The Vesuvius Club

4. The Visitor

THAT night, still as humid as the steam-rooms, I swaddled my bruised carcass in a Japanese dressing gown patterned with embroidered sunflowers and purchased with money I should have spent on oil-paints. Or food. Or tickets to the Continent avoiding enraged fathers.

After leaving the baths, Miracle had seen me right then I had swiftly made contact with the Domestics. Delilah, always the soul of discretion, assured me that, although it didn’t come quite within the purview of Joshua Reynolds’s department, she would «sort fings out» and Major Strangeways Pugg would be «hencouraged» to drop the matter forthwith. Well, it’s pointless having power unless you can abuse it, don’t you think?

I then wrapped up the portrait of the Hon. Everard Supple (a present for his grieving family) and began to ponder Chris Miracle’s suggestion of giving art instruction. He was making a killing off all these lonely old horrors in need of a little thrill to while away their afternoons. Why shouldn’t I? In fact, why shouldn’t I more. The prestigious address! The handsome young artist! The showers of sovereigns I could squeeze out of the gullible nitwits! And then I could afford to replace Poplar without waiting for Reynolds’s patronage. Of course, I’d have to do a little clearing up, but think of it!

The upshot was I placed a small advertisement in The Times, Pall Mall Gazette, Budget and a few other rags, making the arrangement sound thoroughly wholesome, with just the faintest whiff of la vie bohème to attract those craving excitement.

I then engaged a char to spruce up Downing Street. I had intended to supervise her work but couldn’t bear the looks of disapproval and endless 'tsk-tsk’s as she peeled old collars and unwashed dishes from the debris of my studio, so off I went to invest money I didn’t have in new curtains. I collected some interesting bric-a-brac that my pupils might find amusing to draw and added Everard Supple’s glass eye to the pile as a little touch of the Gothic.

After that, with rather impressive zeal, I assumed the disguise of a dour-faced newspaperman (all it takes is a dreadful suit, bowler and false moustache) and called at the home of the late Professor Eli Verdigris in Holland Park.

It was a house plunged into mourning; black crêpe blossoming from every niche and banister, a wreath of some stinking violet flower encircling friend Miracle’s rather bad portrait of the great man. He had indeed been a corpulent fellow with curious wide-apart eyes and a dimpled chin of such prominence that he resembled a Hapsburg.

Under the pretence of preparing a eulogy of the professor for the Pall Mall Gazette I was shown into a cluttered study for an audience.

«I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me,» said a tall young man, as fat as his father, ushering me into a chair. «My poor mama is quite beside herself.»

«It was very unexpected, then?» I whispered, laying on the sympathy as thick as impasto.

«Entirely.» He rubbed absently at the black arm-band around his sleeve. «My father has not had a day’s illness in his life.»

I nodded and scribbled in a little note-book. «The doctors’ opinion?»

Verdigris Junior shrugged. «They seem at something of a loss. A seizure of some kind followed by coma and… well… death.»

«Dear me. The Gazette offers its sincerest condolences.»

The young fellow sniffed and looked up at me. «Everyone has been quite marvellous, though. The family. His colleagues and friends.»

«And the funeral…?»

«The day before yesterday. It was… well… It is over now.»

I gave him a sad smile. «Could you give me some idea of the nature of your father’s work?»

Verdigris’s mouth tugged downwards. «Not really, I’m afraid. Frightful dunce where papa’s stuff is concerned. I can root out some literature for you, if you’d care to wait.»

«That would be most helpful, sir.»

Whilst he was out, I made a quick inspection of the fire-grate and the desk. There was no evidence of anything being burnt in the grate but on the desk I spotted a large appointments diary. I flicked hastily through the pages. What was I looking for? Well, anything out of the common, I suppose. But I found nothing save evidence of Verdigris’s dreary affairs and the rest of the study proved equally barren. The walls were lined with books and very indifferent landscapes in need of cleaning. I closed the diary carefully, brushed off a dusty purplish residue from the desk that had adhered to my sleeve and dashed back to my chair.

Young Verdigris came back in and handed me a thick, dust-jacketed volume. «Here is it. Papa’s magnum opus. Tried my damnedest to get into it but…»

I turned the book over and looked at the spine. The title was picked out in gold.

Magnetic Viscosity, I read, with some notes on volcanic convection. More light reading seemed on the agenda.

Sans moustache, I lunched in the domino room at the Café Royal, studying the coroner’s report on the deaths of both men. There were no traces of toxins. Nothing at all to indicate that death had not been due to some freak seizure. But what connection was Poop’s telegram driving at? And why had Poop himself disappeared?

