The Storyteller's Muse

by Traci Harding

  ‘Such a handsome woman has many admirers,’ Henry warranted.

  ‘And who was the other subject depicted in The Lovers, I wonder?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Henry lied; he knew who the other subject was, but he’d not mentioned his recognition, not even to the artist. ‘For all I know they might both be figments of the artist’s imagination.’

  ‘It matters little who the subjects are, it’s all about how these paintings make you feel. They express such beauty, balance, and freedom from inhibition, even gender! I would warrant that your reclusive artist is very comfortable in their own skin, very self-fulfilled.’

  ‘I couldn’t say, ma’am, as that is a condition of sale, the artist must remain anonymous.’ Henry gave her nothing to work with.

  ‘Well, your anonymous artist is featured in Axis Magazine’s current issue.’ She pulled the magazine from her bag and opened it to the page in question, and when Henry saw the article he went pale.

  ‘You had The Lovers photographed?’

  ‘I did it myself, as I wanted to gauge public opinion on the piece,’ she justified. ‘And so far the reception has been very positive. This periodical is exported overseas, it’s prodigious exposure that could draw buyers from all over the world.’

  Henry was horrified and gratified at once, and expected Emanuel would be feeling the same way.

  ‘I’ll take everything you have hanging here,’ Miss Manning concluded, which inwardly floored Henry again. ‘And The Lovers, of course. Where is it?’

  ‘That one is not for sale. It has sentimental value to the artist.’

  ‘Even sentiment has a price. I simply must have it.’ She was very insistent.

  ‘Perhaps the artist could paint you another, very similar, for sale?’ Henry suggested.

  ‘Not for sale,’ she explained, ‘I wish to purchase it, for my private collection.’

  ‘Then perhaps Madam would like to be featured in the painting?’ Henry proffered and Miss Manning burst into a huge smile.

  ‘A portrait, oh yes! I shall make it the centrepiece of the exhibition. I gather your anonymous artist will require a photograph or two?’

  ‘That would, no doubt, be helpful.’

  ‘But I wish to be portrayed as androgynous as the original subjects were,’ she stipulated. ‘People have often said that I should have been born a man, so it shall be rather an ironic portrayal and a fabulous talking point. I know many a business woman who would adore just such a portrait. There’s just the matter of price?’

  ‘For you, Miss Manning, it is a gift from Em Jewel,’ Henry insisted. ‘To show our gratitude for your support in maintaining my client’s anonymity.’

  ‘Em Jewel. I can work with that; the name is as sexually ambiguous as the art. Although, I could have sworn I saw another name on The Lovers?’

  ‘Did you mention that name in your article?’ Henry was concerned.

  ‘I did not,’ she advised, with a reassuring smile. ‘Considering how secretive your client is, I didn’t feel any such disclosure would be appreciated. Furthermore, I feel we can use the mystique of Em Jewel to fuel publicity for the exhibition. But rest assured I can handle the press.’

  ‘There is one member of the press that my client particularly wishes to avoid.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Lord Pettigrew,’ Henry stated. ‘Do you know of him?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ The lady seemed none too impressed either. ‘He used his trumped-up rhetoric to make or break developing artists before the war. I haven’t heard much of him since.’ She had another thought. ‘Is Em Jewel’s resentment of Pettigrew due to the man’s harassment of the Lady Fairchild? I remember reading that she had taken out a restraining order on the man.’

  ‘Possibly?’ Henry allowed, as if he’d never considered the notion. ‘I don’t pry, Miss Manning. My job is only to ensure that my client’s wants are fulfilled.’

  ‘Well, that is now my top priority also,’ she avowed, sincerely.

  ‘Excellent.’ Henry was relieved. ‘We would appreciate you forgetting you ever saw that name.’

  ‘Fear not, good sir, I am the only one who noted it and it is already forgotten.’ She took a couple of steps towards the door and then turned back. ‘But I expect my portrait will be especially lovely,’ she spoke up, suspecting the artist might be listening in somewhere.

  ‘Em Jewel only gets better, ma’am,’ Henry answered, grinning at her cheek. ‘So, I feel that goes without saying.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch about the collection of the works,’ Miss Manning advised, as she departed. ‘A pleasure doing business with you, Em Jewel.’

