“Because I was discovered standing over him as he bled to death,” Sid said. “Here, have some coffee to warm you up and I’ll explain.” She handed me a cup and I sipped, gratefully, although I could feel my hand still trembling.

“It was like this, Molly,” she continued. “Remember I wrote to tell you about Reynold Bryce and how Gus hoped to secure an introduction to him through her cousin and to be included in his upcoming exhibition of paintings.”

I nodded.

“The introduction took place. We attended a soirée at his house. Gus corresponded with Reynold Bryce. He seemed friendly and encouraging at first and she had high hopes that he’d include one of her paintings in the showing. She went to visit him a week ago taking several of her paintings with her. Then the next day we got a rude letter saying there was no way he’d consider any painting by her in one of his exhibitions. Poor Gus was devastated. She wrote back, begging him to reconsider, and received a curt rejection. Then on Sunday we were having tea here with Miss Cassatt and told her about Mr. Bryce’s sudden change of heart. Mary suggested it might be because he’d seen me with Gus and realized I was Jewish. She said he was rabidly anti-Semitic, a leader among the anti-Dreyfusards and went out of his way to make sure that Jewish artists and writers were not included in anything that might publicize their work.”

“How mean-spirited,” I said and took another welcome gulp of coffee.

“I was furious, naturally,” Sid continued, glancing across at Gus. “That poor Gus’s chances should be dashed because of me was absolutely unfair. I decided to go and confront him and tell him he was not to punish Gus because of her connection to me. Gus and Mary tried to dissuade me from going but I was adamant. I stalked off to his home. I rang the bell. No one answered. I tapped on the front door and it swung open. I called out. Again nobody answered, so I went in and made my way through to his studio. I thought he might be too absorbed in his painting to have heard my knocking. He was there all right. He was sitting on a chair, looking at the painting he was working on. I went right up to him. ‘Now look here, Mr. Bryce,’ I said. He looked up at me and there was terror in his eyes. For a moment I thought that he had red paint splattered across his front. Then I saw he was clutching at a knife that had been plunged into his chest. Blood was seeping across his white shirt, Molly. It was awful. I’ve never seen anything so ghastly in my life.”

I nodded. I had seen several dead bodies in my time and one never really gets over the shock of them.