The Worst Behaved Werewolf Page 3

  Dawson tugged his moustache. “I suppose an artist draws inspiration from everywhere.”

  Julian frowned at him. There had been nothing academic about Dawson’s portrait, and they all knew it. Yet, he got away with it—because he was an artist? He had to figure this out. “Mr Dawson, are you busy today?”

  Dawson blinked. “Why do you ask?”

  Both his fathers watched him. Too direct a question? “If you are free, maybe you’d like to join us at the Louvre. Since you know so much about art.”

  “Julian,” Pip started in a warning tone. “I’m sure Mr Dawson is busy.”

  “Not at all,” Dawson said. “I’d be delighted.”

  Julian breathed out. Not in trouble. The conversation turned to making plans, and Julian’s invitation forgotten.

  Not entirely forgotten. As the party rose to make individual preparations for the expedition, Cross beckoned Julian. “A word?”

  Julian schooled his expression into quiet attention. Cross disliked shows of emotion of any variety. “Yes, sir?”

  Cross drew the door shut behind them. “This excursion to the Louvre today takes place against my better judgement. Your father is doing his best to maintain a cheerful demeanour, but his health is a concern right now. I don’t want to alarm you, but you should know this is not one of his usual colds.”

  Alarm stirred in Julian’s chest. “What do you mean?”

  “We must ensure his enthusiasm does not run away with him, and that he is not overtired—or over worried.” Cross held his gaze. “There will be no repeat of yesterday’s behaviour.”

  When Cross used that tone, there was only one answer. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now, get your coat and sketchbook. It’s kind of Mr Dawson to accompany us. We must not keep him waiting.”

  Julian fetched the items, his heart beating a silent warning. His skin, despite the warmth of the hotel, was cold and clammy. Cross’s meaning was clear: if Julian slipped up, Pip’s health would suffer. He could not risk another mistake.

  5

  Pip stepped into the gallery that housed the Egyptian collection with a happy sigh. “What an incredible collection. Just think of the stories these artefacts could tell!”

  Cross looked around with a frown. “The chill in this gallery tells another story entirely. No attempt at heating. These drafts amount to criminal neglect.”

  “And if it was heated, no doubt you’d complain of the lack of fresh air.” Pip’s chuckle ended in a cough. He waved Cross aside. “No need to fuss. I’m fine.”

  Julian watched him carefully, but a few minutes passed without any sign of another cough. He drifted down the gallery, quietly drawing closer to Dawson and Scott. Much as he’d have preferred to stay near his fathers, uncovering Dawson’s trick of breaking the rules without getting in trouble meant investigating him. He positioned himself on the other side of a statue of a sphinx and pricked his ears.

  “Come on, old chap,” Scott said. “The mere fact that you’re here, playing tourist with the lot of us tells me how bad this is. You know you can trust me.”

  “I do. Believe me, it’s not that.” Dawson drew a sharp breath. “You don’t know how often I’ve sat down to write to you, but the words—it’s curiously hard to pin this down in words.”

  “Don’t overthink it. Just let it out.”

  “It’s no good. It only sounds trite when I do.” Dawson’s boots scraped the stone floor, and he glowered at an undeserving funerary relief. “The feeling of being watched—why should it affect me as it does? Imagination. And yet…”

  Julian took a step back. Dawson’s unease was palpable. His shoulders tensed, as if a hostile gaze raked over them.

  “Have you noticed any pattern to the feeling? Or any source?” Scott was normally jocular, but there was no trace of humour in his question.

  “All I can say is that it comes and goes, but it is growing more frequent of late. As if whatever is behind it, is drawing closer.” Francis’s laugh was a bitter explosion. “In fact, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was being watched now.”

  Julian turned his back to the sphinx. As he did, he met a pair of eyes, startlingly inhuman. His first thought was that he looked at one of the many statues. Then the eyes blinked, and he realised he was looking at the cat.

  The cat stretched deliberately and jumped down from the plinth. He strolled towards the entrance to one of the many side rooms and stopped, evidently expecting Julian to join him.

