“And so she returns,” my sister said. “Triumphant.”

  I didn’t feel triumphant. “What are you doing here?”

  “In the house? Waiting for you, of course, so we can discuss developments.”

  “Don’t you know everything the police know?”

  She snorted and threw off the blanket. Ryan quickly turned away. My sister was dressed in nothing but her bra and knickers. “My boss reprimanded me, strongly, for allowing my office to be involved in a personal matter.”

  “You have a boss?”

  “Of course I have a boss. We all have a boss. Although, I suppose, the head of our country does not. Come to think of it, I suppose you don’t either, owning your own business. As for what I’m doing in the conservatory, all the beds in this house have been taken.” She rummaged among the pile of clothes on the floor and pulled on her skirt and blouse, both badly wrinkled. “You can look now,” she said to Ryan, and he did so, blushing furiously.

  We kept our voices low, but my dad was the first to come down, wrapping his terry cloth bathrobe around him. One by one, yawing and stretching, the others joined us.

  My mother headed straight for the kitchen to put the kettle on.

  “How’d it go?” Jayne looked so adorable in her blue kitten-patterned shorty pajamas, I was glad Jack Templeton wasn’t here to see her. “Are they going to give you a medal or something?”

  “If anyone deserves a medal,” I said, “it’s you. Have you ever thought of taking up life as a spy?”

  “Now there’s an idea,” she said.

  “Perish the thought,” Pippa said. Grant, who’d taken the time to get dressed, sat on the arm of her chair. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

  Pippa, I thought, seemed to be doing a lot of smiling lately.

  “What happened while I was temporarily detained?” I asked. “Did you learn anything more?”

  “Let’s wait until everyone’s here,” Dad said.

  At that moment, Mum brought the tea tray in. Donald followed her, carrying a plate of biscuits. I laughed, and Pippa threw me a worried look. “We look like we’re in a Noel Coward play,” I said.

  Mum wore a lavender satin negligee and matching fuzzy slippers, and Donald was in a pair of gray-checked men’s pajamas with a buttoned shirt, which looked to have been ironed before he wore them. Who, I wondered, irons their pajamas?

  “Henry’s memory has come back,” Mum said.

  “Great!” I said. “What do you remember, Dad?”

  “So little, it scarcely matters.” He accepted a cup of tea.

  “Biscuit, Henry?” Donald said.

  “Thanks. I remember leaving the ballroom for a break during the speeches. The bar had closed and the bartenders had left. I took a seat and Randy came up to me. He must have seen me leave the room. He said he wanted to talk, and suggested we go someplace private as the banquet was about to end.”

  “Do you know what he wanted to talk about?” I asked.

  “He didn’t say. It wouldn’t hurt to hear him out, I thought, away from Anne. I had to go to the men’s room first, so I told him that. I needed some time to think about whether I wanted to get into another conversation with Randy. When I finally made up my mind and walked into the room where we’d arranged to meet, I saw a man, dressed in Victorian dinner clothes, and Randy, lying on the floor. I didn’t suspect foul play at first. I thought he’d had a heart attack and the man had come in to help. I might have shouted something. The man turned, and grabbed at a lamp on a side table. It was only then I realized that Randy had a rope wrapped around his neck, and the man had not been helping. I reacted too late. Getting old, I fear. My reflexes aren’t what they used to be. He must have hit me with the lamp. Next I knew, I was on the floor, beside Randy; I tried to stand, and then you and Pippa were there. Even now that I remember seeing my attacker, I can’t identify him. Dark clothes, a hat, lots of whiskers and a beard.” He shrugged. “Could have been anyone.”

  “I feel so bad about Randolph,” Mum said. “I hadn’t seen him in all those years; we meet again, and he’s killed before we can even try to rebuild our relationship.”

  “If it helps,” I said. “I think he was serious about going straight. At the time anyway.”

  “Oh, yes,” Pippa said. “He was.”

  “What do you know?”

  “No more than we all know. Yesterday evening, while you were having tea with DI Robinson, Dad had a visit from his former boss.”

