‘Lonely?’ Riley quirked a brow. ‘She has dozens of acquaintances and more invitations than she could possibly accept.’
‘That isn’t the same thing as having close friends.’
‘Well, don’t let her tire you.’
‘Sophia came with her. We played our harps for an hour, which I enjoyed. She’s been practising and has improved a lot in the hope of impressing you.’
‘She doesn’t have to be anything other than be herself in order to impress me.’
‘We are invited to dine with Jake and Olivia tomorrow evening. Do you want me to decline, given that you are up to your eyes with this new investigation?’
‘Heavens, no. If I allowed my cases to prevent me from accepting invitations I would never go anywhere.’
‘But you don’t hesitate to use your occupation as an excuse if there are invitations you would prefer not to accept.’
‘Ah, I can see that you already understand me a little too well. But Jake and Olivia’s invitations are always welcome. Jake will want to know what I’m up to and will probably come up with ideas I haven’t thought of myself. He usually does and makes me feel incompetent because I’ve been too busy being clever and overlooked the obvious.’
‘Hardly that. Anyway, we dine alone tonight so I have you all to myself.’
‘Beware what you wish for,’ he told his wife, kissing her soundly. ‘How is my child?’ he asked, placing his hand on her belly.
‘Your son is doing very nicely.’
‘Don’t feel pressure regarding the sex of the child,’ Riley said softly. ‘All I care about is your wellbeing. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall go and change and then we will spend the rest of the evening talking about anything but murder.’
Amelia smiled up at him. ‘Agreed,’ she said.
Chapter Eight
Riley felt revived and refreshed the following morning in a manner that had escaped him during his single years. The soothing effects of a loving, sympathetic and attentive wife were clearly not to be underestimated, he decided, as he set off at a jaunty pace to resume his investigations.
His first port of call was the grandly named Register of Qualified Governesses, which turned out to be housed in a small side alley off Park Lane. Riley was seen immediately by the proprietress, a Miss Nostram. She seemed concerned at receiving a visit from a Scotland Yard detective.
‘My goodness.’ She clutched a hand to her breast and looked genuinely shocked when Riley told her why he was there. ‘Well I never did hear such a thing. What is the world coming to? In Dulwich of all places.’ She took a moment to recover her composure. ‘Poor Miss Mottram. She was a charming, competent and well-qualified young woman. I would not have recommended her for a position with Lord Vermont if that had not been the case, I do assure you. I am given to understand that she gave exemplary service, which makes this terrible crime all the more tragic. I assume she was set upon by a ne’er-do-well.’
‘What reason did she offer for coming up to London?’ Riley asked, avoiding giving an answer to the lady’s question. ‘One assumes there are plenty of opportunities for governesses in her native Devon.’
‘I did not ask her, inspector. I could tell at once that she would be a credit to her profession. She had a presence, a way about her that inspired confidence. One can always tell. I interview dozens of aspiring governesses during the course of any one month but few of them enter the profession through choice. Miss Mottram did not look upon it as a last resort and so I wasn’t about to discourage her desire to relocate to London.’ Miss Nostram paused. ‘She did mention an interest in art and the theatre, I recall that much. Such passions are more easily indulged closer to the capital.’
‘Did she supply references?’
‘Naturally. I would not consider offering the services of anyone, no matter how impressive they were at interview, without them.’
‘May I see?’
Miss Nostram stood and consulted a tall cabinet, from which she selected a slim file. ‘I have no reason to keep this confidential now,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘Everything I know about Miss Mottram is contained within this file.’
Riley flipped through it and discovered that two people had given her references. The first was a clergyman from Exeter. The second a schoolmaster whose name was familiar to Riley.
Peter Renshaw.
Riley sat back and pondered upon the fact that Renshaw had lied to them. He did not make Miss Mottram’s acquaintance for the first time at Dulwich College Founders’ Day celebrations. They had known one another before then in Devon, where Renshaw had worked in a private boys’ school. He claimed in the reference that Miss Mottram had briefly educated his sister and inspired her thirst for knowledge, but Riley was unsure if he believed a word of it. It also made him question who followed whom to Dulwich? Riley would wager that Renshaw followed Miss Mottram, accounting for the fact that he now taught games, whereas in Devon he installed mathematics into the dull heads of privileged young men.
