“You think he’d kill for a painting? He didn’t exactly look to be short of funds.”

  “He paid a lot of money for an old master and he ended up with a forgery. People like Sir John don’t care to be made fools of. It’s not about the money, although I’m sure that’s part of it. What’s the time?”

  “Coming up to four.”

  We walked down the street, heading back to Marble Arch Tube station. My phone rang, and I couldn’t push the button fast enough when I saw the name of the caller. My mother.

  “You spoke to Pippa?” she asked.

  “Yes. What’s happening?”

  “I’m at home. Your father is being held until tomorrow at the earliest.” Her voice broke.

  “What do you want us to do?”

  “Brian Cohen, whom I’ve engaged to represent Henry, will be here shortly. You and Pippa need to hear what he has to say.”

  “On my way,” I said.

  Good thing I had new trainers. I set off at a run.

  “What’s happening?” Grant called as he chased after me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Pippa reached Stanhope Gardens before us. She answered the door and said, “I’ll ask Mum to give you a key.”

  “Bought you something.” I handed her the bag containing the boots.

  She took it very suspiciously, as well she might. “What’s this?”

  “A present. From you to yourself.” I took off my new leather gloves and put down my Burberry bag. “Where’s Mum?”

  “Sitting room.”

  I walked quickly into the front room, leaving Grant with Pippa as Pippa said, “I don’t need new boots.”

  The sitting room is painted a soft peach with a sage-green sofa and matching chairs, and looks out onto the street. The paintings are watercolors of pretty meadows and long-haired girls in big hats. The green drapes were open, and Mum stood at the window, staring onto the darkening street. Horace was curled up on the carpet in a corner of the room.

  My mother turned when I came in and Horace leapt to his feet. Her face was drawn and her eyes troubled, and new lines had appeared at the corners of her mouth. Horace gave me a welcoming sniff.

  “Did you have to leave court prematurely?” I asked.

  “Fortunately not. For some reason, my client decided this would be a good week to visit Scotland.”

  “He didn’t show?”

  “No. The judge was not happy, with him or with me. On the bright side, my calendar is clear for the rest of the week. I’ve instructed my client to seek representation elsewhere.”

  “What’s happening with Dad?”

  “Let’s wait until Brian arrives, shall we? At the moment I know nothing more than you do. You can tell me about your day when we’re all here.”

  I sat down as she said, “I like your young man.”

  “You mean Ryan?”

  She nodded. “I like him very much. He’s obviously head over heels for you, as he should be.” She sat on the couch, tucking her skirt neatly beneath her. She was still dressed for court. “The way he looks at you when you aren’t aware is totally charming.”

  Fire burned in my cheeks. “Poor Ryan. I promised him I’d not spend a lot of time at the conference and we’d have a romantic few days in London. I planned to show him all the places that are important to me as well as things I know he’d like. Instead, he’s trailing around after Donald admiring Sherlock Holmes tourist traps.”

  “He’ll forgive you,” she said.

  She was probably right. I hoped so. In West London he’d get mad at what he considered my interference in his cases, and in things that were, in his eyes, none of my business. Here, in London, it wasn’t his case. And it was obviously very much my business.

  “You should plan on coming back in the summer,” Mum said. “Then you can do all the romantic things you want to do, and in much more pleasant weather. Arthur can mind the shop, can he not?”

  Which reminded me that I hadn’t called West London today. Just as well. I probably didn’t want to know.

  Pippa and Grant came in with the tea tray. How nice to be back in England, where every problem can be solved over a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.

  Mum poured while Pippa went to the window. Deep in my pocket the burner phone buzzed and I checked the display. Gallery Lambert. Grant was watching Pippa, and I said, “You should take this.” I handed him the phone.

  “Hello,” he said. “Oh, hi. Yeah, I can do that. Hold on while I write that down. Great. See you then. Looking forward to it.”

