Chapter Three

“Is that him?” Sandy whispered as they walked down Mews Street.

“Bloody hell, no. I said he was in his thirties, not his hundred and thirties.” Evan tutted at the sight of the elderly man Sandy had pointed out. “And I said he was good-looking.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a great judge of men’s looks.” Sandy’s gaze rested on a girl walking by in a navy blue coat and matching hat. “What does he look like again?”

“Like that.” Evan grabbed Sandy’s arm and pulled him into the doorway of Yardley’s sweet shop. “He’s the dark-haired bloke by the college gate.”

“The one in the glasses?”

“That’s him. What do you think?”

Sandy peered at Milo from their vantage point.

“He doesn’t look like a maniac, although you never know what he might have in that satchel. Could be a gun or a knife.” Sandy broke into a grin. “Or maybe he’s into peculiar stuff. Might be a whip in there, or a—”

“That’s enough of that.” Evan was nervous enough without Sandy putting daft ideas into his head. “But thanks for coming. I’m glad someone knows where I am and who I’m with. I’m sure there’s nothing to bother about, but I don’t really know this chap, so…”

“So, if you’re not home by dark, I’ll send out a search party.”

“Thanks, Sandy. Do I look all right?”

“You look gorgeous.” Sandy laughed and slapped Evan on the back. “Now, go and sit nicely for the painter man. And tell him I want to see that portrait when it’s done.”

Evan could still hear Sandy tittering as he walked toward the college gates, and it was soon apparent that Milo could too.

“A friend of yours?”

Evan shook Milo’s outstretched hand, which he noticed was freckled with bright yellow paint.

“That’s Sandy. He walked down with me.”

“Ah, yes, your Saturday chum. Did he insist on coming along to check I wasn’t a psychotic fiend?”

“Something like that.” Evan chuckled and followed Milo through a small gate to the side of the main entrance. They bypassed the building’s imposing front doors and turned the corner to its plainer side, where Milo took a bunch of keys from his satchel and opened a door with peeling green paint. Evan breathed the aroma of paint and turpentine once more as they climbed a winding staircase to a whitewashed corridor with black doors at regular intervals on one side and windows on the other. While Milo unlocked one of the doors, Evan looked out over the city landscape.

“It’s quite a view, isn’t it?” Milo moved from the door to stand next to Evan. “I often come out here when I’m searching for inspiration. All those buildings, trees and cars. People going about their daily lives with no idea I’m looking down on them.”

“I hope you don’t look too closely in the direction of St. Mark’s.” Evan nodded toward Beston House. “You can see my bedroom window in the building to the right, and it’s sometimes quite a mess.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a bit of clutter. I generally find the most interesting people have the untidiest bedrooms.”

Milo didn’t seem embarrassed to admit he’d seen a fair number of people’s bedrooms, and Evan nodded as if he were equally experienced in such matters. Then he followed Milo into the unlocked room, which was much as Evan had imagined an artist’s studio would be. The ceiling was high, with grubby skylights letting in a milky light that fell upon objects strewn about the room. Half-covered canvases of all sizes were propped against walls and chairs, while a table swathed in emerald silk was home to a motley selection of items including a lidless teapot and a silver picture frame. Milo gathered a pile of patterned fabrics from a chair and dumped them onto the floor.

“I’m sure your room isn’t as much of a muddle as this. I use my artistic nature as an excuse for my untidiness, but the fact is I’m frightfully lazy.”

“I wouldn’t say that. It looks like you work very hard, if all these pictures are anything to go by.”

“I’m afraid I’m excellent at starting works, but not terribly good at finishing them.”

Milo drew back a white sheet to expose a partially painted portrait. The style was unconventional to Evan’s uneducated eyes, but he could see that Milo was talented. A wild jumble of fine brushstrokes and broader streaks combined to create a woman’s pale skin, her brown hair and blue eyes. Only the upper part of her face was completed, the chin and neck rough pencil lines and smudges.

“Is she one of your students?”

“Gosh, she would be flattered.” Milo gazed at the picture with obvious affection. “It’s a picture of my mother.”

Evan would normally be mortified by such a social blunder, but he lingered over the half-finished portrait. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“I think so, but then I am rather biased.” Milo smiled as he turned to Evan. “I suppose we’d better get started. Would you like to take a seat?”

Evan sat on the wooden chair that Milo had cleared.

“How should I sit? And where do you want me to look?”

Milo crossed to a canvas set on an easel, where he took off his glasses and placed them on a desk. He looked over at Evan, his right eye partly closed, apparently focusing on a spot between Evan’s nose and his lips.

“Just look at me. You can smile if you like, or not if you don’t. Feel free to talk or move around a little, but keep looking at me. Is that all right?”

“Fine by me. It’ll be like sitting at the pictures watching a film. Although I wouldn’t talk in a film, of course.”

“I’d expect nothing less from a law-abiding man like yourself.”

Evan knew Milo’s words had been meant as a joke, but a shiver slid from the nape of his neck to the bottom of his spine. He’d been afraid of the law too many times in his life not to be affected by such a comment. Milo didn’t seem to notice his unease as he picked up a pencil and started to make unseen marks on the canvas. His movements were quick and decisive, and Evan didn’t dare move or make a sound. He’d never seen such concentration and imagined the portrait would be done in a day if Milo continued to work at this pace.

