Julia sighed and leaned back with her elbows on the armrest. “I’ve expended enough anger on the subject—some of it unfairly aimed at Richard. I wish Johnny Osborne would investigate the skating disaster instead.”
“Over forty souls, gone,” her Aunt Caroline said. “You believe the tragedy was avoidable?”
“Yes, with proper procedures for judging the soundness of the ice.”
Dr. Lewis asked, “How did you find Mister Allingham this morning?”
“Recovered, with no ill effects.” Julia looked into her sherry and frowned. “It’s his sister who worries me.”
Lady Aldridge asked, “Was she injured as well?”
Julia explained the break-in at the studio. “And there’s something else. A poison pen has sent Mary Allingham offensive letters.”
Her Aunt Caroline shrugged in disgust “How repugnant.”
“And embarrassing,” Dr. Lewis said. “Which is why victims rarely report such letters to the police.”
“Speaking of the police, have you apologized to Richard if you’ve treated him unfairly?”
Julia smiled a bit guiltily. “Not yet, Aunt, but I shall.”
“Don’t tarry, my dear,” Dr. Lewis said. “I look at you and think, what might have been, but for Richard. I’m his debtor until the end of my days.” In a steadier voice, he said, “He’s an impressive young man. Scotland Yard should recruit more men of his caliber.”
“There aren’t many such men . . . available.” Lady Aldridge sipped. She caught her niece’s glance over her glass’s rim and held it.
Julia knew full well the meaning behind her aunt’s remark. Not long ago and in that room, they’d discussed matrimony—the impossibility of marriage, from Julia’s perspective, and her belief in Richard’s indifference. Aunt Caroline disagreed, claiming an elderly aunt’s “fine eye” for observing and keen insight into matters of the heart. Julia doubted it.
“And what of Miss Allingham?” Andrew Lewis asked. “You said she worries you.”
“There’s something she’s not saying about . . .”
“About what?” her grandfather asked.
“The letters,” Julia sighed. “Today wasn’t the day to press her, but I return tomorrow. I’m hoping she’ll confide in me.”
* * *
The following morning, Blenheim Lodge’s footman opened the French doors to the patio. Once again, Julia followed the path in search of Mary. The studio door’s windows had been replaced, and all traces of yesterday’s break-in were gone. She found the artist sitting in front of her painting, feet up and arms wrapped around her legs.
Julia said, “Still thinking aboutRepose? You said you’d been brooding over it. Can you tell me why?”
“I can’t decide if it’s too subtle or crushingly obvious.”
“Show me.”
“No,” Mary said, smiling. “You tell me.”
Julia looked again. The elegant woman in the sitting room gazed over her shoulder through a large window enclosed by an iron grille. Claret drapes opened like a stage curtain, revealing details of the busy streetscape beyond. Striding, top-hatted men walked the street. One gestured for a cab, the sunlight glinting on the silver knob of his walking stick. Off to the side, a nanny gripped a little girl’s hand. She pulled away, eyeing two boys in knee pants tossing a ball.
“It’s two worlds,” Julia said, nodding at the canvas. “You might have called itCaptivityinstead ofRepose.”
Mary laughed and said, “Full marks for you.”
Julia turned to her with a wide smile. “Even the caged canary looks longingly out the window. Is the subject also the woman in the damaged painting?”
“Yes, Margot Miller. She’s much in demand.”
A maid with a coffee tray appeared at the door and carried it to the table next to Mary’s chair. She bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.
