Death of an Artist (Riley Rochester Investigates Book 5) Page 12

  ‘So what if it was?’ Archer’s defiantly sullen expression reappeared. ‘We didn’t break any laws. It’s not as though we were copying the masters and passing them off as the real thing. Those paintings were originals.’

  ‘Just not Mottram originals.’

  Archer shrugged. ‘To get ahead in this world, you have to use whatever advantages you’ve got, inspector. I don’t expect you to understand that. You come from the privileged classes and have had everything handed to you on a plate. I’ve heard my uncle sing your praises more than enough times.’ His upper lip curled into an ugly sneer. ‘Us lesser mortals have to get by any which way we can.’

  Riley let him rant, understanding now why Miss Mottram did all her painting at Archer’s studio at night when there were not many people around to notice the finished canvases bearing her name bore little resemblance to her actual efforts. Frustratingly, he was no nearer to knowing why Vermont had spent so much on one of them when, by his own admission, the family’s coffers were not exactly bursting at the seams.

  ‘What went wrong?’ Riley asked when Archer ran out of invectives.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Riley sat back and dealt the artist a probing look. ‘What I say.’

  ‘Apart from Mel being brutally murdered, you mean?’ Sarcasm oozed off the young man. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Did you father her child?’

  ‘What!’ Archer leapt from his seat, outraged. Evans’ heavy hand on his shoulder pushed him firmly back down into it. ‘A child? She didn’t have a child. What the devil are you implying about her morals?’

  Riley was sufficiently experienced to be able to tell bluster from genuine shock, and was almost convinced that Archer’s reaction was instinctive rather than contrived.

  ‘In that case, it will come as a shock for you to learn that she was with child when she died.’

  Archer crumpled in his seat. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he muttered. ‘She wasn’t like that.’

  ‘You and she were not intimate?’ Riley spoke in a softly goading tone. ‘All those evenings alone in your studio. That spark you referred to earlier. It didn’t ignite? Your passions didn’t get the better of you?’

  ‘No they damned well didn’t, and I resent the implication.’

  ‘Well then, it stands to reason that she liked someone enough not to care about the future of the scheme you and she had contrived. A child would take her attention away from the exposure you hoped she would garner for what was, after all, your work. Excuses are made for the behaviour of artistic types, but if she had a child out of wedlock, few would be willing to overlook her lack of moral fibre.’ Riley leaned forward, invading the man’s space. ‘You weren’t as immune to her attractions as you led me to suppose. You somehow found out about her relationship with another man, and about her condition.’

  ‘No! That’s ridiculous. I—’

  ‘You either followed her to London, or spied on her when she was intimately involved with her secret lover and became inflamed with jealousy. I can imagine how angry that made you feel, and your uncle has told me all about your quick temper. You were prepared to make her famous, had plans for the two of you to become rich on the back of your talent and her ability to attract the attention of art collectors. You came up with the scheme, took all the risks, and she repaid you by sharing another man’s bed.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ But Archer now seemed more worried than affronted. Worried because Riley had just confirmed suspicions Archer had tried to ignore about Miss Mottram’s affections being engaged elsewhere, or scared because he was about to be exposed as a violent murderer?

  ‘You had it out with her the night before last when she returned from London. You wanted to know where she’d been and with whom. She laughed at you and told you it was none of your business. You lost your temper, found you had that knife in your pocket—’

  ‘Knife?’ Archer sat forward, brows raised high. ‘What knife?’

  ‘This one.’ Riley produced the murder weapon. Dried blood still adhered to the blade and the handle.

  ‘Is that…’ He swallowed. ‘Is that the knife that was used to kill her?’

