CHAPTER 8
Tennant picked up a cab on Kensington Road and headed west to the police station. He spotted O’Malley waiting on the corner.
After the sergeant eased his bulk into the hansom, the inspector untied his folder’s ribbon and held up the picture of Margot at her bath.
O’Malley whistled. “’Tis a match.”
“Yes. And we have a name and address linked to a painting in Allingham’s collection, thanks to Miss Allingham. He’s William Quain, a countryman of yours who spent hours with Margot. Weeks of work, Miss Allingham said.”
“Hours staring at the likes of Margot Miller? You’d be codding me to call that work.”
“Not digging ditches, to be sure.” Tennant slid the picture into its folder.
“And what did the lady of the house say about the note?”
“A clever ploy,” Tennant said, and explained the ruse. “Any joy over that lease? Tell me the coppers turned up a name.”
O’Malley rolled his eyes. “Fella named John Smith if you can believe it.”
“Original. Did the officer get a description from the agent?”
“That he did not. Couldn’t recall his face from a year ago, the copper said. The agent is saying the lady of the house paid the monthly rent.”
“Visit the agent tomorrow, Paddy. Lean into him hard, if you must. See if he holds to his tale.”
“Could it be our John Smith is William Quain?”
“Someone was giving Margot Miller drawing lessons.” Tennant banged on the hansom’s roof. “Scotland Yard,” he called to the driver. “I want my hands on Allington’s painting of Margot and that list of initials before we chat with Mister Quain.”
* * *
Mary retreated to her studio after Tennant left Blenheim Lodge. Her paintbrush had always been her refuge, but she’d found it impossible to concentrate since her brother’s death.
Her sister-in-law had chosen laudanum and fantasy, believing her husband’s suicide was an accident. Gently, Mary had explained the verdict of the coroner’s inquest, but Louisa refused to listen. Instead, she had turned away, her face a mask.
Mary indulged in no illusions. She’d watched the police remove her brother’s covered corpse from the house.
And while the housemaids had tried to be discreet, she’d caught them carrying slop buckets and brushes from his room to the back staircase.
Mary accepted the reality of his death, but she struggled to understand it.
Yes, Charles had been drinking too much.
Yes, he had been troubled. But to kill himself?
Yes, her shining brother had ended his life.
Tears welled, but so did anger, robbing her of the solace of memory.
Even joyful news failed to stir her. A day earlier, Mary had learned that the Royal Academy would include Repose in their “Annual Exhibition.” Her acceptance envelope included an invitation “requesting the honor of your company” at the opening.
A blue admission ticket had fluttered to the floor.
Mary had picked it up and laid it aside, feeling hollow rather than triumphant.
She stared at her easel for twenty minutes with a dry paintbrush in her hand. Finally, she eyed the open sketch pads and the scattered drawings on the table and surrendered. If she couldn’t manage a single brushstroke, she would tidy up.
Mary gathered William Quain’s sketches into their folder. Then she changed her mind and took out his study of the Irish cottage. She put the rest away and returned to the watercolor, admiring it afresh.
Mary wondered why she’d been disingenuous with Tennant about Will Quain’s address, pretending to search for it among her brother’s papers.
She knew perfectly well where the artist lived.
A week before Charles’s death, Mary had run into him, literally, in a Soho doorway.
He’d stood back as she exited the shop where she purchased her paints.
“Miss Allingham.” He’d touched the brim of his tweed cap. “The Fates had another meeting planned for us, buying as we do from the same supplier.”
“Mister Quain.” She’d nodded and brushed past him on the way to her carriage. He’d followed her and opened the door.
“My studio is just along the way. Number ten.” He’d cocked his thumb at the corner house across the street. “Have you a moment to favor me with your opinion?” When she’d hesitated, he smiled. “I’m not the big bad wolf, you know. If you wish, I can ask my landlady to chaperone.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Ah, in a hurry, the curse of modern life. ’Tis living in hope I’ll be,” he’d said, exaggerating his Irish cadences. She’d noticed his accent faded in and out. When he closed the carriage door, he had an amused gleam in his eye.
Too good-looking, and he knows it. Mary shrugged away the memory and returned the picture to the folder.
Yet, Will Quain had left a kind condolence note at the house. He wouldn’t intrude on their grief but wanted to express his gratitude for Charles’s help and his sorrow at his passing. Her brother had been generous to the artist when he needed assistance. It was a simple, heartfelt note.
