CHAPTER 12 #3
While Clark grilled Tennant about the investigation’s lack of progress, O’Malley tracked down Simeon Solomon to question him about Bacchus. The sergeant’s contented smile had spread when he’d found the artist’s address at the back of the RA catalog.
“Gower Street, is it?” he’d said. “The station is on the underground line. I’ll get on at Farringdon and see what this Solomon fella has to say for himself.”
Have at it, the inspector had thought. A belching steam engine pulling a line of cars through a dark, buried tunnel?
It was Tennant’s idea of hell. On any day, he’d take horses and the stench of dung over the reek of billowing smoke trapped inside a black hole.
But O’Malley was an enthusiast, and in the four years since the underground opened, he’d ridden the subterranean railway countless times.
For the sergeant, the experience was evergreen.
“’Tis a marvel of the age,” O’Malley said when he returned from Gower Street. “The stations are like palaces, and the rail-beds curve through great iron archways buried under the streets.”
“I prefer an arching sky over my head.”
“Old-fashioned you are, sir, and no mistake.”
“Perhaps. So, what did Solomon have to say?”
“He can’t be found. He’s been in Italy these last six months.” When Tennant groaned, O’Malley grinned. “But the sister was at home. Miss R. Solomon as she’s listed in the catalog, Rebecca by name. The lass has two paintings in the exhibit to her brother’s one.”
“Since you’re smiling, I assume Miss Solomon told you something.”
“Before he left, her brother sold the reproduction rights to Bacchus and handed it over so an engraver could get busy with it. Small world. It’s Allingham and Allen that’s owning the permission to publish.”
“Well, well. Perhaps Sidney Allen is up to his ears in it after all.”
“Sir?” a constable said from Tennant’s door. “Chap’s here to see you, a Mister Whistler.”
“Show the gentleman up.”
“Now, there’s timing for you,” O’Malley said. “Always the way with an investigation. When at last the sky opens after a drought, the rain comes bucketing down.”
A monocled gentleman in a caped inverness coat and carrying a silver-handled cane followed the constable into the office. A white streak split his shock of dark hair, and a drooping, dolorous mustache gave his expression a melancholy cast.
“Mister Whistler, sir.”
The artist held his wide-brimmed hat at his chest and bowed. “Inspector, here I am,” he said in a nasal Yankee twang. “Your summons intrigued me. How can I help the Metropolitan Police?”
Tennant gestured to a chair. “Sergeant O’Malley and I have some questions about your painting in the Annual Exhibition.”
“Oh?” He unwound a yellow scarf and draped it across his knee. “Which one? The RA had the good taste to hang three this year.”
“Symphony in White, Number Three.”
“What about it?”
“Did you show it to the public before the exhibition? In your studio, perhaps?”
“No.” He flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Next question.”
“Did you sell the reproduction rights in advance of the exhibition?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask to whom?”
“To Allingham and Allen. Well, Inspector? I guess you’ll tell me sooner or later why you’re asking these questions.”
“We’ll show you.”
Tennant nodded to O’Malley. The sergeant slipped a painting from its portfolio and handed it to the artist.
Whistler’s monocle popped. “Christ Almighty!” The copy shook in his hands. “I’ll sue the bastards.”
“For now, I’ll ask you to do nothing,” Tennant said. “This is a police investigation involving several deaths, including murder. From your reaction, I take it you’ve never seen this version before?”
“No. You have my word on it, Inspector.”
“May we also count on a promise of your discretion?”
The smoldering artist considered. “Yes.” He passed the picture back to O’Malley and eyed the bulky portfolio. “Is that all?”
“For the moment, sir,” Tennant said.
Whistler screwed his monocle under his eyebrow ridge and stood. “Get the son-of-a-bitch who did this.” He left trailing his yellow scarf.
“Nothing we’d like better,” O’Malley muttered.
“Our next order of business is Allingham and Allen.” Tennant tucked the Whistler and Solomon copies into a folder and plucked his hat from its peg. “But we’ll go by omnibus or hansom. Sorry to disappoint, Sergeant.”
* * *
Sergeant O’Malley made a show of his role as a notetaker for Sidney Allen’s benefit.
He settled his bulk into a chair, patted his pockets for his police pad, and flipped through it until he came to a blank page. He gave the tip of his pencil a lick and set the point at the top. Then he cleared his throat and looked up.
“Ready, I am, sir, to take Mister Allen’s testimony.”
The publisher blinked. “Testimony?”
“Just a few questions connected to official inquiries,” Tennant said.
“Again?”
“Yes, Mister Allen.” The inspector looked around the room, in no hurry to begin. Allen shifted in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrest. But his eyes were watchful and still.
“Questions have arisen about the reproduction rights of several paintings.”
“Oh, aye. What about them?”
“Our information is that you purchased the rights for works by JA Whistler and Simeon Solomon.”
“Whistler and Solomon . . . let me think.” Allen leaned back and tilted his head at the ceiling. “Poor old Charlie dealt mostly with the artists, but I reckon you’re right, although I’d have to consult our records.”
Tennant had expected that gambit. A dead partner was a convenient scapegoat.
“Let me help your memory, Mister Allen, although they were recent purchases. The engraving rights are for two paintings. Bacchus, by Mister Solomon, and Symphony in White, Number Three, by JA Whistler.”
“Oh, aye. They’re ringing a bell with me now. Charlie thought they’d get a lot of play in the press. Worth the brass we’d fork out, he said.”
“I’d like to speak to the engraver.”
