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The Mystery of an Artist’s Model - ebook
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The Mystery of an Artist’s Model - ebook
Written as Frank Aubrey, „The Mystery of an Artist’s Model” is a weird mystery with rationalized supernaturalism. Little is known about Aubrey/Atkins. He was involved in a scandal at the turn of the century and sentenced to nine months imprisonment for obtaining money by deception. After leaving prison he dropped the name Frank Aubrey and – in his early 60s, following a three-year hiatus – began writing as Fenton Ash.
| Kategoria: | Suspense |
| Język: | Angielski |
| Zabezpieczenie: |
Watermark
|
| ISBN: | 978-83-8292-515-9 |
| Rozmiar pliku: | 2,5 MB |
FRAGMENT KSIĄŻKI
Contents
CHAPTER I. THE LAY FIGURE
CHAPTER II. THE MURDER IN THE STUDIO
CHAPTER III. ANDREW HUNTLY, DETECTIVE
CHAPTER IV. TAKING UP THE SCENT
CHAPTER V. A STRANGE TALE
CHAPTER VI. GATHERING CLUES
CHAPTER VII. AT THE INQUEST
CHAPTER VIII. A FRESH TRAIL
CHAPTER IX. EVELYN MAKES A SUGGESTION
CHAPTER X. DENNETT'S STORY
CHAPTER XI. MR. GILHAM
CHAPTER XII. COMPARING NOTES
CHAPTER XIII. MORE MYSTERY
CHAPTER XIV. CONCERNING SYDNEY WILDER
CHAPTER XV. VOICES IN A VAULT
CHAPTER XVI. A MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE
CHAPTER XVII. NEWS FROM DEAL
CHAPTER XVIII. MORE HELP FROM EVELYN
CHAPTER XIX. A FLIRTATION; AND WHAT CAME OF IT
CHAPTER XX. THE RED HAND
CHAPTER XXI. DENNETT TURNS DETECTIVE
CHAPTER XXII. NEW TROUBLES
CHAPTER XXIII. A HOUSE OF SICKNESS
CHAPTER XXIV. ALONE IN THE STUDIO
CHAPTER XXV. THE ENDCHAPTER I. THE LAY FIGURE
“IT is a most horrid, weird, gruesome, uncanny- looking creation. It gives me the creeps. I do not wonder that Harold hates it, and wishes to rid the studio of it!”
“But, my dear Miss Carlton, consider! It is a work of art, and it cost a lot of money, too, I can assure you!”
“Ugh! It is enough to give one the horrors even to look at it, apart from its history. But when, in addition, one thinks of the monster it represents, and that those clothes are the very same garments–blood-stained and hideous–in which the wretch, was executed! Ugh! Mr. Dorman! I wonder how you have endured its presence in your place day after day all this long time!”
Fred Dorman laughed; an easy, good-natured laugh that seemed to tell of a mind free from worry, and a disposition at peace with itself and the world. And these were indeed his most prominent characteristics. Successful as an artist, though still young–he was scarcely more than thirty–full of life and energy, a noted athlete, and a general favorite amongst all who knew him, he had had very little to complain of thus far on his way through life. And today he was in extra good spirits, in that he had just sold–for a goodly sum–the two pictures that stood on the easel–the result of some months of careful work.
Evelyn Carlton, the young lady with whom he was talking, was the charming fiancée of his chum, Harold Gainsford, who shared his studio. She was quite young–barely nineteen–neither tall nor short, but of fair average height, with rich, golden-brown hair, and a face that attracted all who came within its influence by its sweet smile and quiet, child-like beauty. Her eyes were large and lustrous, and had at times a wistful, half-sad expression that was peculiarly touching. They told indeed of a deeply sympathetic nature, and one had only to look at them, and read the message they seemed to convey, to understand why it was that she was so loved, and petted, and admired, not merely by her widowed mother, or her devoted lover, but by everyone who came in contact with her.
