Murder at an Exhibition: The Tommy Jones Mysteries, #2

1

Honestly, I have no idea how you get your stitches so small and tidy, said Jo, firmly setting down her dress and accidentally jamming the needle into her finger. Bridget smiled sympathetically.

The dining room at Mrs. Bagley’s boarding house was quite warm in the afternoon, but the light came in from the street so it was the best room for sewing.

It’s because you have to do so much, Bridget said. You’re having to go all round the hem. We could get you a crinoline. She looked down at her beadwork with an impish smile.

Jo growled. Where’s Esther? I’d happily pay her to do it. She sucked on her finger.

Mrs. Bagley overheard as she went through on the way to the kitchen.

You know perfectly well Esther works at her father’s shop till four, she said. And you should hem your own dresses. She and Bridget exchanged a look over Jo’s head.

I don’t think, said Jo, retrieving the errant needle from among the folds of brown fabric, that people should have to engage in tasks for which they have no talent.

Oh, here she goes, said Mrs. Bagley loudly from the kitchen. Back up on her socialist pony. They heard the range door open and close. Bridget? I think this only has a few minutes to go.

The aroma from the meat pies wafted into the dining room, deliciously scented but making the room feel even warmer. Jo could sense the beads of sweat along her hairline as she started again on the hem. Bridget rose and leaned across the table. I’ll do it for you later with the lamp, if you like. Then she went in to tend to the pies.

A waste of good daylight, thought Jo, jamming the needle in and out. It’s perfect for drawing. I should let Bridget do the sewing for me and go get my sketchbook. When Once a Week pays me for those bridge pictures, I could take her out for a nice coffee or something.

In truth, she had enjoyed the bridge drawings. Usually she focused on people because that’s what the publications wanted. Human interest. But the reopening of Westminster Bridge the previous May had encouraged greater interest in the bridges that spanned the Thames. Thomas Page had outdone himself with the engineering, which many had admired when his Chelsea Bridge had opened a few years before. That project, however, had been plagued by years of delays. For Westminster Bridge, Page had built it one half at a time, each direction separately, so traffic was not disrupted. Detective Sergeant Mark Honeycutt, a friend of Jo’s, had told her that Danduran’s diving bell had been an innovation that had made construction possible. She couldn’t imagine working under water.

Jo had found it refreshing to focus on trees, and the light, instead of drawing a face. The new green paint, chosen to match the benches in Parliament, made the whole bridge shine. Jo rarely had the opportunity to draw things outdoors, and the weather had been quite perfect.

And that’s what I’m good at, she thought, as the needle again cruelly entered her finger. Not sewing, or cooking, or uttering inanities in social settings. Sucking her finger again as tears came to her eyes, she glanced out the window. The trees on Shoe Lane were still. If she wanted to capture the Vauxhall Bridge at sundown, she’d need to go. After dinner. Because Bridget’s pies were worth staying for.

Young Tommy was quite nervous. Are you sure we’re allowed to be in here? he asked Samson. It was half past seven, and Tommy was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Morning came early when you were thirteen years old.

It’s perfectly all right, so long as we’re gone before the first class starts, said Samson, his curly hair making him look younger than his twenty-two years. Truthfully, he was a bit nervous himself. He’d only been here once before, and Jermyn Street was not an area he knew. But Sarah Pemberton, another external student, had an uncle who worked here at the newly named Royal School of Mines. She had arranged to borrow the key so he could bring Tommy. He walked confidently to the cabinet and carefully opened the doors.

And there it was. The J.J. Lister microscope. Its brass gleamed. Samson carefully took it out and placed it on a table where the morning sun shone on it.

It’s got an achromatic lens, said Samson. So there’s no rainbow ring around the image. Hand me that box there, will you?

Tommy gently took out the flat wooden box. Samson opened the lid and pulled out a slide, placing it under the lens. He put his eye to the instrument and turned a few dials. Then he stepped back. Take a look, he said.

The leaf didn’t look like a leaf. The pattern of veins were so clear, you felt you could see the sap pulsing through them. Its surface seemed to be made up of very small panes.

Can you see the cells? asked Samson.

The little panes? said Tommy.

Yes, all connected together.

Tommy gulped and nodded. It’s wonderful.

He stared and stared. He couldn’t believe how beautiful it was.

We have time for a few more, then we really must go, said Samson. Here’s a bit of muscle, from a pig. He slipped the slide in so Tommy could see.

The door at the far end of the room opened, and a man entered. He was in his late thirties, had a shock of dark hair, a determined face, and intimidating sideburns. Samson and Tommy froze as he approached them.

I assume, he said, not unkindly, that you do not have permission to be here.

No sir, said Samson, standing up to his full height. But I wanted my pupil here to have an opportunity to look through a superior microscope.

