“He could have committed the murder,” suggested Sickert lightly.
The siblings exchanged glances.
Sidgwick began telling the company about Mrs. Blavatsky, the medium that the Society for Psychical Research had recently discredited. “I still maintain she has powers beyond the ordinary,” he said. “She found Nora’s mother’s locket.”
Nora Sidgwick nodded. “I never thought of looking under the dormer.”
“Did she levitate anything?” asked Emily. “John and I once saw a lady levitate a blanket. Except John said there were mirrors. Am I right, John?”
“There most certainly were mirrors,” said Sargent.
“Kit levitated herself once,” said Vernon Lee.
Everyone looked at Kit with curiosity.
“Almost,” amended Kit.
“Kit has a gift for the amplification of stimuli,” explained Vernon. “As you can see, she has a magnificent physical instrument.”
Everyone stared at Kit’s physical instrument.
“And how did Kit almost levitate herself?” asked Alice.
“It was the influence of a painting,” explained Vernon. “A Titian. We were both struck dumb, but Kit was affected most strongly. The uplift in the vertical lines combined with the buoyancy of the reds almost lifted her off the ground.”
Everyone pondered this.
“And does Kit have other…gifts?” asked Alice.
“Oh yes,” said Vernon, “she feels all sorts of things. Isn’t that so, dear?” She turned to Kit, who was buttering a roll but who put it down to address the company.
“I feel the forces in this room,” she asserted loudly. “My head is high and my legs rooted, but I feel myself drawn hither and yon.” She began to sway. “Divergent impulses among the company: doubt, suspicion, possibly dread. The vibrations course through me.” She gave a gasp and a shudder. Then she took a bite from the roll.
“Kit could be an invaluable resource if properly exploited,” explained Vernon. “She could anticipate earthquakes, floods, and mining disasters, not to mention evils of the social variety. She has a special feeling for the suffering poor, especially in the area of abused womanhood. The Whitechapel murders, for example. I’m sure she could help the police find this Jack the Ripper if she put her mind to it.”
Henry, who had just taken a gulp of wine to wash down a raw potato, was caught off guard by mention of the individual they suspected might be present. He gagged on the potato and snorted wine out of his nose.
A hubbub ensued, as Fenimore pressed a glass of water to his lips and William slapped him on the back. “The poor man has a problem with esophageal spasms,” he explained to distract the company from what might have prompted Henry’s response.
“Yes,” Alice hastened to add. “We wouldn’t want to lose him prematurely to choking death.”
Everyone looked at Henry with concern, and even Henry, who had forgotten why he had choked, looked alarmed on his own behalf.
Finally the conversation resumed. “You were speaking of Kit’s response to the Titian,” Alice prompted.
“Yes,” Vernon took up. “The effects were duplicated with a Raphael and even a minor Mantegna…increased respiration and elevated heart rate. There was also an enlargement of soul that cannot be recorded but to which she attests through her sentiments and behavior. Last week she was inspired to a great act of charity after an hour in front of an Etruscan bronze.”
Kit nodded complacently. “It’s true. I wanted to give all my money away.”
“And she would have done it, were it not held in trust.” Vernon looked admiringly at her friend, who had started in on a second roll. “But what interests us is not Kit in herself, extraordinary though she is, but her representative nature as the human specimen writ large. Her example demonstrates that great art is literally a source of uplift; it can inspire great acts of charity and mercy.”
“And bad art?” asked Sickert with amusement. “Can it inspire great acts of rapacity and murder? If so, I know quite a few painters who ought to be placed under arrest.”
There was a titter of laughter, and the siblings exchanged glances again.
Mrs. Smith had come in with the ices, which had melted, and Mr. Smith refilled the wineglasses, shakily. His nose had grown very red. There was some general toasting to William’s visit, followed by discussion of the latest Royal Academy show, which everyone agreed was disappointing.
“Except for John’s painting of Mrs. Marquand,” noted Emily.
“A handsome woman, Mrs. Marquand,” noted Nora Sidgwick, “but John made her handsomer.”
“John always paints his subjects’ ideal selves,” explained Emily.
“Their complexions are certainly flawless,” agreed Nora.
“That’s why they pay me so much,” noted Sargent. “I’d cut my fee in half to paint a wart.”
As the conversation veered off to a discussion of warts on Mrs. Marquand, Alice turned to Sickert. He was seated to her right, but they had not yet spoken directly. “How do you paint your subjects, Mr. Sickert?” she asked quietly.
“I paint them as they are,” he said succinctly, “or rather, as I see them.”
She paused. “But you apparently do this very well. I have heard excellent things about your work.”
“Is that so?” He smiled and waited for her to elaborate.
“I am told you can hold your own against Whistler. And have the talent to surpass him.”
Sickert did not refute this fact. “Are you interested in pictures?” he asked, his blue eyes taking in Alice’s dress and hair and then settling with interest on her face. The survey was swift but thorough, and for some reason, though normally she was terribly uncomfortable with being looked at, she did not mind.
“I am interested in everything,” she responded a bit smugly, “though, sadly, I cannot act on my interests. I am not a well person, you see, not so much in body as in mind. I am obliged to view life from a distance.”
“We are alike in that,” said Sickert.
Alice looked at him quizzically. “Your mind is not right?”
“To be sure, my mind is not right.” He laughed. “No interesting person is sane. But I also view life at a remove. As an artist, I am by necessity an onlooker.”
“But I rarely get out of bed,” insisted Alice.
“You surpass me there,” he said, bowing his head slightly. “And what conclusions do you draw from that vantage point?”
She considered this a moment. “That life is hard. That we all suffer.”
He nodded. “I’ll grant you that. But is there nothing else? Do you ever laugh?”
“Oh, I laugh all the time.”
Sickert laughed in response and seemed to examine her even more closely. “I should like you to see my paintings.”
“As I said, I don’t go out,” said Alice, tossing her head. “Tonight is an exception. I do it in honor of my brother’s visit from America. I am sure to pay for it with a week’s worth of headaches.”
“I hope it will be worth it.”
“I hope so.” Her tone was saucy. For the first time in her recollection, she was flirting with a man—if she didn’t count the teasing that she and William had done as children.
He kept his gaze on hers. “I could always give you a private viewing…bring my pictures to you.”
She returned his gaze. “I think I should like it better if you painted my portrait. I am told you are gifted but morbid, just the sort of painter who could do me justice.”
“I think I could,” murmured Sickert. “Though, as I said, I am not inclined to flatter.”
“I don’t want to be flattered,” said Alice lightly. “But you will have to paint me in my bedroom, since as I said, I rarely leave it.”
“I would be delighted to be invited into your bedroom—in any capacity you please.”
His eyes flickered with amused insinuation, but Alice could not feel insulted. On the contrary, she looked at him with similar amusement and told him it was settled. “But you will have to hurry,” she warned. “I cannot keep the headaches at bay for long.”