The Painted Face Read online

  Gabrielle’s foreign hand, Gabrielle’s staccato French phrases.

  The child died as I live, by fire.

  His father had told him, that terrible spring of 1882, that Odette had died peacefully of a fever in Paris. Afterwards, Gabrielle had lain in her bed upstairs, hands lax on the coverlet, deep in shock.

  The child died as I live, by fire.

  Gabrielle’s empty face, her languorous body, going through the motions of living. Death, twenty months later.

  She wouldn’t fight it, you see, Nick. She couldn’t fight. Just the two of us, now, my boy. Just the two of us.

  He glanced here and there, picking up scraps of information among the expressions of grief, of self-blame, of terror and incredulity. And suddenly the discrepancies between what he had been told, and what was written, possessed him. To a stranger, the reason was simple and humane. Odette Carradine, six years old, had perished dreadfully in a train accident on the Continent. They had spared the boy’s feelings with a charitable lie.

  But he was no stranger, and the questions that arose and could not be answered breached this old safe citadel on every side. Breached it, and demanded rebuilding, demanded explanation. His visitor’s calamitous assessment sank to await resurrection. This came uppermost, with an urgency that rocked him on his heels. As he flung down the volume the draught extinguished his candleflame.

  For a long time he crouched in the dark, head in hands, and the attic became a furnace from which a child tried in vain to escape. Then, as her wraith shrivelled at last, he felt his way out and down the stairs. He did not know how to begin, nor where to go, but he intended to find out.

  PART ONE: CHILDISH THINGS

  ‘What are you doing here, you Fool of the imagination?’

  Georges Rouault

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘A gentleman to see you, John,’ said Bessie Lintott, shy of such a presence in her home.

  She was uncertain whether to let the gentleman see her husband in the parlour without his coat; or to leave the gentleman standing in the cold passage, where the framed photograph of Queen Victoria was draped in black — a year’s national mourning being proper, and the twelvemonth period not quite up. Her Late Majesty stared resolutely between small crepe curtains.

  Ex-Inspector Lintott looked at the sleeping grandchild against his shoulder, at the warm untidy room, and made his choice. ‘Well, fetch the gentleman in, my love. I dare say he’s seen a family setting by the fire of a winter evening afore now.’

  ‘Will you kindly step this way, sir, if you please? Hoping you’ll excuse us, but this is our youngest granddaughter. Stopping with us a bit, on account of her mamma being poorly. Won’t you take a seat, sir?’ Smoothing her black Sunday gown, shaking the patchwork cushion on the chair. Trying in vain to banish the cheese and pickled onions from the table, with one despairing glance.

  Neither man noticed nor cared about these domestic preoccupations, measuring each other behind expressions of courteous interest. Lintott’s plain countenance was bland, his eyes sharp, over the child’s head. He sat comfortably in his striped shirt sleeves, minus his collar. His arms were both shield and fortress for the dark-headed little girl. The fingers of her right hand clutched a portion of his shirt, the left thumb was thrust in her mouth for comfort.

  ‘Which she shouldn’t,’ said Mrs Lintott, disturbed by this too, ‘but I’m feared of waking her up by taking it out. She frets for her mamma, sir, you see. Not but what we aren’t loving kindness itself...’

  ‘Hush awhile, Bessie,’ said Lintott quietly. ‘Nobody’s bothered but you, my dear. Now, sir, will you take a glass of my good lady’s damson wine?’ Having nothing grander to offer, though he would have staked it against the finest vintage in the world. ‘Or is your business urgent, and would you rather state it straight out?’

  The gentleman had finished his survey of Lintott and smiled suddenly.

  ‘They told me you were a forthright man, Inspector,’ he observed, ‘and I see they were not mistaken. I beg you to pardon this intrusion into your home, and at such an hour. I live alone and am inclined selfishly to judge others by myself, to forget the pleasures and demands of the family hearth. I have dined and wined already, I thank you, if Mrs Lintott will excuse me the delights of her hospitality.’ He turned towards her, and bowed slightly.

  ‘Should I take your hat and cloak, sir?’ she asked, flustered.

