CHAPTER 9
Three reports waited for Inspector Tennant the following morning, beginning with O’Malley’s account of his interview with Margot Miller’s house agent.
“He’s sticking to his story about remembering nothing. So, I leaned in and got my nose in his mug. Politely, I’m asking him to have another think.” O’Malley grinned. “And doesn’t he recall a familiar face?”
Tennant leaned back in his chair. “You have my attention, Sergeant.”
“Tidy fella, John Smith, says the agent, and not bad-looking for a man trying to hide a gammy lip under his mustache.”
“Rawlings. He of the harelip. Time for a chat with that gentleman’s gentleman.”
“Sorry, sir, but our bird has flown. I stopped at Blenheim Lodge on the way back from Chelsea. The valet handed in his notice. He’s going to America to work for an uncle who owns a men’s shop.”
“Damnation. Get on to the steamship lines,” Tennant said. “Perhaps we can cage Rawlings before he flies away.”
Tennant drew two reports toward him. “What about the park search and the neighborhood canvass?”
“The omnibus conductor on the Cromwell-to-Brompton line remembers Margot well. Forgetting her would be the stranger thing.”
“Did he see her on the day of the murder?”
“He’s not certain of that,” O’Malley said. “He recalls her riding the line often and recently. But he couldn’t swear to a day.”
“What about our elusive seaman? Do we have a line on Arnie Stackpole?”
“Ah, there we have an answer. A magistrate in Limehouse gave him thirty days in the nick for destruction of property. Blind drunk and brawling, he was, and leaving some patrons—and the pub—in bits. The creature’s been inside all the past week.”
“So not our man,” Tennant said.
“The killing wasn’t his style. A smash to the head or hands to the throat, more like. He wouldn’t draw the lass into a trap by sending her a letter to tea.”
“Useful to eliminate a distraction.” Tennant swept the reports into his drawer. “We can’t afford to lose time over those passenger ships, Paddy.”
“I’ll get on to it.”
Tennant plucked his hat from its peg. “I’m off to see the artists of Kensington. I’m curious about the bad blood Quain mentioned between Frederic Leighton and Margot Miller.”
* * *
Crossing artists off Mary’s list proved easier than Tennant expected: all the leading lights of the British art world had made a pact to live in Kensington.
The inspector caught most of them working at home and racing against a deadline.
“Send-in day” for the Royal Academy’s Annual Exhibition was just weeks away, and the artists emerged from their studios paint-smeared and irked by the interruption.
To a man, they said they hadn’t seen Margot Miller in over a year, and none had employed Franny Riley.
Tennant’s last stop was Holland House, the brick mansion built by Frederic Leighton on a wooded site off Kensington High Street.
A servant wearing billowy cream trousers and an embroidered red jacket ushered the inspector into a vast, domed hall whose scale seemed designed to make a visitor feel small.
After a brief wait, a tall man with dark, curling hair and a graying beard appeared. He’d dressed as extravagantly as his servant in a flowing Turkish kaftan of crimson and gold.
“Inspector.” Leighton extended his hand. “You’re here about Margot Miller, I expect. A shocking end, but not surprising.”
Tennant raised an eyebrow. “Will you explain that comment?”
“The woman was a menace. I had nothing to do with Margot’s death, so I needn’t hide my animus. I haven’t employed her in nearly two years, with good reason.”
“You have my attention, Mister Leighton.”
“She tried a spot of blackmail on me for . . . improper behavior, let us say, with my models.”
“What did you do?”
“I took a page out of the Duke of Wellington’s book. I told her to accuse and be damned. Never hired her again.”
“You had nothing to fear?”
Leighton smiled, white teeth gleaming between his dark beard and mustache. “The British public balks at a bohemian banker but accepts a free-spirited artist. And I have no outraged wife to begin divorce proceedings on the strength of Miller’s lies.”
“She was with child when she was murdered. Can you suggest a name for the father?”
“Alas, I cannot. Still, Margot knew her worth and wouldn’t sell herself cheaply. If I were you, I’d look for someone who could afford her.”
“One last question. Have you ever employed a model named Franny Riley?”
He shook his head.
Tennant retraced his steps to Kensington Road and thought, These artists live in each other’s pockets, but no one knows a thing. He signaled a cabbie and hoped Sergeant O’Malley had better luck with the passenger ships.
* * *
At noon, Julia’s omnibus stopped at Aldgate High Street and Blue Boar Lane. She looked up as the bells of nearby St. Katharine’s Church rang the hour. Then Julia glanced at the Blue Boar Inn’s window sign and read it regretfully. She started to walk away and thought, Why not?
