The Painted Dragon

‘Who is he?’ she found herself asking.

‘That’s Randolph Lyle,’ explained Jack in a low voice. ‘He’s one of the most important art collectors in London. But, more than that, he likes to support young artists while they’re getting started. They say he comes here every year looking for new talent.’

Leo looked over at Mr Lyle, intrigued.

‘Maybe that’s what he’s doing here now,’ suggested Jack, but before he could say anything else, Professor Jarvis began to speak, and the lively chatter around them fell silent. ‘This is Mr Randolph Lyle,’ he said in his usual brusque tone. ‘As I hope at least some of you are aware, Mr Lyle is a leading expert on fine art. He has come to speak to you today about an important opportunity. Mr Lyle.’

Mr Lyle gave a small bow. ‘Thank you, Professor. I am delighted to be here to speak to you all this morning. I am honoured to be a supporter of this wonderful institution. I have the greatest interest in our next generation of artists – and am proud to say that in my own small way, I have been able to help some of them on their path to success.’ He spoke with an elaborate politeness that contrasted starkly with the professor’s short, sardonic way of speaking. He looked – and sounded – very much like one of the guests that Leo might have encountered in her mother’s drawing room. ‘Today, as you have heard, I am here to talk to you about one such opportunity. I am currently working on a new exhibition, which will be opening in London in a few weeks’ time.

‘This exhibition is to be unlike any other: a combination of the very best new works and some of the masterpieces that have helped to inspire them. I have been lucky enough to have the chance to bring together a selection of old masters, including some works from my own collection, but also some treasures which have been most generously lent to me by a number of London’s museums, galleries and private collections.

‘The venue for this exhibition will also be rather unusual: it will take place at Sinclair’s, the department store on Piccadilly. As some of you may be aware, I have a passionate interest in bringing our best works of art to what we may call “the masses” – and Mr Sinclair happily shares that enthusiasm. Together, we are mounting what I hope will be one of the most exciting exhibitions of this year, in the store’s beautiful Exhibition Hall. Admission will be free to the general public, and we hope that many hundreds will attend.

‘Today, I am here to seek out some volunteers to assist me with putting together the exhibition. We will require a considerable commitment of time from our volunteers over the next few weeks, but in return I can promise a most interesting, instructive, and I hope also enjoyable experience.’

He smiled around the room again, and Professor Jarvis stepped in. ‘If you’d like to take part, come and see me this afternoon. And now, carry on with your work.’

The room instantly came to life again, with a rustle of papers and a hubbub of voices.

‘Well, I’m definitely volunteering,’ Leo heard Connie say decidedly. ‘I don’t care how much work it is – you’d be mad to miss the chance to get to know Randolph Lyle!’

‘It would be splendid to see all those paintings up close,’ said the freckled boy beside her enthusiastically.

Connie snorted. ‘That’s not the half of it. Lyle can make or break artists’ careers, you know. He’s terribly well connected.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that, but I reckon this exhibition sounds a lark,’ said the boy in a good-natured voice. He turned around. ‘What about you, Jack?’

‘I’m all for it,’ said Jack. ‘Let’s go and put our names down on Jarvis’s list. Coming, Leo?’

Leo glanced back over at Mr Lyle, who was already moving through the room, looking keenly over students’ shoulders to see their drawings. The exhibition sounded interesting, but all the same, she thought it would be a mistake to get involved. It was enough just getting used to being here in London without anything else to think about. Most of all, she wanted to work – and helping with this exhibition would mean time away from that.

‘No thank you,’ she said awkwardly. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Well, it’s your funeral,’ said Connie, shrugging. She grabbed Jack’s sleeve. ‘Come on, let’s go before all the places are filled.’

Leo turned back to her drawing as they all hurried across the room, putting the exhibition out of her mind. She was so absorbed in her work that she barely noticed anything else until the session ended, and she became conscious that the others were beginning to pack up, chattering in little groups as they tidied drawings into portfolios.

‘Time to go,’ said Jack, with a grin, as he shrugged on his jacket. ‘I say, a few of us are off to the Café Royal later – want to come along?’

