“We made initial contact at place one and are waiting developments. On the way to the second option now.”

  She hung up without saying goodbye.

  “What’s happened, Gemma?” Grant asked.

  I nodded toward the cab driver. “No one has taken ill, but otherwise I received news of an unfortunate development.” I looked down, to draw Grant’s attention to my lap. I crossed one wrist over the other, as though in handcuffs. Grant’s eyes darkened and he nodded.

  The cab pulled up to a nondescript shoe shop in a row of nondescript shops. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “No need for you to wait.” I handed the cabby money and we got out. I carried the leather boots.

  I quickly found what I needed in a pair of cheap, but properly fitting, trainers. “I don’t need the box,” I said to the clerk. “I’ll wear them home, but I’d like a bag for these.”

  “Those are super nice boots,” she said.

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” I said. Jayne was much smaller than me, but Pippa’s feet were about the same size as mine and she was accustomed to wearing killer heels. I’d make her a gift of the boots. Before presenting her with the bill.

  “What now?” Grant asked when we were once again standing on the sidewalk.

  Before going inside the store, I’d told Grant what precious little I’d learned from Pippa.

  “I need to reevaluate my plan in light of new developments,” I said. “And I need a cup of tea and some lunch. I only had half a pain au chocolat for breakfast.”

  A sandwich shop was a couple of doors down from the shoe store. We were in sight of Trafalgar Square, and I glanced at Lord Nelson, pointing toward Spain from the top of his column. A pigeon flew overhead. The square itself and the steps of the National Gallery were packed with people. We were only a block and a half from what had once been my mystery bookshop. If I had time, I might drop in and see how the place was doing. My ex-husband, whom I sold the business to when I left the cheating rat, had run the shop almost into the ground and had been forced to sell it. He had not, I’d been maliciously pleased to hear, received anywhere near what he’d paid me for it.

  We got sandwiches as well as tea for me and coffee for Grant. The people next to us had a map of London spread out on the table and everyone was pointing at different directions as they argued, loudly, in German. They paid no attention to us.

  I phoned my mother and got voice mail. “It’s Gemma. Pippa called to tell me what’s happened. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, and what time you’ll be home. Obviously we have things to talk over. Love you. Bye.” I next phoned Jayne to check in. “How are things going?”

  “Good, Gemma. We went to the museum and took pictures in front of 221 Baker Street. Ryan couldn’t have looked more bored if he’d tried, but Donald was thrilled with everything. We’re now having a drink in the Allsop Arms, waiting for the walking tour to start. What about you?”

  “Nothing of significance. Let me speak to Ryan, please.”

  The phone was passed and Ryan said, “What’s up?”

  “Don’t tell the others, but my father’s been arrested for the murder.”

  “Okay,” he said so calmly I might have been giving him an account of my shoe-shopping expedition. “Did they find new evidence?”

  “I don’t know. Pippa called me, but she didn’t know anything more. Mum has sent one of her law partners down, so that’s good.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Continue to keep the others occupied.”

  “I want to help, Gemma.”

  “I know you do, but you can’t. Grant’s with me and we’re following some leads. I called because I want you to realize that I have to do this. Now more than ever.”

  “I know,” he said, “but I don’t have to like it. Just be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “I love you.”

  “Me too,” I said, conscious of Grant listening while he ate his prawn-and-mayonnaise sandwich on a baguette. I put the phone away and picked up my own sandwich. Cheese and ham. Grant’s looked better.

  “Where to now?” he asked.

  “I want to pay a call on a man I met at the conference. He showed a prurient interest in my uncle’s activities.”

  “Am I invited?”

  “You are. I think male backup will be required. After that you can meet the others in a pub or something and Jayne and I’ll visit a woman of interest. The just-between-us-girls approach will work better for that one.”

  “Are we getting anywhere, Gemma?”

  I decided to be honest. “Absolutely not.” I had a bad feeling I was wasting my time trying to pretend—to myself if no one else—that I was accomplishing something. I’d taken one bite of my sandwich. I rolled it up in its paper wrapping and got to my feet. “Let’s go.”

