Erasmus Himple, RA, lived in Chelsea, not particularly at that moment an artist’s neighbourhood — but then, as Augustus John might have said, Himple wasn’t particularly an artist. Denton liked Chelsea without wanting to live there, liked to walk its small streets and its embankment, although the place was, he was told, very different from the village of ‘little houses surrounded with roses’ that Stendhal and others had found. One of the art magazines reported that Himple had said that ‘he liked to live where my great namesake, Erasmus, visited, and where great painters have painted’ — presumably Holbein and Turner, if ‘great’ was to be taken literally, perhaps less so Rossetti and Whistler. At any rate, it was to Chelsea that Himple had come, leaving Melbury Road and the farther reaches of Kensington to other RAs.
The house was a fairly small one around the corner from All Saints Church. Denton approached it along the Embankment, pausing to look at the river — he still had thoughts of rowing on it, never seemed to turn them to reality — and the suspension bridge. He tried to picture it without the Embankment, a muddy tidal shore, here and there some steps to the water, but the idea of a distinct village where now this accessible part of London stood wouldn’t come clear. His mind was fuzzed by his book, anyway, now nearly done. There was a familiar sense of the sprint to the finish, already an anticipation of the mental slump after.
He had no eagerness to see Erasmus Himple. It was late on a sombre, cold day, although he was cheered by a flight of duck that came winging down the river to land splashily almost in front of him. The sky was iron overhead, the sun a slightly brassy brightness far down to the west; the bare plane trees rose against it in hard, black silhouette. The air smelled of the river and of soot; his breath steamed in it before drifting and dissipating.
‘Mr Denton to see Mr Himple, if he may,’ he said, handing in his card. He had expected, after the experience with Wenzli, some sort of potted grandeur, the same air of arty
Without looking at the card, she said, ‘Mr Himple is away.’
‘Oh.’ That didn’t surprise him, after what James had said. It did trouble him that Himple had been away so long. ‘Will he be back soon?’
Now she used a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles that hung on a ribbon to read his card. ‘Is this about having your picture painted, Mr Denton?’ She had a deep voice, almost mannish.
‘I wrote a letter. There’s a young woman who seems to have disappeared. I think she was a model for Mr Himple — the painting of Lazarus.’ He stood uncertainly, found he was speaking in jerks. ‘I’ve reported it to the police. I just learned about Mr Himple. Her modelling for him. I thought-’ He didn’t say what he thought.
‘Oh, yes.’ She looked him up and down. It was as well that Atkins had insisted he look like a gentleman that day. ‘Come in, please.’ No hospitality was implied by the tone.
She led him to the back of the house down a central hall, paintings on the walls, not Himple’s own, he thought (they seemed to him ‘older’, whatever that meant), and stood by an open door with her left arm extended as if to say, ‘If you must be here, go in this room.’ Inside was what he took to be her own sitting room, as austere as she, black-and-white engravings on the walls instead of paintings, an open Bible on a shawl-draped table.
She didn’t ask him to take off his overcoat. She told him she was Mrs Evans. When she sat, so did he; the chair was merciless. He told her the well-worn tale of Mary Thomason, abbreviated, trying to keep his voice from falling into the sing-song of a guide detailing some third-rate wonder for the thousandth time. He produced one of the copies of the Mary Thomason drawing. ‘I believe that Mr Himple did this drawing. Do you recognize it?’
She had as sharp an eye as Augustus John’s. ‘The little one in the corner looks like his Lazarus.’
‘Yes.’ He waited. ‘Do you know the woman’s face?’
‘Mr Himple’s studio is over the road.’
It took him an instant to guess what that meant. ‘You don’t see his models?’
‘I hardly pry into my employer’s business.’
‘I didn’t mean to suggest that. You might have seen her, I meant.’
She handed the drawing back. Denton waited; nothing came. He said, ‘When will Mr Himple be back?’
‘Mr Himple has gone abroad.’
‘Ah. For how long?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know. He made arrangements that would allow him to make an extended journey. You would do best to write to him, perhaps. Or not.’
‘I did. May I ask when he left?’
‘Some time ago.’
‘When?’
She enjoyed being a dog in the manger of information. No amount of niceness was going to get it out of her. Denton bore down, gave as good as he got, showed in a changed voice that he could be just as stern as she. Reluctantly, she admitted that Himple had gone some time ago, then that he had gone in August, then that he had left on 9 August.
One day after Mary Thomason had written to ask for help. Denton felt himself coming out of his end-of-book daze. ‘Did he go alone?’
She got her back up at that: what did he mean? What was he suggesting? She would have to ask him to leave if he was going to make insinuations.
Denton produced the drawing again. She said, ‘He would hardly travel with a young lady!’
‘Did he travel with anybody at all?’
‘His man, of course.’ She glanced down at the drawing, looked out of a window, said in a different voice, one for the first time suggesting — was it disapproval? Or some personal hurt? ‘A man. A servant, I mean.’
Denton had to figure this through — his man but apparently not his man,
Again, she didn’t look at him, spoke in the same aggrieved voice. ‘He wanted someone who could speak French.’
‘His regular man didn’t speak French?’
‘Brown does not speak French.’
‘Brown is his regular man? Can I speak with Brown?’
‘Brown lives in Strand-on-the Green. He comes in once a week to tend to the studio and do the pictures.’ Denton had no idea what this meant; it didn’t matter. She said, ‘Mr Himple made an arrangement with Brown for his absence — until he returns.’ She looked again at the drawing. Her expression was even more severe.
‘You didn’t approve of the man he took with him.’
‘It’s hardly my business to approve of my employer’s judgement.’
‘I thought perhaps you didn’t like the new man.’
‘I hardly knew him.’ She looked yet again at the drawing.
‘You recognize the drawing, don’t you.’
She handed it back. The edge of the paper vibrated; her hand was trembling. Looking at her again, Denton felt a sudden sympathy, had a glimpse into her life and its isolation, probably its loneliness. He said, ‘Did the new man look like the woman’s face in the drawing? ’
She sat very straight. ‘I believe he resembles the face in the corner, at least.’
‘Lazarus.’
She was silent. Her head may have trembled; maybe he was wrong. He said, ‘Have you seen the painting?’
‘Mr Himple kindly invited me to the studio to see it before it went to the Academy.’
‘Do you think the “new man” who went abroad with him was the model for Lazarus?’
‘I — thought that might be so when I saw the painting. It was not my business.’ She looked at him. ‘Nor yours, sir.’
‘I think the man who modelled Lazarus may be the brother of the missing girl. He may know where she is. Mrs Evans, this is quite important. I want to get in touch with the young man.’
‘You may write a letter, I’m sure.’
