“Julian then compounded his error by hitting the newcomer and running away without checking to be sure he was dead. I couldn’t believe my luck when I heard that Henry Doyle couldn’t remember what had happened.”

  “Wouldn’t have mattered,” Julian mumbled. “No one could identify me in that ridiculous getup.”

  “The little details always matter,” Vivienne said. “Haven’t I taught you that, at least?”

  I didn’t like the way she referred to the potential murder of my father as a little detail.

  I also didn’t like the smug expression on her face, or the way she held that gun, loose and relaxed, on my friends. She would have been at the reception—unlikely she let Julian do much on his own initiative—but I hadn’t seen her there. The room had been very crowded and she was short enough to disappear in the mass of people.

  “You can’t kill us,” I said. “This is your place of business. Everyone in the area can identify you.”

  “A minor inconvenience. The death of Randy, and thus his inability to finish the commission, means we’re out some money, but it had to be done. Julian and I can make ends meet if we have to, can’t we, darling? We’ve tickets for Brazil next week, after we receive the next portion of the down payment. Thanks to your interference, we’ll have to advance our plans by a few days.”

  “Why?” Jayne asked. “If he was making a painting for you, why did you kill him?”

  Vivienne gave her a smile so cold I shivered. “I have a contact in the Met who was kind enough to let me know Randy had been chatting to the art fraud division.” She shook her head. “Foolish man. I knew him well enough to be confident he wouldn’t have told the cops everything they wanted to know up front. He liked to drag things out, play for time to get the best deal he could. And then off he went to that conference to try to sell his ridiculous little sketches.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on here,” Donald said. “But I suggest you put that gun away, young lady, before someone gets hurt.”

  “You do, do you?” she said.

  “Yes, I do. Gemma, tell her …”

  Vivienne’s eyes flicked toward me. “Who’s Gemma?”

  Donald lifted his big black umbrella and slashed it down across Vivienne’s extended arm. She yelped and dropped the gun. Donald swung the umbrella again, keeping her at bay, while Jayne ran forward and gave the gun a good solid kick. It skittered across the floor and slid under the desk. Julian yelled, and I jumped at him, intending to knock him to the ground. He swung around and aimed a punch at my face. I saw the blow coming and ducked in the nick of time. His closed fist glanced off my cheek, but it threw me off balance and left me momentarily stunned. Julian moved to hit me again, but Donald yelled, “Gemma!” and ran at the other man, swinging the umbrella. Julian grabbed it and the two men struggled for control. Jayne leapt on Vivienne. If she hadn’t been so fond of striking a pose, sitting on the edge of her desk, flashing her legs like a forties-era noir femme fatale, Vivienne wouldn’t have made such an easy target. Jayne knocked her backward, but she recovered quickly and rolled to one side. They struggled, but Vivienne was a hardened criminal and Jayne was a West London baker. Vivienne soon got the upper hand and shoved Jayne off her. My friend fell heavily, hitting her head on the floor. Vivienne jumped off the desk and glanced around her, searching frantically for the gun. Her shoe had fallen off when Jayne jumped her. She shoved her foot into it.

  Donald had a firm grip on the solid handle of the umbrella, and Julian only had hold of the sharp tip. I kicked out and got Julian hard in the right knee. His grip on the umbrella relaxed enough that Donald regained control and wrenched the umbrella out of Julian’s hands. Julian collapsed into a corner, and Donald stood over him, welding the umbrella as though it was the sword of the elaborately attired eighteenth-century nobleman watching over them from inside his gilt frame.

  Vivienne bolted for the street door.

  The fog in my head, caused by Julian’s blow, cleared. “I’ve got her!” I yelled. “Donald, stay with him! Jayne, call 911! I mean 999.”

  I ran outside in time to see Vivienne turning the corner into the side street, the very one in which I’d taken shelter to foolishly divest myself of part of my disguise. I put on a burst of speed and rounded the corner, barely missing a young couple strolling toward me, holding hands and staring dreamily into each other’s eyes.