The man smiled. And whom might I be addressing?

Samson Light, sir. I’m a physiology student, external, and this is Tommy Jones.

I am also named Thomas, said the man, reaching out to shake Tommy’s and then Samson’s hand. Huxley, he said, I teach here, and donated this microscope.

It is most wonderful, Mr. Huxley, said Tommy sincerely. I had no idea nature could be so beautiful.

Huxley took a slide out of the box, holding it up to the light. Ah yes, he said, these are the biological slips. He looked at Samson and Tommy with interest. Most of the students here study geology. You two are more interested in botany and animal physiology?

Indeed, sir, said Samson. We study life.

Huxley nodded, his bushy eyebrows lowering, making him look hawk-like.

Well said, young man, he said. Well, I’m certainly not going to report you. I have been trying to get the School here to add physiology to the curriculum. I also teach at the Royal College of Surgeons. Perhaps I shall see you there someday. I’ll remember your name, Mr. Light.

I hope to be there some day, sir, said Samson. It is an honor to meet you.

Likewise, young man. He began walking back toward the door, and spoke over his shoulder. Put it away carefully, please. I’ll be back in a few minutes to set up on my own.

Samson and Tommy left without being seen by anyone else. As they began walking toward Piccadilly, Tommy breathed a sigh of relief.

Who is Thomas Huxley? He seemed rather important.

He is a geology professor who is trying to make way for anatomy and physiology to be taught more regularly. He wants to train young men like me to teach, and be doctors, and scientists. I can’t believe we got to meet him. Samson was a little red in the face.

He was very kind, wasn’t he?

Yes, he was. He also happens to be one of the examiners at the University of London, although I think his double professorship means he probably won’t be doing it by the time I take my exam. But just to meet him! Did you know they call him Darwin’s bulldog?

No! Why?

He debated Bishop Wilberforce three years ago, just after Darwin’s book came out. You must have heard about that. And now he has his own book, saying that ape brains are more similar to human brains than they are to other primates.

Are they? asked Tommy, fascinated.

Well, he dissected the brains himself, so he should know.

Bridget arrived at work a little late because she was thinking and walked more slowly. Mr. Pratchett, World Famous Photographer, All Subjects, had been expanding his business. She’d been working there for almost two years. Today she’d brought some of the buns she’d made because she knew how Pratchett loved her baking, and she had something in particular to discuss with him.

Passing the cake shop on her way to Theobalds Road, she stopped and looked in the window. The cakes were beautifully designed, with smooth fondant and decorations of flowers. She’d much rather work in a bakery, creating lovely confections. But cake shops were for experts, usually men, and the other kinds of baking were too horrible to contemplate. Bread, she knew, was made in underground rooms with dark ovens. The dough was kneaded, or even trodden underfoot, by men covered in sweat, flour, and dirt. No wonder Dr. Dauglish had invented his mechanized process for making aerated bread. You’d never eat bread if you thought about how it was made by hand. And thanks to Dauglish, people did think about it, and bought his bread.

Food was Bridget’s passion, but photography was her job. Hugh Pratchett liked her, she knew, because of her excellent visual sense and her care with equipment. She was also detailed with the tinting, especially on the tintypes. And patrons sitting for their portrait trusted her kind and gentle manner.

She arrived to find Pratchett, as usual, in the middle of a half-finished project, his tufts of white hair sticking out madly above his ears.

I can smell them from here, he said, sniffing the air appreciatively but not looking up. Buns, is it?

Yes, indeed, said Bridget, amused as always by his extraordinary sense of smell. Yesterday’s, I’m afraid, but still sweet and tasty. She put the paper-wrapped package on the counter.

How are the stereoscopic views coming along? she asked as she hung her hat on the peg and put her business apron over her pale blue skirt.

Pratchett peered up at her. It always took a minute for his eyes to refocus.

I’d say they’re coming along well. But some are just a little off.

How off? She looked over his shoulder at a double image of the pagoda in Cremorne Gardens.

The positioning is correct, but when you look . . . He slipped the image into the stereoscope and handed it to her.

The effect just wasn’t quite right. Her eyes tried to align the two images, but one seemed sharper than the other.

I see what you mean, she said. Pratchett looked weary, she thought, his eyes rheumy. Is it worth the trouble, do you think?

I’m starting to think not, sighed Pratchett. The London Stereoscopic Company produces many hundreds of these, using their own photographers. And they’ve become so cheap that no one wants any of quality. Bridget nodded in sympathy.

He opened a drawer to put the double image away.

Mr. Pratchett, said Bridget, before Miss Peyton arrives, I’d like to ask you about something. Miss Peyton was sitting for her portrait at eleven o’clock.