  “I haven’t finished.”

  “You can eat as we walk.”

  “No, I can’t. That’s not good for the digestion. Sit down and finish your lunch. We can wait another five minutes.”

  I dropped back into the hard plastic chair.

  “There’s a good girl,” Grant said.

  I glared at him. But I did unwrap the sandwich.

  “Do you think Pippa will be coming around to your parents’ house later?” he asked me.

  * * *

  The bullet-headed man, who’d been identified as John Saint-Jean, lived in Mayfair. Mayfair is the most expensive section of one of the most expensive cities in the world. I could only assume he worked as a chauffeur or butler (although he didn’t look the part) or a gardener and lived on the premises.

  As we fought our way through sightseeing crowds to the Tube station at Charing Cross, I told Grant why we were paying a call on Mr. Saint-Jean. “As he knows who I am, having deliberately sought me out at the conference to make threats, there’s no point pretending to be something I am not. You’re coming with me to look imposing.”

  “I can do that.” Grant scrunched up his face, puffed up his chest, lifted his shoulders, and spread his arms, assuming the pose one is supposed to take when being confronted by a black bear.

  I do not know why I know that tidbit of information.

  “Pippa wouldn’t tell me anything about this man, wanting me to make my own impressions. Why she thought that was necessary, I don’t know.”

  “Think we’ll find him at home? It is the middle of the day on Monday. He’ll likely be at work.”

  “He might live at his place of employment. I’m more interested in his employer than in him anyway. He told me people had sent him. I want to know who those people are.”

  We got off the Tube at Marble Arch and walked the few blocks to Culross Street where, according to Pippa’s contacts, John Saint-Jean was employed.

  The house we wanted was four stories tall, painted a clean crisp white with black trim, surrounded by an iron fence intended to be nothing but decorative. It was at the end of the row, close to Hyde Park.

  We stood on the sidewalk, and I studied the house. The drapes were drawn, the small balconies empty. “Remember,” I said. “Stand behind me, say nothing, and look tough.”

  “Grrrr,” Grant said.

  I pressed the bell, and the door opened before the sound had died away.

  The man who stood there was dressed in a perfectly fitting black suit, wrinkleless white shirt, thin black tie, shoes polished to a brilliant black shine. His gray hair was cut close to his head and his gray mustache neatly trimmed. “Good afternoon, Ms. Doyle,” he said in a deep rolling voice with a faint touch of Scotland. “You have been expected.” I’d never seen him before.

  Grant and I stepped into the house. We might have been in Baskerville Hall—all dim lighting, dark wood, deep-red carpet, upholstered chairs, and gilt-framed paintings of hounds and horses and red-coated men at the hunt.

  “Sir John is waiting in the library. May I offer you tea, or perhaps something stronger? Sir?”

  “Nothing at the moment, thank you,” I said. “Before we meet your employer, do you know a man by the name of John Saint-Jean? Does he work here?”

  “I know him, yes. He does work here. In a manner of speaking. This way, please.”

  He bowed ever so slightly and led the way deep into the house. The hallway was lined with painted portraits, most from centuries past, but one was of a man in a World War II–era army uniform and another of a woman wearing, of all things, twenty-first-century medical scrubs with a stethoscope around her neck. The butler caught me looking. “Sir John’s niece, Dr. Rose Saint-Jean.”

  Sir John?

  He opened a door at the far end of the hallway. “Miss Gemma Doyle and companion,” the butler announced sonorously. Grant and I stepped into the room, and the door shut silently behind us.

  The Baskerville Hall theme continued in the library. Logs burned in a large open fireplace, and the thick red-and-gold drapes were pulled shut.

  “Speaking of Vermeer …” Grant muttered as he stared at a painting of a woman pouring milk from a heavy jug.

