CHAPTER 7 #3
The following morning, O’Malley examined a late-day find from the park. A sharp-eyed constable spotted Margot Miller’s handbag shortly before the search was suspended for the evening. He’d found it in a hedge near the northwest entrance to the park.
“Located it a distance from the maze,” the sergeant said. “Looks like the killer walked north toward Kensington Road after doing the deed.” O’Malley handed Tennant an inventory he’d made of the bag’s contents. “It has a few surprises tucked inside.”
Tennant scanned the list. “An empty change purse . . . a robbery gone wrong or meant to look like one? A wedding ring, and a note addressed to Miss Miller from . . .” He looked up, astonished. “From Louisa Allingham?”
O’Malley passed him the letter. “Asking Margot to tea on the day of the murder. That explains why the lass was in the neighborhood.”
“The note mentions a three o’clock appointment.”
“Fits the time of death.”
“This invitation strikes me as odd, Paddy.”
“I’ll say. Margot Miller and the lady of the house, sipping tea and eating crumpets?”
Tennant folded the note and slipped it into his pocket. “I’d like to hear Mrs. Allingham’s explanation.”
“Will you drop me at Kensington station house on the way? Maybe one of those young coppers found the name on the lease.”
* * *
An hour later, Tennant knocked on the door of Blenheim Lodge. While he waited for the footman, a newsboy trudged up the drive and walked around the house to the tradesmen’s entrance.
The door opened, and Tennant asked the servant if Mrs. Allingham was at home.
“I’m afraid the mistress is—”
“Inspector?” Mary Allingham said from the morning room doorway. “Can I help you? My sister-in-law isn’t down yet.”
“I apologize for arriving so early, but I wanted to ask Mrs. Allingham about a note she sent.”
“Louisa sent you a note?”
“No.” Tennant drew the invitation from his inner pocket and gave it to Mary.
She looked up with a puzzled frown. “My sister-in-law didn’t write this. It’s nothing like her handwriting.”
“You’re certain, Miss Allingham?”
“Of course. But it explains something strange that happened a few days ago.” She looked around for the servant. “Alfred?”
“Yes, Miss Mary?”
“Tell Inspector Tennant about Miss Miller’s visit.”
“Two days ago, it was. Showed up at the front door, asking to see Mrs. Allingham, bold as brass. I told her the mistress was out for the afternoon.”
“What was her response?”
“Stamped her foot and stormed off in a huff.”
“Thank you, Alfred,” Mary said.
Tennant waited until the door closed behind the servant. “Was your sister-in-law out or simply not receiving visitors?”
“Louisa had gone to Garrard’s, her jeweler, to inquire about a mourning brooch.”
“What did Mrs. Allingham say about the incident?”
“She thought Alfred had misunderstood, that the girl had asked for me. But Margot never knocks on the front door when she comes for a sitting. She walks around back to my studio.”
“And you hadn’t arranged to see her?”
“No. I don’t understand. It’s such a . . . pointless, heartless prank to pull on a widow and a household in mourning.”
“Miss Allingham, I saw your morning paper arrive. You haven’t heard the news. Yesterday, Margot Miller was found dead in the maze at the horticultural garden. She’d been murdered the day before.”
“Good God! The afternoon she . . .”
“Yes. The day she called here. Miss Allingham, perhaps we could sit?”
“Of course.” Tennant followed her into the drawing room. She dropped onto a chair. “Margot, murdered. This is some sort of . . .”
Tennant eyed her closely as she rubbed her temple. “First, a letter asking for money and sent to Louisa of all people. Now, a forged note and the maze again. I don’t understand any of it.”
“A search of Miss Miller’s rooms produced a surprise. We found unsent, printed envelopes addressed to you and other artists.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Margot? She was the letter writer? But why?”
“Money, most likely. We found a surprising number of pounds stashed away in her drawer. It’s given us a few leads. Some victims who are new to us.”
“She wrote accusations about herself in the letters to Annie.” Mary shook her head. “Clever.”
“Miss Allingham, I don’t want to add to your sister-in-law’s distress, but—”
“I doubt she can help you. Of all the unaccountable things, Louisa’s entanglement is the strangest. She has little interest in the art world, and I doubt she ever saw Margot Miller except to glimpse her walking along the path to my studio.”
“The forged note achieved the killer’s end. It brought Margot to him. Miss Allingham, there is a way you can help me.”
“I will if I can.”
“You’ve painted Margot Miller. Do you have a sketch I could borrow? Something I could show to potential witnesses?”
“In my studio.” Mary stood and rang for the servant. “Alfred will let you in. Ask him to add some coals to the fire. I’ll look in on Louisa and fetch a wrap. I’ll meet you in the studio in five minutes.”
Mary, as good as her word, appeared a few minutes later. “Louisa is asleep.”
“Forgive me, Miss Allingham, but who looks after you?”
Tears sprung to her eyes. “It’s kind of you to ask. I have a few cousins and many dear friends, but Charles . . . Well, he was the link to the parents I never knew.”
She turned away, sorted through some folders and sketch pads, and carried the stack to a table.
“Before we begin,” Tennant said, “I have another question. Do you ever use vulcanized rubber gloves in your studio?”
“Yes, when I mix paints, although it’s been a while since I’ve bothered. Oil paints come in tubes nowadays. I’ve become lazy about making my own colors.”
“Do most artists use gloves?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“All right, Miss Allingham. Now, for that picture of Margot Miller.”
Mary opened the first sketch pad, turning over page after page. “Most of these are studies of poses, not faces.” She picked up a second pad and flipped through it. “Better, but not detailed enough.” She looked up. “I wonder . . .”
Mary pulled a portfolio from a shelf along the back wall and carried it to Tennant.
“My brother bought these from the artist and gave them to me.” Mary placed the folder on the table. Tennant opened it to a watercolor of Margot Miller’s head and shoulders. “This is the one you want, I think. It’s by a young Irishman.”
It was no quick sketch; the artist had labored over it. “This is perfect for my purpose.” Tennant picked it up. Underneath it was a second portrait of Margot Miller. “This artist,” he said sharply. “Can you tell me his name?”
Mary looked at him curiously. “William Quain.”
WQ was on the list he’d taken from Allingham’s cabinet. WQ—the initials on Franny’s sketch.
Tennant said, “I imagine this second portrait required many sittings.”
“Weeks of work.”
“Miss Allingham, you said your brother purchased these paintings and sketches directly from the artist. Might there be an address for Mister Quain amongst his papers?”
“Well . . . possibly. You’d like me to look?”
“I’d be grateful.”
They returned to the house, and Tennant waited for Mary to find the information. When she handed him the artist’s address, he read the question in her face, so he satisfied her curiosity with a part of the truth.
“We need to interview anyone who spent time with Margot Miller. Can you tell me the names of male artists who employed her as a model?”
Tennant wasn’t an art connoisseur, but Mary rattled off a set of names so famous that he recognized them all. The inspector blew out his cheeks. “That’s quite a list.” He took out his pencil and notepad. “Can you write all the names down for me?”
Tennant left Blenheim Lodge with William Quain’s address, the list of artists, and two pictures of Margot Miller.
One was the sketch he’d use for identification.
The other was a painting of Margot standing at her washstand, naked to the waist. The room, the bed, the green dressing gown tossed carelessly aside; it was the same setting as a picture of Margot he’d found locked away in Charles Allingham’s cabinet.
The emerald wrap with its glittering moths thrown across the bed matched the one they found in the other painting and on Franny Riley’s body.