  Julian turned his back and followed the rest of his party into the next section of the gallery. Well-brought up gentlemen did not have conversations with cats—especially not cats who turned into boys.

  “Would you like to rest?” Cross motioned Pip towards a bench.

  “If you keep this up, I’m going to be quite provoked,” Pip warned him. “I might be ill, but I am not incapable.”

  “There’s no harm in conserving your energy.” Cross sat on the bench.

  “I see your ploy. You’re hoping to divert me before we reach the mummy collection. Well, if you won’t accompany me, Julian will.” Pip beamed at him. “Won’t you?”

  Julian caught Cross’s eye. “All right. After you sit down.”

  “Et tu, Brutus?” Pip pouted but sat. “Very well, but you’re both being entirely unnecessary. Oh—what do we have here?” He snapped his fingers together. “Here puss.”

  Julian looked down with horror. The cat sauntered towards them.

  Cross watched its approach. “A stray, no doubt sheltering from the winter chill.”

  “So you admit, the Louvre is warmer than outside.” Pip smirked.

  “I admit nothing of the sort.” Cross drew himself up stiffly. “Don’t encourage it. That cat is no doubt infested with all varieties of scourge.”

  “Nonsense. It probably belongs to one of the curators.” Pip beckoned to the cat. “Come here, you handsome fellow.”

  The cat ignored him entirely, leaning against Cross’s legs. The look it shot Julian was one of triumph.

  “I admit, it is in better condition than I first surmised,” Cross said.

  “A well-educated cat. Of all galleries, to pick the Egyptians, with their reverence of cats, shows remarkable sense.” Pip crouched down to pet it.

  The cat sniffed his fingers and butted his head against his palm.

  Julian swallowed a growl. His body was tense, his fingers locked around his sketchbook. Seeing the cat trading on the goodwill of his fathers was intolerable. He itched to lunge at the cat, teeth bared, and chase it from the gallery.

  But how to explain that? They weren’t the only party in the gallery. If Julian snapped, he’d draw the attention of curators, guards, and their fellow tourists—not to mention Scott and Dawson, walking towards them.

  “I was worried we’d lost you,” Scott said cheerfully. “Instead I see you’ve found a friend.”

  “A stray.” Cross made a shooing motion which the cat ignored. “Don’t encourage it.”

  “Nonsense,” Pip said. “This is someone’s pet. Look at the condition of its fur—not to mention its eyes. Have you ever seen a stray with such distinctive eyes? No doubt some rare breed.”

  “And no collar?” Cross started.

  Dawson made a strangely choked sound. As he stared at the cat, the colour drained from his face, leaving him as pale as the marbles in the Greek and Roman galleries. “The same as my dream.”

  Scott stepped towards the cat. He raised his fist menacingly. “You!”

  The cat hissed and dived behind a sarcophagus. It streaked down the gallery, eliciting an annoyed shout from a guard, who gave chase.

  Julian took a step after it, but caught himself on the brink of pursuit. He stepped back, looking around quickly to see if anyone had noticed.

  All eyes were on Dawson, who’d turned aside. He tugged his jacket straight, smoothing it down. “My apologies. I must have been half asleep still.”

  “I think we’re all a bit tired,” Pip said. “What do y
ou say to taking a break for some refreshments?”

  The café was warm, the service prompt. With a selection of pastries and a pot of tea laid before them, the party quickly revived their spirits. Scott quizzed Julian on what he’d observed at the Louvre, and Pip gave suggestions to further his education. No one alluded to the cat at all. It seemed that it was going to be ignored.

  Which itself was a mystery. If Julian had flinched at the sight of a cat, no one would have given him a moment’s peace. Julian turned his gaze to Dawson, sitting silently, his hands around his cup of tea. From his expression, he was miles away. Again, if Julian wasn’t giving a conversation his complete attention, someone was sure to chide him. How did he do it?

  “Mr Leighton,” Dawson said abruptly, cutting the conversation dead. “Scott tells me that you have some knowledge of the—let’s call it, the ‘strange.’”

  Pip looked up, but after a glance at Cross, checked his response. “I believe I have some small experience in that field.”