  Once she’d left the building, Emanuel came out of hiding. ‘Most well done, Chester. I quite like her.’

  ‘I thought you might.’ Henry beamed, proud of himself. ‘At this rate, your first exhibit will cover the cost of our move. We’ll shut this place down and hold onto it until the property market improves once again.’

  ‘A good plan,’ Emanuel warranted. ‘Finding a new home shall be a grand adventure.’

  ‘The idea of going out there doesn’t scare you any more?’ Henry was puzzled.

  ‘Not if my sister is free to come join us, no.’ Emanuel was feeling more optimistic. ‘To live beyond society’s distractions and judgements, in a place that I love, earning money doing what I adore, is that not every soul’s dream?’

  ‘Most people need companionship,’ Henry ventured.

  ‘You are my companion.’

  ‘In a fatherly fashion, but —’

  ‘I don’t relate to people,’ Emanuel resisted the implication. ‘And what’s more, I have no desire or need to relate to them. I see a beautiful woman, I feel nothing. I see a beautiful man, I feel nothing. No arousal, no interest, no love. But when I paint, when I write, play music, dance even, then I feel a passion, a compulsion and union beyond explaining. I treasure you, Chester, and when you are gone I shall mourn you, but I don’t need anyone to complete me. I complete me. That shall never change.’

  Miss Manning was suitably smitten with her portrait, depicting her naked self embracing herself in a man’s business suit, but as both figures were androgynous as requested, she was fascinated by her slightly more masculine side. ‘I can see there are going to be commissions for Em, once people lay their eyes on this!’ She conveyed her opinion to Henry, upon the unveiling. ‘You’d be surprised how many men and women desire to be the sex other to the one they were assigned at birth. I feel this work will strike a chord, however private, with many.’

  Thus, plans for Em Jewel’s first exhibition progressed well, right up until a few days before the exhibition, when Henry received a visit from an unexpected guest.

  The arrival of the elevator on the top floor always warned of company. The door at the top of the fire stairs was kept locked from the inside on the top floor, so the only access for visitors to the apartment was via the elevator.

  Emanuel made himself scarce and Henry opened the door, to find what appeared to be a young man, a little younger than his charge. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  The visitor served him a weak smile, before ripping the moustache from his face, and removing the cap so that long hair fell from it. ‘Do you not recognise me, Mr Chesterfield?’

  ‘Alice?’ Henry pulled her inside and closed the door. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find me?’

  ‘I followed you from the Manning Art Gallery.’ She clutched her cap with both hands, appearing anxious and uncomfortable. ‘I’m here to warn you that Lord Pettigrew is on his way here in search of your Ladyship.’

  ‘Well he won’t find her,’ Henry assured the young woman, who seemed to have aged beyond her years since last they’d met. ‘The last time I saw Lady Fairchild was the last night you saw her.’

  The young woman appeared completely bemused and looking around she spotted the picture of The Lovers hanging on the wall. ‘Then who painted this?’

  Clearly, she saw herself as the ot
her figure in the painting, just as Henry had, but he was pushed to explain the coincidence. ‘Many people saw you together during your time in my Lady’s employ.’

  ‘Well, whomever the artist is, my husband wants words with them,’ she said, gingerly.

  ‘Your husband?’ Henry queried.

  ‘Lord Pettigrew,’ she sounded ashamed to clarify.

  Henry was shocked. ‘You married the man?’

  Humiliation on her face, she forced a smile. ‘But he never pressed charges against Lady Fairchild, did he?’

  ‘My dear Alice . . .’ Henry guided her to a table and into a seat.

  ‘I’m known by my full birth name, Margret, now. Maggie wasn’t to my Lord’s taste.’

  ‘He blackmailed you?’ Henry was far more concerned about this.

  ‘That’s how he always gets what he wants,’ she said. ‘That’s how he plans to exact his revenge on you and your Lady also. He’s waited a long time, plotting and scheming Lady Fairchild’s entrapment. He only kept me around because he thought my mistress might come back for me. He was convinced we were lovers, you see, and now he’s seen this painting his vengeful aspirations have been fuelled anew. Not due to any feeling for me, but because he is still obsessed with her.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Henry noted a fading bruise on her cheek. ‘I never intended for the painting to be seen so far and wide, Miss Manning was a tad over-zealous in her initial aid.’

