Stanford Beckett, curator of the National Gallery, was the epitome of the Victorian gentleman: a man in his sixties with a high, starched white collar to his shirt, a neat but colourful tie, bushy side whiskers, and an elegant pinstripe suit in charcoal grey, the image slightly marred by the amount of cigar ash on the front of his jacket. He put his half-smoked cigar into the ashtray on his desk, where it smouldered, as he gave a heavy sigh and looked at Daniel and Abigail with mournful eyes.
‘Tragic,’ he said. ‘Absolutely tragic.’
‘Could you tell us what happened?’ asked Daniel. ‘All we know is what we read in the newspaper, that a prostitute was found murdered and mutilated at the entrance to the National Gallery yesterday morning, and that Walter Sickert has been taken in for questioning on suspicion of her murder and is currently being held at Scotland Yard.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Beckett, with a heavy sigh. ‘Dreadful. Although it’s unfair to label her simply as a prostitute. I believe she also engaged in … er … that profession, but primarily she was an artist’s model.’
‘Who modelled for Sickert, I assume,’ said Daniel.
‘Yes.’
‘And do we know why Sickert was arrested? And so quickly?’
‘No,’ admitted Beckett helplessly. ‘The police say it was the result of information received.’
‘And he’s been held in custody since yesterday afternoon?’
‘Yes,’ said Beckett. ‘His wife, Ellen, informed me that the police came to the house with a warrant for his arrest and took him in, charged on suspicion of murder. Today I received a message from him asking me to get in touch with you. He seems to feel that you might be able to get him out of custody.’
Daniel frowned. ‘A message? I find it hard to believe that Chief Superintendent Armstrong allowed him to write to you? The chief superintendent is notorious for applying the rules rigidly to people he takes into custody to ensure they have little outside contact while he’s questioning them. Lawyers are allowed, of course, but even then, the chief superintendent has been known to make things difficult for them.’
‘This message came through Ellen. She was allowed to visit her husband early this morning, although – as you suggest – not without difficulty.’
Daniel smiled. ‘I can imagine. But, having met Mrs Sickert, she can be quite formidable.’
‘Yes, although it was fortunate that when she called at Scotland Yard this morning, Chief Superintendent Armstrong had not yet arrived, so she was dealing with the turnkey, which is I believe the correct term. She managed to get a meeting with Walter, who asked her to ask me to contact you.’
‘I can’t see how I can be of much help in this case. I’m no longer with the police force and I have no authority with them.’
‘Nevertheless, he asked if you’d at least see him.’
‘I’m not even sure if we’d be allowed to,’ said Daniel doubtfully.
‘You might, if you’re going on behalf of the National Gallery,’ said Beckett. ‘We are a highly reputable and well-respected organisation, and we believe Walter is one of Britain’s truly great artists.’
‘I’m not sure if that will have any sway over Chief Superintendent Armstrong,’ said Daniel. ‘He’s not known for his appreciation of art and artists.’
‘Won’t you at least try?’ asked Beckett appealingly. He gave a slight shudder as he added: ‘When Ellen came to see me this morning, she was very angry and insisted that I do something.’
‘Yes, I have seen Mrs Sickert when she’s angry,’ said Daniel, doing his best not to smile. ‘Very well, we’ll try, but we’ll need something to say that we’re acting on behalf of the National Gallery.’
‘That will be no problem,’ said Beckett, relieved. ‘I’ll give you a note over my signature saying you’ve been authorised to act on our behalf.’ He took a sheet of letterheaded notepaper from a small pile on his desk, dipped his pen into his inkwell, and began to write a brief letter. When finished, he pressed it on his blotting pad and passed it to Daniel.
‘I suggest we leave it until we’re sure the ink is dry,’ said Daniel. ‘We don’t want to take a smudged letter in with us, it’ll lessen the impact. While we’re waiting for it to dry, perhaps you can show us where the unfortunate woman was found.’
‘Of course,’ said Beckett getting to his feet and leading the way.
‘Do you know her name?’ asked Abigail. ‘There was no mention of it in the newspaper report.’
‘Her name was Anne-Marie Dresser.’
‘And she modelled for Walter Sickert.’
‘Among others. Her face is quite recognisable when you look at some of the portraits by different hands.’
‘Have you some on display?’
‘We have one by Walter and one by Edgar Degas.’
‘Degas painted her?’ asked Abigail. ‘Here, in England?’
‘Yes. Degas was a frequent visitor to these shores before his eyesight began to fail. He’s also great friends with Walter. Walter says that it was Degas who taught him how to represent reality on canvas. They shared many interests.’
‘Including the same model,’ commented Abigail drily.
‘Er … yes. I believe that may have been the case,’ said Beckett, forcing an awkward smile.
