Читать книгу The Painted Dragon - Katherine Woodfine - Страница 17

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leo paused for a moment, tapping her pen against the paper, unsure what else to say. She had never been very good at putting her feelings into words. What’s more, it was difficult to express just how different her life was here in London to life at Winter Hall. There, the fields and woods would be golden now and the air would smell of smoke and moss. Father and Vincent would be preparing for their autumn shooting parties; Mother would be packing for her European trip.

But autumn meant something else to Leo now. It meant rain on the windows of the Antiques Room in the morning; afternoons spent walking through the grand spaces of London’s museums and galleries; or sitting on the rug before the fire in her room, reading art history books. It meant a jumble of raincoats and umbrellas on the underground railway in the morning; the steamed-up windows of the little tea shop around the corner from the Spencer, where all the art students went to eat buns and drink endless cups of coffee.

Most of all, it meant long hours working in the studio. Professor Jarvis was working them all hard, but no matter how much effort she put in, Leo had found she could not entirely avoid the sharp edge of his tongue. His criticisms rattled her confidence – and she knew she was not the only one. A couple of the other first-year students had left, unable to handle Professor Jarvis’s acid remarks – but Leo kept on, refusing to allow herself to be discouraged.

When she was not at the Spencer, she was usually at Sinclair’s. Working on Mr Lyle’s exhibition had turned out to be more enjoyable than she had expected. It was fun spending time at the beautiful department store, but most of all, she had been surprised by how much she had enjoyed the chance to get to know the other students who were helping with the exhibition – particularly Jack Rose and the red-haired, freckled boy, Tom Smith, who everyone called ‘Smitty’ – though she was still a little intimidated by their outspoken friend, Connie.

Now, as she sat in her room, hesitating over how to say all this in her letter to Lady Tremayne, she found herself thinking back to that afternoon, when Mr Lyle had gathered the students together to see the unwrapping of one of the most important works in the exhibition. It had arrived earlier that day in a large motor van painted with the Royal crest, and two men had personally delivered it into Mr Lyle’s own hands. Usually Mr Lyle allowed the students to unwrap the paintings, wearing white cotton gloves and following his careful instructions, but this particular painting was so precious that he was handling it himself. The students had gathered in a semi-circle around him to watch.

‘This is one of the finest pieces in our exhibition,’ he had said, as he gently removed the painting from its wrappings, and stared at it reverently. ‘I am honoured to say that His Majesty the King himself has lent us this magnificent piece.’

Leo gazed at the painting. It was much smaller than the other paintings in the exhibition, but it at once drew the eye towards it. It was clear that it was extremely old, and yet its colours were lush and intense. The central image was of a dragon, with a twisting, serpent-like body, magnificent wings and a coiling tail. It was painted in a rich emerald green that almost seemed to glow. The background was elaborately patterned with gold leaf in ornate symbols and tiny stars. Mr Lyle stared at it for a long moment before he spoke.

‘Is anyone familiar with this painting?’ he asked. ‘Yes – Miss Clifton?’

‘It’s part of the Casselli Dragon sequence,’ offered Connie.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Lyle. ‘That is quite right. This is in fact one of only two surviving paintings from the sequence thought to have been painted by the artist Benedetto Casselli in Venice in 1455. Miss Clifton, do you know how many paintings we believe there were originally?’

‘Was it seven?’ said Connie, a little less confidently this time.

‘Oh excellent, Miss Clifton,’ said Mr Lyle, and Connie looked pleased. ‘Yes. Seven paintings, each one depicting a dragon. This is known as The Green Dragon. I am sorry to tell you that the other surviving painting, The White Dragon, was most unfortunately stolen from Mr Doyle’s gallery on Bond Street earlier this year.’

‘That’s right – I read about it in the paper!’ exclaimed Smitty. ‘Wasn’t it supposed to be worth a whole lot of money?’

Lyle looked troubled. ‘The loss of such a treasure is a genuine tragedy. I only hope that the thieves have the sense to take proper care of the painting, and that it will find its way back into the hands of a museum or a reputable collector before long.

‘Now, as Mr Smith rightly points out, both The White Dragon and The Green Dragon are of great value. They are particularly special because of their unusual subject matter. There has been much speculation about why the artist chose the dragon as his subject, though of course it is unlikely we will ever know for sure. But the painting is a fine example of the craftsmanship of the time. I urge you to study it closely.

‘Moving onwards, I am very pleased to say that I have another special painting to show you today, painted by Gainsborough around 1780. This is on loan from a dear friend of mine, the Duke of Roehampton, and it also has a remarkable history. Mr Rose, if you could perhaps assist me? This one is large and rather heavy . . . thank you . . .’