  “As I was under suspicion for a while,” my father said, “naturally enough Greg stayed away. Soon as he got word that Julian and Vivienne had been arrested for Randy’s murder, he paid me a visit and told me what was happening. The police went back to the Canary Wharf flat. This time they sent a squad from the art fraud division. They found something interesting almost immediately. Didn’t even need all their lab equipment and expensive consultants.”

  “What did they find?” I asked.

  “The painting Randy was presumably working on …”

  “The one on the easel.”

  “Right. It wasn’t far along. The first layer of one of the background colors, the initial paint for the drapery, was being filled in. He used twenty-first-century paint.”

  “Do you think he slipped up?” Donald asked.

  “I can’t believe that,” Dad said. “Not someone with his experience. It had to be deliberate. If the painting had been finished, the overlay of period-appropriate paint would fool a knowledgeable collector or dealer on first inspection, but not a detailed study.”

  “What do you suppose he was up to?” Ryan asked. “Trying to trap whoever had commissioned him, or out to cheat them?”

  “His deception wouldn’t have remained hidden for long,” Pippa said. “It would be discovered soon, perhaps even before he got the final payment for the work. I have to conclude he intended to help the authorities prosecute the art fraud ring.”

  “I agree,” Dad said. “Randy, being Randy, was being cagey. He’d been out of the business for a while, dabbling in his own art.”

  “Including sketches of Sherlock Holmes?” Jayne said.

  “Yes. Two months ago, he moved into a nice flat in Canary Wharf, one owned, incidentally, by a shell company, with everything he needed to create a forgery of a seventeenth-century Dutch masterpiece. The original of the painting is currently hanging in a private collection. The family who owns that painting is in the process of selling off much of their assets in order to raise money for substantial legal bills related to other matters. Randy would have understood that the plan was to replace the real picture with his forgery in time for the auction, and no one would be the wiser. Except for the people who’d arranged the deal, Julian and Vivienne, and the original owner of the painting, who would get to keep it and pay off his bills as well.”

  “I’ve often wondered what sort of person wants to own art they can look at only in the secrecy of some locked room,” Grant said.

  “Owning such a thing is a power trip in and of itself.” Pippa helped herself to a second chocolate biscuit. I don’t think I’d ever seen Pippa eat a biscuit before, never mind two.

  “Was your office aware of this art theft ring?” I asked.

  She raised one perfectly formed eyebrow. “Petty theft? I hardly think it would be worth our time.”

  “Randy went to the art forgery division of Scotland Yard,” Dad said. “Do you remember asking me to find out what I could about that, Gemma?”

  “I do now. I forgot to ask if you learned anything.”

  “I asked a few questions, but got nowhere, so didn’t bring it up with you. Tonight, Greg came by and told me. Randy offered to tell the police where and when he was going to deliver the finished product. The incorrect layer of paint was intended as a backup clue in case something went wrong. He was, as I said, as cagey as ever.”

  “Too cagey for his own good,” Mum said.

  “Yup,” Dad said. “The police didn’t know what painting they were after, or who else was involved.”

  “Julian and Vivienne were the ones behind the plan,” I said. “They had a customer who needed money fast and at the same time wanted to keep his masterpiece. They arranged for Randy to make an imitation, and set him up in a place where he could paint in comfort. Then they’d sell his to the owner of the original, who’d then sell the fake as the genuine item.”

  “I can’t imagine several months of Randolph’s work, never mind his living expenses, came cheap,” Mum said. “And then the fees of the dealer and the auction house on top of it. Is this painting worth that much?”

  “The auctioneers were planning on opening the bidding at fifty million pounds,” Dad said.

  “Goodness,” Mum said.

  “Julian and Vivienne must have guessed he was up to something,” Jayne said.

  “Randy took time away from the project to make his own art and sell it at the conference,” Pippa said. “That in itself would have worried them.”

