Dinah was too excited to sleep. She wanted to talk to Jonathan, but he put his “Do not disturb” sign on the back of the seat in front of him, reclined his seat, covered himself with a blanket, turned out his light, put on his sleep mask, and blew her a kiss. “Sleep tight,” he said.
She leaned across the aisle to chat with Heyward, saying how sorry she was that Coleman hadn’t been able to come. She thought he wouldn’t be able to resist discussing Coleman, but he smiled and kept reading.
She wracked her brain for a way to engage him, and came up with the vacancy Carswell had left in his life. “I guess you’ll be needing to replace Ms. Carswell,” she said. He looked up and asked if she knew anyone.
“Bethany Byrd, my assistant, could find you one of her cousins. I bet she could have someone there by next week,” she said.
He stared at her, an odd expression on his face. “Good idea. I’ll look into it when we get back to New York. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll try to get some sleep.” He put his book aside, switched off his reading lamp, and turned away.
Dinah was left alone with her thoughts and Agatha Christie’s At Bertram’s Hotel, which she was rereading to get in an English frame of mind. But she couldn’t concentrate, and she, too, fell asleep.
After the travelers checked into Claridge’s and cleaned up, they took a long walk. London was warmer than New York, and the sun was shining. Brilliantly colored flowers filled the window boxes, pedestrians jammed the sidewalks, and the shop windows displayed so many beautiful things, Dinah hardly knew where to look. Just as she was beginning to feel tired, Jonathan led them into Fortnum & Mason’s, and downstairs to the food and wine department.
Dinah craned her neck, trying to see everything at once. She was nearly overcome by the aromas—Stilton, lilies, fruit cake, Madeira, coffee. The counters were crammed with tea and coffee; jams and jelly and honey; chocolates; fruits, fresh and dried; bottles and bottles of wine; and boxes and tins of cookies, or biscuits, as they were called here. Refrigerated glass cases displayed meat and cheese and other perishables. She longed to go over to the cases to look more closely—the cook in her was nearly bursting with excitement and curiosity—but Jonathan herded her and Heyward back upstairs and to the back of the street level floor, past candies and baked goods, and down some steps into a bright dining room, full of small tables.
Jonathan’s office had made a reservation, and they were seated immediately and given menus. Dinah’s head was whirling, and she felt a little dizzy and disoriented, but she was hungry. She asked Jonathan to order for her; she felt too confused to choose. He ordered Welsh rarebits and small salads for them both, and Heyward chose fish and chips. She and Jonathan ate every bite, but Heyward barely made a dent in his meal, which looked big enough to serve a family of eight.
Although Fortnum & Mason’s was a short walk from Claridge’s, Dinah begged to take one of the big black London cabs, so different from New York’s cramped yellow taxis, back to the hotel. To Dinah’s delight the driver said “Where to, guv?” just as they did in the movies.
When they were in their room, Jonathan insisted she rest. She was still protesting that she wasn’t tired when she fell deeply asleep. She didn’t wake until she heard the insistent ring of the telephone.
“Wake up call,” Jonathan said. “The bathroom’s yours.” He leaned over and kissed her, and handed her a huge terry robe. When she put it on, tall as she was, it came nearly to her ankles.
Dinah longed for a soak in the big tub, but she didn’t have time. She showered and put on her blue velvet pantsuit and the sapphires that went with it, remembering what Marise had said about how elegantly Rachel dressed. She piled her hair up and pinned it in place. Jonathan beamed at her, and told her she was beautiful.
Rachel was waiting for them in a room full of treasures. The pictures, the furniture, the rugs—everything was exquisite, including Rachel. She wore a plum-colored suit with an ankle-length skirt and matching suede shoes. The tailored jacket fit perfectly—Dinah was sure it had been made for her. It closed—how? Maybe with an invisible zipper. The collar rose up around her throat and was stiffened so it stood away from her neck. On her lapel, Rachel wore an ancient-looking spiral-shaped gold brooch, and smaller spirals in her earlobes.
