Page 65 of Savage Justice

Marlowe shakes his head, grinning. “No. We’re sound. You want this job completed within two weeks, you said?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No, as long as you can source the materials.”

“That’s covered. Molly was able to pull some strings.”

“And a place to do the work?”

“I’ve been using one of the tower rooms as a studio,” I put in. “The light is fabulous up there.”

“Then it sounds as though we’re cooking with gas,” Marlowe replies. “Can I see the workroom?”

“You want to get started straight away?”

“Might as well. Wouldn’t mind something to eat, though, if you could send something up. Just a sandwich would be fine. And I’ll take that, if I may?” He gestures to the print of Death of Atalanta.

“It’s yours. I’ll see to the food.” Ethan gets to his feet, signalling that this meeting is concluded. “Molly? Can we leave you to look after Marlowe?”

“Of course.”

We leave them to conclude whatever business they were on with earlier while we get started on our mission.

Well, when I say our mission…

I find myself something of a spare part. Marlowe has the focus of a laser once he gets started. It takes him maybe an hour or so to orient his easel to catch the light just as he likes it, and the same again to select the exact paints he wants to use. He experiments with the colour mixing to create the perfect range of hues. He has an expert eye but also uses a gadget he pulls from his pocket which analyses chromatic qualities to create the most accurate colour match possible.

He will use other techniques to artificially ‘age’ his canvas once the painting is completed to arrive at the best possible likeness.

Nico joins us, complete with a tray bearing a slice of homemade beef pie, a salad, fluffy French fries, and coleslaw. There’s a flask of tea and one of coffee. “Mrs McRae sent both,” he explains. “There’s a bunch of fresh brownies in the Tupperware box. She thought they might help the creative juices.”

“Who’s Mrs McRae?” Marlowe demands as he prises the lid off the box to grab a brownie. “I want to marry her.”

“Ethan’s housekeeper,” I explain. “Won’t Clemmie object if you bring another wife home?”

“Clemmie likes brownies. She’ll understand.”

“Mind if I watch?” Nico is peering at the chaotic assortment of paint samples scattered around the table next to the easel.

“As long as you keep quiet,” Marlowe tells him. “You, too, Molly. I need to concentrate.”

“Sure.” I snag Nico’s hand and drag him over to the plump sofa I had hauled up here and installed in the corner. Lucy sometimes likes to come up and read while I’m working, and it’s ideal for her to curl up on.

Marlowe places the brownies close at hand and homes in on his task. He’s soon oblivious to our presence, lost in his own world of colour, form, light, and shade.

The poster is pinned to a spare easel beside the one he’s propped his canvas on, but he also refers to electronic images of the old master which he has displayed on a laptop. He occasionally zooms in on a specific area and makes notes in pencil on the actual canvas.

“Why’s he doing that?” Nico murmurs.

“Not sure. Colour references, perhaps. Every artist has their own little tricks, ways of creating just the effect they’re after.”

“He’s not doing much painting.”

In fact, not a splodge of paint has so far found its way onto the blank canvas.

“Applying the colour usually comes later. First you need to get the outline sketched in, create the perspective, orient the subject within the wider scene.”

“You appear to have lapsed into a dialect of Swahili,” he replies in a dry tone.

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