After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (4 page)

Jack mentioned Burne-Jones.

Mr Cadwallader swelled with visible pride. ‘Burne-Jones? I take that as a real compliment, sir. My word, yes. He was a real artist, not like the rubbish that’s called art nowadays. I’d be ashamed to put my name to some of the things I’ve seen that pass for art. Take young Mr Askern, for instance,’ he rumbled. ‘Some of the things he wants to put in a church are downright scandalous. He talks about using ideas from films. Films! Young Mr Askern has modern views. No one wants that in a church.’

Jack passed over this interesting theological assumption without comment.

‘As I said to Mr Askern – that’s Mr Askern senior, of course – you need proper figurative drawing, painting and composition in a church. Mr Askern,’ he said ponderously, ‘can paint. He understands craftsmanship. Perspective, golden triangles, dead colouring – aspects of art that a mere art lover knows nothing about –
and
anatomy. Some of these so-called artists must’ve learned their anatomy in the zoo! Mr Lythewell – he started the firm when I was just a boy – now he
was
an artist. He never touched paint, mind,’ Henry Cadwallader asserted pugnaciously, as if Jack was about to dispute the point.

‘No?’ said Jack politely.

‘No. He was a metal-worker and wood-carver. You should see the work he did in the chantry in Whimbrell Heath.’ He sighed deeply. ‘The chantry was Mr Lythewell’s labour of love, his life’s work. Not the Mr Lythewell who’s here, you understand, but his father. He’s been dead a long time and sorely missed, if you ask me. Young Mr Lythewell,’ he added, ‘never had the gift. He just runs the firm.’ He sighed heavily. ‘This is him, now. What does he want, I wonder?’

‘Ah, Cadwallader, there you are,’ said Mr Lythewell. ‘I’d like you to come and have a word with Miss Winterbourne.’ He nodded briefly to Jack. ‘Can you excuse us?’ He lowered his voice. ‘This could be an important commission, Cadwallader. Miss Winterbourne’s the headmistress of Rotherdean and she’s planning a refurbishment of the school chapel.’

‘All right,’ said Cadwallader grudgingly. ‘I suppose I must if you want me to.’ He turned to Jack. ‘I’ll see you later, young sir. It’s been a pleasure talking to someone who appreciates proper art.’

Betty Wingate was gratifyingly pleased to learn that Bill was a chief inspector at Scotland Yard. ‘Are you really a policeman? You don’t look like one.’

Bill, who out of sheer force of habit, had run through a mental description of Betty Wingate (light brown hair, blue eyes, freckles, height about five foot two inches, age early twenties) felt relieved that his inward reflections hadn’t betrayed him as hopelessly official.

‘What does a policeman look like?’

Betty Wingate hesitated. ‘More formal?’ she hazarded. ‘Sort of intimidating, I suppose.’ She paused. ‘Who’s that man you were with? I thought he looked like a foreigner, but he’s English, isn’t he?’

Bill laughed. ‘Major Haldean? He’s English, right enough, despite looking like the gypsy king.’

‘You wouldn’t be talking about me, would you?’ asked Jack, arriving beside them. He looked round and shook his head. ‘Whew! I thought I was never going to get away. That Cadwallader bloke has to be one of the most adhesive characters I’ve ever come across. He’s threatened to nab me later on.’

‘Henry Cadwallader?’ said Colin Askern. ‘Bad luck. He’s a permanent fixture at Whimbrell Heath. I’ve known him all my life.’

‘He didn’t mention old Mr Lythewell, did he?’ asked Betty, with seeming innocence.

‘He did touch on him, yes,’ said Jack ‘Why?’

Betty giggled and glanced at Colin. ‘You explain.’

‘Henry Cadwallader worshipped old Mr Lythewell,’ said Colin wearily. ‘He’s a complete bore on the subject. According to him, every aspect of the firm and every painting we commission should be something that old Josiah Lythewell would approve of. He worshipped the ground old Lythewell trod on and he’ll never let anyone forget it.’

‘Why?’ asked Jack.

‘It’s like something out of Dickens,’ said Betty. ‘He’ll tell you all about it, unless you’re very lucky. I was very sorry for him until I found out he testifies to it at chapel and what-have-you.’

‘Sorry for him?’ repeated Colin. ‘He wallows in it.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Apparently Cadwallader used to be a proper little street urchin, a real Artful Dodger type, and old Lythewell caught him picking his pocket one day. Well, instead of handing him over to the police, Lythewell took him under his wing instead.’

‘That was good of him,’ said Betty. ‘You’ve got to admit it, Colin.’

