others crowded around the new picture eagerly, but Leo found that she couldn’t stop staring at the painted dragon. The dragon’s expression was inscrutable: at first glance it appeared proud and regal; in another light, cruel and fierce. But the more Leo looked at it, the more she began to feel that it looked in fact a little sad. How was it possible that a painter so many hundreds of years before had managed to capture so many shades of feeling in just a few blobs of paint?
She was still contemplating it when Mr Lyle’s little lecture on Gainsborough came to an end, and the students dispersed. After a moment, he came over to her, and she started back, afraid that he was going to accuse her of not paying attention to what he had been saying. But then she saw to her surprise that he was smiling. Up close, she was struck all over again by his exquisite clothing: the fine silk of his necktie, the immaculate kid gloves, the richly spiced scent of the unusual cologne he wore, the gleaming gold pin at his lapel.
‘It’s Miss Fitzgerald, isn’t it? Professor Jarvis was kind enough to show me a little of your work. I was particularly impressed by some of the copies you had made of one or two very fine pieces – I believe I recognised them from the collection at Winter Hall.’
Leo looked up, astonished. ‘You’ve been there?’ she blurted out.
‘Oh, not for a few years. But I remember some of the paintings well. Let me see – I believe it was your grandfather, Lord Charles, who was the keen collector?’
Leo was suddenly embarrassed. She should have known that a man like Mr Lyle was bound to know her family.
But Mr Lyle was still talking: ‘I wonder if perhaps growing up surrounded by such a collection has helped to set you on this path,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Your copies of some of those pictures are very skilful. Your version of that little Watteau portrait, for example – an ambitious choice, but cleverly done. I have a soft spot for Watteau, myself, I must confess. You have a real gift, Miss Fitzgerald.’
Leo looked back at him, surprised and pleased. None of the guests in her mother’s drawing room – with the exception, of course, of Lady Tremayne – had ever spoken to her like this. ‘I don’t know if I should spend so much time copying other people’s work,’ she managed to stammer out. ‘Professor Jarvis says it’s important that I find my own style, instead of imitating others.’
‘My goodness, my dear, no!’ Mr Lyle looked so horrified that Leo almost wanted to laugh in spite of herself. ‘There is no finer way to learn than to apprentice yourself to the masters. Professor Jarvis is quite right, of course – all artists need to find their own style eventually, but for now, I would encourage you to keep on this path.’
Leo felt a sudden sense of relief. She knew that she did not have the same bold, definite style as some of the other students. Smitty, for example, painted enormous scenes of jagged abstract industrial landscapes; while Connie’s taste seemed to be for large portraits in odd colours, which exposed every blemish of her subjects’ faces. Leo knew that she did not want to do work like that herself, but what exactly she did want to paint, she was not quite sure.
‘Why not see what you can do with The Green Dragon?’ said Mr Lyle now, gesturing to the painting before them. ‘It won’t be easy, but it would be a good challenge for you.’
Leo gaped at him. ‘But . . . I could never recreate that! It’s so old, and I don’t have any of the materials. All that gold leaf . . .’
Lyle waved a gloved hand, as if to say all that was nothing. ‘Oh, I can supply you with the materials you would need. Think of it as a little commission. Perhaps, if it turns out well, I might buy it as a memento of this exhibition? I’d rather like to be able to say I purchased your first piece.’
She had still been stumbling over her thanks as he had strolled away to talk to Connie about the Gainsborough. Now, remembering this, Leo set aside the letter to her godmother. Instead, she took out one of her art history books, which she felt quite sure contained a picture of The Green Dragon.
Back at Sinclair’s, there were preparations of a different kind under way for Mr Lyle’s new exhibition. In their dressing room, some of the mannequins had gathered to try on their costumes for the Living Paintings display, and to practise their poses. As Sophie made her way along the passage, carrying a couple of hat-boxes, she could hear the voice of Claudine, the window-dresser, emanating loudly from within:
‘Rosa! You’re supposed to be a painting – you ought to be still. Don’t twitch like that! And Millie – you’re meant to be Joan of Arc. A saint – a heroine – not a music-hall dancer!’
Sophie grinned to herself as she went on her way down the stairs into the Entrance Hall. At the foot of the stairs, she was rather surprised to see none other than Mr McDermott standing waiting, accompanied by a large dog. Mr McDermott was the private detective who worked for Mr Sinclair – and sometimes, Sophie knew, with Scotland Yard too. The thin, grey-haired man might not look much like it, but she knew he was a clever detective – and someone that she could rely on. She suspected that he might be one of the only people to understand how she felt about the Baron, although they had never really talked about it.
‘Miss Taylor – good afternoon,’ he said, tipping his hat to her as she approached.
Sophie smiled back a greeting, and stopped to give the big Alsatian a pat. ‘He’s lovely – is he yours?’
‘He’s a she – and as a matter of fact, she belongs to Sinclair’s department store,’ explained the detective. Sophie frowned, confused, and McDermott went on: ‘She’s a guard dog. Trained by Scotland Yard’s experts.’
‘A guard dog?’ repeated Sophie in surprise, looking down at the dog who was currently licking her hand in an extremely affectionate manner.
‘Oh she’s friendly as anything now, but when she’s on duty, it’s a different matter. Mr Sinclair has asked me to put some additional security measures in place while the exhibition is here,’ McDermott explained.
‘Is that because of the burglary that happened before, when the Clockwork Sparrow was stolen?’ Sophie asked. She knew that Mr McDermott had already helped to improve the store’s security after the last break-in. The windows of the Exhibition Hall had been specially reinforced, and there was always a nightwatchman patrolling the store after closing time.
‘It’s just an extra precaution,’ said McDermott in a neutral voice. ‘Mr Sinclair didn’t want anyone to be concerned about the safety of the paintings.’
Just then, the Head Porter Sid Parker appeared, accompanied, rather unexpectedly, by Joe.
‘This the dog, then, is it?’ asked Sid briskly.
‘Her name’s Daisy,’ said Mr McDermott. Daisy yawned, lolling out a long pink tongue.
‘Daisy?’ repeated Sid. ‘What kind of a name is that?’
McDermott laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter what her name is – she’s an excellent guard dog. She’ll bark the place down if she gets so much as a sniff of an intruder.’
Sid grunted. ‘Well, Joe here is going to take charge of her for the time being. He’ll look after her at the stables, and then we’ll station her on guard with the nightwatchman outside the Hall each night.’
‘Just the man for the job,’ said McDermott, nodding approvingly. ‘Make sure you introduce her to the nightwatchman, and anyone else who might be in the store at night. Otherwise she’ll bark if she hears them coming.’
As he said this, the detective reached out to hand over Daisy’s lead, but before Joe could take a firm hold of it, Billy appeared through the main door, leading Lucky. As usual, several passing customers turned at once to coo and fuss over the adorable little creature.
Lucky, however, had other ideas. Glimpsing Daisy across the Entrance Hall, she made up her mind that here was a new friend. To everyone’s astonishment, she shot suddenly away, jerking her lead right out of Billy’s hand. As Lucky bounded towards