Rachel introduced George Quincy, her solicitor, and explained that he was helping her deal with the problem of Simon.
A maid in a black uniform and white ruffled apron served drinks and passed cheese biscuits. When she’d left the room, Rachel said, “Even Mr. Quincy has not heard what I am about to tell you.” She paused, and began again, as she had when she spoke to Dinah on the telephone.
“It is very difficult for me to talk about my personal life, but I feel that I must tell you the whole story if you are to see what we face.” She paused again and seemed to gather her strength. “I may be the only person alive who knows who Simon really is—I’m not even sure he knows anymore. And I believe these problems—crimes—center on Simon.”
She told them of meeting Jock McLeod when he was a student at Harvard, after she’d worked for Ransome for about ten years. She described his poverty, his horrible teeth, his unpopularity and inability to fit in at Harvard, her pity of him, their involvement, the fact that he was younger than she.
“It was briefly a physical relationship, but mostly I needed a friend, especially after Ransome died. I also needed someone to help with the gallery I planned to open. I thought Jock would go on for further study in art history, but in the end, he was not interested. First he had his teeth fixed—they were a great handicap, a disfigurement—and then he took acting lessons. I agreed to the expenses. I thought the lessons would give him poise and confidence, and those teeth definitely needed work.”
She took a sip of her sherry and continued. “He took to acting. Perhaps he should have been an actor. He said he wanted to stay in New York to learn more about art dealing. I did not object, as I was busy here. I did not see him for nearly two years, and when he arrived in London, he was Simon Fanshawe-Davies.”
Quincy gasped, and Jonathan and Heyward Bain looked surprised. But Dinah had anticipated the bombshell. She now understood why Simon made her think of Shakespeare’s plays. He was always acting. He was self-created. He had been reborn when he was in his early twenties.
Rachel continued. “I was astonished, but he was unwilling to discuss the new Simon. He wanted me to pretend that the past we shared had not taken place. It seemed harmless, so I acceded to his wishes. It was as if Jock McLeod had never existed.” She took a deep breath before continuing.
“In retrospect, that was a mistake. I believe he hates me because I remember him as he was when we met. At first he was useful in the gallery—he bid at auctions, he did most of the traveling and all the customer wining and dining. He can be a good salesman. Over time, I gave him twenty percent of the gallery. I thought he had earned it.” Rachel paused again. “More recently he has spent far more than he brings in.”
“Didn’t—uh—Jock—ever refer to his former life, his past?” Jonathan asked.
Rachel shook her head. “Never.” She reached for a sheet of paper lying on the table beside her. “I found this in his flat. The original is in my safe. I may be the only person in the world who knows that Jock McLeod and Simon Fanshawe-Davies are the same person, and if he were to ‘Get rid of Rachel,’ as this list suggests, no one alive would know. Perhaps that is one reason he wishes me gone. But now the four of you know.”
Jonathan took the paper from her hand, and read aloud, “ ‘To-Do’s—Get rid of Rachel.’ I’ll see that copies of this are put in the right hands in the United States. I assume that’s been done here?” He looked at Quincy, who nodded. “Tell me again what his name was—Jock McLeod? Born on Long Island? Went to Harvard? We’ll see what we can learn about him.” Jonathan made a note on the paper, folded it, and put it in his inside breast pocket.
“What about his family? His friends? Do you know any of his associates?” Dinah said.
“No, I do not know if his parents are alive, nor do I know any of his friends. But there have always been women. As I did not care, I never raised the topic with him.”
“How do things stand between you now?” Jonathan said.
“When I believed he had stolen the Dürers from the Baldorean—I never doubted that you would return them, Mr. Bain—I was relieved. I thought I could ‘Get rid of Simon,’ and I confronted him. You see, if I can prove he is guilty of a crime, I can oust him from our partnership. If I cannot, he remains my partner, and is entitled to twenty percent of the gallery’s profits, whether he works at the gallery or not. But so far, my efforts to prove him guilty of any crime have failed.”
