The next morning, as they bathed and dressed ready for the event at the National Gallery that afternoon, Daniel and Abigail discussed what they’d learnt from their previous day’s quizzing. The only fact that had surfaced was that the murderer couldn’t have been Lord Powbry. Abigail had learnt from his housekeeper that Lord Powbry had been on his honeymoon in Germany for the past two weeks with his new bride and was not expected back for another two weeks.
‘So, not that heartbroken by the death of his first wife,’ commented Daniel.
Daniel had drawn a series of blanks, as had Abberline.
‘We’re no nearer,’ sighed Abigail.
‘Perhaps this afternoon will reveal a new suspect,’ said Daniel. ‘Mr Beckett did say we’d be meeting people who had reason to hate Sickert.’
‘But hate him enough to kill five people?’ asked Abigail.
‘That may be what we’re about to find out.’
‘Mr Beckett should be pleased with the turnout,’ commented Daniel as they walked into the main hall at the National Gallery. There was a large crowd gathered in front of four paintings hanging side by side. The majority were men, but there were quite a few women. Most had dressed up for the occasion, although some of the younger men had put on colourful jackets and hats to announce to those who didn’t recognise them that they were serious artists.
‘The usual smattering of celebrities,’ Abigail murmured. ‘The sort you get at all these occasions, keen to be noticed.’
‘I don’t recognise any of them,’ said Daniel.
‘That’s because you don’t move in artistic circles.’
They joined the crowd gathered before the main attraction, Abigail pushing her way through the throng to get a better view. The two paintings by Claude Lorrain, Landscape with the Marriage of Isaac and Rebecca and Seaport with the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba, were now framed between two from Turner: Calais Pier, which dated from 1803, according to the plate beside the painting, and Norham Castle, Sunrise from 1845.
‘Look at the Turners. Even though they were painted forty years apart, you can still see the same hand at work,’ said Abigail admiringly.
‘Really?’ said Daniel. ‘They look completely different to me. The Norham Castle one is vague, it could be anything, anywhere. But the other, the Calais one, is so detailed you can see the boats.’
‘But look at the skies,’ said Abigail. ‘The light.’
‘You sound like Sickert,’ commented Daniel.
‘Capturing the light in oils on canvas is what marks a great landscape artist out from an average painter. It brings the picture to life. You can feel it.’
‘If you ever decide to give up being an archaeologist you could always become an art critic,’ said Daniel. ‘You have all the right phrases.’
They moved back from the four pictures to let others get closer. Suddenly Abigail groaned and whispered: ‘Oh my God, Herbert Wells.’
‘Who?’
Abigail nodded in the direction of a small, portly man with a moustache who seemed to be hovering on the fringes of those watching the paintings.
‘The novelist. H. G. Wells,’ she hissed. ‘If he comes over to us, stay close by me.’
‘Why?’
‘He is a lecher and a pest.’
‘Why don’t you do what you’ve done before when men have acted inappropriately, punch him?’
‘Because it wouldn’t be the done thing on an occasion like this, Mr Beckett would be most upset.’ She gave a smile of relief. ‘It’s all right, he’s latched on to that blonde woman.’
‘Who seems happy enough to encourage him, by the expression on her face.’
‘Yes, well, different women have different attitudes to that sort of thing. Some actually encourage it.’
‘We’re supposed to be mingling and finding out the people who don’t like Walter Sickert,’ Daniel reminded her. ‘I’m not sure how we’re actually going to do that.’
‘My suggestion is we go and stand in front of one of his paintings and wait until people stop by it and make disparaging comments about the work, and the painter.’
‘Will they do that?’
‘Oh yes, the art world is full of very bitchy people.’
‘Where will we find his work? We know the portrait of Anne-Marie Dresser has been destroyed.’
‘There’s another in the British section,’ said Abigail. ‘Follow me.’
They left the main hall and Daniel found himself in a room with a variety of very colourful paintings, some large, some small, many of them depicting religious scenes or from Shakespearean plays.
‘The Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood,’ said Abigail. ‘What do you think?’
‘Very serious,’ said Daniel.
