«Oh yes. From their Cambridge days. Eli seems to have passed away the day after Frederick. What in heaven’s name can it mean?»
I nodded sympathetically and scratched at my false moustache. «Of course, there was no… ill feeling between—?»
Mrs Sash shook her handsome head. «There was some rivalry, naturally, both being in the same field but no more than that. They were always on very good terms, though they had seen little of one another since their Continental adventure came to an end.»
«Continental—?»
«They once worked together in Europe for some little time.»
I scribbled in my note-book. «No previous illness—?»
«There had been nothing out of the ordinary.»
I was hoping to persuade the lady to absent herself briefly as I had with Professor Verdigris’s son, to facilitate a quick nose around the room, but my request for refreshment was answered by a delicate pull on the bell rope and the appearance of a dour-faced flunky.
I paused with my pencil hovering over the paper. «This was your husband’s—?»
«Study? No, no. He has a room on the first floor. Claimed it was too noisy down here.» She passed a hand over her face. «He was at home all day, working up a theorem. The late post had just come when»
She sniffed back a tear. «You must excuse me for now, sir. We are somewhat upside-down at the moment. There is so much to do.»
«One final thing, Mrs Sash. Have I missed the funeral?»
I had. It had taken place only the previous day in Southwark.
Mrs Sash glanced down at her neat little hands. «There again I was vexed. We were unable to use the firm my husband’s family had always relied upon.»
«Firm?»
«The undertaking firm, sir. Tulip Brothers. Retired, it seems, without so much as a note! The business has been taken over. I suppose it all passed off well enough…»
«But?»
«But there was something a little…
«What makes you say that?»
She sighed. «Well, whatever good-will they inherited has been squandered, I can tell you. It was a rather amateurish display.»
«And what is the name of this curious firm?»
Mrs Sash crossed to a small bureau and produced a black-edged card. «I’m not saying it’s necessarily worthy of a newspaper investigation,» she said, handing it over. «But I found their attitude most peculiar. I’d be easier in my mind if someone were to do a little… um… digging.» For the first time, she smiled.
I held up the card.
TOM BOWLER. SUPERIOR FUNERALS.
188 ENGLAND’S LANE. LONDON N.W.
I had changed and was stretching a canvas in my studio that afternoon, wondering how to infiltrate an undertakers without a cadaver to present, when I heard a knock at the door.
Still expecting old Poplar to answer it, I ignored the summons for a full minute before heading through into the hallway with a muttered curse.
A singularly lovely personage stood on my doorstep, clutching a folded newspaper in her lace-gloved hand.
«Mr Box?»
«I am he.»
She stepped forward and the sunlight cast a glow over the russet-coloured dress that clung so charmingly to her figure. Tall and elfin-featured, with a tumbling fall of Mucha-like curls, she held up the newspaper and flashed me a lovely smile. «I came in response to your advertisement.» The voice was lightly accented — Dutch? — and tinkled like a music-box.
«Advertisement? Oh! Oh, yes of course! Come in, please, Miss…?»
«Pok.»
«Pok?»
«Bella Pok.» The delectable creature crossed the threshold and looked inquisitively about the hallway.
«Would you care for some tea?» I asked.
She looked me straight in the eye. «Do you have anything stronger?»
«My dear, I daresay. Please, come through.»
«Number Nine, Downing Street,» she said, entering the drawing room. «You have trouble with your neighbours?»
«Only once every four years.»
She smiled and took a seat by the window whilst I hurriedly looked about for refreshment. «Such a curious place for an artist to live…»
«Sherry?» I offered.
«I like a little vermouth at this hour.»
I nodded, rather pleasantly shocked. «Geographically, I am at the very beating heart of the Empire, Miss Pok. In other respects, I am as much an outcast as the greatest of my calling have been…» I gestured around the room. «You must forgive my current situation but my servant is…
«I have learned never to judge a gentleman by the cleanliness of his doilies.»
«Then I feel we shall get on splendidly.»
I slipped through to the kitchen and began to hunt around for where the char had put clean glasses. «Now tell me,» I said, calling through. «What drew you to my advertisement? You have had some training in draughtsmanship?»
«Not at all,» she cried. «It is only that I have always longed to draw and paint, Mr Box, and currently find myself with the time and the resources to fulfil my daydreams.»
«Capital!» I said, returning with two fairly respectable cut-glass vessels, a bottle of vermouth and a rather sad-looking seed cake.
«Speaking of capital,» she said, reaching for her beaded bag, «the advertisement said a guinea per lesson.»
I held up my hand. «Let us not concern ourselves with these bothersome details just now. Tell me a little more about yourself.»
«What could a dull little creature like me possibly have that could interest you?» she trilled. I could think of several things and made a mental note to treat Chris Miracle to dinner for his splendid suggestion.
Miss Bella Pok and I had, it transpired, a great deal in common. A mutual loathing of the frightful El Greco and veneration of the sainted Velazquez, a suspicion of Titian and an unhealthy regard for Caravaggio. As we drank our vermouth I thought how pretty and charming was my potential pupil. The sunlight pouring through the window crowned her lovely face, illumining her eyelashes as she angled it towards me.
I showed her into the studio. She crossed at once to the centre of the room and began to examine the body of a spelter Napoleonic lancer I’d picked up in a junk shop off the Edgware Road. It was a cheap thing, just a fellow in britches on horseback, but she seemed taken by it. Perhaps it was the way he brandished his lance. I rested my shoulder against the wall, one hand in contemplative attitude on my chin.
«When can I begin?» she asked brightly.
I shrugged. «Why not at once? Will the lancer do?»
So saying, I drew up a chair and fixed a rectangle of good-quality paper to a wooden board. Miss Bella unpinned her hat and sat down. I handed her the board and some sticks of charcoal then stood behind her in silence, listening to the sound of her breathing and the sweet, liquid
I grinned happily to myself, deriving curious satisfaction from the quiet, methodical way she worked.
