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“She checked into the Palmerston as Mrs. Tidmarsh, but at the ball I heard them call her Lady Treloar.”
Chapter17
Lady Treloar! Why had the gallery owner checked into a hotel under a false name? Why would anyone do that, let alone a successful businesswoman? Did she rendezvous at the Palmerston with a secret lover? Was she hiding from someone?
I looked to Harry but he was looking at Mercy. There was none of the confusion on his face that I felt. Hotel guests checking in under false names was his territory. He must have some ideas as to what Lady Treloar was doing.
“When was she at the Palmerston?” he asked.
Mercy raised her gaze to the ceiling, calculating. “She left the day before the Bunburys’ ball. She’d been there for a few weeks.”
Now it was beginning to make sense. We’d been right all along. Or, rather, Detective Inspector Hobart had been right. The murder was related to the stolen art. Not the painting Reggie Smith had removed from the Bunburys’ library wall, but the first one, taken from the Quornes on March thirtieth.
We thanked Mercy and left, but got no further than the pavement.
“Lady Treloar did it,” I said, hardly able to contain my excitement. “She pretended to travel to Biarritz but in actuality, she stayed at the Palmerston Hotel. During that time, she stole the Quornes’ painting. When Mercy recognized her at the Bunburys’ ball, but heard she was using a different name, she knew something was amiss and passed that information on to Ambrose McDonald to see if he could make something of it. McDonald knew the art theft had happened in that time and put two and two together. He guessed Lady Treloar was the thief. He confronted her that night, hoping to blackmail her, but she killed him instead.”
My excitement was reflected in Harry’s eyes. “An excellent deduction.”
“You deduced it, not me. You asked about the dates of her stay, so you must have had an inkling. My first instinct was an affair with a married man. How did you make the connection to the theft?”
“We sometimes had guests stay at the Mayfair under false names in the first quarter of the year. My uncle was the only one who knew their true identities. The reasons they stayed were always the same, and it was rarely an affair of the heart. They stayed with us because it was cheaper than traveling overseas.”
“I don’t understand.”
“They couldn’t afford Biarritz or any of the glamorous resorts on the continent. But they wanted people to think they could, so they closed up their townhouses here, if they had them, and moved into the hotel for a few weeks. They laid low, some rarely leaving their rooms to avoid being seen.”
“But the Mayfair is expensive.”
“Not as expensive as traveling to Biarritz, and they still enjoy a level of luxury they’re used to. When Mercy said Lady Treloar stayed at the Palmerston under a false name, my first thought was that she was hiding from her friends too, merelypretendingto travel to the continent. Then I remembered her claiming to be in Biarritz when the Quornes’ painting was stolen. Once I realized she was in London at that time, there was a good chance she stole the painting, considering the business she’s in.”
“Ambrose McDonald certainly seemed to think so.”
We still stood in the narrow street that housed the Palmerston Hotel’s staff. Scotland Yard was in one direction and Lady Treloar’s gallery in the other. Did we confront her or take what we knew to the police?
As much as I wanted to involve them, I suspected they would dismiss Mercy’s evidence. It was her word against Lady Treloar’s. With Lord Bunbury putting pressure on his friends at Scotland Yard to wrap the case up quickly, they’d be reluctant to keep it open based on the word of a maid who’d been dismissed from her prior position for unbecoming behavior.
“We need proof,” I said.
“We do.” Harry nodded at the door to the residence hall. “We could ask the other members of staff if they remember the guest named Mrs. Tidmarsh and then ask them if they recognize Lady Treloar.”
I could tell from his tone that he didn’t think it would help the case against her. “Or we can find other evidence,” I said. “We need to find something that connects her to the theft without any doubt. Let’s think…why does someone steal an expensive painting?”
“To sell it.”
“Exactly. She must have contacts in the art world and know of wealthy people prepared to purchase stolen art. Perhaps there’s a bill of sale in her gallery or some correspondence between her and the buyer.”
Harry gave me a skeptical look. “Thieves don’t usually draw up bills of sale or leave crucial evidence lying around.”
“Then what do you suggest?”
He thought about it a moment then said, “I think we should look around the gallery and see what we can find.”
“That amounts to the same thing I suggested, only I was being more specific.”
“Then it seems we’re in agreement.” Harry set off, his steps determined.
I picked up my skirts and hurried after him. “What should we say to her? We don’t want her to suspect that we know. Not yet.”
