A slash of emerald, p.6
A Slash of Emerald, page 6
The magistrate was about to release the Millers with a caution when his clerk coughed and murmured, “Inspector Tennant. . . a suspicion of more serious charges . . . additional inquiries.” The judge changed course and held the pair for further questioning.
Two guards hustled the Millers out the door and back to the station’s holding cells.
Tennant said, “We’ll let them contemplate their sins, but we’ve got to connect the Millers somehow with the gallery and studio attacks.”
O’Malley grunted. “I sent a constable to Miss Herford’s house to borrow that drawing of young Micah,” O’Malley said. “Witnesses to show it to are thin on the ground, I’m thinking.”
“It’s a long shot, but someone near the French Gallery may have spotted him. Or one of the barrow boys along Kensington Road may remember the man who bought a bag of chestnuts late at night.”
“Ah, the watcher from the trees at the Allingham estate. But can you see either of these creatures writing those letters?”
Tennant shook his head. “We have parts of a puzzle that don’t fit.”
“And what about himself?” O’Malley asked. “Will the chief inspector be approving of all the time we’re spending on this?”
“Probably not. But there’s something, Paddy. Something is simmering. Nothing yet from our colleagues in Canada?”
“Not a word. There’s sure to be some man in the picture. Mrs. Murphy was like a mother to Franny, but young girls don’t tell their mams everything.”
“I asked her Canadian friend in my cable. If there was a man, Franny may have confided in her. Meanwhile, let’s head to the Millers’ address in Poplar. See what a search turns up.”
* * *
When Tennant and O’Malley got off the omnibus, the signs and scents of the nearby river surrounded them. Herring gulls wheeled across the sky, gliding low, drifting below the roof-lines, calling out with mewing wails. They turned a corner and came face-to-face with the brick ramparts guarding the perimeter of Poplar’s East India Docks. The smells of tar, tobacco, and the spices of the East—cinnamon and cloves—scented the air.
They passed the entrance just as a steam whistle shrieked. A foreman with a face like cracked leather and a sandpaper voice rasped out names from a muster book. Coins changed hands, and the laborers trudged out the gate.
“Backbreaking labor at fourpence an hour,” O’Malley grumbled as they walked past.
“Not work for the faint of heart or shoulder.”
“Up with the sun tomorrow, they’ll be. Waving and shouting their names at the calling foreman, hoping to get on his list to work another day.”
Tennant glanced at O’Malley, taking in his broad-shouldered bulk. “Did you ever work the docks, Paddy?”
“My dad shifted coal on Dublin’s quays until the work gave out. He was a wreck of a man in the end. Sure, they’ll work a fella to death if they can, these shippers. No, I made my way in the boxing ring before the Yard took me on.” O’Malley flexed his gloved fingers in the cold.
The inspector remembered the broken knuckles on his sergeant’s hands. Tennant had his own old injuries and shifted his weight from an aching leg. “Where’s that address, Paddy?”
“There.”
They crossed Barking Road and stopped at a corner building. It housed a busy pub, and next to it, a fading sign read MILLER AND SON, COOPERS. Tennant fitted the key he’d taken from its owner, and the door swung in.
Bins lined the back from wall to wall. Four half-trussed kegs waited, their flayed staves spreading like flower petals. Oddly, someone had stacked about thirty wooden chairs against the right-hand wall.
After a look around, Tennant said, “Nothing here.” He opened the door to the living quarters in the back. They started with the smaller bedroom, Micah’s chamber.
Tennant said, “Let’s see what’s under his bed.”
“My knees are killing me.” O’Malley lowered himself to the floor. “But rank has its privileges.”
The sergeant dragged a battered suitcase from under the bed, unstrapped the lid, and pulled out a smudged, unsealed envelope, dumping it on the bed. He added dog-eared copies of the Illustrated London News, several sketches, and two books to the pile.
Tennant opened the envelope and shuffled through the contents. He handed it to O’Malley.
The sergeant gave a low whistle. “The naughty boy-o. What they call French postcards. Not the sort you’d send to your mam.”
