The Stargazey (23 page)

Simeon Pitt cocked his head. “How many Turners are there?”

Melrose smiled. How refreshing. Mr. Pitt was not one to allow place to rhetorical questions. “Only the one, I think.” He thought of Bea Slocum. “I wonder—”

“Words can only hint at the bottomless despondency one feels looking at the so-called art of this Chambers fellow. He stands for so much one loathes on the current art scene.” Pitt's fingers drummed on the arm
of his chair. By the round, cherubic look of him and the thin veil of whitened hair that covered his otherwise bald pate, Simeon Pitt looked to be in his late sixties, at least. He acted more like sixteen, as if nothing took place in his life that did not require physical emphasis. “He's getting all this adulation now, as a result of
this
.” He picked up the arts page and shook it as if he might be able to shake it free of the redoubtable Fogg's words. “People will swarm to his exhibit and talk him up because they've been told he's good, while a really deserving fellow has to scrabble for pennies to buy paints.”

Melrose smiled. “I was getting the impression there
were
no really deserving fellows.”

“Untrue, untrue! They are few and far between, mind you. We're lucky to see one come along once in a decade. Ah, here comes Higgins.”

Whenever Young Higgins crossed the room with a tray, Melrose had the impression of an elderly bat boy. The contents of the soda syphon sloshed and the glasses slid and rattled, but in general the tray was brought safely home.

“Thank you, sir,” said Pitt, signing the ticket with a flourish. “No, no, don't you bother; I'll splash the stuff into the glasses. . . . Be here all day, otherwise,” he added, after Higgins had wandered off. Pitt pushed the soda syphon as if he were going to put out a fire. He handed Melrose his whisky. “What were we saying? Oh, yes. You see, what makes me see red is that there may be more real artists among us, but they can't manage, can't eke out an existence in a loft with a skylight and not enough money for a loaf.”

This amused Melrose. Simeon Pitt's idea of unrecognized genius was quite stereotypically romantic.

“A few years back there was one, fellow named Jeremy Grey, whom you've never heard of because none of these damned gallery twerps would take him on. So reviewers like me, we never saw him. When I finally did, he was dead. And where I saw three of his paintings was in a pub. That's right, a pub. Some publican had traded drinks, probably, for the paintings. Remarkable work. I wrote a double column about Grey, wrote about him for a month.”

It came to Melrose finally. Simeon Pitt! “You're
that
Pitt. The art critic for the
Times.
Before Fogg.” Melrose seemed to recall this critic had
been more than once referred to as “Pitt bull.”

“How could I have been so stupid not to put that together immediately?”

“Why, I don't know, man. How could you?”

Pitt was regarding Melrose over the rim of his glass. He looked so gleeful that Melrose had to laugh. Then he asked, “Do you know the Fabricant Gallery?”

“Oh, yes. I know most of them, though I don't get around much any more—aren't those the words of an old song?” He tapped his toe and hummed awhile. He stopped, continued. “When I had this job”—here he flicked a finger at the offending newspaper—“I was always making rounds; I felt it as a duty. Now I'd sooner save my time and my feet for a look round the Tate, the National, the Royal Academy. Old friends, old friends. I think of Matisse sometimes; I remember Vuillard and van Gogh, and it's a treat, a real treat, to know all I need do is heave myself out of this chair or my sofa at home and go. And there they all are again! Yes, there they are.” Pitt sighed, as if in wonder that the paintings persisted, unchanged, dependable.

This flight of fancy was almost as much a transporting experience for Melrose as it clearly was for Simeon Pitt.
Old friends, old friends.
Matisse, Vuillard, van Gogh. Melrose could imagine the four of them—five if he himself were invited—the five of them here in Boring's deep leather armchairs, pouring the whisky, splashing the soda. The good stuff, the real art, gave you the shock of the familiar not the cold consort of the alien, the wretched stuff that left you outside in the snow. Real art invited you in.

Hell's bells, that was what was so enraging about that bogus white “series” of Ralph Rees! Just that: It
was
bogus.

“Mr. Pitt—”

“You were deep into something there, Mr. Plant.”

