The Stargazey (27 page)

“Suit yourself,” said Melrose. It was what Bea always said to demonstrate her lack of interest.

Now, seeing she might have encouraged him to withdraw his invitation, she said, “Wait a tic; I can always borrow something from White Ellie.”

That should be improvement on a global scale, thought Melrose, as Bea leaned forward and yelled Ellie's name.

No one need shout, though, for White Ellie was coming in even now, bearing tea in thick white mugs. “ 'Ere, wet yerselfs.” She handed one mug to Melrose and one to Bea, and herself sat down in a cloud of dust sifting up from a nearby easy chair, holding her own mug aloft.

Bea said, “I just wondered could I borrow that sleeveless-top thing you bought at the Bring ‘n' Buy?”

“That orangey one? Just see it don't get stained, is all.”

Melrose was curious. “ ‘Bring ‘n' Buy'? Around here? That's one of those booths you see at church fetes.”

“Well, we got—you kids, get out now. Leave us grown-ups to talk.” They all clattered (what did they have that would make such a noise?) to their feet. Piddlin' Pete was using a bucket strategically placed to catch water dripping from the ceiling, while Alice lifted her skirt. Ellie gave both of them a good slap on their behinds. Of course, this energized the other four into marching round in a ring, chanting:

“Piddlin' Pete, Piddlin' Pete

Piddlin all over Elroy's feet!”

Quickly, Melrose looked down at his shoes. Just missed his, but hit Bea's boot.

“Bleedin' li'l blighter!” yelled Bea, as she pulled a rag that might once have been a vest from the laundry pile and wiped the toe of her boot. “Be back in a tic,” she announced, and took the steps two at a time.

White Ellie screamed after the chanting kids, all six marching single file from the parlor, “An' ‘is name ain't
Elroy!
How many times ‘ave I got to
tell
ya?”

The chant continued through the front door.

Answering Melrose's question, White Ellie said, “We 'ave them fetes ev'ry other Sunday. Right back there in St. Ignatius. It's Ash got the idea. Clever lad, is Ash.” She clucked her tongue in appreciation. “If only he'd get outa ‘is ‘abit of goin' down into the public toilets.” She sighed at this
chink in the Ashley armor. “Anyways, it's just like one o' them marketplaces in Algiers. What with all them Pakis and wogs. Yeah, him and Eddie—you met Eddie—they got this sideline, you know, pickin' up stuff people don't want—”

(Out of their parked cars and empty houses, mused Melrose.)

“—and they gotta ‘ave a place t' sell it.”

Melrose frowned. “Isn't that just a bit dangerous? Right out in the open?”

White Ellie thought this was rich and laughed and slapped her big thigh. “That's t' beauty of it, ain't it? Is the Bill goin' to go lookin' for merchandise at a Bring ‘n' Buy? Out in plain view, that's what Ash says.” She tapped her temple. “Bright lad, is Ashley. Bit o' a wide lad, but bright.”

With this, Bea came running down the stairs, wearing Ellie's Bring ‘n' Buy spoils.

Melrose was astonished. The so-called “orangey thing” wasn't really orange but a sort of burnt orange, a copper color. It was a long beltless velvet garment, a vest that reached nearly to the floor. It was quite transforming. The transformation was also owing to Bea's having toned down her makeup by replacing the purple eyeshadow with a pale brown and applying a bit of blusher. Her changed hair color, the autumnal, leafy shades, was enhanced by the copper vest. He would not have been too surprised to see this rather daring combination of copper coat, cut-off jeans, and boots in a designer's fall collection. Bea was right, it could take a run down the runway.

“You look very Boring's,” said Melrose.

B
oring's had indeed relaxed one or more of its stringent rules, and this included admitting women. The Committee had gone round and round on this one, for it was not so much the
admission
of women as it was what they were going to do with them once they got in. It was the view of at least one member that, having got in, the lady should stand no more than six feet from the door until the gentleman whose friend she was had readied himself for his exit from the reading room and, with the lady in tow, from the club itself.