He had taken a step down the career ladder. Why?
Riley thanked Miss Nostram for her time and continued on his way to Brooks’s Club in St. James, where he received confirmation of Daniel Vermont’s presence on the night in question. That didn’t surprise him. Daniel would know that the doormen at gentlemen’s clubs possessed good memories and were keen observers. What did interest Riley was the surprising revelation that his father had been there, too, in close conversation with his son for a considerable time. Neither man had thought to mention the fact. Riley wondered if it was significant.
He went on to Bond Street and found Stout awaiting him outside Manson’s gallery.
‘You may want to speak with Manson, my lord. He knows of Miss Mottram’s work and had agreed to offer a couple of them for sale.’
‘Well done, Stout!’
Stout inclined his head. ‘Can I be of further assistance, my lord?’
‘I’ll take it from here. Go back to Chelsea and tried to stop Lady Riley from exerting herself if you possibly can.’
Stout gave the suggestion of a smile. ‘I will do my very best.’ Stout cleared his throat. ‘And since you have raised the subject of her ladyship’s delicate condition, may I offer you my heartfelt congratulations.’
‘You may, but please keep the matter confidential.’ Riley wasn’t surprised that the astute Stout had picked up on the signs and recognised them for what they were. ‘We are not yet ready to share our news with the rest of the world.’
‘I understand completely, my lord, and you may depend upon my discretion.’
‘Good man!’
Riley entered the gallery. It was devoid of browsers at such an early hour. An elegantly-attired man, short in stature and of indeterminate age, came forward to greet Riley. He assessed his expensive attire with a practised sweep of his eyes and his attitude turned obsequious.
‘How may I be of assistance, sir? Have you seen something that catches your eye?’ He waved a hand around the airy gallery, the walls of which were covered with paintings in a wide range of styles.
Riley identified himself and asked about Miss Mottram. ‘You are the gallery owner, I take it.’
‘Manson, at your service, inspector. As to Miss Mottram, I am very sorry to hear of her death. Most distressing. I was not personally acquainted with her but was shown some of her work, thought it promising and agreed to take two pieces on a trial basis. They are over here.’
Manson led Riley to the dimmest corner of the showroom and pointed to two seascapes, presumably inspired by Miss Mottram’s native Devon. They were well-executed and looked vaguely familiar to Riley. He had seen similar work somewhere quite recently. He couldn’t think where. One of the paintings sported a red sticker.
‘Sold already?’
‘Yes. That surprised me, I will confess.’
‘Who is the purchaser?’
‘That’s confidential…’ Manson took one look at the set of Riley’s features and capitulated. ‘Of course, und
er the circumstances…One moment if you please.’ He returned to his desk and consulted a ledger, even though Riley suspected that he didn’t need to. ‘The painting was sold to Lord Vermont for fifty guineas, but he specifically asked for his identity to remain a secret until he was ready to make his support of the young artist common knowledge.’
Riley let out a low whistle. ‘Is it usual for a new artist to attract such a high price?’
‘That is the amount that I asked for the work.’
‘But not what you expected to get for it, I’ll wager. Presumably most clients haggle.’
‘Indeed, but Lord Vermont was in a hurry.’
‘I assume you mean Mr Daniel Vermont.’
‘Oh no. Lord Vermont was the purchaser. I knew him by sight before he patronised this establishment.’
And he cannot afford to pay that much for a painting, Riley thought, so why had he? If he liked Miss Mottram’s work, she would likely have given him a canvas for considerably less.
‘He is a regular client?’
‘Sadly no. This was the first occasion upon which I was honoured with his custom. I hope it will not be the last.’
‘You have agents scouting for new talent, I’m told, and one such introduced Miss Mottram’s work. May I have his name?’
‘By all means. It was the agent in whom I place the most trust. He has been proved right, to our mutual benefit, on numerous occasions. His name is Albert Wainwright.’ He scribbled down an address. ‘And this is where you will find him, if he is in London. He sometimes travels to the provinces if he’s heard on the grapevine of a talent worth looking into.’
