Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  He had sat down not to thunderous applause but at least to grim-faced agreement. Matt was proving himself a Riordan after all. And at the end of the meeting he was rewarded with some very exciting news. His father was coming home and could be back in Ireland by the weekend. Matt hugged himself at the prospect. He would raze Brackenburn to the ground on Friday, meet his father on Saturday ... and on Sunday they would plan their revenge on the rest of their enemies ... men like Pat Connors and that son of his.

  Chapter Twelve

  On the Tuesday morning Mark chose to ignore the newspapers, which were black with headlines about the Sudetenland and Hitler's intentions. Instead he went for a walk in St James's Park. Talk of war seemed unreal on the day his dream was to be fulfilled. War was ugly, brutal - it had no place in Mark's world.

  It was a pleasant morning for a stroll. The photographic session would not start until three o'clock, and Mark knew his excitement would become intolerable unless he paced himself. Waiting would be unbearable if he thought of Kate. But walking in the park proved an unsatisfactory solution. Too many girls were clad in thin summer frocks - gusts of wind caught hemlines and swirled silks upwards, revealing shapely knees and gossamer-clad legs, and in one case thighs right up to the girl's undergarments. Mark took himself off to the Ritz for coffee.

  The morning passed slowly. He walked up Bond Street, pausing to look in the galleries but making a conscious effort to avoid all paintings of the female form, naked or otherwise. At noon he took a cab to the Savoy, intending to lunch in the Grill - but even that plan suffered drawbacks. The Savoy overflowed with well-groomed women whose musical voices distracted him. Mark examined them all with frank appraisal. He did not classify even one as beautiful - least of all the famous American actress who sat surrounded by business managers and agents, and who several times smiled in his direction. Mark smiled back, straight into her eyes, in a way which pleased her - but she would have been less charmed to know that he thought her eyes too small and her mouth too wide - and that the sophisticated veneer masked a quite ordinary woman. Not a beauty. Not within a million miles of Kate.

  It seemed strange to think that Kate and her child were somewhere in this vast city. He had ceased to think of them as Sheila and Kathleen O'Brien - they were Kate - the three generations inspired by Rouen. They - she - belonged to him, formed part of his existence. Odd to think they might not understand that - he was so dominated by thoughts of them that it seemed inconceivable they might not be obsessed in the same way. Perhaps they were - perhaps the young mother at least was conscious of the bonds which drew them together. Perhaps she yearned to be free of O'Brien. "Soon Kate," Mark whispered, "very soon now." He smiled - and the American actress smiled back at him.

  He called at his London bank en route for Chelsea and cashed a cheque for the five hundred pounds needed for the first session. Then he sat back in the cab and watched the world go by. But the street scenes bored him and he closed his eyes to anticipate the pleasures ahead. Kate seemed close enough to touch when he did that, she might have been beside him. In some extraordinary way his whole life seemed to have been spent travelling to this meeting - ever since fleeing from Eton and returning to Brackenburn to find Rouen's nymph waiting at the poolside. He had hungered for her ever since - and here he was, in a London taxi-cab, on his way to meet her.

  Leonard's studio had two entrances. Harlington Row was the proper address but by arrangement Mark entered the Monk Street door and squeezed past cardboard cartons and down a narrow passageway. The time was twenty minutes past two and "Mrs Williams" and her child were due very shortly.

  Leonard greeted his client affably. He was a neat, sharp-featured little man, dressed in a black sweater and corduroy trousers, who feigned indifference as he accepted the five hundred pounds to be paid to the model. Inwardly he seethed with curiosity. The best model in London would pose for fifty pounds. To pay ten times the rate seemed evidence of insanity - but it made things intriguing. Like other master photographers, Leonard was a student of human nature - and a good one, he had photographed the rich and the famous, the beautiful and the ugly. Many interesting people had passed through Leonard's studio, but none fascinated him as much as the man he knew as "Mr Montgomery". His clothes, his upper-class accent, his mannerisms were no different from a dozen of Leonard's more affluent clients ... and yet the man was prepared to go to these extraordinary lengths to photograph a young woman.

