by Karen Odden
“Maybe someone was here for a long time,” I said.
He peered at the last art master’s portrait. “William Maxwell Waters served from 1852 to 1858.” He strode along the wall until he reached the next painting whose background featured an easel. “The next is 1866 to 1869, when the fire happened.” He turned to me, and his blue eyes were bright. “1859 to 1865 is six full years. You’re the one who told me to look for what’s missing.”
Uneasily, I backed away from the wall and took in the portraits. Matthew was right, and I knew my father had sent Edwin here in large part for the respected art master.
“It’s odd,” I admitted.
Matthew grunted agreement.
We completed our parade down the other side of the hall, paying particular attention to the dates, for masters in all the subjects. Aside from the fire, nothing seemed to interrupt the presence of a teacher in a particular subject.
We paused in front of the awards plaque with Edwin’s name.
“I wonder how jealous the other boys were of that,” I said. “Do you think this is why he was unhappy here? Because the bit of friendly competition wasn’t so friendly?”
“Perhaps,” Matthew allowed.
We stopped in to say goodbye to Marcus and let him know he might lock up.
“Do you happen to know who Edwin’s art teacher might have been in, say, 1865? I notice there’s a portrait missing,” Matthew said.
He looked blank. “I’m sorry, couldn’t say. I never noticed.”
“Another question for Mr. Rawlings,” I murmured, and he nodded.
We said goodbye and exited the way we’d entered, by the enormous front door. Matthew was silent on the walk back to the station, but as we reached the platform, he uttered a groan. “Good Lord. The Isle of Wight, of all places.”
I looked at him in surprise. “I can go by myself if you’ve other things to do. This visit probably won’t reveal anything about Edwin’s murder or the painting. But I still want to know what happened to Edwin here.”
He grimaced. “It’s not that I’ve other things to do. It’s the boat ride.”
“Oh!” I remembered what he’d said about his seasickness and winced in sympathy. “I really can go by myself, you know.”
He waved a hand dismissively.
The locomotive rounded the corner, and there was a general stirring of the people on the platform. The brakes dragged the train to a stop, and we mounted and settled into a carriage. Outside the window three dogs gamboled close by, and I hoped they knew to stay at a safe distance once the train started to move.
The whistle blew, and the dogs settled side by side on their haunches to watch the train depart. I found myself laughing softly, for they seemed almost human in their grasp of the situation, their mouths forming a series of smiling farewell barks I couldn’t hear over the noise of the engine.
TWILIGHT FELL OVER the countryside. The fields lay long and low, shadows stretching across them. The lights of houses in the distance twinkled, delicate as moths among the trees. Eventually, we drew near London, with its hundreds of yellow lights wallowing in a fog that obscured all signs of stars. We disembarked at Euston station, and Matthew put me in a cab, remaining at the curb until the wheels began to turn.
Fatigued, I rested my head against the cushion and closed my eyes, not opening them again until the driver stopped and announced we’d arrived at my flat. I dismounted, opened the front door, and began climbing the stairs. As I reached the landing below mine, I fumbled my key out of my reticule, wanting nothing more than a cup of hot tea and to shed my dusty clothes. I heard a scraping sound and a grunt above me, and I stared up into the shadows.
There was a bulky dark figure looming next to my door that began to sway.
I let out a cry, and the figure spoke immediately. “Annabel, it’s me. Felix.” His voice sounded peculiar.
I peered at him in the dim light coming from a lamp on the landing below. “Felix! What are you doing here? What’s the matter?”
As I stepped onto the landing beside him, he tried to stand, pushing off the floor with his hands. But he swayed as he reached his full height, and as I grasped him by the shoulders, thinking he was ill, I smelled whiskey thick on his breath.
“Felix,” I said in surprise. “Why . . . you’re drunk.”
“I’m so sorry, Annabel. I’m s’ sorry.” His words slurred, rising and falling in waves. “Edwin . . .”