  “Under the name Veronica Raymond,” Dad said, “the woman Gemma met as Vivienne from the art gallery has come to the attention of police in Toronto and New York. She disappeared from North America two years ago. She had some minor plastic surgery done, enough to keep her unrecognizable from CCTV footage. No one knew where she was until you, Gemma, had her on the run.”

  “If the police knew Randy was involved in art fraud and theft,” I said, “why didn’t they go after his associates in that world for his killing? Why on earth concentrate on you?”

  “Sam Morrison was handed the investigation when the 999 call came in. He suffers from a serious case of single-mindedness.”

  “It was also, I suspect,” Ryan said, “a situation of silos. The art fraud division didn’t speak to homicide and vice versa.”

  “Sadly,” Dad said, “that still happens.”

  “Happens everywhere,” Ryan said.

  “Art fraud did take a look at it,” Dad said. “But they didn’t know who Randy’s business partners were. As I said, he was cagey.”

  “What do you suppose they were doing at the reception?” Mum asked. “Surely it was not a coincidence that they were Holmes fans?”

  “Julian and Viv didn’t have tickets for the banquet,” I said. “When they found out Randy was talking to the police—”

  “You can be sure the Met is working hard on finding that leak,” Dad said.

  “They would have known they had to act quickly,” I said. “Vivienne said something about Randy and what she called his ridiculous little sketches, which leads me to think Randy enjoyed making them wait for him to finish the painting. He told them about the conference. They knew where he’d be Saturday night, so they decided to get rid of him then and there. It wasn’t a bad plan. Julian wore a disguise so complete, about which no one would ask any questions, he wouldn’t be identified by CCTV cameras or witnesses. If Dad hadn’t walked in when he did …”

  “Can all this be proven,” Ryan asked, “in a court of law?”

  “Greg told me Julian and Vivienne can’t incriminate each other fast enough,” Dad said. “Vivienne was the mastermind, so to speak, and art fraud will be spending a lot of time searching her business accounts and records of every painting that’s passed through her hands.”

  “But Julian killed a man,” I said. “A lot more serious charge than theft, even at the multi-million-pound level.”

  “He claims,” Dad said, “he only wanted to talk to Randy, but things got out of control. Besides, Vivienne made him do it. She claims they came to the reception to talk to Randy, to tell him they were concerned that he was falling behind schedule, and Julian killed him totally on his own initiative. Regardless of whose idea it was, Julian came to a party with a length of rope in his pocket, and that will ensure he’s charged with intent.” He stretched and Horace leapt to his feet. “Let the lawyers sort it out. As I’m up so early, might as well take the dog for a walk.”

  I yawned, and my mother said, “To bed with you, young lady. I haven’t forgotten you haven’t slept.”

  “I dozed at the police station,” I said.

  “And we can only assume that’s really comfortable.” Jayne stood up and began collecting used teacups.

  “Just what I need,” I said. “Two mothers.”

  “What I need,” Ryan said, “is a cup of coffee. But first, I’ll come with you, Henry.”

  “You haven’t slept either,” I said.

  “No, but I’m wanting to hear the details of how the police will proceed with this investigation.”

  “Breakfast will be ready when you get back,” Mum said.

  “I’ll help Gemma, get myself dressed, and then give you a hand,” Jayne said.

  “I can take myself to bed,” I said.

  “No, you can’t,” Jayne said.

  * * *

  I started awake as a weight settled on the bed beside me. Soft lips caressed my cheek.

  “Ummm.” I rolled over. Ryan’s lovely blue eyes stared deeply into mine. I reached for him.

  He leapt off the bed. “I was sent to get you. We have company.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five after nine.”

  I rolled back over. “Tell DI Robinson I’m deathly ill and more questions will push me over the edge.”

  “It’s not Robinson, and our visitor is insisting you’ll want to be there.” He pulled the covers off me. “Be downstairs in five minutes.”

  Grumbling, I got up and staggered into the bathroom.

