We were surrounded by chattering voices and concerned faces. Traffic had come to a complete halt. The face of the driver of the panel van had gone almost pure white and his dark eyes were round. Behind him, a man leaned out of a sleek black SUV and yelled something rude at us.

  “We’re okay here!” Ryan waved at the van’s driver. The man nodded in acknowledgment and put his vehicle into gear. Traffic began to move again.

  A policewoman, young, pretty, and efficient, trotted up. “What’s going on here?”

  “My friend fainted,” Jayne said, “and fell into the road. She had a close call.”

  The policewoman pointed behind us. “There’s a bench over there. She needs to sit down.”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Are you sure, madam?” she asked. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

  I tried to smile. “No, thank you. A moment’s rest is all I need.”

  She turned to the crowd of onlookers milling about, hoping for something to happen. “Nothing to see here. Move along.”

  Show over, they began to disperse.

  “What happened?” Jayne said to me.

  “Like you said, I fainted.”

  Ryan looked highly dubious. As well he might. I gave him an encouraging smile. “All’s well that ends well.”

  “You had a fright. You need to sit down,” Jayne said. “Come on.”

  Ryan continued to hold my arm as we followed her. I lowered myself to the bench. My two friends crouched in front of me, peering into my face, searching for signs of illness or distress.

  “I’m okay. Really.”

  “You’re lucky we were so close behind you,” Jayne said. “Ryan saw you stumble and jumped in front of that van to grab your arm and pull you out of the way. It missed you both by inches.”

  “An exaggeration,” Ryan said modestly.

  “No, really,” Jayne said. “You fell, and then Ryan was there, stopping cars. Sorta like Superman.”

  “Whose real name, I now know, is Clark Kent,” I said.

  “What’s that got to do with anything?” Ryan said.

  Jayne and I exchanged a look. I laughed. “Private joke.”

  “I can’t claim all the credit,” Ryan said. “Jayne moved as fast as I did and helped pull you out of the way.”

  “You can call me Superwoman,” Jayne said, not at all modestly.

  “Which I will from now on.” I closed my eyes and leaned back on the bench.

  “Do you remember …?” Ryan said.

  “Shush,” Jayne said. “She needs a moment to rest.”

  I wasn’t resting. Not in the least. I thought back over the seconds before I fell. Before I was pushed.

  That I’d been pushed, I had no doubt. I’d felt a person standing too close, even in the crush of people waiting to cross. A hand, firm, purposeful, on my back. A solid shove. I’d seen nothing. I’d been looking across the street, over the blur of traffic, thinking of London. I’d not seen anyone familiar as we left the church and walked to the street. I’d smelled something, though, in the fraction of a second before I’d been pushed. Something out of place in busy, wintry London.

  Citrus.

  I opened my eyes and jumped to my feet. “Shall we go?”

  “Go where?” Ryan said.

  “To the Portrait Gallery, of course. We’re still wanting to see Henry and Elizabeth, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, but …” Jayne said.

  “No buts.” I took her arm and gave it a squeeze so hard she squealed. “This time I’ll wait for the light to change before crossing. I didn’t faint, by the way.” I decided not to mention what I knew had happened to Jayne and Ryan. Not yet anyway. “Someone bumped into me, I suspect. It’s so crowded around here; they were probably bumped by someone else and that started a chain reaction. I’ll remember not to stand so close to the curb from now on.”

  * * *

  While we toured the gallery, admiring the kings and queens, politicians and scoundrels, and other distinguished personages of Britain past and present, I pondered how to get rid of Ryan. He was a suspicious sort, and was clearly having trouble believing I’d fallen accidently. Grant and I, in the disguise of newly wealthy art collector and silly wife, had an appointment to view possibly purloined art at three o’clock. I didn’t need an American police officer trailing along behind, glaring at anyone who approached me. I briefly considered explaining to Julian Lambert and his contacts that Ryan was my bodyguard, but the fact that I needed a bodyguard might cause the art dealers to not be totally forthcoming with Grant.

  At two thirty, I excused myself to visit the loo. I called my mother. “Just checking in,” I said. “How’s Dad?”

  “He lay down for a short while, but said he couldn’t sleep and is now up. He’s in the workshop with the dog, the door firmly closed. I suspect he’s calling his police friends for updates on the case.”

  “Would I be correct in assuming they are not permitted to speak to him about that?”

  “You would be. Which doesn’t mean they won’t.”

  “Any further sign of Sam Morrison?”

  “No. He didn’t come to the door, and when I peered out after you called, I didn’t see him. Are you sure …?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I’d recognize that ugly mug anywhere.”

  “Henry took Horace for a walk a short while ago. He didn’t mention seeing anyone.”

  “He might have, but not wanted to worry you.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I don’t think you two should be alone.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Who knows what Morrison’s thinking? He was embarrassed in court, and he probably got a strong talking to from his bosses. He might even have been placed on suspension. You need a bodyguard.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Fortunately, I happen to know the right person. Ryan can be tough when he wants to be, plus he and Dad can talk over the case. Dad needs someone to toss ideas against, and he shouldn’t be discussing things openly with his former colleagues.”

