“I’d rather tell the world that I was in on the joke all along.”

“It might be bad for your reputation, Julian.”

“You were the best thing that ever happened to me, my boy. And Sarah, of course. I don’t know what I would do without her.”

The director tapped the microphone, gaveling the proceedings to order.

“Where was it?” asked Julian.

“The Van Gogh? A villa on the Amalfi Coast.”

“Who owned the villa?”

“Long story.”

“Condition?”

“Remarkably good. I painted a copy while I had it in my studio. The esteemed director of the Courtauld Gallery, a Van Gogh expert himself, couldn’t tell the difference.”

“Naughty boy,” said Julian. “Naughty, naughty boy.”

*  *  *

The director’s remarks were mercifully brief. A few words about the devastating impact of art crime, fewer still when introducing Gabriel. He declined an invitation to address the gathering but agreed to help remove the white shroud. He was assisted by Lucinda Graves.

Two curators hung the painting in its assigned place, and the waiters appeared with the hors d’oeuvres and the Bollinger. Gabriel and Chiara each drank only a single glass; they had a nine o’clock dinner reservation at Alain Ducasse at the Dorchester. At half past eight they were rolling along Piccadilly in the Jaguar limousine.

“Was it my imagination,” said Chiara, “or did you enjoy that?”

“Almost as much as my most recent visit to Russia.”

Chiara gazed out her window at the brightly lit storefronts. “And the phone call you received as we were walking in the door?”

“A detective from the Devon and Cornwall Police.”

“What have you done now?” she asked with a sigh.

“Nothing. He’d like my help with a murder investigation.”

“Not that Oxford professor who was found dead out near Land’s End?”

“Yes.”

“But why you, of all people?”

“He’s an old friend of mine, the detective.” Gabriel smiled. “Yours, too.”

5

Port Navas

Gabriel rose before dawn the next morning and fetched a Volkswagen from the Hertz outlet near Marble Arch. Chiara read the newspapers on her phone during the drive to Heathrow.

“It seems you’re the talk of London, darling. There’s even a lovely photo of you and Lucinda Graves unveiling the Van Gogh together. You look very dashing, I have to say.”

“How are the reviews?”

“Quite positive.”

“Even the Guardian?”

“Enraptured.”

“About me or the Van Gogh?”

“Both.” Chiara lowered the visor and regarded her reflection in the vanity mirror. “I look terrible.”

“I beg to differ. In fact, I’m having second thoughts about letting you get on the plane without me.”

“I’d love to come to Cornwall with you, but I have a church to restore and a mother who needs rescuing.” Chiara raised the visor. “Do you think they remember us?”

“Who?”

“Vera and Dottie and the usual crowd down at the Lamb and Flag.”

“How could they possibly forget us?”

Chiara fixed him with a stare of mild rebuke. “You were so very rude to them, Gabriel.”

“It wasn’t me,” he said defensively. “It was only a role I was playing at the time.”

“Giovanni Rossi. The temperamental but gifted Italian art restorer.”

“His wife was quite lovely, as I recall.”

“And much beloved by the villagers.” Chiara returned the phone to her handbag. “It’s a shame we didn’t stay in Gunwalloe longer. If we had, we would have known Charlotte Blake.”

Gabriel considered this notion as they approached the exit for Heathrow. “You’re quite right, you know.”

“I always am.”

“Not always,” said Gabriel.

“When have I ever been wrong?”

“Give me a week or two. I’ll think of something.”

“You should be asking yourself why Timothy Peel wants you to come to Cornwall to help with the investigation into Professor Blake’s murder.”