‘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…
‘Mr Box? Mr Box?’ The lovely Miss Pok placed a hand on my arm.
‘I’m very sorry, my dear,’ I said quietly. ‘The lesson is over for today.’
V
A CURIOUS UNDERTAKING
‘NO clue?’
Joshua Reynolds, sitting in his accustomed place on the pan, raised his little hands, palm upwards. ‘The Italian police have it down as a robbery gone awry. We shall have to wait and see. The body has been packed in ice and arrives tomorrow.’
‘Poor devil,’ I said, leaning back against the pleasantly chill wall of the lavatory. ‘Saw Naples and died, you might say.’
‘So much for Poop,’ said Reynolds glumly. ‘Have you made any progress with the dead professors?’
I thrust my hands into my trouser pockets and kicked idly at the cubicle wall. ‘Some, I think. They were both concerned with the same branch of Geological Physics and had known each other of old. In addition, there was something odd about Sash’s funeral.’
Reynolds frowned. ‘Not much, all told.’
‘I had precious little chance to investigate Professor Sash’s effects,’ I continued. ‘So I plan to return for a…root about.’
The little man gave a sigh. ‘How I envy you your adventures, Lucifer. What is left for me but a dull retirement spent in the cultivation of ornamental carp?’
‘One man’s fish is another man’s poisson.’
‘Ye…es. Now then, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’
So saying, he pulled at the toilet chain and, with a screeching, grinding sound, the wall behind me rose up and another lavatory bowl glided into the room.
Images are removed here
Sitting on it was a gangling young man in quite the most horrible piece of tailoring I’d ever seen. The sleeves of his suit crept over the knuckles of slim, feminine hands with which he was kneading his hat like a widow with her rosary.
‘Mr Box,’ said Reynolds, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it to his reddened nose. ‘This is Mr Unmann.’
The blond man shot a hand to his crown in order to doff his hat and then remembered it was doffed already. A stupid smile made his nose crinkle in the middle.
‘Sorry,’ he began.
‘Whatever for?’ I asked.
‘Oh, sorry. Don’t really know why I said that. It’s a great honour to meet you at last, Mr Box. Cretaceous Unmann.’
‘Cretaceous?’
‘Yes,’ he muttered, looking down at his hands. ‘Fact is, Papa was an amateur dinosaur-hunter. Never got much further than the Isle of Wight but, hey-ho. Took it upon himself to name me in honour of his favourite epoch. Sorry.’
I smiled p
ityingly. ‘I suppose it could have been worse,’ I said. ‘He could have named you after his favourite dinosaur.’
‘Ha, ha! Yes!’ Unmann exploded in a shrill laugh. ‘Iguanodon Unmann, eh?’
Thankfully, Reynolds cut in at this juncture. ‘Mr Unmann has been lined up to succeed Poop in the Naples office.’
‘I see. Remarkably expeditious of you.’
‘Yes. Shocking business,’ bleated Unmann. ‘I knew old Jocelyn. Sometimes acted as his deputy. Dreadful, dreadful.’
He looked down at his squashed hat and then put it to one side of the lavatory bowl.
The dwarf handed a buff folder to me.
‘Someone fired his rooms,’ said Unmann, miserably. ‘But those few fragments escaped.’
‘Our people in Naples sent them straight over with Mr Unmann,’ said Reynolds.
I opened the file. A smell of charred paper hit me at once. A couple of documents were enclosed within, tied up neatly with waxed string. I released them and swiftly read them over.
The first was a scrap of good-quality notepaper. On it was written the legend:
K TO V.C.?
‘Looks like hotel stationery,’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.’
The next was a long white envelope containing a sheet of slightly singed foolscap.
To Joshua Reynolds Sir.
It is important that you know all that is afoot.
I am certain I may rely on you above all persons, even poor Unmann, bless his heart, who has been such a brick and who means so well.
I glanced across at the young man. His face twisted into a shy smile.
If all goes well, I shall return to London as planned and there relate to you the story of my adventures. It is a tale so fantastic that you will scarcely credit it. I do not lie when I say it could shake the pillars of the Empire! If I can but thwart these men’s schemes, then I will be Poop the Civil Service mouse no more but Poop the Lion of the Foreign Office! If I am unlucky then it will fall to others to pick up the threads. All that I know of this affair is contained in the trunk marked with my name. I pray you will never have to read this. JP
I folded the letter on my lap and replaced it in its envelope.
‘The trunk of course, did not escape the flames,’ muttered Joshua Reynolds miserably. ‘Foolish youth! Such wilful egotism has more than once cost us dear. If a conspiracy is discovered then simple candour is absolutely essential!’
I could only agree. I recalled the Shanghai Balloon Incident – which so nearly did for one of our lesser PMs – and the fatal damage caused by one fellow’s refusal to share what he knew with his colleagues. I should know. That fellow was me.
I tapped the envelope. ‘Any suspects in the Poop murder?’
‘They’ve rounded up the traditional pretty lot. Smashers, thugs, vitriol throwers, extortionists…’
‘A veritable catalogue of vice!’ I cried cheerily. ‘Now isn’t that a good idea? The kind of catalogue I’d instantly subscribe to.’
‘Lucifer,’ said Joshua Reynolds, warningly.
I tapped my fingers against my chin. ‘“Shake the pillars of the Empire”, eh? What the deuce could he have meant?’