“I don’t rightly know. Charlie kept the originals for a while, and he brought in an outsider to work on—”
“Mister Allen, you told me earlier that you ran the business side of the partnership. Failure to assist the police in an official inquiry and the publication of pornographic materials are criminal offenses.”
“Pornography?” The publisher shifted uneasily in his chair. “Don’t know what you’re on about. You’re losing me, mate.”
Tennant held up Allingham’s Bacchus.
Allen sprang to his feet. “It’s bollocks, I tell you.”
“We found this ‘bollocks’ in your partner’s study. Sit down, Mister Allen.”
The man dropped heavily into his chair. “I know now’t about the mangy thing.”
“And this one?” Tennant held up the Whistler. “Come, sir, cooperation is in your best interest. Surely, an old firm like Allingham and Allen wants to avoid the scandal of a charge?”
“’Tis the way of it,” O’Malley said mournfully. “Reporters always turn up at magistrate’s court when something dodgy is on the docket.” He tapped his pencil to his temple. “Don’t know how they find out, but they do.”
“Yes,” Tennant said. “I imagine Johnny Osborne of the Illustrated would be curious. He takes a keen interest in the worlds of art and scandal. This case is an enticing mixture of the two.”
Allen stuck out his chin. “You wouldn’t be threatening me, Inspector?”
“Not at all, but I suggest you find the name and address of this outside contractor. And while you’re at it, my sergeant will look around the premises—with your permission.”
Allen glared. “I give sweet feck-all for what he looks at. He can park his arse on the factory floor for all the good it’ll do him.” He considered for a moment. “Arthur Griffiths was the engraver.” He snatched the bell from his desk and rang for his secretary.
“I’m glad your memory hasn’t deserted you after all,” Tennant said.
The door opened, and Allen said to his assistant, “Take the sergeant along to see the foreman and bring me Arthur Griffiths’s file.”
“Yes, sir. Typesetting has a question for you.”
“Bloody hell! Does now’t get done around here unless I do it?” The publisher pushed past his secretary. “Find the address for Griffiths and give it to the inspector.”
The file and the sergeant’s tour unearthed treasures: a Soho address for the engraver and a book.
O’Malley found copies of Pleasure Gardens: The Art of the Ming Dynasty on the loading dock, awaiting delivery to the South Kensington Museum.
Allingham had written Pleasure Gardens on one folder of erotic paintings.
The sergeant said, “We found the motherlode for the man’s naughty Chinese paintings.”
* * *
The engraver lived in a seedy Soho neighborhood not far from William Quain’s address.
Once, the town houses of the well-to-do had lined the streets around Soho Square. Arthur Griffiths’s building hadn’t retained a trace of fading elegance. The engraver lived in the rear flat at the end of a dank alleyway.
Tennant led O’Malley to the back entrance and knocked. A thin man opened the door. Dark, close-set eyes buried beneath a jutting brow gave him the aspect of a bird of prey.
“Mister Griffiths?”
The man swallowed hard when Tennant identified himself as a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. The bump of his Adam’s apple jumped above the loose collar of his shirt.
“We have a few questions, sir. May we come in?”
Griffiths stood back, and Tennant and his sergeant entered.
The room held the fusty smell of unwashed linen, spoiled food, and disappointment.
An empty easel stood near the back window where inadequate light slanted through cracked panes, catching motes that drifted through the air.
A settled gloom had fallen over everything like dust.
Tennant said, “Mister Griffiths, we’ve come from the office of Allingham and Allen. The firm hired you to make several engravings that interest us.”
Griffiths’s expression shifted from wary to frightened. He licked his lips. “What about them?”
“We’re interested in . . . let’s call them the ‘special’ versions you made for Mister Allingham.”
Griffiths’s face turned white when O’Malley held up the copies.
“We have his records,” Tennant said. “We know you painted these, so don’t lie to us. By assisting, you might avoid charges of fraud and forgery.”
Griffiths’s story tumbled out. Charles Allingham had approached him, explained his wants, and given him the paintings. After that, Margot Miller ran the show. She brought in the girls he needed to paint the lewd versions of the originals and, for Bacchus, the boys.
Griffiths completed four works in all. When the artist described two additional pictures he’d painted—harem scenes—Tennant recognized them from Allingham’s collection. Griffiths said they were copies of original works by John Frederick Lewis.
“After I finished the paintings, I completed the engravings at Allingham and Allen. I don’t have the equipment here, so I engraved my versions after the others left for the day. Allingham gave me a key, and I let myself out.”
Tennant held the artist’s eyes. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying you also engraved the pictures you painted?”
Griffiths nodded.
O’Malley said, “Are we right in thinking the only purpose of an engraving is to print multiple copies of a painting?”
Griffiths nodded again.
Tennant said, “What was Charles Allingham doing with the engravings of your work? Think carefully before you answer, sir.”
Griffiths replied without hesitation. “I didn’t ask, and he didn’t say. I just collected my five quid for each job from Allen’s secretary.”
Tennant said, “So Mister Allen, not Mister Allingham, paid you for your services?”
Griffiths nodded.
“Have you anything else to tell us?”
Griffiths chewed at his lip, considering. “One odd thing happened. I’d finished my version of A Slave for the Harem when one of the girls walked around the easel. She said it reminded her of the Topkapi. When Margot looked daggers at her, the girl shut up.”
O’Malley asked, “Why would she do that, now?”
The artist shrugged. “But she was right. The sultan’s harem was at the Topkapi Palace. But they were shopgirls earning a few extra quid. How could a girl like that have visited Turkey and seen the palace? It didn’t make sense.”
Outside, Tennant said, “The model didn’t mean the Ottoman palace in Asia Minor. She meant Allingham’s club on East Pall Mall.”