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We moved to the study and used the table in the Caesar book to decipher Mr. McDonald’s code. We were right. The Bunburys were listed a few times, as were the Quornes. But we’d been wrong about the Livingstones. Their name was in the ledger, although there was no payment against it for over a month. The fourth name took me by complete surprise. Indeed, I deciphered it a second time to be sure.
“I don’t believe it,” I said. “Could it be him? Could it be Mr. Chapman, the Mayfair’s steward?” The deciphered entry just read “Chapman” with no first name, no place of work, or other identifying information.
Harry rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I suppose… If McDonald knew something scandalous about him, Chapman wouldn’t want Sir Ronald to hear about it. Your uncle isn’t the most understanding or forgiving man when it comes to his employees’ indiscretions.”
“Indeed. But Mr. Chapman’s not wealthy like the others. Was it worth blackmailing him?”
Harry pointed to the amounts next to the name. “He was paying considerably less. McDonald adjusted the amount accordingly.” He frowned. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but Chapman is now a suspect for the murder.”
“No. He couldn’t have done it. He was just leaving the hotel for the night when we arrived home after the ball. He’d been in the dining room all evening.” It was something of a relief to exclude him. The last thing I wanted to do was suspect one of the staff, even if I didn’t like him much.
Even so, we ought to question him about his relationship with McDonald. But if I questioned him, he would tell my uncle in retaliation. Harry, on the other hand, could speak to him in his capacity of private detective.
“You have to interrogate him,” I said.
Harry shook his head. “Neither of us will. Not until we know for certain we have the right Chapman. The name isn’t uncommon.”
“Very well. We’ll leave him until it becomes absolutely necessary to confront him. In the meantime, I’ll ask Harmony and some of the staff to watch him.”
“He’ll get suspicious.”
“They can be very discreet.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. If he was being blackmailed, he clearly had something to hide. What if it’s something that could ruin his professional relationship with the staff? He’s their manager and deserves their respect.”
I hadn’t expected him to object so strongly, but perhaps I should have. Like Mr. Chapman, he’d been in a position of authority in the hotel. He expected the staff to treat him as a manager deserved. If something damaged that respect, he would lose his authority.
It was why Harry couldn’t remain in the hotel after my uncle fired him. Harry thought he’d lose the respect of the staff when they learned why he’d been dismissed. He was wrong, but it was how he felt and far be it from me to tell him how he ought to feel.
I set aside Chapman and concentrated on the other three names. “His reason for blackmailing the Bunburys and Livingstones is obvious,” I said. “But I wonder if he was blackmailing the Quornes because their stolen painting was also a fake, or because there’s something in Lady Quorne’s background she’s trying to hide.”
“Let’s find out.” He indicated the book. “Bring that with you.”
“You want to steal evidence?”
“Borrow, not steal.”
He seemed thoughtful as we headed for the door, but it was me who asked him to wait while I checked one more thing before we left. I hadn’t seen the paintings, and something had occurred to me. Was Reggie Smith good enough to have painted the fake Grandjean? While I was no art critic, I should be able to tell if he was an amateur or not.
I entered the room used as a studio and stopped in front of a large painting on an easel. It was almost complete, except for the hands and feet. Whoever did it, must have trouble with those parts of the body. From what I knew of the male nude, the rest looked…lifelike. The artist had also captured Mr. McDonald’s confident air and Mona Lisa smirk to perfection.
“Learn anything?” Harry’s voice was quiet, but it still made me jump.
“No! I mean, yes.” I cleared my throat and dared to sneak a peek at him out of the corner of my eye. He sported a roguish half-smile.
I turned away to study the two other portraits of Mr. McDonald leaning against the wall, both completed. One was signed R. Smith, the other was unsigned. I indicated the signed one. “This and the unfinished one on the easel are done by the same person.”
Harry turned to study the unfinished painting. “How do you know? The unfinished one is unsigned.”
“You can tell by how thickly the paint has been layered on both, as well as the hands and feet. They’re poorly rendered in the completed piece and left until the end in the unfinished one. Mr. Smith clearly struggles with them.”
Harry indicated the third painting, the other finished one leaning against the wall. “Who is that by?”
“It’s also unsigned, but it’s different to the other two. For one thing, the artist knows how to do hands and feet.”
Neither of us knew what any of it meant, except it was confirmation that Reggie Smith used this studio and liked painting nudes of Mr. McDonald.
We left the flat and I thought we would take the stairs down to the ground floor foyer where we’d have to hide until the porter’s back was turned. But Harry had other ideas. He thought it was time to reveal ourselves and get answers about our victim from those who would have seen visitors coming and going.
