“’Tis a marvel of the age,” O’Malley said when he returned from Gower Street. “The stations are like palaces, and the rail-beds curve through great iron archways buried under the streets.”
“I prefer an arching sky over my head.”
“Old-fashioned you are, sir, and no mistake.”
“Perhaps. So, what did Solomon have to say?”
“He can’t be found. He’s been in Italy these last six months.” When Tennant groaned, O’Malley grinned. “But the sister was at home. Miss R. Solomon as she’s listed in the catalog, Rebecca by name. The lass has two paintings in the exhibit to her brother’s one.”
“Since you’re smiling, I assume Miss Solomon told you something.”
“Before he left, her brother sold the reproduction rights toBacchusand handed it over so an engraver could get busy with it. Small world. It’s Allingham and Allen that’s owning the permission to publish.”
“Well, well. Perhaps Sidney Allen is up to his ears in it after all.”
“Sir?” a constable said from Tennant’s door. “Chap’s here to see you, a Mister Whistler.”
“Show the gentleman up.”
“Now, there’s timing for you,” O’Malley said. “Always the way with an investigation. When at last the sky opens after a drought, the rain comes bucketing down.”
A monocled gentleman in a caped inverness coat and carrying a silver-handled cane followed the constable into the office. A white streak split his shock of dark hair, and a drooping, dolorous mustache gave his expression a melancholy cast.
“Mister Whistler, sir.”
The artist held his wide-brimmed hat at his chest and bowed. “Inspector, here I am,” he said in a nasal Yankee twang. “Your summons intrigued me. How can I help the Metropolitan Police?”
Tennant gestured to a chair. “Sergeant O’Malley and I have some questions about your painting in the Annual Exhibition.”
“Oh?” He unwound a yellow scarf and draped it across his knee. “Which one? The RA had the good taste to hang three this year.”
“Symphony in White, Number Three.”
“What about it?”
“Did you show it to the public before the exhibition? In your studio, perhaps?”
“No.” He flicked a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Next question.”
“Did you sell the reproduction rights in advance of the exhibition?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask to whom?”
“To Allingham and Allen. Well, Inspector? I guess you’ll tell me sooner or later why you’re asking these questions.”
“We’ll show you.”
Tennant nodded to O’Malley. The sergeant slipped a painting from its portfolio and handed it to the artist.
Whistler’s monocle popped. “Christ Almighty!” The copy shook in his hands. “I’ll sue the bastards.”
“For now, I’ll ask you to do nothing,” Tennant said. “This is a police investigation involving several deaths, including murder. From your reaction, I take it you’ve never seen this version before?”
“No. You have my word on it, Inspector.”
“May we also count on a promise of your discretion?”
