The Dark Clue by James Wilson Page A

the smoke-covered city and its river, which seemed to bear no relation to these desolate scenes at all; and partly because it had never occurred to me that Mrs. Booth might have any of his pictures in her possession.
    â€˜Yes,’ she said, setting her tray down. I expected her to go on, but she busied herself instead with the tea, pouring two cups and then perching the pot at the edge of the fire basket to keep warm. Hoping to revive the subject I said:
    â€˜That was very generous of him.’
    I regretted the words even before they were out of my mouth. She coloured again, and said:
    â€˜What, you think I didn’t deserve so much kindness?’
    â€˜No, of course not. I merely meant…’ I could not, of course, say what I really meant: that few successful artists would have dealt so handsomely with a servant. To cover my confusion, I said:
    â€˜Why do you not hang them?’
    â€˜I had them upstairs, but I feared they might be stolen. My son is going to keep them safe for me.’
    I confess I found myself wondering why she did not sell them, for they must surely be worth a great deal of money; and in doing so she could simultaneously remove the cause of her anxiety and ensure herself a comfortable old age. Perhaps she guessed what I was thinking, for she said:
    â€˜I could not bear to part with them.’
    â€˜They remind you of the sea?’ I said.
    She nodded.
    â€˜You have naval connections, perhaps?’ I said. ‘The boys outside mentioned -’
    â€˜The Admiral?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    She nodded again, but wearily. ‘That is what they called him.’
    â€˜Mr. Turner?’ I said; for, though it seemed unlikely, we had talked of no-one else.
    â€˜Yes,’ she said. They called him Admiral Booth.’ She paused, and looked coolly at my astonished face; then, as if I should have divined it for myself, went on: ‘They thought he was my husband.’
    I felt quite lost, like a traveller who suddenly discovers he is without both map and compass. What could I ask that would not appear rude – the most obvious question,
Why?,
would certainly have fallen into this category – or, on the other hand, risk eliciting some new piece of startling information which would only bemuse me further? At length I said, cautiously:
    â€˜How long did you know Mr. Turner?’
    â€˜Twenty years,’ she said. ‘He first came to me when I had a boarding-house in Margate. Then, after Mr. Booth died, he wanted a retreat by the river; so he asked me to move to Chelsea, and keep house for him here.’
    â€˜He must have had great confidence in you,’ I said.
    She nodded, a proud woman briskly acknowledging her due. ‘He used to call me the handmaiden of Art.’
    â€˜You helped him in his work, then?’
    â€˜Oh, yes, I’d set his palette every morning, and make sure everything was ready,’ She said this with a certain warmth, as if she had begun to feel easier in my presence. A second or twolater, the cat unexpectedly furthered my cause by getting up and jumping into my lap, where it stood lazily sinking its claws into my dress. For the first time since my arrival, Mrs. Booth smiled.
    â€˜Oh, you’re very honoured,’ she said. ‘Jason generally only likes men. Mr. Turner, especially. He’d sit on his knee, his shoulder – even his head, sometimes.’
    I laughed, and decided this would be a propitious moment to venture a little further.
    â€˜What kind of a man was Mr. Turner?’
    â€˜There were times’, she said, ‘when I thought he was a god.’
    â€˜A god!’ I said. ‘Why, did he resemble a Greek statue?’
    Mrs. Booth laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t mean to look at!’ she said. ‘In his work.’ She waved a hand towards the two oil-paintings. ‘You or I could stand where he did, and see nothing but a rough old day, or a wintry sun. But he saw what ordinary mortal