  “You mean, you want to get rid of Ryan for a few hours.”

  “If you put it like that. I’ll let you talk to him. You can tell him you’re concerned about Morrison, but you don’t want to say anything to worry Dad.”

  I found Jayne and Ryan admiring the portrait of Charlotte Bronte by George Richmond. “I called Mum to check in, and she asked to talk to you.” I handed Ryan the phone. He took it, and Jayne and I walked down the row of paintings. “I’ve always liked this one,” I said, stopping at a painting of a richly dressed lady. “The fabric in that dress looks so real I want to touch it.”

  “I can’t imagine dragging that outfit around after me all day,” Jayne said. “Do you suppose they got awfully hot?”

  “Good thing this is a cold climate. Be hard to keep that hem clean in streets of mud.”

  Ryan caught up to us and handed me back my phone. “Your mom says Morrison’s been spotted hanging around.”

  “I thought I saw him as we were leaving,” I said. “I wasn’t sure if it was him though.”

  Ryan gave me that look. The one that says he knows I’m up to something. “She asked if I’d mind coming back to the house.”

  “Didn’t Morrison get taken off the case?” Jayne said.

  “Yes,” I said. “So if he’s watching the house, Mum has reason to worry.”

  “Anne also thinks Henry would like some company,” Ryan said. “Someone to talk the case over with.”

  “And you can do that because you’re a cop too,” Jayne said, so helpfully I might have prompted her myself. “That’s nice.”

  “Although, seeing as how Gemma’s mother is a defense attorney, she isn’t exactly ignorant of the law or of police methods,” Ryan said.

  “Not the same,” Jayne said.

  “Off you go,” I said. “We’ll be fine on our own.”

  “I’m still not happy about your falling incident,” Ryan said.

  “I’m meeting Grant in fifteen minutes,” I assured him.

  “Knowing that you and Grant are up to something you won’t tell me about is supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  Ryan didn’t look entirely convinced. I gave him a smile. “I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

  “I trust you to get into trouble, but I also trust you to get yourself out of it. And that sister of yours certainly knows far more than she’s letting on. Okay, I’ll go, but only because your mother asked.”

  We headed for the exit.

  “Did you enjoy that?” I asked Jayne.

  “So much. It was great seeing the faces of people I’ve only read about in books. I’d love to come back and finish.”

  “Maybe we can do that another time. They do a nice afternoon tea in the restaurant.” We walked out into the sunshine.

  “You’re just as well to take the Tube,” I said. “A taxi is not any faster in this traffic. Jayne, you go with Ryan. Mum will need help preparing dinner for us all. I’ll see you both back at the house.”

  “I …” Jayne said.

  I waved cheerfully and trotted off. This time I stood far back from the curb while waiting for the traffic to stop.

  * * *

  Grant was waiting for me on the steps of St. Martin-in-the-Fields as arranged. I was pleased to see he’d come alone.

  “Pippa had to go back to work,” he explained, “and I managed to persuade Donald to visit the British Library. Pippa said they might have some of the writings of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle on display this week. I think she lied.”

  “Naughty, naughty,” I said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Are you going to go dressed like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “For one thing, that coat looks like you lay down in the street in it. You went to so much trouble yesterday, not to mention expense, to dress up.”

  “This will have to do. I couldn’t come out in an entirely new wardrobe and sexy, yet unwalkable-in, shoes and not expect Ryan to ask questions. It’s slightly warmer today, so I can manage without my coat and I have a few handy accessories that’ll make the look.” I took off my coat and dug in my bag to pull out the scarf and leather gloves I’d borrowed from Mum. Underneath my coat I’d worn jeans and a cashmere cardigan that didn’t look entirely off-the-rack and matched the color of my mother’s gloves. I spotted a woman shuffling along, eyes on the tips of her toes, mumbling to herself. Her coat was ragged, the hems of her trousers filthy, and her left trainer had a hole it. As well as being a popular tourist attraction, St. Martin’s does what it can to care for the homeless of central London.

  “Be right back,” I said to Grant.

  I approached the woman. “Would you like this?” I held out my coat.

  She probably wasn’t much older than me, in her early thirties, but her eyes were far too old for her years and her skin had an unhealthy yellow sheen. She studied me through red and rheumy eyes full of suspicion. “What’s that then?”

  “Just a coat. I don’t need it anymore. My husband doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to buy me a new one.”

  She studied me for a long time, trying to read my face. I smiled and held out the garment, and at last she snatched it and hurried away before I could change my mind.

  I went back to Grant.

  “What on earth did you do that for?” he said.

  “I’ve been told that once upon a time you could find luggage storage lockers around town, but no longer. I can’t take that old coat with me, not if I’m trying to make an impression as your trophy wife, and if I leave it somewhere it’ll be gone when we get back. Might as well give it to a needy person. It’s warm enough today that I’m not entirely out of place in just a sweater, scarf, and gloves.”

  Grant pulled out his phone. “We’re going to the Black Star Gallery. I’ve programmed the address into the GPS. Let’s go.”

  We walked down the street together. I kept us well away from the curb.

