The Painted Lady-TPL Read Online Free

portrait.”
    “Uhuh?” The inspector tried not to catch Jean’s mocking eyes as he walked across to cast his discerning gaze over the preliminary sketch plus a few colour shades that Boothroyd had so far mapped out. “The nose isnae sharp enough.”
    “What do you want here, McLevy?” Jean snapped; the man could nettle her no matter the surroundings.
    “A word with Mister Boothroyd. But I didnae know he had such fine company.”
    The artist made a smooth intervention before war broke out. “Perhaps we should stop, Mistress Brash. I would not wish to fatigue you.”
    Jean stood up and shrugged into her coat, aware suddenly that her carriage was due and she had a bawdy-hoose to run. “I rarely run out of puff, Mister Boothroyd. Tomorrow – same time?”
    “I shall be waiting.”
    “Don’t forget to oil the hinges. Goodbye, James, try to behave yourself.”
    “Whit d’you want a picture for anyway?” McLevy asked out of the blue.
    It was a good question. She had heard whispers from many sides that Jardine Boothroyd was a man of parts, her curiosity had been roused and, as Hannah had observed, she lacked diversion.
    “So that when I am old and wrinkled, I may look back and see what a beauty I was in my prime,” Jean answered ironically.
    “In your prime?”
    “That is what I have attained. In case you havenae noticed!” And with that the door slammed, leaving both men a little short of air.
    Finally McLevy got a decent look at the man who was handy wi’ a brush. Tall enough, broad enough, a handsome fleshy face with a slight hint of petulance. Weakness to the jaw? The brown eyes were steady though, penetrating under heavy brows, and the talent manifest in his portrait of Judith plus the sketch he had made of Jean.
    The inspector had experienced an abrasive, choleric and unsuccessful exchange with Galbraith, the judge’s doctor, and decided to take the plunge into art. Jean Brash was the last person he’d expected to find, but life is full of surprises. So here he was. With a lady’s man.
    “You wished to speak with me, inspector?”
    Instead of answering, McLevy, whistling absent-mindedly under his breath, and wandered round the room like some visitor to a gallery. The large space with a skylight window above was remarkably tidy – he noticed a single bed tucked away in the corner, no doubt where the painter slept over if possessed by artistic frenzy.
    Of course it might have other uses but that would entail an obvious question that would give rise to an equally obvious answer. Mind you, the inspector quite enjoyed playing the buffoon and to that end sniffed the air like a warthog before enquiring, “Whit is that odour I detect?”
    “Turpentine. For the cleaning of brushes.”
    “Is that poison?”
    “The taste would deter an imbiber.”
    “Pity.”
    However, while Boothroyd, who had a remarkably deep and pleasant voice, patronised McLevy from the other side of the room, the policeman had been sifting idly through a sheaf of drawings neatly arranged in cardboard folders – mostly head and shoulders of various society matrons and, it must be admitted, somewhat unattractive daughters. But then he found a preparatory study of Judith Pearson.
    Again this was a head and shoulders with the flowing line of her bare neck given particular emphasis, but what was hidden in the finished portrait was manifest on paper.
    He turned abruptly, holding the sketch under his chin so that it faced out to Boothroyd who now had the benefit of being regarded by two visages, one admiring and one most certainly not.
    “Judith Pearson – how deep does it go?”
    Boothroyd was disconcerted by the unexpected question and the ferocity in McLevy’s eyes.
    “I beg your pardon –”
    “You heard me! How deep did you delve, my mannie, how deep does it go?”
    “A . . . commission. Nothing more.”
    The inspector paid little heed to this faltering response and tapped the sketch with a meaningful forefinger. “A kind regard