  ‘You tell me? It’s an artist’s knife, is it not? It seems natural to me that you’d have such an implement about your person. You’d been on the common earlier with your tourists, sketching. You still had your knife in your pocket. You were in the tavern, noticed Miss Mottram after she left the train. She would have had to walk past the tavern, so naturally you offered to escort her the rest of the way home. I’m not suggesting that you met her with the intention of killing her, but you asked her where she had been, she refused to tell you, matters got out of hand and, on the spur of the moment you grabbed the knife in your pocket. I can quite see how it happened by accident. Then you realised what you had done, panicked and ran away…’

  Riley’s word trailed off when he realised he’d lost Archer’s attention. Instead of listening to Riley, he gazed fixedly at the knife and a look of relief flashed through his eyes.

  ‘That’s not mine.’

  Of course he would say that. ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Look.’ He picked it up and pointed to the ebony handle. ‘This is expensive. Someone’s personal property. None of us struggling artists would waste money on something of this quality when lesser knifes work just as well.’

  ‘But you know someone who does.’

  Riley stared at the younger man until he finally spoke. ‘Rachel Bowden,’ he said sullenly. ‘She had a wealthy father who gave her a set of knifes just like that one not long before his death. She is very proud of them and complained recently that one of them was missing, all but accusing the others of stealing it.’

  ‘Tell me about her.’

  Archer shrugged. ‘Like I say, she’s wealthy but enjoys slumming it in our neck of the woods, for now at least. She has limited talent, and I struggle to help her improve her technique. That’s why Mel and I launched our scheme to get ahead through less conventional means. I am tired of nurturing mediocrity.’

  ‘Your uncle told me that you seldom stick to anything,’ Riley said, in a deliberate attempt to goad him.

  Archer shook his head. ‘I could never do anything to impress my uncle, and I long ago gave up trying. He fails to understand the artistic temperament.’

  ‘Miss Bowdon is in love with you.’ Jake posed the question as a statement of fact.

  ‘It happens.’ He shrugged. ‘I do not return her feelings but can’t afford to alienate her either.’

  ‘Leaving her with the impression that there’s hope for her.’

  Another shrug, but no words accompanied it this time.

  ‘How did she get along with Miss Mottram?’

  ‘She resented our closeness, mine and Mel’s, I think but…’ He touched his face and looked abashed. ‘She is spoiled and indulged but she’s incapable of harming anyone. I know how it looks, what with it being her knife and everything but I very much doubt if she would resort to murder, especially as I never gave her reason to suppose there could be anything between us.’

  Nicely deflected, Riley thought. ‘Are you aware that it was Lord Vermont who paid fifty guineas for Miss Mottram’s…sorry, for your seascape?’

  Archer looked genuinely surprised. ‘Good God, did he?’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why he would have done so?’

  ‘No obvious explanation springs to mind, but there again, if Mel told him her paintings had gone into that gallery…well, as I say, she could be very persuasive.’

  ‘Or he could have been the father of her child?’ Riley suggested mildly. ‘Purchasing her painting was Miss Mottram’s price for keeping his name out of things.’

  ‘She wouldn’t stoop so low!’ Archer cried hotly. ‘She had far more class than that.’

  ‘Class? She was unmarried and pregnant.’

  ‘It doesn’t follow that the attentions of the man who forced himself upon her were welcome.’

 
‘Indeed it does not, but it certainly makes you wonder what she did with her time in London on her afternoons off. Are you absolutely sure you didn’t follow her once or twice, and know more about her friends than you’re letting on?’

  ‘Completely sure.’

  Riley sighed and stood, satisfied that he had got everything from Archer that he was likely to, at least for the time being. Undecided still as to his guilt, he had Evans, who wasn’t a member of his team, to confirm if necessary that he’d given him a tough grilling. That ought to keep Danforth off his back, at least for now.

  ‘Very well, you are free to go. If you are as interested in getting to the truth as you have led me to believe though, you will keep everything we have discussed here today to yourself. It’s vital that certain aspects don’t come to light prematurely. If they do, it could seriously hinder our ability to catch the guilty party. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’

  ‘If you do say anything to anyone in confidence, I shall find out and know what conclusions to draw.’

