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

for Arnold, who was off to see a friend in Hove, before we went down to the lobby, bright with lights and gilt, and out to the darkening streets. This is a time I like. The sky is still light enough to silhouette the buildings and distinguish people on the pavements, but details are lost in shadow, and I can feel the shyness and regrets of my life begin to dissolve in darkness and in alcohol. To the pubs, then! To drink with nerved-up airmen and sailors and violent, thin-faced men of no certain occupation, possibilities on every side! Alas, tonight I have a special quarry. One pub, two: a fine mix of bored men, painted women, and ambidextrous boys, but no Clytemnestra and no Connie, my second target, either. Dancing with a Polish airman, blind drunk, who did the complicated figures of some ancient Slavic dance. Discussing Monet with a bearded Scotsman who nursed a whiskey as if it were the water of life and had heated opinions on the Impressionists in general, Monet in particular. “He should never have left off figure painting. Never.”
    An interesting idea. One I’m willing to entertain.
    And now, my mind in an interesting place after four pubs and assorted libations (a good Greek word for a night seeking Greeks), streets dark with touches of deepest purple and brown, a drizzle rain beginning, the sea whispering in my ear like all the bad ideas of my life, I enter—where am I entering?—the Hound? The Greyhound? Some dog anyway, a bad omen; dogs are the bane of my life, seizer of my lungs, hounds of hell. Through the curtain, lights, smoke, laughter, smell of perfume, painted faces, falsetto voices, promising, promising. A drink. Chablis, real if sadly watered; still, a good omen, and the gods suddenly turned favorable, for as I am chatting to a muscular chap in black leather pants finished with a bicycle-chain belt, I hear someone say, “Disaster, total disaster. The production’s a total and complete loss. And darling, I was so ready! At once, at once let his way be strewn with purple, that Justice lead him toward his unexpected home. ”
    It could only be Clytemnestra. I patted my companion’s arm and slid away through the mix of khaki and pastel frocks and leather. I saw the vivid red hair above the hawk face. Aubrey Teck was heavily made up and wearing a dark-feathered tiara with an ordinary lounge suit. “The rest a mind, not overcome by sleep, will arrange rightly, with God’s help as destined,” he declaimed.
    That is the end of Clytemnestra’s welcome speech to her husband, and, stepping behind him, I replied, “I tell you to honor me as a man, not god. Footcloths are very well; embroidered stuffs are stuff for gossip. And not to think unwisely is the greatest gift of God. Call happy only him who has ended his life in sweet prosperity.”
    “Darling!” shrieked Teck. “Come with me!”
    I don’t think he remembered me from the Gargoyle; his eyes were very black and dilated. The inspector, no doubt, would have labeled him “in a fine state,” but now that Teck had a likely Agamemnon, one, moreover, who knew at least the famous lines, he was flying high. He had what he called his little pied-à-terre, a flat in a big terrace not far from the pub; “a quiet neighborhood,” he assured me. He mentioned the tranquility of the area twice, although I was uncertain that was a recommendation. I found Aubrey Teck deeply unattractive, but the dark streets, his urgent hand on my arm, the silhouette of his feathered headdress produced a certain frisson, accentuated when we arrived at a massive, neglected-looking terrace. The heavy door creaked open on a dark foyer with a shiny black-tile floor and a hint of bad plumbing. An unseen kitchen was at the back, bedroom probably to the left. On the right was a large, dimly lit lounge painted a deep maroon with what my ARP-trained eye noted were first-rate blackout curtains and shutters. It was sparely furnished with a fireplace equipped with candles, and, below the