Elsie had been quick to take advantage of Randy’s death.

  Had she brought that occurrence on? Not only in revenge at him stealing what she considered to be her idea, but so she could take his pictures and sell them?

  “One hundred pounds each,” she said. “Five for three hundred.”

  “That’s a lot,” I said. “A hundred pounds is almost a hundred and fifty dollars. I won’t have any profit margin.”

  “They’re original art.”

  “They certainly are that. Thanks for your time.” I turned to Jayne. “We can talk to the man who had the booth and see what his prices are like. I didn’t get his card. Did you?”

  Jayne hesitated, not knowing what I wanted her to say.

  “You can’t talk to him,” Elsie said.

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause he died. Didn’t you hear?”

  “He died?” Jayne said. “Gosh, no. When did that happen?”

  “After the banquet.”

  “We left early,” I said.

  “After you got your award,” Elsie said.

  So she did remember me after all.

  “Cops were crawling all over the place when we arrived on Sunday morning,” I said. “People were talking about a death. I didn’t realize it was him. We didn’t stay after that. I …” I shifted my feet and glanced toward the window. “Don’t care to talk to the police any more than I have to.”

  Elsie’s eyes glimmered. She’d caught and understood the implication. “Fair enough. But if you want pictures like these ones, you’ll have to buy from me.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” I headed for the door.

  “You didn’t need to waste my time,” Elsie yelled at me. “Pretending you were interested. I’ve got better things to do, you know.”

  “Have a nice day,” I called.

  I wrenched open the door and Jayne and I fell into the street. The door slammed shut behind us.

  “Were those Randy’s drawings?” Jayne said as we walked quickly away.

  “Almost certainly. Aside from the fact that they’re identical to the ones we saw in Randy’s booth, the quality is far, far better than the pieces she originally showed us. Elsie went back to the conference hotel first thing on Sunday morning and helped herself.”

  “You mean she stole them?”

  “I mean precisely that. The police must have spoken to her as part of their investigation, but as they weren’t American shop owners in London on a shopping trip, she would have left out that minor detail.”

  “Didn’t someone notice his stuff had been cleaned out?”

  “She didn’t take it all. Not judging by what she showed us, anyway. If no one has claimed, legally claimed, Randy’s sketches, the police won’t know how much he had. Even then, it would be hard to tell what’s missing if he didn’t keep a detailed inventory.”

  “What are we going to do now?” Jayne asked.

  “This isn’t something we can keep to ourselves. Elsie stole the property of a murder victim. I’ll talk to Mum and Pippa first, but they’ll want me to tell the police. Which is exactly what I have tried to avoid here. I hate getting wrapped up in police inquiries. They are always so slow to follow my thought process. It makes them suspicious. Why are you grinning like that?”

  “No reason.”

  “I hope Brian manages to get DI Morrison removed from the case, and they put a competent officer on; I’d be willing to talk things over with him or her.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  I called Mum to check in and she told me she was at home, Grant and Pippa had gone for a drink, and Donald had returned to the hotel. She hadn’t heard from Brian.

  I wished her a good night and asked again if it was okay if we all moved into the house in the morning. “It will be nice,” she said, “to have people around until this gets sorted out.”

  Jayne and I took the Tube to Gloucester Road station and walked the short distance to Harrington Gardens. Halfway to the Bentley, a car drove slowly past. It pulled into a loading zone and a young woman got out. She stood by her car, facing us. I’d seen her at the hotel Saturday night with the police, but hadn’t spoken to her.

  I was not pleased to see DI Sam Morrison emerge from the passenger seat, as unkempt and rumpled as ever. He wore the same stained tie as on Saturday night. I wondered if he owned only the one.

  “Trouble,” Jayne muttered.

  “Leave the talking to me.” I kept my pace steady.

  “Happy to,” Jayne said.

  “Ms. Doyle.” Morrison greeted me when we reached their car.

  “Good evening, Inspector,” I said.

  “I was on my way to see you.”

  “Is that so?” My eyes flicked to the woman.

  “This is DS Patel,” Morrison said.

  She was a short, round, dark woman, and she did not look friendly.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello.” Her voice was cool.

  “It’s late,” I said. “Can we talk in the morning?”

  By which time, I hoped Morrison would be off the case.

  “No time like the present,” he said. “When I spoke to you on Saturday evening, Ms. Doyle, you told me you and your party were going to America on Tuesday morning.”

  “Our plans have changed.”

  “Your hotel will do.” Morrison turned to Patel. “Leave the car here.”

  The four of us walked to the Bentley together. I hoped we wouldn’t run into Ryan in the lobby. If he’d been spending the evening getting the dirt on the good inspector, he wouldn’t be in a mood to be polite.

  We saw no one but the night manager when we came in. His eyes opened wide when he saw who we were with, and I knew he knew who Morrison was.

  “The bar downstairs is still open,” I said.

  “Your room will do,” Morrison replied.

  I rummaged in my bag for my hotel key as the four of us squeezed into the tiny lift.

  Fortunately, our room had chairs and a sofa, so we didn’t have to provide seating accommodations on the beds, which had been turned down invitingly for the night.

