‘So you went to see Signora Bianchi to find out the truth of these rumours about her and Colin?’
‘Exactly,’ said Askern in relief. ‘I wanted to know what was going on.’
‘I see,’ said Daphne guardedly.
‘So I … er … made an appointment with Signora Bianchi.’
There was a pause while Daphne Askern took this in. ‘And what is the truth behind the rumours about her and Colin?’
‘Signora Bianchi assured me that there was nothing more than friendship between her and Colin.’
‘Friendship?’ Daphne Askern was incredulous. ‘How on earth can they be friends? They can’t have anything in common.’
Askern swallowed. ‘Art, you know? And films. You know what a keen film fan Colin is. He talks to her about films and art and culture and photography and so on.’
Daphne considered this. It sounded credible. Colin, although he hadn’t inherited his father’s talent, was enthusiastic about modern art. He was certainly an avid film fan and was a keen amateur photographer.
John Askern saw her expression change. ‘She takes a great interest in his photography,’ he continued, pressing home the advantage. ‘She’s very cultured and she’s travelled widely.’
‘I see,’ repeated Daphne. ‘Is this the truth?’ she asked sharply.
‘Of course it’s the truth, my dear. Do you honestly think a woman like that would hold any attraction for me?’ He gave a laugh which, even to his own ears, sounded unconvincing.
Daphne hesitated for a long while, then folded up the letter. ‘It’s a great pity, John, you didn’t see fit to confide in me.’ She sniffed. ‘I consider it to be a most unsuitable friendship for Colin, but he’s a grown man and that’s his own affair.’
‘Unfortunately, I have to agree, but you can see why I was worried about the boy.’
Daphne sighed deeply and stood up. ‘Your breakfast is on the table, John.’ It was the white flag, if not of surrender, but certainly of a truce.
After she had left the room, John Askern leaned against the dressing table and took a deep breath. After a few moments he shook himself, then lit a cigarette with trembling hands. That had been close.
Colin Askern adjusted the camera on its tripod, ducked under the black cloth, checked the focus and re-emerged. ‘Don’t move,’ he pleaded. ‘The sunlight’s catching your face at just the right angle.’
Carlotta Bianchi sighed and readjusted her posture. ‘Like this?’
‘That’s the ticket! Bingo,’ he muttered.
Signora Bianchi frowned. ‘Bingo? What does that mean?’
‘It means,’ said Colin, ‘that I’ve very nearly finished.’ He glanced up once more. ‘Stay exactly as you are …’ He pressed the bulb on the camera and counted the seconds for the exposure. ‘That’s it!’ He smiled. ‘You can relax now.’
Signora Bianchi stretched her arms in an extravagant gesture. ‘When can I see the picture?’
‘When I’ve developed it.’
‘You take too much trouble for a photograph.’ She snapped her fingers together. ‘Photographs, they should happen like that.’
‘I wanted a proper portrait, not a snapshot,’ said Colin.
‘A portrait?’ She laughed, then stopped as she saw his hurt expression. ‘I shall have it with a – what do you call it? A surround, yes?’ She indicated a square in the air.
‘A frame?’
‘Yes, I shall have it beside …’ She looked round the room. ‘Beside the clock.’
The grandfather clock was one of the few pieces of furniture in the sitting-room of Signora Bianchi’s cottage that Colin didn’t think of as cheap rubbish. Even so, the clock was far too large and, Colin thought, far too noisy for the room.
Signora Bianchi had taken Beech View Cottage, complete with furniture, for three months. It didn’t suit her and neither, thought Colin, did Whimbrell Heath. She belonged somewhere modern, with large windows, full of sun and air, not in this small, dark, cramped space. Signora Bianchi was elegant, modern and gracious and her setting should reflect her personality.
Although well into her forties – perhaps older – she looked, with her healthy complexion, perfect make-up and dark chestnut hair, far younger. It was still early and she looked delightful in a cerise negligee, her feet enclosed in elegant kid leather slippers and her hair tied loosely back with a ribbon.
A large tabby cat jumped up on the chair beside her. She reached out and idly scratched it behind the ear.
