Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [76]
A pale young Irishman, addressed by his fellows as Yeats, stared moodily into the distance. The newcomers’ inclusion seemed to displease him.
“Take no notice at all.” Wilde gave them his full attention. “Personally or professionally, may one ask?”
Pitt felt vaguely uncomfortable. He knew Wilde’s reputation, and he did not wish to be misunderstood.
Tellman was quite obviously confused, and it showed in the pink-ness of his cheeks and the stubborn set of his mouth.
“Professionally,” Pitt replied, keeping his eyes steadily on Wilde’s.
“Will any French diplomat do?” the young man with the quiff asked, then giggled cheerfully. “Or do you want a particular one?”
Tellman sneezed.
“I would like a particular one,” Pitt replied. “Henri Bonnard, to be exact. One of his friends has reported him missing, and it seems that if he does not reappear soon he may be in jeopardy of losing his position, which makes me fear he has met with harm.”
“Harm?” Wilde looked from one to the other of them around the table. He turned back to Pitt. “I know Bonnard, slightly. I had no idea he was missing. I confess, I haven’t seen him in . . .” He thought for a moment. “Oh . . . a couple of weeks, or nearly as long.”
“He was last seen nine days ago,” Pitt said. “In the morning near the Serpentine. He had an altercation with a friend and left rather heatedly.”
“How do you know?” Wilde asked.
“It was observed by a number of people,” Pitt explained. “There was a camera club out taking pictures in the early light. Both men were members.”
Tellman shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I prefer my visions in words.” Yeats lost interest and turned away.
“A poetry of light and shade,” the man with the quiff observed. “An enormous number of pictures in black-and-white and shades of gray. Better than Whistler, what?”
“But not as good as Beardsley,” someone else said sharply. “A photograph will catch only the obvious, the outside. Beardsley’s drawings will catch the soul, the essence of good and evil, the eternal questions, the paradox of all things.”
Pitt had no idea what the man was talking about. From the look on Tellman’s face, he was no longer even trying to understand.
“Of course,” the man with the quiff agreed. “The brush, in the hands of a genius with the courage to draw whatever he wants, and no bigoted, frightened little censor to stop him, can mirror the torment or the victory within. Anything you dare to think, he can show.”
Someone else leaned forward enthusiastically, almost knocking a glass of wine off the table with his elbow. “The immediacy of it” he declaimed, looking at Wilde. “Your Salome, his drawings, the ideas of black, gold, and red were brilliant! Bernhardt would have adored it. Can’t you just imagine her? We would have broken into a new age of the mind and of the senses. The Lord Chamberlain should be shot!”
“The man’s a policeman!” a handsome man warned, waving at Pitt, then banging his fist on the table top and making the glasses jump.
“He won’t arrest you for expressing a civilized opinion,” Wilde assured him, glancing at Pitt with a smile. “He’s a good fellow, and I know he goes to the theatre because I remember now where I saw him before. When that wretched judge was murdered in his box—Tamar MacAuley was on the stage, and Joshua Fielding.”
“That’s right,” Pitt agreed. “You actually supplied me with the pieces of information that indicated the truth.”
Wilde was obviously delighted. “I did? How marvelously satisfying. I wish I could help you find poor Henri Bonnard, but I have no idea where he is or why he should have gone.”
“But you do know him?”
“Certainly. A charming fellow . . .”
“Here or in Paris?” the man with the quiff enquired.
“Did you know him in Paris?” Pitt asked quickly.
“No, not at all.