“What’s in those sketches, Paddy?”
O’Malley thumbed through a set of charcoal drawings and handed them to Tennant.
“Well, well,” Tennant said, turning them over. “Mary Allingham’s missing drawings from the studio break-in. She signed them with her initials.”
“That nails young Micah to the wall. And what’s this? Pictures of Margot Miller, naked as the day she was born. Mother of God, the creature is keeping his sister under his bed with his stash of naughty postcards.”
“And those books?”
“A copy of the ladies’ exhibition catalog, with Margot Miller on the front. And a book called The New Sprees of London.” O’Malley flipped through the pages. “’Tis a guide to the city’s bawdy houses.”
“Keep Mary’s sketches and the catalog,” Tennant said. “Return the other items to the box. We’re done here.”
They returned to the workshop’s main room and found their entry had drawn attention. A man in a barman’s apron slouched against the doorframe. His face was as rough and wrinkled as a walnut, and he’d pushed up his shirtsleeves, revealing bulging arms covered with nautical tattoos.
“Alf Bailey,” he said. “Owner of the East Indiaman next door. The finest pub in Poplar.”
Tennant identified himself and Sergeant O’Malley as Metropolitan Police officers and asked about the Millers.
“Old Josiah’s gone barmy over religion. Mind you, the cooperage is still a going concern—the docks eat barrels for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Still, there’s more yammering and less hammering nowadays.”
“Meaning?”
“Every Sunday morning and Wednesday night, the blighter clears out his workshop and fills it with God-botherers, preaching and hymning all day and evening long.”
Tennant said, “That explains the chairs in the workshop. The sign says ‘Miller and Son.’ What can you tell us about Micah Miller?”
“The boy . . .” Bailey narrowed his eyes. “The lad came into the family when Josiah married his second missus. She’s dead, too. Still, the old blighter gave the boy his surname. Micah Miller—he’s a strange one. Quiet. Always watching.”
“So, Margot Miller isn’t his sister,” Tennant said.
“Margot? Oh, you mean Peggy Miller, that was. Not blood, and a good thing, too, with him always drooling after her. She’s a looker, that Peggy Miller, whatever she’s calling herself nowadays.”
“Did she look back?” Tennant asked.
“Nah . . . but the young sod could hardly help himself. He was mad jealous if anyone eyed her. And that was just about everyone, all the time.”
“We questioned the old preacher about Margot Miller,” O’Malley said. “He denied having a daughter.”
“Dead to him, Josiah said, ever since she started dropping her knickers for those artists.”
“I’m seeing how old holy Joe wouldn’t like that.”
“Nor the stepbrother, I’d wager,” the pubkeeper said. “Then there’s her bloke, Arnie Stackpole. He’s a seaman back after a twelve-month on the China seas. She’ll be dead to him, too, once he finds her.”
Tennant said, “And why would that be?”
“Rumor has it she’s . . .” Bailey traced a mound over his belly.
“Up the pole,” O’Malley said. “And himself away for a year?”
Bailey nodded. “Heard he’s back and hunting for her.”
* * *
It had been a long day. Late in the afternoon, Tennant halted in the vestibule of the Whitechapel Clinic. He’d been on his feet since morning, and his leg ached. He longed for a whiskey and his comfortable chair, but Julia had sent a message asking to see him, and she wasn’t one to waste his time.
Tennant pushed open the inner door, and two familiar sensations struck him. First was the calm of the well-managed clinic and its contrast with the gritty, chaotic world outside its doors. And lingering in the air was the sharp scent of carbolic soap. He spotted Julia’s head nurse at the end of the hallway, buttoning her blue wool cape. Gray threaded Nurse Clemmie’s dark hair. She wore it pulled back and tucked under her cap. The middle-aged nurse cut a trim and deceptively slight figure: Tennant had watched her shift male patients twice her size with surprising ease. It was the first time he’d seen her since the day he’d burst through the clinic doors looking for Julia, only to find that the killer had lured her away.
“Good evening, Inspector. Doctor Lewis is in the men’s ward.”