‘Yes, well, they take themselves very seriously. They were set up as a loose group about forty years ago. The first founder members were John Everett Millais, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, William Holman Hunt and Ford Madox Brown.’
‘Was it a requirement that everyone had to have three names?’
‘I think they wanted to make themselves memorable. Their acknowledged artistic leader was John Ruskin, not himself primarily a painter but a critic.’
‘The one whose wife ran off with Millais?’ said Daniel, and he smiled as he added: ‘See, I do take notice of what you tell me. So how did that work within the group?’
‘Millais sort of drifted away from the others. He still painted, but in a different style. More leaning towards the Impressionists. Although his most famous painting is the one that Pears soap used in their adverts.’
‘The little boy in the velvet suit?’
‘That’s the one. “Bubbles”. It earned him condemnation from some of his former Pre-Raphaelites who accused him of selling out to commercialism.’
‘I assume those same artists also sold their paintings,’ mused Daniel.
‘Yes, but not to soap companies. They preferred to think of their art as pure.’
‘Whereas, in fact, it was overromanticised tosh,’ said a drawling voice behind them.
They turned and beheld a very thin young man in his early twenties, his hair parted in the middle hanging down in bangs below his ears.
‘You don’t approve of religious paintings?’ asked Daniel.
‘Oh, but I do,’ said the young man. ‘I’ve created quite a few myself, but—’ Suddenly he stopped as a dreadful cough racked his narrow frame. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his mouth as he coughed, the sound so painful that it sent a shudder through both Daniel and Abigail.
The young man looked briefly at the handkerchief before folding it and replacing it in his pocket, but not before both Abigail and Daniel had noted the blood on it.
‘I really must use red handkerchiefs,’ said the young man airily. ‘Far less dramatic.’
With that, he walked off.
‘Now there’s a strange young man,’ observed Daniel.
‘Yes, in many people’s eyes,’ said Abigail. ‘His name’s Aubrey Beardsley and he’s one of the leading proponents of Art Nouveau.’
‘Leading proponents?’ asked Daniel, surprised. ‘He’s barely in his twenties.’
‘Twenty-four, I believe.’
‘Is any of his work here on exhibition?’
‘No. Primarily, he’s an illustrator working in ink, black ink on white paper seems to be his favourite. His main claim to fame are his erotic drawings, which have led to much muttering about him, and a view that he should be avoided as some kind of pervert.’
‘Is he?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know, just what I read in the magazines. They attach him to the crowd that hung around with Oscar Wilde before he went to prison.’
‘Homosexual?’
Abigail, looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps, although some people describe him as a-sexual. But when we get home, I’ll show you some of his illustrations in my magazines.’
‘Erotic images?’ asked Daniel, startled.
‘No,’ said Abigail firmly. ‘You won’t find those sorts of works in the arts magazines I subscribe to. But his work is quite striking.’
‘You like it?’
‘I do.’
‘Then I’m sure I will, too.’
Just then, an elderly man who’d been hovering near them approached them with an ingratiating smile aimed at Abigail.
‘Excuse me, but it is Miss Abigail Fenton, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to be so bold as to interfere. My name’s Algernon Farnsworth and I publish a quarterly magazine called The Art of Egypt.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it!’ said Abigail in delight. ‘It is most admirable! I was particularly impressed by the article you did on Flinders Petrie.’
‘Who you worked with at Hawara.’
‘I did indeed,’ said Abigail. ‘A most wonderful experience!’
‘I wonder if you would consider writing an article about your experiences of that expedition for The Art of Egypt.’
Abigail looked doubtful.
‘Surely the definitive piece about that has already been written by Petrie himself,’ she said.
‘Yes, but I know our readers would love to hear about it from the perspective of someone who was with Petrie and could give insights into the man and the mission.’ He gave a hopeful smile as he added: ‘And particularly by a woman. The Art of Egypt has been conspicuously light on articles by women.’
Abigail hesitated, and Daniel interceded: ‘I really think this is something you need to think about positively, Abigail. It could be a very important step for you, and the world of archaeology.’
