“I’d like to send a constable around to borrow it. This afternoon if it’s convenient.”
O’Malley coughed. “Sir?”
The inspector turned. “Sergeant?”
“I have a question for Miss Herford. That model, now. Would it be Margot Miller you’re talking about?”
Miss Herford looked surprised. “That’s right, Sergeant. Full marks to you.”
“The old preacher’s name is Josiah Miller,” O’Malley said. “There’s many a Miller ’round and about. Still, the old fella has that ginger hair on him, and Margot’s is bright as a new penny.”
“It’s worth looking into,” Tennant said. “Are you ladies aware that this is the second attack on an exhibit?”
Laura nodded. “The French Gallery. The London art world is a small one.”
“One of us sneezes, and we all catch colds.” Madame Bodichon tightened her collar against the wind. “Speaking of which, may Laura open the doors, Inspector? I’m freezing.”
“Of course. One last question. Did a girl named Frances Riley—Franny Riley—sit for any of you?”
“I don’t know her,” Mary said. “Barbara?” Madame Bodichon shook her head.
“I’ve not heard the name,” Laura said, “and I know most models working in London. Who is she, Inspector?”
“A shopgirl who went missing. I’m sorry to say we found her beaten to death.”
“My God. Could it be . . . ?” Laura’s hand flew to her mouth.
“Yes, Miss Herford?”
“I was thinking about my model who vanished and what may have happened to her.”
* * *
The police court’s benches had filled with the day’s haul of prostitutes, petty thieves, and drunk-and-disorderly charges.
The magistrate was about to release the Millers with a caution when his clerk coughed and murmured, “Inspector Tennant. . . a suspicion of more serious charges . . . additional inquiries.” The judge changed course and held the pair for further questioning.
Two guards hustled the Millers out the door and back to the station’s holding cells.
Tennant said, “We’ll let them contemplate their sins, but we’ve got to connect the Millers somehow with the gallery and studio attacks.”
O’Malley grunted. “I sent a constable to Miss Herford’s house to borrow that drawing of young Micah,” O’Malley said. “Witnesses to show it to are thin on the ground, I’m thinking.”
“It’s a long shot, but someone near the French Gallery may have spotted him. Or one of the barrow boys along Kensington Road may remember the man who bought a bag of chestnuts late at night.”
“Ah, the watcher from the trees at the Allingham estate. But can you see either of these creatures writing those letters?”
Tennant shook his head. “We have parts of a puzzle that don’t fit.”
“And what about himself?” O’Malley asked. “Will the chief inspector be approving of all the time we’re spending on this?”
“Probably not. But there’s something, Paddy. Something is simmering. Nothing yet from our colleagues in Canada?”
“Not a word. There’s sure to be some man in the picture. Mrs. Murphy was like a mother to Franny, but young girls don’t tell their mams everything.”
“I asked her Canadian friend in my cable. If there was a man, Franny may have confided in her. Meanwhile, let’s head to the Millers’ address in Poplar. See what a search turns up.”
* * *
