“Scotland Yard,” Julia said, climbing in. “Driver, take the fastest route you know.”
* * *
On the ride back to Kensington, Will said, “It was a low point, Mary. I was stony broke and grateful to have any commission at all, so I agreed to do the paintings.”
“I see.”
“And if Charles enjoyed looking at . . . well, it seemed a harmless pleasure. Still, I can see how a sister—a young lady—might be shocked.”
“These last few months . . . nothing seems to shock me anymore.”
“More and more, Margot made my skin crawl. The way she used the bribe of bread—and the lure of drink—to make those penniless girls she’d rounded up do her bidding. One girl she’d recruited for my last commission seemed little more than a child.”
“So, you stopped?”
He shrugged. “By then, it was easy to quit. I’d sold a few paintings and had a new commission.” He looked at her. “IfI’m honest, it was no grand gesture. I could survive and flourish without him.”
They rocked along in silence for a while.
“What about the rest of it, Will? Charles and his entanglement with Allen and Rawlings?”
“I think Allen may have sought out your brother to exploit his reputation and his old, established firm. Charles may have been in the dark about most of it.”
“And Margot Miller? What of her?”
He turned his head, and Mary waited. Then she touched his arm. “Please, Will.”
He sighed and looked at her. “Your brother’s connection with Margot had nothing to do with this business in the newspapers. It was something she said at our last session. Charles was . . . keeping her. Margot was his mistress.”
Tiny brushstrokes, subtle halftones, and highlights all cohered and formed a picture. Margot in the studio, buttoning her sable collar, pointing out the likeness of the fur to Mary’s muff, telling her it had been a gift. Charles, standing in the gallery, gazing at the Margot she’d painted as a Grace, saying she could strike a man dead.
“I’ve been a fool.”
“I’m sorry.”
Mary’s hand flew to her mouth. “Good God!” She shifted in her seat and clutched Will’s arm. “Margot’s unborn child . . . Louisa must never hear about it. The horror and despair . . . it would drive her mad.”
“But can you keep it from her? Should you?”
“I don’t know,” Mary said, shaking her head. “And I still don’t understand. Who would want to kill my brother—and Margot?”
* * *
Mary felt more composed an hour later when the carriage turned into the Blenheim Lodge drive. Will had been quiet for a while.
“Mary, is it possible . . . ?”
“Is what possible?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
They passed a little man in a bowler carrying a hatbox. “It’s Mister Petrie,” Mary said, “the furrier from Harvey Nicols.”
The carriage pulled up, and Mary lowered the window. “No cab, Mister Petrie? Did you come all this way by omnibus for your delivery?”
He touched his hat. “I’m on my way home to Soho. I thought I’d deliver this personally to Mrs. Allingham.”
“Soho. Will, can you . . . ?” When he nodded, she said, “Mister Quain can take you on. That’s where he’s heading.”