“With the doctor back, are things settling into their normal routine?”
“Normal may take some time. I still see him waiting for her in the corridor. Smiling. Sipping that last cup of tea.” She opened the door to Julia’s office. “I’ll tell the doctor you’re here.”
The inspector understood. The gut-wrenching drive through the fog, the knife at Julia’s throat, the plunge into the canal’s dark waters: those memories had become new nightmares for him. Lately, they had replaced the dreams that recurred more than a decade after the end of the Crimean War.
Tennant took a seat and eased his leg.
Julia didn’t keep him waiting long. She touched his shoulder as he rose. “Don’t get up.” She settled in behind her desk. “You look tired. It could have waited until tomorrow.”
“Days have a habit of getting away from me. But you look as if you could do another shift, and here it is, nearly six o’clock.”
That was another reason he’d come that evening: he wanted to see how Julia fared in full harness. Who am I kidding? he thought. Any excuse to call.
“Sitting has made me realize I’m ready to sink into a chair and share a sherry with my grandfather.” She smiled. “Or something a little stronger.”
Julia leaned forward and plucked a pencil from the beaker on her desk and tapped it. He’d noticed her habit of fiddling with one when she was thinking. Tennant waited for her to make up her mind. Sitting reminded him how tired he was, too. He stifled a yawn.
“To be honest—” Julia stopped. “I’m not sure . . .”
“Not sure of what?”
“That there’s anything much you can do. Still, given everything that’s happened, you should know that the little hatmaker came to see me today. Annie O’Neill.”
“Indeed?”
“I’d given her my card at the police station. She lives nearby on Aldgate High Street.”
“Yes, I know.”
“She’d dislocated her shoulder, cut her left cheek, and had a deeper gash on her forearm that needed stitches. Annie said she slipped on the steps, but I suspect someone may be to blame.”
“What made you think she lied?”
Julia raised her forearm. “The slashing wound might have been a defensive injury.”
“Consistent with someone threatening her with a knife?”
“Possibly. And Annie had welt marks here.” Julia gripped her left arm just above her wrist. “As if someone grabbed her and twisted. Someone right-handed, most likely.”
“You’re convinced she suffered a physical assault?”
“After Franny Riley . . . two girls who worked for shops. I’m worried about Annie.”
“Did you mention Franny to her?”
“Yes. Annie didn’t know her. She became agitated when I asked if someone had attacked her, but she insisted it wasn’t so.” Julia sighed. “I doubt she’ll tell you a different story.”
“Probably not.”
“Let me try again before you question her. I told Annie I would visit her in a few days to check on her bandages.”
Tennant considered. “Very well. See if you can win her confidence.”
“Annie seemed afraid of someone or something.”
“We know who broke into Miss Allingham’s studio, by the way. We found her missing sketches.”
“Who is he?”
“Micah Miller, the stepbrother of Margot Miller. I have an artist’s drawing of him to show to witnesses. It’s an excellent likeness. Artists make good witnesses.”
“It’s their habit of observation, I expect.”
“Something they share with doctors.”
Julia rolled the pencil between her fingers. “It’s fraught for females, this matter of looking,” she said at last. “A bold, direct gaze is thought to be ‘unladylike.’ I expect that’s half the problem for female artists.” She looked up. “What?”
Tennant shook his head. “Nothing. I’m sure you’re right.”
“Hmm. Something I said amused you, but never mind. I see you’re choosing to be your usual sphinxlike self.”
“Sphinxlike? I’m an open book.”
Julia laughed. “Oh, yes. One written in hieroglyphics perhaps.”
Tennant had smiled because he remembered his early impressions of Julia. She’d met his gaze directly and spoken candidly about the sexual mutilation of the corpse she’d examined. At first, he’d found it unsettling.
“It’s only a hunch, but I asked the women artists if Franny Riley had modeled for them. They said no.”
Julia looked at him curiously. “What makes you think it?”
“Someone quite expert sketched her picture.”
“Mary’s invited me to the exhibit’s preview tomorrow.”
