Last Nocturne

by M. J. Trow

  ‘Or a lieutenant with an expensive prostitute habit. Men with his preferences don’t get their pleasures cheap.’

  Batchelor twirled his own glass round a few times, looking into the amber depths as though the truth was in there somewhere. ‘I concede that, then,’ he said, finally. ‘But I don’t think it’s him, all the same. What about Clara Jenkins and Mabel Glossop? Did they have something on him too?’

  ‘Why not? You’ve met Whistler and Ruskin. You know how weird these artists are.’

  ‘I still think that if you let one model find out something about you, you make sure the rest don’t do the same. Killing everybody who knows something about the skeletons in your closet is a bit … draconian.’ Batchelor preferred an easy life and was pretty sure that murderers in the main felt the same.

  ‘It could be that he killed Mabel Glossop to hide the murder of Evangeline French.’

  ‘Eighteen months in advance? That’s what I call planning ahead.’ Batchelor was willing to push a point but that was really a step too far.

  Grand sank his chin on his chest and gave a small scream of pain. ‘James! James! Help me lift my head back up.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Matthew.’ Batchelor put a hand under his friend’s chin and one on the back of his head and eased him gently upright. ‘You just posed for a while, that’s all. Pity the poor souls who do it all the time.’

  Grand would have nodded, but decided not to. ‘They have training. They must do. I can hardly move a muscle. I’m all right in a few positions. It’s getting between them that gives me gyp.’

  ‘Do you want me to send round for Caroline?’

  Grand rolled his eyes at him. ‘Her mother might come. No, strike that. Her mother would come.’

  ‘Or worse,’ Batchelor laughed, ‘her mother might come instead.’

  Grand held his ribs and tried not to laugh. ‘That hurts, James,’ he moaned. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘Or,’ Batchelor held up his finger as if he had suddenly had an epiphany, ‘we could introduce her to Watts as a model and when she finds out something about him, he can try to kill her, but she gets him instead. How about that?’

  ‘You’re mocking me, James, and it’s not fair. I’m not well.’

  ‘You’re perfectly well,’ Batchelor said. ‘Just a bit creaky. My old granny would have you in a hot bath full of mustard by now, and that would larn ya!’

  ‘A bit odd, was she, your old granny?’ Grand eased one buttock carefully and extended his leg. There was a crack and Batchelor jumped. ‘No, no, leave me. That was quite good as it happens.’ He tried the other leg. ‘I’ll probably be able to blink without help by tomorrow.’ He closed his eyes. ‘If I never see another artist again as long as I live, James, it will be too soon.’

  Batchelor thought it would be cruel to remind him that their main client was James McNeill Whistler, Nocturnist extraordinaire. When he ached a bit less would be soon enough.

  ELEVEN

  John Stanhope stood back from the canvas and looked at it first with one eye, then the other.

  George Frederic Watts stood by his side, hands clasped complacently across the front of his smock. ‘Well, John? What do you think of my angel of death?’

  ‘Is it …’ Stanhope knew he must be diplomatic. ‘Is it … a trifle gloomy, George?’

  Watts bridled slightly, but knew from sad experience that everyone was an idiot when it came to art. ‘Not all angels can have pink wings, John,’ he said, sniffily.

  Stanhope knew he had got away lightly. ‘Eros, George,’ he said. ‘My Eros has pink wings. But point taken, nonetheless. This is one of your allegories, I take it.’

  Watts brightened up. ‘Not finished yet, of course, dear chap. It’s finding the models which is so tricky, don’t you find? That one,’ he pointed to the figure in the foreground, ‘is an enquiry agent, if you would believe it.’

  ‘Looks like one of your soldier chappies,’ Stanhope remarked. He swept an eloquent finger down the line of a muscle. ‘You don’t think of enquiry agents needing musculature like that.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ Watts said. ‘He kept as still as a rock, you know, for simply hours. I don’t think he needs the money, though, so I doubt I will see him again.’

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Stanhope said. He did feel for his old mentor – finding models was one of the most difficult things about being a painter, that was certain. ‘I know Val had the most awful trouble getting those women for his Linen-Gatherers. Do you know,’ and his eyes were wide, ‘they objected to carrying wet clothes?’

