“That sounds sensible.” Julia clapped her hands on the chair armrest and stood. She asked, “Shall we get started?”
They spent the next twenty minutes picking up scattered paint tubes, canvases, and drawings. Mary shuffled through the sketches and looked up. “That’s odd. I just realized that several drawings are missing. Studies of Margot Miller. She’s the sitter in the damaged painting.”
“An art-loving thief?” Julia won a wan smile as Mary bundled the remaining sketches into a folder.
Julia spotted an oozing, emerald paint tube, evidently the source of the slash across the canvas. She picked it up with her handkerchief and read the label.
“Paris Green.” She looked at Mary. “Are you careful withthis? It contains a shocking quantity of arsenic. Medical journals have traced several deaths to its use.”
“Good Lord, I had no idea. I grind cakes of the stuff and mix it when I watercolor sketch.”
“Be sure to wear a cloth over your nose and mouth when you prepare it. And gloves.” Julia dropped the tube in the box with the other paints. “I think that’s the lot.”
Mary nodded absently, staring at her damaged canvas, ripped and marred by the emerald W. She drew her finger along the tear and hugged herself.
“It’s a pity,” Julia said sadly. “Is the painting beyond repair?”
“I wasn’t happy with it, so it’s not worth salvaging. Thank God I’d sent three paintings away for framing. Next month, I’m showing them at the SFA exhibition in Mayfair. That’s the Society of Female Artists.”
“I wonder why the intruder painted a W across the picture before slashing it.” Julia watched Mary closely as she answered.
Mary grimaced. “I can make a guess. Something someone sent in an anonymous letter. I’ve received two.”
“Forgive me, but you didn’t mention that to the policeman.”
“The letters accused me of improper relations with my art teacher. Ridiculous, of course. The man is forty years my senior.” Mary frowned. “Still, there’s also . . .”
Julia waited. Then she asked, “There’s something else?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing. W for whore. That’s what the letter writer called me.”
* * *
That evening, Julia came down for dinner and found her grandfather and great-aunt conferring by the library fireplace, silvery heads together. Dr. Andrew Lewis and her Aunt Caroline looked up from their leather armchairs and exchanged guilty glances.
Julia chose a glass from the drinks cabinet and picked upthe sherry decanter. “You may as well tell me,” she said as she poured. “You look like a pair of children caught with forbidden sweets.”
Her grandfather cleared his throat. “Your aunt and I were, ah, debating the wisdom of—”
“Consigning this week’sIllustrated London Newsto the fire before you saw it.”
Lady Aldridge rarely had difficulty reaching the point and presented her cheek to Julia for a kiss. Her aunt shimmered in the firelight, all silvery elegance from her head to the metallic threads in her brocaded gown. Even seated, she looked tall and indomitable.
Dr. Lewis held the journal up and chuckled. “Your favorite reporter wrote the lead article.”
“Johnny Osborne.” Julia sat facing her relatives. “Who is he libeling this week?”
“My dear niece, you must admit he played fair with you.”
“I agree,” Dr. Lewis said. “Those articles about your ordeal were spot on. This week, Osborne’s going after the army over venereal infections among the ranks.”
Julia sipped and shrugged. “That’s hardly news. There must be something else that you don’t want me to read.”
“His solution will incense you,” her aunt said. “And I had hoped to have a peaceful drink before dinner.”
“Let me guess. He suggests doubling down on the horrid laws and rounding up every female within shouting distance of a soldier.”
Her grandfather smiled. “Something like that.”