The next morning found me on a train rattling through a muggy north London. Dreary villas streamed past in a blur of hideous brightness. As soon as I reached the nearest post office, I thought, I would send a wire to Miss Bella Pok apologizing again for the hasty termination of our lesson and looking forward to another meeting soon. What would it be like to flee this baking wen of a city and run barefoot through a field of ripening green corn with that lovely girl? I pictured us laughing gaily, tumbling into the undergrowth, the cyan sky blazing above us…
I ran a finger under my collar and sighed, horribly stifled by my summer rig. Surely the cause of Men’s Dress Reform must do most of its recruiting during the interminable London Augusts? I longed to throw my straw hat from the carriage and toss my cream waistcoat into the Thames as the Reformers are wont to do. Leafy Belsize Park was not, I reasoned, quite ready for the sight of yours truly in the buff, so I hopped from the train still fully clothed and, after contracting my business at the post office, found myself outside the offices of Mr Tom Bowler Esq. – the undertaker who had so disquieted Mrs Sash.
I began by taking a quick look around the yard at the rear of the premises. A dog-cart with a sad-looking horse in its shafts stood squarely in the centre but it was otherwise empty, save for a heap of dead flowers and wreaths that might have been the beginnings of a bonfire. I crouched down and picked through the wilted debris. Here was a wreath for the late Professor Sash. Here was a bouquet of flattened lilies, reeking dreadfully. And here – aha! A wreath for Professor Eli Verdigris! Both funerals had been taken care of by the same firm! And with a similar want of respect for the trappings of grief. I made my way around to the front.
The door was ajar and the rooms within lit. I adopted my most doleful expression and made my way inside.
It was a bare-looking suite of rooms with frosted windows and a long, dark counter that occupied half its width. Framed mezzo-tints of cherubs and angels crowded the green walls. There were pots of lilies everywhere and motes of orange pollen drifting from them through the dim gas-light. I wrinkled my nose at the faint smell of brackish water.
There seemed to be no one about. I rang the brass bell on the counter and, after a time, a door opened somewhere in the rear of the premises and footsteps sounded on bare boards.
Black curtains parted and out stepped a burly man with oily hair the colour of wet slate. He seemed a very jovial chap for one of his profession, grinning all over his face and, rather surprisingly, tucking into a chicken leg with gusto. Closer to, I noticed his bluey, poorly shaved chin and the spots of grease on his tie.
‘Hello,’ he said brightly.
I made a small bow. ‘Do I have the honour of addressing Mr Bowler?’
‘You do, sir!’ he said, wiping his greasy fingers on his coat.
Incredibly, he dropped the chicken leg down on to the counter and rubbed his hands together. ‘Now what can I do for you?’
I fiddled coyly with my tie-pin. ‘I was recommended to your predecessors’ excellent firm by a family friend.’
‘Ah, yes! We bought the old fellows out! So, you’ve had a bereavement?’ His brows drew together and his mouth turned down like some operatic clown. ‘Aww.’
‘Indeed.’ I managed to hide my astonishment at his behaviour and made a quick grab for my handkerchief. ‘My dear wife,’ I croaked, stifling a sob.
Bowler inclined his head slightly but still smirked. ‘Please accept the firm’s sincere condolences, Mr…?’
‘Box.’
‘Mr Box. I regret to say, however, that we are currently overwhelmed with…um…clients. Dying, you see, being one of the few things that never really goes out of fashion! Ha, ha!’
I blinked and returned my handkerchief to my pocket.
Bowler’s gaze strayed longingly to the greasy meat he had laid on the counter and he wiped his wet mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It would be rather wrong of us to take on your wife’s funeral at this time.’
‘Well, I’m…delighted to see you are prospering.’
‘Very much so,’ grinned Bowler. ‘I can recommend another firm if you like? They’re really very reasonable.’
‘Expense is not the issue.’
‘Of course not, sir. Ha, ha. I would further add that they are discreet and most respectful.’
I nodded. ‘You are very kind.’
Bowler brushed a stray hair from his eyes. ‘If you just wait here, I will furnish you with the details.’
I smiled weakly. He disappeared back behind the curtain.
I glanced about and then, looking down at the counter, ran a gloved finger down its length, scoring a mahogany-coloured groove in the patina of dust that covered it.
The scrape of curtain rings announced Bowler’s return. He handed me a bit of paper upon which he’d writte
n the name of another firm in a bold hand. The black ink was smudged by his greasy thumb-print.
I thanked him for his kindness.
‘Not at all, sir. Good day.’
Then, without a second thought, he picked up the chicken leg and sank his teeth into it. I made my way out. Bowler watched me until I was through the door. Through the frosted pane I distinctly saw him wave.
I stepped out on to the street and crossed the road, pausing under a shady lime tree. The state of the counter alone told me that the firm of Mr Bowler was not prospering. So why had he turned down my business and recommended a rival? And, more revealingly, why had he signally failed to comment on the fact that, despite my recent ‘bereavement’, I was dressed head to toe in white linen?
Just then, a loud creaking close by drew my attention and I stepped closer to the tree so as to remain unobserved. I realized that I was at the entrance to the undertaker’s yard. As I watched, both the rickety gates swung open and the dog-cart rattled through and on to the street. At the reins was a hard-faced fellow in a rust-coloured coat with a great scar across his nose.
In the back of the cart lay a long wooden crate of similar dimensions to a coffin. I could see that it had some kind of shipping label plastered over its planking.
I strolled from my hiding place as nonchalantly as I could and managed to get myself into the path of the cart as it clattered into the road. Scar-Face glared at me. I doffed my hat.
‘I do beg your pardon. Could you direct me to the underground station?’
He scowled at me for what seemed like a full minute before grudgingly jerking his thumb over his shoulder. Whipping up the horse, the vehicle lurched ahead.
‘Most kind,’ I rejoined, stepping out of its path before it ran me down.
For a brief moment I was aware of nothing but the label shuddering its way into the distance.
Then I crossed to the pavement, made my way past the yard and didn’t look behind me until I had reached the station. Once there, I stood with my back to the gingerbread-brown tiles, deep in thought. According to that shipping label the crate was heading for Naples.