‘Where on earth did that cat come from?’ asked Colin.
‘He came all by himself. I like him. Mrs Hatton – you know Mrs Hatton?’ Colin knew Mrs Hatton, the daily. ‘She tells me he catches the mouses.’ She shuddered. ‘I don’t like them, the mouses.’
‘Mice,’ corrected Colin with an affectionate grin. ‘He doesn’t go with your style. If you must have a cat, it ought to be something sleek and glamorous.’ He grinned. ‘Witches always have black cats.’
‘A witch?’ demanded Signora Bianchi, affronted. ‘You think I have a hooked nose and the green skin?’
‘You’re not that sort of witch,’ said Colin.
Signora Bianchi scratched the top of the tabby’s head to a fusillade of purring. ‘A witch,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You think so?’
‘An enchantress, I’d say. Have you any idea,’ he asked abruptly, ‘how glamorous you are? I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about you that knocks most other women into a cocked hat. You could be the star of any film.’
Signora Bianchi smiled in genuine pleasure. ‘That is nice, yes?’
‘Yes, and it’s true.’ He hesitated. ‘I … I don’t know if it’s altogether a good thing. People are bound to ask questions.’
She gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Ask the questions? They ask so many questions, Colin. The women who live here!’ She waved her hand dismissively. ‘They are small, I tell you, small!’
‘What have you told them?’
She laughed again. ‘Nothing much. They are of no account. I tell them I am Italian and my husband, he is dead.’
‘Dead?’ questioned Colin.
She shrugged. ‘What should I say? Marco is dead. I was so sad. Even though he was not my husband by the church, I was so sad when he died.’
She was obviously in earnest, but the mention of the affair still made Colin Askern uncomfortable.
‘You do not like me to say Marco and I were not married, do you?’ she said acutely. ‘You are very strict in many ways, I think.’
Colin Askern looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Appearances matter,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Especially for you. I know people have rotten, low minds and I don’t want them saying rotten, low things about you.’
She laughed once more. ‘You are sweet, tesoro mio.’ She suddenly became serious. ‘You are sweet and so very ’andsome, too.’ Colin looked rebellious. ‘No, no, no, no, no! I like it, the good looks on a man. They will be useful to you, the good looks. It is nice, also, that you worry about my reputation, that you want me to be respectable. I do not think you would worry about such things. You like the art, yes? Artists, they are not respectable.’ Her smile faded. ‘They are easily frightened, the respectable.’
‘My father’s an artist and he’s respectable,’ said Colin thoughtfully. ‘I’d say he’s worried.’
A calculating look came into her eyes. ‘Buono. That is very good.’
Two
‘Thanks for coming to the exhibition, Jack,’ said Chief Inspector William Rackham as he and Jack Haldean negotiated their way through the crowds on Oxford Street.
The two men, although both dressed in formal morning wear, in black coats and grey trousers, provided a real contrast in appearance.
Bill Rackham, solid and ginger-haired, with an easy-going manner and good-natured face, somehow always managed to look slightly rumpled and unmistakably British, whereas Jack, taller and slimmer, with olive skin and intelligent dark eyes, looked as if he’d be at home in Barcelona o
r Madrid. Although his mother had been Spanish, Jack had been born and brought up in England and it sometimes came as a shock to those meeting him for the first time, to hear his completely English voice.
‘Yes, it’s good of you to come,’ continued Bill. ‘Colin Askern asked me to bring a pal to the opening. I couldn’t think of anyone who’d be interested, apart from you.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Jack Haldean. ‘I can see that the amount of blokes who’d leap at an opportunity to attend an exhibition of church art would be pretty limited. I’ve never heard you mention Askern before. Have you known him long?’
‘Absolutely ages, but we haven’t seen each other for years.’ Bill gave a sudden grin. ‘I first met him when he was flung at my feet.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘He was flung at my feet. Literally, I mean. It was during the war. I was in a fire trench outside Arras, minding my own business, when Askern sailed over the top of the trench and buried himself in the mud beside me.’