I sighed. The poor man. I understood his guilt, but Edwin would never have wanted him to feel so tormented that he turned to whiskey for consolation. When Felix was sober again, I’d talk to him, try to help him if I could.
“Felix, you should go home,” I said gently.
His voice was mumbling and incoherent, and his head fell forward. “Should never’ve ashked him to . . .”
“Come along, Felix,” I said as I took hold of his arm to guide him toward the stairs. “Can you manage?”
With my right hand firmly on the banister and my left arm around his prodigious waist, I guided him downstairs. Several times he teetered, and I feared we’d both go tumbling, but at last we reached the pavement outside.
“I’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “So ’shamed. Should’ve helped him find shun . . . something to do.” He emitted a heavy, whiskey-infused exhale. “Shouldn’t ha’ gone to jail . . .”
I craned my head, looking for a cab. Over my shoulder, I reassured him: “Please don’t, Felix. You were only ever kind to him.”
A cab turned onto the street, and the driver raised his whip in response to my wave. As the cab halted at the curb, the driver assessed the situation and climbed down from his box with a sigh to open the door. With his help, I got Felix inside. “A friend of his died. He’s very upset,” I said, by way of explanation. I gave Felix’s address and handed the driver some extra coins on top of the usual fare.
His smile was wry but not unkind. “I’ll see to him. Don’t worry, lass.”
I thanked him, returned upstairs, unlocked my door, and undid the fastenings of my cloak. As I hung it on its usual hook, Felix’s words came back to me, together with Matthew’s question about why Edwin hadn’t pursued his craft legitimately. Had Felix been unwilling or unable to help Edwin years ago and now felt sorry about it?
I’d been weary before, but Felix’s presence on my landing had startled me, and in the aftermath, my nerves were still jangling. With jerky fingers, I lit the lamp, stoked the stove, and put the kettle on for tea. As I waited for the water to boil, I caught up the auction catalog Felix had left during his last visit. From the cover smiled Madame de Pompadour, secure in her position as the king’s mistress. I moved close to the lamp, so I could study the picture more thoroughly. She seemed to welcome the scrutiny, to meet the gaze of her viewer with an expression that held both bold assurance and the promise of intimacy. Her eyes were wide and alight with laughter and intrigue, though her lips were demurely closed. If I were a man, I’d have found her extraordinarily attractive, perhaps irresistible, especially if I believed all that warmth was for me. My eyes shifted from her to the background. On the wall hung a painting of a boy fishing in a river. Something about the droop of his pole caught my eye, and when I realized what it was, I couldn’t help but laugh inwardly at the joke. Madame had been born Jeanne Antoinette Poisson—poisson meaning “fish” in French—and his fishing pole was pointing almost directly at her right ear. Behind her stood a marble-topped table with three leather-bound books—probably an allusion to her patronage of Voltaire and Smith—and a pure white basin, possibly a piece of porcelain brought from the factory at Sèvres that she’d built. There was no indication anywhere of the tuberculosis her body harbored, and which eventually killed her.
Involuntarily, my thoughts veered toward Felix and the danger I sensed for him. I understood how the strain of the last few days might have driven him back to taking spirits. But what if he hadn’t come here to my flat? What if he’d spent the night stumbling around the streets? He might have been r
obbed or beaten or worse. I wished I could somehow keep him out of the pubs, but the best thing I could do for him was to find the painting, for that could possibly reinstate him with Bettridge’s.
“Where did you go, Madame?” I asked softly. “And what else could I possibly do to find you?”
But her eyes, beautiful and enigmatic, gave me no sign.
Chapter 16
On the railway train that took us to Portsmouth, I was of two minds whether to tell Matthew about Felix’s visit. In the end, I decided not to, at least for the time being. The two men were already wary of each other, and I felt protective of Felix. Besides, nothing would be gained by Matthew learning about Felix floundering at my door in the dark.
