I hoped to have frightened her by the sudden question, but she only looked mildly astonished.
“ Mr. Munting? I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve only seen him once since he was married, and that was at the Royal Academy. And at the—the inquest, of course. I think he lives in Bloomsbury somewhere. I expect he’s in the telephone-book.”
I thanked her, and took my leave. Married! My father had never thought to mention that. It upset all my ideas. Because, if Munting was married, then what object could there have been in my father’s suicide—or murder, whichever it was? His death would have left Margaret no nearer to marrying Munting. And any other relation could have been carried on perfectly well, whether my father was alive or not. Certainly, he might simply have destroyed himself in sheer despair and misery, unable to bear the dishonour. But it did not seem so likely.
This news made me alter my plans. I determined not to go and see Munting at once. It would be better, I thought, to get hold of Lathom, and see if I could obtain any light on the question from him.
A little inquiry among the dealers produced Lathom’s address. He was living in a studio in Chelsea. I presented myself at the place the next morning, and was received by a vinegary-looking elderly woman in a man’s cap, who informed me that Mr. Lathom was still in bed.
As it was already eleven o’clock, I handed her my card and said I would wait. She ushered me into an extremely untidy studio, full of oil-paint tubes and half-finished canvases, and waddled away with the card towards an inner door.
Before reaching it, however, she turned back, sidled up to me and said in a glutinous whisper: