It was, I realized, a lot easier to sneak about in the winter than in the summer. “London is much further north than Cape Cod,” I said. “It’s only four thirty.”

  We headed for the Tube station as wet snow began to fall faster.

  “We now have,” I said as we walked, “a good suspect.”

  “Do you think so?” Jayne said. “She seemed to be genuinely sorry he’s dead.”

  “That means nothing. Plenty of killers have regretted what they’ve done as soon as it’s done.”

  “Is that why she hasn’t gone to the police, do you think? She seemed to me like the sort who’d love the attention. The grieving fiancée and all that.”

  “It’s possible. Then again, she cuts a lot of corners with the little business she has going there. She was quick enough to suspect her engagement ring was fake. Which means she automatically thinks along those lines.”

  “When I get an engagement ring, if ever I do, I’d be too embarrassed to ask someone to check it out for me.”

  “Because that’s not your instinctive reaction.”

  “Maybe she’s in the country illegally?”

  “Unlikely. Her English is nearly perfect and the Polish accent only gets strong when she gets emotional, meaning she’s probably been in the UK for a long time.”

  “Did you find it interesting that she’s never been to that flat we visited earlier, and Randy told her he wasn’t living in a nice place?”

  “I did. I suspect their relationship suffered from a lack of honesty in a lot of ways.”

  “What now?” Jayne asked.

  “Let’s go to Stanhope Gardens and report in. I want to check on my dad anyway, and the group should be back from Scotland Yard soon.”

  Chapter Ten

  I texted Pippa and told her we were on our way back to Stanhope Gardens. We went to Tower Hill station to catch the Tube, but first I took a short detour so Jayne could have a look at the Tower of London from a distance. She gazed longingly at the massive fortress.

  “We’ll come back, I promise.” I said. “Maybe we can get this business settled today and visit the tower tomorrow.”

  “It would be fun to skate around it.” She pointed to the brightly lit ice-skating rink at the base of the historic fortifications.

  “A whole new twenty-first-century use for a moat,” I said.

  * * *

  My mother answered the door to my ring. “Your father’s definitely on the mend,” she said. “He’s complaining about being bored.”

  “Any memories coming back?” I asked as Jayne and I stepped into the house.

  “He says no. He’s in his shop, if you want to see him.”

  “I’ll pop out there. In the meantime, I bet Jayne would love a cup of tea.”

  Mum smiled at my friend. “As would I.”

  We hung up our outerwear, and I walked through the house in search of my father. The center hallway ends with the kitchen on one side and the conservatory on the other. There it opens onto a small terrace, used in the nice weather for dining outdoors. A low wall surrounds the terrace, and two steps lead down to the garden. Large trees, their branches bare now, and a six-foot-high brick wall surround the property. The large iron pots, which my mother fills with plants in the summer, were empty. A fine layer of wet snow lay over the bushes and the turned-over flower beds. Most of the yard was taken up by my father’s woodworking shop. Lights shone from inside. I knocked lightly and went in.

  Horace leapt to his feet and barked, and then he ran over to sniff the scents on my clothes to check on what I’d been up to today. I patted him on the head, and I looked up to see my father smiling at me. I gave him a hug. “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Much better. Still don’t remember anything about last night. Dr. McMaster said it may never come back. Depends on whether or not my short-term memory had stored the events in my brain before I got hit.”

  I perched on a high stool and swung my legs in the air. I was ten years old again, sitting on the stool, enveloped in the familiar scents of freshly cut wood, mineral oil, and machine oil and breathing in sawdust, proudly telling my father my exam results.

  Then I was twenty-seven again, having to tell him I was leaving England and joining Great-Uncle Arthur in America to help run the bookshop he’d bought on a crazy whim.

  I picked a bowl off the table next to me. It was huge, almost two feet wide and a deep rich red in color. A matching set of salad servers rested inside. The shelves over my head were lined with bowls, candlesticks, cutting boards, toys, and sculptures of varying woods and sizes. “You’ve been busy.”

