students, were going around them. She had already been to the offices of the Slade.
He said, ‘I had a with Munro about her. The divisions and the coroner have never heard of Mary Thomason. That means she didn’t report anybody trying to hurt her, and her corpse hasn’t turned up.’
‘Good, because we’re going to talk to her landlady.’
‘You got her address?’
‘The Slade people wanted to be helpful. It wasn’t easy - the fact is, it was months ago, and she seems to have made very little impression, and students leave all the time. I did learn that she was on a list to do modelling, so she probably needed money.’
‘In the—Without her clothes on?’
Janet Striker laughed. ‘No, clothed. Nude models are a separate species, it seems.’
‘Why did they think the Society for the Improvement of Wayward Women wanted her? Did you suggest she was wayward?’
‘No, I suggested we were interested in starting an art class for our women. They didn’t question that - even gave me the names of other students who might want to teach.’
‘Had she told them she was leaving?’
‘A note, purportedly after she’d gone home. Somebody brought it by, they thought - they didn’t remember. I asked about her friends. They knew nothing, of course - it’s only an office. They suggested I see a man named Tonks who teaches drawing. Of course he isn’t here just now. Shall we go?’
‘You seem eager enough to enter into my project.’
‘I told you, it’s something we can do together.’
That sounded encouraging. ‘You can enter into my life, but I can’t enter into yours?’
She looked away as if something had caught her attention along Gower Street. ‘Maybe there’s something in that.’ She clutched his arm. ‘Let’s go - it’s raining.’
‘Not like last night.’ He was glad for a cue to mention it, afraid that the emotional intensity, the kiss, the dinner, would be allowed to slip away. She glanced at him, grinned, flushed. She squeezed his arm. ‘We’re going to Fitzroy Street. Do you know Fitzroy Street?’
‘Why did you smile just now?’
‘Because we’re both thinking about last night.’ She laughed. ‘What a pair of fools we are.’
Number 22 Fitzroy Street was a tall house that came right to the pavement, its brick blackened, a sign advertising rooms in a front window. Despite the remains of a broken urn that had fallen off the doorstep and lay next to it, and despite the roar and horse-piss smell of Euston Road hard by, the house had a look of stubborn respectability in the blind face it turned to the street - no wrappings of food put out on the windowsills to stay cool, no broken panes patched with paper, no views through uncurtained windows into student squalor. Beside a bell, a handwritten slip of paper said ‘Mrs Durnquess’.
‘The Slade keep her name on a list. She’s some sort of preferred haven for new students - her record is good, I suppose. The woman I dealt with said that Mrs Durnquess was “trusted by the parents”, whatever that means. I can’t imagine that parents with a girl at the Slade know much of what goes on, unless they live in Euston Square.’
She rang the bell. Thirty seconds after a second ring, an adolescent with an Irish accent opened the door. Without waiting to hear what they wanted, she said, ‘No rooms - all gone.’
‘I want to see Mrs Durnquess, my girl.’ Janet Striker’s voice could have gone through steel.
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Didn’t look properly at you, I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’ll git her direct.’
‘May we come in?’
‘Oh, oh, sure you may, ma’am, I’m all to sixes and sevens today - forgive the mess the students make please, ma’am - and sir - I’ll just git—’ She was off down the corridor that ran the depth of the house. A door on their left had once led to a front parlour, Denton supposed, now rented to somebody trustworthy enough to keep the front window curtains closed. On their left, a staircase ran to
He said, ‘I had a with Munro about her. The divisions and the coroner have never heard of Mary Thomason. That means she didn’t report anybody trying to hurt her, and her corpse hasn’t turned up.’
‘Good, because we’re going to talk to her landlady.’
‘You got her address?’
‘The Slade people wanted to be helpful. It wasn’t easy - the fact is, it was months ago, and she seems to have made very little impression, and students leave all the time. I did learn that she was on a list to do modelling, so she probably needed money.’
‘In the—Without her clothes on?’
Janet Striker laughed. ‘No, clothed. Nude models are a separate species, it seems.’
‘Why did they think the Society for the Improvement of Wayward Women wanted her? Did you suggest she was wayward?’
‘No, I suggested we were interested in starting an art class for our women. They didn’t question that - even gave me the names of other students who might want to teach.’
‘Had she told them she was leaving?’
‘A note, purportedly after she’d gone home. Somebody brought it by, they thought - they didn’t remember. I asked about her friends. They knew nothing, of course - it’s only an office. They suggested I see a man named Tonks who teaches drawing. Of course he isn’t here just now. Shall we go?’
‘You seem eager enough to enter into my project.’
‘I told you, it’s something we can do together.’
That sounded encouraging. ‘You can enter into my life, but I can’t enter into yours?’
She looked away as if something had caught her attention along Gower Street. ‘Maybe there’s something in that.’ She clutched his arm. ‘Let’s go - it’s raining.’
‘Not like last night.’ He was glad for a cue to mention it, afraid that the emotional intensity, the kiss, the dinner, would be allowed to slip away. She glanced at him, grinned, flushed. She squeezed his arm. ‘We’re going to Fitzroy Street. Do you know Fitzroy Street?’
‘Why did you smile just now?’
‘Because we’re both thinking about last night.’ She laughed. ‘What a pair of fools we are.’
Number 22 Fitzroy Street was a tall house that came right to the pavement, its brick blackened, a sign advertising rooms in a front window. Despite the remains of a broken urn that had fallen off the doorstep and lay next to it, and despite the roar and horse-piss smell of Euston Road hard by, the house had a look of stubborn respectability in the blind face it turned to the street - no wrappings of food put out on the windowsills to stay cool, no broken panes patched with paper, no views through uncurtained windows into student squalor. Beside a bell, a handwritten slip of paper said ‘Mrs Durnquess’.
‘The Slade keep her name on a list. She’s some sort of preferred haven for new students - her record is good, I suppose. The woman I dealt with said that Mrs Durnquess was “trusted by the parents”, whatever that means. I can’t imagine that parents with a girl at the Slade know much of what goes on, unless they live in Euston Square.’
She rang the bell. Thirty seconds after a second ring, an adolescent with an Irish accent opened the door. Without waiting to hear what they wanted, she said, ‘No rooms - all gone.’
‘I want to see Mrs Durnquess, my girl.’ Janet Striker’s voice could have gone through steel.
‘Oh, yes, ma’am. Didn’t look properly at you, I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’ll git her direct.’
‘May we come in?’
‘Oh, oh, sure you may, ma’am, I’m all to sixes and sevens today - forgive the mess the students make please, ma’am - and sir - I’ll just git—’ She was off down the corridor that ran the depth of the house. A door on their left had once led to a front parlour, Denton supposed, now rented to somebody trustworthy enough to keep the front window curtains closed. On their left, a staircase ran to
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