Leo looked up, uncertainly. Beyond, she could see that Connie and the other boy were waiting for Jack expectantly, their satchels slung over their shoulders.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Café Royal?’ Jack asked in surprise. ‘It’s where all the artists go!’

‘Oh, do come on, Jack,’ said Connie, impatiently. ‘She doesn’t even know what the Café Royal is – of course she doesn’t want to come.’

Leo felt her face flush redder, and she shrugged and shook her head. But Jack was still smiling at her. ‘Well, if you change your mind, you’ll know where we are,’ he said, before he was swept away, at the centre of a gabbling crowd of art students.

Leo was left alone to slowly pack up her things. She always seemed to be lagging behind the other students: she was used to being the last to leave, but today, as she made her way towards the door, Professor Jarvis stopped her.

‘Miss Fitzgerald – you haven’t put your name down to help with the exhibition.’

Leo shook her head. He stared at her for a moment, and she explained: ‘I just want to focus on my work for now, Professor.’

Professor Jarvis gave her a searching look. ‘Mr Lyle has seen your work, and he has requested you particularly for the exhibition, Miss Fitzgerald,’ he said in his dry voice. ‘If he takes an interest in your career, it could be very beneficial for you. I’d suggest you take him up on his offer.’

CHAPTER SIX

On London’s bustling Piccadilly Circus, Mr Randolph Lyle’s new exhibition was also creating plenty of conversation. In the Sinclair’s offices, high above the shop, it was time for an afternoon tea break, and the clerks were all discussing the news of the exhibition, while Billy Parker, the office boy, poured out tea from the big pot.

Billy felt that he was quite a different fellow to the one he had been just six months ago, when he had first started working at Sinclair’s. He had grown up a lot. For one thing, he was taller now: his mum had been complaining about how often she had to let down the sleeves of his jackets, and the legs of his trousers. The Billy of six months ago wouldn’t have cared very much if his trousers were too short or not – nor would he have taken such satisfaction in doing each little job carefully, whether it was preparing the clerks’ afternoon tea, or filing Miss Atwood’s papers. But, perhaps the biggest change of all was that these days, just like his uncle Sid, who was the Head Doorman, Billy felt proud to say that he worked for London’s finest department store.

Working for Miss Atwood, Mr Sinclair’s own private secretary, suited him in a way that being a shop porter never had. He enjoyed the company of the other clerks and the lively bustle of the offices. He liked seeing all the people who came and went – Miss Atwood, Mr Betteredge the store manager, and of course, the great Mr Sinclair, ‘the Captain’ himself. He liked being the person responsible for delivering the Captain’s own messages, in their special yellow envelopes, to staff around the store – tipping his hat to the salesgirls and waving a greeting to his old friends the porters as he went. He liked being able to answer the telephone, saying in his most important-sounding voice: ‘Good afternoon, Miss Atwood’s office, this is Parker speaking, how may I assist you?’

One of his favourite tasks was taking Mr Sinclair’s pug, Lucky, on her daily outing to the park. The little dog had become almost as much of a London celebrity as the Captain himself, and attracted a good deal of attention on these walks, especially on cold days, when she was wearing the little blue jacket with the gold Sinclair’s livery that had been specially made for her.

Most of all though, what Billy loved about being an office boy was being among the first to hear all the latest news. Billy loved a good story – and there always seemed to be something exciting to talk about at Sinclair’s. Today was no exception.

‘Some of those paintings are worth a mint. Proper famous, they are,’ reported O’Donnell, as he helped himself to another biscuit.

‘When do they arrive?’ asked Billy.

‘Next week,’ said Crawley. ‘Mr Lyle is going to oversee the hanging of them himself. Very particular, he is. He’s bringing some art students to help him.’

‘Well, he’ll not have much help from the Captain, that’s for sure,’ contributed Davies. ‘He’ll be away for another fortnight yet – that’s what Betteredge says.’

‘But he’s been gone weeks already! Whatever’s he up to?’

‘He’s out in the country. Buying himself a new house, or so I hear. Some great big country pile.’

‘That’s right,’ said Crawley, nodding authoritatively. ‘He’s setting himself up as a proper English gent. His valet told me he’s getting kitted out with tweeds and shooting outfits and the like.’

