‘What manner of lessons?’
Lord March smiled uneasily. ‘Neddy puts it a little bluntly. There is nothing heretical in our thinking, I assure you. The club simply seeks to understand man in his natural condition, as God conceived him to be. We draw upon Rousseau and others, but also on our own studies of the classical world. Mr Stone is particularly interested in the light cast upon Roman society by the excavations at Pompeii. You should talk to the lieutenant’s brother, if you want to know more. He’s the authority on it all.’
‘Is Simon at home?’ Mrs Corsham asked.
‘In Hampshire on Stone’s business,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘Fitting a statue at one of his houses. He has six, you know, and a mistress in each. Has my brother scurrying up and down the country fitting them out with his precious antiquities. In this house, we’re all supplicants at the throne of Stone.’
Child took the card with the satyr from his pocket. ‘Does this mean anything to you at all?’
Lord March frowned and shook his head. The lieutenant barely glanced at it. ‘No,’ he said, in a bored tone. ‘Should it?’
‘Looks like a satyr to me. Reminds me of the goat on your rings. Clever trick that – the stone that turns around. Alitur vitium, vivitque tengendo. Vice thrives by concealment. That’s Catullus, right?’
‘Virgil,’ Lord March said, unsmiling. He took out his watch. Gold, studded with rubies. About two hundred guineas to Child’s trained eye. ‘Will this take much longer, Mr Child? We’re due at the Golden Pear Tree at five.’
‘Just one thing more.’ Child unfolded Nelly’s drawing. ‘This girl, her name is Pamela. She was another of Agnetti’s sitters. Do you know her?’
The lieutenant glanced at it, then met Child’s gaze combatively. ‘I know most of Agnetti’s girls. Haven’t seen this one in quite a while. What does she have to do with anything?’
‘She disappeared six months ago. Lucy was trying to find out what had happened to her.’
‘Oh, these girls are always falling in love and following their hearts. Or slinking back home to face the music. Or moving in with a keeper. Or getting locked up in Bridewell for a spell.’
‘Or getting murdered. That’s what Lucy thought had happened here. The four founders of the Priapus Club seem to have been the object of her suspicion. Did she ever speak to you about her?’
The lieutenant brought his fist down on the table, making the cutlery jump. ‘I’ve called men out for less. If you were a gentleman, I’d do so now. Impudent wretch.’
Lord March was still staring at the drawing of Pamela. ‘Do you know her, My Lord?’
He was forced to repeat the question, before March looked up. All his charm seemed to have leeched out of him, along with his colour. ‘This time I share the lieutenant’s misgivings. These questions are at best insulting, at worst they’re slander. Repeat them in public and you’ll be hearing from my lawyer. I am surprised at you, Mrs Corsham. This lapse of judgement is in poor taste. I suggest you leave before your man does you further discredit.’
*
‘Did you see his face?’ Child said, when they were outside on the street. ‘Lord March went white as winter when I showed him that picture.’
Mrs Corsham didn’t look much better herself. She swayed slightly and put a hand to the side of the carriage to steady herself.
‘Yes, I did. That girl means something to them, certainly.’
‘You are unwell, madam,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I escort you home?’
She glared at him. ‘What do you intend to do next?’
‘Keep asking around Soho and Covent Garden. See if I can find out where Pamela was lodging. I’ll keep looking for Lucy’s friend, Kitty, too – and Hector, the lad from the Whores’ Club. He was Kitty’s former servant, and I’m convinced it was him who slipped that card with the satyr into my pocket. I’ll head down to Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow and talk to Ezra Von Siegel, the lamplighter. And that jeweller who made the rings, Solomon Loredo. I have dealings with a lot of jewellers in the City, and Loredo’s a canny fellow. If he’s done business with Simon Dodd-Bellingham before, then he’ll have asked around about him first. I might buy him dinner.’
‘Did you believe the lieutenant’s story about the ring?’
‘I’m not sure. Lucy did have a bottle of valerian in her rooms. It might be the draught she slipped into the lieutenant’s wine.’
‘He said Agnetti knew about the stolen ring some weeks ago. If that’s true, it seems unlikely the lieutenant invented the story. I will call on him this evening and ask him.’
