Death of an Artist (Riley Rochester Investigates Book 5)

by Wendy Soliman

  ‘She was very convincing, there’s no denying it.’ Riley paused. ‘Did either of you ever go to Archer’s studio?’

  ‘No.’ Lord Vermont answered. His son shook his head, as did Lady Vermont. ‘Why would we? I enjoy art but have no interest in painting myself.’

  ‘Very well then. That will be all for now. Please keep what I have told you about Miss Mottram’s circumstances to yourselves. A careless word might find its way to the ears of her killer, making my job more difficult.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lord Vermont stood and rang the bell, looking relieved that the interview had come to an end. ‘Please keep us informed of developments.’

  Riley agreed that he would, and the two detectives took their leave.

  ‘You don’t think either of them did it?’ Salter asked.

  ‘I’m not ruling them out, but I believe them when they say they didn’t go to your nephew’s studio, so they had no access to the murder weapon.’

  ‘And Daniel? Do you think he bedded the girl?’

  ‘Oh yes, Jack, I’m sure he did. He’s not a very convincing liar. Did you notice how his eyes shifted to the left when we asked him that question, almost as though he’d been expecting it and had prepared his response. His outrage lacked genuine shock. Besides, we already know from Renshaw that our Miss Mottram wasn’t averse to spreading her legs if she thought it would get her what she wanted.’

  ‘But what she wanted was to progress her art…Ah, I see what you mean. Daniel wanted to marry her and she was aware of it, but also knew she wasn’t free to accept him. He couldn’t do anything for her, not directly, but his father could, so she became inventive. Although I dare say the pregnancy came as a bit of a shock. She hadn’t intended for that to happen. But it strengthened her hand, I suppose.’ Salter scratched his head and then plonked his hat on it. ‘I still don’t entirely get it, but I’m sure it will all become clear in time. Anyway, what now?’

  ‘We speak with Miss Bowden. She interests me very much.’

  ‘Just because you noticed her gawping at Reggie.’

  ‘Ah, but it was the way she looked at him, Jack. It was as though she wanted to eat him whole, protect him, mother him and repel all competition for his affections.’

  Salter snorted. ‘Reggie always did seem to bring out.…well, something in the ladies. They almost always take his side, even if they know he’s in the wrong.’

  ‘I have a feeling about our Miss Bowden. Let’s go to her lodgings and see if she’s at home.’ Riley extracted the paper with her address on it from his pocket. ‘It’s this way, I think,’ he said, striding off in the direction of the smaller houses in the village, most of which had been transformed from single dwellings to boarding houses over the years, catering for the growing needs of the college.

  ‘This is number seventeen, sir,’ Salter said, pointing to neatly-scrubbed front steps leading to a black painted door with shiny brass furnishings.

  The two men ascended the steps and Salter wielded a knocker that was shaped as a horse’s head. The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who seemed enthralled when Riley identified himself.

  ‘This will be about the poor governess, I dare say,’ she said. ‘Everyone in the village is talking about it. Such a thing to happen in respectable Dulwich. I never thought to see the day and I have lived here all my life. There’s never been anything like it before, I can tell you that much. We don’t encourage renegades in this neck of the woods.’

  ‘Is Miss Bowden at home?’ Riley asked when the woman paused for long enough for him to get a word in.

  ‘Miss Bowden?’ The woman’s eyes widened with surprise and, Riley suspected, the hope of procuring information to gossip about. Not that she would gossip if she thought one of her tenants was a suspect, Riley knew. It would show her in a bad light and her reputation would never recover. Her fellow landladies would make sure of that. ‘What business can you possibly have with such a nice young lady? I am sure she knows nothing about this sorry affair at all.’

  ‘Even so, we would like to talk to her,’ Riley said with commendable patience. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘No. She went out an hour ago. I expect you will find her at that art studio. She spends every spare second there. She says that Dulwich has just the right sort of light for an artist and tells me she receives excellent tuition here. That’s why she’s stayed for so long. She only intended to be here for a week at first, but it’s been over four months now and she seems very settled. Everyone knows and likes her.’