  “Sorry,” I said. I needn’t have bothered. I doubt they even noticed me.

  Up ahead, moving fast, Vivienne was heading for the wide plaza surrounding the Tate Modern. The place was crowded with tourists and art lovers. Vivienne shoved her way through the throngs and I followed.

  She looked like the type who ran for exercise, whereas I could usually find an excuse, even in winter, to skip the gym. I sprinted after her, aware of running footsteps behind me. I glanced over my shoulder to see Jayne gaining on me. Jayne went to the gym regularly.

  “I told you to call for help,” I said.

  “I did. They’re on their way. Where’s she think she’s going?”

  “I doubt she knows. She’s running in panic.”

  Vivienne was heading for the pedestrians-only Millennium Bridge that crosses the Thames River in front of the Tate Modern and Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. She pushed her way past the walkers and joggers and tourists posing for pictures with expansive views of the city in the background. She knocked a small boy flying and didn’t even pause to say sorry.

  Jayne and I were hampered because we were not quite so rude. We dodged bikes and wove around the foot traffic, not simply plowing through as Vivienne had.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me,” I said. “Coming through. Sorry. No need to be so rude, sir.”

  “What’s going on?” someone yelled.

  “Nice day for a jog,” I replied.

  The mother of the small boy Vivienne had knocked out of her way was helping him to his feet. He didn’t seem hurt, but his father—a massive brute of a man with shoulders like an American football player—stood firmly in the center of the bridge. “’Oy!” he yelled. “What do you people think you’re doing?”

  “Make nice,” I said to Jayne, as I dodged his imposing bulk.

  “I am so sorry,” Jayne said, gasping for breath. “That woman snatched my friend’s purse and we’re trying to get it back.”

  “Wait here, Marg!” he called. I heard his footsteps fall into step with Jayne’s. “Can’t ’ave that. Bad for tourism.”

  Vivienne reached the bottom of the bridge. She ran on. I was getting a bad stitch in my side and the distance between us was lengthening. If she could disappear into the traffic and slip down a side street or into a shop, I’d lose her. I summoned something deep inside me and put on one last burst of energy.

  The traffic on Queen Victoria Street was heavy, a steady stream of cars, buses, taxis, and lorries. It was midmorning and we’d emerged from the bridge into the center of the city’s financial district.

  Vivienne reached the street and momentarily hesitated. She glanced around her, seeing sidewalks packed full with streams of office workers heading for meetings or in search of sustenance. Making up her mind, she ran into the road, after first checking the traffic to her left. All was momentarily clear, so she dashed into the break.

  A car hit her, coming from her right.

  Vivienne the Canadian had forgotten that in England we drive on the left-hand side of the road.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I had a strong sense of déjà vu as vehicles screeched to a halt and pedestrians came running from all directions. Vivienne had bounced off the bumper of a two-person Fiat and lay in the road in a crumpled heap. I dropped to my knees beside her. She groaned and looked up at me. I could see no immediate sign of damage; she appeared to be only stunned. Vivienne moved as though to try to stand up. I put my hand on her chest and pressed her back down. She fell with a moan as sirens sounded in the distance.

  “Gemma, it’s me. Get up. We’ve got her.”

  I looked around at the sound of my name, and to my considerable surprise saw Ryan Ashburton holding his hand out to me. I took it and he lifted me to my feet.

  “What the heck?” I said. “What are you doing here?”

  Two uniformed police officers crouched next to Vivienne. A yellow-and-green ambulance attempted to push its way through the line of stopped cars.

  “That woman is to be placed under arrest.” Pippa flashed her wallet at a third police officer. He moved toward me.

  “Hey!” I said.

  Pippa paused for the briefest moment and then said, a touch reluctantly I thought, “Not that one. The one on the ground. Accompany her to the hospital and see that someone remains with her at all times.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the officer said to her. “Sorry,” he said to me.

  Grant Thompson stood on the sidelines, watching Pippa with his mouth hanging open. Ryan didn’t let go of my arm, but guided me (more like force-marched me) out of the road.