Yes, Miss Williams? He looks a little wary, she thought. He thinks I’m going to ask for more money.

I’ve noticed a number of gentlemen customers come in, and they always ask for you, she began. They say I cannot assist them.

Pratchett looked at her for a moment.

And you’re wondering why? he asked.

I think I may know, said Bridget. I wonder are you selling photographs of women? Perhaps in less reputable costume or poses? She was proud of herself that she had at last asked the question aloud.

Miss Williams, I hardly think it suitable to discuss . . .

I want to make sure, Mr. Pratchett, she said, that these women are being photographed with their own consent and agreement?

Pratchett considered her, with her earnest look and determined brow. Yes, Miss Williams. I can assure you that they have agreed and are being paid for posing, rather than paying me.

Bridget swallowed. So the gentlemen pay you?

Yes, Miss Williams. And since we are being indelicate, I may venture to say they pay me quite a lot. In fact, without them, I would not be able to keep the shop open. You’ve noted, I’m sure, how few of my new ventures have become profitable. He gave the drawer of stereoscopic photographs a baleful glance.

It was true that the shop had been in some distress. Photography studios had opened all over London in the last few years. Some specialized in the old-fashioned daguerreotypes, others in tintypes or, as Pratchett did, the newer glass positives. These cost far less to produce, but people also paid far less for them.

What happens after you sell the photographs? To the women, I mean?

Pratchett looked confused. Nothing, he said. The man takes the print with him, that is all.

So you only pay the women once?

Well, yes. If they pose once, I pay them. If they return and their pictures have been popular, I pay again for a different sitting, different poses.

Bridget frowned. There seems something wrong in that, she said, but I cannot think what it is at present. I hope we can talk about this again?

If you like, Miss Williams. But not with sitters in the studio, please.

Of course, agreed Bridget. I’ll get ready for Miss Peyton.

She went into the studio at the back, making sure the draperies on the high windows were wide open to let in the light. As she set up the upholstered chair, the Doric column, and the aspidistra for a bit of foliage, she could hear the paper wrapper rustling. Pratchett must be tucking in to the buns.

Skylights, Jo’s father had said back then. But young Jo hadn’t been listening. She was looking. Throughout the Dulwich Picture Gallery, the light from above seemed to flood in, illuminating all the paintings.

There are roof lanterns up there, and the glass panels, her father explained. He was enchanted by the architecture, which had inspired him as a young man.

Jo had remembered to ask, You were here when you were young, weren’t you, Father?

I was the same age as you are now, about sixteen or seventeen, when this gallery opened to the public. I couldn’t get in before that. It was only open to Royal Academy students.

They were standing in front of Caracci’s Magdalen, number 274. The Magdalen seemed to be lost in thought, rather than penitent, Jo imagined. She looked closely at her face. The figure looked like a real person, not at all idealized. She noticed the way the face was drawn, showing the various folds and imperfections. I will draw like that some day, she thought.

And that is why you became an architect, said Jo. Her father had told her many times.

He nodded and peered at the Magdalen’s cloak. I was inspired by this building, the work of John Soane. He was the son of a bricklayer, too.

She always remembered her father fondly. He had been an enthusiastic but not very successful architect. He hadn’t known anyone, and the Harris family had no connections. But he had made sure his only daughter had drawing lessons and classical tutoring. He knew she would make her own way, and she had.

Jo had returned to the gallery on this particular Saturday to improve her trees. Moving from work to work, she sought out trees that were particularly well drawn. When she came to one, she would sit on the floor with her sketchbook and try to copy it. Some days there were so many students on the floor she couldn’t find a spot, but today it wasn’t crowded. She found the Magdalen again in the late afternoon, remembering the tree at the back. She thought of her father as the skylight illuminated the page in her sketchbook. The bag he had given her was tucked under the sketchbook, helping her balance it. She began copying the tree.

The woman looks blotchy, said a voice nearby. A large man was crouching next to her, looking at the Magdalen. And everything behind her looks like a hazy afterthought. Look at those clouds.

I’m working on the tree, said Jo.

The man turned to look at her. He had extraordinary eyes of deep brown tinged with melancholy, and his wavy hair was thinning but still framed his face. He smiled above his bushy beard. Why?

Because I’m bad at trees. Jo couldn’t help smiling back. He seemed to radiate energy.

How do you know Caracci’s any good? he said, looking back at the painting. I’m bad at drawing breasts, but I certainly wouldn’t copy those.

Jo looked up at the Magdalen’s breasts. They were exposed, since her cloak wound around the lower half of her body. But they looked small and round and unnatural. And blotchy.

Better to do life drawing for that, I should think, said Jo.

