“Miss Allingham.” He’d touched the brim of his tweed cap. “The Fates had another meeting planned for us, buying as we do from the same supplier.”
“Mister Quain.” She’d nodded and brushed past him on the way to her carriage. He’d followed her and opened the door.
“My studio is just along the way. Number ten.” He’d cocked his thumb at the corner house across the street. “Have you a moment to favor me with your opinion?” When she’d hesitated, he smiled. “I’m not the big bad wolf, you know. If you wish, I can ask my landlady to chaperone.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Ah, in a hurry, the curse of modern life. ’Tis living in hope I’ll be,” he’d said, exaggerating his Irish cadences. She’d noticed his accent faded in and out. When he closed the carriage door, he had an amused gleam in his eye.
Too good-looking, and he knows it.Mary shrugged away the memory and returned the picture to the folder.
Yet, Will Quain had left a kind condolence note at the house.He wouldn’t intrude on their grief but wanted to express his gratitude for Charles’s help and his sorrow at his passing. Her brother had been generous to the artist when he needed assistance. It was a simple, heartfelt note.
Quain had enclosed a separate letter to Mary, telling her he’d seen the SFA exhibition and admired her work. He’d singled outDown the Rushy Glen, making several perceptive comments about its composition and praising her brushwork. She had yet to thank him, and Mary felt guilty about putting Tennant on his trail.
She thought,A long list of artists painted Margot. It doesn’t make them murderers.And Louisa proved that an investigation’s web could entangle an innocent person. But why had Tennant inquired about her rubber gloves, asking if other painters used them?
Impulsively, Mary pulled the bell cord to call the coachman. She’d placed Will Quain squarely in the inspector’s sights and thought she should warn him. Then she changed her mind.Too late. Tennant is probably on his way to Soho by now.
Mary dropped into a chair and waited for the coachman to answer her summons. Sitting, she realized how tired she was and how badly she’d been sleeping. She dragged a sheet of paper forward and scratched out a note for the coachman to deliver to Doctor Lewis.
* * *
Mary’s message had arrived just before Julia left Finsbury Circus for the clinic.
The girl asked for an appointment, but how urgent was the request? Julia thought she’d read agitation in the slapdash note, so she suggested that afternoon at her clinic or the following morning at her office. Margot Miller’s death must have come as a shock to her.Another one, on top of all the others.
Mary appeared in Whitechapel just after midday. Julia closed her office door and invited her visitor to sit, noting the smudgesunder her eyes and the restless fingers that smoothed the fur of her sable muff.
“Thank you for seeing me so promptly, Doctor. I hope it’s not inconvenient. It might have waited until tomorrow, but . . .”
Julia smiled and said, “No trouble at all, as it happens. You’ve come on a rare slow day.”
“Doctor Scott has been our family physician, but I’m not ill often, so I’ve rarely consulted him. These last weeks . . .” Mary looked away, frowning.
“They’ve been more than anyone should bear, Mary. Sometimes, it’s hard to reach out for the help we need.”
“Dr. Scott barely listens to Louisa and just hands her a tonic. Now I realize it’s how he’s always treated her ailments. I just never thought about it before.”
“You’d like to make a change?”
“Yes, I would.” Mary put her muff aside and sat up straighter. “A doctor should listen to what a patient has to say. But Doctor Scott was her father’s oldest friend, so his attitude is more paternal than professional.”
Julia smiled and said, “I promise to listen. Always. So, tell me, what brings you here today?”
Mary described her sleeplessness. It didn’t surprise Julia: the girl looked hollow-eyed and worn out.
“Louisa is having trouble sleeping as well,” Mary said. “Doctor Scott prescribed laudanum for that and her headaches.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Julia said quickly. “Laudanum is a powerful drug and far more addictive than people realize. Parliament may take up the question of regulation this year, and not a moment too soon.”
“Is there something else?”
“Were the mild bromide mixtures I gave you earlier effective?” When Mary nodded, Julia said, “Let’s try them again.”
Mary’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Doctor. Perhaps Louisa—”
“I need to tread carefully here. Your sister-in-law is not my patient. Still, you might talk to her about my suggestion foryourtreatment.”
