“You should have told me,” I said to Gabe.
He sheepishly dug his hands into his trouser pockets. “Ah. I see Nash spilled the beans. I hoped you wouldn’t find out for a while yet. At least until you’d settled in.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you were personally paying my wage?”
“Because I didn’t want you to find out.”
I shot him a withering glare. I probably should be more careful than ever about what I said around him. Being from a wealthy and titled family was one thing, but he also had the power to have me dismissed or to dock my wages. I ought to find it unnerving, but I was too angry to worry. My temper, which was slow to ignite, had just had a load of fuel dumped on it.
“I didn’t want you to find out because I was worried one of two things would happen. You’d either start treating me like an employer or you’d be angry. At least one mystery is solved today.”
“I’m glad you find my predicament amusing. Add it to the tally of all the other things.” I stormed off along the lane.
He easily caught up to me with his long strides and fell into step beside me. “I do not find you amusing. In fact, right now I find you to be the exact opposite.” He blocked the exit, forcing me to stop too. “I didn’t say anything because it’s only a temporary arrangement. As soon as the committee get around to ratifying your employment, your wages will be paid by the library’s fund.”
“Which your parents pay into.”
“Among other people.” He stepped aside. “I felt guilty for costing you the other job, Sylvia. When I realized you needed the money, I thought you’d be perfect for the Glass Library. But I also know the committee are hopeless, so I took the matter into my own hands. I should have been honest with you. I’m sorry.”
I pressed my lips together tightly in the hope it would keep my emotions in check. The flush in my cheeks was from anger this time, not embarrassment. But that anger was rapidly fading with every blink of his velvety green eyes.
“You pitied me,” I said.
“No.” I arched my brows and he sighed. “I did it out of guilt, not pity.”
“What do you want from me, Gabe?”
“Right now, I want you to speak to Horatio.” Somehow, he managed to look like an innocent schoolboy. I blamed those eyes and the way the long dark lashes fanned them with every blink. Eyelashes like that were wasted on a man.
I marched out of the lane and turned left.
“My motor is this way.” He pointed right.
The top was up on the Vauxhall, which was just as well since clouds were gathering. He cranked the car while I climbed into the passenger side. Once the engine began to rumble, he sat beside me. We drove without speaking until we reached Horatio’s building.
As soon as he turned the car off, he turned to me. “Can we go back to being friends, Sylvia?”
“We weren’t friends to begin with.”
“Then let’s start now.”
“You’re my employer, Gabe.” I got out and closed the car door with an emphatic slam to get my point across. “In fact, I think I should call you Mr. Glass again.”
“Please don’t.” He strode alongside me toward the building. “Sylvia, there’s no need for this. I assure you I have no ulterior motives. It’s a business arrangement, nothing more.”
“I know that.” I heard my snippy tone and loathed it. I tried hard to school my features, but it wasn’t easy. Not when emotions whirled within me, tangling together until I could no longer identify each individually.
I tried to shove aside the little voice in my head that told me I was overreacting. But it wouldn’t be silenced. It spoke the truth. I was overreacting to the situation. Gabe admitted he did it because he felt guilty, and that the arrangement would change once the committee were on board. He’d given me an assurance ours was purely a working relationship.
So why was I bothered by it? Why didn’t I want to be friends with this man?
My reaction made no sense to me, so I couldn’t blame him for his deep sigh as he headed into the building. I couldn’t expect it to make sense to him either.
I’d expected Horatio’s flat to be large, as befitting an artist who exhibited at the Royal Academy’s summer exhibition. It was only about the same size as Daisy’s, without the mezzanine level. A wooden screen separated the bedroom from the rest of the flat, which acted as a studio. At first glance, the painted screen looked bright and summery with birds flying across a blue sky. But on closer inspection, the landscape they flew over was littered with blackened stumps mired in mud.
Horatio’s hands were clean; we hadn’t interrupted him painting. He invited us to sit and looked around for uncluttered chairs. “Apologies for the mess, but I’ve hardly had time to blow my nose, let alone tidy up.”
