After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (3 page)

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘He was flung at my feet. Literally, I mean. It was during the war. I was in a fire trench outside Arras, minding my own business, when Askern sailed over the top of the trench and buried himself in the mud beside me.’

‘The German artillery gave their involuntary assistance to this athletic performance, I take it?’ said Jack with a grin.

‘Got it in one. There wasn’t much wrong with him. He was a bit taken aback, of course. So was I, come to that. Anyway, we shared a couple of cold sausages and a Woodbine, then he set off in search of his platoon. I bumped into him a couple of times afterwards but I haven’t seen him since the war. I ran into him the other day on the Strand. We did the usual catching up, and he told me he’d joined the family firm.’

‘The family firm being …?’

‘Somebody and Askern, church artists. The Askern in question is his father.’

‘Is Colin Askern an artist?’ asked Jack with interest. He enjoyed painting, which was presumably why Bill had thought of asking him along in the first place.

‘No. His father’s an artist but Colin never did anything in that line. He’s nuts about films and very keen on modern art. You should get on with him. He wants to bring the firm up-to-date, but I think he’s finding it pretty uphill work.’

‘Yes, I can see that. Church art tends to be a bit conservative.’

They turned into the quiet, tree-lined fastness of Gospel Commons, the noise of Oxford Street dying down behind them. A crowd of top-hatted, morning-suited men and elegantly dressed ladies halfway down the street marked out the entrance to Lyon House, where the exhibition was to be held.

They took their place by the steps, Bill scanning the crowd for Askern. He groaned as he saw a plump, middle-aged woman with a determined expression and bearing a tray of flags and a collecting tin, see the crowd, scent business and changing direction, approach them hopefully.

‘Honestly, these flag-sellers are an absolute menace,’ Bill grumbled. ‘It’s just licensed begging.’

‘Don’t be such a skinflint,’ said Jack easily. ‘It’ll be for a good cause. She’s marked you out, Bill.’

Bill stepped smartly behind Jack. ‘After you.’

‘Hoy! If I’m getting nobbled for a flag, so are you.’

‘Of course,’ said Bill smoothly. ‘As you say, it’s all for a good cause. She’s heading straight for you,’ he added. ‘You must have an obliging sort of face.’

‘Or, to put it another way, I look like a mug,’ Jack muttered. He broke off and smiled with as good a grace as he could muster as the flag-seller singled him out with expert efficiency.

‘Would you like to buy a flag, sir?’ asked the flag-seller, holding out the collecting tin invitingly. ‘It’s for the Waifs and Strays Society,’ and added, as if she’d been listening to Bill and Jack’s comments, ‘it’s for a very good cause.’

Jack looked at the picture of the pathetically ragged and wide-eyed child on the tin, and, as the flag-seller was obviously doing, mentally contrasted it with his own immaculate top-hat and morning-clothes. He sighed and dropped a shilling in the box.

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ she said, stepping back. ‘It’s all for a good cause.’

Jack looked at her curiously as she pinned a flag into the silk of his lapel. He couldn’t place her accent and that intrigued him. She sounded English enough, but her inflexions were, somehow or other, in the wrong place. He mentally shrugged. He could hardly quiz the woman about her origins.

‘My pal said it was for a good cause. He’ll buy a flag—’ Jack broke off and looked round.

The doors had opened, the crowd was dispersing and Bill had slipped away to the top of the steps. He gave Jack a thumbs-up, winked, and vanished into Lyon House.

Jack gave an indignant laugh and turned to the flag-seller. ‘Can you come back in a couple of hours? The gentleman I was with would just
love
to buy a flag from you. What’s more, I’ll make sure he coughs up a decent donation. Ten bob if you’re here at one o’clock. That’s a promise.’

‘All right, sir,’ said the flag-seller, obligingly. ‘I’ll do my best.’ She moved on to the rest of the rapidly thinning crowd, leaving Jack to go in search of Bill.

Lyon House dated back to the seventeenth century, and the exhibition room, with its wood panelling, painted oak screen, ornate plasterwork and long sash windows would usually have caught Jack’s attention. At the moment, however, he was only interested in Bill.

‘So there you are!’

‘Hello,’ said Bill. His face was straight but his eyes sparkled. ‘I see you’ve got a flag.’

‘This flag,’ said Jack, tapping it meaningfully, ‘has just cost you ten bob. And,’ he added, as Bill spluttered a protest, ‘you’re not wriggling out of it. I promised the flag-seller you’d be outside at one o’clock sharp and, come hell or high water, that’s where you’ll be.’