Satisfied that Manson knew nothing more that would help the investigation and convinced that he had every reason to want Miss Mottram to remain alive, Riley expressed his thanks and left him to attend to a well-dressed young couple who had just entered the gallery.
He made his way back to Scotland Yard and found Salter awaiting him. He looked as though he had not slept well.
‘Morning, Jack.’
‘Morning, sir. You were right about Reggie. He went straight round to the wife, bleating about being falsely accused, even though he ain’t been accused of anything.’ Salter glowered. ‘Yet.’
‘I thought that might happen. How did Mrs Salter take the news?’
‘Badly.’ Salter followed Riley into his office and closed the door. ‘She sprang to Reggie’s defence, of course, just like always. She’s convinced he ain’t capable of murder. Don’t worry. He was gone before I got home, so I didn’t see him.’ He sniffed. ‘Anyway, I saw Mrs Higgins, Peter Renshaw’s landlady and she was a fat lot of use. Says she retires early, and seeing as she’s as deaf as a post she wouldn’t be much help to us even if she sat up all night. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’ Riley paused. ‘That would be useful, a deaf and non-inquisitive landlady, I mean, if a single chap wanted to entertain in his room.’
‘You have a devious mind, sir.’
‘That’s what they pay me for, Jack.’
Riley told his sergeant about Renshaw having given Miss Mottram a reference. That intelligence caused an immediate improvement in Salter’s dour mood.
‘Did he indeed!’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘Highly suspicious. I assume he followed her from Devon to Dulwich. He forgot to mention that rather interesting fact as well.’
‘Renshaw’s memory is proving rather selective, Jack. Hopefully Mottram will be able to cast some light on the matter. However, there is additional news.’ Riley explained about Lord Vermont spending a small fortune on one of Miss Mottram’s paintings.
‘I don’t get any of this.’ Salter absorbed the information and shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘More to the point, why would he have spent the evening Miss Mottram was killed in heated debate with his son at Brooks’s club and forget to mention the fact? Do we know if he travelled back to Dulwich on the same train as Miss Mottram?’
‘Yes, sir. He didn’t. The station master recalls Miss Mottram arriving on the last train from London. Said she always had a cheerful word for him, unlike some people who treated him like he wasn’t there. He looked forward to seeing her.’
‘So did just about every other male in Dulwich, including both Vermont men, which doesn’t make our life any easier.’
‘You think they were at their fancy club, arguing over her favours?’ Salter shook his head. ‘Can’t see it myself. The younger man seemed to have a liking for her, but Lord Vermont seems unaffected by her death and unperturbed by our questions.’
‘True, but he’s an aristocrat. He’s accustomed to keeping his feelings to himself and not having his word questioned.’
‘Speaking from experience, are we, sir?’
Riley dealt his sergeant a scathing look. ‘Ask Barton for the loan of Peterson, if he’s available, and pop round to this address with him.’ He handed Salter the piece of paper with the agent’s address on it. ‘Bring him back here. I’d like to talk to him.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll stay here. Hopefully Carter and Soames will return with Mottram any time now. We can’t do much more until we’ve had a conversation with the girl’s father.’
‘How did it go with Danforth last night, dare I ask?’
Riley scowled. ‘I put my cards on the table and we understand one another better now. He’ll be watching us like a hawk, hoping we fail, but I doubt he’ll do anything to deliberately queer our pitch.’
‘Let’s hope not.’ Salter stood, ready to take his leave. ‘What then?’
‘Depending upon what Mottram has to say for himself, I dare say we’ll be spending our afternoon in Dulwich. Both Vermont men will be there, as will Renshaw.’
‘And Reggie.’
Riley inhaled. ‘He’s on his way here now. I asked Barton to have him brought in.’
‘Which is why you’re sending me off on an errand that Barton’s uniformed constables could just as easily have handled.’
‘Don’t get uppity, sergeant,’ Riley responded. ‘I’m trying to protect your family’s interests, to say nothing of your career. We both know that if we don’t quiz him about that knife then Danforth will use the omission to have us both removed from the case.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Salter scratched his head. ‘It’s just this entire business. It’s getting to me.’