As we stood on the dock at Portsmouth, Matthew drew out a paper map to show me that the Isle of Wight was roughly diamond-shaped. The River Medina was like the blade of a carving knife that plunged from the northernmost corner straight down into the heart of the island, with its tip at the town of Newport, where the headmaster lived. Matthew’s plan was for us to take the shortest possible boat trip to the harbor at Ryde and then the railway train inland.
I soon realized this route was best, for even before we left the dock Matthew’s complexion turned greenish and a sheen of sweat appeared above his brow. I knew the journey should take only an hour, and Spithead, the strait between England and the island, was the most sheltered section of the English Channel. Still, there was a stiff breeze, the waves rose high enough that the rail was slick, and occasionally a mist of spray reached my face. I found the journey went easier if I bent my knees and rode with the waves, expecting no rhythm, instead of fighting the capricious bounce and roll of the ship.
“Are you feeling all right?” Matthew asked, raising his voice to be heard in the wind. “Best to stay above if you can and keep your eyes on the horizon. The fresh air may help you.”
I felt perfectly fine, but I kept that to myself. “Will anything help you?”
“No.”
“I’ve never been out on a boat like this. The most I’ve done is row about in a quiet cove.” I wondered if talking might take his mind off his sickness or exacerbate it. Somewhat cautiously, I asked, “When is the last time you were on a boat?”
“A few years ago.”
“For your police work?”
He took his eyes off the horizon to shoot me a sideways glance. “It was when I went looking for my mother. It’s a good thing Nell was back here, otherwise I’d never’ve set foot on the boat home. I’d still be in France. Never mind that I can’t speak a word except bonjour and verre de vin.”
I chuckled and observed a cluster of four fishing boats, two of which had men hauling in dark nets full of shining silvery fish. The solidness of the boats and the men balanced the erratic play of light on the waves.
“What are you looking at?” Matthew asked.
“Do you remember the painting in the Jespers’ front hall?” I nodded toward the water. “This makes me think of it.”
He grunted. “I thought the painting was a garden.”
“It was,” I confirmed. “I just mean the way it’s broken up in pieces, with our eyes drawn to bits of color and light. Mr. Poynter showed us some prints last year of Cézanne’s work, and it’s all like the garden. He doesn’t particularly admire the French painters, but he gives them high marks for originality of purpose. He believes they’re trying to show us how we look at a garden, rather than showing us the garden itself.”
Matthew appeared dubious, so I put it another way. “Let’s say you come upon two men, one of them attacking the other. Is your eye more focused on the piece of silver pipe in his hand or the brown wall behind them?”
He made a face to show he thought I was being absurd, but he answered. “The pipe.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
“Precisely. And also because it is shining and moving and in the foreground. Our eyes tend to choose light over dark, to perceive what’s moving over what’s still, and to notice what calls up fear, or any strong feeling, over something mundane.” A wave struck the boat, and I clung to the rail as I rocked back on my heels. “Mr. Poynter says he thinks these French painters are trying to make us aware of how our eyes assemble pictures for us, in parts.” I paused. “And if you think about it, as we move around the world, we don’t look at everything with equal attention. Some things we don’t bother with at all.”
“Hm.”
We both watched as a large sailing ship moved past, its white sails swelling to fullness, wrinkling in the wind, and billowing again, as smooth as a fresh case drawn over a pillow.
“So, there.” He gestured with his chin toward the receding ship. “Just now, I asked myself, what do I notice? As you said, it’s what moves—the sails, and the two sailors climbing the rigging, not the closed portholes. And I see the waves but I ignore the flat sea in the background.” He paused. “At least first off.”
“We’ll make a painter of you yet.”
He chortled. “Even I know there’s a difference between noticing and wielding a brush.” His smile faded, and he looked pensive. “Perhaps you’re right. I probably don’t pay enough attention to what doesn’t capture my eye straightaway.”
“Well, as a detective, your task is to find what’s out of the ordinary,” I demurred. “You needn’t concern yourself with all the average pedestrians on their way home from the shops. It’s your task to catch the boy who’s stolen the loaf of bread.” He pulled a face, and I added hastily, “Not that you’re simply catching petty thieves—but metaphorically speaking.”
