When would Himple be back? Brown didn’t know, didn’t know, sir, it was all a little puzzling — but Mr Himple was an artist, after all.
And the new man?
Gone. (Brown seemed relieved.) Never meant to be a permanent addition to the household, after all. (Brown hid his satisfaction at this pretty well.) His name was Arthur Crum. Yes, he was young. Thin, sir. Yes, the face in the drawing without a beard could be his. Yes, he believed the man Crum had modelled Lazarus. Brown knew nothing of a sister, however, either of the new man or of Lazarus. He was seldom at the studio when Mr Himple was painting, seldom saw the models. No, he was deeply sorry, but it wasn’t possible to see the studio in Mr Himple’s absence. Art was sacrosanct.
‘What did you think of the new man — Crum?’
‘It isn’t my place to think anything of him.’ Brown’s stolid, fleshy face closed up. ‘I have a very good position with Mr Himple, sir. My wages continue while he’s away. I don’t want to give any cause for Mr Himple to — think less of me.’
‘But this Crum, you said, has been discharged. Your opinion of him won’t matter now. You do have an opinion of him, I think.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Brown shifted uneasily. He cleared his throat, then burst out: ‘An upstart. He was an upstart, sir. He didn’t know his craft, between you and me, sir.’ Brown became almost animated. ‘I was a footman for nine years before I was allowed to even lay out my employer’s clothes. This Crum hadn’t done any of that.’ Brown was sitting in a small armchair. He stared at his large hands, then abruptly broke out again: ‘He couldn’t even speak good English, sir! He was a — a-He was of a very low sort, sir. Mr Nobody from Nowhere.’
‘Why did Mr Himple hire him, then?’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir.’
‘Was there something personal between them?’
Brown simply looked at him. His worry seemed to increase: to say anything on this score was to endanger his place, he meant.
Denton said, ‘Do you know how Crum and Mr Himple got acquainted?’
‘Crum was a model, sir. As I say, he modelled Lazarus. I believe that’s how he came to Mr Himple’s attention.’
‘Did he know anything about painting? Was he an artist himself?’
‘I think he knew the studio, sir — by that I mean, he could care for the brushes, and he knew how to make the varnishes and grind the colours. The rude work of the studio.’ Brown sniffed. ‘Hardly an artist. No idea of art, I suspect, although I’d never have engaged him in conversation about such a subject.’ Again, he seemed to have done talking and then abruptly realized he had more to say. ‘He was beneath me, sir! I wanted nothing to do with him. Mr Himple realized that, I think. If it hadn’t been for speaking French, there’d have been no thought of employing him, I’m sure. Mr Himple made that very clear to me when he continued my wages in his absence and put me in charge of the studio. Crum was merely temporary.’
‘Did Crum have some sort of hold over Mr Himple?’
Brown’s eyebrows drew together; a look of pain, almost of illness, took over his face. ‘I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that, sir.’
‘It has a stink to it, Munro.’
‘Not my manor. It’s Guillam’s business, missing persons.’
‘Guillam won’t give me the time of day, and you know it. Don’t you think it’s peculiar?’
‘Peculiarity isn’t a crime.’
‘An artist just happens to draw a picture of a girl who’s missing. A man who looks like her, probably her brother, models for the same artist, then goes off to the Continent as his valet right after she writes me a letter and disappears. The artist and the man travel together, then the artist reports he’s fired the man. So the girl’s missing and now the brother’s missing.’
‘What makes you think he’s missing? What you mean is, you can’t find him. Not the same thing.’
‘I asked at the Slade about Arthur Crum. Asked a couple of the sister’s friends. Had somebody look in the Kelly’s. No Arthur Crum.’
‘What’re you suggesting — an RA took him to the Continent and did him in? Save it for a novel.’
‘Munro, you’re as hard to move as an elephant.’
‘And a good deal busier. Want a word of advice?’
‘No.’
‘We got enough crimes without you inventing them. Leave it.’
‘I can’t leave it. I thought I had; it came back.’
Munro looked up from his paperwork. ‘Where’d you get a picture of her?’
‘It turned up.’
‘Convenient.’ He went back to scribbling on a piece of typescript. ‘You hear that the docs sent in a report on your man Jarrold?’
‘“My man Jarrold” — my God!’
‘Guillam’s office filed it with the magistrate — “given to harmless childish fantasies but improving”. Docs recommend more of whatever they’re doing and a continuance of the charges. Guillam’s recommending to Mrs Striker that she agree.’ He raised his head. ‘She hasn’t told you?’
‘I haven’t seen her in a bit.’
‘Mm. Perhaps you should. Better than mucking about with missing persons.’ He started to lower his head to his paperwork again but lifted it and said, ‘Anyway, they’ve pulled the watchers off you because of the report on Jarrold. You’re on your own.’
When he saw her two days later, he said, ‘You didn’t tell me you’d heard about Jarrold.’
‘I haven’t seen you.’
‘You could have sent one of your telegrams.’
‘I didn’t think it was important.’
‘It’s important to me. Jarrold’s hoodwinked them. If they think what’s behind that moon face of his is a “harmless childish fantasy”, they should be disbarred or defrocked or whatever it is you do with medical men.’
‘Their report is quite positive. He’s “calm”. They’re giving him chloral at night and he’s sleeping. He’s given up wandering about in the dark, sleeps the night through. The Lady Astoreth has dropped out of his life.’
‘He’s pulling the wool over their eyes.’
‘Maybe the Lady Astoreth has run off with Arthur Crum.’
‘If Arthur Crum actually exists somewhere.’
‘Not to mention the Lady Astoreth.’ They were in his sitting room. Outside, it was crisp and cold; thin winter sunlight showed the sooty patterns on his windowpanes. She was wearing another suit, this one in a heavy rustred wool; she had taken off the jacket to reveal a plain white blouse with a mannish necktie. She said, ‘Maybe Munro’s right about both Mary Thomason and Arthur Crum. They’re both much ado about nothing.’
‘I think the Thomason business is nothing, then I swing the other way and am certain something’s really happened. The coincidences — the drawing, Himple, Crum going off with him-’ He struck the velvet arm of his chair and dust motes jumped into the room. ‘The little drawings, the remarques — if they mean something, if they’re some sort of code — Augustus John and the housekeeper both recognized the one of Lazarus, so that one’s clear enough. If she drew it, she was referring to the man who drew her picture, to Himple. But the other one-’
‘You said nobody recognizes the other one.’
‘It’s a doorway, just a doorway.’ He put his legs out. He touched her foot with one of his, frowned at her small boot. ‘Heseltine looked funny when he saw it, but he said he didn’t recognize it. No, he didn’t say that — he just said something about — what? It was too small to see, or something. But he did look funny.’
‘Ask him again.’
‘I hate to bother him. He’s in a bad state.’
‘So are you.’