Holloway prison, of all places. I took the art in the hope of getting her a little extra money. But you’ve got to keep it under your hat. If word gets out that she’s German, I won’t sell a thing.”
Clare had been in Berlin as a young woman; her path must have crossed with that of the artist then.
“I have another portrait of Pamina’s if you’re interested,” continued Alice. “I didn’t put it out because I’ve found it better to just show a few at a time. Besides, people seem to prefer landscapes. You’re the first person to show any interest in the nude. It’s the same model, I believe.”
She unwrapped another canvas that was in a piece of clean sacking. This one was slightly smaller than the other and less finished. In this sketch, the woman was sitting in a chair, head slightly turned away. Her fair hair partially obscured her face, which was only sketched in. She was wearing a long sheer nightgown of some green gauzy material, and the light made it transparent, revealing the outline of small, exquisitely shaped breasts. He remembered them.
“How much do you want for the two of them?” he asked Alice.
“Three pounds.”
“I don’t have that much with me.”
“You can owe me. I trust you. Here, I’ll wrap them both together in this cloth. You don’t particularly want folks gawking at them, I’m sure.”
He’d have to keep them hidden in his office at the police station.
Alice handed over the canvases and Tyler tucked them both underneath his arm, said goodbye, and headed back to his car. He felt like Jack who’d stolen the golden goose.
As he went by the last stall, the woman called out loudly to him so that Alice could hear. “When are you going to charge that woman, Inspector? Our boys are dying for t’country and
that one’s
preaching peace, as
she
calls it. She’s a fifth columnist if you ask me.”
15.
T YLER SUBSCRIBED TO THE THEORY THAT THE MORE you knew about the victim and their style of life, the more you’d get pointers as to who had committed the ultimate act of murder. He’d already gathered a lot from Rose. Now he wanted to see where Elsie had lodged for the last two months.
The Clarks lived at the end of a row of Victorian workers cottages, all of them now quite prettied up. The tiny patch of front garden was full of shrubs and flowers, the handkerchief-sized lawn was bowling green immaculate. Mrs. Clark was a widow with an attentive son.
Constable Collis was standing in front of the door.
“Afternoon, Collis. Anything to report?”
“No, sir. People came when they heard what had happened, but they all stayed in the living room talking to Mrs. Clark. She’s in there now.”
“Where’s the girl’s room?”
“Upstairs, sir, at the far end of the landing.”
“I’ll go straight up and take a gander. Tell Mrs. Clark I’ll come and talk to her.”
Tyler stepped into the dark hall. Both walls were lined with ornately framed oil paintings that were amateurish enough to be originals. There was a wooden hat stand, and a small table cluttered with china figurines. He could hear the sounds of a wireless from the living room.
He went up the stairs, which were carpeted but which creaked loudly.
Elsie’s room was small, the bed narrow, and the dresserminuscule. The largest piece of furniture was an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe which took up most of the space. Mrs. Clark clearly liked flowers, and the coverlet and matching curtains were a riot of daisies and begonias.
Somehow, given Elsie’s personality, Tyler had expected the room would be untidy, with pieces of her life scattered everywhere, but it wasn’t. It was as neat as a sailor’s.
He stood in the doorway, trying in some way to make contact with the life and personality of the dead girl. Even though it was tiny, the room was pretty, lots of light, nicely furnished, except for the monster wardrobe, which must have been a family heirloom by the look of it. He walked over there first. The front
Clare had been in Berlin as a young woman; her path must have crossed with that of the artist then.
“I have another portrait of Pamina’s if you’re interested,” continued Alice. “I didn’t put it out because I’ve found it better to just show a few at a time. Besides, people seem to prefer landscapes. You’re the first person to show any interest in the nude. It’s the same model, I believe.”
She unwrapped another canvas that was in a piece of clean sacking. This one was slightly smaller than the other and less finished. In this sketch, the woman was sitting in a chair, head slightly turned away. Her fair hair partially obscured her face, which was only sketched in. She was wearing a long sheer nightgown of some green gauzy material, and the light made it transparent, revealing the outline of small, exquisitely shaped breasts. He remembered them.
“How much do you want for the two of them?” he asked Alice.
“Three pounds.”
“I don’t have that much with me.”
“You can owe me. I trust you. Here, I’ll wrap them both together in this cloth. You don’t particularly want folks gawking at them, I’m sure.”
He’d have to keep them hidden in his office at the police station.
Alice handed over the canvases and Tyler tucked them both underneath his arm, said goodbye, and headed back to his car. He felt like Jack who’d stolen the golden goose.
As he went by the last stall, the woman called out loudly to him so that Alice could hear. “When are you going to charge that woman, Inspector? Our boys are dying for t’country and
that one’s
preaching peace, as
she
calls it. She’s a fifth columnist if you ask me.”
15.
T YLER SUBSCRIBED TO THE THEORY THAT THE MORE you knew about the victim and their style of life, the more you’d get pointers as to who had committed the ultimate act of murder. He’d already gathered a lot from Rose. Now he wanted to see where Elsie had lodged for the last two months.
The Clarks lived at the end of a row of Victorian workers cottages, all of them now quite prettied up. The tiny patch of front garden was full of shrubs and flowers, the handkerchief-sized lawn was bowling green immaculate. Mrs. Clark was a widow with an attentive son.
Constable Collis was standing in front of the door.
“Afternoon, Collis. Anything to report?”
“No, sir. People came when they heard what had happened, but they all stayed in the living room talking to Mrs. Clark. She’s in there now.”
“Where’s the girl’s room?”
“Upstairs, sir, at the far end of the landing.”
“I’ll go straight up and take a gander. Tell Mrs. Clark I’ll come and talk to her.”
Tyler stepped into the dark hall. Both walls were lined with ornately framed oil paintings that were amateurish enough to be originals. There was a wooden hat stand, and a small table cluttered with china figurines. He could hear the sounds of a wireless from the living room.
He went up the stairs, which were carpeted but which creaked loudly.
Elsie’s room was small, the bed narrow, and the dresserminuscule. The largest piece of furniture was an old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe which took up most of the space. Mrs. Clark clearly liked flowers, and the coverlet and matching curtains were a riot of daisies and begonias.
Somehow, given Elsie’s personality, Tyler had expected the room would be untidy, with pieces of her life scattered everywhere, but it wasn’t. It was as neat as a sailor’s.
He stood in the doorway, trying in some way to make contact with the life and personality of the dead girl. Even though it was tiny, the room was pretty, lots of light, nicely furnished, except for the monster wardrobe, which must have been a family heirloom by the look of it. He walked over there first. The front
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