  ‘You are more than kind, madam.’ Relieved of encumbrance, he switched aside his coattails and lowered himself into the proffered chair, speaking to Lintott. ‘My name is Nicholas Carradine. My business is personal, and important to me, but by no means urgent. It will take some little time to relate, if you can spare me half an hour or so.’

  Bessie’s face changed. She stood in no less awe of this fine personage but he had become familiar to her.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but are you the gentleman as painted Miss Lucy?’

  ‘I am indeed, madam, though I have painted other things.’

  ‘Oh sir, if I haven’t this minute got a copy of it, pasted into an album. Cut out of the Harmsworth Magazine.’

  ‘You honour me, madam. Miss Lucy was the daughter of a friend of mine. An exquisite creature of five years. She must now be close on fifteen.’

  ‘You’re one ahead of me, Bessie,’ said Lintott, ‘I didn’t know as the gentleman was an artist. Top marks, my dear.’

  Flushed with triumph, Bessie addressed herself to the parlour. ‘I’ll just clear off the supper things, John. You’ll be wanting to speak private. I shan’t disturb you.’

  ‘What about six penn’orth of copper here?’ Lintott asked, nodding at the child.

  ‘She’s well away by now, John. If you’ll lift her careful I’ll put her to bed.’

  The little girl was transferred to Mrs Lintott, who surveyed her with pride.

  ‘We think our Mary is quite a credit to us, sir. We’re on the plain side as a family. But she reminds me of your Miss Lucy. Fancy you painting her all that time ago, and still a favourite by all accounts or the picture wouldn’t have been in the magazine, would it, sir?’

  ‘It was a popular choice of subject, certainly. How old is Mary, Mrs Lintott?’

  ‘Going on six, sir.’

  Carradine bent over the small face, pink with sleep and stained with trouble, and smoothed aside a curl as deftly as Bessie could have done. He observed the straight nose and short upper lip, the arched brows and thick lashes.

  ‘A future beauty,’ he remarked charmingly, ‘and quite a likeness, as you say. You must indeed be proud of her.’ The charm vanished. ‘But take great care of her. Life is often a savage business, and these little creatures need all the protection we can give.’

  Disquieted, Bessie pulled the shawl closer round Mary. The Inspector registered obsession in Carradine’s tone.

  ‘You needn’t fear, sir,’ he answered stoutly. ‘I’d be surprised if you knew as much about savagery as I do, after forty years in the Force. We’ll watch out for our Mary, all right. Bessie!’

  His tone hastened her from the room, and he reached for his jacket and concentrated on his visitor.

  Carradine seemed remarkably respectable for an artist. Clean-shaven, splendidly-tailored, good manners and apparently an income to match. His unruly hair, curling into the nape of his neck, had been well-brushed. The eyes were most curious, reflecting each change of mood. Mild enough when he chattered about nothing, narrowing and lightening as he spoke about Mary, remote over the picture Bessie had praised. Lintott supposed you called them ‘hazel’, and sometimes the brown and sometimes the green came foremost. Lean and jumpy sort of chap, too. Interesting.

  Lintott, filling his pipe, watching Carradine over the bowl, said, ‘I haven’t a cigar to offer you, but Bessie don’t mind smoke in the parlour if you’ve one of your own. Shall we get down to the matter in hand?’

  Carradine produced his silver case, and selected a cheroot.

  ‘The affair may seem trivial to you, Insp
ector.’

  ‘You’d best let me be the judge of that, sir. You said that they had told you I was forthright. Who are they, sir?’

  ‘Scotland Yard. I went there in the first place, not knowing whom to ask. They said it was not in their province, and suggested a private detective. Chief-Inspector Mill — Milne — Miller ... I have no memory for names, I fear...’

  ‘I know who you mean. We’ve done each other a deal of favours in the past. Yes, what did he say?’

  ‘That you had recently retired, but might be interested enough to help me. He said he knew of no one better, no one as good. For professional consultation, of course,’ Carradine added, lest Lintott should think otherwise. ‘You may name your own fee. I shall not question it.’

  Lintott raised a hand to check his guest. ‘Facts first if you please. I don’t need pinning down with a handful of sovereigns afore I hear what it’s all about. Carry on, sir.’