  “I’ve signed up for several craft fairs over the spring. I’m sure you’ve been busy today too. Tell me about it.”

  “Jayne and I went back to the conference for a short while, and then we went to the Tower of London.” I spoke in total honesty, leaving out a handful of pertinent details.

  “Highly unlikely you toured the tower. Want to tell me what you were doing there?”

  “No. Pippa and I will coordinate. Better you don’t know. Plausible deniability and all that.”

  He put the bowl in his hands down. “I don’t want to be able to deny, plausibly or not, my daughters’ activities on my behalf.”

  “Blissful ignorance, then,” I said. “Do you have any contacts with people who work on art forgery?”

  “One or two.”

  “Give them a call. Ask if there’s any talk of fake Dutch masters, sixteenth or seventeenth century, floating about over the last couple of months.”

  “Randy was back in the game?”

  “Looks like it. But we can’t forget that he also had enemies of a more personal nature.”

  “It’s so frustrating, Gemma, not being able to remember. For all I know I was a witness to whoever killed Randy, and I can’t recall a single detail. Some old cop I am. If I were Sam Morrison, I wouldn’t believe me either.” He sighed heavily, and my heart rolled over. He looked so very old.

  Horace was thinking the same as me. He nuzzled his nose into Dad’s leg. Dad scratched behind his ears, and I smiled.

  We never had pets when I was a child, mainly because of my parents’ work schedule and Mum’s allergies. I’d never wanted a pet, but then Violet came into my life and now I couldn’t imagine life without her. I was glad Dad had Horace.

  “The memory will come.” I said. “And if not, I’m here. Did you hear from DI Morrison again today?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. He was back early in the afternoon to badger me again. Anne called Dr. McMaster and had him speak to Sam to inform him that yelling at me wouldn’t help my memory any.”

  “Did Morrison come with anyone?”

  “A young woman. DS Patel. I didn’t get her first name. She didn’t say much, but she did look uncomfortable when things started getting tense.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Anne made the phone call to the doctor, and the police left.”

  I hopped off the stool. “Mum and Jayne are making tea. Coming?”

  “I want to get this piece finished.” He turned back to his worktable.

  Before following the sound of voices into the library, I called Ashleigh, my shop assistant. It was late in West London, and I hoped she’d still be up. I’d planned to check in every day, but with all that was happening, I hadn’t had the chance today.

  “Sorry about calling so late,” I said when she answered. “But I’ve been on the go all day.”

  “Having too much fun, are you? Westminster Abbey, the tower of Big Ben. Rosy-red cheeks of the little child-ren.”

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a sixties music fan.”

  “I have a wide variety of tastes.”

  That was true enough. “How’d the signing go yesterday?” A major best-selling author had agreed to do an event at the Emporium. His new book wasn’t part of our usual mandate—not having anything remotely to do with Sherlock Holmes or his times—but it was a critically acclaimed “sweeping” and “important” historical novel about Cape Cod. I’d been delighted when the author agreed to come, but I’d already arranged this trip to London. Arthur had convinced me he and Ashleigh could handle the event on their own.

  “It … uh … didn’t happen,” Ashleigh said.

  “What do you mean, it didn’t happen? Did he take ill?”

  “Not exactly. Look, don’t worry, Gemma. I know he said he’d never step foot in our store again, but that was only ’cause he was mad. He’ll get over it. Someday. Probably. I offered to buy him a new pair of shoes, but he said those were handmade leather ones he’d had personally made by a family in Florence who’ve been crafting shoes for seven generations, and he wouldn’t be caught dead in anything I—a mere store clerk—could possibly afford to buy to replace them.”

  My mouth flapped open, but no words came out. For one of the few times in my life, I was speechless.

  “I don’t think he even knows what some of those English words Arthur called him meant.”

  More mouth flapping in silence. Finally I said, “Arthur called a number-one New York Times best-selling author names?”

