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  BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

  1,000-Year Voyage: A Science Fiction Novel

  The Crimson Rambler: A Crime Novel

  Don’t Touch Me: A Crime Novel

  The Empty Coffins: A Mystery of Horror

  The Fourth Door: A Mystery Novel

  From Afar: A Science Fiction Mystery

  The G-Bomb: A Science Fiction Novel

  Here and Now: A Science Fiction Novel

  Into the Unknown: A Science Fiction Tale

  The Man Who Was Not: A Crime Novel

  One Way Out: A Crime Novel (with Philip Harbottle)

  Reflected Glory: A Dr. Castle Classic Crime Novel

  Robbery Without Violence: Two Science Fiction Crime Stories

  Shattering Glass: A Crime Novel

  The Silvered Cage: A Scientific Murder Mystery

  Slaves of Ijax: A Science Fiction Novel

  The Space Warp: A Science Fiction Novel

  Vision Sinister: A Scientific Detective Thriller

  What Happened to Hammond? A Scientific Mystery

  Within That Room!: A Mystery of Horror

  REFLECTED GLORY

  A DR. CASTLE

  CLASSIC CRIME NOVEL

  JOHN RUSSELL FEARN

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1986, 2005 by Philip Harbottle

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidebooks.com

  DEDICATION

  For Richard A. Lupoff

  CHAPTER ONE

  For quite ten minutes Elsa Farraday had been aware of the young man’s scrutiny and it was commencing to make her feel embarrassed.

  She continued quietly with her lunch, meantime glancing around the crowded London café—yet every time her eyes were drawn to the young man three tables away. And every time his gaze was fixed on her in polite but searching interest.

  By degrees Elsa began to feel annoyed. This was downright rude, even impudent. Being young and attractive-looking, Elsa Farraday was by no means averse to a second glance, but this was too much.

  Frowning to herself she lowered her eyes to her lunch and, for a time, tried to picture the young man mentally. He too was worth a long scrutiny, she decided. He was handsome in a dark kind of way with rather untidy black hair, straight nose, and well-formed jaw and mouth. Perhaps twenty-five, and impeccably dressed. Yes, he was certainly—

  “I say, I hope you’ll excuse me....”

  “Huh?” Elsa looked up with a start. The young man was standing beside her table looking down at her with a seriously apologetic face.

  “I hope you’ll excuse me,” he repeated. “It just occurred to me that you must be thinking I’ve no manners, considering the way I’ve been looking at you.”

  Elsa had grey eyes, and upon occasion they could be very cold. They were now. With her well-shaped mouth rather taut she responded:

  “I was just thinking that you were providing ample evidence of the fact that the age of chivalry is dead!”

  “Yes; I suppose it did look that way.”

  The young man hesitated as though he expected Elsa would invite him to be seated on the remaining chair at the table. She did not. She continued eating her lunch as though be did not exist.

  “I’m most awfully sorry,” he said, after a pause.

  “That is the least you can be,” Elsa responded, with another direct look. “I don’t think I have ever been so thoroughly—er—summed-up in all my life! And I don’t like it! What’s the matter with me? Or do you find a young woman something of a curiosity?”

  “In your case, something of a revelation.” Then as he saw a warm tide steal into the girl’s pale cheeks the young man added hastily, “I—I mean in the artistic sense. You see, I’m Clive Hexley.”

  “Should I be impressed?” Elsa inquired coldly.

  “Well, that depends. I’m an artist. R.A., to be precise. I hope you haven’t got the idea wrong,” Clive Hexley continued ur­gently. “I was studying you so intently because you have just the exact face, throat, and shoulders I’m looking for. For a model, I mean. See here,” he finished, and handed over his card.

  Elsa read:

  Clive Hexley, R.A.

  Cardenworth Studios

  Dell Road, Chelsea

  London

  “I hope,” Clive Hexley added anxiously, “that that somewhat explains my extraordinary conduct.”

  Elsa’s expression slowly changed and the severity gave way to a slight smile.