Twenty minutes later, Annie cracked open her basement door.
Julia held up two steaming packets of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper sleeves. “I skipped breakfast, and the aroma from the Blue Boar was irresistible.”
The door swung open, and a delighted Annie smiled, the first joyful one Julia recalled. “A doctor paying a house call with a meal in her hands? ’Tis service above and beyond.” She stood back and let her in.
Julia had caught Annie in the middle of a project. The girl laid her scissors aside, reached for two plates and a pair of forks, and placed them on her tiny kitchen table. Then Annie peeled the newspaper away from her chips and breathed in.
“Ah . . . they have a lovely tang of vinegar on them. A grand meal they make of it at the Boar.”
Julia sliced through the coated fillet and popped a piece of cod into her mouth. “Grand, indeed.” She pointed her fork at the plate. “My American grandmother always said nothing in the States matched English fish and chips. That was quite an admission, coming from her.”
They ate for a minute or two in silence. Then Annie said, “I haven’t thanked you properly.”
“For what?”
“For taking the time out of your day to, you know, to examine me in the police station. ’Twas kindness itself you were.”
Here was her opening. Would Annie take it? “It’s Inspector Tennant who most deserves your thanks. He persuaded the local inspector to call me in and drove to my house to fetch me.”
Annie looked down at her plate. “I’d help him if I could, but I’ve little to tell. I’ve not seen much of Margot these last months. God rest her soul.”
“You had a falling-out?”
Annie shook her head. “Nothing like that. But Margot said . . . I told her I’m happy as I am, trimming my hats and sitting for the ladies.”
“Did Margot get on well with the women artists?”
“She . . .” Annie frowned. “Margot mocked them much of the time. Taking their money but resenting them all the same. Saying they paid her a pittance, but she’d be getting what she was worth in the end.”
“Did she explain her meaning?”
Annie shook her head. The girl crumpled the newspapers, carried the plates to the washbowl, and returned to the table.
Julia moved her medical bag from the floor to the table. “Shall we have those sutures out?”
Annie sat, pushed up her sleeve, and extended her arm.
Julia used tiny forceps to lift each knot.
Then she cut away the threads with a lancet.
“There. All done.” She held on to the girl’s wrist until she looked her in the eyes.
“Annie, I don’t want to frighten you, but you must understand the danger. ”
The girl stiffened and withdrew her arm.
“It’s not only Margot Miller and Franny Riley. Several other girls who worked in Cheapside have disappeared. Are you aware of that?”
Annie nodded solemnly.
“Did you know any of them?”
Annie dropped her gaze. “No, but I was hearing the Bow Lane shopgirls talking about it.”
Julia spoke gently. “Doctors know the difference between a fall and an attack.”
Annie rolled down her sleeve, continuing to avoid Julia’s eye.
“Annie, men are generally stronger than women. If they wish to do us bodily harm, there is little we can do to stop them. But there is something you can do. . . .”
Annie looked up from the tabletop and into Julia’s eyes.
“Speak. Take back the power this man has to silence you. Speak to Inspector Tennant.”
Annie sighed and got up. She walked to her worktable, picked up the scissors, and ran her finger along the blunt edge of the outside blade. “My Aunt Maggie gave me these. Made of the strongest Sheffield steel, she said. If she were here today, she’d tell me the same as you.”
“May I ask Inspector Tennant to call on you?”
“Yes, and there are a few things that I’ll be telling him.”
As Julia climbed Annie’s steps, a young constable opened the gate for her and touched his hand to his helmet.
Julia smiled her thanks, relieved to find him by Annie’s door.
She turned left on the High Street and stopped to let a woman step in front of her.
The lady had exited the dressmaker’s shop with a hatbox in her hand.
She wore a pleased look and one of Annie’s decorated derby hats.
Julia thought, Annie’s going to be fine.
* * *
At three o’clock, Tennant and O’Malley met back at the Yard.
“The artists were less than useless,” the inspector said. “No one knows a thing. How did you fare at the docks?”
“There’s no record of a Herbert Rawlings at the Cunard or Inman lines. And nothing from the smaller passenger lines or tramp steamers.”
“I’m starting to wonder if he plans to leave England at all,” Tennant said.
At a knock, O’Malley twisted around to face the young constable at Tennant’s door. “What is it, lad?”
“A messenger delivered this note for the inspector.”
“Thank you, Constable.” Tennant read and looked up. “It’s from Doctor Lewis. Annie O’Neill is ready to talk.
* * *
Tennant and Annie sat across from each other at her kitchen table with cups of tea.