“Let’s not forget that a model for one of Miss Allingham’s painter friends vanished a year ago. If Franny was modeling . . .”
“’Tis all connected and maybe not balmy after all.”
The cab dropped the inspector and his sergeant at a Mayfair address on Oxford Street. A police wagon pulled up behind them, and two constables from the Yard joined the local officers already at the scene.
“For the love of God,” O’Malley muttered. “What are we having here?”
A sallow-faced man with a gray-streaked, ginger beard had padlocked his left wrist to the entrance railing. Dark, deep-set eyes flashed beneath bristling brows, and loose flesh hung from the sharp-etched cheekbones in his triangular face. Wintry gusts flapped the folds of his black coat like crow’s wings as he spewed Scripture and waved a Bible over his head. A younger, dark-haired companion in a shabby black suit wielded a cane, blocking the bottom of the gallery steps.
A banner hung above the door:SOCIETY OF FEMALE ARTISTS WINTER EXHIBITION, 8FEBRUARY–16MARCH1867.
The Mayfair constables stood between the two men and a group of women huddled on the cold pavement. Tennant spotted Miss Allingham and the two artist friends he’d interviewed about the anonymous letters.
“Delilahs,” the old man shouted. “Salomes, Jezebels, and whores of Babylon, ye stagger down a crooked path. Proverbs warns us. Do not go near the door of her house.” He pointed his Bible at the women. “For the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh but have divine power to destroy strongholds.”
“Let’s break up the party, shall we?” Tennant called over to one of the constables. “Turn out the old fellow’s pockets. Find the padlock key and liberate the gentleman from the railing.”
O’Malley said, “I’ll crack on with the boy-o at the bottom of the steps. Maybe the lad has it on him.”
“Check his clothing and boots for traces of green paint.”
O’Malley clapped a young policeman on the shoulders. “Come along, son. Let’s have a bit of conversation with the creature.”
The sergeant approached the boy and said mildly, “I’ll have that stick, my lad.” When he refused to hand it over, O’Malley twisted the cane from his hand. “Now, what are you and the old fella on about?”
The young man refused to answer, crossing his arms mulishly and digging his hands deep into his armpits. The towering sergeant leaned in and asked for the key. O’Malley stood six-foot-two, weighed fifteen stone, and rarely had to ask twice. Sullenly, the young man fished in his trouser pocket and produced it. He extended his arms at the sergeant’s command and turned up his palms for inspection. Satisfied, O’Malley handed him to a pair of constables, who marched the boy to the police wagon.
O’Malley flipped the key in the air and handed it to the inspector.
Tennant asked, “Any paint on him, Paddy?”
“Not a speck.”
Tennant unlocked the older man’s chains and relieved him of his Bible. Inside the front cover, he found an inked name: Josiah Miller.
“Mister Miller, you will be charged with trespass and other offenses against public order. Sergeant O’Malley and these officers will escort you to the police wagon.”
“They are the guilty ones,” the old man shouted, pointing at the women artists. “The first book of John, chapter three. Sin is lawlessness. Nakedness . . .” He jabbed his finger repeatedly at the door. “That nakedness must be torn from the walls. Eve covered herself before the Lord. In Isaiah, chapter—”
O’Malley slammed the door of the wagon and returned to Tennant.
“The young fella’s name is Micah Miller. Says the old holyJoe is his dad. Miller, now.” O’Malley smoothed the ends of his springy mustache. “I wonder. . . .”
“Inspector, may we have a word?”
Tennant turned to face Mary Allingham and her artist friends, Laura Herford and Barbara Bodichon. Petite, dressed in black from hat to boots, Miss Herford seemed as tightly furled as her umbrella. She’d glared at the intruders like a disapproving schoolmistress. The towering Madame Bodichon, her red-gold hair spilling from her bonnet, looked amused by the spectacle.
“Miss Herford has something to tell you, Inspector.”
“I’ve seen the younger man before,” Laura Herford said. “Last week, he accosted my model on the pavement outside my house. Shouting drew me to the window.”
“You’re certain about your identification?”
“It’s his ears, Inspector. Pointed and quite distinctive, and those thick, slanted brows. I thought he’d make a marvelous Mephistopheles. Once Margot was safely inside, I sketched him from the window.”
“Do you still have that drawing?”
“Why, yes.”