Heyward was frowning. “But Mrs. Ransome, ‘Get rid of Rachel’ doesn’t necessarily mean that—that Simon would do anything to physically harm you. Perhaps he thinks that you’ve been guilty of something, and wants to use whatever it is to get you out of the partnership. Perhaps you’ve wronged him in some way.”
Rachel’s eyes flashed. “No one thinks that I would do anything criminal, least of all Simon. If you doubt me, perhaps you should investigate: my reputation is unblemished. However, he recently attempted to make it appear that I had done something unethical, and once again, it involved a purchase for you, Mr. Bain.” She told the story of The Midget, and how, at considerable expense, she had blocked Simon’s efforts to blacken her reputation, and that of the gallery. “I have hired special auditors. They are now going over the books. A great deal of money is missing from the gallery’s accounts. It must be returned.” Her face looked as if it were carved from stone.
Dinah felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Rachel would be a formidable enemy. Just as Marise had said, she was Medici-like.
Quincy nodded. “The gallery has not received any of the money it should have for sales in the US.” He glared at Bain, who refused to meet his glance.
“Have the police identified the bearded man who seems to have been the person who stole the Dürers?” Jonathan said.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Quincy said. “The car he drove turned out to have been rented by an American woman—”
“What’s her name?” Dinah interrupted.
Quincy looked annoyed at the interruption. “I’m not sure I was told, but she was never anywhere near the Baldorean. She was out with a tour group that day. The police checked her alibi thoroughly.”
“Could you find out her name?” Dinah said.
Quincy raised his eyebrows and stared at her. “I suppose so, although I cannot imagine why you want to know it, Mrs. Hathaway. Mrs. Ransome, may I use the telephone in your study?”
Rachel nodded. “Of course,” she said.
Dinah forced herself to smile at Quincy. (What a stuffy old crab he was. She might have known he wouldn’t own a cell phone.) “I’d appreciate it.”
Bain was still frowning. “There’s nothing illegal about what Simon did—improving his looks and changing his name. I don’t understand why that’s an issue,” he said.
“No, people do it all the time. But there’s something about Simon that makes us all uneasy,” Dinah said.
“Yes, and rightly so,” Rachel said.
Bain glared at Rachel. “Mrs. Ransome, what Simon did with The Midget was sharp business practice, but that goes on all the time. There are those who would say the seller was a fool, and deserved to be cheated. That you, the senior partner in the gallery, were criminally careless. In any case, what he did was not illegal. I can’t understand why you’re so determined to force him out of the gallery that has been his life’s work.”
“You do not think it was unethical for him to have the gallery buy The Midget, and ask La Grange to pretend to be its owner to sell it for him, and then bid it up to get money from you?” Rachel asked.
“Can you prove that he did that?” Bain said.
“It is obvious to all who choose to see. How else could La Grange sell it, when the Ransome Gallery owned it?”
Before Bain could reply, Quincy returned. The maid who’d admitted them followed him in. “Mr. Hathaway is wanted on the telephone,” she said.
Jonathan left the room, and Quincy said, “The woman’s name is Delia Swain.”
“Finally, a link!” Dinah said. “She’s the unpleasant young woman Coleman and I met in Virginia.”
“You know this woman? How very improbable,” Quincy said, his bushy eyebrows almost touching his receding hairline.
“We met her at the Harnett Museum, where the Rembrandt plates were stolen,” Dinah said.
“But as I told you, she couldn’t have stolen the Dürers—” Quincy said.
“No, I understand that,” Dinah said, “but—”
Jonathan came back, his face ashen. Dinah stood up. “What is it? Has something happened to Coleman?”
“No, but someone poisoned Baker—my dog,” he explained to the others. “Dinah, he may die. He’s a very old dog, and the vet says he probably won’t make it.”
