Donald gasped. “You don’t mean …”

  “As I said, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t get it,” Ryan said.

  Donald winked at me. “Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s older brother, didn’t work for the British government. According to Dr. John Watson, Mycroft was the British government.”

  “Geez, Donald,” Grant said, “as interesting as that is, I don’t know that we want to get into a discussion of Holmes’ family situation right now.”

  “If you will come with me please, madam,” Constable Jones said to me. “The inspector will talk to you now. The rest of you, please wait your turn.”

  I followed her. The business office had been set up as an impromptu police headquarters. When I’d glanced in there yesterday, idly exploring the hotel venue, the three desks and chairs had been set into a row, all of them facing the wall. Now, one of the desks had been moved so it was perpendicular to the others. The intent had been to create a more formal space to allow Morrison to sit behind the desk looking authoritative and glare at the person he was talking to.

  He glared now, as I came in. I was in a bit of a pickle here. I wanted to help the police as much as possible, let them know everything I’d learned or observed around Randy, but I didn’t trust Morrison. Obviously he and Dad had a history, and equally obviously they were not friends. My initial impression of Morrison was that he wasn’t all that bright, and he was likely the sort who leapt to conclusions and couldn’t later back down in the face of fresh evidence.

  I kept my expression impassive and sat down. I tucked my hands neatly into my lap.

  Morrison stared at me. If the stare was supposed to be intimidating, it failed, but I made the attempt to appear suitably intimidated. I twisted my hands together and gave him a tight nervous smile.

  “Name?” he snapped.

  “Gemma Doyle.”

  “Is that so? Henry’s daughter?”

  “Yes, I’m the younger one.”

  “What do you do for a living, Ms. Doyle?”

  “I own a bookshop.”

  His eyebrows rose. Clearly he’d been expecting me to say that I organized the movements of Her Majesty’s navy, or some such thing. Instead, a lowly bookstore owner.

  “How many stores do you have?”

  “One. And a half interest in the tearoom next door. In Massachusetts, in the United States, where I now live. I’m here for this conference.”

  He leaned back in his chair, visibly relaxed. I wasn’t even a bookshop tycoon. He then asked me the standard questions about my uncle Randolph, and I answered honestly. I’d never met the man before this week. He’d left the family many years ago and he’d had no contact with them since. I said nothing about Randy’s past as a forger of fine art. If he had a police record and had spent time in prison, even Morrison should be able to find it.

  “When the security guard arrived on the scene, she found you and one of your American friends in the room. What were you doing there?”

  “We’d been at the banquet and were waiting for the crowd to disperse before collecting our coats and going back to our hotel, as my friend told you. The waitress went into the room to clean and she immediately ran back out, clearly in some distress. Naturally, we went to see if we could help.” I’d gone into the room with Pippa, who’d then sent Grant to see to Randy. I didn’t bother to mention that. “There was,” my voice broke, “nothing we could do. My father had obviously been attacked as well.” Tears welled up in my eyes. I swallowed heavily.

  “Perhaps,” Morrison said. He didn’t ask the most obvious questions: had I seen anyone else in the room, had I moved or removed anything, had I touched anything, had Randy been dead or alive when I found him and had he said anything to me. Had I vacuumed the floor and dusted off the countertops. He didn’t even ask if I’d removed Randy’s phone from the body. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Doyle,” he said at last. “When are you scheduled to go back to America?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “I see no reason for you to change your plans, as long as you give us your contact information in case I have further questions.”

  “There are one or two things I’m thinking might be important.”

  “What’s that?”

  “On Friday Mr. Denhaugh had an argument with a woman in the dealers’ room. She accused him of stealing her ideas.”

  “What sort of ideas?”

  “He was selling sketches of scenes from the Sherlock Holmes books and stories. She said that was her idea, and he’d stolen it.”

  Morrison gave me such a patronizing smile, I was surprised he didn’t get up and pat me on the head. “I’m sure that’s nothing. Some drawings of Sherlock Holmes are hardly anything to kill a man over.”