Harold Gainsford was in every way a contrast to his friend Dorman. His face was pale and refined, indicating the neurotic, dreamy student, and his figure, thin, and slender in build, was suggestive of either a lack of constitutional vigour or the after-results of a wasting sickness. As a matter of fact both these things were true; he had always been somewhat delicate, and he had but lately passed through a long and dangerous illness which had left him weak and depressed. But though not robust, like his chum, and unable, as he did, to shine in open-air sports and games, he was equally beloved amongst their circle of friends, everyone who became acquainted with him being at once attracted by his open, kindly nature, and the generous warmth of his disposition.
The conversation recorded above had reference to a model, or lay figure, which was placed at one end of the studio upon a platform, raised a foot or so above, the floor, and set out to represent, in realistic fashion, a rocky mountain background. Near the centre of the scene this figure was seen seated upon a slab of rock just outside the entrance to a cave. It represented a Sicilian brigand, and was complete and exactly true in every detail to the original from which it had been taken; and wonderfully life-like it looked. It was the very ideal of a black-browned and scowling, murderous-looking ruffian, with a rifle leaning against the arm, and pistols and dagger stuck around in the belt. The curious point, however–the fact that rendered the creation unusually gruesome–lay in the circumstance that it was a clever reproduction of a blood-thirsty scoundrel who had actually existed, and who had been executed for his crimes. The wax mask which made up the face had been taken from the miscreant himself; and the clothes, the dagger, and the pistols were those he had actually worn and used during his blood-stained career.
Altogether the figure was–as Evelyn Carlton had declared–gruesome and uncanny-looking, and it was not surprising that she should regard it with instinctive dislike. What, however, was considered a little strange was that Harold Gainsford had, ever since it was first set up in the studio, exhibited towards it an aversion so strong as to amount at times (by his own confession) to a sort of superstitious dread or horror. Of this feeling he could give no reasonable explanation, and he himself felt rather ashamed of the weakness–as everyone around him considered it. But, try as he would, he could not shake it off. So far from getting used to the figure, he seemed to experience every day a stronger repugnance to its presence in the studio. And now that his friend had finished his pictures–for which the effigy had served as a model–he was desirous that it should be got rid of. If he had had his way (he had more than once declared) he would have “chopped it up and burnt it–to the last scrap.”
But Dorman had reasons of his own for wishing to keep the figure in his possession. Not only had it cost him, as he had said, a good deal of money, but it was a memento of a thrilling adventure, that had once befallen him, one in which there had been a terrible tragedy. The pictures he had just finished represented two scenes connected with that exciting time in his life, and he had incurred the expense referred to in order that he should have a model to paint from which would render those pictures as realistic as was humanly possible.
Later on–in the evening of that same day–Gainsford gave a further demonstration of his antipathy to the offending model, and as this episode was burnt into his brain by its curious relation to the terrible events which followed, it is of importance to our story that it should be set down here.
It had been early afternoon when Mrs. Carlton and her daughter had called to see the two artists, and, when they left, Gainsford left with them, and accompanied them to their home in Kensington, where he stayed to dine. Dorman, meantime, went off in another direction upon business of his own. Almost immediately after that dinner Gainsford left his friends, and returned to the studio, where he found his chum busily engaged, for it happened that Dorman was starting early the next morning upon a trip to the South of France. He had finished his pictures and sold them, and so considered himself entitled to a holiday, and Harold had good- naturedly cut short his evening at the home of his fiancée in order to assist his chum in his packing and other, arrangements before his departure.
Thus it came about that they had made their preparations, and were seated before the fire–for it was a cold winter’s night, and there was snow outside–smoking their last pipes while it was still comparatively early.
“Well, we’ve settled everything, I think,” said Dorman, “and it’s not yet ten o’clock. That’s well, for I never like to go to bed late if I’ve got to be up early next morning.”
“I know, old chap, and I’m ready as soon as you like,” Harold returned.
“There’s just one thing though that I almost forgot,” Dorman went on. “Old Shylock, as you often call him, paid me for those pictures this afternoon, as he usually does, in cash-notes, and I have them in my pocket. Now I don’t want to take all this with me, so before I leave tomorrow I’m going to hand what I don’t want over to you.”