‘Is that wise, madam? Agnetti’s name is coming up a lot. He knew Lucy and Pamela. He was also there at Vauxhall on the night of the murder.’
‘That’s precisely why I should call on him, don’t you think?’
‘The lieutenant says he thinks Agnetti hurt Lucy before. We don’t know for certain that this connects to the Priapus Club at all. Agnetti could have killed her.’
‘It would seem a great coincidence, given Lucy’s suspicions and all that was going on in her life, if Pamela and those four gentlemen had nothing to do with it.’
Child had to concede the point. ‘Didn’t you say Jonathan Stone was Agnetti’s patron? Even assuming he’s innocent, he might not give you honest answers.’
‘Then I won’t be honest about my purpose. I’ll say I want him to paint my portrait. He charges eighty guineas a commission. That should get him talking.’
Child grunted. The woman was stubborn as Noah. ‘Just be careful.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE GRAND SQUARE of Leicester Fields had a large quadrant of grass at its centre, and a statue of the first King George riding a horse. As Caro’s carriage circled the perimeter, she glimpsed several artists at work on the grass, sketching the likenesses of passers-by for pennies. The neighbourhood had long been renowned for its artistic connections. She remembered coming here as a girl, when her father had sat for the great Mr Reynolds. His arch rival, Mr Hogarth, had lived just across the square, their fellow artists forced, quite literally, to pick a side.
The carriage halted outside Agnetti’s house, on a corner of the square, the red bricks and octagonal tower giving it the look of a castle in a children’s tale. Street-sellers crowded around them: ‘Penny pies all hot.’ ‘Buy a trap, a rat trap, buy my trap.’ ‘Diddle diddle diddle dumplings, ho!’ Miles pushed them all aside, ushering her to the door.
A manservant showed them into a large hall, hung with several of Agnetti’s vast canvases. One of the largest was of his wife: a younger, happier Theresa Agnetti. Before she became stick-thin, her hair long and black and glossy, not hidden away beneath those odd turbans she later wore. She gazed at the artist adoringly, and Caro wondered when she’d realized her mistake. Her own happiness hadn’t lasted until the altar. Or perhaps Mrs Agnetti had never looked at her husband this way, and the painting was as much a product of Agnetti’s fantasy as his classical scenes.
Her use of the word ‘commission’ elicited the desired effect. The manservant hurried upstairs to speak to his master, then hurried back down again to show her up, explaining that Signor Agnetti preferred his clients’ servants to wait downstairs. As they reached the galleried landing, a door opened and a woman hurried out. She gave Caro a bold smile and disappeared into a room further down the hall. One of Agnetti’s infamous muses, she presumed.
The studio was large and octagonal, with long windows overlooking the square below. Four easels displayed half-finished works, with another much larger canvas-in-progress propped against a wall, surrounded by a scaffold. A bureau was covered in drawings, and several side tables held the usual artists’ tools: bladders of paint, pestles and mortars, canvas knives, turpentine, rags, brushes, palettes, jars of mastic and linseed oil. Agnetti came forward to greet her and they exchanged pleasantries.
‘I have long admired the scene you painted for my brother Ambrose,’ she said. ‘I was fortunate to view more of your work at Muswell Rise the other
day. An Agnetti of my own is now my earnest desire. A portrait, I was thinking – a surprise for my husband upon his return from France.’
‘A wise decision, madam,’ Agnetti murmured. ‘Allow me to talk you through some of the different possibilities.’
He showed her around the studio, pointing out paintings. Portraits of ladies and gentlemen. More of his classical scenes: the self-murder of Dido; the rape of Persephone; Ariadne lying naked, Theseus stealing away while she slept. Caro looked for the young girl, Pamela, but didn’t see her. Nelly Diver had said that Lucy had only known Pamela a short time. Perhaps Iphigenia was the only painting for which she’d sat.
‘Some of my clients choose a conventional portrait,’ Agnetti said. ‘But most prefer to be incorporated into one of my classical scenes. For the younger lady, I suggest a goddess or a nymph.’
‘A goddess, I think. One might as well aim high.’
Smiling politely, Agnetti drew her attention to a painting of three naked women in a glade. A young man held out a golden apple, the women eyeing it covetously.