There were dissenters here. One could hardly call this the spirit of letting them “in.” One could not allow the woman to simply stand cooling her heels. They should at least provide a chair by the door so she could sit down.

And there were one or two who wanted to go whole hog and allow the dining room doors to be thrown open to these female “guests.” This was the proposal advanced by the youngest Committee member, one who would have been declined membership had his name not been on the list since birth, and who was the heir apparent (or, as the wags called him, “heir rampant”) to an earldom and himself a viscount. Naturally, the old earl was a member but seldom was in good enough shape to visit London. So they all compromised and decided to allow women as “guests” for a trial period of ten years, and, the arrangement being found to be
satisfactory, would then implement this new ruling. Ten years should be long enough “to get the kinks out.”

Melrose had been told all of this by the viscount himself the evening before, while he'd been waiting for Jury.

“Has it worked to the members' satisfaction, then?”

“Seems to've,” said the viscount. “Of course, there are very few who want the company of the ladies anyway.”

Here they both looked round at the gentlemen in various stages of decrepitude who were occupying the leather armchairs and sofas. Then the viscount sat back and smoked his cheroot, and Melrose sipped his well-chilled seven-to-one martini and thought about Diane Demorney.

Thus Bea Slocum, in her boots and velvet vest, would have created quite a stir, had anyone wanted to be stirred. She looked around her, said “blimey” a few dozen times, and added it looked just like what she'd've thought it would. She indicated a white-haired gent fallen asleep with his head sideways over papers and port. “I guess that'll be you one of these days.”

“I'm sure. Would you care for an aperitif?”

“No, but I wouldn't say no to a drink. Whisky, I'll have.”

Melrose raised a hand to Young Higgins, who tottered over with his silver tray pushed to his chest like a shield and took their drink orders. He raised a gray eyebrow slightly when Bea said to make sure it was a single malt, not because this bespoke a long acquaintance with drink, but with drink of a lesser quality than Boring's was used to. He then went weaving back.

“Okay, so what'd you want me to look at?”

Melrose got up, saying, “Wait here; I'll be back in a second.”

As he made his way up the fine broad staircase, he thought of Bea in her Bring ‘n' Buy vest and how she had changed on him again. She had changed the first time when he'd discovered she painted and was not the little North London chit she wanted to give the impression of being. Over steak and potatoes
frites
, she had talked about J.M.W. (as she called Turner). Bea was also a lover of light. Now she had changed again, from one who painted into a painter.

The painting he had purchased was leaning against the wall, where the amber light of a wall sconce fell across its upper part yet did nothing to enhance pigments already so lit from within that lamplight became irrelevant. He carried it downstairs.

Melrose propped the painting up against the chair he'd been sitting in and watched the astonishment register in Bea's face.

She looked from the painting to Melrose and back again, her fist balled on her breastbone. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was tiny. “I'll be a monkey's.” She opened her mouth to say something but instead, playing for time, took a swig of the malt whisky that the old porter had brought while Melrose was upstairs.

“It's marvelous,” said Melrose.

Bea gave a little disbelieving laugh. “I guess I never did think I'd even sell one. And you went and paid five hundred quid for it?”

“As a matter of fact, Bea, it's my opinion it was undervalued. This is the best thing in that gallery.” He did not tell her he had also purchased
The Storm.
That might seem as if he were simply trying to patronize her.

Bea was leaning forward and studying her painting, all manner of expression ranging across her face. There was doubt, as if she saw even now things that should be put right; there was pleasure at the things that
were
right. She seemed to grow increasingly oblivious to her surroundings. Her look was consuming.

This, he was sure, was the real Beatrice Slocum.

The assumed one was quick to resurrect itself. As if pretending to disinherit the painting, she drew back and cocked her head, saying, “I've seen better.”

“So have I; only they're not for sale.”

She flapped her hand at him. “Ah, go on.”

“Beatrice, your painting is
by far
the best thing the Fabricants have on offer.”

Before she could reply, Young Higgins came to call them to dinner. He carried their drinks for them, on a tray. Bea carried the painting.

