‘There is nothing to forgive. Come inside.’
He steps back, and Cecilia is left no choice but to cross the threshold, brushing uncomfortably close to his body in the limited space.
The office is as jumbled as the staircase: an overlarge desk takes up most of the centre of the room, stacked with newspapers, magazines, opened letters, bills, invoices, empty ink bottles and broken nibs, blotting paper and several dishes of cigarette ash. The bare floorboards are layered with overlapping Turkish rugs, at first dazzling but on closer inspection stained and moth-eaten. On the walls are countless posters of the gallery’s exhibitions, and frames are stacked up in the corners, chairs piled with sketchbooks, portfolios, ledgers.
There is no chair for her to sit in, and Mr King only leans against his desk and lights another cigarette.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’ he asks, shaking out the match. ‘I am surprised a shy little thing like you would come knocking on my door.’
Cecilia knots her hands together to keep from fidgeting. ‘I will not beat about the bush, Mr King. I come to you with a simple problem I hope you can assist me with.’
‘If you are hoping I can put you in the path of another artist who recognises youruniquetalents but who, unlike our dear Lydia, might pay for them, then I might have a name or two in mind.’
Cecilia blushes furiously. ‘No. You mistake me.’
‘Ah. Forgive me.’ Mr King takes a long drag on his cigarette, the glowing tip reflected in his eyes.
‘My business does concern Mrs Fairfax-Waugh, but it is about her paintings. When we met at Herne House, you had come to discuss an exhibition of her work with a view to selling. Is that correct?’
‘It is.’
‘Of course Mrs Fairfax-Waugh sadly passed away before any exhibition came to pass. I want to know what has happened to those plans and whether any buyers had already been located—’
‘My, my, so mercenary.’
Cecilia clenches her jaw. ‘It is important to me to know what became of those paintings she wished to sell.’
‘If there is a piece you would rather not see the light of day, I’m afraid I don’t have as much power in the world of art as you might suppose.’
‘That is not it at all, Mr King. I would appreciate it if you would answer me directly. What happened to the paintings she gave you for the exhibition?’
Mr King takes another pull on the cigarette and lets out a stream of blue-tinged smoke towards the ceiling. ‘I can’t rightly say. She intended to exhibit with us, yes, and use our services tofind interested buyers, but her illness overtook her. I was deeply saddened by her death.’
Cecilia deflates. ‘But her paintings are all gone, and you have an unfinished piece of hers on display—’
He waves this away. ‘A loan.’
‘Oh.’
Cecilia has fumbled all the cards in her hand. The paintings must be somewhere, and it is impossible to think Mr King does not have some role in the matter. Instinctively, he is not a man she trusts, but perhaps he does not understand the full situation, and if he knew what Lydia had intended with the sale of her work, he might be more inclined to help her.
It is worth trying.
‘The money from the sale was promised to her daughter,’ she says. ‘I thought perhaps some of it had been secured before she passed.’
A limp throw, and it lands flat between them.
Cecilia is outclassed.
Mr King stubs out the cigarette and straightens from the desk. ‘If you do think of modelling again, I hope you will call on me. I can think of a few men who would know what to do with someone like you.’
‘Thank you,’ says Cecilia mechanically. Humiliation burns her cheeks.
Mr King opens the door, and she slides out, pressing herself against the wall to avoid him.
On the landing, she squeezes her eyes shut. The shock of the séance that morning, the yawning gap growing between her and Odette – it is enough to overwhelm her.
The path of escape she had pictured for the two of them shrinks before her, dwindling into nothing.
