“Not so new anymore. It must be ten years since it opened those extraordinary front doors.” Dr. Lewis chuckled. “Manyof my fellow clubmen are happy they face Whitcomb Street offEastPall Mall.”
Tennant smiled. “Yes, the façade is something of an Ottoman fantasy. What sort of members do they admit?”
“Retired diplomats, East India Company men, Indian Army officers. Men who served the Empire.” Doctor Lewis laughed. “One fusty old boy at my club said, ‘They might as well let in a pack of Johnny Foreigners from the bloody abroad.’”
Julia handed Tennant his hat. “What’s your interest in the Topkapi Club?”
“I’m not sure. Just a secondhand comment passed along to me.”
“And?”
“Strangely, its name keeps cropping up.”
* * *
The following day, Tennant hailed a cab and headed to the South Kensington Museum with Allingham and Allen’s printed copy of thePleasure Gardenscatalog and the matching folder of erotic art.
The hansom dropped him off at the North Cloister gardens, still dormant in early April but showing signs of life. A guard directed him to the offices of the museum’s director, Henry Cole.
A rumpled figure with a bristly thatch of white hair and a fringed, snowy beard invited Tennant to sit. “Should I be anxious about our treasures?”
“Not at all, Mister Cole. I have some questions about this book.” Tennant held upPleasure Gardens.“And about your collection of Chinese art.”
“You have an advantage over me, Inspector. I’ve only seen the galley pages, not the finished product. What is your interest, if I may ask?”
“I’ll get to that, sir. But first, am I right that the museum produced this book to coincide with an exhibit?”
“That is correct.Pleasure Gardens: The Art of the Ming Dynastyopens Saturday, the twentieth of April.”
“How did Allingham and Allen acquire the publication rights?”
“Well, they are a well-regarded house—in the forefront of fine arts publishing, as it happens. And Charles Allingham was the moving force behind the exhibit.”
“In what way?”
“Allingham acted as the broker for several pieces. We’ve been expanding our collection of Far Eastern art these last ten years, and Charles secured the loan of works that will be on display.” Cole shook his head. “His death was a great loss. His connoisseurship of Chinese art was unmatched in Britain.”
“May I view the works in the exhibition?”
“Yes, I suppose so, although it’s not fully hung. See here, Inspector, what is this all about?”
“Forgery, of a sort, and murder.”
Cole stared. “But I thought . . . well, I thought Charles Allingham took his own life. Didn’t he?”
“I refer to the murder of another person.” Tennant stood. “Shall we proceed to the gallery?”
Cole looked shaken. As Tennant strode the long hallway, their footsteps echoing, the director hurried to keep up, peering at the inspector as if trying to parse his expression.
Tennant said, “Chinese art seems an exotic interest. How did Mister Allingham develop his expertise?”
“He has friends who’ve spent time in the East,” Cole wheezed, catching his breath. “Men who have a good eye, based on the quality of the work they’ve lent for this exhibition.”
“Is interest in Chinese art increasing?”
“Oh yes. But a lot of inferior pieces are churned out for the export market. One needs to be discerning.” They came to a stairwell. “This way, Inspector.”
They climbed to the upper gallery, passing a sign that readTHE RAPHAEL CARTOONS.