  He gave me back the phone. “That was Julian Lambert. He’s taken the bait. We’re meeting at an art gallery, not his, tomorrow at three.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “A cab’s pulling up,” Pippa said. “A man with an expensive overcoat and a briefcase is getting out. Almost certainly one of yours, Mum. I’ll get the door.”

  She and Horace were back seconds later, leading a short, round man in his late fifties who peered at the world through thick spectacles. Mum said, “Brian, thank you so much for coming. My daughters, Phillipa and Gemma. A friend of Gemma’s from America, Grant Thompson. You arrived in time for tea. Please sit down.”

  Brian Cohen perched in an armchair. The dog came over to investigate the newcomer and Brian gave him a hearty rub on the top of the head. He had quick, nervous mannerisms and his watery eyes blinked rapidly. His right hand shook slightly as he accepted a cup of tea from Pippa. She’d noticed it before pouring and had not filled the cup to the top. I had total confidence in him: if he hadn’t been a highly competent solicitor, Mum would not have retained him.

  “First of all,” he said once we were seated, balancing our own cups and staring expectantly at him, “Henry told me to tell you not to worry.”

  “Easier said than done,” Pippa said.

  “Quite,” he said. “But in this situation I’m inclined to agree. The case against Henry is weak, extremely weak, and I’m confident I can have him sprung”—a glance at Grant—“as you Americans say, in the morning.”

  “Obviously something happened this morning,” Mum said. “What was it?”

  “Henry insists he can remember nothing about the evening in question at the time Mr. Denhaugh was killed. Henry was found in the company of the dead man, with no memory of how he came to be there or of what happened. That looks bad, naturally, but isn’t enough to have charges laid without further evidence. Henry’s doctor has made a statement to the police outlining the injury to Henry’s head, saying memory loss of incidents occurring in the minutes before such an injury are common. The memories have not had time to transfer to permanent storage in the brain before the trauma wipes them out.”

  Pippa picked the important words out of Brian’s statement. “And that further evidence is?”

  Before he could answer, Horace leapt to his feet, and a fraction of a second later the doorbell buzzed. Pippa and Mum exchanged glances, and Pippa got up and peered out the window. “The remainder of Gemma’s entourage has returned from a fun-filled day on Baker Street. I’ll let them in.”

  I stood up. “I’ll get more cups and make another pot.”

  I ran into Jayne in the hallway. “Help me with the tea, please.”

  “Happy to.”

  “Did you have a nice day?”

  “It was pretty good. Donald’s enthusiasm was so infectious, I think even Ryan enjoyed it. What about you? Did you learn anything?”

  “My dad’s been arrested.”

  She stopped in her tracks and stared at me. “No! That’s awful. What happened?”

  “His solicitor’s here and about to tell us.” I switched on the gas, filled the kettle, and put it onto the hob while Jayne took more of the Royal Doulton teacups out of the cupboard. “I didn’t get a chance to call on the dreadlocked woman, as I’d planned,” I said. “Can you come with me when I do that?”

  “Sure. Are you okay, Gemma?”

  I turned to face her. “No. I am not. I’m dreadfully worried and I fear all I’m accomplishing running all over London is trying to pretend to myself that I’m helping.” I didn’t cry, but I felt tears well up behind my eyes.

  Jayne gathered me into her arms and held me tightly. “You’re doing all you can do, Gemma, and absolutely no one I know could do it better.”

  I pulled myself away and gave her a smile. “Thanks.” The kettle screamed, and I filled the teapot. “Let’s go and hear what the solicitor has to say.”

  I carried the tray into the sitting room. Ryan took it from me. He looked into my eyes, and I gave him a smile. He nodded in return.

  Introductions had obviously been made while Jayne and I were busy. Jayne took the place on the sofa next to Mum and Horace sat at her feet, staring intently at the chocolate biscuit on her plate. Brian picked up where he’d been cut off. “As you would expect, the police have been interviewing everyone they can locate who’d been at the conference. It’s taking a long time, as conference attendees, hotel staff, and other guests amount to a great many people. They heard several reports of an acrimonious altercation on Friday between Randolph Denhaugh and another man.”

