CHAPTER 5
Charles Allingham circled the gallery and returned to where he began his tour of the women’s exhibition: his sister’s picture, The Three Graces. He stroked the fair hairs of his Vandyke as Mary and Julia joined him.
Two Graces turned their heads to gaze at the bold-eyed, auburn-haired woman in the picture’s center. Undraped, she looked directly at the viewer, a languid hand covering herself below, the other trailing a lily seductively along her cheek.
Allingham tucked away his spectacles. “ ‘And from her eyes, desire—the melter of limbs—trickles down when she looks.’” He answered Julia’s curious glance. “Hesiod’s description of the Graces.”
Mary took his arm. “Showing off your classical education, Brother?”
“Showing off your marvelous technique, Sister?”
They are a golden pair, Julia thought. Tall and fair and gleaming.
“Not to mention yards and yards of female flesh,” Allingham said. “No wonder that old zealot frothed at the mouth.”
“Not the response I sought, believe me.”
“Still, that Grace in the center could walk out of the frame and strike a man dead.” Allingham lifted his sister’s hand to his lips. “My dear, I envy your talent.”
“You’re wasting yours, Charles,” Barbara Bodichon said, arm in arm with Louisa Allingham. “Exert yourself. Pick up a brush again.”
“My dear Madame Bodichon, I’m content to be a painter in words and a promoter of art—a writer, critic, and publisher. All the real talent is on the female side of our family.”
“I say you’re just lazy,” Barbara said.
Allingham tucked his notepad and pencil away. “Rest assured, ladies, my article in the Art Journal will be fulsome in praise of your genius.”
“You have a genius for nonsense, that much I know,” Barbara said.
Louisa Allingham smiled at Julia and asked, “Tell me, Doctor Lewis, do you understand as little of art as I? Mary and Charles despair of me, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I know what appeals to me,” Julia said.
Louisa nodded. “As do I. But I’m afraid that answer is never good enough for my husband or sister-in-law. One must have complicated explanations for one’s admiration.”
Julia stopped in front of a landscape. “This one, for instance. It’s quite different from the others. The rough brushstrokes aren’t as polished. Yet, it’s beautiful.”
“I call it Down the Rushy Glen,” Mary said from behind them. “This is how painters in Paris see the world. Nature as it looks in the fleeting instant. How it changes with shifts of light, the time of day, and the density of the air.”
“Mary and her beloved Paris,” Louisa said. “Everything is better in France.”
“Ah . . . that’s because it’s true.”
Charles stepped back, appraising the picture. “You’re right to withhold it from the Royal Academy exhibition. The RA jurors would send it back and tell you to submit it next year—when it’s finished.”
“Oh dear,” Louisa murmured to Julia. “That’s just what I was thinking.”
Charles laughed, “My dear, you must stick to poetry—although I find much of it as perplexing as you find painting.”
“No, Barbara. No one knows her.”
Julia glanced over her shoulder at the speaker. Laura Herford had joined their group. She and Barbara made a mismatched pair. Golden-haired Madame Bodichon towered over the dark, petite Laura Herford.
“I’ve asked everyone I know about this murdered girl,” Miss Herford said.
“Murder.” Julia heard the shudder in Barbara’s voice. “Horrible.”
“Yes, poor girl. This Franny Riley is a mystery.”
The mirth and color drained from Charles Allingham’s face. He froze and then swayed. Mary pointed to a detail in her painting and had Louisa’s attention; conversation absorbed Laura and Barbara. Only Julia noticed Allingham’s reaction.
“I . . . I’m sorry, my dear,” Charles said abruptly. “Mary, I must leave—I’ve just recollected an appointment. Meeting a chap at the Reform Club.”
“Charles, no.” Louisa took his arm and drew him aside. “The caterers are setting up the luncheon—a celebration for Mary and her friends.”
Gently, he removed her hand and said, “Forgive me, Mary. I’ll hand out your exhibit announcements at my club.”
“But . . .”
“Keep the carriage, Louisa. I’ll take a cab. Ladies. My love.” He bowed and kissed his wife’s hand. Then he turned on his heels and walked rapidly away.
After a moment, Julia said, “It’s a shame your husband had to leave early, as must I. But I’m happy Mister Allingham seems well.”
Louisa looked at her blankly.
“After his ordeal.”
“Oh . . . yes. Thank you, Doctor. Charles is quite himself again.”
Mary spun around. “How can you say that, Lou? Charles is not himself. He’s changed. Changeable and distracted. How he runs that publishing business . . .”
“Allingham and Son, the publishers?” Julia asked. “Is that his firm?”
“Allingham and Allen, now.” Mary turned away. “Much good those announcement cards will do. The Royal Academy draws a flood to our trickle. If only the RA would showcase more women artists.”
