CHAPTER 6 #3
Julia followed Mary into a dimly lit chamber with drawn curtains. They found Louisa asleep in a chair she’d pulled close to the fireplace. Someone sensitive to mourning traditions had covered the mirror over her dressing table with a dark cloth.
While Mary bent over Louisa, Julia looked around.
A revolving barrel-shaped table held poetry collections: Shakespeare’s sonnets and the works of Milton, Donne, and Wordsworth.
Louisa had novels in French by Victor Hugo, Alexandre Dumas, and Gustave Flaubert.
She had set aside a medical journal she’d been reading: an early February edition of The Lancet.
Portraits flanked the fireplace with Charles Allingham’s picture on the right and an elderly gentleman on the left.
Louisa’s father, Julia thought. He wore a black frock coat, heavy watch chain, and snowy cravat, a uniform typical of prosperous doctors of his generation.
He sat in a deeply carved mahogany chair with his left hand gripping the end of the armrest. In his right fist, he held an old-fashioned stethoscope at his breast like a scepter of high office.
The top of a two-tiered table to the side of his portrait displayed a brass watch stand and gold-cased timepiece.
The lower shelf held a well-worn, black medical bag.
A daughter’s shrine, Julia thought.
“Louisa,” Mary touched her sister-in-law’s arm. “Doctor Lewis is here to see you.”
Mrs. Allingham stirred and opened her eyes.
She raised her black-gloved hand and pushed aside strands of her auburn hair.
While Mary’s mourning dress had drained her complexion, Louisa’s high color and bright hair shone vividly against her widow’s black.
Julia noted the pinpoint pupils and thought, Laudanum.
It was a powerful opiate prescribed too often by well-meaning doctors.
Louisa nodded at Julia’s words of condolence.
Then she turned away and fixed her gaze on the fire, her index finger worrying the oval mourning brooch pinned to her gown.
Round and round, she traced its outer edge, a ring of black onyx stones.
The firelight caught a lock of white hair under the glass in its center.
“Mrs. Allingham, this letter Mary showed me. Asking you for money is—”
Louisa roused herself suddenly, leaning forward, eyes glittering. “He must pay!” Then she fell back in her seat. “The rigid satisfaction . . .”
Julia looked at Mary, who made a helpless shrug. Then she knelt by her sister-in-law’s chair. “Dearest Louisa, we must inform the authorities—not our local Kensington police. Perhaps if we called in Inspector Tennant—”
“Richard . . . Of course.” Louisa clutched her mourning brooch. “Send for Richard. He’ll know what to do. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll close my eyes until he arrives.”
* * *
Mary and Inspector Tennant came downstairs from Louisa’s room an hour later.
Julia looked at the hall clock. “I must leave for the clinic. Is there anything else I can do before I go?”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Mary said. “Louisa seems calmer now that the problem is in the inspector’s hands.”
Tennant said, “The question is, will the letter-writer show himself?”
“My sister-in-law is in no condition to meet this man, Inspector.”
“Of course not,” he said.
She frowned, biting her lip. “But I’m about Louisa’s height. Hatted and heavily veiled, no one will spot the difference.”
“You’re proposing yourself as bait?” Julia said. “Forgive me, but I think that’s foolhardy.”
“It may be our best chance to catch this man,” Tennant said.
Julia stared at him. “Catching criminals is your responsibility. Miss Allingham is no more fit for the task than her sister-in-law.”
“The risks are manageable.”
“But you admit they exist.”
“We’ll surround her with a ring of plainclothes policemen.”
“You don’t know the depth of this man’s anger or desperation. If it’s too dangerous for Louisa, it’s equally risky for Mary. But you’re willing to gamble with her life? Surely, Mrs. Allingham would argue against it.”
“Allow me to do my job, Doctor.”
“Inspector, I respect our separate roles, but I’m speaking as a doctor. Mary has just endured a devastating loss. She suggests herself as bait, but my medical advice is not to accept her offer.”
Tennant turned to her. “What do you say, Miss Allingham?”
Mary said, “I must do this for Charles.”
Julia sighed and picked up her medical bag. “Then there is nothing more I can say.”
Tennant said, “I’ll fetch a cab.”
“Thank you, but don’t trouble yourself,” Julia said. “I’ll pick one up at the cabstand on Kensington Road.”
* * *
Hours later, the Allingham carriage left Blenheim Lodge carrying a single, veiled passenger.
It rolled to a stop on Queen’s Gate Road near the garden’s southwest gate.
Mary entered the grounds and spotted an unoccupied bench near the entrance to the maze.
She sat and pretended to read. Minutes passed, and Mary looked up.