As he spoke he took out a pocket-book, and, selecting from it a bundle of notes, put some of them into an envelope, and then thrust them all back into his pocket.
“Don’t forget to remind me to give you that envelope before I go in the morning,” he observed.
“What am I to do with it?” Harold asked.
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
CHAPTER I. THE LAY FIGURE
CHAPTER II. THE MURDER IN THE STUDIO
CHAPTER III. ANDREW HUNTLY, DETECTIVE
CHAPTER IV. TAKING UP THE SCENT
CHAPTER V. A STRANGE TALE
CHAPTER VI. GATHERING CLUES
CHAPTER VII. AT THE INQUEST
CHAPTER VIII. A FRESH TRAIL
CHAPTER IX. EVELYN MAKES A SUGGESTION
CHAPTER X. DENNETT'S STORY
CHAPTER XI. MR. GILHAM
CHAPTER XII. COMPARING NOTES
CHAPTER XIII. MORE MYSTERY
CHAPTER XIV. CONCERNING SYDNEY WILDER
CHAPTER XV. VOICES IN A VAULT
CHAPTER XVI. A MYSTERIOUS OUTRAGE
CHAPTER XVII. NEWS FROM DEAL
CHAPTER XVIII. MORE HELP FROM EVELYN
CHAPTER XIX. A FLIRTATION; AND WHAT CAME OF IT
CHAPTER XX. THE RED HAND
CHAPTER XXI. DENNETT TURNS DETECTIVE
CHAPTER XXII. NEW TROUBLES
CHAPTER XXIII. A HOUSE OF SICKNESS
CHAPTER XXIV. ALONE IN THE STUDIO
CHAPTER XXV. THE ENDCHAPTER I. THE LAY FIGURE
“IT is a most horrid, weird, gruesome, uncanny- looking creation. It gives me the creeps. I do not wonder that Harold hates it, and wishes to rid the studio of it!”
“But, my dear Miss Carlton, consider! It is a work of art, and it cost a lot of money, too, I can assure you!”
“Ugh! It is enough to give one the horrors even to look at it, apart from its history. But when, in addition, one thinks of the monster it represents, and that those clothes are the very same garments–blood-stained and hideous–in which the wretch, was executed! Ugh! Mr. Dorman! I wonder how you have endured its presence in your place day after day all this long time!”
Fred Dorman laughed; an easy, good-natured laugh that seemed to tell of a mind free from worry, and a disposition at peace with itself and the world. And these were indeed his most prominent characteristics. Successful as an artist, though still young–he was scarcely more than thirty–full of life and energy, a noted athlete, and a general favorite amongst all who knew him, he had had very little to complain of thus far on his way through life. And today he was in extra good spirits, in that he had just sold–for a goodly sum–the two pictures that stood on the easel–the result of some months of careful work.
Evelyn Carlton, the young lady with whom he was talking, was the charming fiancée of his chum, Harold Gainsford, who shared his studio. She was quite young–barely nineteen–neither tall nor short, but of fair average height, with rich, golden-brown hair, and a face that attracted all who came within its influence by its sweet smile and quiet, child-like beauty. Her eyes were large and lustrous, and had at times a wistful, half-sad expression that was peculiarly touching. They told indeed of a deeply sympathetic nature, and one had only to look at them, and read the message they seemed to convey, to understand why it was that she was so loved, and petted, and admired, not merely by her widowed mother, or her devoted lover, but by everyone who came in contact with her.
Harold Gainsford was in every way a contrast to his friend Dorman. His face was pale and refined, indicating the neurotic, dreamy student, and his figure, thin, and slender in build, was suggestive of either a lack of constitutional vigour or the after-results of a wasting sickness. As a matter of fact both these things were true; he had always been somewhat delicate, and he had but lately passed through a long and dangerous illness which had left him weak and depressed. But though not robust, like his chum, and unable, as he did, to shine in open-air sports and games, he was equally beloved amongst their circle of friends, everyone who became acquainted with him being at once attracted by his open, kindly nature, and the generous warmth of his disposition.