I resumed my disguise as Fleet Street’s finest and took an underground train to meet the wife of Professor Frederick Sash, the second of the late scientists. I had tried to make some sense of Verdigris’s book but could not get on with it. It seemed terrible nonsense, or terribly clever.

Mrs Sash, a good-looking piece with a swan-like neck, received me graciously enough, although she had the infuriating habit of cutting one off in mid-sentence. As I sipped my tea, I glanced around the darkened drawing room. «I see you have a copy of Verdigris’s seminal Magnetic Viscosity,» I said blithely. «Was your husband acquainted with—?»

«Oh yes. From their Cambridge days. Eli seems to have passed away the day after Frederick. What in heaven’s name can it mean?»

I nodded sympathetically and scratched at my false moustache. «Of course, there was no… ill feeling between—?»

Mrs Sash shook her handsome head. «There was some rivalry, naturally, both being in the same field but no more than that. They were always on very good terms, though they had seen little of one another since their Continental adventure came to an end.»

«Continental—?»

«They once worked together in Europe for some little time.»

I scribbled in my note-book. «No previous illness—?»

«There had been nothing out of the ordinary.»

I was hoping to persuade the lady to absent herself briefly as I had with Professor Verdigris’s son, to facilitate a quick nose around the room, but my request for refreshment was answered by a delicate pull on the bell rope and the appearance of a dour-faced flunky.

I paused with my pencil hovering over the paper. «This was your husband’s—?»

«Study? No, no. He has a room on the first floor. Claimed it was too noisy down here.» She passed a hand over her face. «He was at home all day, working up a theorem. The late post had just come when»

She sniffed back a tear. «You must excuse me for now, sir. We are somewhat upside-down at the moment. There is so much to do.»

«One final thing, Mrs Sash. Have I missed the funeral?»

I had. It had taken place only the previous day in Southwark.

Mrs Sash glanced down at her neat little hands. «There again I was vexed. We were unable to use the firm my husband’s family had always relied upon.»

«Firm?»

«The undertaking firm, sir. Tulip Brothers. Retired, it seems, without so much as a note! The business has been taken over. I suppose it all passed off well enough…»

«But?»

«But there was something a little… queer about them.»

«What makes you say that?»

She sighed. «Well, whatever good-will they inherited has been squandered, I can tell you. It was a rather amateurish display.»

«And what is the name of this curious firm?»

Mrs Sash crossed to a small bureau and produced a black-edged card. «I’m not saying it’s necessarily worthy of a newspaper investigation,» she said, handing it over. «But I found their attitude most peculiar. I’d be easier in my mind if someone were to do a little… um… digging.» For the first time, she smiled.

I held up the card.

I had changed and was stretching a canvas in my studio that afternoon, wondering how to infiltrate an undertakers without a cadaver to present, when I heard a knock at the door.

Still expecting old Poplar to answer it, I ignored the summons for a full minute before heading through into the hallway with a muttered curse.

A singularly lovely personage stood on my doorstep, clutching a folded newspaper in her lace-gloved hand.

«Mr Box?»

«I am he.»

She stepped forward and the sunlight cast a glow over the russet-coloured dress that clung so charmingly to her figure. Tall and elfin-featured, with a tumbling fall of Mucha-like curls, she held up the newspaper and flashed me a lovely smile. «I came in response to your advertisement.» The voice was lightly accented — Dutch? — and tinkled like a music-box.

«Advertisement? Oh! Oh, yes of course! Come in, please, Miss…?»

«Pok.»

«Pok?»

«Bella Pok.» The delectable creature crossed the threshold and looked inquisitively about the hallway.

«Would you care for some tea?» I asked.

She looked me straight in the eye. «Do you have anything stronger?»

«My dear, I daresay. Please, come through.»

«Number Nine, Downing Street,» she said, entering the drawing room. «You have trouble with your neighbours?»

«Only once every four years.»

She smiled and took a seat by the window whilst I hurriedly looked about for refreshment. «Such a curious place for an artist to live…»

«Sherry?» I offered.

«I like a little vermouth at this hour.»

I nodded, rather pleasantly shocked. «Geographically, I am at the very beating heart of the Empire, Miss Pok. In other respects, I am as much an outcast as the greatest of my calling have been…» I gestured around the room. «You must forgive my current situation but my servant is… servants are away.»

«I have learned never to judge a gentleman by the cleanliness of his doilies.»

«Then I feel we shall get on splendidly.»

I slipped through to the kitchen and began to hunt around for where the char had put clean glasses. «Now tell me,» I said, calling through. «What drew you to my advertisement? You have had some training in draughtsmanship?»

«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.

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.»