  ‘We both want the same thing, inspector.’

  ‘My superiors are keen for me to arrest you and charge you with murder, given that you had means, motive and opportunity—’

  Archer’s mouth fell open. ‘But that’s ridiculous!’

  ‘I agree, which is why I am not following that course of action.’ He allowed a significant pause. ‘At least not yet. But I would again emphasise that if any of the confidential details we have discussed this morning leak out, I shall know they have come from you and such disclosures will forfeit your right to the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘I won’t say anything, inspector. Despite what you think of me, I am as keen as you are to find the person who did this terrible thing.’

  ‘Very well. Constable, show Mr Archer to the door, if you please.’

  Chapter Nine

  Riley barely had time to return to his office and mull over the interview with Archer before Salter returned.

  ‘Raining cats and dogs out there, so it is.’ Salter threw himself into the chair on the other side of Riley’s desk and rubbed rainwater from his whiskered chin. ‘Wainwright, the agent’s here. Had to tell him why he was wanted. He seems right upset.’ Salter looked edgy. ‘How did it go with Reggie, sir? Am I at least allowed to ask?’

  ‘Stop being petulant, Jack. You’re better than that.’

  ‘Not when it comes to Reggie, I ain’t. He brings out the worst in me. Always has.’ He let out a long-suffering breath. ‘Well, he’s on his own this time. I’ve no intention of scuppering my career for his worthless sake.’

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. He gave a convincing show of shock when I told him about Miss Mottram’s pregnancy.’

  ‘You believe him?’

  Riley could see that Salter wanted him to and wished he could give him a definitive response. ‘I’m inclined to, but what I think won’t be enough. As things stand, he’s still the main suspect.’

  Riley went on to tell Salter about the ownership of the knife.

  ‘Well then, if Reggie’s telling the truth for once, then it casts doubt over his guilt.’

  Despite his determination to wash his hands of his wife’s nephew, Riley detected relief in his sergeant’s eyes. ‘Not necessarily, Jack. You wouldn’t be so quick to exonerate any other suspect on those grounds alone. Reggie could have taken that knife and then deliberately dropped it to cast suspicion elsewhere.’

  ‘That would imply that he’d thought about it beforehand and went armed with the deliberate intention of committing cold-blooded, premeditated murder.’ Salter shook his head. ‘I don’t have a high opinion of Reggie, but I don’t reckon he’s capable of doing something like that, even if he did know about the gal’s pregnancy and felt slighted ’cause she flirted with him, went into a questionable partnership with him and then lay with another man. He’s a dreamer, not a killer.’

  ‘We shall have a talk with Miss Bowden and take the measure of her, then we’ll have a clearer picture of what went on in that studio.’

  Salter snorted. ‘No good, I should imagine.’ He paused. ‘How come a well-to-do girl like Miss Bowden ends up touring England unescorted? It don’t seem…well, seemly.’

  ‘We don’t know that she is, but that’s another question that we will put to her in due course. Before that, there’s more you should know.’

  Salter’s expression turned forbidding when he learned that his nephew had passed his own paintings off as Miss Mottram’s work.

  ‘Typical of the conniving little scapegrace.’

  ‘He hasn’t actually broken any laws, Jack. He’s a fine artist in his own right but became frustrated because he couldn’t get the acclaim he felt he deserved.’

  ‘He ain’t exactly spent years living on the breadline or starving in some freezing attic for the sake of his art,’ Salter pointed out. ‘He’s not even thirty.’

  ‘Be that as it may, he saw an opportunity when he noticed how Miss Mottram used her wiles to get herself noticed, and it gave him an idea. He could either play up to some rich old biddy who’d be taken in by his charms, recognise his talent and agree to sponsor him, or use Miss Mottram’s willingness to work for their mutual advantage.’

  Salter snorted. ‘There’s a name for men who live off women.’

  ‘You’re being too hard on the lad. His behaviour is a matter for his conscience, not the law.’