Only a few visitors remained in the last hour of daylight; she knew some were policemen.
Minutes ticked by, but only strolling couples and nursemaids with children passed her bench.
The wind picked up, and clouds rolled in, hurrying the sunset.
Mary’s heart lurched when a mustachioed man in a bowler hat emerged from the maze.
He tugged the brim lower over his eyes and headed toward her.
Mary held her breath. Then a little boy burst from the hedge’s gap, grabbed the man’s hand, and dragged him away. She closed her eyes and exhaled.
Finally, when Mary heard church bells ring the hour, she followed Tennant’s instructions and returned to the carriage.
Back at the house, a dejected Mary removed her hat and veil. “Why didn’t he show himself, Inspector?”
“The note’s wording indicates that he sent it before your brother’s death. Perhaps the news reached him.”
“And frightened him off, you mean?”
“It’s possible. Blackmail coupled with a charge of manslaughter raises the stakes considerably.”
“Blackmail. Inspector, do you have any idea what . . .”
Tennant hesitated and hoped she hadn’t noticed. “Absent the letter, we can’t be certain. Whoever he is, he may have calculated that the risk of coming forward was too great.”
Mary dropped into a chair. “Then he may retreat into the shadows and never show his face.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Allingham.”
Mary leaned her right elbow on the armrest and rubbed her temple. “I don’t understand any of it.” She looked up. “Did you speak to Mister Allen? Was Charles worried about the business?”
“Your brother’s partner and Mister Eastlake say the firm is sound.”
“Then, I’m at a loss. Charles . . . a suicide. I cannot fathom it.”
* * *
The following morning, Tennant showed O’Malley the note sent to Mrs. Allingham.
“The writing is consistent with the scrap from Allingham’s office. What do you make of it, Paddy?”
“Things not adding up . . . when one-plus-one isn’t making two. All this writing to the artists. What’s the motive in it? Are we thinking it’s malice or money?”
“As far as we know, Mrs. Allingham’s is the only letter that quotes a figure.”
“And the others are a mix of truth and lies,” O’Malley said. “Take Madame Bodichon, for instance. Him calling her a bastard. Yes, she was born on the wrong side of the blanket, but she doesn’t give a toss who’s the wiser for it.”
“No possibility for profit there.”
“Margot Miller is up the pole, and who knows the father’s name. But a prostitute? And there’s Miss Allingham.”
“The affair with her aged Paris art teacher seems wholly fictitious,” Tennant said. “And Annie O’Neill’s letter threatened to tell her employer she modeled without clothing.”
“A lie, poor lass. Just what she’s refusing to do.”
“And why blackmail a poor hatmaker? Any profit from the threat seems limited.”
“A few bob at most,” O’Malley said. “What did you make of the two other lady artists that Madame Bodichon put us on to?”
“One found the charge of an affair with her female model amusing. ‘I’m a happily married woman with four children and a painting career,’ she told me. ‘I have neither the time nor the energy for a liaison with anyone.’”
O’Malley grinned. “Has the ring of truth to it, that does. And the other one?”
“She refused to name the threat, but the lady assured me the letter contained no suggestion of blackmail.”
“Burned, like the rest of them?”
“Yes, damn it. If the letters don’t make sense, are they a blind for something else?”
Tennant spun his chair and walked to the window.
Cold air from a frigid blast leaked under the warped frame.
A white blanket had dropped in the night, and a section of snow slid from the roof and fell with a whoosh past his window.
Below in the street, churning carts and soot from countless coal fires had turned the snow the color of wet ash.
Tennant pulled down the shade. “I’ll send a constable around to show Franny’s sketch to all the women artists. Miss Allingham said she didn’t know her, but someone else might recognize her.”
“Maybe Margot Miller knew the lass. Let’s show it to her. They both turned up in Allingham’s naughty paintings.”
“But not in the same ones. Let’s start again, Paddy. Reread the interviews and go through our case notes.”
“Something may leap out if we crack on with it.”
* * *
While Tennant and O’Malley reviewed the case, Julia dodged the heavy foot traffic on Aldgate High Street in search of Annie O’Neill’s address.
The cold wind sent people hurrying with their shoulders hunched and heads down, grunting the odd “sorry mate” as they collided. Finally, Julia spotted Annie’s number. She followed the railing at the edge of the pavement. At the gate, she looked down. Three steps led to a basement entrance.
The door opened, and a woman carrying a hatbox exited the flat. She turned around, her full, emerald skirt swinging, filling the narrow space.
“Don’t be a dolt, Annie. That priest of yours won’t pay the rent.”
