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I couldn’t help smiling. “You know him well.”
“The night porter would regularly wake me up to help Floyd to his room.” Harry used to have his own private chamber on the ground floor, and with the night porter being unable to leave the foyer once the other staff went home, it made sense to ask for Harry’s assistance. With Harry gone and Peter, the new assistant manager, living off-site, Floyd now had to make his own way to his rooms. Jonathon sometimes helped, but he wasn’t always with him.
“Try not to worry,” Harry said. “I’m sure he’ll sort himself out.”
“I hope you’re right.” I withdrew Lady Quorne’s guest list from my bag. “Now, let’s begin with the hosts.”
He tended to agree with Harmony and me that the gossip I’d learned couldn’t help with our investigation. None of it seemed relevant. “We’ll keep to our original plan and return to the caterer’s office this morning.”
“I want to call at an art gallery on Regent Street first.” I told him about Lady Treloar as he put on his jacket. “She sold a Grandjean to my dinner hosts, so it’s possible she sold the Quornes theirs, too.”
“Then stole it back a year later?”
It didn’t make sense to me either, but I still wanted to speak to her.
Harry slapped his hat on his head and opened the door for me. “She wasn’t at the Quornes’ dinner.”
“No, but if she sold them the painting, the dinner is irrelevant. She already knew where the painting hung and quite possibly how to get inside.”
He indicated I should leave the office ahead of him. “Lead the way.”
Regent Street was close by. We walked in silence, which allowed my mind to wander back to Floyd. I’d always dismissed his late-night escapades as harmless fun. For privileged gentlemen, drunken rousing was part of growing up, a phase they went through before settling down.
But it was clearly no longer fun for Floyd. Something had happened. The more I thought about it, the more worried I became.
Harry noticed. “Floyd?”
I nodded. “I think he’s in over his head this time.”
“If you want to talk to me, I can assure you it won’t go any further.”
“I know I can trust you.”
His gaze connected with mine for a fleeting moment, but it was enough to send a jolt through me. He didn’t just look at me. Hesawme.
I cleared my throat. “Floyd came home just before dawn in an emotional state.”
Harry’s lips flattened. “I see why you’re worried. I can speak to him if you think it will help.”
“Thank you, but I’ll try first.”
The art gallery was an open, brightly lit space in a prominent position on Regent Street. A woman welcomed us with a smile and a sweeping gesture, then asked us to kindly wait while she finished with a customer. Lady Treloar was middle aged with high cheekbones and wide-set gray eyes. Dressed in forest green with a white lace panel down the front of her gown, and pearls at her throat and ears, she was the epitome of style and elegance, as well as wealth.
But the thing I found most intriguing about her was the familiarity. I recognized her from the ball. I’d seen her studying the painting in the ballroom alongside Ambrose McDonald.
What had the gallery owner and the victim been talking about?
Chapter5
Asofa positioned near the front of the gallery was an inviting place for customers to wait. Neither Harry nor I sat, however. Without exchanging a word, we both decided to peruse the artwork.
Electric light bulbs hanging from the ceiling illuminated the paintings and their gilt frames, so that even on a dull day the brushstrokes could be admired. Lady Treloar was deep in conversation with her customer, explaining the provenance of a large landscape with a country manor in the background. It had been sold by the estate’s executors along with several other pieces to pay the deceased former owner’s debts. Lady Treloar spoke with a hint of sorrow in her voice, sympathizing with the impoverished heir. The customer despaired over the state of the nation and its disappearing gentry, but the glint in her eye as she studied the painting revealed her true feelings. Another’s loss was her gain.
I didn’t find any paintings by Grandjean, but I recognized the names of a few well-known artists. An archway from the main part of the gallery led through to a smaller room. It was a little darker and the frames weren’t as ornate. I wasn’t going to go in, but Harry indicated I should.
“See what’s through there,” he whispered, nodding at a closed door opposite. “I’ll make sure no one comes near.”
I glanced past him to where Lady Treloar was still in deep conversation with her customer. I told Harry that I’d seen her talking to the victim before his death, then hurried to the door and slipped into the room beyond. It was a staff room, barely larger than a cupboard. Unlike the gallery, it was messy and poorly lit with just a single bulb throwing out very little light. A kettle resting on a copper stand over a portable stove was positioned at one end of a narrow bench. Beside it was a cobalt blue and gold china teacup and saucer, and beside that were strewn art books and catalogues for auction houses. At the far end of the rectangular room was a commode with a chamber pot inside. Two unframed paintings leaned against the wall. The floorboards were scuffed and scratched, and the entire room needed a coat of paint.
