wire. Then he sighed heavily.
“It’s going to be quite a task, shifting that lot. And cataloguing it, of course. I can’t abide the stuff myself. I mean, why couldn’t he have turned out tasteful landscapes? But it sets some people’s pulses racing, so who am I to complain?”
“Lady Paxton liked his work,” I murmured.
“Yes. So I believe. You could say
she
died for
his
art.” Catching my eye, he added: “I’m sorry. That was unfeeling of me.”
“The picture she wanted.
Black Widow
. Is it here?”
“Wrapped up in the lounge. I haven’t moved it. Uncle Oscar must have had it ready for her, I suppose.”
“Could we see it?”
“Why not? Who knows, you might want to . . .” He frowned. “Were you a close friend of Lady Paxton, Mr. Timariot?”
“Not close, no.”
“A friend of the family, perhaps?”
“Not really.”
“Only one of her daughters is due to meet me here this afternoon. I wondered if . . .”
“We
would
like to see the painting,” put in Bella with a winning smile. “If that’s possible.”
“Certainly. Follow me.” He led us out of the kitchen, down a short passage and into a sitting-room. It was comfortably if untidily furnished. There were well-stocked bookshelves and several paintings by Bantock—or fellow Expressionists—lining the walls. A parcel stood on the only table, the wrappings folded open to reveal the back of a canvas, already hooked and strung with copper-coated wire. Henley lifted the picture out and propped it against the wall behind the table, then stepped back to let us admire it. “The English Rouault, they said of him in the sixties. I think this one dates from that period. No better or worse than the rest, in my opinion. But, happily,
my
opinion counts for little.”
Black Widow
measured about three feet by two foot six. It depicted a woman’s face—or a young boy’s—seen against a pale blue background. The hair and shoulders were splashes of black and purple, the face yellow tinged with red, the eyes nowhere save in the contrivance of dab and daub, their gaze—solemn, averted, downcast, defiant—a haunting mix of whatever you wanted to read there: the spider, the widow, the murderess, the victim. There was nothing pretty or comforting about it. Louise Paxton hadn’t wanted this picture to brighten her wallpaper. But precisely why she’d wanted it we’d never know now.
I stepped back to view it from the doorway. As I did so, Bella moved closer to Henley, cocking her head to squint at the image before her. “I’d have to agree with you, Mr. Bantock,” she said with a chuckle. “Not quite my idea of art.” I saw Henley glance appreciatively at the smooth T-shirted outline of her breasts beneath her linen jacket. His idea of art was fairly obvious: more Ingres than Rouault, I’d have guessed. “Inheriting all this must have caused you quite a few problems.”
“It certainly has. The police. The press. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Have you travelled far today?”
“From London.”
“You must have made an early start, then.”
“Indeed I did.”
I edged out into the passage. There were the stairs, leading up to the room she’d died in. Why not go up and take a look? Henley would tell Bella his entire life story if she continued to encourage him. She was assessing him, of course. I knew that. Worth getting to know, or not? Not, I suspected. But clearly she hadn’t yet reached that conclusion. And until she did . . .
I took the stairs two at a time, relieved not to set off a fusillade of creaks. The landing was small and narrow. There was a bathroom in front of me, built over the houseward half of the extension. Through a window I could see the shuttered skylights of the studio. The bedrooms were to left and right. The one on the left had been given over to storage: a desk and filing cabinet marooned in a sea of tea chests, packing cases and yet more canvases. From the one on the right came a faint draught. Henley must
“It’s going to be quite a task, shifting that lot. And cataloguing it, of course. I can’t abide the stuff myself. I mean, why couldn’t he have turned out tasteful landscapes? But it sets some people’s pulses racing, so who am I to complain?”
“Lady Paxton liked his work,” I murmured.
“Yes. So I believe. You could say
she
died for
his
art.” Catching my eye, he added: “I’m sorry. That was unfeeling of me.”
“The picture she wanted.
Black Widow
. Is it here?”
“Wrapped up in the lounge. I haven’t moved it. Uncle Oscar must have had it ready for her, I suppose.”
“Could we see it?”
“Why not? Who knows, you might want to . . .” He frowned. “Were you a close friend of Lady Paxton, Mr. Timariot?”
“Not close, no.”
“A friend of the family, perhaps?”
“Not really.”
“Only one of her daughters is due to meet me here this afternoon. I wondered if . . .”
“We
would
like to see the painting,” put in Bella with a winning smile. “If that’s possible.”
“Certainly. Follow me.” He led us out of the kitchen, down a short passage and into a sitting-room. It was comfortably if untidily furnished. There were well-stocked bookshelves and several paintings by Bantock—or fellow Expressionists—lining the walls. A parcel stood on the only table, the wrappings folded open to reveal the back of a canvas, already hooked and strung with copper-coated wire. Henley lifted the picture out and propped it against the wall behind the table, then stepped back to let us admire it. “The English Rouault, they said of him in the sixties. I think this one dates from that period. No better or worse than the rest, in my opinion. But, happily,
my
opinion counts for little.”
Black Widow
measured about three feet by two foot six. It depicted a woman’s face—or a young boy’s—seen against a pale blue background. The hair and shoulders were splashes of black and purple, the face yellow tinged with red, the eyes nowhere save in the contrivance of dab and daub, their gaze—solemn, averted, downcast, defiant—a haunting mix of whatever you wanted to read there: the spider, the widow, the murderess, the victim. There was nothing pretty or comforting about it. Louise Paxton hadn’t wanted this picture to brighten her wallpaper. But precisely why she’d wanted it we’d never know now.
I stepped back to view it from the doorway. As I did so, Bella moved closer to Henley, cocking her head to squint at the image before her. “I’d have to agree with you, Mr. Bantock,” she said with a chuckle. “Not quite my idea of art.” I saw Henley glance appreciatively at the smooth T-shirted outline of her breasts beneath her linen jacket. His idea of art was fairly obvious: more Ingres than Rouault, I’d have guessed. “Inheriting all this must have caused you quite a few problems.”
“It certainly has. The police. The press. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Have you travelled far today?”
“From London.”
“You must have made an early start, then.”
“Indeed I did.”
I edged out into the passage. There were the stairs, leading up to the room she’d died in. Why not go up and take a look? Henley would tell Bella his entire life story if she continued to encourage him. She was assessing him, of course. I knew that. Worth getting to know, or not? Not, I suspected. But clearly she hadn’t yet reached that conclusion. And until she did . . .
I took the stairs two at a time, relieved not to set off a fusillade of creaks. The landing was small and narrow. There was a bathroom in front of me, built over the houseward half of the extension. Through a window I could see the shuttered skylights of the studio. The bedrooms were to left and right. The one on the left had been given over to storage: a desk and filing cabinet marooned in a sea of tea chests, packing cases and yet more canvases. From the one on the right came a faint draught. Henley must
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