  “I guess not.” I’d been about to tell him about the argument I’d seen in the bar, but I decided not to. I didn’t need another pat on the head. “Something else happened that you might be interested in. On Friday afternoon, a man came up to me when I was alone, preparing to deliver a lecture. He told me he had a message for Randolph.”

  “What sort of message?”

  “He said something about people sending him to get back what belonged to them. I had no idea what he was talking about and told him so. That man later—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Ms. Doyle.”

  “What?”

  “You’re trying to protect your father. I can understand that, but you don’t want to get yourself in trouble by making up stories about some mysterious man lurking in dark corners.”

  “Now see here, Inspector, that is—”

  “That’ll be all, thank you.” He nodded to Constable Jones, who’d been standing next to the door with her arms crossed over her thin chest. I hesitated, considering giving Morrison my opinion on overzealous police officers who disregarded witness testimony if it didn’t suit their preconceived conclusions.

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Doyle.” A smile touched the edges of his mouth. If anything, it made him look even less attractive than when he was frowning.

  I got to my feet. “You are making a mistake.” I walked out, followed by Constable Jones, who then asked Jayne to come with her.

  I joined Donald, Grant, and Ryan. Other than the police officers and a hotel manager, everyone else had gone.

  “The police took people’s statements and let them leave,” Ryan said. “Seems we’re the only ones the Inspector wants to interview himself.”

  “Because of Dad,” I said.

  “Yup.”

  Chapter Seven

  None of my friends were questioned by Morrison for long. When Ryan came out, he whispered to me, “Are all English police detectives idiots?”

  “Not at all. It seems we got the bottom of the barrel. One who, unfortunately, appears to have a history with my father.”

  Interviews done, statements made, and contact information collected, we were at last allowed to leave. When I went to pick Uncle Arthur’s award off the floor, an officer told me to leave it. I didn’t argue.

  Dead tired, we staggered down the quiet dark street back to the Bentley. Ryan and I lingered in the lobby after everyone had said their good nights and gone upstairs. In a back room a vacuum cleaner purred. Ryan pulled me close, and I buried my head in his chest with a contented murmur. “What do you think happened tonight?” he asked.

  “I have no idea. All I know is that Randy was not a man who made friends easily. The dinner was for ticketed quests only, but anyone could have wandered into the hotel. Maybe he or she called Randy and asked to meet. It’s interesting that he didn’t have a phone on him.”

  Ryan leaned back and looked into my face. “How do you know that?”

  “I had Grant search the body before the security guard arrived, of course.”

  He shook his head. “Of course.”

  “I was interested in any recent calls Randy had received or made. That the killer must have taken his phone proves my point. I don’t see what I can do here, as I don’t know the people involved, but unless this is cleared up fast and my father proved to be innocent, I’m not going home on Tuesday.”

  “I figured you’d say that. I’ll stay too.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “No. But I will.”

  The stubble on his face was coming in thick and dark. I ran my fingers over it. “I’m thinking,” he said, “that your dad saw Randy go into that room and decided it was a good time to have a chat. He walked in on an argument and got a bash in the head for his pains.”

  “Agreed.” I snuggled back into Ryan’s chest. “How’s Donald working out as a roommate?”

  “An absolute nightmare. I can’t tell if he’s snoring or if a train track runs through our room. I’m barely able to get a wink of sleep.”

  “Speaking of sleep,” I said.

  He pushed me away. “We’d better try to get some.”

  “Hold on a moment. I need to check in with Pippa.”

  “Isn’t it late to be calling?”

  “She’ll be up.”

  And she was. She was at the house on Stanhope Gardens, she told me. Dad had gone straight to bed, and she and Mum would check on him throughout the night. He hadn’t remembered anything more about what happened earlier. “In the morning, I’ll have my office check into DI Morrison,” she said. “I don’t like that he and Dad appear not to like each other. I’ll try to have him replaced.”