  Watts tutted. ‘Really!’ he said. ‘Where is the verisimilitude?’

  ‘Indeed.’ Stanhope looked at the painting again. ‘But, we digress. How did you happen to end up with an almost nude enquiry agent in your studio – or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘It’s all Evangeline’s fault,’ Watts said, grumpily, ‘though I suppose one shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ Stanhope was horrified. ‘But Lizzie was at a Morning at Effie Millais’s the other day and Evangeline was there. She was looking quite well, Lizzie said.’

  ‘Murdered, dear boy,’ Watts said, suddenly leaning forward and dabbing at Grand’s right thigh with a dry brush. ‘Sorry. Fly caught in the paint.’

  ‘Murdered? Do we know by whom?’ Stanhope was not one to let his grammar lapse simply because someone he knew had been done to death.

  ‘Yes to the first, no to the second. Although,’ Watts chuckled drily, ‘I think they may rather suspect me.’

  Stanhope looked at his feet. Ever since Ellen Terry had walked out on him, Watts had been something of a hermit, or so his friends all thought. Could it be that his recent decree nisi had brought out the beast in him at last? Stanhope coughed delicately. ‘You and she … weren’t …?’ He blushed almost purple.

  Watts took pity. ‘That’s a rather interesting colour you’ve gone there, John,’ he said, peering closer. ‘Just what I need for my angel’s shadows. Hold still while I make a note – I may be able to mix it from scratch.’

  ‘Very amusing, George,’ Stanhope snapped. ‘I merely ask because we have all worried about you. Wondered, perhaps, more than worried. You are by no means an old man …’

  ‘Thank you, John.’ Watts patted his hand. ‘No, Evangeline and I weren’t whatever you were struggling to say. I can’t say I have not had my moments in the last ten years, but they have not involved my models. I feel I have a duty of care towards them. I pay proper rates. I give them meals if they are here all day. Some sleep here when the job is a long one. But not by my side, I can assure you.’

  Stanhope let out his breath. ‘Sorry to ask,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I do understand,’ Watts said, unscrewing the lids of small pots on a table under the window. ‘I know people love to gossip. And I was fond of Evangeline, as it happens. But she was too … vain for my tastes. As you know, John, I am a simple man and don’t like to put myself forward.’

  It was as well he had his back to Stanhope so he couldn’t see the wry grin on his face. Watts had been known to storm out of showings if he wasn’t recognized in the first ten seconds.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Stanhope asked, taking a step forward.

  Without turning round, Watts put an arm in the air. ‘Don’t approach, John, please. Some of these pigments contain poisons and I don’t like mixing when people who are not used to exposure are nearby.’

  Stanhope took the criticism well – he had heard it many times over the years. The painters who mixed their own pigments looked down on those who had them delivered by Messrs Winsor and Newton. But as far as Stanhope could see, what was good enough for John Constable was good enough for him and, in a couple of generations’ time, it would be intriguing to be able to come back and see whose paintings still looked as good as new and whose had peeled off the canvas with a waft of rotten egg.

  Watts added one more pinch from a final jar and turned, mixing a pot of brownish purple with a spatula. ‘There!’ he said, ho
lding it up. ‘The colour of your cheeks when you accuse me of philandering with models and, incidentally, perfect for the shadows of death.’ He held it up to the light and grimaced. ‘Have you seen your medical man lately, John?’

