Mary turned, and William Quain shrugged. “Well, what can I expect, placed above a woman?” He quoted in a high-pitched, affected tone, “‘Fruits and flowers are by divine appointment the property of ladies.’ Or so theArt Journalsaid this month.”
“This is Mister Quain. Miss Laura Herford.”
Laura offered her hand. “Do you agree with the author’s sentiment?”
Quain grinned. “The man’s a condescending twit and should open his eyes and look at yourMargaret.Miss Herford, many artists have tried, but few have caught Margot Miller’s resplendence. You’ve placed her in a garden, but she’s its most vivid presence.”
Surprised, Mary looked at him appraisingly.
“Thank you, Mister Quain,” Laura said. “Few models radiated her vitality. A tragic loss.”
“Ladies, I’ll let you get on with the day’s business, as shall I. Some of my Irish sheep need a shadow or two.”
Laura followed his dark head as he threaded his way through the crowd. “Quite good-looking, don’t you think?”
Mary made a noncommittal noise. “Well, he’s right about yourMargaret. I may have misjudged him. But he needs a haircut.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Laura said. “He’s a bit roguish, but in an attractive way. Well, shall we get on with our varnishing? I’ll finish up and meet you.”
Mary reentered the East Room and spotted Quain. He hadn’tgone far. The artist stood, gaping at a picture to her left. Then he turned abruptly.
“Excuse me.” He grinned, brushed past her, and bobbed across the room and out the door. He looked as if he’d placed a winning bet at the Derby.
Mary opened her catalog and flipped to the picture. It was number 233 by JA Whistler:Symphony in White, No. 3.
* * *
Quain jiggled the coins in his pocket and considered. Instead of a cab, he’d save a few bob and take an omnibus to Scotland Yard.
The day was cold but sunny, so he settled into a bench at the top of the ’bus.
Whistler? Painting smutty pictures for a few quid?When he laughed, a gentleman in the seat opposite gave him a curious look and angled his shoulders away.
Tennant had asked him to go through Allingham’s folders, and he’d spotted a match in the East Room. The exhibition’s version of Whistler’sSymphonyshowed two girls dressed in white. One lounged on a creamy sofa; the other sat on the floor, reaching for a fan. But in Allingham’s copy, the two girls were naked. The girl on the carpet stretched to grasp a paddle. Her other hand rested on the thigh of a copper-haired beauty sprawled across the couch, gazing open-legged at the viewer. The lounging model in the Allingham version was Margot Miller.
Inspector Tennant had hoped Quain would recognize the hand of other artists in the collection. But many of the works were paintings like his Delacroix imitation: erotic images executed in the style of the great masters. Some were dark and disturbing. In the originalRape of the Sabine Women,the Roman soldiers carried their “prizes” away to a fate Rubens hadn’t painted. In Allingham’s version, someone had rendered the acts of sexual assault in brutal detail.
Any competent artist could have viewed those old masters in galleries or books and copied them. But Whistler’s painting was new. Whoever painted Allingham’s version must have spent hours studying the original and recently.
Quain flipped to the back of his exposition catalog and found the alphabetic list of artists and their addresses.Tennant will have to sort it out.
The inspector had asked for names.I’ll give him a famous one and get him off my back.
* * *
An hour after his interview with William Quain, Inspector Tennant hailed a cab and headed to Chelsea. The driver slowed as he passed Battersea Bridge and stopped at number two Lindsey Row.
Whistler occupied one of four residences carved out of a three-story stone house that faced the river. The afternoon sunlight glittered and caught the white sail of a small boat as it slipped between Battersea’s curving piers. The tide flowed out, exposing an expanse of the strand where bootless mud larks braved the cold, wading in search of river treasure.
Whistler needn’t roam far for a picturesque subject, Tennant thought. He could set up his easel twenty yards from his door.
The inspector wasn’t surprised when his knock went unanswered. Number two Lindsey Row had the shades-drawn look of a house whose resident was absent. A white-haired lady with a yappy terrier said the artist was in Paris. Tennant scribbled a note on his card and slipped it into the brass letter slot, hoping Whistler planned to return in time for the exhibition’s opening on Saturday.
Tennant would be there, heading up the plainclothes police presence. Given the recent attacks on art studios and galleries, Sir Francis Grant had asked for the Yard’s protection on opening day. Tennant had proposed stationing twenty of the tallest bobbies they could muster. He had argued that their helmets,visible above the crowds, would be a deterrent. But the RA president refused to dampen the day’s festive spirit by filling the National Gallery with uniformed coppers.
The inspector doubted anything untoward would happen. O’Malley had warned off Josiah and Micah Miller, and Tennant planned to post two coppers at the entrance should they appear. Still, it wouldn’t be a wasted day.
Tennant had sent tickets to Julia and Dr. Lewis as a thank-you for their dinner invitation.
