“You’re the only one who’s seen him, dear,” Mum said.

  “You are such a lousy liar, Gemma,” Ryan said, scraping up the last of his Bakewell tart.

  I took offense at that. I’ve always believed I’m an excellent liar.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I didn’t bother to dress up for today’s expedition. That I’d been discovered was obvious, so I might as well go as myself.

  Mum laid out a breakfast of sliced melon and croissants with jam and butter for us to enjoy in the conservatory, to take advantage of the morning sun, she said. Rain was expected later and would last the rest of the week.

  Grant had gone out before the rest of us were even up. “A breakfast date with Pippa before she goes into the office,” Mum told me as she sliced the fruit.

  “That boy doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into,” Dad chuckled as he put the butter dish onto a tray.

  Mom reached up and tousled his hair. “Exactly what happened to me when I met a totally unsuitable young police recruit. I’ve regretted it ever since.” The glow in her eyes put the lie to her words. Dad snatched up a piece of watermelon.

  No one in my family is a morning person, so we sat in comfortable silence over our breakfast. Dad read the Guardian, Mum the Times. Jayne studied a food magazine she’d been handed on the street yesterday, and Donald flipped through his guidebook, in which he’d made so many notes it was easier to see things he wasn’t interested in than those he was. Ryan read the news online. I pretended to be doing the same while I decided how best to proceed with my day.

  After breakfast, Dad announced he was taking the dog for a walk and asked Ryan to join him. As he did so, he jerked his head in the direction of my mum, indicating he had something private to say to Ryan.

  Mum didn’t so much as look up from her paper, but she said, “Good idea. If Sam Morrison is hanging about outside, I’d prefer you didn’t confront him alone, Henry.”

  Dad muttered something about “eyes in the back of her head” under his breath. Ryan couldn’t say no, although I could tell he wanted to. He’d have preferred to keep an eye on me.

  I smiled at them and told them to enjoy their walk. Horace bounded on ahead and stood at the door, tail wagging and tongue lolling, while Dad took the leash off the hook.

  With a sudden pang, I missed Violet, my cocker spaniel, so very much.

  Mum had taken the dishes to the kitchen, and Jayne ran upstairs to get her purse.

  “We’ll wait for you outside, Ryan,” Dad called, opening the door and being dragged out by Horace.

  Ryan and I were left alone in the hallway. “Whatever you’re up to, Gemma,” he said in a low voice, “please be careful.”

  “I will.” I touched his cheek. Sometimes I thought I didn’t deserve this man. He was so incredibly patient with me. He knew I had to do things my way, and he knew that if he asked me to change, I’d say I would. But he also knew that even though I might want to, I couldn’t.

  I’d not told him I suspected the person who’d shoved me into the traffic yesterday had done it deliberately. Even Ryan would try to stop me from going out on my own if he thought someone intended to do me harm.

  “I love you,” I said.

  He gave me a crooked grin. “And I love you too, Gemma Doyle, but I can’t help wondering what brought that up.”

  “It’s not like I don’t ever think of it, and I suddenly remembered, Oh, yes, I love Ryan Ashburton. I’d totally forgotten.”

  “Wouldn’t put it past you.” He kissed me on the forehead.

  “If you see DI Morrison, don’t let him and Dad confront each other.”

  “Probably easier said than done, so let’s hope he’s gone on to bother other innocent people. I have my phone on me, and I expect to hear from you regularly.”

  “Will do,” I said as Jayne clattered down the stairs and called, “Ready!”

  Ryan left, closing the door behind him.

  “Did you phone ahead to tell her we’re coming?” Jayne asked.

  “Phone ahead? No, I want to catch her unawares.”

  “Is that wise, Gemma? She might not be at home.”

  “Home? We’re not going to anyone’s home. I don’t even know where she lives.”

  “Didn’t you say we’re going to Arianna’s to tell her about the funeral for your uncle?”

  “Oh. Her. I gave Mum her number. She can call.”