  Jayne ran up, followed by the big man.

  “That’s ’ow we deal with handbag snatchers in England,” he said proudly. “The streets of London are once again safe for you Americans. Cheers.” He trotted back to join his family.

  “Nice work, Jayne,” Pippa said.

  “Thanks,” Jayne said.

  “What?” I said.

  “Let’s get out of the way and let these people do their jobs,” Pippa said. “DI Robinson has been called. She’ll want to talk to you, Gemma. We’ll wait in the boat.”

  “What boat?”

  My sister spun on her heels and walked back the way we’d come, past the buildings lining the walkway to the riverfront. A Metropolitan Police launch, used to patrol the River Thames, was pulled up to the muddy banks next to the Millennium Bridge. People leaned over the bridge railings to watch the activity. Quite a number were taking pictures.

  Pippa jumped lightly on board. A handsome officer leapt forward to offer a helping hand to Jayne. Ryan shoved me up, and then he and Grant climbed in. It made for a very crowded craft.

  I found a seat on the gunwales. “Okay, is someone going to tell me what’s going on? I can’t possibly believe you happened to be out for a pleasant cruise and saw that I could use some assistance. Donald! I forgot Donald! He’s at the gallery watching over Julian Lambert.”

  “That’s been attended to,” Pippa said. “Mr. Lambert is under arrest.”

  I turned to Jayne, who squirmed uncomfortably under my accusing glare.

  “Might as well tell her,” Ryan said.

  “You told me to call 999 when you ran out of the gallery,” Jayne said. “I had a better idea, and I called Pippa.”

  “Why do you have Pippa’s number, and why would you call her rather than the police like any normal person would in such a situation?”

  “I didn’t need the number,” Jayne admitted. “She gave me a burner phone with it programmed in.”

  “You’ve been spying on me,” I said to my sister.

  “Someone has to. And before you get too mad at Jayne, she did take some convincing that I had your best interests at heart.”

  I thought of the way Pippa had almost let that cop arrest me and said nothing.

  “You didn’t make a call to the bakery, did you?” I said to Jayne.

  “No. I lied about that so I could take the time to tell Pippa where we were.”

  I mentally kicked myself once again. We’d arrived at the gallery at ten o’clock. Five AM in West London. Far too early for Jayne to be making arrangements with suppliers. I’d been so focused on my mission, I hadn’t even noticed. As Vivienne had said, only a few minutes ago, it’s the little details that matter.

  “And thus,” Pippa said, “I was able to organize the launch and have it ready when we needed it. The fastest way to get around London is on the river.”

  “And you?” I said to Ryan.

  “I didn’t believe for a minute,” he said, “that you were going to talk to some woman about funeral arrangements. Pippa and I had earlier come to an understanding.”

  “An understanding?”

  “That you needed to be watched,” Pippa said.

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” Ryan said. “She and I were together, waiting for Jayne’s call to tell us where you were.”

  “And I just happened to tag along,” Grant said.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, I was angry. I got to my feet and faced my sister. “You knew everything but you let me put myself, not to mention Donald and Jayne, in danger. Vivienne had a gun. If things had gone slightly differently, she might have killed us all.”

  “But I didn’t know everything,” Pippa said calmly. “I didn’t, in fact, know anything. Gallery Lambert and Julian Lambert were nowhere on my radar or that of the official investigation into Randy’s murder. I still don’t know who that woman is we arrested. The thing is, Gemma, I trusted you to find out.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “I told you my office couldn’t be involved. My hands were tied.” She glanced around. At the police launch, the listening officers, the people watching from the bridge, police cars, ambulances, onlookers on the road, people snapping pictures. “In that, I seem not to have been entirely successful. I fear questions will be asked behind closed doors.” Her phone buzzed, and she sighed as she checked the display. “I should get this.”

  “What sort of doors?” Grant said.

