Chapter Text
“Let me introduce you.”
They set off down the hall together, Dalgliesh one pace behind as if not quite convinced by the moment that had just taken place: the warmth of her lips on his cheek, the reassuring grasp of her hand. She, too, glanced occasionally back as if not really believing he was there, giving them a chance.
They turned into the larger gallery space, well-filled with guests conversing and perusing the art scattered throughout.
“Just here,” Emma said and guided him over to an older woman and younger man in conversation, the latter holding a bundle of papers under his arm. “Audrey.” She gave a friendly tap on the shoulder to the woman, who turned around. “Audrey, this is my friend Adam Dalgliesh.”
The woman looked at him appraisingly and smiled warmly. “Hello, Adam.” She was in her late sixties and had a classical look about her, long greying hair pinned back into an elegant chignon.
“Audrey is the owner of the Bow Gallery, but we’ve been friends for years,” explained Emma. “She was the advisor for my doctorate, and still does me a favour when I need one.”
“It’s not a favour when it’s well deserved,” Audrey replied, shaking Dalgliesh’s hand firmly. “And Emma is one of the best.”
The women exchanged appreciative smiles.
Emma continued: “And this is Henry Linton, one of my university colleagues.” She addressed the man who was probably ten years her junior, looking rakish in a black turtleneck and houndstooth jacket. “A rising star,” she added.
“Where funding allows,” Linton quipped, then nodded amicably at Dalgliesh. “Welcome. You’ll be wanting one of these.” He handed over a program.
“When Emma said she was inviting you, Adam, I was so pleased,” said Audrey. "I attended one of your readings last year – absolutely stirring poetry.”
“Thank you.”
While she seemed to know exactly who Dalgliesh was, and why he’d been invited, Linton on the other hand was pleasingly oblivious and took Dalgliesh into his confidence the moment the women broke off to talk shop.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about poetry.”
“I don’t know much about –” Dalgliesh glanced at the program, “‘illuminated manuscripts.’”
Linton chuckled. “Let’s get you a drink then.” He flagged down a passing waiter, handed a glass of champagne to Dalgliesh and switched his empty one with a refill. “To be honest this isn’t my scene either. My area is Roman antiquities: bits of pottery, mosaics, coins.”
“You work together?”
“Yes, at Cambridge. I’m a junior lecturer. But Emma often asks me to come to these sorts of things and help out. ‘Broaden my network.’ She’s great that way.”
Dalgliesh’s focus shifted to Emma and Audrey, who were speaking excitedly, and for a moment an anxious expression flickered across his face.
Linton seemed to pick up on it, though misreading the source. “These things can get a bit claustrophobic,” he admitted, “so I like to sneak out back and watch what rolls into the car park. That’s my other passion – cars – and you get all sorts at events like these.”
He paused then, looking at the man in front of him and remembering, “Say, is that your Jaguar out back?”
“It is.”
Linton groaned appreciatively. “Thought I saw a tall bloke like you step out. Do you race?”
“Not without good reason.” Dalgliesh’s reply was tinged with amusement, but the irony was lost on the younger man.
“You should try it – you’ve got the gear. It would be a shame not to. Just around a track, you know, nothing illegal.”
“Racing, again? Really, Henry.” It was Audrey, returning to the conversation.
“I’m a man who loves a thrill. So arrest me.”
Two sets of female eyes landed on Dalgliesh but he kept his cards hidden. It was Emma who rescued the moment, gesturing over her shoulder and saying to him, “Come on, let me show you my favourite.”
They maneuvered through the crowd to a corner at the back where a simple frame enclosed an ancient sheet of letters, surrounded by brightly coloured illustrations in blue, red, and green. Dalgliesh had to stoop slightly to get a good look, one hand in his trouser pocket.
“It’s from a 15th century Italian prayer book,” Emma explained. “The artist is Maria Ormani, a nun and manuscript illustrator – that’s her there,” she pointed to the bottom of the page. “It’s the first self-portrait by a woman in Italian Renaissance art.”
They both observed the figure before them, garbed in the traditional black and white habit, who met the viewer’s eye with composure and grace.
