Anne-Marie Dresser had lived in a shared house in Cumberland Market, which was just a street away from the Sickerts’ house in Clarence Gardens.
‘He was playing a dangerous game,’ mused Abigail. ‘Keeping his mistress so close to the family home.’
‘Hiding her in plain sight,’ suggested Daniel. ‘She was his artist’s model as well, remember.’
Anne-Marie’s room was on the first floor. Their knocking at her door, just in case anyone was at home, led to the door of the adjacent room opening.
‘She’s not there,’ said a tall, very thin, pale-faced woman in her thirties. Her long blonde hair was betrayed as dyed by the black roots that stood out.
‘No, we know,’ said Daniel. ‘My name’s Daniel Wilson and this is my partner, Abigail Fenton. We’ve been hired by Mr Sickert and the National Gallery to find out what happened to her.’
‘She was killed,’ said the woman. ‘The night before last. The police told me.’
‘Yes, we know,’ said Daniel. ‘We’ve been asked to find out who did it, and we’re starting by talking to people who knew her. Did you see much of her?’
The woman nodded. ‘She would come in and talk. Like her, I’m not married so it was nice to have someone to talk to.’
‘Do you mind if we ask your name?’
‘Not at all. Vera Mattisson. I’ve already given it to the police. A nice man, an Inspector Feather.’
Daniel nodded.
‘Yes, we know Inspector Feather. As you say, a very nice man.’
‘You are working with him?’
‘We will be, but at the moment we’re following our own line of enquiry. We’re trying to find out about Anne-Marie’s life.’
‘She’s French. From Dieppe. But she spoke good English.’
‘We know she modelled for Walter Sickert, the painter,’ said Abigail.
Vera laughed. ‘That’s one word for it.’ And she laughed some more.
‘Were there other artists she modelled for?’
‘One or two. Mostly she was busy, doing what she did.’ Vera smiled. ‘Artists don’t pay much. The other thing she did, pays better.’
My guess is that Vera’s in the same game, thought Abigail, and she shot a meaningful look at Daniel, who nodded.
‘Did you know Mr Sickert?’ asked Daniel.
She smiled. ‘Of course.’
‘Did you model for him?’
‘No. Just the other thing.’
‘Did Anne-Marie bring her … ah … clients to her room, or did she go to their places?’
‘That depended,’ said Vera. ‘Sometimes they came here, sometimes she went there. She preferred bringing them here. She said it was safer. She knew where she was.’ She paused, then added: ‘She kept a knife under her pillow, within easy reach, in case of trouble. There are some bad people out there.’
‘And one of them killed her,’ said Daniel. ‘Did she have any trouble with anybody in particular?’
Vera shook her head. ‘Anne-Marie was cute. She could read people, like she had a secret sense about them. And most of the men who came to her were like little boys. Weak men, sneaking away from their wives.’
‘Would you count Walter Sickert to be like that?’
‘No. Walter is weak, but in a different way. He’s also very gentle. Kind. Nice.’
‘What about the other artists she modelled for?’
‘There was one she sat for a couple of times called Adrian Ford, but she didn’t like him, so she stopped going to his studio.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He stank and he farted all the time. He never washed. Anne-Marie said it was disgusting. The smell!’
‘But no other reason. Was he ever violent to her?’
‘No, he just stank.’
‘The other artist? You said she sat for a couple of others beside Walter Sickert.’
At this, Vera gave a sly smile and chuckled again. ‘Yes. Her little pet. She took delight in tormenting him. He was madly in love with her, but she wouldn’t let him so much as touch her and it drove him mad.’
‘His name?’
‘Simon Anstis,’ said Vera.
‘Simon Anstis again,’ said Abigail as they left the house.
Daniel took a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Mr Beckett gave me Anstis’ address. He has a room, which doubles as his studio, not too far from here, in Great Portland Street. I suggest that’s our next port of call.’
Simon Anstis was a short man, unshaven and with long hair that curled down to the smock he wore, which was daubed with oil paints in various colours. He had been reluctant to let Daniel and Abigail in, insisting that he was working on a private work that the person who’d commissioned it wanted to remain unseen until he was ready to reveal it. Abigail’s suggestion that he put a cloth over the painting to conceal it while they were in his studio was grudgingly conceded. Anstis disappeared inside his studio, reappearing a few moments later to open the door to them.
Daniel had questioned a few painters in his time when he’d been on the Metropolitan Police, and all their studios had been heavy with the smell of turpentine. Simon Anstis’ was the exception; the smell of oil paint and turpentine was muted by comparison, which allowed them to become aware of an unusual perfume that emanated from the coat rack just inside the door.
It was a small room in an attic at the top of the house in Great Portland Street and the one piece of furniture in it was a sofa, which they guessed also doubled as his bed from the way the cushions had been piled up at one end. There was a skylight in the ceiling, which let in light, and gas mantles around the walls. The picture that Anstis insisted was secret stood on an easel, covered with a brown cloth.
The young artist looked at them with suspicion.
‘You say you’re detectives,’ he said warily. ‘What are you detecting? And why do you think I can help you?’