“May we see your latest work?” I asked.
“Certainly not. It’s not finished. You may look at those.” He flapped a hand at the paintings leaning against the wall. They were avant-garde, like the ones we saw in the café, not at all like the realistic painting he’d given me or the one he exhibited at the exhibition. I wondered which sold better.
Gabe told him we needed to know about Lady Stanhope for an investigation. “Sylvia says she saw you two conversing at the exhibition, and we hoped you could tell us what she’s like.”
Horatio’s eyes lit up. “Is she a suspect in a crime?”
“I can’t answer that.”
He gasped. “She is, isn’t she? Why else would you be here? What has she done?”
“As I said, I can’t answer that.”
“Has she finally tried to poison that dull old goat she married?”
“Horatio,” I chided. “You know Gabe can’t tell you. Anyway, you ought to be careful or you’ll become a suspect too. I saw the look she gave you at the exhibition. If she poisons her husband, it would be because of you.”
His face paled. “Me? But I didn’t encourage her! Oh, you’re joking. It’s not very amusing, Sylvia.”
“It is to me.”
Horatio crossed his arms and gave me an arched look. “We’re not lovers.”
I raised my brows.
He sighed. “Very well, we were, but just the once. It was a few weeks ago, and it won’t happen again.”
“Does she know that?” From the way Lady Stanhope touched him at the exhibition, I suspected she wanted their arrangement to resume.
“She does now.”
“What’s she like?” Gabe asked.
“She doesn’t like being refused. She told me she’d have me blacklisted by the Academy if I didn’t go back to her. She doesn’t realize that I don’t care. The artwork shown by the Academy is as boring as the people who run it. They only want to show the same thing they’ve shown for decades. They haven’t noticed that the world has changed. People want to be inspired and moved by art. They’re tired of cows and cottages.”
“Why did you want to exhibit there if you’re not interested in the Academy’s opinion?” I asked.
“Exhibiting at the summer exhibition fulfilled a lifelong dream. But it’s a dream I had years ago. That sort of art doesn’t interest me like it used to. After the war, I moved on to more modern, experimental styles. I don’t want to dwell in the past. Nobody our age does,” he added heavily.
Gabe nodded at the wooden partition with the birds flying over the war-ravaged landscape. “The Somme?”
“Passchendaele.”
Gabe gave a grim nod. “I was there.”
Horatio shook his head as if shaking off the memories. “I’m not the only artist whose work Lady Stanhope put forward to the selection committee, if you understand my meaning.”
Oh. Right. Horatio had agreed to the affair to get his work exhibited. Once he’d secured his place in the exhibition, he’d ended it. Other artists had, too.
“She wasn’t very discriminate,” he went on. “Freddie Duckworth would never have got a place if it weren’t for Lady Stanhope. Brilliant sculptor but, like me, his usual style isn’t the sort the Academy likes. He made a piece specifically for the exhibition on the off chance it would be accepted. Surprise, surprise, it was—after his liaison with Lady Stanhope.”
At the mention of the sculptor, Gabe shifted his weight. It may have meant nothing, but I wondered if it was the sculptor magician who’d verified the stolen artwork was done by a magician.
“I’m not sure what she got out of their liaison, to be honest,” Horatio went on. “Freddie’s more of a gargoyle than an Adonis.”
“Perhaps she enjoyed his company,” I said.
“Your naivety does you credit, but if you saw him, you’d agree.” He clicked his fingers. “You did see him, as it happens. He was standing with us that day at the private viewing when Lady Stanhope came up to me.”
“When you were studying the seascape?”
“Which seascape?”
“The one everyone loved, with the steamship powering through the water.”
“I remember that one. A fine piece.”
“Lady Stanhope was seen having an argument with Ludlow the butler,” Gabe said. “He seemed to be angry with her. Would you say she’s the sort to allow a servant to speak sternly to her?”