After half an hour of frantic activity, Milo paused and stood back from his drawing. Evan shifted in his seat, feeling the first tingle of numbness in his buttocks. When Milo frowned, Evan moved back to what he hoped was his original position.

“Am I sitting right? I’m sorry if I—”

“You’re sitting perfectly. And I apologize if I was frowning. I always look stern when I’m working, or so people say.”

Milo began to draw again, this time more slowly and thoughtfully. It was a short while before he spoke again. “What kind of films do you watch, Evan? When you go to the cinema?”

“Whatever’s on, really.” Evan hadn’t expected to talk about himself, but he loved going to the pictures and quickly warmed to his subject. “I like most things. Comedies, historical adventures, even the odd romance. I think Harold Lloyd’s fantastic. Buster Keaton too. He’s got such an expressive face. Not so keen on Charlie Chaplin though. I don’t know what people see in him, to be honest. But I’ll watch anything with Rudolph Valentino. He’s a brilliant actor. I can’t wait till we get proper talking films, so I can hear what he sounds like. They’ve done shorts, you know, in America. It won’t be long before we get them over here, and—” Evan realized he was rambling. “I’m sorry. I do tend to go on when I start talking about films.”

“You can talk as much as you like.” Milo added another pencil stroke, his eyes flickering from Evan to the canvas. “It helps me get an idea of your character. And it’s lovely to hear someone so enthusiastic about a subject. Please do carry on.”

And so, Evan did carry on. He told Milo about the first film he’d seen, Brewster’s Millions, about the journey he used to make into Buxton to the nearest cinema, how excited he’d been when he glimpsed Douglas Fairbanks in Leicester Square. Then he talked about other things, about music and books, and this time Milo joined in. They found their tastes were remarkably similar, comprising such eclectic artists as Berlin and Stravinsky, Buchan and Forster, and they chatted animatedly as Milo continued to work. When Evan glanced at his watch, he was surprised to see almost three hours had passed since they’d begun. Milo squinted at the clock on the wall.

“Goodness. It’s five o’clock already. You’ll be wanting to get home.”

“Not particularly. I can stay if you like.”

“I’ve taken enough of your time for one day.” Milo put down his pencil and took his glasses from the desk. “Will you be able to come again next Sunday?”

“I’ll look forward to it. I’ve enjoyed this afternoon.”

“That’s good to hear. It’s a shame we can’t meet sooner. I rather lose the thread of a work if I take too long a break from it, but it can’t be helped.”

“I could sit for you during the week if you wanted. I have my half-day on Wednesday if you’re free. Or I could do one evening after work.”

“It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m afraid I’m busy on Wednesday, and the college governors are very strict about allowing anyone in the building at night. There was an incident after hours involving male and female students, so apart from the odd evening class, the whole place is locked up tight by six. I had to grovel to the principal to be allowed in today.”

“That’s a shame. I wouldn’t have minded.” Evan hoped Milo wouldn’t read suspect intentions into his next words. “Is there anywhere else we could meet? Do you have another studio at home?”

“I wouldn’t call it a studio, but I have a small space in my flat I use for painting sometimes. Would you really not mind coming over? I wouldn’t want to tire you out after you’ve been at work all day.”

“Working at Bailey’s isn’t tiring, but it can be quite dull. Coming to see you would give me something to look forward to.”

“In that case, how can I refuse?” Milo opened the desk and took out a scrap of paper, upon which he scribbled an address. “What time do you finish work?”

“About half past six.” Evan took the piece of paper and saw that he knew the respectable street where Milo lived. “It shouldn’t take me more than ten minutes to get there.”

“This is very good of you, Evan. But won’t you miss your evening meal?”

“Missing one of Mrs. Grindley’s dinners would not be a great tragedy, believe me.”

“Even so, I wouldn’t want you going hungry on my account. Perhaps you could eat at my flat once we’ve finished. I’m not a great cook, but I’m sure I could rustle up a sandwich.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’d be glad to join you for something to eat. Would Tuesday be all right to come round? We sometimes finish late on a Monday.”

“Tuesday it is, then.”

Milo grabbed his satchel and headed for the door, putting on his glasses as he went. Evan followed him into the corridor and ventured a question he’d wanted to ask all afternoon.

“Milo, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why do you wear your glasses outside and not when you’re painting or in the museum? Most people do it the other way round.”

“I do like to be different, I suppose.” Milo locked the studio door and they headed for the stairs. “I suffer from myopia, which simply means I’m short-sighted. I always have been, but it seemed to get worse after the war. The doctors said it might have something to do with the explosions and gunfire, all those unnatural lights, but it’s more likely a coincidence.”

Milo seemed quite calm as he talked about the war, unlike other men Evan knew, who blanched at the mention of it years later and rarely spoke of their experiences. Evan wondered what Milo had done during those four dreadful years, whether he’d fought alongside the brave soldiers in the trenches or taken a more strategic role. Remembering the warmth with which Haynes had greeted him, Evan guessed Milo had been close to the action. He only hoped Milo’s social class and poor eyesight had kept him from the worst of the conflict, and as they said their goodbyes at the college gates, Evan hoped he would find out more about him when they met again on Tuesday night.