  “Only after he threated to kill Moriarty for peeing on his shoes.”

  I groaned.

  “Other than that,” Ashleigh said, “everything’s been great. No need to worry. Mrs. Fallingham said he was a jerk, so there.” Mrs. Fallingham was one of our store’s most loyal and influential book buyers.

  “There is that, at least,” I said. “If she likes the book, she’ll recommend it to her friends.”

  “Oh, no,” Ashleigh said, “she didn’t buy one. You know how much she adores Moriarty. She said the author was so obnoxious, she’ll tell everyone to boycott him.”

  I envisioned the storage room of the Emporium—stacked to the rafters with boxes of the “sweeping” and “important” book I’d ordered for the signing.

  “See you Wednesday,” Ashleigh said cheerfully. “Bye! Have a cuppa for me.” She hung up.

  I could only hope 222 Baker Street wouldn’t burn to the ground before I got home.

  I went into the library to find Jayne and Mum sipping tea and nibbling on chocolate biscuits. Which, now that I am living in America, I am beginning to call cookies.

  “Everything okay at home?” Jayne said.

  “Perfect. I should leave Arthur and Ashleigh in charge more often.” I sat down and Mum poured me a cup.

  “Glad to hear it,” Jayne said. “I have to admit I was concerned. Maybe we can make that trip to Paris next year after all.”

  “You’re going to Paris?” Mum said. “How delightful. Do be sure and visit in the spring. It’s as dreary in January as London is.”

  The front door opened, and we could hear a babble of voices from the entranceway.

  “In here!” Mum called.

  In came Pippa followed by Ryan, Grant, and Donald.

  “I’ll make more tea,” Mum said.

  Jayne got to her feet. “Let me help.”

  I lifted my chin to accept a kiss from Ryan. “Have fun?” I asked.

  “It was great!” His cheeks were ruddy with cold and his blue eyes shone with pleasure. “I can’t believe Pippa was able to organize a private tour like that with no notice. And on a Sunday too.”

  “I’m beginning to think,” Grant said, “Pippa can do a lot of incredible things.” If Grant had been a woman, I would have said he looked radiant.

  I glanced at my sister. She was also smiling. Good heavens, was that a glow I saw surrounding her? Did she look radiant?

  “As well as the offices,” Donald said, “we had a fascinating tour of the Black Museum.” He meant the police museum that isn’t open to the general public. “And an excellent lunch to boot.” Fortunately Donald hadn’t worn his ulster today, and his cardigan was buttoned all the way up, hiding the Sherlock quote on his T-shirt. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone at the Yard to think he was making fun of them.

  “And you, Gemma?” Pippa asked. “How was your day?”

  “Jayne and I enjoyed a walk in the City and near the Tower of London. We also had a nice lunch.”

  “Isn’t that lovely,” Pippa said.

  Mum and Jayne reappeared with a bigger teapot, more cups, and a larger arrangement of biscuits.

  “Where’s Dad?” Pippa asked.

  “In the workshop,” I said. “He remembers nothing new.”

  “Grant,” Pippa said, “would you mind going out and telling him it’s teatime?”

  “I’d be happy to.” Grant almost skipped away.

  “Gemma, why don’t you and I take a moment to chat?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  Ryan started to stand. I gave him a playful push in the chest. “Sister talk. Not for you.”

  I followed Pippa into the hallway and shut the library door behind me.

  “Is every man in America dreadfully handsome?” she asked me when we were alone.

  I grinned. “Not all. When they get older, some of them turn into Donald.”

  “Oh, yes. Donald. I can say one thing for your Donald. You can’t beat that wide-eyed enthusiasm. We can’t talk here. Anyone of them might come in, and I don’t trust Mother not to listen at the door. We’ll go for a walk.”

  “What will we tell the others?”

  “Nothing. We’ll simply go. Otherwise Grant and Ryan will try to come.”

  “They’ll think we’ve been kidnapped.”