“I was. We were talking about the Fabricant Gallery.”

“Place in Mayfair, yes.”

“Have you been there lately?”

“No.”

“Would you care to go?”

“What? You mean today?”

“I mean right now.”

“But we've just settled in with our whiskies, man!” Pitt raised his in proof of this.

“I'd deem it a personal favor, Mr. Pitt, and when we return we'll settle again and have a double.” Melrose smiled his special smile, the one he was not wholly conscious he had, but it was as fetching as the smile of a very young child. It was, like the work of Matisse, Vuillard, and van Gogh, the real thing on offer. It invited you in.

“Excellent! I'll hold you to it. And here's to a good long stay in Boring's!” They raised their glasses. “How long are you staying, Mr. Plant?”

“I'm not quite sure, actually, Mr. Pitt. A few days, I'd guess.”

“Well, it's pleasant, and, God knows, it's quiet here. Actually, I don't miss the noise and grind of the newspaper business, not at all. I have my digs in Chelsea, on my own, except for my dog and cat. Sounds lonely, I expect, but it isn't. To tell the truth, I enjoy being on my own.”

Melrose smiled. It was as he'd suspected. Simeon Pitt was good company, not only to others but to himself, which was more important. “You don't have a large family, I take it?”

“No, not at all. A few cousins who live in the West Country. Barbara, my niece, who I have to lunch occasionally, usually at the Ivy. She's coming here, actually, on Tuesday. That's Ladies' Day.” He chortled. “Can you imagine? Ladies' Days in these times? But it's probably the only concession Boring's has made over the years to change.” He drank the last of his whisky, brought the glass down heavily, and said, “I'm ready if you are, Mr. Plant.”

“Ready, Mr. Pitt!”

 • • • 

Sebastian was the only one in attendance at the gallery when Pitt and Melrose turned up there a half hour later. Oh, yes, he most certainly knew Simeon Pitt: Sebastian fawned, and Melrose wondered why, given that Pitt was no longer writing reviews of gallery showings. Perhaps Pitt's was the sort of power that was never abrogated, or perhaps he was one of those whose good opinion was always sought, even after he could do one no harm.

There was small talk which Pitt cut short, and Melrose led him into the room where the
Siberian Snow
paintings were displayed.

Pitt took a quick look and a step backward. “What in hell's this?”

“A series of paintings called
Siberian Snow.
Ralph Rees is the artist.”

Pitt managed a snow-blinded blink. “You're kidding, Mr. Plant. It isn't Siberia and, hell, it isn't even snow. What's this supposed to be, minimal art? Like Reinhardt and Robert Ryman?”

“I'm not familiar with that school. If it is one.”

“Well, those artists favor white, especially Ryman. It's pure, it's a non-color. But you can see variation in his paint surfaces. The idea behind it is an expression of pure art. I don't really understand it either, but I think I can safely say this ain't it!”

“The Fabricant Gallery seems to think it's—well,
something
.”

“It's bloody
nothing.
Nil.
Nada.
Zilch. Zero.”

Pitt pulled what looked like an eyepiece from his waistcoat pocket. It was a magnifying glass, which he now applied to the third painting, moving it around. “Funny texture. What's it painted on, do you know?”

“Sandpaper, I think he said.” The squares ghosted through.

“This painter's a friend of yours?” Pitt appeared discomfited. “Sorry, didn't mean to—”

Melrose shook his head. “No, no, not a friend. I know him only slightly. How do you explain the fact that this has got at least one good review?”

“I'd explain by noting the reviewer is his mother. Please.”

“The word, I believe, was
audacious
.”

“Good word. I'd go along with that. Such as in, How would anyone have the
audacity
to fob this off on the public?”

Melrose moved closer to the fifth painting. “At first, you think they're all the same white. But then the white does change in this last one of the series.”

“Why do you insist on calling it a series?” However, to humor Melrose, Pitt applied his glass to the last picture. “I suppose it's a slight variation. That's hardly enough to explain all five.” Pitt shook his head. “I don't get it. I don't get it,” he repeated.