The menu pleased Bea because filet mignon was one of the choices, that and chips—or
frites
—a particular favorite of hers. Bea pointed out
that this was just what she'd had for dinner at Dotrice, the little French restaurant.

Young Higgins came to take their order and didn't blink an eye when Bea ordered “steak and chips,” whereas the French waiter at Dotrice had cut her a look that could have sliced the steak all by itself. Well, thought Melrose, breeding shows. He was rather proud of Young Higgins and intended to leave him a very large tip.

Bea asked, “What'd you mean you hoped I was tight with the Fabricant brothers? All I know is I should be grateful they'd hang my stuff.”

“No. They should be grateful you let them. What I can't understand is the incredible lapse of taste they've shown in hanging those paintings by Ralph Rees.”

“That white lot?”

“That white lot, yes.”

Other diners had come in while they were ordering. Melrose smiled and nodded a greeting to Major Champs and Colonel Neame. They looked at Bea in a sort of wonder, as if they hadn't truly expected things to come to this. Cutlery clattered, glassware tinkled, napkins snapped. Melrose always thought these to be comforting sounds. The dining room was richly lighted, and the chandelier cast a glare across the snow-white tables.

It brought Melrose back to his subject. “
Siberian Snow
.” He shook his head.

“Well, I expect it's because Ralph is Nick's you-know.”

“The Fabricant Gallery hasn't built its reputation by indulging their you-knows. No. There's something else.” Melrose talked about his visit of the day before until Young Higgins appeared with their wine, a Bordeaux he had advised against as being a bit too lively. With somber aspect, he awaited Melrose's judgment on the wine's “liveliness.” Melrose told him he would make every effort not to dance on the table and to go ahead and pour the wine.

Bea's attention was easily drawn from wine to food when their soup arrived. “Pumpkin. I never had pumpkin soup before.” She spooned it up. “Umm. It's good.” She had several spoonfuls before she said, “Thing is, a person's got his blind spots.” She looked at him.

“Don't look at me as if I'm one of yours, thank you.”

She smiled and went back to her soup. “I mean the gallery. There's no accounting for taste.” She took a sip of her soup and lightly tapped the spoon on the bowl, as if summoning up the soup spirits.

“There had better be accounting for artistic taste, or they'll be out of jobs.”

They ate in companionable silence for a while.

Young Higgins appeared with their steaks and Bea's potatoes
frites.
He removed the soup bowls, set down the platters, and asked Melrose if they required anything else at the moment. Melrose told him, no, they were fine.

He watched Bea cut her steak into mouse bites, which she then forked into her mouth—one, two, three—chewed, swallowed, and said, “Listen, maybe it's the old lady.”

Melrose stopped cutting his own filet to give her a questioning look.

“The old lady. You know, Seb and Nick's mum.”

“Ah! I'd hardly put Ilona Kuraukov in the category of old lady. But what about her?”

“Only that she puts up a lot of money, you know, for the gallery.”

Melrose wondered. “How'd you discover that?”

“From Ralph. He took me down the pub to celebrate I got in the gallery. He's nice like that, Ralph is. Anyway, he went on about how much he liked my work, even if his own was more avant-garde, and how I was more of a realist, whatever people mean when they say that.”

“Probably that we unartistic yobs can recognize things in your paintings.”

Bea seemed to be thinking this over. She shrugged. “Anyway, Ralph was getting more and more boozed up and started going on about how generous this old—what's her name?”

“Kuraukov.”

“He said she puts up more than half for that gallery.”

That was interesting. Perhaps it explained the impression he'd received of Ilona's influence over the others, and not just Olivia Inge, who was there, possibly, at the older woman's sufferance. “And did he say if she dictates what art they hang on the walls?”

“No. I mean, he didn't say.” Daintily, as one who had been made over-conscious of poor table manners but was still uncertain as to what they
were, she picked up one of the strawlike potatoes and put it in her mouth. After she'd swallowed, she said, “Thing is, seeing we're not up on his school of art, well, how would we know if Ralph's stuff was good or not?”