  ‘Whether or not this piece was painted by your Ladyship, Lord Pettigrew is convinced it was, and you can be assured he intends to destroy your new business venture. You don’t need to confide in me, I understand that you must despise me for my betrayal, but if your Ladyship is anywhere close, you must get her away before Pettigrew has the chance to expose her uniqueness. He has threatened awful things, from reducing her to a circus sideshow attraction, to whoring her out as the ultimate object of sexual pleasure, or killing her for the benefit of medical science.’ Tears were streaming down her face now. ‘You must keep her safe.’

  ‘You’ve no need to worry about her safety,’ Henry assured her. ‘You should be more concerned about your own. What if your Lord discovers your movements?’

  ‘He’s not here at present,’ she said. ‘I was sent ahead to a hotel in the city while he visits the country where the Fairchild estate once stood.’

  ‘He won’t find any trace of Lady Fairchild there.’ Henry wasn’t worried.

  ‘That is well.’ She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘But I know he plans to be in town for the exhibition.’

  Henry chuckled. ‘Well, he won’t get in; he’s been blacklisted from the event.’

  Clearly, Lady Margret didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘He’ll be furious.’

  ‘Why did you come?’ Emanuel unexpectedly stepped into the gallery space through a small gap at the side of the petitions.

  Henry was shocked that his charge would expose himself.

  When their visitor laid eyes on Emanuel she gasped, instantly entranced by the sight of him.

  ‘Why would you betray your own husband to safeguard my sister?’

  ‘Your sister?’ Margret uttered as she stood to approach him. ‘But you are identical —’

  ‘Twins, yes.’ Emanuel wished to skip the obvious. ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘She used to write to you,’ Margret recalled. ‘You painted the picture.’ She felt this explained a great many things. ‘Why did you paint us as lovers?’

  ‘Why are you here?’ He insisted on asking the questions.

  ‘Because she is the only person in this world who was ever truly kind to me; I must make amends for my lie,’ Margret confessed, tears in her eyes.

  ‘Rubbish,’ Emanuel said coolly. ‘I think you have been sent by your husband to do reconnaissance, just like last time.’

  ‘Think what you like.’ Margret backed away from Emanuel — he might have looked like Emeline but he didn’t have her sympathetic streak. ‘I have to go.’

  ‘You are not going anywhere.’ Emanuel looked to Henry. ‘Surely, you see we can’t possibly take that chance?’

  ‘We are not kidnappers!’ Henry was utterly appalled by the suggestion.

  ‘It’s not kidnapping,’ Emanuel insisted. ‘From what Lady Pettigrew has said she will be safer with us than with her husband.’ He looked back to Margret, who was clearly wondering if Emanuel was threatening her or trying to protect her. ‘Does anyone know you are here?’

  ‘No,’ Margret insisted, looking down at her masculine attire. ‘I don’t dress like this for amusement.’

  Emanuel cocked his head to one side, his eyes giving her the once-over. ‘I don’t know, I think the look rather becomes you. Actually, I’d rather like to paint you like that . . . may I?’

  Margret relaxed a little, and smiled. ‘If I am to be held prisoner then, why not?’

  ‘Have you both taken leave of your senses?’ Henry objected. ‘If Pettigrew didn’t have cause against us before, he certainly will if you kidnap his wife!’

  ‘It’s not kidnapping if I stay voluntarily,’ Lady Margret decided.

  ‘You should check in at Lord Pettigrew’s hotel, Chester, and base yourself there until he leaves,’ Emanuel suggested.

  Henry could see the merit in the suggestion. ‘I’m bound to bump into the man, so better I can only lead him back to a hotel. Miss Manning will keep all our other business details secret. But Pettigrew is not going to leave without his wife.’

  ‘I’ll write a letter explaining that I’ve gone sightseeing for a couple of days and you can have it delivered to reception at the Hotel Royal. Then at least he has no recourse to call the police.’ Margret seemed rather more keen on the idea of staying put now.