  Stanhope was taken back to his student days when he and Valentine and Giuseppe had sat at the feet of the master, accepting his veiled – and not so veiled – insults and hoping that it would make them good artists. He knew Watts didn’t think that they had made the grade and, indeed had thrown Giuseppe out bag and baggage when the man had dared to criticize one of Watts’ own paintings. Watts had not been fair. He had lined up four works and asked them, one by one, to pick out the worst one and move it aside, the idea being that the best one would prevail. He had masked off the signatures and it really had been impossible to tell whose work each one was. Valentine Prinsep – Watts’ favourite and the baby of the group – had gone first and had picked an un-hung Ruskin. It was an easy pick, representing something of an off day for the critic. With the odds still long, Stanhope had gone next and had picked a Siddal. Lizzie had been a nice enough woman, but was to painting what Queen Victoria was to tightrope walking. Giuseppe had not worked out what he and Val had done; that one of the works was by Watts himself. The signs were there, the figures tending to lounge, the rather dour subject, and they had avoided it like the plague. But now, Giuseppe had a choice of only two, and the other was a rather lovely study by Rossetti of a girl’s head. It was streets ahead of the Watts, but the muse of art was not smiling on Giuseppe that day. Without even pausing, he picked up the Watts and put it in the reject pile. He and his belongings were gone that afternoon.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts?’ Watts said. He pulled a cord by the fireplace. ‘Shall we have some tea? Let’s sit over here, shall we?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Stanhope came back to the present. ‘Tea would be splendid. Shouldn’t you wash your hands?’

  Watts looked down at his paint-flecked fingers. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, the poison and everything.’

  Watts laughed. ‘I am sure that’s overdone, you know, John. Just rumours put about by you ready-made chaps. I’ve never felt any ill effects and I have been mixing paints since Adam was in the militia. But, as I said, penny for your thoughts.’

  Stanhope had forgotten this trait – Watts never gave up on an idea once it was in his head. ‘I was thinking about the old days. Whatever happened to Giuseppe, do you know?’

  Watts shrugged. ‘I have no idea. I know he never paid his last term’s tuition fees, but after that, no, nothing. He was no longer at his lodgings when I sent the bailiffs in, that I do know.’

  Stanhope couldn’t help feeling a little shocked. Watts had sacked the man, after all.

  ‘I expect he got a job somewhere within his capabilities. Illustrating cheap books for Mr Smith, perhaps, or newspaper advertisements. That would be his level.’

  Stanhope thought it was probably best not to mention Pears soap.

  ‘I often wondered, George. Was he actually of Italian extraction? Val and I asked him but he was always evasive.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Watts said. ‘I suppose his father may have had a barrel organ. Or an ice-cream parlour, perhaps. Further than that, I have no idea. The world is full of good artists, John. Let’s not waste our time on bad ones. Now …’

  He was interrupted by the arrival of the tea and Stanhope waited patiently as it was poured.

  ‘Crumpet?’ Watts asked. ‘The cake is delicious; I can vouch for that, but the crumpets do go a bit greasy if left to grow cold.’

  Stanhope took his cup and nodded yes to a crumpet. Nothing worse than a cold one, he would have to agree.

  ‘Now …’ Watts settled himself comfortably, putting the crumpets back under their lid to keep them warm and checking the spirit burner underneath.

  Might it be possible, Stanhope thought, that this would be the day when George Frederic Watts asked about Lizzie and the children; how Stanhope’s new work was coming on? He waited, a crumpet to his lip, oozing butter down his chin to soak into his cravat.

  ‘Now …’ Watts wiped his buttery fingers with a painty cloth. ‘Really, John, what do you honestly think of my Angel of Death?’

  Twisleton was back in position, watching Grand and Batchelor, but there had been no movement all day. They hadn’t gone to the office and the office had not come to them. He knew there were men back at the station who would be delighted to be on special duty allowance just to lounge all day against some railings and occasionally wander to the end of the street to buy a pie from the vendor as he passed, but that wasn’t really Twisleton’s speed. He preferred to keep moving, keep wheeling, keep dealing, keep bucking for promotion. Although he had not got his degree, he was still a university man at heart. So leaning on a railing, even on a beautiful spring day in a rather nice part of London, was not really testing his brain overmuch.

  Twisleton perked up as the front door swung open, but he sagged again when he saw it was just the rather frightening-looking housekeeper, coming out with a basket over her arm. Why she ever went out shopping, he couldn’t fathom. The house seemed to have more deliveries than any other he had ever known. The grocer. The butcher. The knife grinder seemed to be almost in residence. Flowers were delivered. Newspapers. A separate delivery for periodicals. No one could say the household didn’t keep local businesses busy. But as for Grand and Batchelor, there was no sign. Even so, Twisleton pulled his hat down a little further as the woman turned in his direction. She didn’t look like the noticing type, but even so, he had been there quite a lot over the last days and he didn’t want to be spotted. She glanced in his direction, but no more than that as she marched off to her marketing.