‘It’ll take more than a bit of tweed to make the Captain into an Englishman,’ said O’Donnell. ‘He’s a Yankee through and through!’

‘I heard that’s why he’s so keen to pal up with this Mr Lyle. He thinks Lyle might be able to recommend him for membership of Wyvern House,’ offered Davies.

‘Wyvern House! He’ll be lucky,’ said O’Donnell sagely.

‘What’s Wyvern House?’ asked Billy at once.

‘One of the oldest gentlemen’s clubs in London. It’s in the City, near the Bank of England. Very exclusive. You have to be invited to join, and they only take people from the best old families – lords and so forth,’ explained Crawley.

‘As a matter of fact, I had a great-uncle that was a member there once,’ announced O’Donnell.

‘Ha! You had a great-uncle who cleaned the boots there once, more like!’ spluttered Davies.

A bit of good-natured bickering broke out, until Miss Atwood stepped out of her office, and said in her clipped voice: ‘Back to work, if you please, gentlemen!’

Reluctantly, they put down their cups and headed back to their desks. But O’Donnell paused to throw the latest edition of the paper in Billy’s direction: ‘Here, you can read a bit more about the exhibition in there, if you like.’

‘What on earth’s a “Living Painting?”’ asked Joe, as Billy broke off to turn the page.

It was the end of another day at Sinclair’s, and the four of them were sitting cosily in the hayloft, the rain pattering gently on the roof above them. Until recently they had spent many lunches and tea breaks in this way, and had often met here after the store had closed to discuss whatever mystery they were solving. Billy had even taken to referring to it as ‘Detective HQ’.

In the past weeks though, these gatherings had become rather less regular. The others always seemed to be so busy, Sophie thought now. Lil was occupied with her new play; Miss Atwood kept Billy busy in the office; and even Joe was immersed in life at the stable-yard. More than once, Sophie had found herself spending her tea breaks here alone, with only the day’s newspaper for company.

But today was different – they were all together again, crunching apples and passing around a bag of toffees that Sophie had bought with some of her hard-earned sixpence from Mrs Long. Sophie felt delighted to see the others. It was quite like old times.

‘The Living Paintings are Mr Sinclair’s latest big idea,’ explained Lil now. ‘A sort of stunt to help advertise the exhibition. Claudine is going to recreate a series of famous paintings in the store windows, and we – the mannequins – are going to pose there, just as if we were the people in the paintings.’

‘I thought you weren’t working as a mannequin very much now, because of the play,’ said Billy in surprise.

‘I’m not really, but I couldn’t resist this. It sounds like such splendid fun – and Mr Mountville at the theatre thinks it might be good publicity too. I’m to be a painting by Fragonard, and I wear a marvellous frilly pink dress, and I sit on a swing surrounded by flowers.’

Winking at the other two, Joe said in a very serious voice: ‘Blimey, Lil. You’re awful grand these days. I’m surprised you think we’re fit to associate with someone so fancy.’

Lil gave a little squeak of indignation, and threw the bag of toffees at him, spilling sweets everywhere. Joe coolly picked one up, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth, making them all laugh.

Sophie laughed too. She sometimes found it hard to believe that the Joe they knew today – still rather quiet, but with a very definite sense of humour – was the same down-and-out vagabond she had once seen begging outside Sinclair’s. Now, he was respected for his skill with the horses, and well liked by all the stable boys. Since the summer, he had been spending more time with Lil: indeed, the girls in the Millinery Department had all been asking Sophie if it was true that they were ‘walking out’ together.

Sophie had just shrugged and smiled. ‘They’re friends. We all are.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t catch me stepping out with a groom,’ said assistant buyer, Edith, in a superior tone. ‘I like a man with prospects.’

‘Didn’t that Joe used to be some kind of a criminal?’ chimed in Ellie.

‘Ooh, he never did!’ squeaked Minnie, delighted by this titbit of scandal.

Sophie had given her short shrift, but now she found herself wondering what Jack would make of his sister spending time with a young man who, it was true, had once been part of the Baron’s gang. Joe was her friend and she trusted him as much as she would trust anyone in the world. But how might someone who didn’t know him feel about his history?