  “Yes, I suppose it does,” she admitted. She clicked the card between her fingers for a moment and became pensive; then Clive Hexley found her grey eyes upon him again. “So you think I have prospects as a model, do you? That is...quite a fascinating thought.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Tell me about it,” Elsa suggested, and motioned to the soli­tary chair.

  The young man seated himself and contemplated her again with earnest blue eyes.

  “Well, you see, Miss—er—?”

  “It’s Farraday. Elsa Farraday.”

  “Well, Miss Farraday, I’ve been hunting for the past three months for a young woman with the right features to portray the essential mysticism of a feminine face. The painting is to be called ‘Woman, the Mystery,’ and naturally for a subject like that I have to use features that have just the right suggestion of the enigmatic. I require too the exact turn of the head and line of the throat which from the attitude will—”

  “Mr. Hexley, you are an artist,” Elsa interrupted, smiling. “I am not—in that sense, at least. I can only grasp the essen­tials of your work, I’m afraid. What you mean is: I happen to be the right type of person with the right type of features for your subject?”

  “There’s not the slightest doubt of it. Mind you, I know all this must seem dreadfully informal—for me to suddenly descend on a young lady who is a complete stranger and tell her that she has exactly the right face for a painting. But that is how my work is. I descend on all kinds of people, from beggars to drug ­addicts, from servants to film stars.”

  “And you are a Royal Academician....” Clive Hexley noticed that Elsa had a lazy, fascinating kind of smile that gave just a glimpse of perfect teeth.

  “Yes; and I’m proud of it,” he answered. “Of recent years I have been quite successful, making up for the years when I was not.” He smiled reflectively. “‘Clive Hexley’ on a painting—especially a portrait—actually means something at last. I even have several important commissions.”

  “That’s splendid,” Elsa said, somewhat absently, still ap­parently thinking of something else—and in the quiet moment that followed Clive Hexley had time to notice that she had night-black hair, perfectly contrasted by a rather absurd scarlet hat and scarlet stud earrings.

  “You’ll probably think I’m making the strides of a Gulliver,” he continued, “but would you consent to sit for me? Everything will be perfectly all right,” he added, as she studied him. “Babs—or I should say Barbara—will be there too. That’s Miss Vane, a very good friend of mine, and a professional model. She sort of takes care of the ethics when necessary.”

  Ethics did not seem to be in Elsa’s mind for she asked a question that had nothing to do with them.

  “I suppose the subject of a painting in the Academy becomes the focus for all eyes, Mr. Hexley? A sort of target?”

  “Naturally the person in the painting is discussed,” he agreed. “Why? Wouldn’t you care for that?”

  “I’d love it!” she declared, with surprising earnestness. “In fact I can’t think of a better way of attracting attention without being present in person.”

  Clive felt that this was a most extraordinary statement, and he was still struggling to explain it to himself w
hen the girl spoke again.

  “My glory, such as it is, Mr. Hexley, is reflected. I said that I am not an artist in the same sense that you are. By that I mean I cannot paint or draw. I’m a writer.”

  The young man’s face lighted. “A writer! Well, then, that surely gives us a kind of kinship, doesn’t it? Writers, actors, and artists are all in the same class. I suppose I should know your works?” He looked somewhat ashamed. “I’m afraid I read very little. Certainly I can’t recall having seen the name of Elsa Farraday.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Elsa laughed. “I use the name of ‘Hardy Strong.’ Quite successfully, too. My enjoyment comes from the fact that I achieve popularity, even fame of sorts, without having to do it with my personality. I’m just not the type to be on show. I’m—afraid of people.”

  “I find that hard to credit—a girl as attractive and poised as you.”

  “All you see is the outward shell, Mr. Hexley. There’s quite a lot going on in my mind.”

  Clive looked deeply into her grey eyes for a moment and then came back to his subject.

  “About my painting.... Do you think you’d care?”

  “I’d be delighted. It so happens that I can spare the time just at present. I’m between novels, hunting round for ideas—and they don’t come too easily sometimes.”

