“Yes?” she said, sounding coolly polite.
“I know only a small part of the story. It involves copies made of other artists’ works and Margot Miller’s role in the scheme. I recognized one of the originals of the copied paintings and told the inspector.” He leaned forward, his forearms on his knees, trying to draw her gaze. “Tennant doesn’t tell me very much.”
Mary looked out the window. “We’d better be on our way.” She tapped the carriage roof with her umbrella.
Bruised clouds had massed in the south. They billowed toward them, erasing the sun and throwing the carriage into twilight. The wind shifted, and a pelleting rain caught the carriage as it turned right on Cromwell Road.
Mary’s husky voice came from the shadows. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Sometimes, I think I’m turning into Louisa, unable to face reality.” She drew a long breath. “Charles is dead and by his hand. It’s still inconceivable to me, but nothing will change that.”
One thing likely to change was a sister’s memory. Quain wondered how Mary would react if she found out the truth.But what was the truth?
He, too, had been surprised by Allingham’s suicide. Charles had seemed a sunny sort of chap. Someone who took life as it came.Not a brooder. Still, Mary had hinted he’d grown secretive and morose. And Quain had seen enough of the world to know that hidden sorrows beat in other hearts, buried and unfathomed.
At first, Quain had dismissed the pictures Charles commissioned as an odd but harmless obsession. That was before disgust with the rotten enterprise took root. Still, it seemedunlikely that someone had killed Margot Miller over a collection of lewd paintings.
Were the pictures only the surface, like the scraps scavenged by mud larks at the water’s edge? Was there something else in the murky depths? Quain could only guess how far Charles Allingham had waded into the mire.
* * *
In the late afternoon, a maid showed Inspector Tennant into Dr. Scott’s waiting room. It had the stale, dated feel of an older medical practice winding down. The lumpy horsehair chairs needed upholstering, and the Turkish carpet bore the wear marks of many years’ usage.
The doctor’s office may have been worn and tired, but the man who extended his hand was shipshape. A well-tailored, still vigorous man in his late sixties with gray hair and a neat mustache offered the inspector a seat.
The doctor’s medical diploma and a nautical picture held pride of place on the wall behind his desk. The print of a naval engagement showed a fleet of smoking and sinking Chinese junks succumbing to a British naval bombardment. The caption read, “HMSVolage.”
Tennant bent and leaned the folder of Allingham’s paintings against the side of his chair. When he straightened up, he saw that Scott’s eyes had followed his movements.
The inspector nodded to the diploma. “I see you’re a University of Edinburgh man. Do you know Doctor Andrew Lewis?”
“Not in Scotland. He was a few years my senior, but we are slightly acquainted as doctors in London often are.”
“And you were a Royal Navy man, I believe. That’s a dramatic print on the wall. Did you see action in the first war with China?”
“Yes. I served as the ship’s surgeon on theVolage.That was before they converted her into a survey vessel.”
“Not a very taxing assignment?” When Scott scowled, Tennant added, “I only meant that the battle in the picture looks like a lopsided victory. There can’t have been many British casualties.”
“Oh. Quite.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his index finger across his upper lip, smoothing his mustache. “Mind you, sickness and accidents at sea kept me busy enough.”
Tennant nodded and let the silence play out. He glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on three rectangles where the wallpaper was darker than the rest.
Scott cleared his throat. “I’m surprised to see you, Inspector. Surely, there are no lingering questions about Charles Allingham’s suicide?”
“Yes and no. As often happens, an investigation can go far afield.”
“Indeed?”
“In this case, it led me to the South Kensington Museum. And then back to you.” Tennant looked to his right. “Your three Ming Dynasty paintings hung there, perhaps?
Scott blinked. “Yes. What of it?”
“May I ask where you acquired them?”
“If you must know, I bought them in Canton. We dropped anchor there for several months.”
“If you bear with me, my questions will become clear. Can you tell me the times and circumstances when they were out of your possession?”
“Well . . . until recently, they hung here, as you guessed. But last December, I was persuaded to part with them, temporarily, as part of an exhibition.”
