Katherine Woodfine - The Painted Dragon

Leo gazed at the painting. It was much smaller than the other paintings in the exhibition, but it at once drew the eye towards it. It was clear that it was extremely old, and yet its colours were lush and intense. The central image was of a dragon, with a twisting, serpent-like body, magnificent wings and a coiling tail. It was painted in a rich emerald green that almost seemed to glow. The background was elaborately patterned with gold leaf in ornate symbols and tiny stars. Mr Lyle stared at it for a long moment before he spoke.

‘Is anyone familiar with this painting?’ he asked. ‘Yes – Miss Clifton?’

‘It’s part of the Casselli Dragon sequence,’ offered Connie.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Lyle. ‘That is quite right. This is in fact one of only two surviving paintings from the sequence thought to have been painted by the artist Benedetto Casselli in Venice in 1455. Miss Clifton, do you know how many paintings we believe there were originally?’

‘Was it seven?’ said Connie, a little less confidently this time.

‘Oh excellent , Miss Clifton,’ said Mr Lyle, and Connie looked pleased. ‘Yes. Seven paintings, each one depicting a dragon. This is known as The Green Dragon . I am sorry to tell you that the other surviving painting, The White Dragon , was most unfortunately stolen from Mr Doyle’s gallery on Bond Street earlier this year.’

‘That’s right – I read about it in the paper!’ exclaimed Smitty. ‘Wasn’t it supposed to be worth a whole lot of money?’

Lyle looked troubled. ‘The loss of such a treasure is a genuine tragedy. I only hope that the thieves have the sense to take proper care of the painting, and that it will find its way back into the hands of a museum or a reputable collector before long.

‘Now, as Mr Smith rightly points out, both The White Dragon and The Green Dragon are of great value. They are particularly special because of their unusual subject matter. There has been much speculation about why the artist chose the dragon as his subject, though of course it is unlikely we will ever know for sure. But the painting is a fine example of the craftsmanship of the time. I urge you to study it closely.

‘Moving onwards, I am very pleased to say that I have another special painting to show you today, painted by Gainsborough around 1780. This is on loan from a dear friend of mine, the Duke of Roehampton, and it also has a remarkable history. Mr Rose, if you could perhaps assist me? This one is large and rather heavy . . . thank you . . .’

The others crowded around the new picture eagerly, but Leo found that she couldn’t stop staring at the painted dragon. The dragon’s expression was inscrutable: at first glance it appeared proud and regal; in another light, cruel and fierce. But the more Leo looked at it, the more she began to feel that it looked in fact a little sad. How was it possible that a painter so many hundreds of years before had managed to capture so many shades of feeling in just a few blobs of paint?

She was still contemplating it when Mr Lyle’s little lecture on Gainsborough came to an end, and the students dispersed. After a moment, he came over to her, and she started back, afraid that he was going to accuse her of not paying attention to what he had been saying. But then she saw to her surprise that he was smiling. Up close, she was struck all over again by his exquisite clothing: the fine silk of his necktie, the immaculate kid gloves, the richly spiced scent of the unusual cologne he wore, the gleaming gold pin at his lapel.

‘It’s Miss Fitzgerald, isn’t it? Professor Jarvis was kind enough to show me a little of your work. I was particularly impressed by some of the copies you had made of one or two very fine pieces – I believe I recognised them from the collection at Winter Hall.’

Leo looked up, astonished. ‘You’ve been there?’ she blurted out.

‘Oh, not for a few years. But I remember some of the paintings well. Let me see – I believe it was your grandfather, Lord Charles, who was the keen collector?’

Leo was suddenly embarrassed. She should have known that a man like Mr Lyle was bound to know her family.

But Mr Lyle was still talking: ‘I wonder if perhaps growing up surrounded by such a collection has helped to set you on this path,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Your copies of some of those pictures are very skilful. Your version of that little Watteau portrait, for example – an ambitious choice, but cleverly done. I have a soft spot for Watteau, myself, I must confess. You have a real gift, Miss Fitzgerald.’

Leo looked back at him, surprised and pleased. None of the guests in her mother’s drawing room – with the exception, of course, of Lady Tremayne – had ever spoken to her like this. ‘I don’t know if I should spend so much time copying other people’s work,’ she managed to stammer out. ‘Professor Jarvis says it’s important that I find my own style, instead of imitating others.’

‘My goodness, my dear, no!’ Mr Lyle looked so horrified that Leo almost wanted to laugh in spite of herself. ‘There is no finer way to learn than to apprentice yourself to the masters. Professor Jarvis is quite right, of course – all artists need to find their own style eventually, but for now, I would encourage you to keep on this path.’

Leo felt a sudden sense of relief. She knew that she did not have the same bold, definite style as some of the other students. Smitty, for example, painted enormous scenes of jagged abstract industrial landscapes; while Connie’s taste seemed to be for large portraits in odd colours, which exposed every blemish of her subjects’ faces. Leo knew that she did not want to do work like that herself, but what exactly she did want to paint, she was not quite sure.

‘Why not see what you can do with The Green Dragon ?’ said Mr Lyle now, gesturing to the painting before them. ‘It won’t be easy, but it would be a good challenge for you.’

Leo gaped at him. ‘But . . . I could never recreate that! It’s so old, and I don’t have any of the materials. All that gold leaf . . .’

Lyle waved a gloved hand, as if to say all that was nothing. ‘Oh, I can supply you with the materials you would need. Think of it as a little commission. Perhaps, if it turns out well, I might buy it as a memento of this exhibition? I’d rather like to be able to say I purchased your first piece.’

She had still been stumbling over her thanks as he had strolled away to talk to Connie about the Gainsborough. Now, remembering this, Leo set aside the letter to her godmother. Instead, she took out one of her art history books, which she felt quite sure contained a picture of The Green Dragon.

Back at Sinclair’s, there were preparations of a different kind under way for Mr Lyle’s new exhibition. In their dressing room, some of the mannequins had gathered to try on their costumes for the Living Paintings display, and to practise their poses. As Sophie made her way along the passage, carrying a couple of hat-boxes, she could hear the voice of Claudine, the window-dresser, emanating loudly from within:

‘Rosa! You’re supposed to be a painting – you ought to be still . Don’t twitch like that! And Millie – you’re meant to be Joan of Arc. A saint – a heroine – not a music-hall dancer!’

Sophie grinned to herself as she went on her way down the stairs into the Entrance Hall. At the foot of the stairs, she was rather surprised to see none other than Mr McDermott standing waiting, accompanied by a large dog. Mr McDermott was the private detective who worked for Mr Sinclair – and sometimes, Sophie knew, with Scotland Yard too. The thin, grey-haired man might not look much like it, but she knew he was a clever detective – and someone that she could rely on. She suspected that he might be one of the only people to understand how she felt about the Baron, although they had never really talked about it.