  “Meaning Henry,” Ryan said.

  “When asked, witnesses identified Mr. Doyle from a photographic lineup. Those witnesses include one of the security guards. She claims she heard Mr. Doyle make threats against Mr. Denhaugh. Henry was heard to warn Mr. Denhaugh to stay away from you, Anne.”

  “So,” Ryan said. “What of it? Henry was angry, and Randy was being obnoxious. Threats made in front of a room full of people mean nothing.”

  “That’s right.” Donald munched on a biscuit. So interested was he in the conversation he hadn’t tried to tell me all about his day at his pilgrimage site—Baker Street.

  “Threats mean nothing, I’ll agree,” Brian said. “Unless the person threatened turns up dead shortly thereafter, with the person who threatened him standing over his body. Which is precisely what happened in this situation.”

  “I wouldn’t take a case to court if that was all I had,” Ryan said. “Is it different here?”

  “No,” Brian said. “DI Morrison can try, and he will, to have Henry held, but I will argue before a judge tomorrow that his evidence is not only perilously weak, it is backed by personal and professional animosity from the investigating detective toward my client.”

  “Do you know if they found any fingerprints on that lamp?” I asked. “The one that was on the floor next to Dad. The base was a particularly unattractive shade of orange. Is that what Dad was hit with?”

  “That’s what the police believe, yes. So many fingerprints were on it, it’s going to be almost impossible to trace the people who most recently used it.”

  “Which is what I’d expect,” I said. “It’s a lamp sitting on a side table in a public area. Plenty of people would have touched the base when they turned it on or off, and the cleaner wouldn’t scrub it down daily.”

  “What about the rope?” Ryan asked. “The one that killed Randy?”

  “They’ve had no luck there,” Brian said. “Fortunately, the events happened indoors, so Henry did not have gloves on him. I intend to point that out in the strongest of terms before the judge tomorrow. Although DI Morrison is reminding us that absence of evidence …”

  “Isn’t evidence of absence,” Ryan said.

  “Precisely. Morrison will also mention that Henry was not searched at the time. So he could have had gloves concealed on him.”

  Mum snorted.

  “Rest assured,” Brian said, “I will be reminding the judge of the unlikelihood of anyone carrying gloves to a formal dinner at which they have left their coat in the cloakroom, never mind them accidently leaving a length of rope in their pockets.”

  “That the killer brought the rope,” Mum said, “means the act was premeditated.”

  “Almost certainly,” Brian said. “I will also imply a fair amount about police failure to secure evidence at the scene. In case that is not sufficient, I’ve arranged to meet some of my police contacts this evening for a drink once we are done here, and I’m confident I’ll have proof of Morrison’s antipathy toward Henry to bring before the judge.”

  “In the meantime, Henry sits in jail,” Jayne said.

  “For one night only, hopefully,” Brian said. “Now, I must ask you all if you know of anything I should be aware of as I proceed. For good or for ill.”

  I glanced at Pippa. She dipped her chin, ever so slightly, indicating that I should go ahead.

  “I’ve been poking around,” I said. “Randy was an art forger and spent some time in prison for it, so that’s a matter of record. He claimed to be out of the business, but I strongly believe he was back in it. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you why I know that and my evidence is … uh … illegally obtained.”

  “Gemma!” Ryan said.

  “It’s only slightly illegal,” I hastened to add.

  “Grant, what on earth did you let her do?” Ryan said.

  Grant threw up his hands. “Wasn’t me. We didn’t do anything out of order today. Strange, yes, but not illegal.”

  “Whatever you know, Gemma, helps to draw a picture,” Brian said. “Please continue.”

  I left out what I’d observed in the Canary Wharf studio and told Brian, and thus the whole group, about Grant’s and my visit to the home of Sir John Saint-Jean.

  “That is interesting,” Brian said. “Criminal activity on the part of the deceased is always good for deflecting blame from an estranged relative.”

  “We don’t want to deflect blame,” Jayne said. “We want Henry to be declared innocent.”