It was Joe who asked now: ‘When do we get to meet this famous brother of yours?’

Lil smiled at him, and shrugged. ‘I haven’t the faintest,’ she said. ‘He was awfully keen to meet you all when he arrived – wasn’t he, Sophie? But I haven’t heard a peep out of him for days. I suppose he must be busy at the art school.’

Outside, a clock began to strike the hour. ‘I think I’d better go,’ said Billy, getting to his feet reluctantly. ‘Uncle Sid’s coming round for tea tonight and Mum wanted me to stop at the grocer’s on the way home.’

‘Me too,’ said Joe. ‘The Gaffer’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.’

‘And I have to get to the theatre,’ added Lil. ‘Why don’t you walk with me?’ she suggested to Sophie. ‘It’s on your way home anyway.’

Sophie was only too glad to agree. She didn’t want their jolly afternoon to be over just yet – and besides, Jack’s sudden arrival meant that she and Lil hadn’t had as much chance to talk over tea as she had hoped. But as they walked towards the theatre, she soon found that her brother was the only thing that Lil wanted to talk about.

‘I still can’t believe Jack has left Oxford! He’s always been such a goody two shoes. You know, top of the class at school, captain of the cricket team and all that sort of rot.’ She paused for a moment. ‘But then, in another way, I suppose I’m not exactly surprised. He’s always had a way of managing to do exactly what he wants.’

As they approached the theatre, she was still talking: ‘I am awfully glad he’s here though. It will be fun to have him in London – just as long as he isn’t going to start trying to boss me around. I just hope he likes Joe – and Billy, of course – and that they like him.’ She looked over at Sophie slyly. ‘He liked you awfully, you know.’

‘Oh don’t be silly.’

‘He did! He told me so on the way home.’

By now they had come to the stage door, and it was time to say goodbye. Sophie turned away from the bright lights of the theatre, and headed back towards her lodgings. For once though, she didn’t stop to collect the evening paper. She wasn’t thinking about the Baron – instead, she found herself turning over the memory of meeting Jack Rose. Surely he couldn’t really have told Lil that he liked her awfully? In spite of her long day in the Millinery Department, she found that she was, after all, feeling rather cheerful.

PART II

Green Dragon

Painted in approximately 1455, this rare surviving painting from Casselli’s ‘Dragon Sequence’ was given as a wedding gift to Her Majesty Queen Victoria by her husband, Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha . . .

Randolph Lyle, A Short History of the Royal Art Collection, 1901 (from the Spencer Institute Library)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Leo paused for a moment, tapping her pen against the paper, unsure what else to say. She had never been very good at putting her feelings into words. What’s more, it was difficult to express just how different her life was here in London to life at Winter Hall. There, the fields and woods would be golden now and the air would smell of smoke and moss. Father and Vincent would be preparing for their autumn shooting parties; Mother would be packing for her European trip.

But autumn meant something else to Leo now. It meant rain on the windows of the Antiques Room in the morning; afternoons spent walking through the grand spaces of London’s museums and galleries; or sitting on the rug before the fire in her room, reading art history books. It meant a jumble of raincoats and umbrellas on the underground railway in the morning; the steamed-up windows of the little tea shop around the corner from the Spencer, where all the art students went to eat buns and drink endless cups of coffee.

Most of all, it meant long hours working in the studio. Professor Jarvis was working them all hard, but no matter how much effort she put in, Leo had found she could not entirely avoid the sharp edge of his tongue. His criticisms rattled her confidence – and she knew she was not the only one. A couple of the other first-year students had left, unable to handle Professor Jarvis’s acid remarks – but Leo kept on, refusing to allow herself to be discouraged.

When she was not at the Spencer, she was usually at Sinclair’s. Working on Mr Lyle’s exhibition had turned out to be more enjoyable than she had expected. It was fun spending time at the beautiful department store, but most of all, she had been surprised by how much she had enjoyed the chance to get to know the other students who were helping with the exhibition – particularly Jack Rose and the red-haired, freckled boy, Tom Smith, who everyone called ‘Smitty’ – though she was still a little intimidated by their outspoken friend, Connie.