‘I suppose it was, but I’ve heard the story so often, and always in the context of how wonderful Mr Lythewell was and how appalled he’d be at the changes I want to make, that it’s worn a bit thin. What on earth did you say to him to make him so friendly, Haldean? He usually disapproves of the young.’

‘I compared his painting to Burne-Jones and, as a result, he looks on me as some sort of soul-mate.’

Colin laughed. ‘No wonder he was all over you. Hello! I think your admirer’s turned up again.’

With a sinking feeling, Jack turned to see Mr Lythewell bustling towards them, with Henry Cadwallader bringing up the rear.

‘Major Haldean?’ asked Mr Lythewell. ‘Could I ask you to spare us a few moments, sir? I wonder if you’d be kind enough to speak to Miss Winterbourne. She’s interested in Mr Cadwallader’s work.’ He laughed self-consciously and added, in a murmur, ‘Excellent chap, Cadwallader, excellent, but he’s a little bit of a rough diamond, perhaps. As someone who truly appreciates Mr Cadwallader’s paintings, Mr Cadwallader thinks you are the ideal person to point out the merits of his work to her.’

‘Be a sport, Haldean,’ murmured Colin Askern. ‘Talk him up. We need the commission.’

There was nothing else for it. ‘Of course, Mr Lythewell,’ said Jack, lying manfully. ‘I’d be delighted.’

It was about ten to one when Bill found Jack in the hall, smoking a cigarette. ‘So there you are. D’you fancy a spot of lunch?’ He glanced at the rapidly thinning crowd. ‘It’s about time we pushed off.’

Jack held up his hand for silence. ‘Peace, friend. All I need is this cigarette and a complete absence of Henry Cadwallader.’

Bill laughed. ‘C’mon. It couldn’t have been as bad as all that.’

Jack’s eyes gleamed dangerously. ‘Not as bad? It was far, far worse than bad. If you think my idea of a dream morning is one spent praising the merits of a short, whiskery, outdated artist – against all my better judgements, let me tell you – to the headmistress of a girls’ school, think again.’

‘Relax. What else were you going to do this morning?’

‘I could’ve spent it talking to that corking girl, for a start.’

‘Miss Wingate? That short, freckly girl, you mean? She was a bit of a pipsqueak, but she seemed nice enough.’

‘She seemed exactly the right sort of height to me. A morning spent talking to her would’ve been a very pleasant use of my time. Let me tell you, the only thing – the
only
thing, mark you – that’s kept me going is the thought that I promised the flag-seller you’d be here at one o’clock.’

Bill raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You’re not going to hold me to that, are you?’

‘Just watch me,’ said Jack with feeling.

‘Oh, all right,’ agreed Bill. ‘I’ll brass up, if you’re going to make such a song and dance about it. How much did you say I’d give this wretched woman?’

‘I promised her ten bob, but call it a straight quid and I’ll consider us quits.’

‘God strewth! You must think I’ve got money to burn.’ He saw Jack’s expression and held up a placatory hand. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. I’d never hear the end of it if I didn’t.’

They got their coats and hats from the cloakroom and made their way outside.

At the bottom of the steps Mr Askern and Mr Lythewell, together with Henry Cadwallader as a silent third, were holding an impromptu inquest on the exhibition whilst waiting for a taxi. Betty Wingate was chatting to Colin.

‘I have great hopes of Miss Winterbourne, Askern,’ said Mr Lythewell in a satisfied way. ‘She showed great appreciation of Cadwallader’s work,’ he added, as if Henry Cadwallader were miles away and not standing right beside him. ‘Cadwallader definitely appeals to more traditional tastes.’

‘We could certainly do with another commission,’ agreed Mr Askern. ‘Yet despite the interest Miss Winterbourne showed, I’m beginning to wonder if Colin has a point in advocating spreading our net wider and perhaps introducing a more modern element into our work. Some of the work on display today incorporated modern ideas.’

‘I’m open to any idea that can be shown to be commercially sound, Askern, but …’

Mr Lythewell and Mr Askern plunged into a discussion of art and business.

Bill drew Colin Askern to one side. ‘Thanks for inviting us, old man,’ he said breezily. ‘We both thoroughly enjoyed it, didn’t we, Jack?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Jack. There didn’t seem to be anything else he could say.

‘Colin!’ called Mr Askern. He nodded an apology to Jack and Bill. ‘Excuse me interrupting, gentlemen. Colin, can you recommend an artist or artists whose work reflects modern ideas? We’re looking for someone who would be both commercially sound and suitable for our purposes.’

‘I think so, Dad. I ran into a chap the other day who was very excited about new ways of dealing with old forms. Betty!’ he called. ‘What’s the name of that Polish bloke we met at the Carmondys’? You know, in Bloomsbury. The one who talked about rhythmic structures?’

‘It sounds like complete tosh,’ said his father reprovingly. ‘We want someone who can paint.’

‘But this chap can. He’s produced some marvellous work.’

Unnoticed by Mr Lythewell or the Askerns, the flag-seller approached and mounted the steps to where Bill and Jack were standing.

‘Buy a flag, sir?’ She smiled at the sight of the flag in Jack’s lapel. ‘I remember you, sir. Didn’t you say your friend wanted to buy a flag?’

‘Bartkowiak, that’s the name,’ said Colin Askern. ‘And don’t be too dismissive about rhythmic structures or any other language of that sort. Art’s moved on. We need a new language to describe new concepts.’

‘Nonsense is nonsense, even if it is about art,’ said Lythewell.

‘
Will
you buy a flag, sir?’ the flag-seller repeated.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Bill in a slightly harried way.

‘A generous donation, remember,’ muttered Jack.

Bill took a ten-shilling note from his wallet and, with Jack’s eye upon him, reluctantly added another.

The flag-seller’s eyes brightened. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

‘Bartkowiak produces some damn good – some jolly good, I should say – art,’ affirmed Colin with some vehemence.

‘Tradition’s what’s needed,’ put in Henry Cadwallader, ‘not this so-called abstract nonsense.’

‘Will you buy a flag, sir?’ asked the flag-seller. Henry Cadwallader looked scandalised at the idea.

‘Even if it was produced last week and not fifty years ago, art’s still art,’ insisted Colin.

The flag-seller recognised defeat in Henry Cadwallader and moved on to Mr Askern. ‘Will you buy a flag, sir?’

‘Art, my dear boy,’ said Mr Askern, absently reaching into his pocket for money, ‘especially sacred art, needs tradition. Cadwallader is perfectly correct on that score.’ He tutted in irritation. ‘Excuse me, Lythewell, have you any loose change? I gave mine to the cloakroom attendant. Tradition is the bedrock of our art …’

He broke off, staring at the flag-seller. She was gazing at them in a fixed, unnatural manner. ‘Art,’ she said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. ‘Art! Oh my God, art!’

Her face seemed to lose all definition and become flabby. As they watched in horrified amazement, her skin turned an unnatural shade of putty-coloured grey, shocking against her dark hair. ‘Art!’ she repeated. Her eyeballs rolled up into their sockets, showing only the whites. She made a funny gasping noise, swayed dangerously and staggered forward.

For a frozen fraction of a second no one moved, then both Bill and Jack leapt forward, catching her as she fell. Supporting her weight, the two men guided her to the steps where she collapsed in an ungainly heap.

‘What the devil happened to her?’ said Colin Askern in shocked bewilderment. ‘What on earth came over the woman?’

‘You know as much as we do,’ said Bill. ‘She’s out cold. Jack, can you get that tray from round her neck?’

Jack was already trying to remove the tray of flags. The ribbon was entangled round her neck, caught up between the loose skin of her neck and her coat collar. He tried to loosen the ribbon, then wrenched it away from the box, gently unwrapping it from round her neck.

Bill undid her coat, struggling with the large buttons, and put a hand on her chest. ‘She’s alive,’ he said after a few tense moments. ‘Askern, go back into the hall. You can telephone from there.’ He turned to Jack. ‘Where’s the nearest hospital?’

‘Charing Cross, I’d say.’

‘Me too. Askern, phone Charing Cross and tell them we need an ambulance now!’

Colin Askern, galvanised into shocked movement, raced up the steps.

Betty Wingate, who had watched with wide, disbelieving eyes, came forward. ‘Who is she?’

Jack could answer that. He had seen her name written on a label sewn onto the inside pocket of her coat when Bill had unbuttoned it. It was a decent coat, he had noted automatically. A new, good-quality, grey wool wrap-over coat with three large black buttons matching the trim on the collar. ‘She’s a Mrs J. McAllister,’ he said, pointing to the exposed label.

Betty shook her head. ‘Mrs McAllister?’ she repeated, staring at the woman slumped on the steps. ‘She must have had a heart attack, poor woman.’

Jack knelt beside her. ‘Mrs McAllister?’ he said gently. ‘Mrs McAllister!’

There was no response.

‘What do you make of it, Jack?’ asked Bill quietly.

‘I’m damned if I know what to make of it,’ said Jack. ‘I suppose Miss Wingate’s right. She must have had a heart attack to keel over like that.’

‘What a dreadful thing,’ muttered Mr Askern. His face was very pale.

‘We’ve all had a shock,’ said Mr Lythewell. He, too, was pale. ‘I think all of us are in need of a restorative.’