“Then you’ll meet Miss Herford, the artist who drew Micah Miller. She sent a note with the sketch, recalling another attack several weeks ago. Someone ransacked the printing workshop at the Victoria Press.”
“What’s the connection?”
“They printed the catalog for the women’s art exhibit. Miss Faithfull, the director, dismissed it as harassment directed at her female compositors and proofreaders. It seems their gentlemen colleagues in the printing world do not welcome them.”
“You surprise me,” Julia said dryly.
“We found an exhibit catalog in Micah Miller’s bedroom. It had ‘Property of the Victoria Press’ stamped on the title page. It’s the copy stolen from the window display. We’ll charge him with the attacks on the printshop and Miss Allingham’s studio.”
“Do you know what drove him?”
“Jealousy and obsession over his stepsister, Margot Miller. She’s in the painting on the catalog’s cover.”
“And she posed for Mary’s picture—the damaged one.”
Tennant nodded. “Micah doesn’t want to share Margot with the world.”
“What will happen to him?”
He shrugged. “Prisons are crowded. A guilty plea will bring fines for damages and a suspended sentence. And a warning to stop stalking his stepsister.”
“Margot Miller . . . Annie’s vicious letter about her, the catalog cover, and Mary’s vandalized painting—all Margot.”
“The drawings Micah stole from Miss Allingham were of Margot as well.”
“At every turn, you come back to her.”
“It seems so.” Tennant eyed her cape and medical bag. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “If you’re leaving . . . shall we share a cab? I can drop you off at Finsbury Circus and continue to Russell Square. It’s no trouble. That is . . .” He felt oddly tongue-tied, and he cursed himself for behaving like an awkward schoolboy.
“Delighted.” Julia stood and picked up her hat. “But on one condition. That we talk of anything or anyone except Margot Miller.”
Tennant held her cape for her. “Agreed.”
CHAPTER 5
Charles Allingham circled the gallery and returned to where he began his tour of the women’s exhibition: his sister’s picture, The Three Graces. He stroked the fair hairs of his Vandyke as Mary and Julia joined him.
Two Graces turned their heads to gaze at the bold-eyed, auburn-haired woman in the picture’s center. Undraped, she looked directly at the viewer, a languid hand covering herself below, the other trailing a lily seductively along her cheek.
Allingham tucked away his spectacles. “ ‘And from her eyes, desire—the melter of limbs—trickles down when she looks.’” He answered Julia’s curious glance. “Hesiod’s description of the Graces.”
Mary took his arm. “Showing off your classical education, Brother?”
“Showing off your marvelous technique, Sister?”
They are a golden pair, Julia thought. Tall and fair and gleaming.
“Not to mention yards and yards of female flesh,” Allingham said. “No wonder that old zealot frothed at the mouth.”
“Not the response I sought, believe me.”
“Still, that Grace in the center could walk out of the frame and strike a man dead.” Allingham lifted his sister’s hand to his lips. “My dear, I envy your talent.”
“You’re wasting yours, Charles,” Barbara Bodichon said, arm in arm with Louisa Allingham. “Exert yourself. Pick up a brush again.”
“My dear Madame Bodichon, I’m content to be a painter in words and a promoter of art—a writer, critic, and publisher. All the real talent is on the female side of our family.”
“I say you’re just lazy,” Barbara said.
Allingham tucked his notepad and pencil away. “Rest assured, ladies, my article in the Art Journal will be fulsome in praise of your genius.”
“You have a genius for nonsense, that much I know,” Barbara said.
Louisa Allingham smiled at Julia and asked, “Tell me, Doctor Lewis, do you understand as little of art as I? Mary and Charles despair of me, I’m afraid.”
“Well, I know what appeals to me,” Julia said.
Louisa nodded. “As do I. But I’m afraid that answer is never good enough for my husband or sister-in-law. One must have complicated explanations for one’s admiration.”
Julia stopped in front of a landscape. “This one, for instance. It’s quite different from the others. The rough brushstrokes aren’t as polished. Yet, it’s beautiful.”
