by Anne Perry
Monk could imagine him playing this scene with every visitor, always the slight surprise in his voice, as though the world were peopled with Philistines.
Monk forced himself to meet FitzAlan’s gaze. The artist was not tall, but he was a big man, broad-shouldered, in his fifties and now running to paunch. His gingerish hair had faded but there was still plenty of it, and he wore it affectedly long. It was a proud face, strong-featured, self-indulgent.
It galled Monk to flatter him, but it was necessary if he were to remain long enough to learn what he wanted to.
“Yes. I apologize for my discourtesy, but your paintings took my eye, regardless of my intention to be civil. Forgive me.”
FitzAlan was pleased. “You are forgiven, my dear sir,” he said expansively. “You wish for a portrait of your wife?”
“Rather more than that, actually. A friend of mine saw a very remarkable painting of a young man, done by you,” Monk replied, making himself smile disarmingly. “But he was unable to purchase it because the owner, very naturally, would not sell. I wondered if you had any others of the same subject I might tell him of. He is very anxious to possess one. In fact, it is something of an obsession with him.”
FitzAlan appeared suitably flattered. He tried to hide it, but Monk had assumed that his hunger for praise was far from filled even by the fame he already enjoyed.
“Ah!” he said, standing still as if thinking hard, only the brilliance of his eyes and the slight smile giving him away. “Let me see. Not certain which young man that might be. I paint anyone whose face intrigues me, regardless of who they are.” He was watching Monk’s reaction. “Can’t be bothered to paint pretty pictures to make famous men look better than they do.” He said it with pride. “Art, that is the master … not fame or money, or being liked. Posterity won’t give a damn who the subject was, only how they were on canvas, how they spoke to the soul of the man who looked at them decades later—centuries, maybe.”
Monk agreed with him. It was an acute and honest perception—but it galled him to say so.
“Of course. That is what divides the artist from the journeyman.”
“Can you describe the subject?” FitzAlan asked, basking in the praise.
“Fair-haired, thin-faced, with a spiritual air, almost haunted,” Monk replied, trying to visualize how Gilmer must have looked in the earliest days of his modeling, before his health deteriorated.
“Ah!” FitzAlan said quickly. “Think I know who you mean. I’ve got a couple upstairs. Been keeping those against the day when they’d be appreciated for what they are.”
Monk controlled his anger with difficulty. He coughed, raising his hand to his face to conceal the revulsion he felt for a man who could speak so casually about a youth he had known and used, and whom he must have heard was dead.
“Excuse me,” he apologized, then continued. “I should like very much to see them.”
FitzAlan was already going to the door, leading the way back into the hall, past a naked marble Adonis and up the stairs to a larger room obviously used for storage. He went without hesitation to two canvases, concealed by other, later ones, and turned them so Monk could see and admire.
And much as it cut him, he did admire them. They were brilliant. The face that stared out from the colored oils was passionate, sensitive, already shadowed by some vision beyond the pedestrian needs of life. Perhaps even at this time he had known he was consumptive and would not have long to savor the joys or the grief he then knew. Had they been the sweeter for that, the more poignant? FitzAlan had caught all that was precious and swift to pass in the eyes, the lips, the almost translucent pallor of the skin. It was a disturbing painting. It flashed through Monk’s mind to ask Alberton for the price of it as his reward. It hurt him to think he would never see it again after these few moments. It was a reminder of the sweetness of life, never to waste or disregard a moment of its gift.
“You like it,” FitzAlan said unnecessarily. Monk could not have denied it. Whatever sins lay in the soul of the painter, the picture was superb. He recalled his purpose. “Who is he?” It was not difficult to ask. It seemed the only natural thing to do.
“Just a vagrant,” FitzAlan replied. “A young man I saw in the street and took in, for a while. Wonderful face, isn’t it?”
Monk turned away from FitzAlan in order to hide his own emotion. He could not afford to have his loathing show.
“Yes. What happened to him?”