  “So much for not getting involved,” I said.

  Her sigh came down the line. “Can’t be helped. I couldn’t have him arresting Dad.”

  “I’m going to cancel my flight home. I’ll stay as long as needed.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “Come to the house in the morning. If Dad hasn’t remembered what he saw, we might need to talk it all through. We can try to jog his memory.”

  “Call me if anything happens.” I put my phone away.

  Ryan pressed the button for the elevator. It arrived immediately and we got in. He pushed the button for the third floor. As the doors swooshed shut, he gathered me into his arms and kissed me, long and deep. The door pinged open but we didn’t separate. The doors shut and we headed back down.

  Ryan reached behind him and pressed the button again.

  Up we went again.

  “We could ride the elevator all night,” I murmured.

  “And wouldn’t I like to. Better than listening to Donald snore.”

  “But other hotel guests might object.” I pulled myself out of his embrace, very reluctantly, and waved my arm in the doorway before it could close again.

  “Good night, Gemma,” he said.

  * * *

  I’d intended to get up early and go to my parents’ house without waking Jayne or even stopping for a cup of tea, but by the time I woke, surprisingly late, I found Jayne up and dressed and making herself coffee. The first rays of sunlight touched the edges of the thick drapes.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Have your shower and get dressed and we’ll go.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Ryan texted me last night when he got in. He said you’re going to your parents to talk things over, and I’m to call him as soon as you’re up. I did that just now when you started to stir. He’ll meet us downstairs in ten minutes.”

  “Us? You don’t have to come, Jayne. You wanted to see more of the city today.”

  “The city can wait.”

  This time the tears that threatened to fall were genuine. I swallowed heavily and headed for the shower.

  Not only Ryan was waiting for us in the lobby, but Donald and Grant also.

  “What’s happening?” I said.

  “We’re going with you, of course,” Donald said. “You need our support.”

  “What about the conference? Today’s the last day.”

  “There will be other conferences.” He pointed toward the door with his useless little umbrella.

  “Let’s go, then,” Grant said. “Do we need a cab?”

  “It’s close enough to walk,” I said.

  We passed the conference hotel on our way to Stanhope Gardens. A blue-and-yellow police car was parked outside, and I wondered if the conference’s scheduled programming would continue.

  It was a Sunday morning, the air cool and crisp, the clouds overhead gray and heavy.

  Kensington is a very affluent neighborhood—Kensington Palace itself is situated at the end of the road—of stately white Georgian townhouses and enclosed private gardens, but also bustling streets of local pubs, good restaurants and trendy cafés, and funky shops. On a crisp morning in January, the trees were bare and the flowerpots empty. We were out early enough that the restaurants on Gloucester Road were just starting to open, but the streets were already busy with dog walkers and cyclists, the occasional jogger, and people in search of Sunday morning coffee.

  As Stanhope Gardens came into view, I quickened my pace. I was afraid I’d see a police car parked outside the house in the middle of the row, but if one was there, it wasn’t marked.

  Pippa answered the door to my ring. Pippa and a big black dog.

  Jayne immediately dropped to her haunches to greet him.

  “What on earth?” I said.

  Pippa’s mouth pinched in disapproval. “This is Horace. He belongs to Dad. I cannot imagine what Mother was thinking to allow it.” My sister had on the same dress she’d worn last night, but in true Pippa fashion, she still managed to look fresh and bright.

  “A schnauzer,” Grant said. “And a big one. Nice-looking animal.”

  I held out my hand. Horace gave it a quick sniff before studying me through his intelligent brown eyes. He was solid black, with dense wiry fur, a beard, and small erect ears. He stood about two feet tall and weighed sixty or seventy pounds. He went on to sniff at my trouser legs, and I wondered if he could sense traces of Violet.

  “What about Mum’s allergies?” I asked.