  “We’ll take what we can get, Jayne dear,” my mother said.

  Jayne put her arm around Mum, and as an indication of how upset she was, Mum left it there.

  “We mustn’t forget that Randolph had some personal enemies who were at the conference,” I said. “An angry ex-girlfriend, another woman who accused him of cheating her. He wasn’t a very nice man. Sorry, Mum.”

  “Nothing I didn’t know already,” she said.

  “That is all worth knowing,” the lawyer said.

  “I’ve been talking to some of these personal enemies.” I snuck a glance at Ryan. “Legally this time. No one has come straight out and confessed, but I have someone else I need to visit. I was planning on doing that today, but came back here to meet with you.”

  “Apart from the argument at the conference, which was reported to the police by bystanders,” Brian asked, “did Henry and Randolph have any other contact this past weekend?”

  “Not that I know of,” Pippa said.

  Donald, Ryan, and Jayne shook their heads.

  “We were only there for Gemma’s talk on Friday afternoon and at the banquet Saturday evening,” Mum said.

  “We ran into him Thursday evening in the bar of our hotel,” I said. “The rest of you didn’t notice him there, but he recognized us. Us, meaning he recognized Mum and Dad. Dad spoke briefly to him on our way out. It was obviously the first time they’d spoken in a great many years. Dad and I left together, and spent the rest of the evening in the company of this group.”

  Brian put his empty teacup on the side table. “I have to be off. Anne, I’ll give you a call after I’ve spoken to my friends on the police force.”

  “I have an idea,” I said. “Ryan, why don’t you go with Brian to meet these police contacts?”

  “Why?” Ryan said.

  “Why?” Brian said.

  “Why?” Pippa said.

  “Because Ryan’s a police officer and Brian’s a defense lawyer. There’s always some animosity between those two camps. Ryan can talk to them on a professional yet friendly basis. You know, visiting American cop, eager to meet his fellow officers. Hands across the water, and all that.”

  “Might be worthwhile,” Ryan said.

  “I’m not …” Brian said.

  “Excellent idea,” Pippa said. “People always talk more freely in casual company. Ryan can report directly back to us. In the meantime, Gemma and I will let you know if we learn anything you can use.”

  “Thank you, Brian.” Mum got to her feet, and Brian also stood. He took her outstretched hands in hers and stared into her eyes. The look he gave her was so positively adoring I turned away. “Anytime, my dear,” he said, “anytime.” He left the room and Ryan followed. Pippa and I went with them to the door.

  “Are you sure this is okay with you, Brian?” Ryan asked, as I handed him his coat. “I don’t have to come if you don’t want me.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Brian said. “If we arrive at the pub before my contacts, you can tell me about policing in America.”

  Ryan gave me a kiss, told me to stay out of trouble (as if that ever helped), and they left.

  “Nicely done,” Pippa said.

  “I thought so,” I said modestly. “My first instinct was nothing but an attempt to give Ryan something to do. He won’t be happy for much longer traipsing around the tourist traps of London. But on second thought, it is a good idea.”

  Back in the front room, everyone was quiet. Outside, night had fallen and the streetlamps had come on. Mum pulled the heavy drapes shut.

  “Jayne,” I said, “Feel like an outing?”

  “Where?”

  “I have yet to talk to the woman we saw accusing Randy of stealing her ideas. Time to do that now. If she has a job, she should be getting home soon.”

  Donald leapt to his feet. “I’ll come as well.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But she’ll be more open with a couple of women.”

  “I want to help,” he said. “Everyone else is doing their bit. You took Grant with you today, and Ryan is off to meet police officers.”

  “Not this time, Donald,” I said. I appreciated my friends’ concern very much, and the knowledge that they cared about my father because they loved me brought a lump to my throat. But I didn’t need Donald, with his ulster, his Baker Street Irregulars pin, and his total inability to pretend he was anything other than what he was, tagging along behind me. I struggled to come up with a plausible excuse, when Mum came to my rescue.