  “Inspiration has no master,” he smiled. “I know that, too.... However, to become very commonplace for a moment: there is a fee of—”

  “Which doesn’t interest me in the least,” Elsa interrupted. “Whatever it may be, donate it to a worthy charity. I’ll pose for you because I want the extreme pleasure of seeing my portrait hanging in the Academy and having people discuss it—and me. You perhaps can’t understand the thrill of being discussed and yet being just an onlooker at the same time?”

  “No.” Clive looked at her frankly. “I’m afraid I can’t. It sounds quite an odd outlook to me. Matter of temperament, I sup­pose.... Well now, what time would suit you? Beforehand, let me say that in summer I work mornings and evenings. From noon until six I wander around looking for material. That’s why I’m in this café now—and this time my search has proven fruitful.”

  “I’ll be staying in London overnight,” Elsa said, thinking. “I’m not returning to Midhampton—that’s in Surrey—until tomorrow evening. I could sit for you to tomorrow morning.”

  “That’ll be fine, only....” Clive looked troubled. “I shan’t be able to do it at one sitting. You surely realize that? It will take several. Before we start how is that possibility going to fit in with your arrangements?’

  “If you can make the sittings consecutive I can delay my return home for a week, or even longer— Or are you one of the tempera­mental geniuses who work in spasms at monthly intervals?”

  He shook his dark head. “My business is too serious to permit of temperament, Miss Farraday. I work as a man works at his of­fice. Four consecutive mornings should do the trick.”

  “Then it’s settled then,” Elsa said, as he rose. “I’ll be at your studio at ten tomorrow morning.”

  He reached down and shook the cool, slim hand she held up to him. For a moment he retained his grip on her fingers.

  “I have my car outside, if there’s anywhere I can drop you?’

  “That’s kind of you, Mr. Hexley—but I don’t much care for cars. Even though I live out in the country I never use a car. In any case I’ve several calls to make this afternoon. If any urgency should demand you get in touch with me I’m staying at the Clare­mont Hotel in Kingsway.”

  “Right!” He released her hand, hesitating again. “I suppose I couldn’t pick you up tomorrow morning at your hotel? My place is a bit tricky to get at.”

  “I’ll find it,” Elsa assured him coolly. “Thanks all the same. I’m a bit of an individualist in some things.”

  He laughed. “That’s the creative instinct! Well, tomorrow morning, then.... Bye for now.”

  Elsa nodded and watched him hurry back to his table. He stayed only long enough to pick up the check, then taking his hat from the nearby pillar hook he headed towards the cash desk. Elsa saw him leave by the big glass doors and vanish in the busy main street.

  “To think that there is a chance of the artistic world talking of Elsa Farraday,” she murmured. “Perhaps it is just one real opportunity of having the world recognize me—in a way that could never obtain through my novels.”

  She lighted a cigarette and pondered—until she realized that with the steady arrival of potential diners her table was needed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When Clive Hexley had said that his studio was a “bit tricky to get at” he had certainly not exaggerated. Elsa found it took her half an hour the following morning to trace it, walking in and out of the closely congested streets of Chelsea, most of them rendered all the more dingy by the merciless light of the summer sun; then at length she found Dell Road and stood considering it doubtfully.

  It was narrow, cramped, and had all the appearance of a slum. She debated whether or not to forget the whole idea and recalled to mind a number of suspicions she had formed. For instance, Clive Hexley might not really be an artist: his card had only said he was, and that did not mean a thing. He might have some ulterior motive for his offer. Certainly, if he could work in a district like this he must have a mind superbly insulated from external impressions.

  Yet even as she thought matters over, Elsa found herself walking slowly, studying the facades of the old-style buildings as she moved. There seemed to be a curious mixture of houses and business premises—then presently, on the other side of the road the sign CARDENWORTH STUDIOS caught her eye and she surveyed the building speculatively.