  She gave me a look. “Really, Gemma. But if you insist, I’ll text Grant once we’re outside.”

  “You exchanged numbers, eh?”

  “I didn’t want us to get separated in the city.”

  “Really, Pippa.”

  We tiptoed down the hallway, collected our coats, and slipped outside. Pippa grabbed the key for the locked garden across the street out of the silver bowl by the door.

  We crossed the street, let ourselves into the garden, and found a bench beneath a lamppost. Snow was falling, drier and heavier now, and we sat in the circle of light. No one else was in the garden.

  “There are no CCTV cameras in here,” Pippa said. “As it’s private property. There’s one at the entrance to the street itself, but it’s no secret you’re visiting and that your parents live here. If you need to come or go unobserved, there’s a crumbling section of brick in the back wall that’s easier to remove than it looks, and the people who own the house on the far side winter in the South of France. The CCTV camera on that street is inactive. Now, tell me what you learned.”

  Pippa sat quietly while I did so. I finished talking at last and let her think over what I’d told her. “So, he’s back in the forgery business,” she said at last.

  “That’s what I concluded.”

  “With money behind him. I’m thinking someone put him up in that flat, at their expense, to give him time and a place to make the painting, and threw in a few bonuses such as a credit card with a high limit to keep him happy. That someone might have had second thoughts about the deal. Or Randy had second thoughts his partners didn’t appreciate.”

  “Maybe they didn’t like him taking time off to make the Holmes sketches and come to the conference. But we can’t lose sight of other people who might be involved, never mind the ubiquitous person or persons unknown.”

  “Such as the angry former fiancée,” Pippa said.

  An elderly woman walked slowly toward us, followed by a King Charles spaniel on a leash. The dog ran over to sniff at us. “Good evening,” the woman said.

  “Good evening,” my sister and I chorused.

  We were quiet until they’d continued up the path and disappeared into the snowy darkness. When I was sure the woman was out of hearing, I asked, “What did you find out about the dreadlocked woman and the bullet-headed man?”

  “His name is John Saint-Jean, and he was easy to locate from the hotel’s CCTV cameras. I won’t give you any information on him, because I want you to go in with an open mind. You can pay a call on him tomorrow.” Pippa rattled off an address in Mayfair. “As for the woman, nothing yet. It’s possible, by your description, her hairstyle was a wig.”

  “If she wore a wig, she might have been attempting to disguise herself.”

  “Or simply wanting to look more interesting as an artist.”

  “If you have access to the CCTV footage,” I said, “you must know what it shows of Randy’s movements as well as Dad’s at the time in question.”

  “I don’t have access,” she said. “But I know people who do who will answer any questions I send their way. The only CCTV camera at that end of the hotel is mounted above the entrance to the ballroom area facing toward the lobby. The camera can see the faces of everyone approaching the reception and the room where the dinner was held, and the backs of them leaving. Not, unfortunately, what went on once people had passed into the reception area. As of yet, no one stands out as of interest.”

  “You know people …” I said. “If you know the right people, why don’t you get Morrison taken off the case and someone who hasn’t already decided Dad’s guilty put on it?”

  “Not everyone in Scotland Yard is a friend of mine,” she said. “I’ve already done more than I should. There are people both at the Yard and in the press who would like to see my office embarrassed.”

  “Speaking of this office,” I said. “What is it you do, exactly, Pippa?”

  She brushed a light dusting of snow off her lap. “The police are going through the footage, image by painful image, trying to identify and locate each of the more than four hundred people who were in the area during the after-dinner speeches, when Randy got up from his table, but had left before the authorities arrived. The conference organizers have handed over the conference registration list, but quite a number of people bought banquet tickets for any number of guests, such as you and your friends did for us, and those names were not recorded. Even if names were given, no one ever checked that names and addresses provided were legitimate. It’s going to take the police forever to find and talk to everyone who was there. I’ll give them a little nudge and drop the name of this jewelry maker you found.”