  We all turned at a shout. DI Robinson and DS Patel were on the riverbank, thick black mud ruining their shoes. “Is someone going to tell me what’s going on here?” Robinson yelled.

  A smaller boat, also marked POLICE, pulled up on the other side of us.

  Pippa put her phone away. “My ride is here. I’ll leave you to it, shall I? Perhaps I’ll see everyone later at the house. I’m sure you’ll be able to keep my name out of this, Gemma.”

  “That should be easy,” I said, “seeing as to how I didn’t need your help.”

  She smiled and let the officers assist her into the other boat.

  Chapter Twenty

  Before we were escorted off the police launch, I’d had time for a quick conversation with Ryan. “What about Dad? I’ll confess I might have suggested you act as his bodyguard to keep you busy, but I genuinely believe he might be in danger from Sam Morrison, out for revenge.”

  “Not a problem any longer. Henry got a call this morning, not long after you left, from one of his friends at Scotland Yard. Morrison has decided to take early retirement, effective immediately, with a nice benefit package. He and his wife are leaving this evening to enjoy two weeks in Spain. Apparently his marriage has been on the skids lately because of pressure at work, and he’s hoping the news of his retirement, plus the vacation, will mollify her.”

  That came as an enormous relief. One less complication to worry about.

  “I suspect,” Ryan said, “your sister mentioned to his superiors that he’d been seen watching your parents’ house. They couldn’t have that.”

  DI Robinson hadn’t been all that happy with me. I’d solved the case for them, at risk to my own life, and all she could say was she should arrest me for interfering in her investigation.

  I spent a long time at the police station, being questioned by DI Robinson and DS Patel, and otherwise cooling my heels. They left me in a nice interview room with a young constable assigned to fetch me copious cups of tea, while they pursued “developments.” Many of these developments were conducted in whispers with an assortment of officers in the hallway. I tried to listen in, but they make thick walls and doors in police stations these days.

  Finally, I was woken from a light nap in an uncomfortable chair, and told someone would drive me home.

  It was very late and the station was quiet. Only one person occupied the hard plastic chairs in the lobby. Ryan Ashburton jumped to his feet when he saw me. A sports magazine fell to the floor. “Good to go?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Thanks for coming down. Have you been here long?”

  “Long as you have.” His jaw was covered in dark stubble and his eyes were red with fatigue. He gathered me into his arms and I fell into them gratefully. I closed my eyes and listened for a moment to the steady, reliable, comforting beat of his heart.

  The young officer cleared his throat. “Car’s waiting outside, sir.”

  “Lead on,” I said.

  “I’m to give you this.” The officer handed me my phone, which Robinson had temporarily confiscated. I was glad to see it. I’d worried that “temporarily” meant “forever.”

  We didn’t say much as the car drove through the dark, empty streets of central London. I checked my phone. “Only one message,” I said to Ryan. “In all that time.”

  “We all knew where you were,” Ryan said. “Who’s the message from?”

  “Ashleigh at the store.” I checked the time. Four AM, eleven PM in West London. “It’s too late to call her back. I dread to think what might have happened now.”

  “Why? I thought you said everything was fine.”

  “Depends on your definition of fine. The building still stands. Uncle Arthur and Ashleigh are still alive. Last I checked, at any rate.”

  The house at Stanhope Gardens was shrouded in darkness. A single light burned over the front door.

  Not even Horace met us when we came in.

  “Tea?” I said.

  “If I never have another cup of tea in my life, it will be too soon,” Ryan said. “Are you ready for bed?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll have a beer then.”

  We tiptoed through the house to the kitchen. On the way, I let Horace out of the library, where he spent the night. I put the kettle on while Ryan rummaged in the fridge for a beer and some cheese to have with crackers.

  When the tea and plate of snacks was ready, we carried a tray into the conservatory, followed by Horace.

  I switched on the light, and a deep groan came from the day bed.

  “Sorry.” I hit the switch again, but it was too late. Pippa, all tousled hair and pillow lines on the pale skin of her face, blinked at us from under a comforter.