Free Fires of London (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) by Janice Law

captured.
    “It’s very good,” I said.
    “You sound doubtful.”
    “What does Burns say? ‘If we could see ourselves as others see us . . . ’ I think that goes double for one’s lovers. It’s good. Really.”
    He smiled; he’d thought so too, but studio light is often deceiving. The work one loves turns out to be junk, while some little unconsidered piece, on further review, has possibilities. “And now for the pendant. You’ve come for a sitting?”
    “Is that all right? I was at a standstill this morning and I thought—”
    He made me welcome as always. We exchanged art-world gossip and tales of the blackout and the ARP while he got out the canvas, adjusted his palette, and checked my pose. I kept an eye on his rather high-toned colors, the cadmium reds and yellows, both raw and burnt sienna balanced with cold raw umber, and an array of vivid greens and blues, the intense colors of his continent. “You need to be looking straight ahead—that’s right. Excellent, excellent,” he said with a smile of anticipation; against all the odds, he finds my face inspiring.
    “Face like a pudding,” I said, but Roy’s painted me before, and my studio, frequently. The most unlikely people and images can prove useful. I understand that.
    While he worked, Roy chatted to keep me diverted. Now and again he frowned or puffed out his cheeks or stopped to stare intently at my features. I have a completely different approach. In between sittings I like to work on portraits from photographs, and I like to finish up with just the canvas and the image in my mind. When we took a little break I mentioned the red-haired Aeschylus fanatic I’d met in the Gargoyle. “I never got his name. Would you know him? A theater designer, I think.”
    “Very thin, hawkish face?”
    “That’s right.”
    “A bit of an old queen?”
    “Did you know these are Kabuki gestures?” I flounced around the room and made him laugh.
    “That’s him. His name’s Aubrey Teck. I’m surprised he didn’t ask you to join the group.”
    “I fell from favor by disliking Brighton.”
    “It is very prudent to dislike Brighton, though I personally like the piers and the Royal Pavilion. Haven’t you ever seen that? Oh, Francis, really! It’s Moorish fantasy— an opium dream without a pipe. All shut up now, I should think, for the duration.”
    “But what was this group?”
    “I think it was the Brighton Group, the Brighton Club, Brighton Drama, something along those lines. He’s always on the lookout for likely boys for fun and games. I couldn’t imagine how he was getting them with that dreadful hair, but drama, I suppose, that is something different.”
    “He longs to play Clytemnestra; he sees a great career ruined by the advent of actresses.”
    “I shouldn’t doubt,” Roy said, and laughed.
    “A harmless enough ambition, I reckon.”
    “Daft, simply daft, darling. High drama in sheets with gestures.” He waved his arms in the air. Despite, or perhaps because of, a proper education, Roy is not as taken with the Greeks as I am.
    “Where did this group meet, do you know?” I tried for casual; with all his contacts and acquaintances, Roy functions like an artistic town crier, but his antenna detected my more than passing interest.
    “Don’t tell me you have theatrical leanings. Oh, dear, squelch that; it’s painter’s ruin.”
    “Not me. A friend of a friend is desperately keen on Greek tragedy,” I said, though I doubted the inspector would agree with any part of that description. “When he heard about Teck, he wanted me to check him out.”
    “Well, your friend will have to head to Brighton. Of course, my dear. Why else would it be called the Brighton Club or whatever it is? It’s definitely Brighton Something.” Roy had what I think of as an antipodean laugh, coming from somewhere in his capacious belly and utterly infectious. After a certain amount of banter, I had not an address but tips on a few likely pubs and a general