‘The Judgement of Paris,’ he said. ‘I would paint you robed, of course, but most ladies prefer to be styled as one of the three principles: Hera, the queen of the gods. Aphrodite, goddess of beauty. Or Athena, goddess of wisdom, the one with the spear.’
Agnetti’s Aphrodite had curled red hair. Her tresses artfully encircled one breast, then curled around her hip, one hand resting lightly upon her pudendum. Caro wondered if this was Lucy’s friend, Kitty Carefree.
‘I choose Aphrodite,’ she said.
Agnetti studied her with interest. ‘You surprise me.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Most of my clients choose a subject to address their own deficiencies. A plain woman chooses Aphrodite, but your looks are fine enough. Nor, from our conversation in the Rotunda, are you in any doubt as to your own wisdom. Yet your family money is new. Hence, I would have guessed Hera.’
Caro stared at him outraged. Your looks are fine enough. And the presumption! His father might be a count, but in Italy they gave titles to their horses.
‘My reasoning is quite different,’ she said crisply. ‘Aphrodite got the apple.’
Agnetti seemed oblivious to her displeasure. Perhaps he thought being an artist gave him licence to dress impertinence up as honesty. ‘It was good of you to pay for Lucy’s funeral,’ he said. ‘I presume that was you.’
She had been wondering how to raise the topic. ‘It seemed the right thing to do.’
‘I was saddened her friends did not attend.’
‘You were there.’
‘I can hardly call myself a friend. Not given the way things ended between us.’ He sighed. ‘In truth, my motives were rather more selfish. I thought it possible my wife might have seen the notice in the newspapers and decided to attend. I hoped to persuade her to return home.’
‘I heard she and Lucy were friends.’
He studied her face. ‘Does that surprise you?’
‘I confess it does.’
‘People say she objected to my sitters – the newspapers intimate that was the reason she left. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Theresa understood their value to my work. And she liked Lucy very much, as well as a girl named Kitty. It would not be a lie to say they were her closest companions.’
It was a bit rich for him to play the abandoned husband, Caro thought, given how swiftly he’d moved his new assistant into the house. Miss Cassandra Willoughby was her name, reportedly of good family, but disgraced. Caro remembered the girl’s entrance at the Rotunda, knife in hand. She’d wondered if she might see Miss Willoughby here today, but there was no sign of her.
‘I happened to see Lieutenant Dodd-Bellingham this afternoon,’ Caro said. ‘He tells me he also knew Lucy Loveless, that she stole from him. I confess that saddened me. Was he the gentleman you mentioned when we met in the Rotunda?’
‘Yes, he came to see me some weeks ago and told me that Lucy had stolen a ring from him. He was concerned that I had unwittingly invited a thief into my house. That’s when I confronted Lucy about the missing drawings. She admitted it readily.’
So the Lieutenant had told the truth. Caro owned her disappointment. Why then had Lucy taken his ring? Her financial difficulties had come later – because of the theft and the lieutenant’s revenge – and despite those troubles, she hadn’t sold it. Given the ring’s connection to the Priapus Club, there was surely more to it.
‘Did Lucy say why she’d taken the drawings?’
‘She had some story ready for me, but I didn’t pay it much heed. I was distracted by other matters. Her death still troubles you?’
‘It angers me, Mr Agnetti. Nobody cares a fig for that poor girl’s life.’
‘You speak of Sir Amos Fox, I presume?’
‘Among others.’
He nodded. ‘Lucy used to call him a walking streak of hypocrisy. She’d say that Sir Amos condemns prostitution in public, but secretly allows it to flourish, because he would upset too many important gentlemen who enjoy the taverns if he did not. She was right, of course. He does just about enough to prevent an outcry from the moralists in Parliament, and no more.’
Caro looked round at the paintings. ‘Where do you find your sitters? Do you visit the taverns yourself?’
‘Sometimes. There is a club of prostitutes who meet in Covent Garden. I leave advertisements there. If I need an older subject, then I wander the piazza until I find the right woman. They are usually glad of the money. I like to think it helps.’
‘And the younger ones? Like your Iphigenia.’