  Riley thanked her, and they managed to get away.

  ‘What now?’ Salter asked. ‘You don’t want me anywhere near Reggie and, frankly, I’d prefer not to see him as things stand. I’ll only end up throttling him, and he ain’t worth swinging for.’

  ‘I saw Carter and Soames talking to a man outside the Greyhound a few minutes ago. Take Carter’s place and send him to join me. I’ll come and find you when I’ve finished with Miss Bowden.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  Carter jogged to catch up with Riley as he approached the studio.

  ‘Anything interesting thus far?’ Riley asked.

  ‘No, sir, nuffink. We’ve spoken to a few people, who’ve all given us different accounts. Some were tucked up in their beds by the time the last London train got in and didn’t see anything ’cept the inside of their eyelids.’

  ‘The station master confirms she was definitely on that train?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Some of them that weren’t in bed saw the young woman, others didn’t. Every sort of description under the sun’s been given to us about men following her, but no two are the same and none of them match our suspects. Course, they might not have been following her anyway. They could just as easily have got off that train too and been walking home in the same direction.’

  Riley sighed. ‘I didn’t seriously suppose that we’d get matching descriptions. When do we ever? Still, the question had to be asked. Keep at it once we’re finished here, Carter. You might need to stay late tonight and speak to the regulars who frequent the taverns after their day’s work. I’m sure you won’t find that duty too arduous. Just remember why you’re there, try to remain sober and keep your wits about you.’

  ‘You know us, sir,’ Carter said, grinning.

  ‘Precisely, constable,’ Riley said in a droll tone. ‘Which is why I felt the need to remind you of your duty.’

  Carter sniffed good-naturedly. ‘Like you’d let us forget.’

  Their conversation took them to Archer’s studio. Riley pushed the door open and found three people concentrating upon partially completed paintings displayed on easels. One of them was Miss Bowden, who wore a stained smock over a serviceable blue twill gown. She looked up when Riley approached. He glanced over her shoulder at her work—a painting of a dog that was…unremarkable. He took quick stock of her supplies, too. There were two knives with identical handles to the one used to kill Miss Mottram amongst the clutter of paints, brushes and linseed oil, but both were smaller. He nodded towards the knives, drawing them to Carter’s attention.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, putting aside her brush and wiping her hands on a cloth. ‘You are the gentlemen…the policemen. Reg…Mr Archer isn’t here.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘He said something about going up to London, to a gallery. He left about an hour ago. He didn’t say when he would be back.’

  Riley nodded, not surprised to hear it. He would have bet his last farthing that once Archer recovered from the shock of Miss Mottram’s death, he hit upon a scheme to capitalise upon it by selling Manson more of her—of his own—paintings. Nothing built a reputation faster than the life of a promising talent cut tragically short. Riley couldn’t decide whether he admired the young man’s enterprise or found the entire affair distasteful.

  ‘You are Miss Rachel Bowden?’ he asked.

  ‘I am.’ She folded her arms and eyed Riley with suspicion. ‘How do you know me?’

  ‘I am Inspector Roch
ester and this is Constable Carter. In actual fact, it’s you we came to see.’

  ‘Me?’ She widened her eyes. ‘Goodness. Whatever for?’

  ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’

  Miss Bowden became conscious of the other two artists having abandoned their work to stare at her with open interest. She sent them aloof looks that failed to deter them. ‘I am sure Mr Archer won’t object if we use his room.’

  She stalked away from her easel; a tall woman with a long, confident stride. She would have had a height and weight advantage over Miss Mottram, so the possibility of her having stabbed a rival for Reggie’s affections couldn’t be discounted on the basis of her being too feeble. Her looks were as unremarkable as her painting, but there was a presumptive air about her that inclined Riley to think that she was accustomed to having her own way. She certainly wasn’t lacking in self-confidence.

  They entered Reggie’s room and Riley indicated to Miss Bowden that she should sit in the one comfortable chair.

