawn back with plain ties to reveal a meticulously groomed courtyard garden beyond. The furniture was of dark wood and leather, with brass fittings; among the two sofas and several leather chairs were square tables that held lamps and books in picturesque stacks.
The ten paintings in the room were hung properly, at eye level, rather than up too high, the way some people placed them in order to make a room appear larger, or to hide the art’s flaws. As I surveyed the first few works, I realized that we’d likely been put here so that the superiority of the family’s collection of French paintings might be thrust in our faces. But regardless of the heavy-handedness of Mr. Pagett’s maneuver, someone in the family had a very good eye.
Side by side on one of the walls hung a pair of portraits in the style of La Tour. The first showed a sober-looking young man seated on a bench, with his interests and his membership in the leisure class represented by a book, a globe, and two slim gray pointers, their noses pointed in opposite directions; the second was of a young
woman, also seated, but at a desk, with her quill and paper and some books. The composition and lighting were similar, but the artist’s attitude toward his subjects couldn’t have been more different. Whereas the young man’s skin was sallow, hers was pink; while his expression was mirthless with a hint of resentment, hers betrayed warmth and humor verging on impishness.
“These are neither kit-cats nor three-quarters,” Mr. Hallam murmured, as if we were in a museum. “You see, I’m learning.”
I nodded approvingly. “Yes, these are full-length.”
The next group, three paintings on a longer wall, included a scene from a garden party in the style of Watteau, with ladies and gentlemen in formal dress conducting their amorous affairs; and two landscapes in unsaturated greens and browns that were well done but, to my mind, conventional, and I moved on.
Mr. Hallam had followed me in silence as I continued my tour around the room, and he nearly bumped into me as I halted abruptly before the sixth painting, which hung on a wall by itself. It was an oversize canvas depicting a scene in an elegant parlor, and as I studied it, I felt my pulse quicken. The light dropped beautifully from the window into the room, shaping shadows that might have done credit to Rembrandt himself. Precisely at the center of the canvas was a pale porcelain teacup being handed from maid to mistress, but the dispersal of colors and the gazes of the subjects drew my eye in widening arcs. I drew closer to see the textures of the piano, the carpet, the silk of the girls’ dresses; they were expertly rendered, without any thickening of paint that sometimes marks the work of an amateur. The gentleman’s hands—the bane of many artists’ existence—were done well, down to the fingernails and a ring with a red stone—
“You like this?” Mr. Hallam asked.
I let out my breath. “I think it’s brilliant.”
“Brilliant?” His expression was perplexed. “I was about to say the scene was ordinary, and I wondered why you were staring. What have I missed?”
There was something about his manner, at once humble and openly curious, that made me feel pleased to explain. “First, why don’t you tell me what you see?”