CHAPTER 17
On Monday morning, Julia ignored the newspaper and absorbed herself in Dr. Scott’s casebook. She looked up when her grandfather joined her for breakfast.
“Interesting reading . . . or at least legible?”
“Murder victims haven’t a right to privacy, but this case cracks open the personal lives of the doctor’s patients.” Julia closed the book. “I came across a notation about someone I know. Louisa Allingham.”
“Inevitable if you’re to do a thorough review.”
“Sad, because Doctor Scott notes a pregnancy that will end in a miscarriage. He shaded his entry with foreboding. And his desire to conceal his pessimism.”
“Does he say why?”
“No, but Mary mentioned Louisa’s several failed pregnancies.”
Julia took a last sip of tea, dropped her napkin on the table, and gathered up the book.
“Busy morning, my dear?”
“Not enough to fill it. Two patients, then I’m off to Whitechapel. I’ll read a little more before they arrive.”
By the time Julia left for the clinic, she’d reached Scott’s notes for the end of September. She found a terse entry recording Louisa’s miscarriage.
The likely outcome, he’d written. Tragic.
Then, in late October—only weeks after Louisa lost her baby—Scott saw a patient who surprised Julia, although his diagnosis did not. “Mrs. Margaret Miller” was pregnant but showed “no sign of vaginal chancres, although that is inconclusive.” Julia looked up from the page. He suspected syphilis.
Julia scribbled a note to Inspector Tennant. I’m halfway through the casebooks and have found no medical motives for his death. But I thought you should know this: two of your murder victims knew one another. Margot Miller was Doctor Scott’s patient.
Julia resumed her reading and came across a November entry about Charles Allingham.
Good Lord. She closed the casebook. According to Dr. Scott, Allingham had begun to show the early signs of third-stage syphilis.
His disease, Louisa’s miscarriages, and Scott’s looking for early symptoms in Margot Miller all fell into place. She arrived at the clinic just before twelve, having read the last entries for 1866.
* * *
By the time Sergeant O’Malley arrived at the Yard, the inspector had come and gone.
Tennant had dumped and spread all the printed envelopes they’d removed from Margot Miller’s desk.
Next to them, he’d placed the letter written to draw Mrs. Allingham to the maze and the scrap of paper found near Charles Allingham’s fireplace.
The inspector had left a note for the sergeant. Checking on two things. Will be back this afternoon. Keep abreast of the search for Allen.
“He’s onto something,” O’Malley muttered. “But what?”
The duty sergeant sent up messages that arrived from Southampton, Portsmouth, Liverpool, and Bristol. There was no sign of Sidney Allen at any of the ports. Then a message came in from Dover.
A sharp-eyed copper had spotted a gentleman boarding the midnight ferry to Calais.
A gent with one suitcase in the dead of night?
Making a flit, the officer guessed. They exchanged pleasantries, but the constable let him travel on.
He had no reason to stop him: the message to arrest Sidney Allen arrived two hours later.
But he’d noted the time, the man’s appearance, and his destination.
O’Malley read through the report. The officer described him as square-built but running to fat, middle-aged, and with a pronounced north-of-England accent.
Skipping off to the Continent, the creature. And speaking of skipping off . . .
O’Malley looked up at the clock. Where was the inspector?
* * *
Around noon, Mary stood atop a hill on Hampstead Heath, looking down at a spot where rock, knoll, and stream met.
She was happy to steal away for an afternoon of painting with Will, leaving newspapers, half-formed questions, and Louisa’s fears behind.
Cyril Eastlake was coming to lunch, so her sister-in-law had manly shoulders to lean on.
Mary could take hers away without a twinge of guilt.
“Cyril will soothe her,” Mary said to Will’s question about Louisa. “He’ll explain the state of things at Allingham and Allen and advise her. It’s not good, I’m guessing.”
“Let’s forget about Louisa, the business, and everything else and focus on painting. Are you ready?”
“Oh, yes. Lead on.”
Will navigated the slope with easels and camp chairs strapped to his back, lugging a basket that held their picnic lunch. Mary carried their paint boxes. At the bottom, Will deposited his loads and stretched his back. “Shall we eat first? Paint later?”
“Luncheon sounds lovely.”
Will unfurled a plaid blanket and moved the wicker basket to its center. Then he extracted a camp brazier from a canvas sack, set it up on a flat rock, and struck a match to light the paraffin.
He bowed. “Tea in ten minutes, madam. The sandwiches are cheese-and-pickle, but I’m sorry that the rock cakes deserve their name.”