‘Ten bob! You must be mad.’ Bill broke off as a fair-haired young man tapped him on the shoulder. It was Colin Askern.

‘Hello, Rackham. I’m glad you could make it.’ He looked inquisitively at Jack as Bill introduced them.

Askern, thought Jack, was a remarkably good-looking bloke, with the sort of face that was usually referred to as chiselled. He’d make a killing in the movies, with leading-man looks like those. His next remark certainly endeared him to Jack.

‘Jack Haldean …?’ Colin snapped his fingers together. ‘Got it! You write detective stories, don’t you? I think they’re awfully good.’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘Not at all. I loved that last story of yours. You know,
The Twisted Shroud
, where the barmaid discovered what the landlord was doing with the chemistry set in the cellar. I always buy
On The Town
when your name’s on the cover and I’ve got about four of your books at home. They’d make corking films. I don’t suppose you’ve ever considered that, have you?’

‘I’d like to consider it,’ said Jack, ‘but it’s not as simple as all that.’

‘You should look into it. It’s a real pleasure to meet you. Are you interested in church art?’

‘Art, yes, but I can’t say I know much about church art specifically.’

Colin laughed. ‘That’s reassuring. It means I don’t have to apologise for the work we’ve got on display.’

He gestured across the room to where three large, gilt-framed Victorian-looking panels displayed the Last Supper, the Crucifixion and the Ascension. ‘Take a squint at those,’ he said in disgust. ‘That stuff is our bread and butter. Those paintings were completed last month, would you believe.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Jack. ‘They’re well done, but the style’s very dated.’

‘Exactly,’ said Colin in satisfaction. ‘And yet, would you credit it, those paintings have been sold to a church in Highgate. I sold them,’ he said morosely. ‘It’s decent business but it drives me nuts. It’s as if the past thirty years or so had never happened. Impressionism, Vorticism, Cubism, all the work of artists such as Picasso, Nash and Chagall is completely ignored. I know artists who could take exactly the same themes – classic themes – and really make something of them. The world has changed. There’s things happening in cinema photography, with lighting and contrast, that are really stretching the boundaries of how we think about visual images. You know what’s happening with art –
real
art – at the moment?’

He looked round, checked no one was listening, and lowered his voice. ‘Ever since the Pre-Raphaelites discovered medievalism, church art has more or less been stuck in a rut. It needn’t be like that.’ He turned to Bill. ‘Think,’ he demanded, ‘of those wonderful African bronzes from Benin. Just think of them!’

Bill’s eyes widened and he drew back. ‘African bronzes?’ he repeated doubtfully, looking to Jack for help. ‘Er … what about them?’

Jack came to the rescue. Poor old Bill obviously didn’t have a clue what he should think about the Benin bronzes. ‘They’re full of energy,’ he said, throwing Bill a lifeline.

‘Energy,’ repeated Bill.

‘Distilled energy,’ said Jack, feeding him another adjective.

‘Distilled!’ said Colin Askern triumphantly. ‘That’s the exact word. They’re
full
of latent energy, the sort of energy you get from a motion picture, distilled into bronze. I’d love to bring that sort of force into our work.’ He ran a distracted hand through his hair. ‘What I want to do is to challenge our clients to see traditional subjects in a fresh way. I know artists who could really let things rip, but neither my father nor old Lythewell will hear of showing them to prospective clients.’

A girl, a brown-haired, attractive girl with freckles, approached and slipped a hand through Colin’s arm. ‘Colin, what on earth’s the matter?’ she said. ‘You look really put out. You’re not complaining about modern art again?’

‘It’s more the lack of modern art,’ said Jack.

Her eyes glinted in appreciation. ‘I’ve heard that conversation before.’

Jack suddenly thought how nice she seemed. In fact, she seemed very nice indeed, the sort of girl who took an interest in the person they were talking to. A comforting sort of girl, he thought, a girl who you’d look forward to meeting again.

‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘Sorry, Betty,’ said Colin, ‘I should’ve introduced you. This is Miss Betty Wingate. Miss Wingate, this is Bill Rackham and his friend, Major Haldean. You’ve got to be desperately respectful to Rackham, Betty, because he’s a chief inspector at Scotland Yard, and he saved my life outside Arras. No, absolutely you did,’ he said, holding up his hand to cut off Bill’s protests. ‘That cold sausage and cigarette you gave me was just what the doctor ordered. I’ve never forgotten it.’ He turned to Betty. ‘Have you spoken to Miss Winterbourne?’