  ‘It concerns the death of my half-sister Odette. She was killed in a train accident in France — my late stepmother was French — but the circumstances are singularly mysterious.’

  ‘When was this, sir?’

  ‘Oh, twenty years ago. She was six years old.’

  Lintott shook out the match. ‘You took your time reporting it, sir,’ he said drily. ‘I’m not surprised the Yard weren’t interested.’

  ‘I only discovered the matter a couple of days ago. I’ve lost no time since, I assure you.’

  I believe that, thought Lintott. ‘What’s mysterious about the accident, sir? Briefly.’

  Incoherent with his jumble of half-digested facts and over-ruling sense of disaster, Carradine talked nervously. As he gesticulated, a lock of hair fell across his forehead, his wrists shot from the immaculate cuffs, his air of cool elegance disintegrated. Lintott listened carefully.

  ‘First of all, Inspector, my father told me that Odette died of a fever. But she was burned to death in a railway carriage, on the way to the Swiss border.’

  ‘How old were you at the time?’ Lintott interrupted.

  ‘Thirteen. I was away at school...’

  ‘Just so. And your little sister was killed...’

  ‘Burned. Burned to death, Inspector...’ The child died by fire.

  ‘...was killed tragically. So they wanted to spare you the worst shock. Number two, sir?’

  ‘The nurse, Berthe Lecoq, had been my stepmother’s nurse and then her personal maid, so you can imagine the devotion between them. She was sent back to her village within a week of the accident. My stepmother said she couldn’t bear to have her near. And yet Berthe had supported and helped her through those first terrible days...’

  ‘Just a minute, sir. Just — one — minute. The nurse was in this carriage, I take it?’

  ‘Odette would hardly be travelling alone.’

  ‘Then the nurse might also have been badly burned, certainly badly shocked. They sent her home to recuperate. A well-earned rest, a bit of a pension like enough. She did what she could for your stepmother, and retired.’

  ‘But under a cloud of reproach, Inspector? Reproach for what? And why was Gabrielle not with the nurse and child? This train was on its way to Switzerland — why would they be going so far, and without Gabrielle?’ Carradine pushed the lock of hair back into place, knotted his lean hands, and drew breath.

  ‘Didn’t the train stop anywhere on the way?’

  Carradine paused. ‘I don’t know, actually.’ Nonplussed.

  Lintott nodded. ‘Well, it might have been a stopping train, and the nurse and the little girl could have been taking a day out. If your stepmother was French she probably had a lot of French friends fairly near.’

  Carradine looked at him reproachfully. ‘You’re making absolute nonsense of this case, Inspector!’

  ‘Not at all, sir. I’m just trying to find what case exists.’

  ‘How can I explain?’ Carradine asked, more of himself than of Lintott. His intensity had softened. ‘How can I describe what we all were, so that even you can see that my father’s lying to me was incomprehensible? So that you can see the circumstances themselves were impossible, that this could not have happened as Gabrielle said. You have heard of perfect happiness, Inspector?’

  ‘Heard? Yes, sir. Never seen it.’

  ‘I tell you this, then — that we were perfectly happy. I swear it!’

  Unconvinced, but fascinated, for even this brief retirement had hung heavily upon him, Lintott said, ‘Why don’t you light up that cheroot of yours, sir, and make yourself comfortable? Bessie’ll be busy with a dozen and one things, and the night’s young enough. You tell me about this perfect happiness of yours.’

  ‘You don’t want facts, Inspector?’

  ‘I’ll pick ’em out as we go along, sir. Talk away. Tell me about your stepmother and your father. Your own mother died, I take it?’

  Released, Carradine launched into narrative.

  ‘When I was born. I must have had a nurse of some sort, but I don’t remember. Curiously enough, I don’t remember anything before Gabrielle came. She was only a girl. My father was in his middle forties, a wine merchant...’

  ‘Carradine’s Superior Wines?’ Lintott cocked his head.

