Murder in the East End - Jennifer Ashley Page 0,99

quickly. “Miss Townsend sketched me cooking. Nothing untoward. I am pleased to hear she has finished.”

“Not quite finished,” Daniel said. “But the picture is complete enough that she wouldn’t mind you having a look. As I know you’re longing to.”

I was. When Miss Townsend had announced she’d finished the painting, a great curiosity to see it had surged through me. But of course, the picture was in her private studio, and it would not be dignified or proper for me to beg to be admitted.

Daniel must have arranged it. He always knew how to turn me up sweet.

25

Miss Townsend’s studio was in Mayfair, in a narrow house in Upper Brook Street, near Hyde Park. She’d hired the house and put her studio on the top floor, where the light was best.

Lady Cynthia, Mr. Thanos, and Bobby were in the studio when we arrived. They greeted Grace with pleasure, as did Miss Townsend when she was introduced.

Miss Townsend, who did not seem surprised I had a daughter—Bobby had likely told her—gave me a penetrating look, one filled with understanding.

“This is where I’ve been rusticating,” Miss Townsend said, indicating the studio with a wave. “I apologize, Mrs. Holloway, for not sending word. I had no idea anyone would be so worried about me. I tend to forget the time when I’m hard at it.”

“I’ll say,” Bobby growled.

The rooms at the top of the house had been knocked together to form one great loft, six windows letting in light. It was a bit chilly, though a stove had been fitted to the chimney, trying its best to cut the cold.

Miss Townsend had been working on several canvases. Three large ones dominated standing easels, and one painting, more complete than the others, leaned against the wall under the windows.

“I’m not finished by a long way,” Miss Townsend said. “But I wanted your opinion. Have I got it right?”

I stood back and gazed at the four paintings. She’d put the figures of a cook and her assistant in each, and tables, dishes, and some of the food, but not the background.

I’d worried about being recognized in a painting, but I needn’t have bothered. While the cook had my shape and my style of cook’s dress and apron, the face was a sort of blur with the merest line of jaw and nose. In one, the cook was looking down, her eyes not visible. A curl of dark hair laced from her cap to droop down her neck, exactly as mine did when I was hot and hurried.

In spite of its odd nature, the painting amazed me. In simple lines, with nothing sharp, Miss Townsend had conveyed the portrait of a cook hard at work, capturing the movement. A cook was never still, always chopping, peeling, stirring, basting, and scurrying to and fro.

In another painting, the cook was at the stove, her back to the room, and again, I could imagine her shaking the pan or flipping frying sausages. The assistant, having the slim figure of Tess, her unruly hair, and often askew cap, vigorously chopped a carrot.

The food was more recognizable than the two people—with a glimpse of a scullery maid in the far room washing dishes. A bowl of cooked potatoes sprinkled with parsley gently steamed. Mushrooms, dark and fresh, overflowed a basket. Bright fruit lay both cut and uncut, and in another painting, the table held cakes and tarts, a loaf of sugar waiting to be pounded into usable chunks.

I stared in awe, my hands coming together in delight, as Miss Townsend watched me carefully.

Grace came to stand beside me. “Is that you, Mum?” she asked with childish frankness. “You’re all blurry.”

Laughter around me loosened my tongue. “It is me,” I told her. “And yet, it’s every cook. And every cook’s assistant. They are beautiful.”

Miss Townsend relaxed. “I’m pleased you approve.” Her words were light, but I heard gratification in them.

“Will people truly buy these?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” Cynthia assured me. “Judith sells all sorts of canvases. She has people lined up for her next ones.”

“Good,” I said. “These should be seen.”

“You are a lovely woman, Mrs. Holloway,” Miss Townsend said. “I will pour wine, and we will celebrate. Lemonade for your daughter.”

She had servants downstairs apparently, though I’d seen not a sign of any—Miss Townsend had admitted us to the house herself. She summoned one, not by a bell but through a speaking tube, to my and Grace’s intense interest.

An elderly butler, who pretended not to notice that a cook, her daughter,