Horatio snorted. “Is any lady that sort?” When neither of us spoke, he added, “I imagine Ludlow is looking for other work now. She would see that he was dismissed.” He leaned forward, conspiratorially. “So, tell me, what is Lady Stanhope supposed to have done?”
I glanced at Gabe, but he simply stood and buttoned his jacket. “Thank you for your time.”
Horatio shot to his feet. “Come now, you can tell me. I’ve been an immense help answering all your questions. I deserve to know what you think she has done.”
“You weren’t that much help,” I said.
Horatio wagged a finger at me. “I expected more from you, Sylvia. We’re friends. You know I’d keep anything you told me to myself.”
“You tell Daisy everything.”
“She doesn’t count.” When he could see neither of us would give in, he clicked his tongue and followed us to the door. “I thought your new job was in another library, Sylvia, not working with the police.”
“I’m working at the Glass Library, but Gabe wanted me to accompany him here since you and I are friends.”
He smiled slyly. “I understand.”
I managed to keep my features schooled but was betrayed by my flushed face. As much as I wanted to retort that he was quite wrong, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself.
“No,” Gabe said levelly, “I don’t think you do.”
I expected Gabe to take me back to Crooked Lane, but instead he drove down a narrow mews in Bloomsbury and stopped at the front of a building that looked like a coach house or motoring garage. Going by the potted flowers beside the door, I suspected it was now a private residence. After many of the larger townhouses in the area were converted into flats, the accompanying mews behind them were also converted.
I joined Gabe on the pavement. “Does Freddie Duckworth live here?”
“Yes. I met him when I wanted confirmation that the stolen Delaroche was indeed the one he verified as being magical.”
“Did you ask him where he was on the day it was stolen?”
“Thinking like a detective again, I see. I did ask. And no, he didn’t have an alibi. He was at Burlington House delivering his sculpture. He had access to the painting, but so did a lot of people.”
“If he’s guilty, how does Lady Stanhope fit in?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you going to ask him about her?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Not until I know if it’s relevant. I don’t want him deducing that he’s one of my suspects.” He knocked on the blue door. “Today I just want to ask him about the seascape.”
While calling someone ugly was not something I would ever do, Horatio was right when he said Freddie Duckworth was no Adonis. He did himself no favors by combing his thin hair over his bald patch in an attempt to hide it and wearing what could best be described as a large potato sack with holes cut out for his head and arms. He used the smock to wipe gray dust off his hands, but he didn’t seem to be aware it was also on his face.
“Come in, come in.” He ushered us inside to the sitting room with jerky movements of his bone-thin hand. There was no sign of any half-finished sculptures, so I assumed his studio was upstairs. There were several finished ones, however. None were what I’d describe as classical, like those in the exhibition. They were all of faceless bodies in twisted, unnatural poses. “Tea?”
“We can’t stay long,” Gabe said. “We wanted to ask your professional opinion about one of the paintings in the Academy’s exhibition.”
Freddie’s gaze slid to me. He didn’t seem to recognize me from that day at the private viewing, but I remembered him as one of Horatio’s friends. He wasn’t as flamboyant as Horatio but seemed no less self-assured as he offered us seats with an expansive sweep of his hand. He was small in stature with busy fingers that tapped and drummed throughout the conversation. His face was thin too, his cheeks sunken beneath the shadow of a beard.
Usually when I saw a starving artist, I assumed they were poor. But the furniture was new and well-made, the carpet plush, and the grate clean. It smelled like it had been recently blackened. Like most bachelors, I doubted he kept his own house. He probably had a charwoman come in. The sitting room was also filled with statues, mostly of nude women. I kept my gaze on Freddie.
“You can trust Miss Ashe,” Gabe assured him. “She’s working with me on the case.”
I arched a brow, but he didn’t notice.
“The painting in question is a seascape with a steamship plowing through the water. Do you remember it?”
“Of course. And if you want to know if it was done by a magician, then I can confirm that it was.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I’m a magician. I can sense magic in objects.”
“What does ‘sensing’ magic feel like?” Ever since Gabe had mentioned it, I’d wanted to know.