  “When Dad retired,” Pippa said, “he insisted he needed a companion while Mum’s at work all day. This breed is supposedly good for people with severe allergies, and Dad promised to keep him clean and well-groomed and away from her office and the bedrooms.”

  “I think he’s beautiful.” Jayne gave Horace a hearty slap on the rump and then pushed herself to her feet.

  “Are we going to stand on the front step all day?” Donald asked.

  Pippa stood back and we filed into the house.

  “Horace Walpole?” I asked Pippa.

  “Of course,” she replied. The dog had been named for the eighteenth-century English novelist and politician, one of my father’s favorite historical figures.

  While Pippa helped us with our coats, the dog danced around our feet, thrilled to have visitors.

  I turned to see Jayne’s mouth hanging open, and I hid a grin. I thought she’d be impressed. When my grandparents owned this house, it had been gradually falling into genteel disrepair, but over the years Mum and Dad fixed what needed fixing and upgraded it as needed. The entrance hall was large and grand, with off-white paint on the walls and white tiles on the floor. The furniture consisted of a chaise longue in soft cream and a glass-topped table on which sat a gold reproduction-antique clock. A sweeping staircase with an oak banister led upstairs, and a portrait of my mother, young and beautiful, painted when she was first called to the bar, hung on the wall.

  “Mum and Dad are in the library,” Pippa said.

  “Library?” Jayne squeaked. “You have a library?”

  “How’s Dad?” I asked.

  “He slept well, despite us constantly checking on him, and says he feels fine this morning,” Pippa said. “Although he has a slight headache. He hasn’t remembered anything more about last night.”

  “Have you heard from Inspector Morrison this morning?” Ryan asked.

  “He just left. Dad had nothing further to tell him. Morrison wasn’t happy about that.”

  “What’s the story there?” Ryan asked. “It’s obvious they know each other.”

  “I’ll let Dad explain, if he wants to.” Pippa led the way down the hallway. Jayne kept tripping over her own feet as she studied the paintings on the walls and peeked into the rooms we passed as Horace bounded on ahead.

  The library is Dad’s room. Whereas the entrance hall is decorated to Mum’s taste, all shades of white and elegance, Dad chose the colors in here. Blue, blue, and more blue. The carpet was a deep navy, the walls periwinkle, the bookshelves cobalt, the chairs upholstered in some combination of blues and whites. Jayne, in a blue sweater and dark jeans, almost faded into the walls.

  Dad sat in his favorite wingback chair next to the fireplace. He was dressed in casual trousers and a brown-and-orange cardigan, and I was pleased to see his color was almost normal. A discreet white bandage had been applied to the back of his head. As we came in, he started to struggle to his feet, but Ryan put up a hand. “No need to get up, Henry. You need to rest.”

  Dad fell back into his chair. Horace ran to his side, and my father rubbed absentmindedly at the dog’s ears. “Good morning, Gemma, my dear. Nice of you to bring your friends.”

  “I’ve been worried about you.” I gave him a kiss on the top of the head, taking care to avoid the bandage.

  “Dr. McMaster came by last night to have a look at him,” Pippa explained.

  “Your doctor does house calls?” Jayne said. “In the middle of the night?”

  “A longtime family friend.” My mother came into the room. She looked elegant but casual in beige trousers with a dark-red silk blouse and gold earrings. I gave her a kiss on the cheek while my friends said good morning.

  “I’m sure you’d all like tea or coffee. Jayne, would you mind giving me a hand?”

  “Not at all.”

  Greetings over, Grant headed immediately to the bookshelves. He was going to be severely disappointed. My parents had a big library, but it contained nothing of monetary value. The books were ones they’d bought at a neighborhood bookstore because they wanted to read them.

  Donald wouldn’t find anything of interest here either. Neither of my parents read crime novels, and particularly not Sherlock pastiches. Dad was a retired cop and Mum a criminal defense lawyer. They said they had enough of crime in their real lives. Dad read history mostly, and Mum had a surprising weakness for gaudy historical romance, the more bodice-ripping the better.