“I’m here,” Angert said, coming toward Nate. The man was impeccably dressed as always in a dark suit, gray waistcoat, white shirt, and black cravat. He also wore expensive leather boots and gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his beak-like nose. It suddenly struck Nate that the man reminded him of a crow as much as the headmaster had reminded him of an ostrich. He chuckled to himself.
“What is so funny?” Angert demanded.
“I was just thinking what a fine suit that is for a day of painting.”
Angert lifted his pointy chin. “I am a gentleman as well as an artist. One does not cancel out the other.”
“Of course,” Nate said. “I hear you’ve been keeping quite busy.”
“Ja. It’s wonderful. This murder. The interest in my paintings is enormous. I cannot thank you enough.”
“I find it both strange and unsettling that you think murder wonderful, Mr. Angert. And thanking me—well, I’d prefer you didn’t. In fact, I must ask you to stop selling paintings of Mr. Otis’s murder. I hardly think it appropriate for you to exploit a man’s gruesome and tragic death.”
Angert’s long, thin face became even more drawn as he looked sourly at Nate. “I am an artist, Mr. Squires. I do not exploit. I make art. Death is part of life, and it can be beautiful. People find my paintings majestic. Come”—he gestured for Nate to follow him—“see for yourself.”
Nate followed the man to his chamber. Upon entering the room, he was aghast to see the walls lined with paintings of the most gruesome nature. There were several portrayals of Mr. Otis’s murder.At the start of the row, the paintings depicted the sea of daffodils in Villa De Lacey’s Garden against the idyllic backdrop of Lake Windermere, surrounded by greenery and a brilliant blue sky. Then, upon closer inspection, one could see drops of blood seeping from the daffodils. The first picture showed only one or two drops, which were hard to detect upon first glance. In the next, the blood trickled between the flowers, and in the third, it stained some red. The fourth picture grew more macabre. It showed George Otis’s stiff hand, in a frozen, petrified death grasp, emerging from a bloodied patch in the flower bed.
As the row of paintings went on, they became even more graphic, showing details of the murder and Otis’s mutilated body. Nausea rose in Nate’s throat. There was something very wrong with Herbert Angert.
“Well, what do you think?” Angert beamed at his work. “I imagine you are wondering how I painted so many in such a short time. It’s because I am what they callbeidhändigin German. It means ‘two-handed.’ I use both my hands to paint two pictures at a time—one with the left hand and one with the right hand. It’s a talent I was born with.” He turned to his paintings and grinned. “Masterpieces, are they not?”
“I won’t deny your talent, Mr. Angert,” Nate said, trying to be diplomatic. “But I must say, these are in bad taste. In that respect, I must ask you to stop.”
“Stop!” Angert spat out the word as if it were an obscene object stuck in his throat. “You ask an artist to stop painting? That is like asking him to chop off his hands.”
“I’m not asking you to stop painting. Westmorland has some of the most exquisite scenery in the world. You can paint endless landscapes. I thought that was why you came here.”
“It is. And I have captured Lake Windermere on my canvas.” He reached down and extracted a painting from a pile leaning against hiswall. “See.”
Nate nodded at the landscape, which depicted a rather dark and gothic-looking Lake Windermere with stormy skies above. It was a somewhat exaggerated portrayal of how ominous the lake could look during a storm. “I see you have a penchant for the gothic,” Nate said wryly. “All I’m asking is that you stick to painting scenes like this one. There are even lovelier views from Orrest Head, and Buttermere is quite breathtaking. Why don’t you venture out there with your easel?”
“Demand for depictions of Mr. Otis’s murder is high, Mr. Squires.”
“You cannot possibly need the money. Isn’t your father a baron?”
“Wasn’t yours an earl?” Angert said, coolly.
“He was. But that title now belongs to my brother, who inherited all my father’s wealth, along with the title.”
“Leaving you at your brother’s mercy.” Angert’s fists curled into a tight ball. “I know something of that injustice myself. Nothing irks my brother more than me selling my paintings. He says it besmirches the family name. And that is exactly why I continue to do it.” The corners of his mouth curved into a sinister smile. “You and I are alike in that respect, are we not?”
Nate swallowed. Was Angert correct? After all, he’d been profiting heavily since the first murders at Villa De Lacey. The notion made him sick.
“I see that made you uncomfortable,” Angert said. “But the truth is that people love the macabre. Public executions in Germany delight the masses as they do in England. Have you ever seen a man drawn and quartered, Mr. Squires? It’s a most gruesome spectacle, yet Englishmen flock to see it. They bring their wives and children. That’s why these murders have been good for you. Why should they not be good for me too? The colonel is also profiting in a different way, no?”
“Don’t tell me he is charging villagers too,” Nate said.
“No, but he delights in the attention. What is the harm?”
Nate squeezed the bridge of his nose. It was obvious that he wasnot going to be able to convince Angert to stop the sickening paintings or Colonel Kendall from being a self-appointed authority on the murder. And that left him with only one solution.
Chapter Twelve
The next morning,Nate opened his eyes as his valet entered his room, carrying his tea. Bennett set the cup down next to his bed with a “Morning, sir,” and then drew back the curtains, allowing the sun to stream into the room.
Nate stretched, sat up in bed, and reached for his cup. “Is it done, Bennett?” he asked before taking a sip.
“It’s done, sir,” Bennett replied.
