CHAPTER 8 #3
“At least you didn’t say ‘pretend.’” Quain spread his hands. “Take it with my compliments, Inspector. Show it to whomever you please. It won’t link me to Margot or Franny’s murder.”
Tennant added it to the folder. “Margot is turning out to be a woman of parts. I heard she was an aspiring artist. Taking drawing lessons.”
“That’s news to me. I’m surprised she bothered. Margot’s most perfect work of art was herself.”
“Meaning what?” O’Malley said.
“The best models are actresses. They telegraph whatever mood or emotion you’re trying to express. Most will pose for a bob, but a skilled sitter more than repays her two shillings an hour. Margot was the best. Worth every penny.”
Tennant eyed him levelly. “And you have nothing to add that may help us with our investigations?”
“Nothing.” Quain watched the inspector gather the sketches. “Inspector . . .”
“Yes, Mister Quain?”
“Does Miss Allingham know about those paintings? She thinks little enough of me as it is, but her brother . . . Charles told me they were very close.”
“Miss Allingham strikes me as a levelheaded young woman who can look after herself.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Good day, Mister Quain.”
“Wait.”
The inspector turned.
“Wait just a minute. I . . .”
“Yes, Mister Quain?”
The artist pulled off his smock and tossed it on the chair by his easel. “I don’t want to make trouble for myself . . . he’s a powerful man in the art world.”
“Who?”
“Frederic Leighton.”
“What about him?”
“He and Margot . . . she had some sort of vendetta against him. At our last sitting, well, she hinted . . . No, damn it, she said she knew things about him, and he’d be sorry he crossed her.”
* * *
The following morning, the jurymen and witnesses in the death of Margaret Miller gathered at the Campton Arms on Kensington Road.
The jury would deliberate in the back room of the public house and reach a verdict on the cause of death.
For the sake of the ratepayers who footed the bill, the coroner hoped to wrap things up by lunchtime: the publican’s rates went up each hour they drifted past noon.
The jury would hear first from the unfortunate parkkeeper who stumbled on the body, then from the police, and finally from the doctor who performed the postmortem.
When the coroner asked Doctor Julia Lewis to take the stand, a surprised murmur, like a humming vibration from an unseen engine, followed her across the room.
Julia gave her evidence in a firm voice.
When she finished, the coroner invited the jury to withdraw and consider the testimony.
Ten minutes later, they returned the obvious verdict: death by a person or persons unknown.
The finding was signed and sealed on the tenth of March 1867.
The coroner thanked them and noted the time with satisfaction.
By ten thirty, he’d sent all on their way.
Outside the pub, the sun shone palely on a wintry Kensington Road. Neither the inquest nor Tennant’s investigation had shed much light on the case. Everything about Margot’s murder remained stubbornly in the shadows.
Tennant spotted a coffeehouse across the street. He touched Julia’s elbow and pointed to it. “Have you time for a cup?”
“Hmm, that would be lovely. The coroner asked me to wait for him, so I’ll meet you.”
Tennant crossed to the café, slid into a street-side bench, and watched Julia from the window.
One of her hands struggled to keep the wind from spinning her hat down Kensington Road.
The other clutched her cape below a chin that bobbed in agreement with the coroner’s comments.
Whatever he was saying, he said it at length.
Finally, after what looked like Julia’s third attempt to break things off, the coroner bowed and walked away, freeing her to cross the street.
They’d met many times, but Tennant could count on one hand the occasions they’d spent in each other’s company: times that hadn’t involved a dead body.
One hand? Hell, three fingers.
They’d had coffee once, and Julia’s grandfather had invited him to dinner at their town house.
And they’d shared a walk around Finsbury Circus a few days after she returned home from the hospital.
But even then, the conversation had turned to the shocking conclusion of their first case and other professional concerns.
None of that mattered. A long, solitary walk across the Kentish downs on a crisp Christmas afternoon had clarified his feelings for her. What Julia thought of him . . . Some detective, he thought, waving to her as she entered the coffeehouse.
Julia sat down, pulled off her tam-o’shanter, and fanned four coins across the tabletop. “My princely fee as prescribed by law. The two pounds, two bob from the coroner for my postmortem services.”
“Riches, indeed.” Tennant raised two fingers to the waiter.
Julia unbuttoned her cape and pulled off her gloves. “Given that I’m flush with pounds and shillings, I should offer to pay, but you invited me, so . . .” She brushed the coins into her palm. “I’ll pocket them.”
No other woman Tennant knew would make a breezy suggestion to foot the bill.
Then, as if reading his earlier thoughts by strange telegraphy, she said, “Speaking of invitations . . . Before I forget, Grandfather would like to invite you to dinner again. One of his Wednesday gatherings.”