  “Then I beg that you will do me a great favour and visit my studio,” Dawson said. “I require a second opinion from someone with your… experience.”

  Cross frowned. “This is highly irregular.”

  “I know,” Dawson said. “Believe me when I say that it is not my wish to impose on you like this. But still I must beg you—come.”

  “Nothing would give us greater pleasure,” Pip assured him. “When would you like us to visit?”

  “Now.” Dawson tugged his collar. “That is, if it is not inconvenient.”

  “Of course not.” Pip stood. “Let’s go.”

  Cross frowned for the entirety of the carriage ride to Dawson’s studio. “Can you tell us nothing of what to expect?”

  Dawson’s fingers buried restlessly in the ends of his sleeves. “I’d rather you tell me what you sense. That way, if it’s all in my head, at least I’ll know.”

  Scott looked at him sharply. His lips pressed together, as if he had much to say and was storing it for later. Julian looked out of the carriage windows.

  The character of the buildings had changed, taking on a seedier, less polished air. The people who lingered in the cafés and on the streets were dressed brightly but more shabbily than their central city counterparts. As the carriage began to climb up a steep hill, Julian’s nose caught the scent of roasting chestnuts and charcoal. A moment later, they passed a park where, despite the cold weather, citizens gathered to promenade.

  Their carriage stopped in front of an apartment building. Dawson led the way upstairs to a loft apartment.

  “Quite the typical artist,” Scott observed as they waited for Dawson to unlock the door. “Working in a garret.”

  Dawson didn’t reply. He flung the door open and stepped back. “There. Tell me what you see.”

  The other part of him snapped awake, fur bristling. Danger! Julian caught his breath, grabbing hold of Pip’s arm before he could step across the threshold.

  Pip stumbled backwards, colliding with Scott. “Ow!”

  “Steady on.” Scott helped Pip right himself. “What was that about?”

  Julian opened his mouth, and realised he had nothing to say. The first rule, the most important one, was that no one outside their family could know about his other self.

  Pip frowned at him. “You must be more careful. It’s one thing to play the fool with your schoolmates, quite another to do it with me. I might have fallen.”

  Julian hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

  “No harm done,” Cross said. “Let’s not keep Mr Dawson waiting.” He nodded to the door.

  Pip walked through, followed by Scott, and after a long period of hesitation, Dawson. Julian looked miserably after them. Nothing remained but for him to follow.

  Cross’s hand pressed on his shoulder. Julian looked up to meet Cross’s brown eyes, resting solemnly on him. “We’ll talk about this later.”

  Julian’s heart sank. Cross had not only noticed his lapse but divined its cause. He was in serious trouble. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the studio.

  6

  “I’ve never seen an artist’s studio before.” Pip stood in the centre of the room, looking around him. His eyes roamed across the canvases, lined up facing the wall, to Dawson’s easel, his open paint box, and the palette, liberally splashed with paint. “Fascinating! And this is where you work?”

  “Where I worked.” Dawson leaned against the wall nearest the door. His fingers dug in the pocket of his vest. Julian was not surprised when he produced a pipe: the scent of tobacco was as much a part of Dawson as his moustache or his art. “A week ago, it got too much. I flung down my brush, grabbed my coat and fled.”

  Scott looked down at the paintbrush on the floor. “So the easel and paints you were using—”

  “My godmother’s,” Dawson said. “I wanted to start fresh, with gear and a subject matter completely…unpolluted.” His laugh was bitter. “You saw what came of that.”

  Julian said nothing. He found a place against the wall uncluttered by canvases where he could stand. Despite knowing there was nothing behind him, his skin still prickled, his hair on alert. Imagination? It had to be, but Pip complained that he was far too literal, entirely lacking in fancy. What was this?

  Pip looked out the window. “Not much of a view. I suppose it’s the light you’re after?” He turned, taking in the canvas that stood on the easel, and his expression changed.

  Scott quickly strode to his side. The teacher’s gaze darted across the canvas, his jaw clenching. He looked across the room at Dawson, and there was something in his gaze, something fiercely protective, that for one moment, Julian almost didn’t recognise his comfortable tutor. “What happened here?”