  ‘Thank you, inspector, but I prefer to stand.’ She tapped her toe and glanced at a watch attached to her clothing with a gold pin. ‘I trust this won’t take long. My painting is at a vital stage. If the dries too hard it will spoil the effect and I shall have to start over.’

  ‘It will take as long as the inspector wants it to,’ Carter said, falling effortlessly into the belligerent role that Salter ordinarily adopted when a witness attempted to control an interview.

  ‘We are investigating a murder, Miss Bowden. I should have thought that you would be anxious to find out who killed your friend.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Please excuse me.’ Her American accent sounded more pronounced when she became contrite. Contrition was, Riley suspected, a rare form of expression for this forthright young woman, whose age Riley found it hard to assess. Somewhere in her middle to late twenties was his estimate. ‘It’s all very upsetting, I’ll grant you, especially when one is acquainted with the victim. But that is all Miss Mottram and I were…acquaintances on nodding terms. We were not what you would call close friends, but even so…’

  ‘You were both regulars at this studio and it’s my understanding that you are the only two women artists. Surely you passed the time of day, or discussed your joint passion for art.’

  Miss Bowden offered up a condescending smile. ‘As you would have observed for yourself when you walked in just now, we are a self-absorbed bunch. We come here to paint and tend to focus entirely upon our latest work. We all want to succeed, to make something of ourselves doing what we most enjoy, and don’t have much time for socialising.’

  ‘I understand that some of you regularly visit The Crown tavern at the end of painting sessions.’

  She nodded. ‘Sometimes, if we have a model or when we go as a group to paint on the common when the light is right.’

  ‘Presumably at such times you talk to one another about things other than art.’ Riley allowed a pause. ‘Or do you not frequent taverns, Miss Bowden?’

  The question, Riley could see, had given her pause. She would realise that Riley could easily find out if she had lied about something so apparently mundane, in turn making him doubt everything else she told him.

  ‘Yes, occasionally.’ Miss Bowden folded her arms. ‘In truth, I avoided all deliberate contact with Miss Mottram. I didn’t like her very much, but I didn’t want to speak ill of the dead by making that admission when you took me by surprise earlier. It seemed…well, disrespectful.’

  ‘The two of you had a disagreement?’

  ‘Oh no, nothing of that sort. It’s just that…well, I thought she was a little overbearing.’ Miss Bowden straightened her broad shoulders and stuck her nose in the air. ‘She seemed to think she was a better artist than the rest of us and was doing us a favour by mixing with us.’

  ‘She was better, if what I have been told is right. Archer speaks highly of her.’ A dark shadow passed through Miss Bowden’s eyes and Riley could see that it took an effort of will for her not to issue a scathing retort. ‘Her work was selected over everyone else’s for Manson’s gallery. That is some accolade, so if she was elitist, I think she had just cause.’

  ‘Her style is very different to mine.’ Miss Bowden gave a dismissive wave. ‘It just so happens that she paints the type of thing Mr Manson was looking for. It could just as easily have been my work that caught his agent’s eye. Reggie…Mr Archer assures me that my turn will come.’

  ‘And you believe that?’

  ‘Why should I not?’ She sent Riley a combative look. ‘Mr Archer is an exceptional artist in his own right and a first-rate critic. He does not give false praise and wouldn’t be cruel enough to give me hope if he thought there was none.’

  ‘Is that why you have stayed in this country, in Dulwich, for so long? It is my understanding that you only planned to stay for a week.’

  She dealt Riley a sharp look. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Answer the question please.’

  ‘I don’t see why my affairs should make any difference to your enquiries, but for what it’s worth, I came to England to experience its rich cultural history for myself and to explore my artistic talent away from any domestic distractions. I was undergoing a crisis of doubt about my ability at the time. A lot of things had gone wrong for me personally.’ Her eyes lost their lustre. ‘My father died a year ago—’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Riley said, inclining his head.