‘The German artillery gave their involuntary assistance to this athletic performance, I take it?’ said Jack with a grin.
‘Got it in one. There wasn’t much wrong with him. He was a bit taken aback, of course. So was I, come to that. Anyway, we shared a couple of cold sausages and a Woodbine, then he set off in search of his platoon. I bumped into him a couple of times afterwards but I haven’t seen him since the war. I ran into him the other day on the Strand. We did the usual catching up, and he told me he’d joined the family firm.’
‘The family firm being …?’
‘Somebody and Askern, church artists. The Askern in question is his father.’
‘Is Colin Askern an artist?’ asked Jack with interest. He enjoyed painting, which was presumably why Bill had thought of asking him along in the first place.
‘No. His father’s an artist but Colin never did anything in that line. He’s nuts about films and very keen on modern art. You should get on with him. He wants to bring the firm up-to-date, but I think he’s finding it pretty uphill work.’
‘Yes, I can see that. Church art tends to be a bit conservative.’
They turned into the quiet, tree-lined fastness of Gospel Commons, the noise of Oxford Street dying down behind them. A crowd of top-hatted, morning-suited men and elegantly dressed ladies halfway down the street marked out the entrance to Lyon House, where the exhibition was to be held.
They took their place by the steps, Bill scanning the crowd for Askern. He groaned as he saw a plump, middle-aged woman with a determined expression and bearing a tray of flags and a collecting tin, see the crowd, scent business and changing direction, approach them hopefully.
‘Honestly, these flag-sellers are an absolute menace,’ Bill grumbled. ‘It’s just licensed begging.’
‘Don’t be such a skinflint,’ said Jack easily. ‘It’ll be for a good cause. She’s marked you out, Bill.’
Bill stepped smartly behind Jack. ‘After you.’
‘Hoy! If I’m getting nobbled for a flag, so are you.’
‘Of course,’ said Bill smoothly. ‘As you say, it’s all for a good cause. She’s heading straight for you,’ he added. ‘You must have an obliging sort of face.’
‘Or, to put it another way, I look like a mug,’ Jack muttered. He broke off and smiled with as good a grace as he could muster as the flag-seller singled him out with expert efficiency.
‘Would you like to buy a flag, sir?’ asked the flag-seller, holding out the collecting tin invitingly. ‘It’s for the Waifs and Strays Society,’ and added, as if she’d been listening to Bill and Jack’s comments, ‘it’s for a very good cause.’
Jack looked at the picture of the pathetically ragged and wide-eyed child on the tin, and, as the flag-seller was obviously doing, mentally contrasted it with his own immaculate top-hat and morning-clothes. He sighed and dropped a shilling in the box.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ she said, stepping back. ‘It’s all for a good cause.’
Jack looked at her curiously as she pinned a flag into the silk of his lapel. He couldn’t place her accent and that intrigued him. She sounded English enough, but her inflexions were, somehow or other, in the wrong place. He mentally shrugged. He could hardly quiz the woman about her origins.
‘My pal said it was for a good cause. He’ll buy a flag—’ Jack broke off and looked round.
The doors had opened, the crowd was dispersing and Bill had slipped away to the top of the steps. He gave Jack a thumbs-up, winked, and vanished into Lyon House.
Jack gave an indignant laugh and turned to the flag-seller. ‘Can you come back in a couple of hours? The gentleman I was with would just love to buy a flag from you. What’s more, I’ll make sure he coughs up a decent donation. Ten bob if you’re here at one o’clock. That’s a promise.’
‘All right, sir,’ said the flag-seller, obligingly. ‘I’ll do my best.’ She moved on to the rest of the rapidly thinning crowd, leaving Jack to go in search of Bill.
Lyon House dated back to the seventeenth century, and the exhibition room, with its wood panelling, painted oak screen, ornate plasterwork and long sash windows would usually have caught Jack’s attention. At the moment, however, he was only interested in Bill.
‘So there you are!’
‘Hello,’ said Bill. His face was straight but his eyes sparkled. ‘I see you’ve got a flag.’