“No matter,” Mary said, spreading her skirts on the blanket. “How domestic you are.”
He grinned. “I was hoping you’d notice.”
Will picked up the teapot and headed toward the stream. He inched sideways down the bank’s slope, lost his footing, and plunged his left boot into the water.
He sloshed across the grass to the blanket.
After setting the pot on the brazier, Will pulled off his boot, turned it upside down, and shook.
Then he flopped on the blanket and wiggled his wet toes in the sun.
Mary noticed a repair to his sock. Someone had mended it with red yarn instead of matching black. She wondered who had darned it for him.
Will passed Mary a sandwich, and they munched for a while in companionable silence. Then he tossed the rock cakes like a juggler and cocked a questioning eyebrow. Mary shook her head, leaned back on her elbow, and looked at the sky.
“Do you know Shelley’s poem, ‘The Cloud’?”
“No.” Will rolled on his side and looked at her. “Tell me.”
“I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.” Mary smiled. “I think a painting is like that.”
“In what way?”
“It’s made up of the elements of one’s experience. Eternal once it’s fixed on canvas, but changeable, too, because each viewer sees something different.”
Will moved to sit beside her. He put his arm around her shoulder and lay back on the blanket, taking Mary with him. With his free hand, he brushed her cheek. They watched the drifting clouds for several minutes, listening to the humming meadow.
She murmured, “Tell me . . . who darned your sock?”
He lifted his head, puzzled. “I did.”
“That’s good.” After a while, Mary said, “I suppose we should paint something, or I’ll have some explaining to do.”
Will turned on his side, propping his head on his hand. “Give me a minute. Let me think . . . gypsies stole your canvas?”
“That’s the best you can do? And you an Irishman?”
“I’m distracted today.” After seeming to mull, he said, “I’ve been thinking about Louisa’s problems.... I suppose she could move into my house.”
Mary sat up abruptly. “Move in with you?”
“If the firm goes bust, as you fear, and Louisa loses the house, she can live with us . . . after we’re married.”
“Married?”
“My flat’s a bit pokey, but I expect we can all make do.”
He was on his knees in a fluid movement, facing her, cupping her face, his eyes inches away. “Marry me, Mary Allingham.” He kissed her lips lightly, then lingeringly. “Say yes.” He kissed her mouth’s corner, tracing his lips along her cheek. He breathed in her ear, “Please say yes.”
When he pulled back, Mary looked into eyes that were green and gold-flecked and fringed with dark lashes. She felt light-headed, felt something thrumming inside her. It was her beating pulse. She started to speak, but her voice caught, so it took her a moment to say the word.
“Yes.”
Sometime later, Will rolled on his back and stretched like a cat. “I suppose we should get on with some painting while there’s still light in the sky.”
Mary sat up and raked dark curls away from his forehead.
She traced a finger along the curve of his cheek and the groove of his upper lip.
She heard his breath catch and then felt its warmth.
Mary leaned over and touched her lips to his.
She lifted her head and smiled. “I suppose we can paint . . . if we must.”
He took her in his arms again.
Still later, they packed their luncheon things, letting the brazier cool. Then they set up their easels, unfolded their camp chairs, and set to work.
Before she began, Mary looked at him. “You’re wrong about all of us needing to move into your flat. The house belongs to me, not Louisa. And my fortune has always been independent of the publishing firm.”
Will smiled. “If I’d known that, Mary Allingham, I’d have asked you to marry me a month ago.” He reached for his tube of Paris Green and squeezed a generous disk of emerald in the corner of his palette.
He looked over at her quick intake of breath. “Mary . . . my love. I was joking.”
She pointed her brush. “That color . . . I just realized. I hadn’t thought of it until now, but I’ve avoided using it.”
He looked at the tube. “Paris Green?”
“Ever since . . .”
“Since when?”
“Since my brother died.” She took a deep breath. “Since Charles killed himself.” She still had trouble saying the words. Mary saw Will’s confusion. “It’s loaded with arsenic.”
“Are you saying—”
“Charles broke some off the block in my studio, ground it up, poured it into his whiskey, and drank it.”
“Good God. Mary . . . my dearest girl.”
She looked down at her hands, gripping them so tightly that her knuckles shone white in her flesh.
“I don’t understand. How . . .” Will’s jaw tightened. “How could he do that to you?”
“Most of the time, I ask, how could he throw his life away? My fun-loving brother.” In a low voice, she said, “But he did.”