Tennant pushed the door wider. “Empty-handed, I’m afraid.” He stepped over the threshold. “Mister Quain? Detective Inspector Tennant with Detective Sergeant O’Malley.”
The artist peered around the edge of his easel. “The peelers, is it now?”
“That’s right, sir. The Metropolitan Police. I’d like a word if may.”
Quain glanced at the windows and sighed. “The light’s going on me anyway.” He stowed his palette, wiped his hands on a rag, and crossed the sparsely furnished room.
His easel occupied the right-center of an ample, undivided space that had started life as a warehouse. Three six-foot windows in the side wall opened onto platforms whose swingarm cranes still hung over the exterior windows like forgotten gibbets. That day, the only thing entering through the windows was the last of the soft, even daylight, ideal for an artist’s studio.
Quain led them to a set of rickety chairs around a scarred table. “My rent is paid, and I’ve settled the tab at my pub, so I’m asking you to sit with a clear conscience on me.”
“Thank you, Mister Quain.” Tennant placed a folder on the tabletop and opened it to the pictures Mary had given him of Margot Miller. “I’m investigating the death of this young woman. Your work, I believe?”
Quain nodded. “She was a fine one, that Margot. A crime against nature it was to take her from this world.”
“When did you see her last?”
“Not for donkey’s years. I painted that two summers past.”
“I believe you sketched this young woman in the park.” Tennant showed him the picture of Franny Riley. “She’s dead, too. Beaten to death—were you aware of that?”
Quain stared at the picture before saying, “I’d heard that news.”
Tennant uncovered the picture of Margot on the bed and the girl with the paddle. “And this one?”
Quain’s head jerked up. “Where did you . . . of course, you’ve been through Mister Allingham’s effects. Stupid of me.”
“When was the last time you painted Miss Miller?”
“I finished that one two years ago, and I haven’t laid eyes on Margot in months.”
“And Miss Riley? When did you see her last?”
“A year ago. I assure you, Inspector, as God is my witness, I know nothing about her death.”
“The green dressing gown in this painting.” Tennant tapped the picture ofMargot at Her Bath. “It matches the one we found wrapped around Franny Riley’s body. The moth design is distinctive. Have you an explanation?”
Quain licked his lips. “It was Margot’s gown.”
“I might have guessed,” Tennant said. “Miss Miller is conveniently dead.”
“What the hell do you mean by that!”
“Just a statement of fact.”
Seconds ticked by. Then the artist leaned back. “Margot supplied all the props for the composition. I’d like to see you prove otherwise, Inspector.”
O’Malley narrowed his eyes. “Where are you saying you hail from, sir? You’re speaking the Queen’s English now.”
Tennant, too, had noticed the sudden change in the artist’s accent. “Yes, Mister Quain. Why play the stage Irishman?”
The artist shrugged. “A bad habit, I’m afraid, my having some fun at the expense of the natives. I’m Irish, although your sergeant might dispute it. I’m not a left footer.”
“Meaning?”
O’Malley said, “He’s not a Catholic, he’s saying. He’s Anglo-Irish. A Protestant.”
“That’s right.” The artist knitted his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I’m a deanery brat from Waterford. My father is dean of Christ Church, the city’s Anglican cathedral.”
