Fires of London (The Francis Bacon Mysteries) by Janice Law Read Free Book Online Page B

there was nothing suggestive in the flat. They’d thought they had me, but they didn’t. Frightening me hadn’t worked and searching the studio hadn’t either.
    “Well, Inspector, will that be all?”
    “Oh, not by a long shot,” said the inspector. “I have the suspicion that Miss Lightfoot might be more helpful. She is at this address, is she not?”
    Clearly he didn’t know Nan! “Miss Lightfoot is a nearly blind woman in her sixties—not exactly a good candidate.”
    “No, but I might fancy her for disposing of evidence and as an accessory after the fact.”
    My lungs went into a spasm and I began coughing violently. The inspector watched me with his impassive face and small, hard eyes. I was just getting my breath when we heard the rattle of Nan’s key in the door. Why hadn’t she stayed away? Why hadn’t she gone for a cup of tea and one of those little cakes she likes? Or sat in the park and thrown crumbs to the pigeons?
    I didn’t hear her cheery call of, “I’m home, dear boy,” just her characteristic footsteps with the slight shuffle that keeps her safely in contact with the floor, the ground, the treacherous unseen basis of life—how could I have forgotten the latter for even an instant? And with her, another heavier foot. A second uniform, short and bandy-legged as a jockey, came in with his hand on Nan’s arm. She gave me a stricken look and shook her head.
    I jumped up. “Nan, what’s wrong? What’s happened to Nan?” I asked the officer. “Did she fall?”
    “Just in a manner of speaking, dear boy.” Only a certain thinness in her voice suggested any distress. I hoped they didn’t notice; they’d go for any sign of weakness.
    “We intercepted Miss Lightfoot this morning at the left-luggage room at Victoria Station,” said the inspector.
    “He conducted an illegal search, and he shouldn’t have been here without a warrant, either,” Nan said stoutly. “I can see you’ve taken advantage of my sick boy, but I know my rights. Herr Hitler hasn’t landed yet.”
    The inspector turned to me. I realized that his ponderousness was partly theatrical, a created gravitas. “Would you be surprised to know we found a roulette wheel in her possession?”
    “He would not,” said Nan quickly, “for he intended to paint it.”
    The inspector frowned.
    “For a gambling subject,” I gasped. I looked rather desperately into the studio at the biomorphic form on the dark ground. “I was going to put the wheel in the background there, a rather abstract wheel, symbolic of chance and fate. Connected to the figure with—” There was the problem, my perennial one of relating figure to background, to the depthless abyss.
    The inspector showed his strong teeth, as if he was not much interested in either the meaning or the technique of art. “You’ll not get much inspiration from a wheel in left luggage,” he said.
    “It might have created misunderstandings,” said Nanny. “If you visited.”
    “Oh, so we were expected. You managed to dispose of the chips, I reckon. We were just lucky we’d been following you.”
    “Might as well live under the Nazis,” said Nan, who has a bit of a temper.
    “That might be misconstrued,” the inspector warned. “But in any case, Jessica Lightfoot, I am arresting you on suspicion of running a gaming house.”
    My lungs shrank to the size of a tennis ball. “You can’t do that. Nan had nothing to do with any of this.” I started to gasp and I put my hand on his arm.
    “I can have you for interfering with a police officer,” he warned.
    “But you can’t arrest Nan, not for this. She had nothing, nothing at all—”
    “I thought that you were supposed to be a homicide detective,” Nan interrupted. “You should get on with that instead of following old ladies. We have men left lying dead in the street. What have you been doing about that?”
    “Now, that’s another matter of considerable interest. Mr. Bacon was seen covered in blood shortly