Emma traced the Latin inscription surrounding the portrait, translating, “‘Handmaid of God, daughter of Orman, and the writer of the book.’ She’s omitted her family’s surname, which could be intentional. Her father and grandfather were aristocrats and when the Medicis returned to Florence they were thrown out of the city. They lost everything. So Maria joined a convent.”
She was smiling almost proudly. “Her gaze isn’t demure, like a male artist would have depicted women at the time. It’s unwavering, confident. She has individuality. Maria may have chosen self-exile, but it gave her freedom. She found a community who nurtured her talents and embraced her for who she truly was.”
Emma became aware that Dalgliesh had been looking at her, rather than the manuscript, for some time now and she faltered. “Sorry. I can get a bit carried away.” Although she’d been an advisor and lecturer for years, it was the usually the art that garnered her audience’s admiration – not herself. She felt her face flush.
He redirected his gaze to the portrait, thoughtful.“Self-exile,” he said quietly to himself before straightening up and addressing her. “It’s a beautiful piece, made more remarkable with context. You obviously love your work.”
“I do; it’s very important to me. We can learn so much from the past.”
Another couple appeared from behind to view the portrait, and they stepped aside, surveying the room together. “Are you working on any cases?” she asked.
“Just one. At a nuclear power plant in Norfolk. We finished this afternoon and then I drove down.”
She seemed surprised. “That’s a long drive.”
A small shrug. “I enjoy the scenery, the long stretches of road. It helps me think. And I didn’t want to miss this.” He paused, then added in a lower tone, “Miss you.”
Her glance up was quick, earrings flashing in the light. Though his posture and tone were casual, they belied the intensity in his eyes as they met hers and held them for several moments. Stormy grey into luminous blue.
“Adam?”
They both turned and drew back from each other instinctively. A middle-aged woman with vivid red hair and lipstick to match stood before them. Dalgliesh recovered quickly: “Blanche.”
“Thought I spotted you earlier,” she said. “Off duty, I hope?”
“Yes. Are you here professionally?"
“In a manner of speaking. Keeping tabs on the who’s who and the what’s what. One has to have fingers in many pies in the creative industry.”
Dalgliesh turned to Emma. “This is Blanche Fielding, my agent.”
“Hello. Emma Lavenham.” They shook hands.
“Ah yes. It was my desk your invite landed on, so I could forward to Adam’s home address. Though if you’re trying to get him to write a review or anything literary, I will warn you: you’ll have to be patient. He moves at his own pace.”
Emma smiled. “It’s worth the wait, though?”
“Oh yes, it always is in the end,” Blanche replied. “Adam’s one of our best sellers.” Then, to Dalgliesh: “You’re not thinking of turning to theology, are you?”
“No.” He glanced at Emma. “Dr. Lavenham was a consultant on a case.”
“I see.” Blanche studied the two of them briefly, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Well, I’d be fully supportive if you wanted to explore a new muse.” She placed her hand lightly on Dalgliesh’s arm. “It’s good to branch out, find new depths.” A pause for effect, “And bring in more readers.”
The women laughed. Dalgliesh took an uncertain sip of his champagne but said nothing.
“Lovely to meet you, Emma. Good turnout.”
“And you, Blanche. Thank you.” When Blanche was out of earshot, Emma turned back to Dalgliesh, who was staring into the crowd, expression unreadable. “Sorry, I had no other way of finding you …”
“It’s fine.” He looked back to her, eyes softened.
“Adam, we should –” she began, only to be foiled by one of the gallery staff who’d appeared at her side.
“Dr. Lavenham?” The young woman glanced at Dalgliesh. “Sorry to interrupt. But can I borrow you for a moment? Clarence Ansley has a question about the Burlamacchi.”
“Of course. I’ll be there in a minute.” Emma turned again to Dalgliesh, apologetic. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t move away, but searched his face, finding a flicker of that earlier intensity. “Are you staying awhile longer? We could … have a drink after, if it’s not too late.”
An infinitesimal pause, as one takes before a jump. “Alright.”
“Good.” She smiled up at him, face alight. “I’ll come find you.”