Tennant eyed her closely as she rubbed her temple. “First, a letter asking for money and sent to Louisa of all people. Now, a forged note and the maze again. I don’t understand any of it.”
“A search of Miss Miller’s rooms produced a surprise. We found unsent, printed envelopes addressed to you and other artists.”
Mary’s eyes widened. “Margot? She was the letter writer? But why?”
“Money, most likely. We found a surprising number of pounds stashed away in her drawer. It’s given us a few leads. Some victims who are new to us.”
“She wrote accusations about herself in the letters to Annie.” Mary shook her head. “Clever.”
“Miss Allingham, I don’t want to add to your sister-in-law’s distress, but—”
“I doubt she can help you. Of all the unaccountable things, Louisa’s entanglement is the strangest. She has little interest in the art world, and I doubt she ever saw Margot Miller except to glimpse her walking along the path to my studio.”
“The forged note achieved the killer’s end. It brought Margot to him. Miss Allingham, there is a way you can help me.”
“I will if I can.”
“You’ve painted Margot Miller. Do you have a sketch I could borrow? Something I could show to potential witnesses?”
“In my studio.” Mary stood and rang for the servant. “Alfred will let you in. Ask him to add some coals to the fire. I’ll look in on Louisa and fetch a wrap. I’ll meet you in the studio in five minutes.”
Mary, as good as her word, appeared a few minutes later. “Louisa is asleep.”
“Forgive me, Miss Allingham, but who looks after you?”
Tears sprung to her eyes. “It’s kind of you to ask. I have a few cousins and many dear friends, but Charles . . . Well, he was the link to the parents I never knew.”
She turned away, sorted through some folders and sketch pads, and carried the stack to a table.
“Before we begin,” Tennant said, “I have another question. Do you ever use vulcanized rubber gloves in your studio?”
“Yes, when I mix paints, although it’s been a while since I’ve bothered. Oil paints come in tubes nowadays. I’ve become lazy about making my own colors.”
“Do most artists use gloves?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“All right, Miss Allingham. Now, for that picture of Margot Miller.”
Mary opened the first sketch pad, turning over page after page. “Most of these are studies of poses, not faces.” She picked up a second pad and flipped through it. “Better, but not detailed enough.” She looked up. “I wonder . . .”
Mary pulled a portfolio from a shelf along the back wall and carried it to Tennant.
“My brother bought these from the artist and gave them tome.” Mary placed the folder on the table. Tennant opened it to a watercolor of Margot Miller’s head and shoulders. “This is the one you want, I think. It’s by a young Irishman.”
It was no quick sketch; the artist had labored over it. “This is perfect for my purpose.” Tennant picked it up. Underneath it was a second portrait of Margot Miller. “This artist,” he said sharply. “Can you tell me his name?”
Mary looked at him curiously. “William Quain.”
WQ was on the list he’d taken from Allingham’s cabinet.WQ—the initials on Franny’s sketch.
Tennant said, “I imagine this second portrait required many sittings.”
“Weeks of work.”
“Miss Allingham, you said your brother purchased these paintings and sketches directly from the artist. Might there be an address for Mister Quain amongst his papers?”
“Well . . . possibly. You’d like me to look?”