‘I understand, but if Archer is the guilty party, it’s vital that you keep your distance from that aspect of the case. Now, be off with you before your path crosses your nephew’s.’
Salter nodded and left without saying another word.
Not ten minutes later, Barton put his head round the door and told Riley that Archer had arrived. Riley thanked him, borrowed Evans, a detective constable who ordinarily worked for another inspector but appeared temporarily at a loose end, and the two of them joined Archer in a drab interview room.
‘Where’s Uncle Jack?’ Archer asked, half rising from his chair when Riley walked through the door.
‘Conducting other investigations,’ Riley replied, seating himself opposite Archer, leaning back in his chair and taking the measure of the man. Handsome in the Bohemian manner he associated with artistic types, with wild hair and intense eyes, Riley imagined that his unconventional style would appeal to females of all ages, accounting for the tendency of some wealthy socialites to adopt budding artists as their proteges. ‘We need to talk further about Miss Mottram.’
Evans leaned against the wall, notebook poised.
‘I’ve already told you everything I know,’ Archer said.
Riley seriously doubted it. ‘You told me that you and the lady had plans, but not of a romantic nature. What did you mean by that?’ Riley frowned. ‘Every single male I have spoken with who had any connection with her seemed to be…well, smitten, and yet you tell me you were immune to her charms. I’m having a hard time reconciling that fact. You are a young man, presumably with a healthy interest in the opposite sex…’
‘There was a spark, an awar
eness, that sprang up between us whenever we were in the same room. I’ll grant you that, and I did used to flirt with her.’ He flashed a brief grin. ‘Ask Uncle Jack. He’ll tell you I’m an inveterate flirt. Can’t seem to help myself.’ He spread his hands and slumped his shoulders. ‘But it don’t mean nothing.’
‘Very well, I accept that you were not in love with the young lady in the accepted sense. But what of her feelings for you?’
‘No idea. We never talked about such things. But if you’re thinking I bumped her off because she wanted more than I was prepared to offer her, then you’re quite wrong.’ Archer winced. ‘This ain’t a drama, inspector, in which a young man kills a woman who’s become inconvenient.’
Riley arched a brow. ‘Miss Mottram cramped your style?’
‘That isn’t what I said.’ Archer’s expression turned sullen. He folded his arms and puffed out a breath that lifted a lock of hair from his eyes. Riley could see now why Salter had such a low opinion of him; his sullenness served to increase Riley’s own suspicions. ‘You’re twisting my words, inspector. Anyway, I had compelling reasons to keep her alive. Her death, apart from being tragic, is bloody inconvenient.’
‘Tell me about your plans.’
Archer slid lower in his chair and emitted a prolonged sigh. ‘She was on the verge of becoming a successful artist. A Bond Street gallery had taken two of her works. One of them had already sold for the asking price,’ he added, a note of pride in his voice. ‘She disliked being a governess. If she made a breakthrough in the art world, she would have the freedom she’d always craved.’
The provenance of those paintings had been niggling at the back of Riley’s mind since leaving the gallery. There was something about them…Looking at the pride in Archer’s expression brought the pieces tumbling into place.
‘She didn’t paint those pictures,’ he said slowly. ‘You did.’
‘What!’ Archer sat fully erect again, his expression wary, his bluster unconvincing. ‘Don’t be ridiculous…’
Riley knew he’d got it right. ‘I looked at your work in your studio yesterday. The style is distinctive and I recognised the same touch in Miss Mottram’s supposed work. Young male artists are ten a penny, and even those as talented as you are struggle to achieve recognition. But talented female artists are another matter, and a pretty young woman like Miss Mottram who had presence and self-confidence could easily charm a gullible agent into taking on a few of her works. Once word of her talent spread…’ Riley leaned forward. ‘That was the plan you concocted with her. Perhaps it was her idea. You were the artist, she was the pawn. That is how you planned to get ahead. There was money to be made for you both, but she would have to stick with you.’
Death of an Artist (Riley Rochester Investigates Book 5) Page 11