  ‘That was, and is, the family business — though I earn enough with my painting to pay my tailor. My father met Gabrielle in the course of his business, the match was an idyllic one. I adored her, as my father did. She was everything a mother could have been to me. When Odette was born I felt no jealousy, only that the child was an extension of Gabrielle. They were the passion and preoccupation of my boyhood. I have never been as happy since, except briefly in my work, as I was in those few years together. There was only one slight shadow,’ but a shadow was on his own face as he spoke. ‘Gabrielle never really settled in London. She was a born Parisienne and made frequent trips to Paris, which my father fully comprehended. Though he must have missed her.’ This he added in a lower tone, as though comprehending the sacrifice for the first time. ‘He was indulgence itself where she was concerned.’

  ‘Roots can pull,’ Lintott suggested kindly.

  ‘Of course. In the early years I accompanied her and Berthe, and the baby Odette. When I went to school she took them abroad without me. Though she was devoted to my father and to me, she worshipped her child. They were never separated. At least, not for such an expedition as a railway journey. Her family were well-connected, but poor in comparison to the sort of circles in which they moved. When you say she had French friends elsewhere, I cannot deny it out of hand, but I would question it. The Lasserres were centred on Paris. I was never personally introduced or taken to anyone who did not live in Paris. Once Gabrielle was home there she stayed, moving no more than a carriage-ride away. That child was watched and protected and cared for, twenty-four hours a day. When she died they feared for Gabrielle’s life. She was prostrated with grief for months. My father went to the length of removing all evidence of the child from the house. Clothes, toys, books, portraits, were banished to the attic. Less than two years later Gabrielle caught a cold which turned to pneumonia. She died early in 1884, and then we were alone.’

  ‘And how did you get on with your father?’ Lintott asked.

  ‘We loved and respected each other, but had little in common. They had taken the heart out of our happiness. My father initiated me into the wine trade when I left school and I did my best to please him but I am no wine merchant. I later inherited his entire estate and found myself a young man of means. His solicitor looked after my affairs and appointed an excellent manager to the business. I then attended the Slade School, where I was fortunate enough to study under the great Alphonse Legros.’

  ‘You must have done pretty well, too,’ said Lintott, considering, ‘if Bessie has heard of you. She’s no expert, if you get my meaning.’

  Carradine smiled, but it was a public smile counteracted by a private frown.

  ‘Mrs Lintott has been most complimentary, and a discourse on the fine arts would hardly
interest you, Inspector — but Miss Lucy was a very early picture. To return to our own matter, I wish you to find out all you can about this train accident.’

  Lintott sucked his pipe stem, contemplated the brilliance of those hazel eyes, the intensity of that cultured voice. He removed the pipe. ‘Why?’ he asked flatly.

  Carradine sat back, as dumbfounded by himself as by the Inspector. ‘The circumstances!’ he replied sharply, ‘I wish to elucidate the circumstances.’

  Trying to make his fancy sound like fact, thought Lintott. ‘To what purpose, sir? Your father’s dead. Your stepmother’s dead. The child’s dead. The nurse is retired, probably dead too. Why?’

  And suddenly Carradine knew why. ‘Because the dead mean more to me than the living. They are my opiate. With them I can love without passion, I can work without pain. And I have been told, and know it to be truth, that living is both pain and passion.’ Embarrassed, Carradine lifted his hands and let them drop. ‘I beg your pardon for disturbing your domestic peace.’ He rose slowly and looked round for his hat and cloak. He stubbed the part-smoked cheroot in a small ashtray which was inscribed A Present from Brighton. His smile was pure good manners, his frustration was real.

  ‘Half a minute, sir,’ said Lintott. ‘Just one more thing. You might come across things as you’d rather not find out. Have a few illusions shattered. That always hurts, sir. Sometimes they’re illusions as folks can’t live without.’

  ‘If one is in prison,’ said Carradine deliberately, ‘and fairly desperate one doesn’t count the cost of jumping from a high wall to escape.’

  ‘And what’ll you do when you leave here?’ enquired Lintott puffing away like a philosophical steam engine.

  ‘Do? I shall find someone else, Inspector. Find a fellow fool who will be foolish enough to follow a wild goose with me. I have nothing to rely upon but intuition, and I have always found it travelled further and truer than rationalisation. You are asking me for facts and reasons. I have none. That this is not good enough for you, I understand. It is more than good enough for me. Has Mrs Lintott taken my things into the hall, perhaps?’