The others crowded around the new picture eagerly, but Leo found that she couldn’t stop staring at the painted dragon. The dragon’s expression was inscrutable: at first glance it appeared proud and regal; in another light, cruel and fierce. But the more Leo looked at it, the more she began to feel that it looked in fact a little sad. How was it possible that a painter so many hundreds of years before had managed to capture so many shades of feeling in just a few blobs of paint?

She was still contemplating it when Mr Lyle’s little lecture on Gainsborough came to an end, and the students dispersed. After a moment, he came over to her, and she started back, afraid that he was going to accuse her of not paying attention to what he had been saying. But then she saw to her surprise that he was smiling. Up close, she was struck all over again by his exquisite clothing: the fine silk of his necktie, the immaculate kid gloves, the richly spiced scent of the unusual cologne he wore, the gleaming gold pin at his lapel.

‘It’s Miss Fitzgerald, isn’t it? Professor Jarvis was kind enough to show me a little of your work. I was particularly impressed by some of the copies you had made of one or two very fine pieces – I believe I recognised them from the collection at Winter Hall.’

Leo looked up, astonished. ‘You’ve been there?’ she blurted out.

‘Oh, not for a few years. But I remember some of the paintings well. Let me see – I believe it was your grandfather, Lord Charles, who was the keen collector?’

Leo was suddenly embarrassed. She should have known that a man like Mr Lyle was bound to know her family.

But Mr Lyle was still talking: ‘I wonder if perhaps growing up surrounded by such a collection has helped to set you on this path,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Your copies of some of those pictures are very skilful. Your version of that little Watteau portrait, for example – an ambitious choice, but cleverly done. I have a soft spot for Watteau, myself, I must confess. You have a real gift, Miss Fitzgerald.’

Leo looked back at him, surprised and pleased. None of the guests in her mother’s drawing room – with the exception, of course, of Lady Tremayne – had ever spoken to her like this. ‘I don’t know if I should spend so much time copying other people’s work,’ she managed to stammer out. ‘Professor Jarvis says it’s important that I find my own style, instead of imitating others.’

‘My goodness, my dear, no!’ Mr Lyle looked so horrified that Leo almost wanted to laugh in spite of herself. ‘There is no finer way to learn than to apprentice yourself to the masters. Professor Jarvis is quite right, of course – all artists need to find their own style eventually, but for now, I would encourage you to keep on this path.’

Leo felt a sudden sense of relief. She knew that she did not have the same bold, definite style as some of the other students. Smitty, for example, painted enormous scenes of jagged abstract industrial landscapes; while Connie’s taste seemed to be for large portraits in odd colours, which exposed every blemish of her subjects’ faces. Leo knew that she did not want to do work like that herself, but what exactly she did want to paint, she was not quite sure.

‘Why not see what you can do with The Green Dragon?’ said Mr Lyle now, gesturing to the painting before them. ‘It won’t be easy, but it would be a good challenge for you.’

Leo gaped at him. ‘But . . . I could never recreate that! It’s so old, and I don’t have any of the materials. All that gold leaf . . .’

Lyle waved a gloved hand, as if to say all that was nothing. ‘Oh, I can supply you with the materials you would need. Think of it as a little commission. Perhaps, if it turns out well, I might buy it as a memento of this exhibition? I’d rather like to be able to say I purchased your first piece.’

She had still been stumbling over her thanks as he had strolled away to talk to Connie about the Gainsborough. Now, remembering this, Leo set aside the letter to her godmother. Instead, she took out one of her art history books, which she felt quite sure contained a picture of The Green Dragon.

Back at Sinclair’s, there were preparations of a different kind under way for Mr Lyle’s new exhibition. In their dressing room, some of the mannequins had gathered to try on their costumes for the Living Paintings display, and to practise their poses. As Sophie made her way along the passage, carrying a couple of hat-boxes, she could hear the voice of Claudine, the window-dresser, emanating loudly from within:

‘Rosa! You’re supposed to be a painting – you ought to be still. Don’t twitch like that! And Millie – you’re meant to be Joan of Arc. A saint – a heroine – not a music-hall dancer!’

Sophie grinned to herself as she went on her way down the stairs into the Entrance Hall. At the foot of the stairs, she was rather surprised to see none other than Mr McDermott standing waiting, accompanied by a large dog. Mr McDermott was the private detective who worked for Mr Sinclair – and sometimes, Sophie knew, with Scotland Yard too. The thin, grey-haired man might not look much like it, but she knew he was a clever detective – and someone that she could rely on. She suspected that he might be one of the only people to understand how she felt about the Baron, although they had never really talked about it.

‘Miss Taylor – good afternoon,’ he said, tipping his hat to her as she approached.

Sophie smiled back a greeting, and stopped to give the big Alsatian a pat. ‘He’s lovely – is he yours?’