“I’d be delighted.”
The waiter placed two cups of steaming coffee on the table. “Anything to eat, guv?”
“Julia?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing else, thank you.”
“Grandfather will send you a note.” She cupped her coffee with two hands to warm them, then sipped. “He understands that you might have to beg off at the last moment.”
“The policeman’s lot.”
Julia edged her cup and saucer to one side and leaned forward on her elbows. “I know you don’t put all your cards on the table at an inquest, but has the investigation dealt you any?”
“It’s too rich a hand. I’m unsure what to hold or discard.
” He ticked off his fingers. “There’s the unknown father of Margot’s child and the mystery man who pays her bills.
She has a father and stepbrother, both of whom seem unstable, to put it mildly.
There’s an angry seaman-lover, Stackpole.
He’s somewhere in the wind. And she’s modeled for all the male luminaries of the British art world.
Landseer, Rossetti, Frederic Leighton, and other members of the Royal Academy, not to mention some lesser lights. ”
“Oh, dear.” Julia’s smile twitched. “Chief Inspector Clark won’t like your stepping on those celebrated toes.”
“And we’ve uncovered Margot Miller’s role in procuring young women for the purpose of pornography.”
“Good Lord. You and Sergeant O’Malley have been busy.”
“It’s one compelling motive for her murder. So is blackmail.” Tennant explained the discovery of the envelopes in Margot Miller’s desk.
Julia shook her head. “Surprising but not shocking, somehow. She’s been knee-deep in everything about this case.”
“And in the background is the disappearance of several shopgirls over the past year. At least one of them modeled for the artists. Yet the chief refuses to hand us the earlier cases.”
“Why?”
“Partly because I asked for them. Partly because the chief always doubles down on a bad decision.”
“Frustrating for you.”
“An artist named Will Quain told us about Margot and the pornography scheme. Miss Allingham gave me his name.”
“Mary is a good guide if the answer is somewhere in the art world.”
Tennant nodded. “Louisa seems to hold it at a distance, so I needn’t bother her, but Miss Allingham might recognize the style of some of the other paintings. I’m not eager to show her the kind of work her brother commissioned, but I’m afraid it must come to that.”
“Well . . .”
Tennant waited as Julia hesitated. “What is it?”
“I don’t know about Mrs. Allingham, but Mary is no Dresden figurine. She’s less breakable than you think. Do you remember the newspaper story about a woman who paid twenty pounds to save one of the Regent’s Park skaters?”
“Was that—”
“Mary.”
Tennant blew out his cheeks. “The lady keeps a cool head in a crisis.”
Julia stirred her cup, considering. “Perhaps it’s best not to push Mary too hard just now. What about asking the artist? Show the pictures to Mister Quain. He’d probably be happy to cooperate if only to deflect suspicion from him.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion. I won’t say you’re wasted in the medical profession. Still . . .”
“Just doing my bit for Queen, country, and the Yard.”
“Sergeant O’Malley wonders if a dark-haired girl Quain mentioned—a girl who fled his studio—might be Annie O’Neill.”
“It’s possible. Margot had pressured her to sit for more revealing poses. She refused. But for Margot to go from modeling to pornography?”
“It’s a fine line under the statute. Eastlake, the family lawyer, rightly pointed out that a private art collection isn’t illegal. If Allingham sold them to like-minded ‘connoisseurs,’ that would be trafficking and quite another matter.”
Julia fiddled with her teaspoon. “Yesterday, Annie came to my clinic while Miss Allingham was there.”
“With injuries again?”
“No. She came to have some stitches taken out. Instead, the girl took one look at Mary and bolted. It was obvious that she had something on her mind.”
“I think it’s time for another word with Miss O’Neill.”
Julia sighed. “I know you must. Look, I’m seeing Annie tomorrow about removing those stitches. Let me try once more to win her confidence and persuade her to talk to you.”
“Very well.”
“Thank you, and . . .” Julia looked away.
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry. I was about to ask you to tread lightly with Annie. I know you will.” Julia smiled. “You and that amiable bear of a sergeant.”
“Of course.” Tennant looked over his shoulder for the waiter. “Another cup?”
Julia shook her head. “When I’m flagging a few hours from now, I’ll wish I’d taken the offer.” She started to rise, then sat again. “I’ve remembered something. Margot paid Annie to hold her room. Perhaps she left something behind.”
“Worth pursuing. Thank you.”
Tennant left two coins on the table and stood to the side to allow Julia to pass.
As she swung her cape around her shoulders and brushed by him, a scent of something warm and spicy like sandalwood drifted his way.
He breathed it in and blinked when she looked up from hooking her collar, her eyes inches from his.
She put her hand on his sleeve. “Richard, I think Annie is quite frightened about something.”