  Dawson’s fingers were shaking. It took him two attempts before he could light his pipe. He exhaled a shuddering burst of smoke. “I wish I could tell you.”

  Pip had recovered from his initial surprise to peer more closely at the painting. “You must have had some inspiration. An idea, a memory, a dream…”

  “I don’t know.” Dawson nodded towards the canvas beside Julian. “Turn it over. That was the first. You’ll see how innocuous it was to begin with.”

  Julian felt a curious reluctance to touch the canvas. As he hesitated, he glanced up and saw that while the other men looked at the canvas, Cross watched him. He turned it over, revealing a city scene, a couple of pretty girls walking arm in arm and laughing as a man looked wistfully after them.

  “How lovely!” Pip’s exclamation was immediate. “Such life—you’ve captured the feeling of the moment perfectly.”

  “Keep looking,” Dawson said. “You’ll see it in a minute.”

  Julian tilted his head, studying the canvas. Dawson had executed the scene with his trademark dash and vivacity. Not quite the extremes of Impressionism, but with a recklessness and energy that surpassed those of the purely realistic or sentimental schools. Was it something about the women? Or maybe the man watching him? As he studied the watching figure, he felt his other self prick up his ears. “There’s someone else watching.”

  “I see it now.” Scott leaned forward. “Next to that chap, that shadow. Someone else is standing there—but they’re not visible.”

  “Yet.” Dawson breathed out another stream of smoke. “The next please, Julian.”

  His skin crawled, but Julian did not hesitate. Much like he had when pursuing the cat, he felt that he was on the trail of something, a trail that must be followed until its end.

  This canvas displayed another scene; a park in broad daylight, a group of picnickers at the centre. It was unfinished, the group sketched in broad strokes. They joked and laughed, energy palpable. But it was a different energy that lingered.

  Julian scanned the background for stray shadows, but there were none. He tilted his head, taking a step back to get a better grasp of the picture. He was dimly aware of Pip resting his hands on his shoulders, joining him in contemplation of the painting. “That man, the one, right
at the back. His eyes—” Julian stopped, unable to look away from the man’s gaze. The cat who wasn’t a cat had those eyes.

  “Good spotting,” Pip said. “You’re right. There is something very uncanny about the man.”

  “You don’t know who he is?” Scott’s question was abrupt. “He’s never spoken to you?”

  It was an odd question. Julian turned his head to look at Scott and saw that he looked pale, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he studied the painting.

  Dawson shook his head. “Never seen him in my life—and you know that I only paint from life. That’s what makes this so curious.” He nodded to a sketchbook discarded on the floor. “If you look at the sketches, you’ll see there were only ever four people in the picture, not five.”

  Cross stooped to pick up the sketchbook. He flicked through the sketches until he happened onto those of the picnic. “Are you suggesting that someone else added this figure?”

  “Impossible.” Dawson nodded to a wooden door. “My bedroom’s through there. The door was locked and we’re on the third floor. Not a chance of someone getting in. And even if they did, there’s no way they’d paint in my style.”

  “You painted this figure subconsciously?” Pip peered at him. “Interesting. He’s a handsome chap, but all the same… Not someone I’d want to meet alone.”

  Scott had not taken his eyes off Dawson. “You’re sure you’ve never seen him?”

  Dawson’s mouth twisted. “As sure as a man can be of anything. Turn that painting around. I don’t want to look at it.”

  Julian turned the canvas back to face the wall with relief.

  Pip studied the back of the canvas. “Did you experience anything like this before coming to Paris?”

  “Nothing like this,” Dawson said. “And as these…figures…showed up in my paintings, the suspicion grew on me that I was not alone. When I entered my studio in the morning, furniture would be moved, things not as I left them. That was not so bad. I’m a careless chap. I could still tell myself that it was my doing. But then I found a finger mark of a hand much smaller than mine, and the print of a bare heel left in the dust—” He shook his head. “My landlady complained of the noise made by my visitors. I asked her to describe them, and she admitted she’d never seen anyone. But she was conscious of people passing up and down the stairs.”