  “But you said …”

  “Never mind what I said, Jayne. Arianna had nothing to do with the attack on me yesterday, seeing as to how she was in close protection at the time. I have to assume that whoever the attacker is, they are the person responsible for, or at least involved in, the death of Randy.”

  “What attack on you? You don’t mean when you fell into the road? I thought someone bumped you by accident. That’s what you told Ryan.”

  “What Ryan doesn’t know is better for me. I’m pretty sure I was pushed, Jayne. Yes, it could have been a random nutter, someone who doesn’t like tall women with curly hair, but I can’t afford to assume so. As I haven’t offended anyone in London, at least not in the past five years, I can only conclude that someone wants to stop me asking questions about the murder of Randolph Denhaugh.”

  “Did you tell Inspector Robertson?”

  “What would have been the point? She’s hardly going to assign a close protection unit to watch over me. Not that I’d want that in any event. That would definitely put a stop to me asking questions. Let’s go.”

  At that moment Donald clattered down the stairs. “Another lovely day in London.”

  “So it is,” I said. “We’ll see you later.”

  “As you’re going into town,” he said, “I’ll come with you.” He took his umbrella out of the polished brass stand by the door. At some point yesterday, he’d bought himself a proper English brolly, large and black with a solid wooden handle. He twirled it in the air. All he was missing was the bowler hat. “They say you can never count on the weather remaining fair in England.” He opened the door. “Ladies. After you.”

  He tagged along after us to the Tube station. “What are your plans for the day?” I asked.

  “I’ve no plans,” he said. “Other than accompanying you two on your outing.”

  “Did Ryan put you up to this?”

  He blinked rapidly. “Ryan? Why ever would you think that?”

  “Which means yes,” I said. “Oh all right. Come on.” We swiped our Oyster cards to get into the Tube station.

  * * *

  Gallery Lambert was opening as we arrived. That wasn’t by accident, as I remembered their hours of business as posted on the door on my previous visit.

  “Whatever happens,” I said to my friends, “do not talk. Leave it up to me.”

  “As I have absolutely no idea what’s going on, Gemma, I have nothing to say,” Jayne said. “I need to call the bakery. Fiona texted that they’re having a problem with one of the suppliers and I need to straighten it out. You go ahead; I’ll be in when I’m finished.”

  “Okay,” I said. I held the door open for Donald to go first.

  The woman behind the desk looked up at the sound of the bells over the door. She glanced at Donald, and she instantly discarded him, unimpressive in rumpled beige raincoat and thick glasses. Her gaze slid behind him, and the moment she saw me, the artful look of total boredom fled in a flash to be replaced with something approaching shock.

  She quickly wiped that expression away and forced out a smile. I’ve seen more genuine smiles on sharks at the aquarium. She stood slowly, a rippling river of expensive black cloth. “Good morning,” she said in her polite Canadian accent. “Mrs. Thornton, isn’t it? How nice to see you.”

  “So nice to see you too, Vivienne. I love your perfume.”

  She blinked. “My perfume?”

  “Such a delightful scent of citrus. It puts me in mind of sitting under an orange tree after an afternoon rainfall in the tropics.”

  “Uh. Yes.”

  “Although you might apply a bit too much sometimes, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  She glanced at Donald. “Will Mr. Thornton be joining us today?”

  “Mr. Thornton is temporarily indisposed,” I said.

  Behind me the door opened and Jayne came in. “Hi,” she said.

  Vivienne ignored her. “I’ll ask Julian to join us.”

  “No need. I know the way to his office. Donald, Jayne, why don’t you two stay here and admire the art. But hands off, this stuff is expensive. Right, Viv?”

  “Uh, right.”

  She snatched up the desk phone as I marched past. Her smartphone and earbuds lay on her desk.

  The office door flew open the moment I put my hand on it. Julian leapt back in shock, not expecting to see me so close.

  “Hi,” I said, in imitation of Jayne. Friendly and American. “Got a minute?” I didn’t wait for his answer, but pushed my way past him into the office. “Nice digs you got here, Julian.”