  It was high, skylighted, and old-fashioned, every bit as unprepossessing as the rest of the buildings. Worn steps led up to a paint-blistered front door.

  Elsa paused, musing, and staring at the place across the road—then as she was upon the point of walking away and forgetting all about the scheme Clive Hexley himself appeared at the top of the steps, the door swinging wide behind him. He was dressed in grey slacks and an open-necked shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Immediately he came hurrying across to her, a welcoming smile on his clear-featured face.

  “I saw you from my studio window,” he explained, shaking hands. “That scarlet hat of yours—I’d know it anywhere! You ought to have let me bring you in the car, you know. This is no place for a nice girl to wander round.”

  “You seem to find it quite satisfactory,” Elsa said, as he took her aria possessively and led her across the road.

  “For business, yes—but then, I’m not an attractive young woman! At night it isn’t a pleasant spot. I don’t live here, you know: I’ve a flat near Regent Street.”

  Elsa found that her suspicions of him had gone. Apparently he was a genuine artist after all—there were paint spots on his white shirt—and his personality was such that she found it hard to dislike him. He kept his hand on her arm as they went up the steps, then she preceded him into a short length of dreary, grimy hall.

  “Top floor,” he said, and came close behind her as she ascend­ed.

  The top floor was five stories up, and here there were two doors, both of them open. One gave on to a small dressing room and stor­age space, a big mirror hanging on the wall where it caught the light; the other opened into a studio of surprising dimensions, its entire roof composed of opaque glass through which the hot, diffused light of the morning sun was streaming. Elsa entered the studio slowly, interestedly, her last suspicions vanishing.

  There were easels, chairs, stools, and a platform at one end with scenery propped against the wall near it. There were clean canvas frames, others partly finished, still others covered with cloths. A table had a few crocks upon it piled neatly at one end. An oil stove, extinguished, was in another corner. The floor was wooden, liberally bespattered with drops of varihued paints.

  So much Elsa took in at a glance, then her eyes moved to the tall, blonde girl in
a loose-fitting smock, idly smoking a cigar­ette, who came lounging towards her. She was definitely good-looking, and probably her figure also left nothing to be desired when divested of the formless covering she was wearing.

  “This is Babs Vane,” Clive said, motioning. “And here is Elsa Farraday, Babs, of whom I told you.”

  “Glad to know you, Miss Farraday.” Elsa’s hand was gripped by long, firm fingers. “Clive’s been telling me all about you. In fact he’s done little else since yesterday. Seems pretty sure he’s found in you exactly the type he’s looking for.”

  Elsa only smiled. She was thinking at that moment that it would have been hard to find a more beautiful girl than Barbara Vane, with her natural golden hair, clear blue eyes, and straight features.

  “I don’t look mystical, you see,” Barbara Vane explained, as though she had read Elsa’s thoughts. “Blondes never do....”

  “Excuse the untidiness of everything, Miss Farraday,” Clive broke in, pulling up a chair. “Artists are notoriously Bohemian and I don’t claim to be an exception. Let me have your coat, Miss Farraday.”

  “And hat, surely?” she smiled, removing it and patting her night-black tresses.

  Clive nodded and took the hat from her, then he took the light dust coat too. Barbara reached out a hand for them and took them into the adjoining dressing room through an open interconnecting doorway.

  “How about some tea before we start?” she enquired. “I don’t know about you, Miss Farraday, but I just can’t exist without it.”

  “Oh, I can survive—but as it happens I’ve had a long and thirsty walk this morning,” Elsa responded. “I’ll be glad of some, thanks.”

  With a nod Barbara lighted the oil stove and placed a kettle upon it. Then she returned to stand near Elsa and rested her arm on the back of a chair.

  “I can see what Clive means,” she said pensively. “About the mystical look, that is. You’ve certainly got it.”

  “Without doubt,” Clive Hexley agreed, turning to a bench and inspecting several tubes of colour lying thereon. “If I can just capture that look in the eyes, the turn of the head, and the general poise, I’ll really have something.”