“No idea,” FitzAlan said with slight surprise. “Nobody else will paint him like that, I assure you. He was consumptive. That look won’t be there anymore. That’s what is so valuable, the moment! The knowledge of mortality. It’s universal, the perception of life and death. It’s a hundred and fifty guineas. Tell your friend.”
That was half the price of a good house! FitzAlan certainly did not underestimate his own worth. Even so, Monk found ideas racing through his mind as to how he might acquire the picture. He would never have that sort of money to spend in such a way. He would probably never have it at all. He might be able to bargain down a good deal, but still not into his financial possibilities. Was there some trade? He would profoundly have liked to force FitzAlan into it, twist him until something hurt enough for him to be glad to give up the picture in exchange for relief.
“I’ll tell him,” he said between his teeth. “Thank you.”
Monk spent the rest of that day, and the next two as well, tracing Gilmer’s fairly rapid decline from one artist to another, each of lesser skill than the last, until finally he was destitute and on the street. In each case he had seemingly quarreled and left in some anger. No one had wished him well or given him any assistance. In the end, roughly the middle of the previous summer, he had been taken in by the master of a male brothel.
“Yeah, poor devil,” he said to Monk. “On ’is last legs, ’e were. Thin as a rake an’ pale as death. I could see as ’e were dyin’.” His scarred face was pinched with pity as he sat in the overstuffed chair in his crowded parlor. He was an extraordinarily ugly man with a humpbacked, misshapen body, but with beautiful hands. Who or what he might have been in other circumstances Monk would never know, but it crossed his mind to wonder. Had he been drawn to this, or taken it up out of greed? He chose to think it was the former.
“Did he tell you anything about himself?” Monk enquired.
The man looked at him narrowly. Monk had not asked his name. “A bit,” he answered. “What’s it to you?”
“Did he work for you?”
“When ’e was well enough … which weren’t often.”
Monk could understand it, but he was still disappointed.
“ ’E did the laundry,” the man said wryly. “Wot was you thinking?”
To his amazement Monk was blushing.
The man laughed. “ ’E weren’t o’ that nature,” he said firmly. “Yer can turn boys, but ’is age it’s ’arder, an’ beside that, the way ’e looked like death, an’ coughed blood, no one’d fancy ’im anyway. Whether you believe it or not, I took ’im in because I was sorry for ’im. I could see it wouldn’t be for long. ’E’d bin ’ard enough used as it was.”
“Any idea who knocked him around?” Monk tried to keep the anger out of his voice, and failed.
The man looked at him with a slight squint. “Why? Wot yer goin’ ter do about it?”
There was no point in being less than honest. The man had already seen his feelings. “Depends upon who it is,” he replied. “There are several people who would be happy to make life very difficult for whoever it was.”
“Startin’ wi’ you, eh?”
“No, I’m not the first. I’m several steps along the line. He quarreled with many of the artists he worked for. Was it one of them?”
“I reckon so.” The man nodded slowly. “But ’e didn’t rightly quarrel with them. The first one just got bored and threw him out. Found it more profitable ter paint women for a while. The second couldn’t afford to keep him. The third and fourth both as
ked favors of him like wot I sell—at an ’igh price. ’E weren’t willing—that’s why they threw ’im out. an’ by then ’e were losing ’is looks an ’e got iller an’ iller.”
“Was it one of them?”
The man sized up Monk carefully, the dark face, the lean bones, broad-bridged nose, unblinking eyes.
“Why? Yer gonna kill ’im?”
“Nothing so quick,” Monk replied. “There’s a police sergeant who would like to exact a slow vengeance … through the law.”
“An’ you’d tell ’im so ’e could?”
“I would. If I were sure it was the right one.”
“Customer o’ mine took a fancy to ’im an’ weren’t minded ter take no fer an answer. I’d ’ave ’ad ’im beat ter within an inch of ’is life, meself, but I can’t afford ter. Get a name fer that, an’ I’ll be out o’ business, an’ all me boys wi’ me.”
“Name?”
