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The studio window was of the enormous plate-glass kind. Through it they had a new view of lake and mountains. Immediately beneath them, adjoining the house, was a patio and close by an artificially enclosed swimming pool, around which and in which members of the house party were displayed. On the extreme right, separated from the pool and surrounded by native bush, was an open space and a hangar which, Mr. Reece said, accommodated the helicopter.
Mr. Reece was moved to talk about the view, which he did in a gray, factual ma
He also made one or two remarks on the potential for “development,” and Alleyn saw the look of horrified incredulity on his wife’s face. Fortunately, it appeared, pettifogging legislation about land tenure and restrictions on imported labor would prohibit what Mr. Reece called “worthwhile touristic pla
Without warning she was overcome by a return of fatigue and felt quite unable to face an extended pilgrimage of this unending mansion. Seeing her dilemma, Alleyn asked Mr. Reece if he might fetch her gear and unpack it. There was immediate talk of summoning “a man,” but they managed to avoid this. And then a “man” in fact did appear, the dark, Italianate-looking person who had brought their breakfast. He had a message for Mr. Reece. Madame Sommita wished to see him urgently.
“I think I had better attend to this,” he said. “We all meet on the patio at eleven for drinks. I hope you will both join us there.”
So they were left in peace. Alleyn fetched Troy’s painting gear and unpacked it. He opened up her old warrior of a paintbox, unstrapped her canvases and set out her sketchbook, and the collection of materials that were like signatures written across any place where Troy worked. She sat in a chair by the window and watched him and felt better.
Alleyn said: “This room will be desterilized when it smells of turpentine and there are splotches of flake white on the ledge of that easel and paint rags on the table.”
“At the moment it ca
“You won’t mind once you get going.”
“You think? P’raps you’re right,” she said, cheering up. She looked down at the house party around the pool. “That’s quite something,” she said. “Very frisky color and do notice Signor Lattienzo’s stomach. Isn’t it superb!”
Signor Lattienzo was extended on an orange-colored chaise longue. He wore a green bathrobe, which had slid away from his generous torso, upon which a book with a scarlet cover was perched. He glistened.
Prompted, perhaps by that curious telepathy which informs people that they are being stared at, he threw back his head, saw Troy and Alleyn, and waved energetically. They responded. He made eloquent Italianate gestures, which he wound up by kissing both his hands at once to Troy.
“You’ve got off, darling,” said Alleyn.
“I like him, I think. But I’m afraid he’s rather malicious. I didn’t tell you. He thinks that poor beautiful young man’s opera is awful. Isn’t that sad?”
“Is that what’s the matter with the boy!” Alleyn exclaimed. “Does he know it’s no good?”
“Signor Lattienzo thinks he might.”
“And yet they’re going on with all this wildly extravagant business.”
“She insists, I imagine.”
“Ah.”
“Signor Lattienzo says she’s as stupid as an owl.”
“Musically?”
“Yes. But, I rather gathered, generally, as well.”
“The finer points of attitudes towards a hostess don’t seem to worry Signor Lattienzo.”
“Well, if we’re going to be accurate, I suppose she’s not his hostess. She’s his ex-pupil.”
“True.”
Troy said: “That boy’s out of his depth, altogether. She’s made a nonsense of him. She’s a monster and I can’t wait to get it on canvas. A monster,” Troy repeated with relish.
“He’s not down there with the rest of them,” Alleyn pointed out. “I suppose he’s concerned with the arrival of his orchestra.”
“I can’t bear to think of it. Imagine! All these musical V.I.P.s converging on him and he knowing, if he does know, that it’s going to be a fiasco. He’s going to conduct. Imagine!”
“Awful. Rubbing his nose in it.”
“We’ll have to be there.”
“I’m afraid so, darling.”
Troy had turned away from the window and now faced the door of the room. She was just in time to see it gently closing.
“What’s wrong?” Alleyn asked quickly.
Troy whispered: “The door. Someone’s just shut it.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Truly.”
He went to the door and opened it. Troy saw him look to his right.
“Hullo, Bartholomew,” he said. “Good morning to you. Looking for Troy, by any chance?”
There was a pause and then Rupert’s Australian voice, unevenly pitched, not fully audible: “Oh, good morning. I — yes— matter of fact — message—.”
“She’s here. Come in.”
He came in, white-faced and hesitant. Troy welcomed him with what she felt might be overdone cordiality and asked if his message was for her.
“Yes,” he said, “yes, it is. She — I mean Madame Sommita — asked me to say she’s very sorry but in case you might be expecting her she can’t — she’s afraid she won’t be able— to sit for you today because — because—.”
“Because of rehearsals and everything? Of course. I wasn’t expecting it and in fact I’d rather not start today.”
“Oh,” he said, “yes. I see. Good-oh, then. I’ll tell her.”
He made as if to go but seemed inclined to stay.
“Do sit down,” said Alleyn, “unless you’re in a hurry, of course. We’re hoping someone — you, if you’ve time — will tell us a little more about tomorrow night.”
He made a movement with both hands almost as if he wanted to cover his ears but checked it and asked if they minded if he smoked. He produced a cigarette case; gold with a jeweled motif.
“Will you?” he said to Troy and when she declined, turned to Alleyn. The open case slipped out of his uncertain grasp. He said: “Oh. Sorry,” and looked as if he’d been caught shoplifting. Alleyn picked it up. The inside of the lid was inscribed. There in all its flamboyance was the now familiar signature: “Isabella Sommita.”
Rupert was making a dreadfully clumsy business of shutting the case and lighting his cigarette. Alleyn, as if continuing a conversation, asked Troy where she would like him to put the easel. They improvised an argument about light and the possibility of the bathing pool as a subject. This enabled them both to look out of the window.
“Very tricky subject,” Troy muttered. “I don’t think I’m up to it.”
“Better maintain a masterly inactivity, you think?” Alleyn cheerfully rejoined. “You may be right.”
They turned back into the room and there was Rupert Bartholomew, sitting on the edge of the model’s throne and crying.
He possessed male physical beauty to such a remarkable degree that there was something unreal about his tears. They trickled over the perfect contours of his face and might have been drops of water on a Greek mask. They were distressing but they were also incongruous.
Alleyn said: “My dear chap, what’s the matter?” and Troy: “Would you like to talk about it? We’re very discreet.”
He talked. Disjointedly at first and with deprecating interruptions — they didn’t want to hear all this — he didn’t want them to think he was imposing — it could be of no interest to them. He wiped his eyes, blew his nose, drew hard on his cigarette, and became articulate.