‘This flag,’ said Jack, tapping it meaningfully, ‘has just cost you ten bob. And,’ he added, as Bill spluttered a protest, ‘you’re not wriggling out of it. I promised the flag-seller you’d be outside at one o’clock sharp and, come hell or high water, that’s where you’ll be.’
‘Ten bob! You must be mad.’ Bill broke off as a fair-haired young man tapped him on the shoulder. It was Colin Askern.
‘Hello, Rackham. I’m glad you could make it.’ He looked inquisitively at Jack as Bill introduced them.
Askern, thought Jack, was a remarkably good-looking bloke, with the sort of face that was usually referred to as chiselled. He’d make a killing in the movies, with leading-man looks like those. His next remark certainly endeared him to Jack.
‘Jack Haldean …?’ Colin snapped his fingers together. ‘Got it! You write detective stories, don’t you? I think they’re awfully good.’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘Not at all. I loved that last story of yours. You know, The Twisted Shroud, where the barmaid discovered what the landlord was doing with the chemistry set in the cellar. I always buy On The Town when your name’s on the cover and I’ve got about four of your books at home. They’d make corking films. I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered that, have you?’
‘I’d like to consider it,’ said Jack, ‘but it’s not as simple as all that.’
‘You should look into it. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. Are you interested in church art?’
‘Art, yes, but I can’t say I know much about church art specifically.’
Colin laughed. ‘That’s reassuring. It means I don’t have to apologise for the work we’ve got on display.’
He gestured across the room to where three large, gilt-framed Victorian-looking panels displayed the Last Supper, the Crucifixion and the Ascension. ‘Take a squint at those,’ he said in disgust. ‘That stuff is our bread and butter. Those paintings were completed last month, would you believe.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Jack. ‘They’re well done, but the style’s very dated.’
‘Exactly,’ said Colin in satisfaction. ‘And yet, would you credit it, those paintings have been sold to a church in Highgate. I sold them,’ he said morosely. ‘It’s decent business but it drives me nuts. It’s as if the past thirty years or so had never happened. Impressionism, Vorticism, Cubism, all the work of artists such as Picasso, Nash and Chagall is completely ignored. I know artists who could take exactly the same themes – classic themes – and really make something of them. The world has changed. There’s things happening in cinema photography, with ligh
ting and contrast, that are really stretching the boundaries of how we think about visual images. You know what’s happening with art – real art – at the moment?’
He looked round, checked no one was listening, and lowered his voice. ‘Ever since the Pre-Raphaelites discovered medievalism, church art has more or less been stuck in a rut. It needn’t be like that.’ He turned to Bill. ‘Think,’ he demanded, ‘of those wonderful African bronzes from Benin. Just think of them!’
Bill’s eyes widened and he drew back. ‘African bronzes?’ he repeated doubtfully, looking to Jack for help. ‘Er … what about them?’
Jack came to the rescue. Poor old Bill obviously didn’t have a clue what he should think about the Benin bronzes. ‘They’re full of energy,’ he said, throwing Bill a lifeline.
‘Energy,’ repeated Bill.
‘Distilled energy,’ said Jack, feeding him another adjective.
‘Distilled!’ said Colin Askern triumphantly. ‘That’s the exact word. They’re full of latent energy, the sort of energy you get from a motion picture, distilled into bronze. I’d love to bring that sort of force into our work.’ He ran a distracted hand through his hair. ‘What I want to do is to challenge our clients to see traditional subjects in a fresh way. I know artists who could really let things rip, but neither my father nor old Lythewell will hear of showing them to prospective clients.’
A girl, a brown-haired, attractive girl with freckles, approached and slipped a hand through Colin’s arm. ‘Colin, what on earth’s the matter?’ she said. ‘You look really put out. You’re not complaining about modern art again?’
‘It’s more the lack of modern art,’ said Jack.
Her eyes glinted in appreciation. ‘I’ve heard that conversation before.’
Jack suddenly thought how nice she seemed. In fact, she seemed very nice indeed, the sort of girl who took an interest in the person they were talking to. A comforting sort of girl, he thought, a girl who you’d look forward to meeting again.
After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) Page 2