  Once again like the cast of a Noel Coward play, the family gathered in the library. Everyone was dressed, and they had that wide-awake, sparkly look that meant they’d had adequate cups of tea or coffee and a hearty English breakfast. Even Ryan looked like a man ready to dive eagerly into another day. He was a detective, and used to getting out of bed at all hours and going days without sleep.

  Whereas I was a bookstore owner, accustomed to a good night’s sleep every night, followed by enjoying several cups of tea before so much as thinking about coming alive. I rubbed at my head, trying to flatten some of the curls.

  The family and houseguests had been joined in the library by the visitor. Sir John Saint-Jean stood as I entered. “Congratulations,” he said. “I hear you singlehandedly brought down an entire network of art thieves.”

  “If you want to put it like that,” I said modestly.

  “I do,” he said.

  “I don’t,” Pippa said. She’d changed out of the clothes she’d thrown onto the conservatory floor and also looked rested and refreshed. “I’d only just arrived in the office this morning when I got a call from Sir John. He said he had something to tell us and wanted you and me to be here.” She turned to our visitor. “We’re here. What’s so important?”

  The doorbell rang.

  “You might want to answer that,” he said.

  Pippa and I exchanged a look. I hadn’t seen Sir John make a single move, but he’d summoned someone to the door at exactly the right moment.

  Dad, followed as always by Horace, left the library. They were back a moment later with David, Sir John’s butler. David carried a large parcel, about three feet square and two inches thick, wrapped in heavy brown paper tied with string.

  It could only be a painting.

  “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Doyle,” Sir John said. “I’ll rearrange a few things.” He moved photos and knickknacks off the mantel above the fireplace, and when he’d cleared a space said, “Put it here please, David.”

  David propped the parcel on the mantel and stepped back.

  Sir John ripped the paper away with an excessively dramatic flourish.

  Mum gasped and her hands flew to her mouth.

  “Well, I never,” Dad said.

  “Wow!” I said.

  “Where did you find it?” Pippa asked.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Grant said.

  “What is it?” Jayne and Donald asked.

  I’d never seen this particular painting before, but I’d seen many by the artist. His style was unmistakable. Sir John Constable, one of England’s most renowned landscape painters. This was a small work. Small but perfect.

  My mother dropped into a chair. She began to cry. My father’s mouth hung open. For perhaps the first time in their lives, they did not offer tea to a morning visitor.

  “Is this my grandparents’ Constable?” Pippa asked. “The one stolen by Randolph more than thirty years ago?”

  “It is,” Dad said.

  “I’m pleased to be able to return it to you.” Sir John’s eyes sparkled.

  “It’s been gone for a long time,” Pippa said. “How did you find it?”

  “As I told Gemma, I’ve been trying to find the painting your uncle cheated me out of.” He explained to the others what he’d told Grant and me. “In the course of that search, combined with some small tasks I’ve been able to perform for Her Majesty’s government over the years, I’ve made valuable contacts in the international world of art theft.”

  “And you just happened to trip upon my family’s Constable?” Pippa said.

  “Not exactly. I got a letter in the post the Monday after the Sherlock Holmes conference banquet.”

  “I’ll bite,” Pippa said. “What sort of letter?”

  “From Randolph Denhaugh. He said he knew I was wanting to talk to him, but he’d rather not talk to me. He apologized for any … unpleasantness … between us. He wanted, so the letter said, to make amends, but unfortunately my painting had disappeared into the abyss that is the shadier parts of the art world and he didn’t know where it ended up. He’d seen me lurking about—his words, not mine—at the Holmes conference on Friday. He wanted to make amends to his family and thought I’d be the best person to find the work he’d stolen from his parents all those years ago.”

  No one said anything for a long time as we simply stared at the beautiful work of art.

  “Why didn’t he tell us where to find it?” Pippa said.

  Sir John cracked his knuckles. “I’ve made some contacts over the years you might not want to be seen associating with, Ms. Doyle. The present, now previous, owners of this painting professed to be shocked, shocked, to hear it had been stolen.”

  “You didn’t believe them?” Ryan asked.