Now, as she sat in her room, hesitating over how to say all this in her letter to Lady Tremayne, she found herself thinking back to that afternoon, when Mr Lyle had gathered the students together to see the unwrapping of one of the most important works in the exhibition. It had arrived earlier that day in a large motor van painted with the Royal crest, and two men had personally delivered it into Mr Lyle’s own hands. Usually Mr Lyle allowed the students to unwrap the paintings, wearing white cotton gloves and following his careful instructions, but this particular painting was so precious that he was handling it himself. The students had gathered in a semi-circle around him to watch.

‘This is one of the finest pieces in our exhibition,’ he had said, as he gently removed the painting from its wrappings, and stared at it reverently. ‘I am honoured to say that His Majesty the King himself has lent us this magnificent piece.’

Leo gazed at the painting. It was much smaller than the other paintings in the exhibition, but it at once drew the eye towards it. It was clear that it was extremely old, and yet its colours were lush and intense. The central image was of a dragon, with a twisting, serpent-like body, magnificent wings and a coiling tail. It was painted in a rich emerald green that almost seemed to glow. The background was elaborately patterned with gold leaf in ornate symbols and tiny stars. Mr Lyle stared at it for a long moment before he spoke.

‘Is anyone familiar with this painting?’ he asked. ‘Yes – Miss Clifton?’

‘It’s part of the Casselli Dragon sequence,’ offered Connie.

‘Very good,’ said Mr Lyle. ‘That is quite right. This is in fact one of only two surviving paintings from the sequence thought to have been painted by the artist Benedetto Casselli in Venice in 1455. Miss Clifton, do you know how many paintings we believe there were originally?’

‘Was it seven?’ said Connie, a little less confidently this time.

‘Oh excellent, Miss Clifton,’ said Mr Lyle, and Connie looked pleased. ‘Yes. Seven paintings, each one depicting a dragon. This is known as The Green Dragon. I am sorry to tell you that the other surviving painting, The White Dragon, was most unfortunately stolen from Mr Doyle’s gallery on Bond Street earlier this year.’

‘That’s right – I read about it in the paper!’ exclaimed Smitty. ‘Wasn’t it supposed to be worth a whole lot of money?’

Lyle looked troubled. ‘The loss of such a treasure is a genuine tragedy. I only hope that the thieves have the sense to take proper care of the painting, and that it will find its way back into the hands of a museum or a reputable collector before long.

‘Now, as Mr Smith rightly points out, both The White Dragon and The Green Dragon are of great value. They are particularly special because of their unusual subject matter. There has been much speculation about why the artist chose the dragon as his subject, though of course it is unlikely we will ever know for sure. But the painting is a fine example of the craftsmanship of the time. I urge you to study it closely.

‘Moving onwards, I am very pleased to say that I have another special painting to show you today, painted by Gainsborough around 1780. This is on loan from a dear friend of mine, the Duke of Roehampton, and it also has a remarkable history. Mr Rose, if you could perhaps assist me? This one is large and rather heavy . . . thank you . . .’

The others crowded around the new picture eagerly, but Leo found that she couldn’t stop staring at the painted dragon. The dragon’s expression was inscrutable: at first glance it appeared proud and regal; in another light, cruel and fierce. But the more Leo looked at it, the more she began to feel that it looked in fact a little sad. How was it possible that a painter so many hundreds of years before had managed to capture so many shades of feeling in just a few blobs of paint?

She was still contemplating it when Mr Lyle’s little lecture on Gainsborough came to an end, and the students dispersed. After a moment, he came over to her, and she started back, afraid that he was going to accuse her of not paying attention to what he had been saying. But then she saw to her surprise that he was smiling. Up close, she was struck all over again by his exquisite clothing: the fine silk of his necktie, the immaculate kid gloves, the richly spiced scent of the unusual cologne he wore, the gleaming gold pin at his lapel.

‘It’s Miss Fitzgerald, isn’t it? Professor Jarvis was kind enough to show me a little of your work. I was particularly impressed by some of the copies you had made of one or two very fine pieces – I believe I recognised them from the collection at Winter Hall.’