“Yes,” Tennant said. “I imagine Johnny Osborne of theIllustratedwould be curious. He takes a keen interest in the worlds of art and scandal. This case is an enticing mixture of the two.”
Allen stuck out his chin. “You wouldn’t be threatening me, Inspector?”
“Not at all, but I suggest you find the name and address of this outside contractor. And while you’re at it, my sergeant will look around the premises—with your permission.”
Allen glared. “I give sweet feck-all for what he looks at. He can park his arse on the factory floor for all the good it’ll do him.” He considered for a moment. “Arthur Griffiths was the engraver.” He snatched the bell from his desk and rang for his secretary.
“I’m glad your memory hasn’t deserted you after all,” Tennant said.
The door opened, and Allen said to his assistant, “Take the sergeant along to see the foreman and bring me Arthur Griffiths’s file.”
“Yes, sir. Typesetting has a question for you.”
“Bloody hell! Does now’t get done around here unless I do it?” The publisher pushed past his secretary. “Find the address for Griffiths and give it to the inspector.”
The file and the sergeant’s tour unearthed treasures: a Soho address for the engraver and a book. O’Malley found copies ofPleasure Gardens: The Art of the Ming Dynastyon the loading dock, awaiting delivery to the South Kensington Museum.Allingham had writtenPleasure Gardenson one folder of erotic paintings.
The sergeant said, “We found the motherlode for the man’s naughty Chinese paintings.”
* * *
The engraver lived in a seedy Soho neighborhood not far from William Quain’s address.
Once, the town houses of the well-to-do had lined the streets around Soho Square. Arthur Griffiths’s building hadn’t retained a trace of fading elegance. The engraver lived in the rear flat at the end of a dank alleyway.
Tennant led O’Malley to the back entrance and knocked. A thin man opened the door. Dark, close-set eyes buried beneath a jutting brow gave him the aspect of a bird of prey.
“Mister Griffiths?”
The man swallowed hard when Tennant identified himself as a detective inspector from Scotland Yard. The bump of his Adam’s apple jumped above the loose collar of his shirt.
“We have a few questions, sir. May we come in?”
Griffiths stood back, and Tennant and his sergeant entered. The room held the fusty smell of unwashed linen, spoiled food, and disappointment. An empty easel stood near the back window where inadequate light slanted through cracked panes, catching motes that drifted through the air. A settled gloom had fallen over everything like dust.
Tennant said, “Mister Griffiths, we’ve come from the office of Allingham and Allen. The firm hired you to make several engravings that interest us.”
Griffiths’s expression shifted from wary to frightened. He licked his lips. “What about them?”
“We’re interested in . . . let’s call them the ‘special’ versions you made for Mister Allingham.”
Griffiths’s face turned white when O’Malley held up the copies.
“We have his records,” Tennant said. “We know you painted these, so don’t lie to us. By assisting, you might avoid charges of fraud and forgery.”
Griffiths’s story tumbled out. Charles Allingham had approached him, explained his wants, and given him the paintings. After that, Margot Miller ran the show. She brought in the girls he needed to paint the lewd versions of the originals and, forBacchus, the boys.
Griffiths completed four works in all. When the artist described two additional pictures he’d painted—harem scenes—Tennant recognized them from Allingham’s collection. Griffiths said they were copies of original works by John Frederick Lewis.
“After I finished the paintings, I completed the engravings at Allingham and Allen. I don’t have the equipment here, so I engraved my versions after the others left for the day. Allingham gave me a key, and I let myself out.”
Tennant held the artist’s eyes. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying you also engraved the picturesyoupainted?”
Griffiths nodded.
O’Malley said, “Are we right in thinking the only purpose of an engraving is to print multiple copies of a painting?”
Griffiths nodded again.