It hadn't occurred to Melrose that there was anything to get. He said, “Let's look around. There's some good stuff here.” There was only one example of “good stuff” as far as Melrose was concerned, and he wanted Pitt's comment on it.

They moved into the next small room, Sebastian looking up from his paperwork, tracing their progress with his eyes. He was crafty enough to know a person like Pitt wouldn't want to be accompanied by the dealer. They were standing now in the room where Bea's third painting hung, a North London view similar to the Catchcoach Street one. This was the one Melrose hadn't bought. He did not single it out now; he merely hoped Pitt would be caught by it and would approve.

Pitt commented on a big blaring geometric canvas that Melrose couldn't decipher, saying it wasn't bad, if a little crude, a little too obviously bearing the influence of Picasso. Then, upon seeing Bea Slocum's painting next to it, he said, “Now,
here's
a treat!”

Melrose let out his breath. “I like that one too. As a matter of fact, I bought one of hers.”

“Good man! I forgive you for that white lot!”

Melrose's reply came on a laugh. “
I
didn't paint them!”

“
Nobody
painted them!”

Melrose thought that a bit harsh. He also thought he wouldn't want to tell Simeon Pitt he owned one.

A
nother twenty-four hours, and we're going to have to charge her, Jury.” Chilten was clearly uncomfortable. “What surprises me is she hasn't got herself lawyered up by now. Says she doesn't need one, since she hasn't done anything. How naive. But she's been here since Thursday night; you'd've thought she'd be screaming the bloody station down.”

“Unless she's extremely clever.”

“Especially with the old lady punching holes in her alibi.”

“That's what I mean. Kate McBride hasn't been pressing it.”

Chilten expelled a long sigh. “You might be mistaken about that bus ride. It happens.”

Jury smiled. “It does. Only it hasn't happened here.”

Chilten shrugged, started banging desk drawers in and out.

“I'll talk to her again, Ronnie.”

 • • • 

She vanished.
Jury had been carrying that around all day; it was never far from his thoughts, even when he'd been in the Pastis woman's flat or in the Fabricant Gallery. What had happened to this child, Sophie?

When the constable brought her into the room, Jury was standing by the small window that looked out over the spindly tree and the square of frozen grass in which it sat. He turned to say hello to her,
feeling all of this had happened before, probably because they were meeting in the same place: window, table, chairs exactly the same as they had been the morning before. Or was there something else to this sense of déjà vu?

She said hello, offered him a smile that looked worn-out, and sat down at the table.

Jury sat in the same chair, not that there was much of a choice. He asked, “Did you go there to meet someone?”

Her eyes widened. “Go where? What do you mean? Who would I meet?”

“The priest. Charles Noailles.” He watched her face for a reaction, but the face remained as still as undisturbed lake water. “He keeps an office at the palace, for his writing.”

She looked at him with a smile he supposed could be called resigned. “You didn't see me, Superintendent. You saw
her
.”

Jury ignored this. “He said he knew your husband quite well when you lived in Paris. He didn't know you very well.”

She bent her head, seemed to be studying her hands, and was silent for a few moments. “Michael, my husband—yes, he was friendly with this priest. I didn't really know him. Michael needed a measure of spiritual sustenance. He was dying of leukemia.”

There was a silence.

“I'm sorry. Go on about your daughter, Sophie.”

Sadly, she looked at him. “Do you want to hear about it?”

“Yes, of course.”

She looked at him steadily. “It was in Paris. I stayed on there after Michael died.”

“In Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”

She nodded. “It happened one day in the Madeleine district. There's that famous grocery Fauchon; it's a swank market, food laid out like art, and every kind of fruit and vegetable you can imagine. The different kinds of food are sold in different buildings. It was Sophie's favorite place to go. We'd make a day of it. First to the Tuileries, and then Annebelle's in the rue de Rivoli for hot chocolate, then the Métro to the Madeleine and Fauchon's. There was an organ grinder, who had his spot
always just outside the door of Fauchon's fruit and vegetable section. Sophie loved this. He had a pet dog and a cat and a baby pram in which the two slept—can you imagine? Sometimes they were awake and going through their round of tricks.