‘I was nabbed as soon as I came in. She was my old headmistress,’ she explained to Bill and Jack. ‘She’s thinking of redecorating the school chapel and Uncle Daniel – that’s Mr Lythewell – wanted me to do my bit. Uncle Daniel’s got her in tow now.’

‘Good kid,’ said Colin approvingly. He broke off as a middle-aged man – from his looks an older edition of Colin – bore down on them with an enquiring expression. ‘Hold on a mo,’ Colin muttered. ‘Here’s my Pa. Dad, come and meet a couple of pals.’

‘So you’re interested in art, gentlemen?’ asked Mr Askern, once the introductions had been made.

‘Major Haldean is,’ said Bill quickly. ‘He’s a great devotee.’

‘Bill …’ muttered Jack warningly.

‘We were discussing the Crucifixion you’ve got on display,’ added Bill wickedly. ‘Major Haldean made some very perceptive comments about it.’

Mr Askern brightened. ‘The Crucifixion is a very fine piece of work. A little old-fashioned, perhaps, but there’s still a taste for the more traditional forms of art. Let me introduce you to the artist, our Henry Cadwallader. I’m sure you’ll have lots to talk about.’

There was nothing for it but to bow to the inevitable. ‘Thanks, Bill,’ Jack muttered.

‘You’ll love it,’ said Bill softly. ‘You can ask him what he thinks of African bronzes.’

As Mr Askern led him away, he heard Bill say, ‘Excuse me, Miss Wingate, do you live in London?’

Jack sighed inwardly. Bill’s conversation with Miss Wingate promised to be far more interesting than a discussion of antiquated painting.

Henry Cadwallader, the artist, was a short, elderly, whiskery man, who stood by his paintings with a morose and rather defensive expression.

‘Ah, there you are, Cadwallader,’ Mr Askern said. ‘Let me introduce you to Major Haldean. He’s a great devotee of art and admires your work.’ He smiled at Cadwallader with gracious condescension. ‘I’ll leave you to it. No doubt the Major is interested in your techniques, eh, Major?’

‘My techniques?’ repeated Henry Cadwallader. He regarded Jack dubiously and chewed the notion over for a while.

A conversation with Mr Cadwallader, thought Jack, wasn’t going to be one of your lightning quick, razor sharp exchanges of ideas.

‘Technique,’ said Henry Cadwallader ponderously, ‘is something I pride myself on. Technique is something that a lot of youngsters can’t be bothered to learn.’

Jack cast around for something to say in reply. This was going to be uphill work. If Bill got away with putting anything less than a quid in the flag-seller’s tin, after making him swap getting together with Miss Wingate for a chat with Henry Cadwallader, it wouldn’t be for want of trying. ‘Your technique is excellent.’

He winced in agonised self-awareness. He sounded like some patronising art critic about to judge a school prize.

Henry Cadwallader eyed Jack suspiciously. He’d evidently caught the whiff of art criticism. ‘It’s not enough to be an artist, I often say, you’ve got to learn to be a craftsman, too. Craftsmanship, sir!’ Cadwallader’s eyes gleamed. ‘That’s what lasts. Never mind telling me you’ve got a vision. What use is a vision?’

This could have been an interesting topic of conversation, but Jack saw no remark was called for, even if he’d been able to chip in. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Betty Wingate talking and laughing with Bill and Colin Askern, but Mr Cadwallader was in full, relentless flow.

‘
Anyone
can have a vision, but it takes a real craftsman to put it onto canvas. There’s far more to art than most people realise, including many a one who calls himself an artist.’

Mr Cadwallader reached up and ran a loving hand over the painted surface. ‘Look at this glazing. Go on, take a good look. You’ve got to get the glazing right. It changes the hue, the value and the intensity of the colouring. If you get it wrong, you might as well not bother painting the piece at all. Get it right, and the whole painting comes to life. It’s a real craftsman’s skill. Glazing,’ he repeated with satisfaction.

As Henry Cadwallader went through the merits of his craftsmanship, Jack started to feel slightly glazed himself. He had nothing against saints and angels and crucifixions as such – he was a Roman Catholic, after all – but he was conscious of the heretical thought that once you’d seen one saint in startled raptures, you’d seen them all. And there did seem to be an awful lot of gold leaf.

Technically speaking, the Last Supper, the Crucifixion and the Ascension
were
excellent, but the blank-eyed faces, languid figures and the lavish use of gold seemed to Jack to be about fifty years out of date. They were just like the illustrations in a book he’d had as a child of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. He was irresistibly reminded of Burne-Jones and the Pre-Raphaelites.