“The magic leaves behind some residual warmth which a magician can feel. But it’s not like the usual heat from a fire or hot water. It’s different. I can’t explain it. It’s something only another magician can understand.” He gave me a look which was more sympathetic than apologetic. He felt sorry for us artless, as if we were somehow lesser.
Gabe thanked him and led the way to the door. “One more thing. Are you absolutely sure the stolen painting was done by a painter magician?”
Freddie started to laugh but cut it short. His jaw worked and his lips moved, but it took three spluttered attempts before he ground out, “Am I certain? Am I certain! Mr. Glass, you come from a family of magicians. Of all the artless, you should be aware that a magician simply knows.”
Gabe put up his hands. “Forgive me. I wasn’t questioning your expertise.”
“You were.” Freddie strode past us and jerked open the front door. “If this is the thanks I receive for assisting the police, then kindly leave.” He might not be as flamboyant as Horatio, but he was far more dramatic.
The slammed door almost hit Gabe in the back as he exited behind me. “I suppose I should expect nothing less after questioning a man’s professional integrity.”
“Do you genuinely believe he was lying about Delaroche being a magician painter?”
He opened the motor’s passenger door for me. “We only have his say-so that the painting contains magic.”
“Can’t another magician check the other paintings done by Delaroche?”
“There are very few in existence. Scotland Yard is chasing up professional opinions on all of them. Even if magicians can’t sense magic in them, that doesn’t mean the stolen one wasn’t magical. Perhaps Delaroche put a spell on it but not the others. Some persecuted magicians used their spells only rarely, some never did and have gone to their graves leaving no magical items behind. The fear of being discovered was very real. In the nineteenth century, when Delaroche was alive, they might no longer be burned at the stake for witchcraft, but they could lose their livelihoods, their friends, and their reputations.”
Gabe’s mother must have faced that kind of ostracism. To have overcome that and pushed for reform was bravery indeed.
“Professor Nash explained to me that a magician who doesn’t use a spell still produces better products than an artless craftsperson,” I said.
“There’s usually something more compelling about them, it’s true.”
“But when a spell is added, the product becomes superior in some way. For clocks, it’s to run on time, and so forth. But he wasn’t sure what a spell could do for a painting.”
“Keep the colors vibrant for longer?” He shrugged in the same way as Professor Nash had when posing the same question.
I climbed into the motor and glanced at the sky. It was growing late. I asked Gabe for the time when he slid into the driver’s seat.
He flipped open the lid on his silver pocket watch. Unlike most men nowadays, he didn’t wear a wristwatch. “It’s four-thirty. I’ll return you to the library.”
We drove to the entrance of Crooked Lane in a silence that was less tense than earlier. My temper had cooled and, while I didn’t like his subterfuge, I decided I had no choice but to accept it. I wanted to keep the job at the library and that meant accepting that Gabe was personally paying my wage until a different arrangement could be made.
It also meant I had to maintain a professional distance from him. It was for the best.
I was about to tell him that when we pulled to the curb, and he switched off the engine. But before I could speak, he got in first.
“So, are we friends again?” He looked directly ahead as he asked it, almost as if he didn’t care about the answer. Or was worried what my answer might be. When I didn’t speak immediately, he finally turned to look at me. He frowned. “Sylvia?”
I ought to lecture him about professionalism and remind him again that we were not friends and never could be. But something stopped me. He’d gone very still, except for the drumming of his thumb on the steering wheel. And his green eyes drilled into me with an intensity that warmed my skin but also stretched my already taut nerves. I’d seen that same look in men who’d returned from the war before, but it was always fleeting and never directed at me.
It both chilled me and thrilled me. Made me want to reach out and stroke away the grim set of his lips. Every part of me became aware of him, of his stare, the tapping thumb and, most of all, his close proximity.
Someone pounded on the door with their fist, breaking the spell. My already rapidly beating heart felt as though it burst out of my chest.
“Gabe!” It was Willie, his brash American cousin. “Gabe, get out right now or I’ll wrench this door open and pull you out myself!”