Chief Superintendent Armstrong wasn’t at Scotland Yard when they arrived, to Daniel’s relief as he’d always had a difficult relationship with him. It had been hard enough when Daniel had been a detective sergeant, but it had got worse since Daniel retired from the force, especially because of his successes as a private enquiry agent, something that Armstrong seemed to take as a slur on the police, and himself in particular. This situation wasn’t helped by those journalists with little liking for Armstrong who’d invented the title of ‘The Museum Detectives’ for Daniel and Abigail, highlighting their successes in those cases and making a point of contrasting them with Scotland Yard’s failures.
Their old friend, Inspector John Feather, was in, and it was to him that Daniel showed the letter from Stanford Beckett. Feather grinned as he handed it back to Daniel.
‘Good, this’ll cover my back if the chief superintendent finds out you’ve been here.’
‘Don’t tell me we’ve been barred from Scotland Yard again,’ said Abigail indignantly as they followed Feather up the wide ornamental staircase to his office on the first floor.
‘Not officially. It’s just in this case, with your past experience in the original Ripper killings, Daniel, he’d prefer it if you weren’t involved.’ He gestured at the letter from Stanford Beckett as Daniel put it back in his pocket. ‘He’ll be upset when he hears about this.’
‘What do you know, John?’
‘Anne-Marie Dresser, part-time artists’ model, part-time prostitute. Her body was found yesterday morning outside the entrance to the National Gallery. Her abdomen had been ripped open and her internal organs removed.’
‘And you arrested Sickert. Why?’
‘Two things,’ said Feather as he walked into his office and gestured for them to sit. ‘One, the murder was a copy-cat of the Jack the Ripper killings from nine years ago. And you especially, Daniel, will remember that Sickert was a strong suspect at the time, you and Abberline being in the thick of it. I was only a detective constable then, but even I did my bit, as did every copper on the force, because it was such a big case.’
‘It’s still not enough to arrest Sickert,’ said Daniel.
‘No, but this was the clincher,’ said Feather. He reached into his desk and took out a sheet of paper, which he passed to them. ‘It was left at the front desk late yesterday afternoon.’
On the paper were the words ‘The tart wot was killed at the National Gallery. It was the painter Sickert wot dun it.’
‘Interesting,’ mused Daniel. ‘They can’t spell “what” and “done”, but they can spell “National Gallery”.’
‘Yes,’ nodded Feather, taking the letter back and putting it back in his desk. ‘Someone educated pretending to be semi-literate? Anyway, we went in search of Sickert and found him at home, packing to leave for Venice. Doing a runner, in the chief super’s opinion.’
‘So you brought him in.’
‘We did. He claims he hadn’t seen Anne-Marie for three days.’
‘But he admits knowing her. She was his model.’
‘A bit more than that,’ chuckled Feather. ‘In fact, he told us he brought her back with him after one of his trips to France. From Dieppe, which is where he met her. He set her up in a room in Cumberland Market.’
‘Did his wife know about this arrangement?’ asked Abigail.
‘I don’t know,’ said Feather. ‘We didn’t get a chance to ask her. She was pretty angry when she found out why we were there and spent most of the time hurling abuse at us. It didn’t seem the right time to ask her.’
‘She’s quite a character,’ smiled Daniel. ‘I remember meeting her during the Ripper enquiry. She and Sickert had quite a tempestuous relationship.’
‘They still do, by all accounts,’ said Feather. ‘At least, that’s the impression we get from the servants. So, what’s your angle in all this? Don’t tell me the National Gallery have brought you in to solve the murder. I’d have thought it’s a bit soon for that.’
‘No,’ said Daniel. ‘They want us to try and get Sickert released.’
‘Not a chance,’ said Feather. ‘The chief super’s firm on this. He’s sure that Sickert did it. He wants to nail him. He’s aiming to get a confession from him before the lawyers get on to the case.’
‘How’s he keeping them at bay?’ asked Abigail. ‘It’s a legal requirement that a person accused has access to a solicitor.’
‘Armstrong’s an old hand at this game,’ said Feather. ‘He keeps pulling obscure bits of legislation out of the hat. It won’t last – give it a day or so and Sickert will get to meet his legal people. But the chief super’s hoping by then he’ll have enough to proceed.’
‘Can we at least see Sickert?’ asked Daniel. He tapped his breast pocket where the letter was stored. ‘So we have something to tell the National Gallery.’
Feather hesitated, then nodded. ‘You’re lucky Armstrong’s not around or the answer would be no. But, as he’s not here, I can’t see why not. And if he asks, I’ll tell him about that letter of authority.’
‘Can we see him on our own?’
‘You certainly can,’ said Feather cheerfully. ‘That way I can say it was nothing to do with me, I wasn’t even there, I was just following instructions issued by the boss of the National Gallery.’
