“At the South Kensington’s exhibition calledPleasure Gardens?
“That is correct.”
“Other than the museum director, did anyone else have access to the paintings?”
“Well, first, they went to Charles’s firm, the art publishers Allingham and Allen. The company is printing the exhibition catalog.”
“Did Mister Allingham take charge of your paintings personally? I mean, did he collect them from you himself?”
Scott considered. “No . . . his manservant took them away.”
“Rawlings?”
“I believe that’s the fellow’s name. Look here, Inspector, what is this all about?”
Tennant bent for the folder and extracted Allingham’s versions of Scott’s original paintings. He set them side by side on the desk. The doctor licked his lips and stared at the pictures. The ticks of the grandfather clock sounded loud, as did Scott’s labored breaths.
“Where did you . . . I mean to say, who is responsible for these abominations?”
“It looks very much like Charles Allingham arranged for these copies. For his or others’ . . . perusal. You knew nothing of this?”
Scott purpled. “I have no knowledge . . . I have never seen . . . Your suggestion is an outrage.”
Tennant nodded. “The late Mister Allingham was responsible, then. Unfortunately for the police, he isn’t available for questioning.”
“I cannot speak to anything Charles might or might not have done with them.”
“Versions of Chinese paintings owned by others are included in . . . shall we call it an eclectic collection of pornography? A compilation not merely for the private entertainment of a connoisseur with exotic tastes.”
“How do you conclude that?”
“We have evidence that someone engraved them. The only purpose would be to print multiple copies of the salaciousworks for distribution. That, of course, is an offense under the Obscene Publications Act.”
Scott’s eyes widened. His cheeks held their high color, but he’d gathered his wits enough to say, “Your remarks mystify me, Inspector. I know nothing of these . . . works.”
“What about these?” Tennant removed four other pictures. “Someone copied these from paintings lent along with yours to the museum. Friends of Mister Allingham’s, the museum director said. Do you know a Mister Lionel Bruce or a Colonel Cedric Hamilton?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know them, sir?”
“We’re members of the same club.”
“Oh? Which one is that?”
“The Topkapi.”
“Charles Allingham’s club.”
“That’s right.” Scott stood, jamming the fingers of his shaking hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. “Look, I’ve told you all I know, and I have patients arriving. I’ll bid you good day unless there’s something else.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I may return with other queries as our investigation moves forward. We are at work on several fronts.”
As Tennant gathered the pictures, he knocked Scott’s Chinese porcelain pencil holder out of place. The doctor reached across the desk to return it to its original position.
“A lovely piece,” Tennant said. “So many beautiful... things . . . come from China these days.”
The inspector closed the street door behind him, walked to the corner, and waited. A few minutes passed, and Scott hurried down the steps and waved his walking stick at a cabbie.