Quain had enclosed a separate letter to Mary, telling her he’d seen the SFA exhibition and admired her work.
He’d singled out Down the Rushy Glen, making several perceptive comments about its composition and praising her brushwork.
She had yet to thank him, and Mary felt guilty about putting Tennant on his trail.
She thought, A long list of artists painted Margot. It doesn’t make them murderers. And Louisa proved that an investigation’s web could entangle an innocent person. But why had Tennant inquired about her rubber gloves, asking if other painters used them?
Impulsively, Mary pulled the bell cord to call the coachman. She’d placed Will Quain squarely in the inspector’s sights and thought she should warn him. Then she changed her mind. Too late. Tennant is probably on his way to Soho by now.
Mary dropped into a chair and waited for the coachman to answer her summons. Sitting, she realized how tired she was and how badly she’d been sleeping. She dragged a sheet of paper forward and scratched out a note for the coachman to deliver to Doctor Lewis.
* * *
Mary’s message had arrived just before Julia left Finsbury Circus for the clinic.
The girl asked for an appointment, but how urgent was the request?
Julia thought she’d read agitation in the slapdash note, so she suggested that afternoon at her clinic or the following morning at her office.
Margot Miller’s death must have come as a shock to her. Another one, on top of all the others.
Mary appeared in Whitechapel just after midday. Julia closed her office door and invited her visitor to sit, noting the smudges under her eyes and the restless fingers that smoothed the fur of her sable muff.
“Thank you for seeing me so promptly, Doctor. I hope it’s not inconvenient. It might have waited until tomorrow, but . . .”
Julia smiled and said, “No trouble at all, as it happens. You’ve come on a rare slow day.”
“Doctor Scott has been our family physician, but I’m not ill often, so I’ve rarely consulted him. These last weeks . . .” Mary looked away, frowning.
“They’ve been more than anyone should bear, Mary. Sometimes, it’s hard to reach out for the help we need.”
“Dr. Scott barely listens to Louisa and just hands her a tonic. Now I realize it’s how he’s always treated her ailments. I just never thought about it before.”
“You’d like to make a change?”
“Yes, I would.” Mary put her muff aside and sat up straighter. “A doctor should listen to what a patient has to say. But Doctor Scott was her father’s oldest friend, so his attitude is more paternal than professional.”
Julia smiled and said, “I promise to listen. Always. So, tell me, what brings you here today?”
Mary described her sleeplessness. It didn’t surprise Julia: the girl looked hollow-eyed and worn out.
“Louisa is having trouble sleeping as well,” Mary said. “Doctor Scott prescribed laudanum for that and her headaches.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Julia said quickly. “Laudanum is a powerful drug and far more addictive than people realize. Parliament may take up the question of regulation this year, and not a moment too soon.”
“Is there something else?”
“Were the mild bromide mixtures I gave you earlier effective?” When Mary nodded, Julia said, “Let’s try them again.”
Mary’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Doctor. Perhaps Louisa—”
“I need to tread carefully here. Your sister-in-law is not my patient. Still, you might talk to her about my suggestion for your treatment.”
“She’s steadfast in her confidence in Doctor Scott, but she’s not herself these days, and no wonder.” Mary sighed. “First Charles and now Margot Miller. You heard about her death?”
Julia nodded. “I performed the postmortem and will give evidence tomorrow at the coroner’s inquest.”
“Two deaths,” Mary said. “I hadn’t thought about the child until I saw your nurse with a mother and her baby.”
“Margot’s pregnancy was known, generally?”
“Oh, yes. I’d wondered how she would manage with no father coming forward.”
“Had she continued to work as an artist’s model?”
Mary nodded. “Most recently for Laura Herford. Just the finishing touches for her Royal Academy submission, so Laura was able to . . . paint around the problem.”
“I’d wondered . . . had she posed for male artists in addition to the women painters in your circle?”
Mary’s restless fingers went still. “Yes. For Rossetti and . . . and others.”
Julia nodded. “The police will look closely at them.”
“I . . . I imagine so.” Mary’s gaze dropped to her tightly knitted fingers. She stirred in her seat. “Well, I’ve kept you long enough, Doctor.”
Julia said, “Stay a moment while I fetch that bottle of bromide.” Julia wondered about her sudden change in mood. Something about the artists. When Julia returned from the medicine storeroom, she found Annie O’Neill waiting in the hallway.
Julia smiled and asked, “Are you here to have those stitches out?”