CHAPTER 13 #3
At first, Quain had dismissed the pictures Charles commissioned as an odd but harmless obsession. That was before disgust with the rotten enterprise took root. Still, it seemed unlikely that someone had killed Margot Miller over a collection of lewd paintings.
Were the pictures only the surface, like the scraps scavenged by mud larks at the water’s edge? Was there something else in the murky depths? Quain could only guess how far Charles Allingham had waded into the mire.
* * *
In the late afternoon, a maid showed Inspector Tennant into Dr. Scott’s waiting room. It had the stale, dated feel of an older medical practice winding down. The lumpy horsehair chairs needed upholstering, and the Turkish carpet bore the wear marks of many years’ usage.
The doctor’s office may have been worn and tired, but the man who extended his hand was shipshape. A well-tailored, still vigorous man in his late sixties with gray hair and a neat mustache offered the inspector a seat.
The doctor’s medical diploma and a nautical picture held pride of place on the wall behind his desk. The print of a naval engagement showed a fleet of smoking and sinking Chinese junks succumbing to a British naval bombardment. The caption read, “HMS Volage.”
Tennant bent and leaned the folder of Allingham’s paintings against the side of his chair. When he straightened up, he saw that Scott’s eyes had followed his movements.
The inspector nodded to the diploma. “I see you’re a University of Edinburgh man. Do you know Doctor Andrew Lewis?”
“Not in Scotland. He was a few years my senior, but we are slightly acquainted as doctors in London often are.”
“And you were a Royal Navy man, I believe. That’s a dramatic print on the wall. Did you see action in the first war with China?”
“Yes. I served as the ship’s surgeon on the Volage. That was before they converted her into a survey vessel.”
“Not a very taxing assignment?” When Scott scowled, Tennant added, “I only meant that the battle in the picture looks like a lopsided victory. There can’t have been many British casualties.”
“Oh. Quite.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his index finger across his upper lip, smoothing his mustache. “Mind you, sickness and accidents at sea kept me busy enough.”
Tennant nodded and let the silence play out. He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on three rectangles where the wallpaper was darker than the rest.
Scott cleared his throat. “I’m surprised to see you, Inspector. Surely, there are no lingering questions about Charles Allingham’s suicide?”
“Yes and no. As often happens, an investigation can go far afield.”
“Indeed?”
“In this case, it led me to the South Kensington Museum. And then back to you.” Tennant looked to his right. “Your three Ming Dynasty paintings hung there, perhaps?
Scott blinked. “Yes. What of it?”
“May I ask where you acquired them?”
“If you must know, I bought them in Canton. We dropped anchor there for several months.”
“If you bear with me, my questions will become clear. Can you tell me the times and circumstances when they were out of your possession?”
“Well . . . until recently, they hung here, as you guessed. But last December, I was persuaded to part with them, temporarily, as part of an exhibition.”
“At the South Kensington’s exhibition called Pleasure Gardens?
“That is correct.”
“Other than the museum director, did anyone else have access to the paintings?”
“Well, first, they went to Charles’s firm, the art publishers Allingham and Allen. The company is printing the exhibition catalog.”
“Did Mister Allingham take charge of your paintings personally? I mean, did he collect them from you himself?”
Scott considered. “No . . . his manservant took them away.”
“Rawlings?”
“I believe that’s the fellow’s name. Look here, Inspector, what is this all about?”
Tennant bent for the folder and extracted Allingham’s versions of Scott’s original paintings. He set them side by side on the desk. The doctor licked his lips and stared at the pictures. The ticks of the grandfather clock sounded loud, as did Scott’s labored breaths.
“Where did you . . . I mean to say, who is responsible for these abominations?”
“It looks very much like Charles Allingham arranged for these copies. For his or others’ . . . perusal. You knew nothing of this?”
Scott purpled. “I have no knowledge . . . I have never seen . . . Your suggestion is an outrage.”
Tennant nodded. “The late Mister Allingham was responsible, then. Unfortunately for the police, he isn’t available for questioning.”
“I cannot speak to anything Charles might or might not have done with them.”
“Versions of Chinese paintings owned by others are included in . . . shall we call it an eclectic collection of pornography? A compilation not merely for the private entertainment of a connoisseur with exotic tastes.”
“How do you conclude that?”
“We have evidence that someone engraved them. The only purpose would be to print multiple copies of the salacious works for distribution. That, of course, is an offense under the Obscene Publications Act.”
Scott’s eyes widened. His cheeks held their high color, but he’d gathered his wits enough to say, “Your remarks mystify me, Inspector. I know nothing of these . . . works.”
“What about these?” Tennant removed four other pictures. “Someone copied these from paintings lent along with yours to the museum. Friends of Mister Allingham’s, the museum director said. Do you know a Mister Lionel Bruce or a Colonel Cedric Hamilton?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know them, sir?”
“We’re members of the same club.”
“Oh? Which one is that?”
“The Topkapi.”
“Charles Allingham’s club.”
“That’s right.” Scott stood, jamming the fingers of his shaking hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. “Look, I’ve told you all I know, and I have patients arriving. I’ll bid you good day unless there’s something else.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I may return with other queries as our investigation moves forward. We are at work on several fronts.”
As Tennant gathered the pictures, he knocked Scott’s Chinese porcelain pencil holder out of place. The doctor reached across the desk to return it to its original position.
“A lovely piece,” Tennant said. “So many beautiful... things . . . come from China these days.”
The inspector closed the street door behind him, walked to the corner, and waited. A few minutes passed, and Scott hurried down the steps and waved his walking stick at a cabbie.
Rattled the old boy. Tennant smiled. That’s when blackguards fall out.
The inspector hailed another cab and followed the doctor to the corner of East Pall Mall and Whitcomb Street. Scott mounted the steps of the Topkapi Club and disappeared through its exotic doors.
Tennant paid off the cabbie. An interview with the club’s secretary could wait, and the short walk would ease the cramp in his leg, so he headed back to the Yard on foot.
The rain had passed, and the London air felt cool and cleansed.
Only a temporary respite, Tennant thought, and a good thing, too.
Stackpole would be released in the morning, and a little fog and mist would make trailing him easier.