  “Not Vermeer, I’m sorry to say. As you may know, Mr. Thompson, Vermeer pained only thirty-four works in his lifetime that have been positively attributed to him, and they are all either in public galleries or private ones open to the public. With the exception of the painting stolen in Boston in 1990 and the one currently in the Queen’s own collection.” The bullet-headed man rose from a cracked and faded brown leather armchair. He wore baggy brown corduroy trousers, worn at the knees, a beige fisherman’s sweater with a hole in one elbow, and purple-and-gray plaid bedroom slippers that showed a great deal of use. “I have some items that might be more to your interest.” He waved a hand toward the bookshelves lining the walls. “Feel free to explore while Miss Doyle and I chat. Are you sure I can’t get either of you a drink?”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” I said. “A whiskey would do. No ice, splash of water.”

  “I believe I have something you’ll like. Mr. Thompson?”

  “The same. Thanks.”

  I didn’t see him press a button or make any other gesture, but the door behind us opened and the butler came in. “Three whiskies, please, David. You’re not normally a whiskey drinker, Miss Doyle, although Mr. Thompson is. But I think you’ll enjoy this. It’s made in small quantities at my estate in Scotland.”

  I’m not often gobsmacked, but I was now. I gave my head a mental shake. “You again have the advantage of me, as I believe I said the first time we met. You’re John Saint-Jean?”

  “Sir John. A hereditary title. Please, have a seat.”

  I dropped into a chair, beautifully upholstered in red-and-gold damask. The butler handed me a glass, then gave one to Grant, who was reading the spines of the books lining the walls. I might have heard him gasp. The butler served Sir John last and left the room. The door shut soundlessly behind him.

  “I consider myself a good judge of character,” I said. “I’m not often wrong.”

  Sir John smiled at me. And it was a warm smile, full of gentleness and humor. This was definitely the man I’d seen in the kitchen hallway at the conference. The same, but totally different. This one had an educated, upper-class English accent, about as far from the rough cockney as it was possible to get in England.

  “I dabbled in amateur dramatics at Eton,” he said.

  “Why the pretext?”

  “Saves money on a bodyguard or hiring security personnel,” he said with a chuckle. “Looking the way I do. My appearance was the despair of my mother’s life.” He cracked his knuckles. “That plus a few skills I picked up in the SAS.” He pointed to the tattoo on his neck, an eagle’s talons reaching up from inside his shirt. “An unfortunate memory of an excessively drunken weekend in Kuala Lumpur in my younger days in the army.”

  “SAS,” Grant said. “Special Air Service. The equivalent of our Navy Seals.”

  “Same principle, at any rate,” Sir John said. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I know so much about you and Grant, Gemma. May I call you Gemma?”

  I nodded. “I’m not wondering, no. I assume you looked us up on the Internet.”

  “My bio on my book business website says I’m fond of a good single malt,” Grant said.

  “So it does. Yours, Gemma, says nothing. Outside of your shop in West London, you have a surprisingly low public profile.”

  “I have no secrets,” I said.

  “I have to confess I merely took a guess you weren’t a whiskey drinker. Young women today rarely are.”

  “I’ll take a guess that you have a camera outside your house watching the street and you were waiting for us. Thus you instructed your butler to let us in immediately and to use my name.” I sipped my drink. I had to agree with Sir John. I didn’t like it much.

  “Quite.” He stood up and walked to the window. He lifted a corner of the drapes and I saw a garden, empty urns, bare trees, naked vines crawling up a brick wall. “Enough playful banter. Randolph Denhaugh cheated me out of a great deal of money and then he dropped out of sight. I went to the Holmes conference because I’d received word he’d be there. My intention was to confront him and threaten him with dire consequences if I didn’t get it back. When I saw you, I decided the indirect approach might be better.”

  “You had to know he and I weren’t exactly on familiar terms.”

  “An opening gambit only. For the same reason I spoke to your mother prior to the banquet. After that, by the way, I left the hotel premises when everyone went through to dinner. I didn’t have a ticket. I came straight home, which both David and the CCTV camera the next street over can testify, and did not go out again. Meaning I didn’t kill Randolph.”

  “Why am I here?” I asked. Sir John hadn’t summoned me, but he’d sat back and waited, confident I’d show up sooner rather than later.