  ‘Thank you. It was a difficult time for me, although his passing was not unexpected. He had been unwell for a long time and I tended to his every need. My mother died years ago and I have no siblings. My father and I were everything to one another, so of course I didn’t trust his care to anyone else. But it took its toll, watching him wither away and feeling so helpless because there was nothing I could do to prevent his passing.’ She shuddered, and her eyes became damp. ‘Anyway, he was a timber trader who had built up a good living, and he left me well provided for. Free of my nursing duties, I decided to use some of my inheritance to travel.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘I am of age, inspector, and enjoy my independence.’ She bridled at the implied reproach. ‘Times are changing, and free-thinking American women are not afraid of being criticised if they travel alone. Criticism that will not be levelled against single male travellers, I might add.’

  Riley decided not to point out the dangers to her. Men travelling alone were frequently attacked by ne’er-do-wells. He imagined that a middle-class female of obvious means would become a prime target. Frankly, he was surprised she had come through unscathed thus far.

  ‘I came to Dulwich from London because someone had mentioned the college to me. I wanted to see it for myself. I stumbled upon Mr Archer’s studio by accident, was drawn to him because of his exceptional skill, and here you still find me.’

  ‘Competing against Miss Mottram for his affections.’

  ‘What?’ she offered Riley an unconvincing expression of denial. ‘No! That is ridiculous. And insulting.’

  ‘Please don’t try my patience, Miss Bowden.’

  ‘Whatever makes you suppose that I have designs upon Mr Archer?’

  ‘Archer hasn’t said anything, in case that is what concerns you. You gave yourself away. Your feelings for Archer were etched all over your face when I first called here. I wasn’t particularly looking at you, but still noticed.’

  Her expression turned prim. ‘Reggie and I understand one another very well, but there is nothing of an inappropriate nature between us.’

  ‘But there could have been, had Miss Mottram not taken his attention away from you.’

  ‘Inspector, please! Reggie and I are on the point of going into business together.’

  ‘Business?’ Riley shared a bemused look with Carter. ‘How so?’

  ‘I am looking for investment opportunities and Reggie, as I already told you, is an exceptional artist. His time is wasted tutoring those with limited abilities or unrealistic expec
tations.’ Riley kept his expression impassive, but his mind flooded with images of stones and glasshouses. ‘He deserves to have the freedom to explore his own considerable talent and make a name for himself in his own right. I have offered to put money into this place, to take over as his partner and make it more exclusive. At present any Tom, Dick or Harry can drop in and set up his easel. And they all require Reggie’s time and attention. Is it any wonder that the poor boy never gets the time to experiment with styles of his own?’

  The lady was well and truly smitten, but Riley suspected that Reggie had told him the truth when he said that he did not reciprocate her feelings. The situation was potentially lethal since unless Riley missed his guess, Miss Bowden wasn’t the type who took either rejection or competition well. If she couldn’t have him…

  ‘I find it strange that Archer didn’t mention the arrangement to me,’ Riley remarked.

  ‘We haven’t yet reached a firm agreement, so I expect he didn’t think it was relevant.’

  ‘He was on the point of accepting your offer when Manson took some of Miss Mottram’s work.’ Riley made his question sound like a statement of fact; a ploy that often produced the desire result.

  Her lips drew taut across her teeth and a tic worked below one eye. ‘That certainly caused a hiatus, I won’t deny it.’

  ‘And now Miss Mottram is out of the way, presumably your negotiations will resume.’ Riley paused. ‘Her demise has come at a very convenient time for you.’

  ‘I don’t think I like your tone, inspector,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Where were you last night?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ She pointed at her chest for emphasis, highly affronted. ‘I was in The Crown with a large party from here. I left with everyone else and went straight back to my lodgings.’

  ‘Escorted by whom?’

  She blinked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Surely your fellow artists didn’t allow you to walk home alone? I should have thought that Archer would have ensured your safe delivery to your door given that you are so valuable to him.’

  She lifted her chin. ‘I have already told you, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides,’ she added pensively, ‘Reggie had already left. Probably to come back here. He did that sometimes if an idea, or a solution to a problem that had been bothering him, occurred to him. He could get quite distracted and would dash off without saying a word to anyone in order to get it down on paper before it escaped him. I didn’t notice him amongst the others when I left, anyway.’