“Garson Dalgetty. A gent, but a right sod underneath it. Told me ’e’d ruin me if I laid an ’and on ’im. And ’e could!”
“Thank you. I’ll not say where I got this information. But I want a favor in return.”
“Yeah? Why don’t that surprise me none?”
“Because you’re not a fool.”
“Wot’s yer favor?”
Monk grinned. “Not your trade! I want to know if Gilmer told you of anyone giving him money to pay his debts, and I mean giving, not paying.”
The man was surprised. “So you know about that, do yer?”
“The man who gave it told me. I wondered if it was the truth.”
“Oh, yeah. Very generous, ’e were.” He rocked a little in his red chair. “I never asked why. But ’e kept it up till Gilmer come ’ere, an’ after. Stopped when ’e died.”
Monk realized with a jolt what the man had said.
“He went on incurring debts?”
“Medicine, poor sod. I couldn’t afford that.”
“Who was it?”
“Yer said yer knew.”
“I do. But do you?”
The man’s ugly face lit with bitter amusement. “Blackmail, is it? No, I don’t. Gilmer would never tell me, an’ I never asked.”
“Who did know?”
“God … and the devil! How do I know? Don’t suppose it would be that ’ard ter find out, if yer put yer mind ter it. I never wanted ter.”
Monk stayed a little longer, then thanked the man and took his leave, choosing not to look to either the right or the left as he went out. He had found compassion in the man, and he wanted to know nothing of his trade.
The man had been perfectly correct in saying that it would not be difficult to trace the payments, now that Monk knew they were made regularly. It took him the rest of that day, and required no skills beyond ordinary knowledge of banking and common sense. Any number of other people could have done the same.
He also wrote a note to Sergeant Walters, telling him the name of the man he was seeking was Garson Dalgetty.
Leaving Clerkenwell, he wondered why Alberton had not mentioned that he had made Gilmer an allowance of five guineas a month. It was not an enormous amount. It would get him a little extra food, enough sherry and laudanum to ease his worst distress, no more. It was an act of charity, nothing to be ashamed of, very much the opposite. But was it all it seemed?
He did not bother to trace any gift made by Casbolt. Alberton’s gift was enough for his purposes. If he found no blackmailer in that, he could go back to Casbolt again.
The next thing he would do was trace the gun dealers through whom Alberton was requested to make the payment. But before that he would report to Alberton, as he had promised.
The evening went far from the way Monk had planned. He arrived at the house in Tavistock Square and was received immediately. Alberton looked anxious and tired, as if some negotiations of his own had not been easy.
“Thank you for coming, Monk,” he said with a brief smile, welcoming him into the library. “Do sit down. Would you like a glass of whisky, or something else?” He gestured to the crystal-and-silver tantalus on a side table.
Monk was seldom treated as if he were a social equal, even in the most delicate cases. He had found that the more embarrassed people were by their need, the less did they wish to unbend to those whose help they asked. Alberton was a pleasant exception. Nevertheless he declined, wishing not only to keep a totally clear head, but also to be seen to.
Alberton did not take anything either. It seemed the invitation was purely hospitable, not a desire to excuse indulging himself.
Monk began to tell him briefly what he had learned of Gilmer and his life and death. He was giving an account of his visit to FitzAlan when the butler knocked on the door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” he apologized. “But Mr. Breeland is here again, and very insistent. Shall I ask him to wait, sir, or … or have one of the footmen show him out? I am afraid it could prove most unpleasant, and bearing in mind that he has been a guest …”
Alberton looked at Monk. “I’m sorry,” he said bleakly. “This is a very awkward situation. You met young Breeland the other evening. As you must have observed, he is fanatical in his cause and cannot see any other point of view. I am afraid he will wait until I do speak to him, and to tell you the truth, I would rather my daughter did not meet with him again, as she may do if I do not see him straightaway.” There was tenderness and exasperation in his face. “She is very young and full of ideals. She is rather like he is. She can see the justice of only one cause, and nothing at all of any other.”