  The two men talked for a few minutes, or rather Leonard talked, explaining the steps taken to comply with his client's instructions. A small changing room had been converted into a nursery, complete with dolls and a teddy bear, which is where Leonard's receptionist would amuse the child while her mother was in the studio. The child would be photographed first ... that would be completed in fifteen minutes ... after which the main session would begin. Mark glanced at his watch. Half an hour, that was all ... half an hour, then it would happen. What he was to see would determine the rest of his life ... and her life, their lives ... the two Kates, mother and daughter. His mouth was dry with excitement, speech was impossible - he merely nodded his approval and turned away, accepting Leonard's suggestion that he make himself comfortable in the studio. He passed through the heavy sound-proofed doors without a word, leaving the photographer hovering at the back of the reception office, glancing at the clock as he awaited the arrival of the young mother and child.

  No monarch embarking on the rites of coronation ever experienced a greater surge of anticipation than Mark as he surveyed the studio. It was perfect. In the middle of the room the specially built cage blazed with the radiance of a polished diamond - a score of struts and steel and glass cross-members bounced splinters of brilliant white light back at the arc lamps. The cage seemed larger when unoccupied and set higher from the floor - but Mark realised it was an optical illusion as he walked beneath it. The floor of the cage was exactly six and a half feet above the ground - Mark's head almost brushed the underside - and the size was a perfect twelve-foot cube. Mounted on all six surfaces of the cage the sixteen cameras focused their hungry eyes inwards to the very centre of the cube - to where the green chaise longue reclined on its gilt frame. Soon Kate would lie there, as deliciously naked as she had been for Rouen - but whereas the great French artist had viewed her from only one angle and through one set of eyes, Mark's sixteen eyes would peer from every conceivable vantage point - from all four walls, from the ceiling, and from the very floor of the cage itself.

  Smiling with pleasure Mark climbed the gantry which ran around three sides and across the top of the cage. He peered joyously through the viewfinders of various cameras. The fourth side of the cube was set into the wall - and it was from the door in that wall that Kate would emerge into the brilliantly lit cube. The cube was all she would see. The rest of the studio lay in total darkness - a black, secret, impenetrable world. A man could stand right up to the bars but the light from the arc lamps made him invisible. Kate would be like a fly trapped in a bottle.

  Breathing heavily Mark climbed down the gantry and crossed the floor to a chair. He felt hot and sticky from being so close to the lamps. He loosened his tie and removed his jacket, then fumbled for a cigarette with shaking hands. His fingers were clammy, he tasted his own sweat on the cigarette ...

  Not long to wait...

  It seemed an age before the door opened. The child stood framed in the entrance, blinking against the blinding dazzle. Leonard's voice reassured her from the surrounding darkness. She raised an arm, shielding her face from the light, then took a tentative step forward like a bather testing the sea. Leonard's warm brown voice gentled her with encouragement. The girl responded by turning towards his voice. She looked so vulnerable. Mark's heart leapt with an urge to protect her - but he steeled himself to remain silent. He sat taut with nervous anticipation. The child was nervous too. Hesitant and uncertain. Wide green eyes, too big for her face, her head cocked at an angle as she listened to Leonard. The photographer encouraged her in a gentle,
half-teasing way until some of the strain went out of her face. Her expression softened. At Leonard's suggestion she took the doll, clutched tight to her bare chest, across to the chaise longue and sat down, placing the doll next to her with the watchful tenderness of a governess. She laughed aloud at something Leonard said, then answered in a cool clear voice. For a few minutes they talked back and forth. She turned and adjusted the doll's stance to an upright position. Leonard joked, using his skill to play a game and the child relaxed with trusting naturalness. She removed the doll's slippers and pulled the miniature frock down over the china feet. "There," she laughed. "Now we're both undressed." Leonard rewarded her with a rich chuckle and she giggled back, pleased with herself, excited by the whole adventure, more and more relaxed.

