Mark Gatiss - The Vesuvius Club

«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… servants are away.»

«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 Velázquez, 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 tick made by her lips as they parted.

I grinned happily to myself, deriving curious satisfaction from the quiet, methodical way she worked.

«Have you had many answers to your advertisement, Mr Box?»

The charcoal swooped and scratched over the virginal paper.

«You are the first.»

The horse’s head, caught swiftly and surely. She was rather good.

«Then perhaps we can make this a… private arrangement.»

Steady. I felt a little flip in my heart and a distinct throb in my britches. I thought of Avril Pugg’s father and the sensation lessened. A little.

«Perhaps.»

Miss Bella had caught the heavy fullness of the spelter lancer’s thigh with one, decisive stroke of the charcoal. With equal boldness I now crossed the room towards her and took hold of her drawing hand. I guided it to the paper, moving myself until I was almost pressed against her back. She did not demur as I slid the charcoal over the surface of the paper, shading the lancer’s legs and bottom with what I knew to be forthright sensuousness.

«You are doing very nicely, Miss Pok,» I cooed. «You have an extraordinary grasp of military anatomy.»

I carried on with the drawing without taking my eyes from the figurine.

«A bottom is a bottom, Mr Box,» she said, «whether a soldier’s or a parlour-maid’s.»

I suppressed a smile. «True, I suppose. Tell me, are you town or country born?»

I pressed myself closer to her. There could be no mistaking the broom-handle in my trousers. With a slight dip of her lovely head Bella Pok moved away from me a little and released her hand from my grip. «I am a farmer’s daughter, Mr Box,» she murmured.

I held up my hands in supplication and backed away. And you know a fox when you see one , I thought.

Turning in her seat, she gave a little gasp. I looked to where she looked and saw that she was staring at the glass eye I had placed near the lancer.

«How ghoulish!» she cried, with her musical laugh.

«Isn’t it?» I said. «Shall I put it away?»

«No, no. I am not so squeamish as you might think. But it does, as they say about the Mona Lisa , rather follow one about the room!»

She turned back to me, grinning and presented the drawing board. «Well, then. What is the verdict?» she said.

«Guilty!» I cried.

She gathered up her things. «Is there any hope for me?»

I folded my arms and smiled. «I sentence you to commence your classes on Monday next. And may the Lord have mercy upon your»

I stopped very suddenly. My attention had become riveted on the newspaper that Miss Bella had brought through into the studio. I plucked it from her grasp. «Mr Box?» she said with concern. «Are you quite all right?»

In a column adjacent to my advertisement was a small item of news.

BRITISH DIPLOMAT MURDERED

Terrible discovery in Naples.

A body found in the harbour at Naples on Monday last has been positively identified as that of Jocelyn Utterson Poop of His Majesty’s Diplomatic Service. Mr Poop, who was thirty-three years of age, had been stationed in the Italian city for over four years. The Neapolitan police say that the unfortunate man had been the victim of a murderous attack, leaving his skull crushed, probably by a stick or some such blunt instrument…