“I know. But sometimes, precisely because I am working on cases that are more complicated than stealing a loaf of bread, it might be a person walking home who warrants a second look.”
Something about his tone made me ask, “Are you thinking of anyone in particular?”
He didn’t reply, and I thought I understood why.
“You’re suspicious of Felix, aren’t you?” I asked.
“How long have you known him?”
The boat rocked sideways with a wave and I tightened my hands on the rail. “As far back as I can remember. He and my father went to university together. And when Felix returned from Paris, he came straight to my father, once he heard he was in London. He’s always been considerate of us. You saw him at the funeral; he took care of all the arrangements, and of course he meant to be kind, finding work for Edwin. What do you suspect?”
“He’s never married?”
I shook my head. “No. I think he was engrossed in his work from a young age. That’s why it’s so tragic and unfair—him being pushed out this way, over something that wasn’t his fault.”
“Yes.” His face was impassive, and I felt a rising annoyance.
“You think there’s more to it?” I asked. “That Bettridge had another reason for letting him go?”
“Perhaps.” His tone was evasive. “I understand that Bettridge had a great deal depending on that auction’s success. But if Severington had been working for them for several years . . . one mistake seems—”
“There are people who are terribly exacting and inflexible,” I said rather sharply. “I don’t know Mr. Bettridge myself. But he might be that sort.”
The expression on his face was deliberately noncommittal, one I was coming to recognize. It meant Matthew knew something I didn’t. “You’ve spoken to him, then?”
“The day before the auction,” he admitted.
“What did he say?”
He hesitated. “It’s more what he didn’t say.”
The wind whipped my hair into my face, and I pushed it back. “Go on.”
“He didn’t mention how much he regretted letting Severington go. He didn’t give me the impression that he felt any loyalty or gratitude for his years of service.”
“Perhaps he’s not the sort to praise.”
“Hm.” His eyes were fixed on the horizon. It might have been his way of coping with seasickness, b
ut I sensed he was avoiding my gaze.
“For goodness’ sake, what is it?” I asked, worried now.
His eyes met mine and held. “Do you know why he was let go from Christie’s?”
I felt a twist of uncertainty inside my chest. “No.”
“He was drunk one afternoon, and ruined a painting. Put his foot right through it. He denied it, but there was a witness.” He took a deep breath in. “The insurance paid, but Christie’s knew it was a fraudulent claim.”
“Did he ever admit to it?”
He shook his head. “According to the witness, Felix would have been too drunk to remember—and when asked, Felix admitted he wasn’t certain what had happened.”
I imagined gossip like that spreading like wildfire, and my heart sank.
And now Felix was drinking again.
After a moment, I confessed, “He came to my flat last night.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t let him in. He was well into his cups, so I brought him downstairs and put him in a cab.” A feeling of disloyalty came over me, and hastily I added, “He said over and over how sorry he was.”
“What for? Did he say?”
I hesitated. “Well, most of all, he wished he’d never asked Edwin to clean that painting. I’m sure he blames himself for Edwin’s death.” A wave threw a light spray that reached my cheek, and I wiped it off with the inside of my sleeve. “I suppose it’s natural, but it isn’t right.”
“Unless he spoke out of turn to someone,” Matthew said. “Maybe when he was drinking, he mentioned that Edwin was restoring the painting.”
“Even if he was drunk, I can’t imagine him saying anything to endanger Edwin,” I objected. “He loved him.”
Matthew looked troubled. “Whether he is drinking or not these days, his past makes him susceptible to blackmail.”
“Blackmail! By whom?”
“Whoever wanted the painting—and whoever stole it,” he replied. “If the thief is looking for a buyer, he’ll assume Felix will know the people who’d be interested in it, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so.” I felt wretched. “I hate to think he’s mixed up in something like that.”