  “Tea?” I asked when we were all inside.

  “No,” Morrison said. He then begrudgingly added, “Thank you.”

  “I’m having one,” I said. “Jayne?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” she said.

  I fussed with the kettle and tea things. I didn’t want tea, but I wanted a moment to collect my thoughts and decide how much to tell Morrison and Patel. I’d hoped there would be a new detective assigned to the case when I went to report what I’d learned at Elsie Saunders’s flat.

  “You are aware,” Morrison said, “that your father has been arrested for the murder of Randolph Denhaugh?”

  “I’m confident he will be released soon.”

  “Because he can pay for a top solicitor.”

  “Because he’s innocent,” Jayne said.

  Morrison gave her a patronizing smile. I wanted to smack him. Instead I poured myself a cup of tea and sat down. Patel stood against the door, her arms crossed over her chest. Morrison had taken the desk chair and swirled it around to face into the room rather than out the window. I joined Jayne on the sofa.

  He didn’t have anything new to ask us, just went over the same questions as on Saturday evening about what we’d seen. I didn’t say much, leaving Jayne to answer the routine questions. Morrison was rude and obnoxious and totally offensive, but he seemed to think he was coming across as tough but fair. After about a half an hour of trying to trip us up, he abruptly switched tactics, maybe thinking he’d catch me off guard, and asked me if my father was known to have a temper. He then tried to get me to confess that I’d left England to get away from my parents. He didn’t ask a single question about what we’d been doing since Saturday.

  DS Patel didn’t say a word the entire time; she just shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another.

  At last Morrison stood up. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Doyle, Ms. Wilson. Do you know when you’ll be returning to America?”

  “Not yet,” Jayne said. “As we told you, we own our own businesses, and this is the slow time of year, so we don’t have to get back immediately.”

  “Are you staying in this hotel?”

  “We’re moving to my parents’ home in the morning.” I decided I’d have to tell Morrison about Elsie and the stolen sketches. Brian Cohen was going before a judge in the morning to ask that Morrison be removed from the case, but there was no guarantee the judge would decide in my father’s favor. This wasn’t information I could keep to myself.

  “Uh, Inspector, before you go, there’s something you might want to know.”

  He eyed me. “What might that be?”

  “Randolph Denhaugh was selling sketches at the conference; were you aware of that?”

  He almost rolled his eyes. “I know that, thank you.”

  “I suspect some of them were stolen. Not by him. I mean after he died.”

  Jayne nodded vigorously.

  “No need to worry about that, Ms. Doyle. His sketches are in police custody,” Morrison said.

  “Are you sure you have them all?” I asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “I can assure you ladies that no one snatched his property out from under our noses.”

  Oh, dear. This was not going well. Rather than asking me to explain, Morrison was already telling me I was wrong.

  “We saw them,” Jayne said. “Tonight.”

  “Where?” he asked.

  “My father wasn’t the only person Randy argued with at the conference,” I said. “Have you been told about a woman named Elsie Saunders?”

  Morrison’s face was blank. He flicked a look at Patel. She nodded ever so slightly.

  “What about her?” Morrison said.

  “I told you about her Saturday night, although at that time I didn’t know her name. She accused Randy, at the conference, of stealing her ideas for his art. She was escorted out of the dealers’ room by the security guards. I saw it happen myself.”

  “Did you now?” he said.

  DI Morrison really was a patronizing twit.

  “She was at the banquet,” Jayne said.

  “Sunday morning she came back early, as soon as the room was opened,” I said, “and helped herself to a few of his sketches. She left enough behind that it wouldn’t be immediately apparent some were missing.”

  “And you know this how?” he asked.

  “By a total coincidence,” I said. “We were in Whitechapel earlier tonight. Jayne’s interested in the Jack the Ripper story.”

  “That’s right,” Jayne said. “I can’t get enough of it.”

  “We went to see the scene of the crimes. So to speak.”

  “Typical,” Morrison said. “You’ve been reading up on ghastly historical crimes and you now think you’re a couple of hotshot detectives. I bet you even have your own pet theories as to the identity of the Ripper.”

  “Other than that it was not the Duke of Clarence, as postulated in the excellent 1978 movie Murder by Decree, I do not,” I said. “After seeing the sights of Whitechapel, we spotted an art supply shop. I’m an amateur painter. I do watercolors of Cape Cod scenes.”

  “They’re very popular with the tourists,” Jayne added helpfully.

  “I was interested to see if they had anything I might like that I can’t get at home. Elsie Saunders was working there, and I recognized her from the conference.”

  “And she just happened to tell you she had stolen art to fence,” Morrison said.

  “More or less,” I said. “As it’s the sort of thing I sell in my shop.”

  “Ah, yes. The Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium.” He snorted. “So you think you’re some sort of Sherlock Holmes, if not Inspector Reid.”

  “Who’s that?” Jayne asked.

  “Edmund Reid was one of the detectives on the Ripper case,” I said. “He was played by Matthew Macfadyen in the TV show Ripper Street. And no, Inspector Morrison, I do not think I’m Sherlock Holmes.” My temper was starting to rise. I took a deep breath. Telling Morrison what I thought of him would probably not be a wise move. Jayne touched my knee, ever so lightly, helping to ground me, and then she took her hand away.

