sir?’
The artist took leave of the admiring circle around him, took two drinks from a passing tray and thrust one at Lestrade. They walked through a cloud of white peacocks on to a broad terrace and into the vast sunlit studio itself. An enormous canvas rested on three easels in the centre of the room. Partially draped, it was an ancient scene, classical and grand.
‘Do you like it?’ the artist asked, and grinned.
‘Indeed,’ said Lestrade, hoping he would not be lured into a conversation on the merits of gouache or the traps of chiaroscuro.
‘So do I.’ Alma-Tadema replenished his own and Lestrade’s glasses with the finest claret cup Lestrade had ever tasted. ‘Tell me something; I thought you police-chappies never drank on duty.’
‘Most of us don’t, sir. But if I may say so, most of us don’t get offered claret of this vintage.’
‘My dear … er … Inspector, is it? Not only have you a discerning eye for art, but you are also a connoisseur of the vine. A lucky day for me indeed.’
‘I hope so, sir.’ Lestrade produced a tin from his pocket. ‘Be so good as to have a look at the contents of this.’
Alma-Tadema opened, sniffed, peered closely through the pince-nez, placed an exquisitely manicured finger in and licked it. ‘Enamel,’ he said. ‘Black enamel. Aspinall’s probably.’
‘Is enamel paint unusual, Mr Ala-Tameda?’
‘Indeed it is. It’s not readily available yet and of course quite unsuitable for canvas. But the French are using it a lot on their blasted bits and pieces.’
‘Don’t you like the New Art, Mr Mala-Teda?’
‘Oh, in its way, it’s all right, but you can’t build an Underground Station that looks like a peacock. There isn’t enough of the classical in art nowadays. Not like the Romans,’ he said, waving in the direction of his canvas. ‘You know where you are with Romans.’
‘You said Aspinall’s enamel?’
‘Yes, that is the firm that produces it.’ Alma-Tadema buried himself in a bureau. ‘It’s deuced expensive; even I only have …’ He stopped. Lestrade crossed the room to him.
‘Something the matter, sir?’
‘They’ve gone. Six pots of Aspinall’s black enamel. Gone.’
‘When did you last see your enamel?’
Alma-Tadema chewed his thumb. ‘Well, let’s see, it must have been – Tuesday last, or Monday.’
‘It may be crucial, sir.’
‘Yes, yes of course, Inspector. Monday, week before last. I’m certain it was Monday because I had one of my sitters cancel at short notice. I was not too displeased. I hate painting portraits. Give me Romans every time.’
There was a pause.
‘Inspector, may I ask why you came to me with this paint?’
‘My chief recommended you, sir, as a prominent man in paint-consistency.’
The artist laughed. ‘Well, I’m flattered. But what is this in connection with?’
‘You don’t read the newspapers, Mr Alma-Mater?’
‘Only the art reviews, I’m afraid. Shockingly narrow of me, isn’t it?’
‘Had you read the headlines, sir, over the past ten days, you would know that three young men were found dead in Battersea Park. Each one had been painted black from head to foot. It was that very act of painting which killed them.’
‘Good God!’ Alma-Tadema sat down with astonishment. ‘But that’s incredible.’
‘What is more incredible, sir, is that the paint seems to have come from your studio.’
Realisation began to dawn on the artist.
‘I see,’ he said, the smile leaving his face for the first time that day. ‘So you came to me for expert technical advice and I end up as a suspect.’
‘Not such a lucky day for you after all then, Mr Alda-Tamer?’
‘Indeed, no,’ replied the artist.
‘Who has access to this studio?’
‘Oh, almost anyone. It’s locked at night, of course and only the butler and I have keys, but during the day it’s always open. Unless I have a finished canvas. The place is always full of people. You saw for yourself. It’s open
The artist took leave of the admiring circle around him, took two drinks from a passing tray and thrust one at Lestrade. They walked through a cloud of white peacocks on to a broad terrace and into the vast sunlit studio itself. An enormous canvas rested on three easels in the centre of the room. Partially draped, it was an ancient scene, classical and grand.
‘Do you like it?’ the artist asked, and grinned.
‘Indeed,’ said Lestrade, hoping he would not be lured into a conversation on the merits of gouache or the traps of chiaroscuro.
‘So do I.’ Alma-Tadema replenished his own and Lestrade’s glasses with the finest claret cup Lestrade had ever tasted. ‘Tell me something; I thought you police-chappies never drank on duty.’
‘Most of us don’t, sir. But if I may say so, most of us don’t get offered claret of this vintage.’
‘My dear … er … Inspector, is it? Not only have you a discerning eye for art, but you are also a connoisseur of the vine. A lucky day for me indeed.’
‘I hope so, sir.’ Lestrade produced a tin from his pocket. ‘Be so good as to have a look at the contents of this.’
Alma-Tadema opened, sniffed, peered closely through the pince-nez, placed an exquisitely manicured finger in and licked it. ‘Enamel,’ he said. ‘Black enamel. Aspinall’s probably.’
‘Is enamel paint unusual, Mr Ala-Tameda?’
‘Indeed it is. It’s not readily available yet and of course quite unsuitable for canvas. But the French are using it a lot on their blasted bits and pieces.’
‘Don’t you like the New Art, Mr Mala-Teda?’
‘Oh, in its way, it’s all right, but you can’t build an Underground Station that looks like a peacock. There isn’t enough of the classical in art nowadays. Not like the Romans,’ he said, waving in the direction of his canvas. ‘You know where you are with Romans.’
‘You said Aspinall’s enamel?’
‘Yes, that is the firm that produces it.’ Alma-Tadema buried himself in a bureau. ‘It’s deuced expensive; even I only have …’ He stopped. Lestrade crossed the room to him.
‘Something the matter, sir?’
‘They’ve gone. Six pots of Aspinall’s black enamel. Gone.’
‘When did you last see your enamel?’
Alma-Tadema chewed his thumb. ‘Well, let’s see, it must have been – Tuesday last, or Monday.’
‘It may be crucial, sir.’
‘Yes, yes of course, Inspector. Monday, week before last. I’m certain it was Monday because I had one of my sitters cancel at short notice. I was not too displeased. I hate painting portraits. Give me Romans every time.’
There was a pause.
‘Inspector, may I ask why you came to me with this paint?’
‘My chief recommended you, sir, as a prominent man in paint-consistency.’
The artist laughed. ‘Well, I’m flattered. But what is this in connection with?’
‘You don’t read the newspapers, Mr Alma-Mater?’
‘Only the art reviews, I’m afraid. Shockingly narrow of me, isn’t it?’
‘Had you read the headlines, sir, over the past ten days, you would know that three young men were found dead in Battersea Park. Each one had been painted black from head to foot. It was that very act of painting which killed them.’
‘Good God!’ Alma-Tadema sat down with astonishment. ‘But that’s incredible.’
‘What is more incredible, sir, is that the paint seems to have come from your studio.’
Realisation began to dawn on the artist.
‘I see,’ he said, the smile leaving his face for the first time that day. ‘So you came to me for expert technical advice and I end up as a suspect.’
‘Not such a lucky day for you after all then, Mr Alda-Tamer?’
‘Indeed, no,’ replied the artist.
‘Who has access to this studio?’
‘Oh, almost anyone. It’s locked at night, of course and only the butler and I have keys, but during the day it’s always open. Unless I have a finished canvas. The place is always full of people. You saw for yourself. It’s open
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