“For shame, boy-o.” O’Malley picked up the painting of the naked, voluptuous Margot sprawled across her bed. “What would your daddy be making of this, now?”
Quain sat up straight and patted his pockets. He pulled a pipe from his painter’s smock and struck a match. He took several draws until the tobacco in his bowl glowed red and tossed the match into the fireplace.
“Not a clue, Sergeant. But like so many hypocrites, the old boy would enjoy having it both ways. Public outrage, private ogling.”
Tennant asked, “Did Charles Allingham commission these portraits?”
“Just the second one.Margot at Her Bathwas part of a collection of watercolors Charles purchased from me when we first met.”
“How do you explain the notations on this?” Tennant showed him the list taken from Allingham’s cabinet. “The initials ‘WQ’ appear three times on this inventory of commissions.”
“Well . . .” He hitched his shoulder uncomfortably. “I painted two others for him.”
“Portraits of Margot Miller?”
“No. Yes. Not precisely, although she was part of the ensemble. You see . . .”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Charles commissioned two Chinese scenes in the French style. Modeled on the work of Eugène Delacroix, but more—”
“Yes, more,” Tennant said. “I’ve seen Mister Allingham’s collection. Did he dictate the compositions?”
“Only in the most general terms. Charles paid for the paintings, but Margot . . . well, Margot managed it all.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“She arranged for the models. Brought them to my studio and staged the poses.”
“Who paid them?”
“Margot. The girls she brought . . . They were getting younger, and some didn’t seem too keen. One dark-haired girl got as far as the door and then bolted. Others kept looking at the food and drink Margot had set up here.” Quain smacked the tabletop.
“Why only three commissions? Other sets of initials appear many times on this list. Did you and Mister Allingham have a falling-out?”
“No.” Quain stood abruptly. He knocked the tobacco into the fire and turned. “We parted friends, and I’ll always be grateful to him. His introductions opened doors for me and led to several commissions. The excuse that I was too busy was a face-saving way to turn him down.”
Tennant raised his brow. “Why did you need one?”
The artist combed his fingers through his dark, curly hair. “Look, Charles was a good bloke. I don’t think he knew that Margot . . . he saw the fantasy I painted, not the truth behind it.”
“And what was the truth, Mister Quain?”
“That Margot found poor girls desperate to do anything she asked.” The artist dug his hands into his trouser pockets. “I’m not proud of my role in it.”
“And Margot?”
“There was nothing she wouldn’t do, come to that. Margot loved stripping off. She knew the power of her body, her allure, and who could blame her? In a world where men write the checks, she called the tune.”
O’Malley said, “Did she ever whistle your way?”
“No such luck, Sergeant. Margot knew I couldn’t afford her.”
“Someone could,” Tennant said. “She dressed in silks and satins and a fur-collared cape.”
“Oh, Margot was sleek, all right. The girls she brought to my studio were awed by ‘Miss Miller.’ Her clothes, her manner, and the way she walked and talked. She learned those airs and graces from the lady artists who hired her to sit. Margot spent as much time studying them as they spent looking at her.”
“We know a ‘John Smith’ leased the house she lived in,” Tennant said. “Most likely, an assumed name.”
