“Not the most creative alias.”
O’Malley asked, “Could Charles Allingham have paid for Margot’s gaff?”
“Possibly . . . but the poor sod is the one person who couldn’t have killed her. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To find Margot’s murderer.”
“And where were you on the afternoon in question?” O’Malley said. “The day before yesterday and going on for dusk.”
“I was here. Working in my studio.”
“Not the most creative alibi,” Tennant said. “Your model can corroborate your story?”
“I didn’t use a model that day.” Quain crossed to his easel and jerked it around. “I’m working on a landscape, as you can see.” He pointed to a corkboard with sketches pinned to it. “Those sheep weren’t here either.”
“What about the last evening in January,” Tennant said. “Sometime after midnight, someone tossed Franny Riley in the gutter.”
“At a guess, I’d say I was heading home after a pint at my local.”
Tennant spotted a self-portrait in charcoal and removed it from the board. “I’ll take the liberty of borrowing this if you have no objection. You shouldn’t . . . if you’re as innocent as you contend.”
“At least you didn’t say ‘pretend.’” Quain spread his hands. “Take it with my compliments, Inspector. Show it to whomever you please. It won’t link me to Margot or Franny’s murder.”
Tennant added it to the folder. “Margot is turning out to be a woman of parts. I heard she was an aspiring artist. Taking drawing lessons.”
“That’s news to me. I’m surprised she bothered. Margot’s most perfect work of art was herself.”
“Meaning what?” O’Malley said.
“The best models are actresses. They telegraph whatever mood or emotion you’re trying to express. Most will pose for a bob, but a skilled sitter more than repays her two shillings an hour. Margot was the best. Worth every penny.”
Tennant eyed him levelly. “And you have nothing to add that may help us with our investigations?”
“Nothing.” Quain watched the inspector gather the sketches. “Inspector . . .”
“Yes, Mister Quain?”
“Does Miss Allingham know about those paintings? She thinks little enough of me as it is, but her brother . . . Charles told me they were very close.”
“Miss Allingham strikes me as a levelheaded young woman who can look after herself.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Good day, Mister Quain.”
“Wait.”
The inspector turned.
“Wait just a minute. I . . .”
“Yes, Mister Quain?”
The artist pulled off his smock and tossed it on the chair by his easel. “I don’t want to make trouble for myself . . . he’s a powerful man in the art world.”
“Who?”
“Frederic Leighton.”
“What about him?”