  Patel noticed, if Morrison did not.

  My phone rang, and I reached for my bag.

  “Leave it,” Morrison snapped. I let it ring.

  “You’re a couple of shop clerks in small-town America,” he said, “who are a bit too much into this Sherlock Holmes thing, never mind Jack the Ripper. I see what you’re doing, Ms. Doyle. Don’t think I don’t.”

  “I’m giving you information pertinent to your investigation,” I said.

  “I’ll decide what’s pertinent. If you’re trying to deflect my attention from your father, you’re doing a mighty poor job of it.”

  “Elsie Saunders was seen to argue publicly with a man shortly before he was murdered. That is the exact reasoning you used to have my father arrested.”

  “I don’t have to explain my reasoning to you.”

  “No, you don’t, but you can’t let your personal animosity blind you to what else might be going on.”

  I’d gone too far. I could see it in the narrowing of Morrison’s eyes, the vein pulsing in his forehead, the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. Even in the worried glance Patel threw his way.

  “If you continue to dream up possible suspects to distract me in my investigation,” he said. “I’ll arrest you for interference.”

  “You can’t do that!” Jayne said.

  “Can’t I?” he said.

  Jayne sputtered. I lowered my head and touched Jayne’s leg, telling her to be quiet. No wonder my dad didn’t get on with thus guy. Morrison’s style of “detecting”—identify the guilty party and then look for evidence—would have been anathema to my father. I debated whether or not to mention Arianna’s name. It was possible Randy’s estranged lover hadn’t even come to police attention. She’d argued with Randy, but in the bar, not the conference area.

  I said nothing. Anything I did say would give Morrison another reason to accuse me of interference at best and obstruction at worst. Jayne sat silently beside me.

  “I’m glad we understand each other,” Morrison said at last. He puffed up his chest. He really did need to do something about getting a fresh tie. “You need to think things over, Ms. Doyle. If you’re lying because you think you’re helping your father, it will only go worse for you both. I’ll expect a call from you in the morning after you’ve had time to think things over.”

  I sat meekly on the couch, my knees together, my shoulders slumped, my hands in my lap. I nodded without looking up.

  Patel opened the door, and Morrison marched through it. I lifted my head, and she and I looked at each other. She touched her forehand with her index finger, gave me a nod, and left, closing the door behind her. She hadn’t said a single word.

  I jumped to my feet.

  “What an awful man,” Jayne said.

  “Shush.” I stood at the door, listening. I heard the lift ting to announce its arrival. I then went into the bathroom and turned the faucets in the tub on full blast.

  “Are you going to have a bath?” Jayne said.

  “I wouldn’t put it past him to listen at the door. It’s unfortunate that his wife has ceased to love him, and he’s taking it out on everyone else.”

  “What on earth do you know about his marriage?”

  “That he’s still in one is clear because he’s wearing a wedding ring. He’s been married for some time as the ring is scratched and worn and much too tight. If his wife loved him, she’d care about his appearance, and point out to him, even if he didn’t notice, that he has a stain on his tie, the same one it had Saturday night.”

  “Maybe he’s been working so hard he hasn’t gone home to change since Saturday.”

  “If he was working that hard, I’d be seriously surprised. No, he’s been home. He changed his shirt. It’s the same brand of white shirt, bought off the rack at a cheap store, but today’s was marginally less rumpled than the one he’d been wearing on Saturday evening. Men who keep a change of shirt at the office always have a fresh tie as well. It’s obvious that his wife doesn’t love him, or at least doesn’t care about his appearance, and I am not at all surprised at that.”

  Jayne shook her head.

  I found my phone and checked voice mail. Ryan, saying he was back and if I hadn’t gone to bed to give him a call. It was eleven thirty now, but I was anxious to hear what he had to report, so I called him.

  He answered the first ring.

  “Did you have a nice night?” I asked.

  “I did. Productive, too.”

  “We can’t talk on the phone,” I said. “Come to our room. Morrison was here and he just left, so he might still be in the hotel. Use the back stairs.”

  * * *

  As he’d said, Ryan had spent a productive evening. He and Brian had met at separate times with two police officers. Both cops told the same story. My dad, who’d been a detective chief superintendent when he retired, had clashed with Sam Morrison on several occasions. It was generally believed Dad had prevented Morrison from getting a promotion at least twice. Morrison had friends on the force, but not many. He was known to be sloppy and pigheaded (that came as no surprise to me) and was generally unpopular.

  But he’d solved some high-profile cases, more through dumb luck than any investigative skill, and that had saved him from being dismissed.

  “The guys we met said we’d have no trouble getting retired cops to testify on Henry’s behalf, if it comes to that,” Ryan said. “Brian says what we were told tonight is enough for him to bring before the judge tomorrow to have the initial charges dismissed pending further investigation.”

  While waiting for Ryan to sneak up the back stairs, I’d rummaged through the mini-bar and found two miniature bottles of whiskey. Ryan had accepted one, and Jayne and I shared the other. “Never knew you to be a whiskey drinker, Gemma,” he said.