Last Nocturne (23 page)

Making his way round the edges of the room, Lamb couldn’t help thinking that this modish assembly might in itself serve as a subject for any one of these works of art, after the manner of the music-hall audience watching Miss Tilly Tremayne. Some artist was surely missing an opportunity of capturing the desperate determination to enjoy themselves on the faces of the overdressed women and their bored, sophisticated escorts. Perhaps it would not be the sort of picture you’d want to have hanging on your walls, but then, neither was anything else that Lamb could see. His overall impression was that the main purpose of most of the pictures displayed was to shock, with their violent, bold colours and disturbing subjects. And then he came to the back wall. It seemed Sickert had not been the only one to see the possibilities of making capital out of the shocking circumstances of Theo’s death. The whole wall was devoted to Theo Benton. The paintings chosen to be displayed were those of his which were very nearly – though not quite – as raw and garish as those of the other exhibitors, unlike those few small canvases which, undistinguished as they seemed, had yet intrigued Lamb on that first visit to Theo’s studio, and for which his eyes now searched in vain. Were these hanging on the wall here what Sickert had meant when he had spoken about Theo succumbing to commercialism? If so, they’d succeeded – or someone had, in selecting them. Several displayed red ‘Sold’ stickers: the world suddenly finding the hitherto unregarded, scorned young artist had been a genius, after all?

He turned away, his eyes skimming the crowd, and soon found the man he’d come to see, a youngish man in a pearl grey suit, who was moving smoothly from group to group, beckoning for glasses to be filled, pausing to shake an extended hand, kiss a powdered cheek. Edward Ireton, Martagon’s secretary and assistant. He saw that he himself had been seen and recognised. For a moment only, a shade of annoyance passed across Ireton’s face, before he smiled and acknowledged the chief inspector’s presence with a nod. Lamb responded with a sideways movement of his hand to indicate there was no hurry and Ireton motioned to a waiter and directed him towards Lamb before continuing his progress.

Declining the champagne the waiter offered, Lamb kept his eye on Ireton as he worked his way through the crowd. Smartly dressed, with a high collar and a pearl pin in his cravat, his light brown hair smoothly side-parted, he was discreet, recognising everyone, ready with answers to any questions. He became engaged in earnest conversation with a potential customer, whom he eventually guided towards a particular painting. They stood in front of it for some time, discussing it, then Ireton raised his finger to an assistant who came forward to stick a red circle on it. It was not one of Benton’s, but Ireton and the buyer shook hands, both looking equally satisfied.

Lamb had met Ireton during previous visits he’d made to the gallery over the robbery there, when thieves had broken in and left with some small watercolours and two bronzes. It had happened when Martagon was abroad, while Ireton had been left in charge; he had been extremely distressed, holding himself personally responsible for what had happened, since his employer had apparently been in the habit of quite confidently leaving him in charge of the gallery when he was absent. The non-recovery of the bronzes by the police had done nothing to soothe his bruised ego. He had apparently been working for Martagon for some twenty years, ever since the Pontifex Gallery had first opened, and during that time he had progressed from competent secretary to knowledgeable assistant; an apt pupil who soaked up like a sponge anything Martagon could teach him. Sometimes he had accompanied his employer when he travelled abroad in search of new acquisitions.

He was a controlled man who gave little away but Lamb had had the sense that beneath his surface calm, Ireton had been distraught at Martagon’s death. He had gone so far as to admit, in the first hours after the discovery of the body, that his employer had recently not been quite himself, as he had put it, but couldn’t readily say why. Could not, or would not? Lamb had wondered. There had been something slightly evasive in the way he’d refused to say more, but then, Martagon had been a friend as well as an employer and his suicide had possibly caused genuine grief. It was also more than probable he was afraid of the gallery being closed with Martagon dead, and consequently losing his position. Later, he’d clammed up entirely and refused to answer any more questions. With hindsight, Lamb was sorry that he hadn’t pressed him more, when he was at his most vulnerable.

He wandered round the room until felt a touch on his arm. ‘What do you think of our exhibition?’ It seemed Ireton had momentarily abandoned future prospects. He had to raise his voice to be heard. The noise was deafening.

