'No, I suppose it wouldn't.'

Denton was angry with her, made himself see her side of it. She had tried to fob him off at first with the idea of writing to the 'new man'. She had wanted to get rid of him - Mary Thomason was nothing to her; why should she bother helping him? She wanted him to go, to leave her to her isolation and her loneliness. 'But you're sure you haven't seen the young woman in the drawing.'

'Quite sure, of course.'

'But Mr Himple drew her.'

'I don't know that he did. Perhaps he did.' She was looking towards the door, towards a black stone clock on the mantel.

'Was the "new man" English?'

'Certainly he was.'

'You heard him talk, then.'

She compressed her lips. 'Once or twice.'

'What did he sound like - educated? Rough?'

'He sounded like his cla.s.s.'

'But he spoke French.'

'So Mr Himple said. I wouldn't have known if he had. I don't bother myself with foreign things.'

She didn't know the new man's name - he'd have to ask Brown. He asked if he could see the studio and was told he'd have to apply to Brown. She was eager for him to go now; she had said too much, he thought, not because she had anything to hide but because information was all she did have. Perhaps she got pleasure from treating as secrets things that were merely ordinary. He got Brown's address from her and went away, glad to get into the gathering dusk and the cold.

The ducks were gone. The sun was gone, too, the dwindling light throwing everything into shades of lavender and dark grey-blue, the last light on the water like much-rubbed metal. On the Albert Bridge, the traffic rumbled and growled. A steam launch came down the river, its lights like tantalizing hints of certainty in the gloom.

Next day, he visited Brown in a tidy little house on the river almost as far as Kew. The valet was not yet forty, heavy-set, unintelligent. Yes, Mr Himple sent him regular letters. Yes, Himple and the 'new man' had stayed at Hinon for a month; yes, they had left there early and gone on to Paris and then 'the South'; yes, Mr Himple had written that he had discharged the new man and was taking a villa with its own staff. No, he wasn't sure of the villa's location; he had been told only a poste restante address. But Mr Himple had moved again, heading for Italy incognito because of the crowds of English tourists, he said. He planned to winter in Florence, where he had a large acquaintance. He had sent back four paintings - 'What artists call sketches in oil, sir.' Mr Himple was 'renewing his style'. It sounded like something Brown was quoting from one of Himple's letters.

When would Himple be back? Brown didn't know, didn't know, sir, it was all a little puzzling - but Mr Himple was an artist, after all.

And the new man?

Gone. (Brown seemed relieved.) Never meant to be a permanent addition to the household, after all. (Brown hid his satisfaction at this pretty well.) His name was Arthur Crum. Yes, he was young. Thin, sir. Yes, the face in the drawing without a beard could be his. Yes, he believed the man Crum had modelled Lazarus. Brown knew nothing of a sister, however, either of the new man or of Lazarus. He was seldom at the studio when Mr Himple was painting, seldom saw the models. No, he was deeply sorry, but it wasn't possible to see the studio in Mr Himple's absence. Art was sacrosanct.

'What did you think of the new man - Crum?'

'It isn't my place to think anything of him.' Brown's stolid, fleshy face closed up. 'I have a very good position with Mr Himple, sir. My wages continue while he's away. I don't want to give any cause for Mr Himple to - think less of me.'

'But this Crum, you said, has been discharged. Your opinion of him won't matter now. You do have an opinion of him, I think.'

'Yes, sir.' Brown shifted uneasily. He cleared his throat, then burst out: 'An upstart. He was an upstart, sir. He didn't know his craft, between you and me, sir.' Brown became almost animated. 'I was a footman for nine years before I was allowed to even lay out my employer's clothes. This Crum hadn't done any of that.' Brown was sitting in a small armchair. He stared at his large hands, then abruptly broke out again: 'He couldn't even speak good English, sir! He was a - a-He was of a very low sort, sir. Mr n.o.body from Nowhere.'

'Why did Mr Himple hire him, then?'

'I'm sure I couldn't say, sir.'

'Was there something personal between them?'

Brown simply looked at him. His worry seemed to increase: to say anything on this score was to endanger his place, he meant.

Denton said, 'Do you know how Crum and Mr Himple got acquainted?'

'Crum was a model, sir. As I say, he modelled Lazarus. I believe that's how he came to Mr Himple's attention.'

'Did he know anything about painting? Was he an artist himself ?'