“By all means see him,” Monk agreed, rising to his feet. “I can very easily wait. I really have little to say anyway. I came because you asked me to report regardless.”
Alberton smiled briefly. “Actually, I think that was rather more Robert than I, but I can see his purpose. One can feel helpless, out of control, if one has no idea what is happening. All the same, I should be obliged if you would remain while I see Breeland, if you would? Another presence here may calm his excess a trifle. I really thought I had made myself plain before.” He turned to the butler, who was still waiting patiently. “Yes, Hallows, ask Mr. Breeland to come in.”
“Yes, sir.” Hallows withdrew obediently, but for an instant, before he masked it, his opinion of Breeland’s importunity was clear in his face. Monk imagined Hallows would wait well within call.
Lyman Breeland appeared a moment later, as if he had been on the butler’s heels. He was dressed very formally in a dark, high-buttoned suit and well-cut boots with a fine polish.
He was quite clearly disconcerted to see Monk present.
Alberton observed it. “Mr. Monk is my guest,” he said coolly. “He has no interest in armaments and is not a rival for anything you would wish. But I have told you before, Mr. Breeland, the guns that interest you are already sold—”
“No, they are not!” Breeland interrupted him. “You are in negotiation. You have not been paid, and believe me, sir, I know that. The Union has its ways of gaining information. You have been given a deposit, but the Rebels are short of funds, and you may be fortunate to see the second half of your price.”
“Possibly,” Alberton said with a distinct chill. “But I have no reason to suppose those I deal with are not men of honor, and whether they are or not, it is not your concern.”
“I have the money in full,” Breeland said. “Tell Philo Trace to produce the same! See if he can.”
“I have given my word, sir, and I do not withdraw it,” Alberton replied, his face set in hard lines, his anger unmistakable.
“You are conniving at slavery!” Breeland’s voice rose. His body was stiff, his shoulders high. “How can any civilized man do that? Or have you passed beyond civilization into decadence? Do you no longer care where your comforts come from or who pays for them?”
Alberton was white to the lips. “I don’t set myself up as a judge of men or of nations,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I should? Maybe I should require every prospectiv
e purchaser to justify himself before me and account for every shot he will take with any gun I sell him. And since that is manifestly preposterous, then perhaps I should not sell guns at all?”
“You are reducing the argument to absurdity!” Breeland countered, splashes of pink in his cheeks. “The moral difference between the attacker and the defender is clear enough to any man. So is the difference between the slave owner and the man who would free everyone. Only a sophist of the utmost hypocrisy would argue differently.”
“I could argue that the Confederate who wishes to set up his own government according to his belief in what is right has more justification to his cause than the Unionist who would oblige him to remain in a union he no longer wishes,” Alberton replied. “But that is not the issue, as you well know. Trace came to me before you did, and I agreed to sell him armaments. I do not break my word. That is the point, Mr. Breeland, and the only point. Trace has not misled me or deceived me in any way that would cause me to renege on my commitment to him. I have no guns to sell you; that is the sum of the situation.”
“Give Trace back his deposit,” Breeland challenged him. “Tell him you are no slaver! Or are you?”
“Insults offend me,” Alberton said grimly, his face dark. “They do not change my mind. I agreed to see you because I was afraid you would not leave my house until I had. There is nothing more for us to discuss. Good evening, sir.”
Breeland did not move. His face was pale, his hands clenched at his sides. But before he could find the words to retaliate, the door opened behind him, and Merrit Alberton came in.
Her gown was deep pink, her fair hair elaborately coiled but now in some disarray. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brilliant. She ignored Monk, glanced only briefly at Breeland, but deliberately stood close beside him. She addressed her father.
“What you are doing is immoral! You have made a mistake in offering the guns to the Confederates. You would never have thought of doing it were they rebels against England!” Her voice was rising higher and sharper all the time in her indignation. “If we still had slavery here, would you sell guns to slave traders so they could shoot at our army, and navy, even our men and women in their own homes, because we wanted all people to be free? Would you?”
