Art in the Blood. Bonnie Macbird

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СКАЧАТЬ turned to me in amusement. ‘Possibly. One never knows with an artist.’

      I read the name below the portrait. It had been painted by Horace Vernet – the brother of Holmes’s grandmother! While he spoke little of his upbringing, he had once mentioned this.

      ‘Ah, your great-uncle is the artist!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is unusual for him, is it not? Wasn’t he more known for historical, and later military and oriental subjects?’ I wondered aloud, proud to demonstrate knowledge in at least one very small corner of the visual arts.

      Holmes looked at me in some surprise, and then smiled, returning to his study of the painting.

      I had made it a point to familiarize myself with the Vernet family in an effort to understand my friend. Horace Vernet was an odd chap, born in the Louvre itself in June of 1789, while his artist father (Holmes’s great-grandfather), Carle Vernet, hid out there during the violence of the French Revolution.

      Carle’s sister, arrested for associating with the nobility, had been dragged screaming to the guillotine. Carle never painted again, but his son Horace went on to become a renowned artist, discarding the trappings of classicism and forging his own path as a renegade painter of a much more natural style whose topics were chiefly soldiers and orientalism.

      While the other side of Holmes’s family were English country squires, and therefore probably more conventional (though I could not be sure), I have always felt, after learning of Holmes’s French ancestry, that it explained something of his ‘art in the blood’ theory.

      Holmes, the cold reasoning machine, did have a deeply emotional side to him. And some of the leaps of thought which came to him – after amassing the facts, of course – displayed an imagination that could only be termed artistic.

      As we strolled out of this gallery and into the next, Holmes leaned in close and whispered, ‘Have you noticed the man who is following us?’

      I started and began to turn.

      ‘Don’t give it away! Continue to walk.’

      ‘Oh, give me more credit than that, Holmes!’

      We drew presently into a room containing some drawings of Ingres. These pen-and-ink studies of women and children might have been pleasing but I could not focus. I glanced behind me. Was there someone who withdrew immediately behind the door to the next gallery? Or was Holmes, in his precarious state, imagining things?

      Who would know we were there, or have the slightest reason to follow us? It must be merely another tourist. What was I thinking?

      ‘The gentleman with the large umbrella is quite skilled at concealment.’ Holmes nodded discreetly in the direction of the gallery from which we had just come.

      ‘I see nothing, Holmes,’ said I. ‘Most people leave their umbrellas in the cloakroom.’

      ‘Precisely.’

      I glanced around again. I saw no man with an umbrella. A small trickle of worry began to take hold of me, coupled with impatience. ‘May I suggest a coffee?’

      ‘Follow me, Watson,’ he said, ‘and we shall lose the fellow.’ He took off at a brisk walk.

      ‘Ridiculous,’ I muttered, hurrying to follow. What could be the point of this mysterious game?

      Ten minutes later, and after a breathless trot through a maze of galleries and rooms large and small on a route which seemed to be well known to my companion, Holmes decided we had succeeded in losing our shadow.

      ‘Good,’ I remarked. ‘Perhaps our follower has joined one of the tour groups of American ladies and will find himself a suitable wife, enabling him to give up a life of crime.’

      Holmes ignored me and presently we came to a large, public staircase in front of a remarkable statue. It was the headless form of a woman, striding intemperately forth, wings spread behind her.

      ‘Behold the Winged Victory of Samothrace, or Nike,’ Holmes announced. ‘One of the finest examples of Hellenistic art in the world, if not the finest.’

      But our fictional follower had grabbed hold of my imagination. ‘They are probably charming him now with their astute comments on the art,’ I said. ‘One of them will capture his fancy. Together, they will move to Philadelphia, opening a small umbrella shop where—’

      ‘I told you, we’ve lost him,’ snapped my companion.

      ‘He was never there, Holmes!’ I said, exasperated. But he ignored me, lost in contemplation of the statue.

      ‘Just look, Watson. Isn’t she magnificent? Notice the vivid stance, the spiral structure, the rendering of wet cloth – perhaps as if at the bow of a ship. The style is from the island of Rhodes, and the sculpture probably commemorates an ancient victory at sea. It is said that the Marseilles Nike I mentioned to you in the train bears a resemblance to her – which would make that statue most coveted indeed!’

      He stared at it, rapt, entranced by which feature or idea, I could not say. It was lovely, I suppose. It was certainly dramatic, bordering on the histrionic. She was missing her head. Where was the head? I sighed, suddenly tired.

      Holmes shot me a withering glance.

      ‘Is the tea room nearby? Perhaps a French pastry would revive me,’ I said.

      ‘Watson, don’t be such a Philistine. You are in the presence of one of the finest pieces of art in the Western pantheon—’ He stopped in mid-sentence and pulled out his pocket watch. ‘Ah, it is time! I have an appointment with the Curator of Sculpture to discuss the stolen Nike statue. It appears that a rare photograph is in their possession. Come, we must not be late.’

      ‘What? I thought you were not interested in this stolen statue.’

      ‘A favour to my brother; nothing more. And simple curiosity.’

      I doubted this. Holmes was purposeful at all times. I tried to control my annoyance. ‘But when did you have time to make this appointment?’

      ‘I telegraphed from Dover,’ he snapped. ‘Obviously.’

      It was typical of Holmes to disguise his agenda, even from me.

      ‘Holmes, there is only so much art I can imbibe at a time,’ I said, somewhat testily. ‘I am going for a cup of tea. Now.’

      Thus I found myself alone in the galleries, scheduled to meet up with Holmes at the Rue de Rivoli entrance in three-quarters of an hour. He admonished me to take care and remain in sight of others.

      I thought the warning pointless. No one could be following us in the Louvre. Who would know we were there, other than the art expert he was now seeing? I wondered if the residual effect of the cocaine, aggravated by too much artistic stimulation, had my friend’s imagination working overtime.

      I attempted to find my way to the tea room but became lost and wandered for a good fifteen minutes, growing ever more fatigued and annoyed. Finally a sympathetic guard pointed out a short cut to the restaurant through a doorway and down some stairs normally reserved for employees of the museum.

      I entered СКАЧАТЬ