'I think he knew the studio, sir - by that I mean, he could care for the brushes, and he knew how to make the varnishes and grind the colours. The rude work of the studio.' Brown sniffed. 'Hardly an artist. No idea of art, I suspect, although I'd never have engaged him in conversation about such a subject.' Again, he seemed to have done talking and then abruptly realized he had more to say. 'He was beneath me, sir! I wanted nothing to do with him. Mr Himple realized that, I think. If it hadn't been for speaking French, there'd have been no thought of employing him, I'm sure. Mr Himple made that very clear to me when he continued my wages in his absence and put me in charge of the studio. Crum was merely temporary.'

'Did Crum have some sort of hold over Mr Himple?'

Brown's eyebrows drew together; a look of pain, almost of illness, took over his face. 'I'm sure I wouldn't know about that, sir.'

'It has a stink to it, Munro.'

'Not my manor. It's Guillam's business, missing persons.'

'Guillam won't give me the time of day, and you know it. Don't you think it's peculiar?'

'Peculiarity isn't a crime.'

'An artist just happens to draw a picture of a girl who's missing. A man who looks like her, probably her brother, models for the same artist, then goes off to the Continent as his valet right after she writes me a letter and disappears. The artist and the man travel together, then the artist reports he's fired the man. So the girl's missing and now the brother's missing.'

'What makes you think he's missing? What you mean is, you can't find him. Not the same thing.'

'I asked at the Slade about Arthur Crum. Asked a couple of the sister's friends. Had somebody look in the Kelly's. No Arthur Crum.'

'What're you suggesting - an RA took him to the Continent and did him in? Save it for a novel.'

'Munro, you're as hard to move as an elephant.'

'And a good deal busier. Want a word of advice?'

'No.'

'We got enough crimes without you inventing them. Leave it.'

'I can't leave it. I thought I had; it came back.'

Munro looked up from his paperwork. 'Where'd you get a picture of her?'

'It turned up.'

'Convenient.' He went back to scribbling on a piece of typescript. 'You hear that the docs sent in a report on your man Jarrold?'

'"My man Jarrold" - my G.o.d!'

'Guillam's office filed it with the magistrate - "given to harmless childish fantasies but improving". Docs recommend more of whatever they're doing and a continuance of the charges. Guillam's recommending to Mrs Striker that she agree.' He raised his head. 'She hasn't told you?'

'I haven't seen her in a bit.'

'Mm. Perhaps you should. Better than mucking about with missing persons.' He started to lower his head to his paperwork again but lifted it and said, 'Anyway, they've pulled the watchers off you because of the report on Jarrold. You're on your own.'

[image]

When he saw her two days later, he said, 'You didn't tell me you'd heard about Jarrold.'

'I haven't seen you.'

'You could have sent one of your telegrams.'

'I didn't think it was important.'

'It's important to me. Jarrold's hoodwinked them. If they think what's behind that moon face of his is a "harmless childish fantasy", they should be disbarred or defrocked or whatever it is you do with medical men.'

'Their report is quite positive. He's "calm". They're giving him chloral at night and he's sleeping. He's given up wandering about in the dark, sleeps the night through. The Lady Astoreth has dropped out of his life.'

'He's pulling the wool over their eyes.'

'Maybe the Lady Astoreth has run off with Arthur Crum.'

'If Arthur Crum actually exists somewhere.'

'Not to mention the Lady Astoreth.' They were in his sitting room. Outside, it was crisp and cold; thin winter sunlight showed the sooty patterns on his windowpanes. She was wearing another suit, this one in a heavy rust-red wool; she had taken off the jacket to reveal a plain white blouse with a mannish necktie. She said, 'Maybe Munro's right about both Mary Thomason and Arthur Crum. They're both much ado about nothing.'

'I think the Thomason business is nothing, then I swing the other way and am certain something's really happened. The coincidences - the drawing, Himple, Crum going off with him-' He struck the velvet arm of his chair and dust motes jumped into the room. 'The little drawings, the remarques - if they mean something, if they're some sort of code - Augustus John and the housekeeper both recognized the one of Lazarus, so that one's clear enough. If she drew it, she was referring to the man who drew her picture, to Himple. But the other one-'

'You said n.o.body recognizes the other one.'