Much better, said the man, and she could sense that he wanted to lower his eyes to her chest, but didn’t. Instead, he bent slowly and sat down cross-legged next to her. He held out his hand. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, he said. You will have heard of me.

Jo shook his hand and frowned. No, but you obviously think I should have.

At his crestfallen expression, she smiled. Everyone had heard of Rossetti.

He smiled back with a twinkle in his eye and looked over at her drawing. Hmmm. You aren’t a mere art student.

No, I’m an artist, she said, and illustrator.

What do you illustrate?

Magazine articles and stories, mostly. I have not yet explored engravings and other media, as your Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood has done.

He nodded, more serious now. We have changed art for all time.

Jo couldn’t help smiling. Mr. Rossetti had extraordinary confidence.

By example? she asked. Or are you a teacher?

Both. I happen to be a teacher also, at the moment. At least, I teach at the Working Men’s College. But we’re changing art through our work, and how we live.

Jo looked back up at the tree. Her focus was gone now, and it was getting late. She’d been here since the gallery had opened that morning. She began to put her sketchbook away.

I am so sorry, said Rossetti. I have broken your concentration. Please forgive me. He rose carefully, his ample girth making him somewhat awkward. He tugged down his waistcoat.

No, it’s all right, said Jo, standing also. I should be going anyway. She noticed he was looking at her clothes, the fall of her dress. She saw approval there, rather than the disdain she often saw when people realized she wasn’t wearing a crinoline. Of course, his clothes were rather outrageous, she thought. The fabric of his jacket was decorated in a colorful swirling pattern.

Are those birds? she said, looking more closely.

Yes, it’s a new design for fabric, he said proudly. Morris and Company. Do you like it?

Very much, she said, and looked up into his eyes. Goodness, if she were so inclined . . .

I’m going to get some air, Mr. Rossetti, she said.

Dante, please. I’ll accompany you, Miss . . . ?

Harris, she said. Jo Harris.

They walked out of the gallery into the sunlight. Rossetti put his large-brimmed hat on and stuffed his hands in his pockets, then looked at her with a confused expression.

Yes? she asked, working the strap of her bag into a more comfortable position on her shoulder.

You have no parasol.

No, it’s far too hampering. I need both my hands.

Ah, yes, for sketching. He had clasped his hands behind his back as he walked beside her.

To get myself on the omnibus, she said.

He laughed. Right. And no hat or, God forbid, a bonnet.

No. She raised her face toward the sun.

He looked her up and down. Nor, if I’m not mistaken, a corset.

Jo stopped and peered closely at him, lowering her eyelids. He stopped also and stood with his legs apart. Like a Colossus, she thought. Omnibus, she said, and turned to continue down the path.

He fell in alongside her. Have you ever posed for an artist, Miss Harris?

Good heavens, no. I belong behind the sketchbook, not in front of it.

Perhaps, he said, I could draw you, and allow you to draw me. Would that be fair?

To capture those eyes would be quite something, thought Jo. The deep sadness in them, masked by humor. A confidence that undoubtedly hid some sort of sensitivity, or fragility even. She wondered whether she could do it.

That would be fair.

Excellent. They were approaching the omnibus stop. How can I find you?

Jo was twenty-nine years old and knew better than to allow a man, even a famous man, to know where you lived. I’ll find you, she said.

Please do. 16 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. You can come to the house. See my menagerie.

Menagerie?

Exotic animals. I love them. Although I’m not terribly good at keeping them alive. Or we could meet at the Zoological Gardens. His eyes sparkled. Let’s do that. Name a time.

Jo could see the omnibus coming up the road. The horses looked fresh and ready for a five-mile haul across the river. Next Saturday, one o’clock? she said.

Yes. Shall I bring a picnic?

Let’s each bring something to share. She held out her hand. Nice to have met you, Mr. Ro— Dante.

He took off his hat and swept it down as he bowed over her hand. And you, Jo.

Samson Light and Tommy sat at the kitchen table, since the light was better there in the afternoon. Ellie was upstairs with Prudence, freshening the bedrooms.

Samson pushed the book toward Tommy. You see here there are two types of muscle, smooth and striated. The one we saw from the pig was smooth.

Tommy took a note in his book. Do they do different things?

They do. Striated muscle is voluntary and works on command. He kicked Tommy under the table.

What did you do that for? Tommy yelped.

That’s my voluntary muscles. But smooth is like your stomach. It contracts involuntarily, and for longer. But heart muscle is different. It looks striated but is involuntary.

Well, I hope so, said Tommy, ignoring his kicked leg and making another note.

And all non-heart striated muscles are connected to the skeleton. Samson showed a drawing of the skeleton.

That makes it easier, said Tommy. They heard Ellie and Prudence coming down the stairs. Samson rose when they entered the room, but Ellie