Barbara flicked her hand impatiently. “Ladies, we must stop whining about the unfairness of it all and get on with it. Bombard the RA with our best work until the ramparts fall.”
“Here, here,” Julia said.
Madame Bodichon eyed her appraisingly. “My husband is a physician. Where did you go to medical school? Not in Britain, I know.”
“Philadelphia. Then I wiggled through a loophole to get on our medical register.”
“How?”
“Parliament opened the door to graduates of foreign medical schools, forgetting that some of us are female.”
“That’s the tactic,” Barbara said, brandishing her umbrella like a sword. “We’ll hoist them with their own petards! Find all the chinks in their armor and exploit them to the hilt.”
Julia consulted her watch. “I’m sorry to miss luncheon, but I’ll be late for the clinic if I delay much longer.”
Mary walked her to the door. “Thank you for coming this morning—and suggesting I speak to Inspector Tennant.” She laughed lightly and said, “His appearance at the house worked on Louisa like a tonic. She’s less fretful about the letters and less worried about me.
She and the inspector are old friends, it seems.”
“Yes, he mentioned it.”
“Her confidence in ‘dear Richard’ seems boundless.”
“It’s well placed. Now, I must go.” Julia said, offering her hand. “Thank you for a delightful morning.”
Julia flagged a cab on Oxford Street and settled in for the ride to Whitechapel Clinic, wondering about Tennant and Louisa.
They must have known each other well for the casual use of their Christian names to linger.
But it wasn’t Louisa Allingham who occupied her thoughts for most of the ride.
It was Louisa’s husband. The look on his face was as good as a confession.
Charles Allingham knew Franny Riley.
* * *
At three o’clock, Scotland Yard’s duty sergeant flagged down Inspector Tennant and his sergeant as they crossed the lobby. He held up a note.
A porter from Doctor Lewis’s clinic left this about three hours ago.”
Tennant tore the envelope and read. “Well, well. We’ve got something, Paddy.”
“What’s the doctor have to say?”
“She’s found someone who knew Franny Riley. Charles Allingham.” Tennant crumpled the note. “Let’s find him.”
Julia’s note said Allingham had left the gallery for the Reform Club.
The inspector knew the club and its doorman well.
Tennant’s father had been a member before his fall from grace in a financial scandal.
Like many exclusive gentlemen’s clubs, the Reform stood on Pall Mall, a short walk from Scotland Yard.
“Mother of God,” O’Malley muttered as they approached the three-story structure built of gleaming limestone in the grand palazzo style.
Tennant smiled as he spotted the uniformed doorman at the top of the steps. “Good to see you, Hal.”
“Captain Tennant,” the doorman said, using the inspector’s army rank. “It’s been a while, sir. I was sorry to hear about Mr. Tennant’s passing.”
“Thank you.” Tennant produced his Scotland Yard warrant card.
The club doorman was too well-trained to signal surprise at Tennant’s change of career. He said, “How can I help you, Inspector?”
But Hal couldn’t assist. Charles Allingham was not a member, and no one of his name or description had sought entry. The doorman had been on duty all day.
As they crossed Pall Mall, O’Malley asked, “Could the doctor have mixed up the club’s name?”
“I doubt it.” Tennant looked at his watch. “What do you say, Paddy? East to Allingham and Allen or west to the man’s house in Kensington?”
“’Tis late in the day. We’re like as not to miss him at the office.”
Tennant nodded. The gas lamps atop the Reform Club’s balustrade glowed dimly in the dusk. “You head home, Paddy. I’ll take a cab to Blenheim Lodge and catch him before he sits down to dinner.”
But the footman informed Tennant that Mr. Allingham was dining out. As for the “ladies of the house,” Mrs. Allingham was resting, and “Miss Mary” had not yet returned from the gallery.
“Where is Mister Allingham dining?”
“The Reform Club, I believe, sir.”
“No, he’s not. I just came from there,” Tennant said. “I want to speak to his coachman.”
But the driver couldn’t help him. Allingham had walked to Kensington Road to pick up a cab.
The man could be anywhere in London, Tennant thought.
He scribbled a brief note on the back of his card asking Allingham to delay his departure for the office in the morning. The inspector had a few questions.
“Please deliver this to Mister Allingham when he returns this evening.”
The inspector thought, No need to worry the man’s wife or sister. At least, not yet.
* * *
The following morning, Tennant and O’Malley arrived by cab at Blenheim Lodge just as a police wagon exited the drive. A pair of constables stood at the front door.
“Bloke topped himself,” one young copper told O’Malley.
Tennant spun around after paying the cabbie. “Who are you talking about?”
“The master of the house. Charles Allingham.”
“Mother of God,” O’Malley muttered, shaken. “You’re sure of that?”