‘Eye catching.’ Lamb was saved from having to display further interest by the approach of a woman with a voice like a parrot who was dangerously waving a black Russian cigarette in an amber holder in one hand while she balanced a drink in her other. ‘Edward! Too, too clever of you to—’ she screeched, the rest of her words lost, then, espying someone else more worthy of her attention, she smiled brilliantly at no one in particular and moved on without waiting for an answer. Another person caught the secretary’s eye, and began to weave his way through the crowd with obvious intent.

Lamb said, ‘Mr Ireton. I wanted a few words with you, but I’ve obviously chosen the wrong moment. Perhaps tomorrow?’

Ireton brought his hands together theatrically. ‘Oh,
much
more convenient, if you could! We’re due to close in fifteen minutes, and after that I have young Mr Martagon, the late owner’s son, waiting in the office to talk business with me. There’s nothing – wrong, I hope?’

Lamb couldn’t let this opportunity pass. ‘No, but if Mr Martagon is here, and you’re not available just yet, I could kill two birds with one stone, as it were. We were due to meet tomorrow morning, so this could save time for both of us. It shouldn’t take long and I can come back another time to see you when you’re free.’

‘Take as long as you wish! I shall be lucky if I get rid of this crowd for another hour – one can’t just shoo away potential clients, after all,’ he said, flashing a smile and fluttering a hand at a passing prospect. ‘He’s waiting in the office. Through that door over there, then the next down the corridor. Give him my apologies and tell him I’ll be with him as soon as possible.’

As well as the entrance from the corridor, the office had a door to the outside and a bow window with small square panes facing other buildings across a narrow, charming, now dusk-filled alley, whose owners had colour-washed their walls in pastel colours and put tubs of bay trees outside their doors. The thieves had used this as a way of entry and escape, breaking in and overpowering Ireton, leaving him tied up, Lamb recalled. Guy Martagon was standing by the fireplace and when Lamb entered the office, he turned round. His eyebrows rose when he saw who it was. ‘Chief Inspector!’

It wasn’t yet time for the bracket gas lamps in the alley to be lit, but the room inside had grown shadowy, and Guy reached out and switched on an electric lamp on the large mahogany desk which occupied most of the centre of the room. The office was revealed as comfortable, in a gentleman’s study kind of way, with bookshelves and deep cushioned chairs, soft Persian rugs. It was papered in dark green, against which several heavily gilt-framed pictures glowed. Lamb noted they were traditional, not at all like the modern ones displayed in the gallery. In the light of the lamp, they glowed richly in a room which must always be on the dark side.

The lamplight also revealed that Martagon was not alone in the room. A woman sat quietly in the shadows, who was introduced to Lamb as a Miss Thurley. A still young woman with lovely eyes. There was a scent of lily-of-the-valley when she moved to take his hand. He deduced, since Martagon was apparently expecting to discuss business with Ireton, she must be in his confidence, and stole a quick look at her left hand, but it was ringless.

Martagon leant idly against the desk, while Lamb took the seat he was waved to and explained why he was here, and that Ireton was likely to be some time yet. ‘I thought it would save us both time if we could conduct our business now, rather than tomorrow, but if you’d rather wait until then—’ He looked towards Miss Thurley.

‘That’s all right, Inspector, you can say what you wish. I have no secrets from Miss Thurley.’ He smiled at the young woman. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

Lamb remarked, temporising, ‘The exhibition appears to be going well.’

‘The pictures are selling.’

‘Especially Theo Benton’s, I noticed. He was a protégé of your father’s, I understand?’

‘So I’ve been told.’

‘How well did they know each other – personally, I mean, apart from their business dealings?’

‘I didn’t know their acquaintance was anything other than that.’

‘They first met on one of your father’s business trips abroad – in Vienna, I understand. Wasn’t that where your father became interested in Benton’s work?’

‘Possibly, but I can’t really say. And what has it to do with Benton’s suicide?’

The two men regarded each other without speaking for a moment.

‘Mr Martagon – I have some news which I fear may be distressing. Theo Benton didn’t commit suicide. We believe he was murdered.’

There was a silence, which had more than shock behind it: apprehension, disbelief? ‘Murdered? I heard he jumped from a window when he was drunk.’

