Michael White - The Art of Murder

‘I’ve been acquainted with him for a long time, but I couldn’t say I knew him well. I don’t know whether anyone did.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He was something of a loner. A rather private man.’

‘He was a writer, yes?’

‘He was originally a painter. Still dabbles, so I understand, but he decided, oh … at least a decade ago, that he couldn’t keep going and started to write about Art instead. Had a column in the Evening Standard for a long time, but parted company with the paper. I remember there was some big row and he was shown the door.’

‘When was this?’

‘A couple of years ago. He freelances now. Or, at least, he used to,’ Price added grimly. ‘And I heard he was writing a book.’

Pendragon looked up from where he had been contemplating a blank notepad in front of him. ‘A book?’

Price shrugged. ‘Isn’t that what journalists do if they hit the skids?’

‘Any idea what the book was about?’

‘None whatsoever, Chief Inspector. As I said, Noel was rather a private man and I didn’t know him well.’

‘You said he was a loner. Did he have any close friends?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘What about Kingsley Berrick? Was he not a friend?’

‘Oh, he knew him, of course. Thursk had made himself a fixture within the Art community. Part of the job description really, isn’t it?’ Price gave the policeman a blank look.

Pendragon was about to respond when his mobile rang. He recognised the number. ‘Turner,’ he said.

‘Guv, you have Jackson Price there?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve just interviewed Selina Carthage. She was one of the last to leave the party on Tuesday evening. You know, one of the guests who stayed a while with Berrick, Price and Hedridge?’

‘Yes.’

‘She confirms that Hedridge and Berrick left together. She then went home. She lives in one of those posh places in Moorgate with a doorman downstairs. He confirms she came in around one-forty-five. Anyway, Ms Carthage reckons there was a bit of scene at the private view.’

‘Can you be a little more specific, Sergeant?’

‘There was a gatecrasher. A guy called Francis Arcade, would you believe?’ Turner sniggered. ‘A bit of a lad, apparently. Well known as a trouble maker.’

‘Okay, thanks, Sergeant. Where are you now?’

‘Off to see the last geezer who hung back at the gallery, a bloke called Chester Gerachi. Why is it all these arty types have such weird names?’

Pendragon ignored the question and closed his phone. ‘That was my sergeant,’ he said, turning a hard gaze on Jackson Price. ‘Tells me there was a gatecrasher at the private view. You failed to mention that.’

Price showed little reaction, simply shrugged. ‘I hardly thought it was important,’ he said evenly. ‘It was just Arcade. He is never welcome, but almost de rigueur , Chief Inspector. A private view would hardly be up to scratch if he didn’t stick his nose in.’

Pendragon gave him a puzzled look.

‘Francis Arcade’s a joke,’ Price went on. ‘I’m surprised he doesn’t hire himself out as a party entertainer, a performance artist.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘What happened? Mr Arcade showed up about ten-thirty. He hadn’t been invited, naturally. He was turned away, but wouldn’t take no for an answer and forced his way into the room. It was dreadfully dull. He should change the script a little.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Oh, he grabbed a drink, threw it over someone. Standard stuff. I was all for letting him stay. In a way, that’s the last thing he would have wanted. Would have defused things. But …’

‘But?’

‘Kingsley wouldn’t have any of it.’ Price’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.

‘Mr Berrick intervened?’

‘Well …’

‘Either he did or he didn’t, Mr Price.’

‘Yes, he intervened. He and Arcade traded insults and then Kingsley took his arm. It looked for a moment as though it might turn really nasty, but then someone else took Arcade’s other arm and the stupid kid just went limp … sort of gave up. Made his point, I suppose. They led him outside, and that was that.’

‘Who was the other person?’

Price stared at the floor unable to look Pendragon in the face. ‘I think you know, Chief Inspector.’

To Mrs Sonia Thomson

13 October 1888

My mother died after a deliciously protracted illness. I was thirteen. I remember sitting with her in the darkened room directly opposite the top of the stairs in the east wing of the house. I grew fascinated by her physical degeneration. I had no emotional reaction to it whatsoever, but carefully catalogued each increment of her descent into Hell. For I was sure that if there were such a place, she would be heading that way. In fact, I took great pleasure in terrifying her with prophecy when we were alone together in that room. I spun such a tale of her sins … amplifying her every bad deed, convincing her utterly that she was destined for the eternal fires, that the flames would be lapping around her very soon. I recall standing outside the door and listening to my father’s pathetic attempts to calm her down and his lame efforts to make her believe that she would be going to Heaven, that the Lord would forgive her sins. She could never mention to him what I had said, of course, because I had convinced her that if she did say anything, she would merely be compounding her own guilt.

But perhaps the most satisfying moment came when I managed to steal the crimson handkerchief she’d so cherished. She held it in her right hand where it lay outside the bedspread. My father and I were sitting on opposite sides of the bed, the curtains drawn tight shut. A single feeble lamp burned on a cabinet to my side of the room. The room stank of illness. I remember eyeing that handkerchief, waiting for the moment I could make my move, for I knew my unbeloved mother was close to death. I wanted to prise the scrap of crimson from her living fingers.

Then my moment came. Father left the room briefly. I stood up quietly and walked over to where my mother lay. I slipped the handkerchief from between her enfeebled fingers, thrust it into my pocket and returned to the chair just as Father stepped back into the room. The horrible woman died that night. I celebrated by taking the handkerchief down to the river and burning it in the silvery moonlight.

I have a certain Dr Egbert Farmer to thank for facilitating my eventual escape from Hemel Hempstead. Dr Farmer was my headmaster, and it was he who first took notice of my emerging artistic talent. He was a ridiculous, fat man with an absurd sense of self-importance, but he was also one of those individuals who felt the need to encourage those he believed to be talented.

I had conceived a great love for drawing, and later painting, which was my only release from the strictures of my unhappy childhood. My walks and adventures along the river and my occasional dalliances with the Lord’s furred and feathered creations held limited charms, which I quickly outgrew. For a long time the incident with the boy from London loomed large in my mind, as you may appreciate. I relived the experience over and over again, my memory of it fresh and powerful. I could recall every fine detail of that hour by the river. I learned that his stinking body had been washed up downriver two days later. I would have given anything to have seen his corpse, but of course that was not possible.

I often sketched Fred, the drowned boy. I spent long hours struggling to bring to the page his expression of terror, the pleading light in his eyes as he slid away from this world. I fantasised about the look of him as he drifted under the water carried by the current, his head battered against rocks, his face cut by rushes, and I tried to visualise his bloated, green-tinged form as his parents would have seen it after he was fished from the river.