“I’m looking forward to it.”
Heads swiveled as Louisa walked through a corridor of admiring glances. Julia turned and saw Tennant watching Louisa’s retreat as well. Julia weaved through the crowd and rejoined her party.
“Mrs. Allingham is an exceptionally lovely woman,” she said.
“And in exceptional company,” Tennant said. “On Louisa’s left is Sir Francis Grant, the RA’s president. And that’s the celebrated Sir Edwin Landseer, pointing at something in the painting. Two knights vying for her attention.”
Competing for the beautiful widow?Julia looked at Tennant. “You’re very knowledgeable about the art world. I’m impressed.”
Tennant offered his arm. “I’ve had dealings with both gentlemen over security measures.”
“It’s no wonder, after the gallery attacks.”
“More specifically, someone sent a threatening letter to Sir Edwin after he unveiled a portrait at his studio calledHer Majesty at Osborne. It’s hanging here and has created a storm.”
Julia said, “A picture of the queen? Why on earth?”
“Landseer painted the widowed Victoria in a private setting, looking despondent. Some viewers see an insult to both Her Majesty and the monarchy.” Tennant shrugged. “Why, I can’t fathom. And then there are the whispers . . . the painting has added fuel to the rumors.”
Julia said, “What rumors?”
“About the queen’s, ah . . . relationship with the other figure in the painting, her Scots servant, John Brown.”
“Oh, surely not,” Dr. Lewis said.
“As you say, sir. It seems unlikely, but tongues wag about it.”
Dr. Lewis flipped to the catalog’s index. “Landseer, Landseer. . . catalog number 72.” He looked up, smiling. “Excuse me, my dear. I must inspect this artistic outrage before we leave.” He patted his granddaughter’s hand and walked off.
O’Malley asked, “Have you spotted Mister Whistler about the place, sir?”
“Not yet. Any other candidates?”
The sergeant opened his catalog. “Number 113—Bacchusby Simeon Solomon.” O’Malley cocked his thumb. “Middle of the far wall, you’ll find it. I’ll see what turns up in the other rooms.”
Julia eyed Tennant curiously. “What are you and the sergeant looking for?”
“The originals of pictures in Allingham’s collection.”
“And you’ve found a few?”
“At least two are altered versions of paintings on display, including this one.” Tennant moved to a canvas at the right of the door. “Symphony in White.It’s curious because the RA bars artwork from earlier shows. How, then, could a copyist know them so intimately? It’s a puzzle.”
Julia squinted at the signature in the lower corner and straightened abruptly. “JA Whistler? You suspecthim?”
“His initials don’t match any on Allingham’s list, but I’d like to hear his explanation. He’s in Paris at present but expected back any day.”
Julia looked closer at the two figures in the painting. “That copper-haired girl on the sofa. She isn’t . . .”
“Margot Miller? No. But there’s no doubt about the Allingham copy. She’s the girl in that version.”
Julia shook her head. “All the secrets she took to her grave.” She turned to him and smiled. “Thank you for today. You know, I haven’t visited since I returned from Philadelphia. I used to come every year with my grandmother.”
“And I with mine. She bought several of the exhibition’s paintings over the years. They hang in the house she left me, including a late-career Turner, the prize of her collection.”
“A Turner? Good Lord, what a treasure!”
“It’s an unusual picture . . . a hazy seascape, more fog and clouds than water, and just the suggestion of a mast lost in the mist.”