‘We’ve been hired by the National Gallery to investigate the murder of Anne-Marie Dresser,’ said Daniel. ‘We understand that she modelled for you.’
Anstis stood staring at them, his lips moving but no sound came out. Then he began to shake. Daniel and Abigail exchanged looks of concern. Was Anstis about to have an attack of some sort?
‘Mr Anstis—’ began Daniel.
Suddenly Anstis collapsed onto the sofa and began to sob.
‘Anne-Marie!’ he moaned. ‘I loved her! I would have done anything for her!’ He wept some more, great heaving sobs, then stammered: ‘She taunted me! She’d be here, naked, and flaunt herself. She’d sit on the stool and deliberately open her legs and thrust herself forward and lick her lips, but she’d never let me so much as touch her. It drove me mad!’
‘Why didn’t you stop painting her?’ asked Abigail.
‘Because I loved her! I needed to look at her. But all she’d do was talk about that damned Sickert and what they did together. She did it to inflame me!’ And he began to sob again.
‘We know this is a difficult time for you,’ said Daniel, ‘but we do have to ask questions of everyone who knew her if we’re going to find out who killed her.’
‘It wasn’t me,’ Anstis sobbed.
‘We’re trying to trace her movements on the night she died. Was she here?’
‘No. I wish she had been. If she had, she’d still be alive.’
‘Where were you on the night of the 14th February? The night that Anne-Marie died.’
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Working.’
‘Was anyone with you?’
‘No one. I was alone.’ He leapt up, walked to the easel and snatched the brown cloth away, revealing the concealed picture. It was of a young woman, nude, sitting on the same sofa. ‘I was working on that. It’s Anne-Marie.’
They looked at the picture. Unlike Sickert’s picture of Anne-Marie, or that by Degas, both of which had been impressionistic in style, Anstis had gone for a realistic portrayal. But somehow, it hadn’t worked. Both Sickert and Degas had captured an animal spirit in their images of her, had given her life. Anstis’ portrait of her was flat and mundane by comparison.
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?’ asked Daniel.
Anstis shook his head.
‘No,’ he replied, his voice full of anguish. ‘Everyone who met her loved her.’
‘What did you think of him?’ asked Daniel as they walked away from the house.
‘As a suspect or a painter?’ asked Abigail.
‘Both, but primarily as a suspect?’
‘He’s certainly on edge and, I feel, unstable because of the intensity of his feelings for Anne-Marie. He also hates Sickert. It’s possible he could have done it in a blinding rage, but I’m not sure. As far as his painting is concerned, I have to agree with Sickert. He’s a dauber, not an artist – someone who can copy an image but it always looks flat. No vitality.’
‘Yes, I thought the same,’ said Daniel. ‘And I’m a person who has no understanding of art.’
‘You don’t need to understand art to know if something feels good to you,’ said Abigail. ‘Art can mean different things to different people. But in my eyes, Sickert and Degas captured Anne-Marie, like catching lightning in a bottle. She lives in their canvases. Simon Anstis’ picture was of a nude woman, but it could have been of a bunch of flowers, or a bowl of fruit. There was no life to it.’ She looked at Daniel and asked, puzzled, ‘By the way, what was that perfume smell?’
‘Lemon and bergamot,’ said Daniel. When Abigail looked at him in surprise, he explained: ‘There was a member of the Detective Squad who used it. Dabbed it on his clothes. Everyone could smell him coming a mile off. Fortunately, he left Scotland Yard.’
Madge Potts and her small army of cleaners gathered at their usual assembly point at Nelson’s Column. Madge preferred this place to all of them meeting up on the steps of the National Gallery at 6 o’clock in the morning. For one thing, there was more room in Trafalgar Square. For another, the fountains were available for the early arrivals to sit down on their marble edges while they waited for the latecomers to turn up. There was also entertainment to be had in watching the pigeons strutting around. The only exception was if it was raining, in which case the cleaners assembled under cover of the portico of the Gallery’s entrance.
There were ten cleaners, already wearing their aprons beneath their coats. Madge made a quick count to make sure everyone was there, then she led them across the road to the National Gallery like a general leading her troops into battle. Or, to be more accurate, like a sergeant major leading the troops; generals were notorious for staying back from the action, sometimes a mile or so.
It was Mary Higgins who first spotted the bundle of what looked like rags tucked against the low entrance porch’s wall.
‘Look at that,’ she said. ‘Someone’s dumped a pile of old clothes.’
‘No,’ said Sally Evans. ‘It’s a woman. Asleep or drunk.’
Madge stepped up to the bundle, which was now definitely a woman with her back to them and faced into the wall, and shook her by the shoulder.’
‘You can’t stay here,’ she said. ‘You’d better be off.’
The woman didn’t move or respond in any way. Madge gave a sigh and pulled on the woman’s shoulder, rolling her towards them. As she did so and the woman came to rest on her back, Mary screamed.
‘My God!’ she said, stumbling back, covering her mouth as she felt the vomit rise. ‘It’s another one!’