  ‘Well then, he won’t be having too many sleepless nights on account of his not having a conscience.’

  ‘Remain focused, Jack. We’re here to enforce the law, not criticise your nephew’s judgement.’ Riley spoke with firm authority. ‘Just about every man we’ve spoken to who knew Miss Mottram was affected by the acquaintance to a greater or lesser degree. And for what it’s worth, I think your nephew genuinely did not love her. Whether she felt slighted by the rejection I have yet to decide. I get the impression that our supposedly innocent little victim thought only of herself, knew the affect she had on men, used it to her advantage and probably didn’t take kindly to failing with any man.’

  ‘And that attitude got her killed.’ Salter sighed.

  ‘Yes.’ Riley stood. ‘Let’s have a word with the agent who liked her work. Or should I say, Reggie’s work.’

  The agent was a tall man in his forties with sparse hair and a thick waistline. He stood when Riley entered the room.

  ‘Mr Wainwright. I am Inspector Rochester. Thank you for coming in. I regret the necessity for my sergeant to bring you such bad news.’

  The man inclined his head, looking genuinely distraught. ‘Naturally I will help in any way that I can. It’s a travesty to have such a talent cut down in its prime.’ He shook Riley’s outstretched hand and settled back in his chair. ‘What can I do to be of assistance?’

  ‘I would be interested to know how the lady first came to your attention.’

  ‘Reggie Archer mentioned her to me. I call at his studio once every month or two, just to see if any undiscovered talent has found its way to his door that might have some commercial value.’

  ‘I understand that French impressionists are in vogue?’

  ‘True for now, but art doesn’t stand still. It only takes one influential person to support a new style and collectors follow that lead.’

  ‘But seascapes?’ Riley allowed his scepticism to show. ‘A little passé, I’d have thought.’

  Wainwright offered a patronising smile. ‘That rather depends upon the artist’s interpretation, inspector. Nowadays his or her character can make almost as much impact. It’s all about being a little different, I suppose.’

  Riley nodded. ‘You met the lady, and she made more of an impression upon you than her work?’

  ‘Naturally I met her, quite by chance. She happened to be at Archer’s studio when I called in one evening.’

  ‘She wasn’t aware that you would be coming?’

  ‘Heavens, no! If I gave advance warning, I’d be swamped with aspiri
ng talent—most of it unsaleable.’

  ‘So what made Miss Mottram, as you put it, saleable? Was it her work, or the lady herself?’

  ‘A little of both, inspector, I won’t deny it. I noticed her the moment I walked into that crowded room. She stood out like a beacon, and not just because she was young and pretty.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it. There was just something about her. A confidence, I suppose.’ He scratched his head, as though he himself was still attempting to decide what had attracted his attention. ‘It was as though she knew she would succeed. That it would be simply a matter of time before her talent was recognised.’

  ‘Even when she didn’t paint the pictures in question?’

  Wainwright blinked like a startled owl. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘You heard the inspector.’ Salter removed himself from the wall and leaned over the table, pushing his face towards Wainwright’s—his favourite form of intimidation. ‘You’re supposed to be an expert, so I reckon you’d know Reggie Archer’s hand when you see it.’

  Wainwright sank lower in his chair. ‘I do, and he’s got a rare talent.’ He held up his hands and Salter retreated to his place against the wall. ‘He’s a handsome young man, but the art world abounds with handsome young and talented men. All the gallery owners I have dealings with were looking for an alternative.’

  ‘So you suggested that he pass off his work as Miss Mottram’s?’ Riley asked.

  ‘Actually, it was Miss Mottram who put the idea to me. I looked at her actual work and expressed my disappointment. I knew it wouldn’t make the grade, whereas she herself was very saleable. She knew it too, and came up with the suggestion of passing Archer’s work off as her own. She said they were frustrated by the fads of pernickety collectors, that jointly they had what it took to succeed—’