They passed through the main doors and into the portico-covered entrance of the National Gallery, overlooking Trafalgar Square with its four stone lions protecting the imposing edifice of Nelson’s Column.
‘She was found here,’ said Beckett, pointing to the low wall at the side of the entrance area.
Daniel crouched down and examined the flagstone area.
‘The newspaper said she had been eviscerated. Ripped open and her internal organs taken. I assume your staff have done a good job of cleaning up all traces of the blood.’
‘That was one of the unusual aspects,’ said Beckett. ‘There was, in fact, very little blood.’
‘Suggesting that the crime was committed somewhere else and her body was dumped here,’ said Daniel.
‘Yes,’ nodded Beckett.
‘Who found the body?’
‘The cleaners, when they arrived for work. They saw her lying there and thought she must be some tramp, or someone drunk. Her face and body were turned into the wall. It was only when they shook her by the shoulder to wake her up that the body rolled and the horror of what had been done to her was revealed.’
‘Have the police spoken to the cleaners?’ asked Abigail.
‘I believe so,’ said Beckett. ‘Will you wish to speak to them?’
‘At the moment this is a police investigation and our role, as I understand it, is just to try and get Walter Sickert out of custody. Unless you’re asking us to investigate the murder?’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Beckett. ‘That would be a decision for the Board of Trustees, and only if it was felt appropriate. At the moment we’re putting our faith in the police to carry out their investigation. What we’d like, as Walter has requested, is for you to try and obtain his release. That is our priority. If you’re unable to, then we shall inform Ellen and leave it to her to decide the next course of action. Whatever happens, you will of course be paid.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. ‘We’ll collect the letter from your office and head for Scotland Yard.’
‘Before we do, can we see the two portraits of Anne-Marie you mentioned, by Sickert and Degas?’ asked Abigail.
‘Of course, Follow me.’
As they walked back into the building and followed the curator through the galleries, Beckett said: ‘Of course, much of this will be changing when the National Gallery of British Art opens at Millbank later this year.’
‘The Tate Gallery,’ said Abigail.
‘Yes, I believe that is what people are calling it, and perhaps that will eventually be its official title.’ He saw the puzzled expression on Daniel’s face and explained: ‘It was founded and paid for by Sir Henry Tate, the sugar magnate. It will house works by British artists born after 1790, so Sickert’s paintings will be transferred to there.’ He stopped in front of a large picture of a nude woman standing in a bowl of water in a bedroom and wiping her naked body with a flannel. ‘Here we are, Walter’s portrait of Anne-Marie.’
‘It’s full of life,’ commented Abigail. ‘And he’s captured the apparent poverty of her surroundings.’
‘I think he may have exaggerated the poor conditions,’ admitted Beckett. ‘As far as I know, she lived in a room that was furnished quite reasonably. I suspect he may have chosen a less salubrious location for this picture. Walter does like to play what he calls “the proletariat card” in his work. Ordinary working people at leisure, and not engaging in what could be called “genteel pastimes”.’
‘In other words, he likes to shock,’ commented Abigail.
‘I think there may be an element of that,’ Beckett agreed.
He then led them through to a gallery where French painters were on display. The woman in the picture he stopped in front of was recognisable as the same woman in Sickert’s picture. Both artists had captured the hungry, almost vulpine look in the woman’s eyes, made more so by her pale face, high cheekbones, and long, lank, greasy dark hair hanging down. In Degas’ picture of her she was standing in front of a full-length mirror admiring herself. The artist had captured both her back view and the reflection of her naked front in the mirror. As with the Sickert painting, Degas had caught the life force of her. Here she was living, animalistic, vibrant. And now she was dead, butchered.
‘She’s very confident in her nakedness,’ observed Abigail.
‘She was a very confident young woman,’ said Beckett.
As they left the gallery, Abigail asked Daniel: ‘What did you think of the paintings?’
‘They’re different to what I’ve been used to,’ he admitted. ‘They’re almost semi-finished sketches. But I liked them. I thought they brought her to life more than some of these paintings that are painted to perfection.’
‘It’s called post-Impressionist,’ said Abigail.
‘Post-Impressionism?’
‘It follows on from the original Impressionists: Manet, Monet, Renoir, all French. Our own Turner was said to be an inspiration for them.’
‘Turner?’
‘Joseph Mallord William Turner. The Fighting Temeraire. Very impressionist.’
‘This is all foreign to me,’ admitted Daniel. ‘I can see that if this becomes a case for us, you’re going to have to be my guide.’ He turned to her and said: ‘You already knew all that about the new Gallery of British Art, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Abigail. ‘It was in one of my magazines. But I didn’t like to spoil Mr Beckett’s telling us about it.’