  “What do you want?” He didn’t bother pretending he thought I was a prospective buyer.

  “Ten thousand dollars for starters.”

  The edges of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Unlikely. You can drop the fake accent.”

  “Fake?” I said in my own voice. “I thought it was rather good.”

  “It was. Until you dropped it the next street over when you stopped to take off the borrowed shoes.”

  “Not borrowed, but newly bought. That had been a mistake.” I kept my tone light, but inside I was kicking myself furiously. Half a disguise is none at all, as Mary Russell said to Sherlock Holmes in The Game by Laurie R. King. I’d been in such a rush to get the painful boots off, I’d not waited until I could be sure of being unseen and unheard before returning to my own persona.

  “I own the antique furniture shop next door, and we share an internal door.” Julian was shorter than I, but he did his best to peer down his long patrician nose at me. “It’s the shop at the end of the row with the small window overlooking the side street.”

  “Convenient.”

  “It can be.” He sat down. “Now that I know you and your husband, if that is who that American gentleman was, do not intend to buy art from me, we have no further business to discuss.”

  “But we do.” I didn’t take a seat. “Not the buying and selling of art, but other matters. You sent your assistant, Viv there, to attempt to, as the Americans say, bump me off.”

  “You’re imagining things.”

  “She wears a distinctive perfume. I noticed it a fraction of a second before I was shoved into St Martin’s Place in front of an approaching panel van. You arranged for me to be at the Black Star Gallery at three o’clock, and my working theory is that Viv intended to attack me as we arrived or left the gallery, where, as you know, we were not expected. She must have come early, intending to scope out the surroundings, and spotted me outside St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Fortune favors the brave, and she took her chance. Fortune also occasionally favors the lucky, and my friends were close enough to save me. I was on high alert after that, so she couldn’t try again. Am I getting close?”

  “No.”

  “No matter. Since you know I’m an Englishwoman, I want ten thousand pounds, not dollars, not to take my complaint to the police.”

  He smiled at me as he might an indulged child, stretched his neck, and lifted his chin so he had a good view of the ceiling. “If some disturbed street person, who happens to wear a knock-off perfume similar to that of my assistant, attempted to harm you, that’s unfortunate. The police will not be at all interested.”

  I kept my face impassive, but inside my heart lifted. I’d been right, without even knowing why. Now I did. I’d seen that stretched neck and that tilt of the chin before: on a gentleman dressed in full Victorian evening wear at the reception prior to the Sherlock Holmes conference banquet. At the time, I’d thought it was part of the costume. Turns out it had just been Julian, being the arrogant fool he was, with a mannerism as distinctive as a fingerprint. “Probably not. So I’ll need fifty thousand. Pounds again, not dollars, not to tell the cops you murdered Randolph Denhaugh because he tried to back out of your deal to forge an old master.”

  Not as cool as he thought he was, our Julian Lambert. His right eye began to twitch. His neck tightened even more.

  I didn’t expect him to break down and tearfully confess everything to me. All I wanted was some admission of guilt, some indication I was right, something I could take to the police so they could start investigating him and his relationship with Randy. Nothing he said to me would be admissible in court, but I needed something, anything, to take to the cops other than my suspicions. Once the police started looking, they’d turn up something, and that would lead to something else, and the whole edifice of art theft and fraud and murder would begin to crumble.

  No matter how much of a couple of crooks Julian and Vivienne were, they’d never have tried to kill me because Grant and I made an amateur attempt to pass ourselves off as wealthy, and slightly unscrupulous, collectors. All they had to do was shut the door in our faces next time we dropped by. They could have even threatened us with the police. I assume offering to purchase art with money you don’t have is a crime.

  That they’d decided they needed to get rid of me, permanently, could only be because they knew I was investigating Randy’s murder. I’d wondered how they knew that, and also how they knew I was the one they should go after, not Grant.

