“I’m not sure. . . .”
Julia gripped Mary’s hand. “Talk to the other women. Try to convince them to come forward. Then talk to Richard Tennant.”
* **
Julia spent a quiet Sunday afternoon stretched on the library’s settee, absorbed in theSunday Telegraph.A sudden thrum of rain against the library’s windowpanes pulled her attention from the newspaper to the gray outdoors. It had taken three weeks, but a foggy day or a dark winter afternoon no longer triggered a spasm of clamping fear. Julia folded the paper, curled on her side, and closed her eyes.
“Damn,” she muttered at the sound of a knock. She swung her feet to the floor, felt for her slippers, and stood.
A minute later, Mrs. Ogilvie opened the door. “Inspector Tennant.” The housekeeper stood back.
“Richard.” She met him, smiling, her hand outstretched. “Sit. Grandfather is upstairs napping and will be sorry to have missed you.”
“How is he?”
“Heart trouble is . . . unpredictable, but he’s well enough.” Julia smiled. “Mostly thanks to you for fishing me out of that canal.” She put her hand on the whiskey decanter.
Tennant shook his head. “I have two reports to finish.”
“Working on Sunday?”
“You keep adding to my caseload.”
“Ah. Mary consulted you after all.”
“I’ve just come from the house and wanted to tell you we’d spoken.”
“I suppose ... well, I imagine poison pens aren’t usually the province of the Detective Department. Thank you for seeing her.”
“They’re dangerous all the same. And the physical attacks . . . they’re unusual. One or the other, not both, assuming they’re connected.”
“Attacks?” Julia said. “There have been others?”
“Paddy O’Malley remembered an earlier report.” Tennant shook his head, smiling. “The man’s an elephant.”
“More like an amiable grizzly bear.”
“It’s Sergeant O’Malley, by the way. His promotion came through.”
Julia smiled. “I’m glad of it. What did he recall?”
“Last week, someone vandalized the French Gallery on Pall Mall. Splashed a can of emerald-green paint over the front steps and smeared the whole word—not just a W—across the double doors.”
“Why that particular word there?”
“The featured artist this month is Jane Benham Hay.”
Julia grimaced. “A female artist.”
“I circulated a notice to all divisional inspectors with galleries on their turfs, asking them to be alert to possible threats.”
“Mary mentioned an exhibit by women artists in February. Somewhere in Mayfair.”
“I’ll speak to the divisional inspector there.”
“Richard . . . did Mary mention the letters sent to other women artists in her circle?”
“Yes. And, oddly, Annie O’Neill. The little hatmaker turned up again.”