‘It’s true that he had a very low alcohol tolerance, but it wasn’t drink that caused him to fall from the window.’ Lamb considered what he’d learnt from the autopsy report and decided it would do no harm to let it be known. ‘The doctors, Mr Martagon, have found that he was poisoned with a strong dose of laudanum and when he became insensible, he was dragged to the window and pushed out.’

‘Good God.’

Decanters stood on a credenza at one side of the room, and after a moment Miss Thurley rose and walked across to it. ‘There seems to be sherry, Inspector, or brandy. Which will you have?’ This time Lamb didn’t refuse what turned out to be a generous measure of sherry. She also poured one out for Martagon without asking him, but not one for herself, before going back to where she had been sitting.

‘What are you trying to tell me, Chief Inspector? What has all this to do with my father?’

Lamb had always felt there was something very direct and honest about young Martagon, and that he could face hard facts, and thought the time had at last come to be blunt. ‘Nothing, I sincerely hope. However…’ He took a sip of the pale, very dry fino in his glass before placing it carefully on the desk. ‘Mr Martagon, at the time of your father’s death, since you wouldn’t entertain the idea that he’d taken his own life, and were reluctant to admit the possibility of an accident, you must have faced the only other alternative.’

Someone opened the door which led into the gallery and let out a blast of sound. The guests seemed in no hurry to depart. Then the door closed, shutting off the noise abruptly. ‘Of course it entered my mind,’ Martagon said stiffly, at last, ‘but who would want to entertain such a thought for long?’ In spite of this, Lamb noticed a mixture of emotions crossing his face, predominantly one that might almost be called
relief
, possibly because now his deepest fears had been openly expressed. It was precisely the same emotion Lamb had encountered in Joseph Benton. Even murder was more acceptable than self – assassination, it seemed, either deliberately or accidentally. ‘Yes,’ Martagon repeated at last, releasing a sigh, ‘I have thought of it. Though without any obvious motive, that idea seemed equally impossible.’ He focused his attention on the embossed gold tooling of the leather on the desktop, as if it might contain some hitherto concealed secret. ‘Are you saying you know now that’s what happened?’ he asked without looking up.

‘Not by any means, not yet. But I think you must be prepared. Theo Benton’s murder also seems absolutely motiveless at the moment. You know, detective work means following even the most unlikely leads. Benton lived for a time in Vienna, and the only thing we have to go on so far is that some event seems to have happened there which affected him deeply. It was there also that he and your father met, and they have both died in as yet unexplained circumstances.’

Martagon said to the desktop, ‘I see.’

‘I’m sure your father led an exemplary life – you’ll remember I met him a few times, and I respected what I saw of him – but you’ll also appreciate that in the circumstances we may need to look into more intimate details. I’m sorry, this is bound to be painful.’

He was indeed genuinely sorry. He liked Martagon, who seemed a chip off the old block. If a young man such as he were to apply for a job as his assistant, Lamb would have had no hesitation in setting him on. But he was still young and also quick, somewhat impulsive, and wouldn’t brook interference in his affairs. He lived in a milieu where people’s private lives were not open to scrutiny. They were not questioned indiscriminately by the police; they had the right connections so that such indignities and difficulties were smoothed over. But Martagon said quietly, when he finally looked up, that he would be more than willing to help, although since he’d been away out of the country for so long he knew little of his father’s private life. They’d exchanged letters, of course, he’d known Eliot had visited Paris and other places in Europe, in particular Vienna, but that was really the extent of it. He came to a halt and then continued, after a long look exchanged with Miss Thurley, ‘I think I must tell you that a situation has arisen…one I’ve been trying to sort out by myself. But this changes everything…’

There had been letters addressed to his father, he continued after a moment or two, which had turned up after he died, and in them had been mention of some unpleasant happening, a scandal perhaps, which had occurred in Vienna, perhaps while his father was there, maybe the same event Lamb had referred to.

‘In what way was your father involved in this affair?’

‘I don’t know that he was. I haven’t actually seen the letters myself, so I can’t give you any more precise details, other than that they were apparently from a woman, and unsigned. The references to whatever it was that happened were apparently quite vague, but I’m quite certain my father could never have been involved in anything dishonourable—’