“A gift to the museum from Her Majesty. One of the great gems of our collection. They are Raphael’s original color sketches for a series of tapestries.”
Tennant glanced through the doorway. Two artists had set up side-by-side camp chairs. The woman leaned forward, intent on her sketchbook. Over her bowed head, William Quain locked eyes with the inspector and nodded.
“A lovely girl, Miss Allingham,” Mister Cole murmured as they walked by. “I feel for her and Charles’s widow. Such a beautiful woman, Louisa Allingham, and so young. A tragedy.”
“Yes. I’ve met them,” Tennant said.
“Of course, indeed. In the course of your duties.”
Cole flipped through a ring of keys at the door to the Chinese gallery and unlocked the door. After a quick count, Tennant identified eight pictures in his folder that matched paintings labeled “On Loan to the Collection” without listing the lenders’ names.
“Who provided the artwork without an owner’s attribution?”
“Charles’s friends and fellow clubmen.”
“Members of the Topkapi Club?”
The director cleared his throat. “The gentlemen are anonymous under the terms of our arrangement, I’m afraid.”
“Mister Cole,I’mafraid murder tosses anonymity out the window. I will know who they are, sir.”
The director scowled and named three men. One the inspector knew: Dr. Preston Scott.
* * *
Mary Allingham and Will Quain had spent the morning sketching in companionable absorption. At noon, they folded their camp chairs, packed their sketchbooks, and headed out the exit.
“Is that Inspector Tennant?” Mary nodded at a receding figure.
Quain glanced over his shoulder. “It looks like him.”
They walked the length of the museum’s carriage drive. Quain glanced down at the silent Mary. She’d folded in her lower lip, a habitual tick. Her eyes flickered up and away.Making up her mind about something,Will thought.
“I . . .” She flushed. “I owe you an apology . . . or at least, an explanation. Quite by accident, I drew the inspector’s attention to you. He asked for your address, and I gave it to him.” She added in a rush, “You see, Charles had given me your folder and—”
“What folder?”Good God,he thought,he couldn’t have shown her . . .
“Your Irish watercolors and the sketches of Margot Miller.”
“Oh. Those.”
“The inspector wanted a sketch, and I had none that showed her full face. Then I remembered yours, so Tennant took Margot’s pictures away. He . . . it was only then he said he wanted to track down all the artists who had painted her. I should have warned you.”
In a heavy brogue, he said, “’Tis a kindness to be worrying yourself over the likes of me. Why were you thinking I’d be needing a warning, Miss Mary Allingham?”
“How should I know?” she snapped. “And I’ll thank you to stop your Irish nonsense when I’m being serious.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And you haven’t been forthcoming with me. Neither has Inspector Tennant. Or Charles, for that matter, and he took his secrets to the grave, whatever they were. That very first day, the day Charles . . . the inspector said something about blackmail.”
Quain said nothing. How could he be candid with her without tarnishing her brother’s memory?And I don’t come off very well, either.
Mary stopped at a four-wheeler parked at the end of thecarriage drive. She said stiffly, “It looks like rain. May I drop you on Kensington Road?”
“Thank you.”
Quain climbed into the seat across from her. “Mary . . .”
