“I’d be grateful.”
They returned to the house, and Tennant waited for Mary to find the information. When she handed him the artist’s address, he read the question in her face, so he satisfied her curiosity with a part of the truth.
“We need to interview anyone who spent time with Margot Miller. Can you tell me the names of male artists who employed her as a model?”
Tennant wasn’t an art connoisseur, but Mary rattled off a set of names so famous that he recognized them all. The inspector blew out his cheeks. “That’s quite a list.” He took out his pencil and notepad. “Can you write all the names down for me?”
Tennant left Blenheim Lodge with William Quain’s address, the list of artists, and two pictures of Margot Miller. One was the sketch he’d use for identification. The other was a painting of Margot standing at her washstand, naked to the waist. Theroom, the bed, the green dressing gown tossed carelessly aside; it was the same setting as a picture of Margot he’d found locked away in Charles Allingham’s cabinet.
The emerald wrap with its glittering moths thrown across the bed matched the one they found in the other painting and on Franny Riley’s body.
CHAPTER8
Tennant picked up a cab on Kensington Road and headed west to the police station. He spotted O’Malley waiting on the corner.
After the sergeant eased his bulk into the hansom, the inspector untied his folder’s ribbon and held up the picture of Margot at her bath.
O’Malley whistled. “’Tis a match.”
“Yes. And we have a name and address linked to a painting in Allingham’s collection, thanks to Miss Allingham. He’s William Quain, a countryman of yours who spent hours with Margot. Weeks of work, Miss Allingham said.”
“Hours staring at the likes of Margot Miller? You’d be codding me to call that work.”
“Not digging ditches, to be sure.” Tennant slid the picture into its folder.
“And what did the lady of the house say about the note?”
“A clever ploy,” Tennant said, and explained the ruse. “Any joy over that lease? Tell me the coppers turned up a name.”
O’Malley rolled his eyes. “Fella named John Smith if you can believe it.”
“Original. Did the officer get a description from the agent?”
“That he did not. Couldn’t recall his face from a year ago, the copper said. The agent is saying the lady of the house paid the monthly rent.”
“Visit the agent tomorrow, Paddy. Lean into him hard, if you must. See if he holds to his tale.”
“Could it be our John Smith is William Quain?”
“Someone was giving Margot Miller drawing lessons.” Tennant banged on the hansom’s roof. “Scotland Yard,” he called to the driver. “I want my hands on Allington’s painting of Margot and that list of initials before we chat with Mister Quain.”
* * *
Mary retreated to her studio after Tennant left Blenheim Lodge. Her paintbrush had always been her refuge, but she’d found it impossible to concentrate since her brother’s death.
Her sister-in-law had chosen laudanum and fantasy, believing her husband’s suicide was an accident. Gently, Mary had explained the verdict of the coroner’s inquest, but Louisa refused to listen. Instead, she had turned away, her face a mask.
Mary indulged in no illusions. She’d watched the police remove her brother’s covered corpse from the house. And while the housemaids had tried to be discreet, she’d caught them carrying slop buckets and brushes from his room to the back staircase. Mary accepted the reality of his death, but she struggled to understand it. Yes, Charles had been drinking too much. Yes, he had been troubled. But to kill himself? Yes, her shining brother had ended his life.
Tears welled, but so did anger, robbing her of the solace of memory.
Even joyful news failed to stir her. A day earlier, Mary had learned that the Royal Academy would includeReposein their “Annual Exhibition.” Her acceptance envelope included an invitation “requesting the honor of your company” at the opening. A blue admission ticket had fluttered to the floor. Maryhad picked it up and laid it aside, feeling hollow rather than triumphant.
She stared at her easel for twenty minutes with a dry paintbrush in her hand. Finally, she eyed the open sketch pads and the scattered drawings on the table and surrendered. If she couldn’t manage a single brushstroke, she would tidy up.
Mary gathered William Quain’s sketches into their folder. Then she changed her mind and took out his study of the Irish cottage. She put the rest away and returned to the watercolor, admiring it afresh.
Mary wondered why she’d been disingenuous with Tennant about Will Quain’s address, pretending to search for it among her brother’s papers. She knew perfectly well where the artist lived. A week before Charles’s death, Mary had run into him, literally, in a Soho doorway. He’d stood back as she exited the shop where she purchased her paints.