  But Mark could not relax. He was under too much strain. The warm rapport between photographer and subject developed to his exclusion. He could neither participate nor enjoy. The charm of what he saw completely escaped him - he missed what a father might see, and what Leonard did see - a child, brimming with life, revelling in an opportunity to show off without parental restraint. Mark missed it because he was looking for something else. He was looking for Kate ... and wondering how on earth he could tell whether this small girl would grow up into Rouen's vision of beauty. Instead of enjoying his eyes searched for deformities, for scars, for evidence that she would not be Kate. He looked for flaws, but found none. The child was perfectly proportioned ... her legs strong, her back straight, her shoulders sloped at an enchanting angle. She had grace too, in every movement. But was she Kate? Her skin was magnolia white, her hair the colour of fire, her green eyes were flecked with gold ... but Mark was in a fever of doubt. He had been so sure that he would be able to tell. Now, faced with the moment of truth ... he was uncertain. He almost sobbed with frustration. In her Belfast park, fully dressed, she had seemed older ... clothes had given her an air ... added maturity ... but now, years had been stripped away along with her frock. He would have to wait an eternity to find out. Was she Kate? Where was the absolute proof ?

  He listened to Leonard's coaxing and watched the girl pirouette across the brilliantly lit cube ... and still he doubted. Hunched in his chair, gnawing his lip, tense-faced in the darkness - the impossibility of it all finally came to him. There could be no proof - just indications, all positive - yet only the years would tell whether she would grow up to be Kate.

  Suddenly Mark gripped the arm of the chair. Of course there was proof! This was Kate the child, soon he would see Kate the mother she was his proof, his living proof.

  Leonard was finishing. With the doll in her arms the girl moved to the door, smiling impishly out into the darkness. The door opened and closed behind her. Mark passed a hand across his damp forehead. He closed his eyes, sick with apprehension. He buried his head in his hands and prayed - and was still praying when he heard the click of the door. She was there! All he had to do was look up. Mark sat rigid, unable to move ... paralysed with fear. How many years had he waited for this? He was soaked in sweat, his shirt clung to him. His heart pounded, the roof of his mouth felt as dry as sand. Every ounce of willpower was needed to move his muscles. Slowly, somehow, he forced himself upright in the chair. He opened his eyes.

  She had adopted the pose of Rouen's model in The Looking Glass. Hours of study had gone into that position. She had practised so often that to recline naked on a chaise longue was as natural as breathing. Warmth from the lamps relaxed her body. Leonard's soothing voice from the darkness eased her nervousness. She raised the small looking glass and patted her hair with her other hand. Then moved her hips, stretched one long leg to its full extent - and held the pose.

  Mark choked, "Kate! Oh thank God - Kate!"

  The hoarse whisper snapped her head round. Her eyes widened with alarm, she held her breath - like a startled deer. Silence - then Leonard's warm tones reassured her again. She hesitated, still straining for the sound of a second voice - but she heard only the photographer. After a long moment she relaxed, and went back into the pose.

  Mark's heart pounded. She was the nymph from the pool! But never had Rouen captured so much fire in her hair. Nor caught the delicious contrast of milk white skin and the pink tips of her breasts, or the ripe curved fullness of the breasts themselves. And when she moved the faintest suggestion of muscular ripple showed in her legs ... legs like a dancer from the ballet ... slender, tiny ankles, but the grace and power in her calves drew the eye to the perfect roundness of knee and the long, exquisitely shaped thigh. And the arch of her neck, the white pillar of throat, the clean line of jaw below full sensuous lips ... all were perfect. She turned and looked out into the darkness, her long heavy lids half lowered against the dazzle of light ... and when she did that her green eyes seemed to bore through Mark's skull.

  Leonard's voice caressed her from the darkness, altering the pose, suggesting a mood ... "You are waking from sleep, stretch slowly, luxuriously like a cat ... that's right, turn on one side, knees bent just a little, then s-t-r-e-t-c-h ... beautiful ... now wide awake ... that's lovely ... just wonderful ... raise your right arm just a little ..."

