It would be another week before Gabriel completed the restoration of the Gentileschi. He shipped the painting to Isherwood Fine Arts, which sold the work to something called Quantum International, Ltd., for the princely sum of ten million pounds. Sarah Bancroft leaked details of the sale to Amelia March of ARTnews, along with the name of the celebrity conservator who had knocked the canvas into shape. Sarah also agreed to give the celebrity conservator a slice of her lucrative dealer’s commission. He wired a portion of the funds to a Marseilles-based thief and invested the remainder in a five-bedroom cottage near Gwennap Head in deepest West Cornwall.

They took formal possession of the property on a Wednesday afternoon in late August. Chiara spent the remainder of her holiday planning a wholesale architectural renovation that would push the final cost of the project well past the original asking price. Gabriel, for his part, lined up several private commissions that would keep the Allon family financially afloat.

But each afternoon he hiked the South West Coast Path to the tiny port of Mousehole and sailed his old wooden ketch in the treacherous waters off the Cornish coast. During one excursion the weather turned suddenly violent, and he was fortunate the vessel did not smash herself to pieces on Logan Rock. That evening the Allon family dined at the home of Cordelia and Leonard Bradley. The occasion was saved from perfection by news of yet another murder, this one in Port Isaac. Poor Irene spent a sleepless night of terror in her parents’ bed. Gabriel’s Beretta, which he had carried into the country with the assent of SIS chief Graham Seymour, rested on the bedside table.

The following morning, their last in Cornwall, was spent packing their bags and preparing the Gwennap Head cottage for the coming winter. Gabriel left behind the studio easel and supplies he had acquired for the Gentileschi restoration, then set off on foot toward Mousehole. Fair play required him to return the ketch from whence he had purloined it. Chiara and the children planned to collect him quayside in Port Navas, provided, of course, that Irene could be talked out of her room. From there they would proceed to the Hilton Hotel at Heathrow’s Terminal 5. They were booked on the morning’s first flight to Venice.

The precise timing of the operation, though, was held hostage by the fickle nature of Cornwall’s winds and tides. Gabriel crossed Mount’s Bay in just under three hours, but unfavorable conditions slowed his journey around Lizard Point, and the sun was beginning to set by the time he finally reached the mouth of the Helford. He rang Chiara and gave her an update on his position and estimated time of arrival. With Raphael’s help, she coaxed Irene into the car and started east.

The outgoing tide was running hard and fast, slowing Gabriel’s progress further still. He dropped his sails at Padgagarrack Cove and made his way upriver under power. Port Navas Creek, flat and calm in the gathering darkness, received him like a trusted friend. He aimed the prow toward the stone quay near the old foreman’s cottage and, wishing to prolong the journey a moment longer, reduced his speed to a crawl. That was when he spotted the flare of a torch. Smiling, he flashed his running lights twice in reply.

*  *  *

“Permission to come aboard.”

Gabriel frowned at Peel’s black policeman’s footwear. “Not in those things, you don’t.”

Peel left his shoes on the quay and stepped over the lifeline. “Is there anything to drink on this vessel?”

“Is that an official inquiry, Detective Sergeant?”

“I could use a beer, that’s all.”

“It’s possible there’s some Carlsberg in the icebox.”

Peel ducked into the cabin and emerged with two dripping-wet bottles and an opener. He pried the cap from one and handed it to Gabriel. “You didn’t run her aground or smash into anything, did you?”

“I had a couple of close shaves, but I was able to pull her back from the brink.”

“I had a rather close shave myself recently. A nasty piece of business in neighboring Somerset.” Peel opened the second Carlsberg. “But thanks to your friend Christopher, I came through it without a scratch.”

“And when the story broke about Charlotte Blake and the Picasso?”

“I played dumb, didn’t I?”

“My name come up?”

“Not at the headquarters of the Devon and Cornwall Police. And my colleagues from Avon and Somerset have no idea that you and Ingrid were ever in that manor house. It’s as if it never happened.”

“Is it really, Timothy?”

He drank some of the beer but said nothing.

“Can you ever forgive me?” asked Gabriel.

“For what?”

“Allowing you to be placed in a situation where you were forced to take two human lives.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mr. Allon. It was your friend Christopher’s doing. Besides, the men I killed weren’t exactly pillars of the community, were they?”

“Neither were the men that I killed. But I paid a terrible price nonetheless. Killing people ruined my life, Timothy. I would hate myself if it ruins yours.”

“How much does Chiara know about what happened?”

“The basics.”

“Does she know that you threw yourself in front of Ingrid?”

Gabriel shook his head.

“Bravest thing I ever saw.”

“But you won’t mention it to her, will you? I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Allon. It will be our little secret.” Peel glanced at the old foreman’s cottage. “Just the way it was when I was a kid. You looked after me back then. And now I’ll look after you.”

“I didn’t realize I needed looking after.”

Peel gave a knowing smile. “Did you or did you not purchase that rather large property at Gwennap Head?”

“Wherever did you hear that?”

“I stopped for a pasty at the Cornish Bakery the other day. Vera Hobbs told me everything. I only wish that I could have come to the party at the Lamb and Flag.”

“I could have used your help. They gave me quite a going-over.”

“It’s probably better if we keep our distance for a while. But I plan to be a frequent visitor to your Gwennap Head estate.”

“It’s a cottage, Timothy.”

“A very large cottage,” said Peel. “With one of the greatest views on earth.”

Gabriel gazed at the silver-black waters of the tidal creek. “This one isn’t so bad, either.”

Peel made no reply. He was looking down at his phone.

“Not another one,” said Gabriel.

Peel shook his head. “A minor inconsistency with a case I’m working on. A burglary ring operating out of Plymouth. We arrested one of its members yesterday morning, and he promptly gave up the rest of the crew.”

“And the inconsistency?”

“The exact number of jobs they pulled. They’ve confessed to twenty-three separate burglaries, but only twenty-two of them were reported to the police.”

“Which one wasn’t?”

“A house on Tresawle Road in Falmouth.”