Page 35 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Wait a sec, does that mean you make up stuff to fill in the gaps?” He frowned. “Don’t make me doubt you, Jo; it will upend

my whole religion.”

Jo laughed and assaulted the samosas with knife and fork.

“I don’t have the same static and emotional clutter that most people do. I tend to remember details for themselves. But I

still use association. Ronan Foley, for instance, is a surprised pigeon in a raincoat.” She had to pause long enough for Gwilym

to stop laughing before adding, “He didn’t look like a pigeon. But he had wide eyes which looked that much wider for being

heavy-lidded, and stared at me like he’d just hit a window.”

“I’m suddenly frightened to inquire what I remind you of,” Gwilym said, rubbing his eyes.

“Well, don’t get murdered and I won’t need to make a statement. Anyway, they found out who he was without my help.”

“I want to see his picture, now. Can I?” Gwilym asked.

Jo shrugged. “I’ve not seen it. Apparently, they printed his obit. You can probably look it up. But not now !” she added, watching him reach for his phone. “Actually, though, I have a photo to show you. It’s an earring.”

Jo pulled out her phone and called up the image. “Care to comment?”

Gwilym starred at it a moment, turning the phone around and around.

“It’s not an earring,” he said. “It’s a nose ring. Like the ones they found in the Upper Euphrates. You know, Kish? Tell Ingharra?”

“What.”

“Tell Ingharra! It’s a famous archeological site, third millennium BC.”

Jo choked, reached for water and sputtered through a half swallow.

“As in three thousand years before year one? What the hell?”

“So, the site kind of spans the period, so it might not be exactly as old as that. I mean, that sort of filigree design is all over ancient Egypt, too.

And nose rings were pretty popular.” He leaned forward suddenly. “Did I just tell you something you didn’t know?”

“Yes, a lot.”

“Sexy, isn’t it?” he asked.

Jo tossed a napkin at him. “How about you tell me things I don’t know regarding Augustus John. Like why Augustus did Evelyn’s

painting and not the others.”

“Right, right.” Gwilym reached down to retrieve a file from his satchel. “We’re gonna have some name confusion, so I’ll deal

with that first. Evelyn’s sister was Gwen Ardemore, right? Well, Augustus had an older sister, too, also named Gwen.”

“That part I knew, actually. Chen told me—I saw some of her paintings in York.”

Gwilym deflated slightly. “So you know he was a famous painter from the Slade School of Art in London, too?”

“I do. But carry on!” she encouraged.

Gwilym slurped up a bit more vindaloo, then pulled out a reproduction daguerreotype showing a beautiful young woman in soft

silver light.

“Augustus lived in Paris with Gwen and some other artists, and he meets this lovely lady: Ida Nettleship. They got married

and had a kid, so Augustus suddenly needed a real job. He gets one working as an art teacher in Liverpool.”

More photos escaped Gwilym’s bag. Most were copies of Augustus’s early art; red chalk drawings, Moses and the brazen serpent.

Jo had seen several of the originals in York.

“His career doesn’t really take off, though, until he meets the Signorina Estella Dolores Cerutti in 1900 and starts painting her.

Estella was an Italian pianist who lived downstairs from Augustus’s flat—and here she is!

” Gwilym took out a color print-off, and Jo caught her breath.

Three-quarter length and in full left-side profile was a dark eyed beauty.

She was dressed in cream satin with delicate folds, her hands clasped together at the waist. She did not look like Evelyn, but the portraits lived in the same orbit.

“Gorgeous isn’t it?” Gwilym asked. “The way the light falls just so, the softness of her hair. Apparently, Ida was jealous

and made herself a whole new set of clothes to compete.”

Jo could kind of see her point. Estella was majestic.

“Anyway, the portrait helped make his name. At least in artistic circles. William Ardemore would surely have heard of him,”

Gwilym said, taking a break to finish his platter.

Jo pushed away the remains of her curry and drew little circles on the tablecloth.

“William and Gwen marry in 1906. They have their portraits done that year—or the next. But Augustus John isn’t the artist

for those.” The records kept by her solicitor, Rupert Selkirk, listed a relatively well known and accomplished regional artist,

a man in high fashion at the time. “Evelyn comes to them sometime in 1906 or 1907, and William has her sit for someone just

making his mark? Is it just because he enjoyed the one of signorina?”

“Maybe. You can see how similar to Evelyn’s it is.”

“Okay, but then why would Augustus not take credit for it or sign the painting? He’s trying to make it in the world, and this

is the guy who argued a painter has more rights than the sitter or the owner.”

“Ah! I saved the best bit,” Gwilym said. He pushed his dish away, cracked his knuckles and prepared to talk with his hands.