‘He’s a she – and as a matter of fact, she belongs to Sinclair’s department store,’ explained the detective. Sophie frowned, confused, and McDermott went on: ‘She’s a guard dog. Trained by Scotland Yard’s experts.’

‘A guard dog?’ repeated Sophie in surprise, looking down at the dog who was currently licking her hand in an extremely affectionate manner.

‘Oh she’s friendly as anything now, but when she’s on duty, it’s a different matter. Mr Sinclair has asked me to put some additional security measures in place while the exhibition is here,’ McDermott explained.

‘Is that because of the burglary that happened before, when the Clockwork Sparrow was stolen?’ Sophie asked. She knew that Mr McDermott had already helped to improve the store’s security after the last break-in. The windows of the Exhibition Hall had been specially reinforced, and there was always a nightwatchman patrolling the store after closing time.

‘It’s just an extra precaution,’ said McDermott in a neutral voice. ‘Mr Sinclair didn’t want anyone to be concerned about the safety of the paintings.’

Just then, the Head Porter Sid Parker appeared, accompanied, rather unexpectedly, by Joe.

‘This the dog, then, is it?’ asked Sid briskly.

‘Her name’s Daisy,’ said Mr McDermott. Daisy yawned, lolling out a long pink tongue.

‘Daisy?’ repeated Sid. ‘What kind of a name is that?’

McDermott laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter what her name is – she’s an excellent guard dog. She’ll bark the place down if she gets so much as a sniff of an intruder.’

Sid grunted. ‘Well, Joe here is going to take charge of her for the time being. He’ll look after her at the stables, and then we’ll station her on guard with the nightwatchman outside the Hall each night.’

‘Just the man for the job,’ said McDermott, nodding approvingly. ‘Make sure you introduce her to the nightwatchman, and anyone else who might be in the store at night. Otherwise she’ll bark if she hears them coming.’

As he said this, the detective reached out to hand over Daisy’s lead, but before Joe could take a firm hold of it, Billy appeared through the main door, leading Lucky. As usual, several passing customers turned at once to coo and fuss over the adorable little creature.

Lucky, however, had other ideas. Glimpsing Daisy across the Entrance Hall, she made up her mind that here was a new friend. To everyone’s astonishment, she shot suddenly away, jerking her lead right out of Billy’s hand. As Lucky bounded towards Daisy, she leapt forwards too, barking joyously, obviously quite delighted by this new game.

Several customers turned to stare at the commotion.

‘Good heavens!’ sniffed a fashionable lady.

‘Bless my soul!’ exclaimed a gentleman in a top hat.

‘Oh blimey,’ said Uncle Sid. ‘Joe – Billy – get after them – quickly!’

Joe and Billy chased after the two dogs, who were now racing up the main staircase – and Mr McDermott and Sid hurried along behind. After a moment’s pause, Sophie followed too. She knew she had already been far too long delivering the hat-boxes, but she simply couldn’t resist seeing what would happen next.

The two dogs bounded up the stairs, darting between customers, upsetting a porter with a stack of boxes, and knocking over a small boy in a sailor suit, who began to wail. One lady screamed as the big Alsatian rushed past her, but luckily Uncle Sid was there in the nick of time, with a steadying arm. ‘I do apologise most sincerely for this unseemly disturbance, madam,’ Sophie heard him saying in his politest voice.

Upstairs, the dogs had dashed along the gallery and through the Stationery Department, sending sheets of writing paper and envelopes fluttering up into the air, and upsetting several bottles of coloured ink. They paid no heed to the chaos left behind them, or the angry salesman shaking his fist as they raced on, with Billy and Joe hot on their heels. They careened past the door to the Library, where a very serious-looking lady looked over her spectacles in great disapproval. Finally, they shot through the door into the mannequins’ dressing room: for a moment, the two boys hesitated on the threshold, and looked at each other.

‘We’re not allowed to go in there!’ hissed Billy.

A cacophony of shrieks and yells were heard from within, followed by the distinct sound of tearing fabric, and then Claudine screaming something very angry in French.

‘I think we better had,’ said Joe, and dived through the door, Billy following close behind him.

Some more yells were heard, but a few moments later, the two boys emerged, each leading a dog, and looking rather red in the face. Daisy had the remains of what looked like a long white glove in her mouth. Lucky, meanwhile, was dragging a chewed feather boa behind her, wriggling her little tail in pride and delight.

Sophie couldn’t help laughing. McDermott was grinning too. Behind them, Uncle Sid panted along the passageway, having safely delivered the swooning lady to the Ladies’ Lounge, smoothed down the rumpled feelings of the salesman in the Stationery Department, and extended all due apologies to the lady in the library. Now, he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, shaking his head.

‘Crikey,’ he gasped. ‘I reckon this art business is a whole lot more trouble than it’s worth.’