The conversation recorded above had reference to a model, or lay figure, which was placed at one end of the studio upon a platform, raised a foot or so above, the floor, and set out to represent, in realistic fashion, a rocky mountain background. Near the centre of the scene this figure was seen seated upon a slab of rock just outside the entrance to a cave. It represented a Sicilian brigand, and was complete and exactly true in every detail to the original from which it had been taken; and wonderfully life-like it looked. It was the very ideal of a black-browned and scowling, murderous-looking ruffian, with a rifle leaning against the arm, and pistols and dagger stuck around in the belt. The curious point, however–the fact that rendered the creation unusually gruesome–lay in the circumstance that it was a clever reproduction of a blood-thirsty scoundrel who had actually existed, and who had been executed for his crimes. The wax mask which made up the face had been taken from the miscreant himself; and the clothes, the dagger, and the pistols were those he had actually worn and used during his blood-stained career.
Altogether the figure was–as Evelyn Carlton had declared–gruesome and uncanny-looking, and it was not surprising that she should regard it with instinctive dislike. What, however, was considered a little strange was that Harold Gainsford had, ever since it was first set up in the studio, exhibited towards it an aversion so strong as to amount at times (by his own confession) to a sort of superstitious dread or horror. Of this feeling he could give no reasonable explanation, and he himself felt rather ashamed of the weakness–as everyone around him considered it. But, try as he would, he could not shake it off. So far from getting used to the figure, he seemed to experience every day a stronger repugnance to its presence in the studio. And now that his friend had finished his pictures–for which the effigy had served as a model–he was desirous that it should be got rid of. If he had had his way (he had more than once declared) he would have “chopped it up and burnt it–to the last scrap.”
But Dorman had reasons of his own for wishing to keep the figure in his possession. Not only had it cost him, as he had said, a good deal of money, but it was a memento of a thrilling adventure, that had once befallen him, one in which there had been a terrible tragedy. The pictures he had just finished represented two scenes connected with that exciting time in his life, and he had incurred the expense referred to in order that he should have a model to paint from which would render those pictures as realistic as was humanly possible.
Later on–in the evening of that same day–Gainsford gave a further demonstration of his antipathy to the offending model, and as this episode was burnt into his brain by its curious relation to the terrible events which followed, it is of importance to our story that it should be set down here.
It had been early afternoon when Mrs. Carlton and her daughter had called to see the two artists, and, when they left, Gainsford left with them, and accompanied them to their home in Kensington, where he stayed to dine. Dorman, meantime, went off in another direction upon business of his own. Almost immediately after that dinner Gainsford left his friends, and returned to the studio, where he found his chum busily engaged, for it happened that Dorman was starting early the next morning upon a trip to the South of France. He had finished his pictures and sold them, and so considered himself entitled to a holiday, and Harold had good- naturedly cut short his evening at the home of his fiancée in order to assist his chum in his packing and other, arrangements before his departure.
Thus it came about that they had made their preparations, and were seated before the fire–for it was a cold winter’s night, and there was snow outside–smoking their last pipes while it was still comparatively early.
“Well, we’ve settled everything, I think,” said Dorman, “and it’s not yet ten o’clock. That’s well, for I never like to go to bed late if I’ve got to be up early next morning.”
“I know, old chap, and I’m ready as soon as you like,” Harold returned.
“There’s just one thing though that I almost forgot,” Dorman went on. “Old Shylock, as you often call him, paid me for those pictures this afternoon, as he usually does, in cash-notes, and I have them in my pocket. Now I don’t want to take all this with me, so before I leave tomorrow I’m going to hand what I don’t want over to you.”
As he spoke he took out a pocket-book, and, selecting from it a bundle of notes, put some of them into an envelope, and then thrust them all back into his pocket.
“Don’t forget to remind me to give you that envelope before I go in the morning,” he observed.
“What am I to do with it?” Harold asked.
This is a free sample. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.
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