A short while later, Daniel and Abigail found themselves sitting at a bare wooden table in an austere interview room in the basement of Scotland Yard. Across from them on the other side of the table were two further chairs. The door opened and a uniformed constable ushered in a short, stocky man in his late thirties. He was dressed in civilian clothes that looked as if he’d slept in them, which they guessed was the case. His trousers were crumpled, as was his shirt, which was unbuttoned.
‘I’ve been told to leave Mr Sickert with you,’ the constable told them, a strong note of disapproval in his voice. ‘If he plays up, just shout. I’ll be right outside the door.’
With that, the constable left.
Sickert gave a broad smile. ‘Detective Sergeant Wilson!’ he said as he walked to the table and took one of the chairs.
‘Sergeant no longer,’ said Daniel. ‘I’m now in private practice. This is my partner, Miss Abigail Fenton.’
‘The brilliant Miss Fenton,’ beamed Sickert. ‘I’ve read about you. The famous archaeologist, and now one of the Museum Detectives, as I believe you call yourselves.’
‘We don’t call ourselves that, that’s a title dreamt up by the newspapers.’
‘Ah yes, the newspapers,’ sighed Sickert. ‘They don’t like me, you know. They call my work vulgar because it depicts real life. Real women, not those idealised depictions so loved of the Renaissance. When did you ever see a Renaissance nude with sagging breasts? I look at you, Miss Fenton, and I see—’
‘If you are going to comment on my breasts, Mr Sickert, perhaps you’ll allow me to comment on your equipment,’ retorted Abigail.
The smile was wiped off Sickert’s face and he glared angrily at Abigail, then at Daniel.
‘I do not appreciate gossip about me being spread,’ he snapped at Daniel.
‘I can assure you I have never discussed your anatomy with anyone, and that includes my partner,’ Daniel snapped back.
For a moment, Sickert seemed discomforted and confused. Then he turned back to Abigail, forcing a smile.
‘I was going to say that it would be an honour to paint your portrait, Miss Fenton.’
‘I do not appear naked for anyone except my husband and my physician,’ said Abigail firmly.
‘I do not only paint nudes,’ said Sickert. ‘You appeal to me. Your statuesque poise, your red hair.’
‘Can we get back to the matter in hand?’ said Abigail curtly. ‘You asked for Mr Wilson to try to get you released. That is why we are here.’
Sickert nodded. ‘I did not kill Anne-Marie,’ he said. ‘She modelled for me, and that was all.’ He leered as he added: ‘We may have dallied, but we were consenting adults who found pleasure in one another’s company.’
‘We’ve been told she was a prostitute,’ said Daniel.
‘She was. Women without the financial security of a husband often need to earn money that way.’
‘Not all women with husbands are financially secure,’ Abigail countered. ‘In many cases, the husband is a drain on their limited resources.’
‘True,’ admitted Sickert.
‘You paid her?’ asked Daniel.
‘For modelling for me,’ said Sickert. ‘And now and then for sex. She was fond of me and sometimes money entered into it. But I did not kill her. I could never harm Anne-Marie. Or any woman.’ He turned to Daniel. ‘You must know that from our previous encounter, Mr Wilson. You and Abberline spent long enough probing into me.’
The sound of the door crashing open and slamming against the wall made them all jerk round. The bulky figure of Chief Superintendent Armstrong stood framed in the doorway, his face purple with fury. Behind him they could see John Feather in the corridor.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Armstrong raged.
Daniel took the letter from the National Gallery and held it out towards the chief superintendent.
‘We’ve been authorised by the National Gallery to ask for the release of Mr Sickert—’ he began, but was immediately cut off by the furious Armstrong.
‘Yes, I’ve been informed about this spurious letter …’
‘Hardly spurious,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s signed by the curator, Stanford Beckett.’
‘I couldn’t care if it’s been signed by God himself! It has no jurisdiction here. And nor have you two.’ He stepped into the room and pointed at the open doorway. ‘Get out!’
Daniel rose to his feet. ‘Legally, Mr Sickert has the right of representation …’
‘Neither you nor Miss Fenton are lawyers,’ grunted Armstrong. ‘You have no official grounds for being here, or for talking to Mr Sickert. Either you leave or I’ll have you both arrested for trespass and obstruction of the police.’
Daniel gave Abigail a look of weary resignation, and she got to her feet.
‘You are making a serious mistake, Chief Superintendent,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that Mr Beckett will wish to take this matter up with your superiors.’ With that, she turned to Sickert and gave a polite but icy nod to him. ‘Goodbye, Mr Sickert. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it!’ growled Armstrong.
Abigail and Daniel left the room. As they passed Feather, the inspector grabbed a quick glance into the interview room to make sure that the chief superintendent had his back to them, then gave Daniel and Abigail a conspiratorial wink, before stepping into the interview room himself.