  “Your uncle’s death means it’s unlikely I will ever get back what I was cheated out of.”

  “He sold you a piece of forged art?”

  Sir John nodded. “He sold me an old master and replaced it with a forgery at the time of delivery. I paid ten million pounds for a painting I might as well use to keep the fire going. I bought it two years ago. I only discovered the forgery recently, and have been searching for Randolph Denhaugh ever since. I got word he’d popped up at a Sherlock Holmes convention, of all things. You ask why you are here. I know you’re investigating Randolph’s murder …”

  “The police are investigating.”

  “Them too,” he said. “I wanted to tell you my story so you wouldn’t be distracted investigating me, as well as to ask you to let me know if you learn anything about my painting. I’ll have David bring the copy in before you leave.”

  “I’m not a detective or a private investigator. I don’t care about your painting.”

  “No, but you do care that your father not be charged with the murder of his wife’s long-lost brother.”

  I kept my face impassive. According to Pippa, Dad had been charged. Apparently that was one detail Sir John didn’t know. Yet. “I’m a bookstore owner,” I said. “I live in a pleasant seaside town on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean. I have a cat who hates me and a dog who loves me.” I put my glass on the table. “Thank you for your time, Sir John.”

  “At the time of his death, Denhaugh was doing a job for a man named Julian Lambert, who owns a gallery—”

  “Near the Tate Modern. Grant and I paid him a visit this morning.”

  He grinned. “You are good. The police haven’t made that connection yet. My bet is that someone in the rarified world of fine art killed Denhaugh. There is no honor among thieves.”

  “So I’ve heard. Let’s go, Grant.”

  “I know Phillipa quite well, by the way,” Sir John said. “I must say I had a shock when I saw her at the Holmes banquet. I never would have expected to see her at a thing such as that.”

  I refrained from glancing at Grant.

  The door opened and the butler came in, bearing a painting in a heavy, ornate gilt frame. He held it up in front of him. It was a family portrait. Mother, father, two girls, one boy, a dog. Dutch, mid-seventeenth century, very much in the style of Rembrandt.

  “I’m pleased you tracked me down. I wanted to meet you and let you know I had nothing to do with the death of your uncle,” Sir John said. “However, if in the course of your investigation, you happen to come across a picture exactly like this, do let me know.”

  “I’m not investigating anything,” I said, “just poking around.”

  “Nevertheless, things do have a habit of popping up unexpectedly, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  While Sir John and I talked, Grant had been continuously throwing wistful glances at the bookshelves.

  “None of my books are for sale, Grant,” Sir John said. “But if you give me a call later, I’ll put you in contact with a few of my friends.”

  “Thanks,” Grant said.

  “Next time you’re in London, drop by. I’d love to talk books with you. Give my regards to Arthur, Gemma. Good day.”

  We walked down the long corridor behind the silent David, still carrying the forged painting. He opened the door and gave us a slight bow.

  When we were standing on the sidewalk once again, I let out a long breath. “Wow. That was something.” I waved in the general direction of where I thought the house’s security camera would be.

  “I couldn’t believe the books, Gemma. I’ve never seen a private collection like it. And I’ve seen some pretty good ones.”

  I turned away from the camera, in case Sir John or his butler could read lips, which wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. John Saint-Jean was full of surprises.

  “Did he mean your uncle Arthur when he asked you to give his regards to Arthur?” Grant asked.

  “He must have. He seems to know an uncomfortable amount about me and my family. Good thing I have no secrets.”

  “Interesting about the forged painting,” Grant said. “We can now scratch him off the suspect list.”

  “Scratch him off? Oh no, he’s zoomed to the top.”

  “Why? Didn’t you like him?”

  “I liked him enormously, Grant. What a fascinating man. If I was staying in London, I’d want to get to know him better. But just because he says he didn’t kill Randolph doesn’t mean he didn’t. His alibi is his butler and CCTV footage? The butler will say what he’s told to, and video footage can be altered. Particularly by someone who has the sort of contacts I suspect Sir John does.”