  A dog came up behind her and sniffed in a determined way at Twisleton’s ankles but, apart from that, the afternoon wore its tedious way onwards.

  Around the corner, Mrs Rackstraw was leaning forward eagerly and whispering to two men in mufflers and hats pulled, if possible, even lower than Twisleton’s. One of them leaned on a gnarled stick, the other was quite upright, but they both nodded with equal enthusiasm at Mrs Rackstraw’s news.

  She pulled herself upright and walked off smartly in the direction of the butcher’s. Mr Juniper had started to take an interest over and above her complaints about the quality of his chops. She had noticed he replaced his apron rather more often than had been his wont, and he clearly was no longer using dripping to keep his hair neat; there had definitely been a whiff of lavender last time she had visited. She had never seen herself as a butcher’s wife, but with Mr Grand getting married any day, a person of her means and age had to think of herself. And Mrs Juniper had to be an improvement on Rackstraw.

  The men watched her go and the one with the stick chuckled. ‘I believe she’s sweet on the butcher,’ he said.

  ‘She could do worse,’ the other said. ‘So could he. She’s a dab hand with tripe.’

  ‘True. Well, shall we do this thing?’

  ‘Are you bringing the stick?’

  ‘Have to. I’m still as stiff as could be and it might come in handy.’

  ‘Right. After you.’

  And the two crept round the corner, quiet as cats.

  Alfred Twisleton didn’t know quite what hit him for quite a while. And he only found that out when the two men responsible sat him down and explained. One minute, he was leaning on the railings, putting the weight on the other leg, because he was getting pins and needles. He had seen a curtain twitch on the first floor, but his keen eyes told him it was the maid, poor little soul. He had seen her once or twice and, in his opinion, she was about twelve ounces in the pound. He wondered whether anyone was ill indoors. She wasn’t usually above the kitchen level after the shaving water had been taken round first thing. He stamped his foot. The pins and needles were developing into a horrible dead feeling. He hated that.

  ‘Now!’ A voice appeared to explode in his head and everything went dark. His head and shoulders were swathed in some thick material and his
arms were pinioned to his side with something that felt like a thick leather belt. He was pushed over sideways but, before he hit the pavement, he was caught in strong arms and carried away. He heard one of his assailants give a howl of pain and his legs were briefly dropped lower, but soon he felt himself being carried up a short flight of stairs and then he was suddenly untethered and unrolled across a floor like Cleopatra being delivered to Julius Caesar.

  Instead, however, of a bald Roman, all Twisleton could see, when his eyes stopped spinning, were two pairs of feet, one tapping a toe impatiently, the other pair clearly very reliant on an associated cane.

  ‘James,’ a voice came from over Twisleton’s head. ‘That isn’t Oscar Wilde.’

  ‘Umm … no, I can see that. There is a resemblance, though, surely?’

  ‘He’s wearing a loud check suit, I grant you.’

  ‘And,’ Twisleton said, struggling to his feet, ‘I also attended Oxford, which I believe is where Mr Wilde is attempting to gain an education currently. Terrible oik. I remember him clearly.’

  ‘You went to Oxford?’ Batchelor said, surprised and more than a little dubious. ‘You look a bit like a cheap bookie, no offence.’

  Twisleton dusted off his suit. ‘This is all the go, actually,’ he said. ‘But that aside, I am afraid I must arrest both of you gentlemen for assaulting a police officer.’ He whipped out his tipstaff and waved it under Grand’s nose.

  ‘Police officer?’ Grand was now sceptical and took the tipstaff to the window, limping a little. He turned to Batchelor. ‘Seems genuine.’

  ‘Of course it’s genuine!’ Twisleton snatched it back. ‘I am a police officer. I am Detective Constable Alfred Twisleton, of B Division.’

  ‘Why are you following us?’ Batchelor said. ‘I’m sure that’s against the law.’

  ‘I have been following you because I was told to,’ Twisleton said, testily. ‘And it isn’t against the law.’

  ‘Who told you?’ Batchelor was feeling rather foolish now it wasn’t Wilde, and that always made him a little testy.