  ‘This could still all be a set-up,’ Emanuel warned Henry.

  ‘If it is, I swear I have no knowing part in it . . . this time.’ She looked from Henry to Emanuel. ‘But the man is a monster, make no mistake. I stay with him only to ensure that if he ever finds Lady Fairchild, she will have an ally to help combat him.’

  ‘My sister said you were an actress.’ Emanuel was still sceptical.

  ‘Hah!’ Margret found the notion amusing. ‘Not since before I met Pettigrew, and even then I was never very good. Why do you think I took up his offer in the first place? I had no other means to sustain myself.’

  ‘And now you have everything.’ Emanuel observed the large jewelled ring she was hiding under her shirt sleeve.

  ‘He sized it so tightly I cannot remove it.’ She demonstrated, frustrated by the appearance of it. ‘I am not his wife, I am his whore. Whom he has abused to the point that I am barren. I consider this a blessing, as I would rather die than bear his children.’ The young woman began shaking, and Emanuel’s stance softened.

  ‘Perhaps some tea, Henry?’ Emanuel guided Margret to sit once more. ‘If you are telling the truth and have done all you say for the welfare of my sister, then I can promise you sanctuary in this house.’

  Henry’s head was telling him to put a stop to this madness immediately, but his heart melted as he saw Emanuel reassuring Margret. She was the first person Emanuel had showed the slightest interest in knowing. If there was any chance of Emanuel forming a friendship with another human being, Henry was not going to hinder that possibility, mistake or not.

  CHASING CLUES

  Words on paper was Peter’s top priority, but when the word flow finally stopped that evening, the scenes he’d written left him with many an epiphany to ponder. Not the least of which was the suggestion that Emanuel’s name may lie under the signature of Em Jewel on a painting in this very house. Was that why Penelope had paid a small fortune for the picture? Was it proof that Pettigrew was a fraud?

  In the sitting room, Peter sat staring at the picture; the other beautiful, partially obscured, subject of the painting, was yet another true-life subject of his tale. What became of Lady Margret Pettigrew, he wondered? What became of Lord Pettigrew, for that matter? He was going to have to do some serious re
search now, as he was running out of journal entries and letters. Pretty soon he’d be at a dead end with no conclusion. If he wanted to find the ending to this story, chasing clues was the only way he’d find it.

  So far his characters seemed on top of the situation, but having already read the last entry in Henry’s journal, Peter knew their luck would not last. As much as he wanted this tale to have a happy ending, this was not fiction any more; he was reporting the account more than creating it, and this fact sadly awarded him no control over the outcome.

  In the warehouse, Peter was watching Emanuel paint. The artist turned to look at him, and only then did Peter realise that Emanuel was speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear a word being said.

  I can’t hear you, Peter thought, but Emanuel continued his silent monologue, oblivious. He can’t hear me either.

  An ominous feeling crept over Peter as the canvas Emanuel was painting began to stain black from the centre.

  Peter wanted to warn Emanuel, but again he could only think the warning — he had no voice.

  In horror, he observed a dark substance — like living liquid liquorice — emerge from the ever-expanding stain on the canvas and latch onto Emanuel’s brush to spread itself up his arm. The artist attempted to pull away, yet the darkness drew him in and oozed up over his chin; it gagged him and encompassed his head.

  What the —?

  Peter awoke with a gasp, he was panting and sweating. It wasn’t the nature of the nightmare, nor the feeling of dread it left in its wake that had him rattled. It was the fact that he couldn’t hear a word Emanuel was saying.

  ‘Why now?’ Peter was up and halfway to the shower — he needed heat as he was damp all over and freezing in the pre-dawn chill of the house. ‘We are so close to cracking this, Em —’ He stopped in his tracks. ‘Unless?’ He didn’t dare voice his thought out loud.

  After a hot shower, Peter took a look outside, and as the sun’s rays were threatening to grace the sky, he found some warm clothes and headed downstairs.

  He typed an update on social media, My dreamtime muse was literally gagged last night — should I be concerned by that? as he consumed toast and coffee in the kitchen, and emailed off the latest instalment of the story to Gabrielle.