The woman closed the door, raised her cape’s black fur collar, and climbed the steps. Slanting sunlight caught and flamed her auburn hair. She gave Julia a curious stare and turned right on Aldgate High Street. She recognized the woman at once from Mary’s painting: Margot Miller.
Julia descended and knocked. Within seconds, Annie yanked open the door. “I’ll not be changing my—oh.” A hand flew to her mouth. “I’m sorry, Doctor. I thought . . .” She pulled the door wider. “Will you come in out of the cold?”
Annie stood back and invited Julia into a combination sitting room and workroom. Tables held the tools and materials of the milliner’s trade: thimbles and scissors, fabric swatches, feathers, bows, and yards of ribbon.
“Your basement rooms are much brighter than I expected.”
“Light from the front comes in all the morning long.” Annie pointed to the side windows. “With the street crossing to the west and nothing to block it, light streams in of an afternoon as well.”
“The perfect space for your work.”
“’Tis that. My Aunt Maggie, God rest her soul, found it. She brought me over from Dublin and taught me all she knew. A wonder she was, that one.” Annie smiled. “Learned her trade in Paris, France, if you can believe it.”
“She went far afield.”
“Daddy said his little sister had the soul of a Traveller. Black Maggie, he called her. She had the raven hair on her, just like a gypsy.”
Julia eyed the girl’s dark curls and said, “You favor her, Annie.”
“Daddy was always saying so. She was a champion, my aunt. A woman on her own and making me think I could do the same.”
“You had what many women lack. Someone to model.”
“A woman needs a skill. Aunt Mags was always telling me that. Something to sell besides a pretty face and the rest of her.”
“Indeed, she does.”
“That’s what the likes of some I know are peddling,” Annie said. “One I could mention has a brain to go with it.... It’ll get her in trouble one of these days.”
“Shall we have that plaster off your cheek?”
Annie sat down and raised her face. She paired dark hair and brows with bright blue eyes and pale skin. A scattering of light freckles dusted her cheeks. It was a combination common among the Irish. In Annie, the mixture was magical. No wonder artists seek her out, Julia thought.
As the doctor peeled the bandage away, she asked, “Do you work for one hat shop in particular?”
“Wheatlands’ in Cheapside is where most of my hats go. But that one . . .” She cocked her thumb at a lady’s bowler, its band trimmed with flowers and dragonflies. “That one is for the dressmaker upstairs. ’Tis the fifth I’ve made for him this month.”
“It’s an unusual style for women.” Julia trimmed the new bandage and applied the plaster. “There, that should do it. But you’ll have to return to my office to have those stitches out of your arm. Let me look.”
“Daft, I’m thinking,” Annie said, pushing up her sleeve. “Strange to be wearing a fella’s hat, but it’s all the rage. My friend Margot was after me to make her one.”
“Do you mean Margot Miller? I thought I passed her leaving your flat.”
“You’ll be knowing her?”
“I’ve seen Miss Allingham’s painting of her. She’s striking.”
Annie frowned. “That was Margot, all right, picking up her bowler. She was my roommate until a year ago and poses for the lady artists as well as for . . .” She turned away. “I often have a brew-up this time of the day. Will you take a cup, Doctor?”
“Thank you. I know Margot is a sought-after model. Is she a hatmaker as well?”
Annie shook her head. “She worked for Wheatlands’, running orders for girls who sew by the piece. Knows all the shop lasses along Bow Lane. But that was a year ago, now.”
While Annie spooned tea into the pot, Julia asked, “Do you miss her company?”
“’Tis quiet of an evening, I’ll say that. But she might be back.”
“Oh?”
Annie cocked her thumb over her shoulder. “Isn’t she paying rent on my back bedroom? ‘My insurance policy,’ says she. In case her fancy man tosses her out, I’m thinking.”
Annie sat, poured the tea, and fiddled with her teaspoon.
“The lady artists . . . they’re never asking me to do more than I’m willing. But Margot, now. She says I’m an eegit not to strip off for the men. Saying I’d get twice what I’m earning now.”
“That must be tempting.”
“That’s looking for trouble.”
Julia nodded. “You’re right to resist pressure. It often ends in regret when you don’t.”
“That one, she’s never one for regrets.”
Julia returned her cup to its saucer. “Annie . . .”
“Yes, Doctor?”
“Your injuries. Are you sure you won’t speak to the police?”
“I slipped and fell. Let that be an end to it.”
A minute later, Annie stood and picked up their cups. Her hands shook slightly, the spoons rattling in the saucers as she carried the tea things to a washbowl. The doctor took the hint and gathered her gloves and medical bag.
Julia left certain that Annie O’Neill was hiding something—and that she was afraid.