Tennant guessed the answer but asked, “Do you know the source?”
“The sister’s studio, most like. A painter, she says. Struck near dumb when she saw the stuff and then shaking all over. I asked her to have a squint at her supply, and she thought some of it was gone.” Armstrong ran his hands through his sandy hair. “Jesus. Questioning a suicide’s family is hell.”
“’Tis the worst of the job,” O’Malley said. “Tell me, was the paint Allingham used called Paris Green?”
Armstrong’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s right, Sarge.”
“We’ve seen it before.”
“We’ll test the stomach contents and whiskey to be sure,” Armstrong said. “Doctor Scott is on our medical list, so I’ve asked him to do the postmortem.”
“He’ll perform the Marsh test?” Tennant said.
Armstrong nodded. “There’s not much doubt it’s suicide by arsenic poisoning, but the test will nail it down.”
“He couldn’t drink that green muck by accident,” O’Malley said.
Armstrong nodded. “Murder’s out of the question. No one could have slipped that stuff into his drink without his noticing the color.”
“Where can I find the doctor?” Tennant asked.
“Preston Scott is one of these Harley Street blokes.” Sergeant Armstrong scribbled an address and gave it to Tennant. “The doctor played chess with Allingham once a week. Last night was the last time.”
“What did the doctor say about the dead man’s state of mind?”
“Scott saw nothing amiss with his friend. The old chap seemed quite shaken by the suicide.”
“Did Allingham leave a note?”
“We haven’t found one.”
“Sir?” O’Malley looked up from a leather portfolio on Allingham’s desk. “No suicide note, but there’s this—open on his desk.” He handed Tennant a picture from a set of artists’ prints.
Green smudges stained the white border. Its caption readChatterton (1856) by Henry Wallis.The painting showed an ashen-faced young man sprawled across a bed with his arm hanging over the side. A vial had slipped from his hand to the floor.
“Allingham had death on his mind, by the looks of it,” O’Malley said.
“It appears so,” Tennant said. “Who found the body?”
“The footman,” Armstrong said. “He brought the man his morning tea and found him on the floor. Allingham had been sleeping in here.”
He opened the door to a small chamber. Inside was a narrow bed, the covers folded back but unrumpled.
Tennant asked, “Was that his usual practice?”
“When he worked late, his sister said.” Armstrong closed the door.
The inspector circled the study. TheChattertonartist had draped his suicide artfully across a bed. But Charles Allingham had staggered from his desk, vomiting, the traces of his agony spewed across the floor.
“Death by arsenic isn’t an easy end,” Tennant said.
Armstrong grunted. “Made a pig’s ear of it.”
“Any surprises, Armstrong? Anything puzzling?”
“A couple of things, sir. The locked bottom drawer in that chest seems dodgy to me. Nothing else is under lock and key. The victim’s desk and all the other cupboards are open to the world.”
“And the key?”
