Ngaio Marsh - Artists in Crime

“Ask Miss Seacliff if she’ll come and see me.”

Seacliff strolled in, dressed in black trousers and a magenta sweater. She looked very lovely.

“Good morning, Miss Seacliff,” said Alleyn cheerfully. “Are you recovered?”

“Why, what was the matter with you ?” Troy asked her.

Seacliff glared at Alleyn with positive hatred.

“Miss Seacliff was indisposed last night,” said Alleyn.

“What was the matter?”

“Nerves,” said Seacliff.

“Was it you who was sick in the downstairs bathroom?” demanded Troy with an air of sudden enlightenment. “Sadie was furious at having to clear up. She said— ”

“Need we discuss it, Troy? I’m really terribly upset.”

“You must have been,” agreed Troy, with a suspicion of a grin. “I must say I think you might have cleared up after yourself. Sadie said she thought at least three men— ”

“Troy!”

“All right. Do you want to be alone, Mr. Alleyn?”

“No, no. I just wanted to ask Miss Seacliff about this Holloway business.”

“Oh,” said Seacliff. “You mean the place where Garcia is going to sculp?”

“Yes. Did he tell you it was somewhere near Holloway?”

“Yes, he did. I’d forgotten. I suppose you are furious with me?” She smiled at Alleyn. Her glance said, very plainly: “After all, you are rather good-looking.”

“I’d like to know exactly what he said, if you can remember the conversation.”

“I suppose I can remember a good deal of it if I try. It took place during one of his periodical attempts to make a pass or two at me. He asked me if I would come and see him while he was working. I forget what I said. Oh, I think I said I would if it wasn’t too drearily far away or something. Then he said it was near Holloway, because I remember I asked him if he thought he’d be safe. I said I knew better than to spend an afternoon with him in a deserted studio, but I might get Basil to drive me there, and, of course, that made him quite livid with rage. However, he told me how to get there and drew a sort of map. I’m afraid I’ve lost it. As a matter of fact, I would rather like to see that thing, wouldn’t you, Troy? Still, as long as he’s not arrested or something, I suppose we shall see it in its proper setting. I told Garcia I thought it was a bit of a comedown to take a commission from a flick-shop. I said they’d probably ask him to put touches of gilt on the breasts and flood it with pink lights. He turned as acid as a lemon and said the surroundings were to be appropriate. He’s got absolutely no sense of humour, of course.”

“Did he tell you exactly where it was?”

“Oh, yes. He drew up the map, but I can’t remember anything but Holloway.”

“Not even the name of the street?” asked Alleyn resignedly.

“I don’t think so. He must have mentioned it and marked it down, but I don’t suppose I’d ever remember it,” said Seacliff, with maddening complacency.

“Then I think that’s all, thank you, Miss Seacliff.”

She got up, frowned, and closed her eyes for a moment.

“What’s the matter?” asked Troy.

“I’ve got another of these filthy headaches.”

“Carry-over, perhaps.”

“No, it’s not. I’ve been getting them lately.”

“You’re looking a bit white,” said Troy, more kindly. “Why don’t you lie down? Would you like some aspirin?”

“Basil gave me his last night, thanks.” She took out her mirror and looked at herself with intense concentration.

“I look too bloody,” she said, and walked out of the room.

“Is she always like that?” asked Alleyn.

“Pretty much. She’s spoilt. She’d have been comparatively easy to live with if she hadn’t got that lovely face. She is beautiful, you know.”

“Oh! magnificent,” agreed Alleyn absently.

He was looking at Troy, at the delicate sparseness of her head, the straight line of her brows and the generous width between her grey-green eyes.

“Are you very tired?” he asked gently.

“Who, me? I’m all right.” She sat on the fender holding her thin hands to the fire. “Only I can’t get it out of my head.”

“Small wonder,” said Alleyn, and to himself he thought: “She’s treating me more like a friend this morning. Touch wood.”

“Oddly enough, it’s not so much Sonia, poor little thing, but Garcia, that I can’t get out of my head. You needn’t bother to be mysterious and taciturn. I know you must suspect Garcia after what Phillida Lee and Malmsley said last night. But you see, in a way, Garcia’s a sort of protégé of mine. He came to me when he was almost literally starving, and I’ve tried to look after him a bit. I know he’s got no conscience at all in the usual sort of way. He’s what they call unmoral. But he has got genius and I never use that word if I can get out of it. He couldn’t do a shabby thing with clay. Wait a moment.”

She went out of the room for a few minutes. When she returned she carried a small bronze head, about half lifesize, of an old woman. Troy put the head on a low table and pulled back the curtains. The cold light flooded the little bronze. It looked very tranquil and pure; its simple forms folded it into a great dignity. The lights shone austerely and the shadows seemed to breathe.

“ ‘All passion spent,’ ” said Alleyn after a short pause.

“That’s it,” agreed Troy. She touched it delicately with a long finger. “Garcia gave me this,” she said.

“It wouldn’t be too florid to say it looked as if it had been done by an inspired saint.”

“Well — it wasn’t. It was done by a lecherous, thieving little guttersnipe who happens to be a superb craftsman. But— ”

Troy’s voice wavered. “To catch and hang the man who made it — ”

“God — yes, I know — I know.” He got up and moved restlessly about the room, returning to her.

“Oh, Troy, you mustn’t cry,” he said.

“What the devil’s it got to do with you?”

“Nothing, nothing, nothing, and don’t I know it!”

“You’d better get on with your job,” said Troy. She looked like a boy with her head turned shamefacedly away. She groped in her trousers pocket and pulled out a handkerchief disgracefully stained with paint. “Oh blast!” she said, and pitched it into the wastepaper basket.

“Have mine.”

“Thank you.”

Alleyn turned away from her and leant his arms on the mantelpiece. Troy blew her nose violently.

“My mother’s so happy about my picture,” said Alleyn to the fire. “She says it’s the best present she’s ever had. She said, if you’ll forgive the implication, that you must know all about the subject. I suppose that’s the sort of lay remark that is rather irritating to a craftsman for whom the model must be a collection of forms rather than an individual.”

“Bosh!” said Troy down her nose and behind his handkerchief.

“Is it? I’m always terrified of being highfalutin’ about pictures. The sort of person, you know, who says: ‘The eyes follow you all round the room.’ It would be so remarkably rum if they didn’t when the model has looked into the painter’s eyes, wouldn’t it? I told my mamma about the thing you did at Suva. She rather fancies her little self about pictures. I think her aesthetic taste is pretty sound. Do you know she remembered the Pol de Limbourge thing that Malmsey cribbed, for one of his illustrations.”

“What?” exclaimed Troy loudly.

“Didn’t you spot it?” asked Alleyn without turning. “That’s one up to the Alleyn family, isn’t it? The drawing of the three little medieval reapers in front of the chateau; it’s Sainte Chapelle, really, I think — do you remember?”