‘There are places that trade in young girls. I wish they did not, but they do.’
‘Do you never have qualms? About painting them naked,
I mean?’
‘My scenes may be inspired by myth, but my sitters I paint as they are, not how they should be. For Utopia, go to those daubers across the piazza.’
She sensed she had offended him, and was not entirely sorry after his earlier remarks. Yet she reminded herself that she was not there to pick a squabble. ‘Do you still paint her? Your Iphigenia?’
‘Pamela is her name, or at least the one she was using then. She left my employ rather abruptly some months ago. I was told by another of my sitters that she’d found a wealthy keeper. It is an occupational trial. My sitters are forever disappearing. They come back when their keepers throw them over, walk in through that door like they’d never been away. I daresay Pamela will do so too one day.’ He gestured to another canvas. ‘Here you see Aphrodite rising from the sea in a scallop shell. If you wish I could paint you like that – robed, naturally. There are other legends too. Or if you’d prefer, a simpler composition: standing, with one hand on a pillar.’
‘The latter, I think.’
Agnetti nodded approvingly. ‘Let the subject speak for herself.’
‘I saw a simple scene you painted at Jonathan Stone’s house,’ Caro said. ‘The Priapus Club. I confess it intrigued me.’
‘It is execrable,’ he said, shuddering. ‘I abhor a conversation piece, but Mr Stone is a valued client and he insisted.’
‘Are you a member of his club? Mr Stone said it was for gentlemen with an interest in classical civilization.’
‘He was kind enough to invite me to join. I attended once, but have not returned.’
‘Oh, why is that?’
He paused. ‘I am not a clubbable sort of fellow. What did you make of Mr Stone’s collection?’
‘It is quite the assembly. One cannot fault his passion.’
‘Simon Dodd-Bellingham has found him the finest pieces from all over the world. He must have spent tens of thousands of pounds. It is Stone’s belief – one I share – that civilization reached its apex during the classical period. That is why we place Greek and Roman forms above all others – in our architecture, our furniture and our art.’ He glanced at a longcase clock next to the bureau. ‘Forgive me, Mrs Corsham, but I do have an evening appointme
nt. Perhaps we could discuss the terms of business?’
Agnetti would not move from his usual price of eighty guineas. They agreed that the portrait would be painted over several months, the first appointment scheduled in a few days’ time.
‘I will have my lawyer draw up a contract and my assistant will bring it to your house for you to sign. That is, unless you’d rather I send a servant?’
‘No, why would I?’
‘Miss Willoughby’s reputation precedes her. Some of my clients object to any association with scandal, though not enough to prevent them desiring an Agnetti.’ His lip curled. ‘I am glad to hear that you are not one of them. Miss Willoughby understands the legal terms and can answer any further questions you might think of later about the painting.’
Disappointed not to have winnowed more out of him, Caro allowed Agnetti to guide her to the door. She paused by the largest canvas, the one surrounded by a scaffold. It depicted a naked man bent in anguish. Around him three winged women hovered, their breasts bared, their demonic faces contorted into howls. In the unpainted upper left corner, a fourth woman was sketched in chalk and charcoal, seemingly emerging from a cloud: Lucy, her eyes burning, her hand raised in condemnation to point at the man.
‘The Torment of Orestes,’ Agnetti said. ‘It is the final painting in Stone’s quartet, the last for which Lucy sat. Here she appears as the ghost of Clytemnestra, murdered by her own son, Orestes, in revenge for the killing of his father. She appeals to the Erinyes, the Furies.’ He pointed to the three leering faces. ‘Do you know the legend? The Furies are the daughters of Nyx, the Goddess of Night. Some call them demons, but Cicero described them as goddesses, the detectors and avengers of unpunished crimes and wickedness. They pursued Orestes for the crime of matricide and drove him mad.’
Caro sighed. ‘But the gods engineered a trial, and Orestes was found not guilty. I never judged it a satisfying tale. If Clytemnestra deserved to die, then so did he.’
‘The outcome may be unjust, but the painting is all the more timeless for it. Lucy herself said as much.’ Agnetti smiled sadly. ‘She told me that if the Furies flew over London looking for injustices to set right, barely a man in this city would sleep easy in his bed.’
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