‘Thank you for those words of encouragement, Mr Wilson,’ said Farnsworth gratefully. ‘It is Mr Daniel Wilson, I assume? I read that the National Gallery had commissioned the famous Museum Detectives, yourself and Miss Fenton, to look into the recent dreadful murders here.’
‘Yes, I’m Daniel Wilson.’ He smiled. ‘But this evening is for art, and particularly for The Art of Egypt.’ He turned to Abigail and said: ‘I’ll leave you to Mr Farnsworth to talk about this project for his magazine, while I enrich my own art education here.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wilson. You are very considerate. I promise I shall return your companion to you shortly.’
Daniel bowed and walked away, leaving Abigail and Farnsworth to talk. He decided to head towards where the newly hung Turners were on display to eavesdrop and see if the name Sickert came up in any of the conversations, but as he moved in that direction, he found his path barred by a tall, well-dressed man in his sixties who looked at him coldly.
‘Mr Daniel Wilson, I presume,’ said the man, his tone curt.
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘I am Lord Yaxley.’
‘Lord Yaxley,’ said Daniel, and he held out his hand in greeting. To his surprise, Yaxley kept his own right hand resolutely at his side.
‘I will not shake your hand, sir, because of the appalling situation you have brought my son to.’
‘Your son?’ asked Daniel, puzzled.
‘Simon Anstis, the artist.’
Daniel frowned. ‘I am sorry, Lord Yaxley, but with respect, any appalling situation your son finds himself in is totally of his own making.’
‘You tricked him, sir, into being trapped here and assaulted with some nonsense about fingerprints, and then had him imprisoned in some dreadful police cell.’
‘Your son destroyed a painting at this gallery, which he admitted to doing.’
‘Under duress, sir, under duress. As a result, he has been banned from this establishment. Do you realise what that has done to him?’
‘I would imagine he is unhappy about it, but he should have thought of that before he set out to break into the gallery at night and destroy a painting.’
‘He had reason, sir. The painting he inflicted some damage on was done by a so-called artist who has demeaned my son and his work for many years, which my son has borne with admirable sufferance, until finally he could take no more. Art is my son’s reason for being alive. To paint, and to be part of that creative circle akin to himself, but thanks to you he has had that snatched away from him. He should be here today, but he has been publicly shunned and humiliated and banned because of you.’
‘Again, sir, I would say that your son’s banishment from this place, which I believe to be only temporary, is the result of his own actions. Hopefully he will have learnt from the error of his ways and will behave responsibly in the future.’
Yaxley glared at Daniel with an anger that caused his face to flush crimson.
‘You have not heard the last of this, sir,’ he said, then turned on his heel and stormed away from Daniel.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Abigail as she joined Daniel. ‘Who was that extremely angry man?’
‘Lord Yaxley, the father of Simon Anstis. He accused us – or, more exactly, me – of having ruined his son’s life. In addition, he loathes Walter Sickert, so we’ve found at least one rich person who might be worth looking into.’
‘I never realised that Simon Anstis came from a titled family.’
‘Nor did I. That could explain how he is able to carry on his life as a painter, despite rarely selling any of his work.’
‘The doting and wealthy father,’ said Abigail.
‘How did you get on with Mr Farnsworth?’
‘Very well. He’s got some old copies of The Art of Egypt outside in his carriage that he wants me to look at, to take on board the literary style that suits the magazine’s readers.’
‘I’ll come with you and help you carry them,’ said Daniel.
‘I don’t think there are that many,’ said Abigail. ‘Just one or two. His carriage is just over the road, by Trafalgar Square.’
‘Nevertheless, I’ll come with you just in case.’
‘If you wait for me by the entrance, I’ll get my coat from the cloakroom,’ said Abigail. ‘It’ll be quite cold outside.’
She headed for the cloakroom, and Daniel made for the main entrance. He stepped outside and gave a little shiver. It was indeed cold. I should have got my overcoat at the same time, he thought. He started to turn when he became aware of someone very close behind him and he felt something hard jab into his back, and the next second there was the explosion of a gun going off and he felt a searing pain as a bullet tore into his flesh, ripping through his body, and he stumbled forward and felt himself falling …