  The girl moved so gracefully that the dreamlike quality of the scene persisted. Yet it was real ... happening ... the dream had come true! Rouen's model had come to life and was even more beautiful than in her paintings. Now she was walking across the cage, pausing, turning, pausing again in answer to Leonard's directions. The sheer grace of her stance took Mark's breath away. For a long sweaty second he stayed stuck to his chair, then - slowly - he rose and crossed to stand beneath the cage. Bathed in the uncompromising glare of light, Sheila O'Brien walked up and down, pausing, turning, walking again. As she passed directly overhead the probing eye of Mark's camera swept over the moving swell of her calf muscles to the alabaster pillars of her thighs and the trembling twitch of her buttocks. Click went the camera. She spread her legs and reached high with her arms. Click went the camera directly beneath her. Mark climbed the gantry onto the roof of the cage. She reclined on the chaise longue. Click went the camera. She turned onto her stomach. Click. She rose and crossed her gilded cage. Click, click, click ...

  Sean Connors should have been exhausted. He had risen at six and not stopped all day. So much had happened in so short a time that he had to pinch himself to make sure it was true.

  He had been at Brigid's place by six thirty that morning, rousing Michael from his bed. All Michael was told was that Sean needed his help at the Gazette - explanations would have to wait until later. By nine o'clock they had measured the basement and the ground floor - using a ball of twine and calling measurements to each other like proper surveyors. O'Toole, the night-editor, raised merry hell, but Sean lied in his teeth by saying he was doing a job for Mr Macaffety - then, at ten o'clock, Daly arrived and wanted to know what was going on - and Sean gave him the same answer.

  By eleven they had measured the whole building, and fifteen minutes later were in Bewley's Cafe, waiting for Jim Tully. Sean checked and double checked his figures. Michael was pestering to know what was going on. Sean almost told him that if everything worked out they would make enough money to send Tomas to Australia - but stopped and instead pored over his notebook, concentrating like mad. He had the concept clear in his mind, but some of the details refused to slot into place - and time ran out then because Jim Tully arrived.

  Sean thanked him for meeting at such short notice, introduced Michael, and then plunged straight in - "I've found a site for the tearooms," he said proudly, "the best site in Dublin."

  Jim Tully betrayed a mixture of surprise and disappointment. Surprise because the Widow O'Flynn had agreed on some premises in Henry Street - and disappointment because Sean had promised to relinquish his role as her custodian. There was even a third reason for concern. Property was Tully's business. He knew every pile of stones in town. To hear Sean boast of "the best site in Dublin" was enough to subdue Tully's famous charm - but he disguised his misgivings by asking for the address of this marvello
us discovery.

  Sean told him and waited. Tully carried a street map in his hand. He worked it out within ten seconds. "Why - that's the Gazette!"

  "Ssh!" Sean threw a hurried glance around the restaurant. He concentrated, knowing that Tully would pick up the slightest nuance if it rang untrue. "It's like this, Mr Tully," he began carefully, "the building is larger than we need. We could give up some of the ground floor for tea-rooms and let the whole top floor for offices. That would leave us the basement, half the ground floor and the two floors above. We could function fine with that - and the rest of the space could earn a rental income."

  It was Tully's turn to glance over his shoulder. He smiled and shook his head in mock admiration. "Wouldn't anyone think you'd been in the property business all your life to listen to you. Next you'll be talking of cost per square foot and amortising over ten years."

  Sean was unsure about amortising, but if it meant a buyer recovering his outlay over ten years, Sean could do better than that. For answer he opened his notebook - "That's the total square footage, Mr Tully, and overleaf is a floor by floor diagram of the whole building."

  Tully tried to conceal his surprise by poring over the figures.

  "It's a very fine building, isn't it, Mr Tully?"

  Tully looked up. "What in God's name is this all about?"

  "Wouldn't you say it's one of the best buildings in Dublin?" Sean persisted.

  Tully flushed. "Will you stop going on about it. It's not the Four Courts, or the Customs House, or the Taj Mahal - it's a bloody good office building and you're right about the ground floor - shops or a cafe make more sense than what's been done with it so far."

  Sean lowered his voice. "It's to be auctioned, Mr Tully, but nobody knows yet."

  Tully blinked several times, but his jowled face failed to conceal his surprise - or his excitement. Of course he had heard of Lord Bowley's death, but that was a while ago ... "Auctioned?" he echoed softly.