  And now I knew: I’d told them.

  If Julian had overheard Grant and me talking after we left the gallery, he’d have realized I was the one calling the shots, so to speak. Not my pretend-husband. I couldn’t remember the entire conversation between Grant and me, but I’d planned to continue poking around and call on Elsie next. I might well have mentioned Randy’s name, thus letting Julian know why we were here, pretending to be people we were not. If Julian had been at the banquet, and I was now positive he had been, he might have seen me there. Seen me, yet not immediately recognized me when we first came into his gallery. I’d dressed differently, acted differently, spoken differently. Julian hadn’t paid much attention to me, assuming Grant was the one who controlled the purse strings.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea who you’re talking about,” he said.

  “Sure you do. You and Randy Denhaugh worked together: him forging the paintings, you finding the buyers. You put him up in a nice flat in Canary Wharf …”

  His eye twitched and his neck tightened still further.

  “… to give him time and a place to forge a Dutch old master. I don’t exactly know what went wrong this time, but something did. I suspect he changed his mind about the deal.” What had Randy told me he was doing at the convention? Earning a living. The words had been spoken in tones of pride. He had, I believed, intended to go straight. That week, anyway.

  Obviously, any criminal partners he had would have objected to that.

  “I saw you at the Sherlock Holmes convention banquet on Saturday evening,” I said. “Nice disguise. You hadn’t bought a ticket for the dinner, meaning there’s no record you were there, so the police didn’t come around to question you.”

  All the blood drained from his face.

  Convenient for him that all a man needed to do was slap on a pair of fake muttonchop whiskers and a bushy beard and pull a top hat low over his eyes, and he wouldn’t look at all out of place in nineteenth-century costume.

  “You hid in one of the small rooms while Randy was at dinner, and then you texted him or left a voice mail asking him to meet you outside the banquet hall, no doubt using a burner phone. But you had to take his phone after you killed him. You’d given him your name when asking to meet.” On that, I was merely speculating. But, if I was even partially right, a panicked man would conclude I knew everything.

  “Fifty thousand, and I’ll walk away.” All I wanted was for Julian to agree and make some sort of arrangement to pay me the money. I could take that to DI Robinson and let her handle the rest.

  “I don’t think so,” came a tinny voice from a small box on the gleaming glass-topped chrome desk.

  And I realized I’d made a dreadful mistake.

  Julian wasn’t the mastermind here.

  Vivienne was.

  She sat at the front desk, looking haughty and beautiful, and let Julian pretend to be the boss. Meanwhile, they kept an open intercom so she could listen in on what went on in his office. I’d thought the earbuds were feeding her music so she could appear to be even more detached from the boring people who dropped into her gallery. Instead she was listening to everything that was said in his office.

  “Come out here, please,” she said. “Now. Your friends are admiring our goods, but I don’t think they’re going to buy. They don’t seem to like our prices.”

  Julian grinned at me. “After you.”

  I went back through the door into the main gallery. Vivienne was sitting on her desk, her well-muscled stockinged legs crossed, facing Donald and Jayne, who were standing very close together. Jayne’s eyes were wide and frightened, and Donald looked simply confused.

  Vivien held a small pistol in her perfectly manicured hands, and her right shoe, ballet flats today, dangled casually from her toes.

  “That’s not necessary, Viv,” Julian said. “She was bluffing. She doesn’t know anything.”

  “She knows a heck of a lot,” Vivienne said. “I assume you’re Henry Doyle’s daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means she has the resources to find out a heck of a lot more,” Vivienne said. “She can’t be allowed to do that.”

  For a moment I wondered what resources she thought I had. Then I understood: she thought I was Pippa.

  “It was never my intention that anyone else be involved,” Vivienne said. “Julian should have had the sense to lock the door behind him when he killed Randy. Instead a man walked in. Not just any man, but a retired chief superintendent.” She looked at her partner out of the corner of her catlike eyes. “But you’re not that smart, are you, Julian?”

  He said nothing.