“In 1903, Mr. John meets an artist model named Dorelia McNeill. Unsurprisingly, she becomes his lover. But it gets better;

she was originally his sister Gwen’s model—and also her lover. She even introduced them.”

“The sister and brother shared the same lover?” Jo asked. Somewhat loudly, having temporarily forgotten they were in a public restaurant.

“So Augustus and Ida and Dorelia all set up house together, and he fathers kids by both of them.”

Jo put her hands out as if to stop the train wreck that surely must have been.

“So he is living with both women, the same way William is living with Gwen and Evelyn?”

“Kinda yeah?” Gwilym said. “And it wasn’t a secret or anything. So William Ardemore probably knew about the arrangement.”

“Meaning?” Jo asked.

“Common ground? I dunno. Maybe Ardemore wanted the same thing. You know, not leaving Gwen—”

“And her money,” Jo added.

“—and instead figured they could have their own little family unit. With Evelyn being the, um, bearer of heirs.” Gwilym cleared

his throat over this last bit, but it didn’t keep Jo from hearing chattel .

“I really hope he wasn’t keeping her around as his baby-maker,” she said, grimacing in distaste. “And I’m still not sure how

this explains why Augustus John didn’t make it plain that was his masterwork.”

“True. Though the guy was also broke at the time of painting. He lived in a traveling caravan with an expanding tribe of children, and two women. Maybe more

women. Did you happen to look up his bio online? Under children, it just says various .” Gwilym scooped up the various photos and started tucking them back into his envelop. “Just saying, William and Gwen were

rich, and a little money goes along way for Bohemian painters who keep fathering everybody’s kids.”

Jo puffed air, sending a loose strand of hair dancing.

“By 1908, Evelyn is dead, the painting presumably ruined, so maybe he just never got the chance to promote it. Plus, Gwen and William disappeared from society shortly after Evelyn’s death, so maybe an Ardemore portrait was no longer high profile to help his career.

Who knows.” Jo hunted the menu for ras malai , little white discs swimming in cardamom milk.

They looked like spider egg sacs. She liked them anyway. “Chen said my uncle

blamed Gwen Ardemore.”

“For damaging the painting?”

“Someone threw acid on the eyes,” Jo said.

“The windows to the soul,” Gwilym added.

“Exactly. It’s a psychological portrait of a woman in love.”

“And Gwen couldn’t live with it? I guess she didn’t go in for polyamory.” Gwilym hovered over the dessert menu. “Actually,

I’m not sure Ida was all that into it, either. Some accounts say she felt like a drudge, looking after all the kids while

Dorelia continued to model.”

Jo ordered, then sat back thoughtfully. Two women, one adored, the other rejected. Like the Bible story about Jacob’s wives,

Leah and Rachel. Was it motive for murder? Was Gwen’s jealousy and heartbreak bitter enough to lead to bloodshed? She wouldn’t , Jo thought. Would she?

“I wonder what would have happened if they had lived all together,” she said. “Happily, I mean. Or at least openly, like the artists.”

“Artists can get away with that a lot better than lords, I think,” Gwilym suggested. “Marriages of convenience and secret

trysts for king and country.”

Secrets. There shouldn’t have to be secrets—Jo hated them. Look what they did to her mother... to her relationship with her mother,

too. Look what had happened to Aiden, and then to Arthur, since he couldn’t bring himself to come out of the closet. Look

at how the world crushed and squeezed anyone who was different for the sake of “society says.”

“You’ve gone quiet,” Gwilym said. Jo blinked at him. Dessert had come and she’d been staring into space.

“Sorry. It’s just—you know, my uncle was going to propose to Arthur. I don’t think Arthur knows. Chen said he was tired of hiding. Told her he’d even give up the Hiding painting—”

Jo’s brain ground gears. He was going to give the painting back. More importantly, he was going to take Evelyn home . Jo jumped out of her seat, remembered they were in a restaurant and forced herself to sit back down.

“Okay. So we all notice that Evelyn appears to be looking the wrong way. It’s subtle. Takes you a minute to see it.”

“Yeah, because it was repaired, so they looked at a photograph instead of the real thing. And because you said Uncle Aiden

wanted Evelyn’s eyes to be looking at him.”

“I know, that’s what we decided. But what if— what if —it’s more intentional than that? What if it’s a clue ?” Jo almost squeaked the last word out.

“How do you mean?” Gwilym asked, half standing himself now.

“I have an idea. We need to take Evelyn to Arthur’s flat,” she said, digging out her phone. “I want Chen to be there, too.

Are you busy?”

“Selling antiques out of my by-appointment-only in Swansea?” Gwilym asked, twirling his mustache. “Not likely.”

Jo hadn’t really thought so. She raised her hand as if in primary school to catch the waiter’s attention, thumb typing texts

to Chen and Arthur with the other.

“We’re going to Newcastle first thing tomorrow.”