'It's a doorway, just a doorway.' He put his legs out. He touched her foot with one of his, frowned at her small boot. 'Heseltine looked funny when he saw it, but he said he didn't recognize it. No, he didn't say that - he just said something about - what? It was too small to see, or something. But he did look funny.'

'Ask him again.'

'I hate to bother him. He's in a bad state.'

'So are you.'

He looked at her with the same frown. He meant that he didn't think his own frustration was anything like Heseltine's despair. She reddened.

'Anyway, I don't like the docs' report on Jarrold. And the police have pulled off their watchers because of it. d.a.m.n them.'

Next afternoon, he walked down to Albany Court when he was done working. He had had the satisfaction of writing 'end' below a final paragraph, then underlining it. He had got the whole book out of his head and on the page, now had only to wait for the typewriter to do the final sheets, then take them to bed, revise, edit, get them down to the publishers. The great anticlimax.

Heseltine opened his own door. He answered a question about Jenks with only a shake of his head. Heseltine hadn't shaved; he was still in a dressing gown, again with an old woollen scarf around his neck. The place smelled of benzoin, as if he really had been ill. When they had talked ba.n.a.lities for a few minutes, Denton let a silence fall and then he said, 'Do you remember the drawing I showed you?'

'Drawing?'

'The young woman.'

'Oh, of course.'

'There were little drawings in the corners.'

'I don't recall.'

'I thought you recognized one of them.' Heseltine didn't react. Denton pulled out a photographic copy and held it towards him. Heseltine hesitated and then took it.

'The lower left one.'

Heseltine looked at it, but he spoke before he looked. 'Afraid it doesn't mean a thing to me.'

'The light's poor. I'd be grateful if you'd look at it in better light.' Denton handed him a folding magnifier he'd brought on purpose.

Heseltine took it to a window. The Wesselons hung on the wall next to him; his shoulder almost brushed it as he leaned against the window frame. The light was colourless but bright. Denton got up and stood at his shoulder. 'Recognize it?'

'No - no-' The corner of the paper quivered.

Denton said, 'It's important. It means something. You wanted to help me find this young woman, remember?'

Heseltine turned around him into the room and went back to where he had been sitting, a rather grubby love seat; he leaned over and put the drawing on the cushion of Denton's chair, then dropped his head on the fingers of one hand and looked at the raddled carpet. He said, 'I don't know what I'm going to do.'

'You were talking about going away.'

Heseltine rubbed his forehead with his fingers as he leaned on them. 'The little drawing is of a doorway in Mayfair. It's a place called the Mayflower Baths.' His eyes were shut. He kept rubbing. 'I was taken there when I was a schoolboy. I didn't know-A friend of my father's took me. It was only the once, I swear. I'm not-' He stopped rubbing, then put his thumb and first finger on his eyes and seemed to push. 'It's that that kind of place, do you understand?' kind of place, do you understand?'

'You mean - women, or men?'

'Men, of course, dear G.o.d - women!' He threw himself back, his eyes still closed. 'I was deeply ashamed. I'm still ashamed. And the man who took me was a friend of my father's, I trusted him, but looking back I realize he'd said things earlier, made insinuations.'

'You were a boy.'

'I was seventeen. I knew enough. At school - there's always a certain amount of that sort of thing. I won't claim I was innocent.' He sat up. 'But it was only the one time!'

'You're sure that's what the picture shows.'

Heseltine cackled. 'It's unmistakable. I used to pa.s.s that doorway before the war, going to a house where I often looked in after dinner. I could never see it without flinching.' He swallowed. 'I learned to look away.' He laughed.

Denton stayed to talk about other things, but he knew when he left that he'd made Heseltine's day worse, not better.

He wanted to talk to somebody about it, but Janet was off with her lawyer; Atkins's was the wrong ear. What did it mean that Mary Thomason had drawn the doorway of a male rendezvous on her portrait? Did she know something about Erasmus Himple and thus was making a threat? Had she learned something from her brother, who then went off to the Continent with Himple? Did this make Himple the one she feared was going to hurt her?

He went in the Regent Street entrance of the Cafe Royal and then into the Domino Room. He was hoping for Frank Harris, but it was far too early. No Augustus John, either; he would be back in Liverpool by now. He sat, still wearing his hat and overcoat, and drank a milky coffee and tried to think it through. It was the same squirrel cage - round and round, too much suggestion and not enough fact.

A little after six, a disreputable figure shambled across his view of the room.

'Crosland!'