  “What’s the plan?” Grant said.

  “I won’t know until we see what’s on offer. We might not have one.”

  Just as well I hadn’t lain awake last night trying to come up with a plan: no one was there to meet us. The gallery we’d been directed to had some nice paintings for sale, eighteenth and early nineteenth century mostly, from artists I’d never heard of, at prices that were steep but not excessive. The staff, an older woman in horn-rimmed glasses and a black wool dress she appeared to have been poured into, and a younger man, constantly rubbing his hands together, were polite enough when we arrived. The politeness faded considerably when Grant explained we were here to meet with Julian Lambert, as arranged.

  The man shrugged, and the woman said, “Doesn’t he own a place on the other side of the river, near the Tate?”

  “That’s right,” Grant said. “He asked us to meet him here. He said you have a painting I might be interested in.”

  “You must be mistaken,” she replied with a sniff. “I know Julian Lambert by reputation, and he would be highly unlikely to do any favor, no matter how small, for anyone.”

  Grant looked at me. I shrugged. “Sorry to bother you,” he said.

  “If you’re in the market for fine art,” she said, “we have some excellent pieces from the estate of a stately home, which have recently come on the market.”

  “Maybe another time,” Grant said. “Thanks.”

  We stood on the street corner. “That was odd,” Grant said.

  “Very.” I glanced up and down the street. I could see nothing or no one out of place or familiar to me. “When did Julian’s assistant call you and recommend we meet here?”

  “It was Monday, a couple of hours after we left his gallery.”

  “Which means something happened between us meeting him and that phone call, something that changed his mind about showing us the art he initially planned to recommend.”

  “Any idea what that could be?”

  “No. Unless somehow he discovered we are not what we presented ourselves as.”

  “How would he do that?”

  “Followed us, perhaps. Or had someone else follow us. I didn’t spot anyone, but he might have a much larger operation than I expected.”

  “Operation?”

  “As in criminal contacts. To organize an undetectable tail that quickly would take some considerable degree of coordination.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “We have a cup of tea, of course.” I’d spotted a pub across the street and headed for it. The street was narrow but not much less busy than St. Martin’s Place. I took care not to get too close to the edge of the pavement and checked carefully in both directions, as my mother had taught me, before crossing at the light.

  “Gemma,” Grant said, as I stepped cautiously into the road. “Did something happen after Pippa, Donald, and I left you earlier?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem more hesitant than usual. Fearful almost.”

  “Traffic in London can be a nightmare,” I said. “I’d forgotten how bad it gets.”

  I pushed open the door of the pub to be enveloped in the scent of an overheated radiator, greasy food, and spilled beer. “I’ll have tea,” I said to Grant.

  The place was almost empty, and I found us a table close to the fireplace. Without a coat, I was feeling chilly.

  I sat down and closed my eyes.

  Julian Lambert had been prepared to show Grant and me some pieces of art—expensive art—he thought would appeal to a new, and naïve, collector. He’d phoned Grant a few hours after he’d met us to set up the meeting. But there’d been no meeting, and he didn’t intend there to be one.

  Something had to have happened after we left his gallery. Maybe he’d checked up on Grant and decided he was iffy. But a thorough check would have taken time, more time than he had given it, particularly considering it had been night in the United States. Then again, whatever happened might not have had anything to do with us. Maybe he’d simply received a better offer for whatever he had in mind for Grant to purchase.

  Still, he could have called and made excuses. It was rude to send Grant on a wild-goose chase, and not an act inclined to make Grant view doing business with Julian in the future in a favorable light.

  I hadn’t forgotten someone had tried to kill me not long ago. To kill me had to have been their intent. If Ryan hadn’t been close and acted so quickly, I would have fallen directly into the path of the van. I shivered.

  No one outside my immediate circle knew I was having lunch at St. Martin’s and going to the Portrait Gallery after. We’d arranged the lunch only ten minutes before leaving the house, and the gallery visit on the spur of the moment. Grant had phoned Pippa and told her where we were, but I had to believe Pippa’s phone was unhackable. Grant’s was not, but if someone was listening in on him, I’d have to believe they were listening to us all. Not impossible to do, but not easy either.

  Sam Morrison had not followed us, I was positive of that. I would have seen him lurking about on street corners. He had seen the cab we left in and could have asked one of his friends to locate it. The cab driver let us off on one of the busiest street corners in the world and drove away without giving us a backward glance. Even if Morrison had tried to follow us, I couldn’t see any reason for him to want to kill me. He’d clearly dismissed me as not someone worth bothering about.

  A thought struck me. Did he want revenge on my father?

  It was possible, if Morrison was that angry at being humiliated in court, and that vengeful.

  But in that case, I couldn’t see how he could have arranged to have me followed and attacked so quickly.

  The shove into my back had been hard, purposeful, and directed. It had not been some random person pushing his or her way through the crowd. Might I have been the victim of a random act of violence, or mistaken for someone else? Such a busy intersection was the perfect place for a sudden, spontaneous act of murder. As was most of central London, including the intersection outside this very pub. But until I knew exactly what was going on, I wouldn’t allow myself to believe it had been accidental.