“How did it happen? Who called?” Dinah said, tears rolling down her face.
“The office. They said the dog-sitter called them from the vet’s office.”
Dinah sat down again, and Jonathan sat on the sofa beside her. He handed her his handkerchief. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Baker is such a good dog.”
“Who would do such a terrible thing?” Rachel said.
“Who indeed? They were walking in Washington Square Park, and the sitter didn’t see anyone feed Baker—but he got violently sick, and the vet said he had eaten poisoned meat. We tried to train him not to take food from strangers, but Baker is very trusting. He’s a golden retriever, maybe you know the breed, and how friendly they are.”
Heyward Bain fidgeted in his chair. “Surely this has nothing to do with the Print Museum and its problems,” he said. “Can we get back to business?”
Jonathan looked at him. “Of course not. It’s just a sad coincidence.”
Dinah knew that Jonathan was as surprised as she was at Bain’s rudeness and indifference to their grief. Bain was beginning to annoy her. He had an inhuman quality. He didn’t react normally, or see events as others did.
“Do not be too sure of that,” Rachel said. “I don’t believe in coincidences. When a series of evil events take place, they are usually connected. Simon hates dogs,” she added, “and they hate him. I always wanted one, but when he was here, that was impossible. Perhaps I will buy one now.”
“Oh, really,” Bain said. He turned to Quincy. “Can we get back to Ms.—what’s her name again?”
“Delia Swain,” Quincy said. “She was the American woman staying at the Randolph when the Baldorean was robbed. It was her rented car the thief drove.”
Bain frowned. “Could her presence be a coincidence?”
Dinah shook her head. “I think she’s a part of all this. Coleman and I both thought she acted suspiciously.”
“She has an alibi,” Quincy said for the third time.
Dinah grimaced. Quincy was annoying her even more than Bain. She must be jet-lagged. “So you’ve said, several times. She obviously had an accomplice. Her role was to rent the car, and to make sure it was available.”
Jonathan looked at Dinah, and then at his watch. “It’s nearly eight o’clock. We should leave you in peace, Mrs. Ransome, and I should feed Dinah—she’s scarcely eaten a bite in the last twenty-four hours.”
Dinah stood. He was lying. It was a white lie, but still, unusual for him. She knew he was worried about Baker, uncomfortable with Heyward’s behavior, and distressed by her impatience with Rachel’s solicitor, whom Dinah had mentally christened Quincy the Thick.
“How shall we proceed?” Rachel said.
“We’ll discuss all this over dinner, and I’ll call Rob Mondelli, the detective who’s working on this for us. I wish he could have come with us, but he thought he should stay in New York to protect Coleman,” Jonathan said.
“Quite right, too,” Rachel said. “I’m worried about that young woman.”
“Can you explain why you’re worried about her?” Dinah asked.
“It is as I said: I do not believe in coincidences. I am a student of history. During the past, when a series of events like these have occurred, they have been connected. Your cousin was attacked. She has offended someone, or she is in someone’s way. She should be very careful.”
Bain looked as if he were going to say something unpleasant, but Jonathan intervened. “We’ll telephone you tomorrow. Thank you so much.”
Dinah took Rachel’s hand and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Ransome. We’re all after the same thing—the truth, and punishment for whoever’s responsible for these terrible things—murders, spying, theft . . . it must be stopped.”
Coleman looked at the clock on the wall of her office. It was nearly one o’clock—five hours later in London—and the group must have assembled at the Ransome Gallery. If she’d gone with them, she’d have met the fabled Rachel Ransome. And she might have had an opportunity to ask Bain why he’d quizzed Dinah about her private affairs.
She no longer had any interest in Bain, except to find out why he was asking questions about her, and how he’d come by personal information about her. She didn’t believe he’d heard of her near-rape from one of the participants. They’d never have talked about it. On the other hand, if not from one of them, how could he have learned about it?
The phone rang. “Coleman, a huge bunch of red roses just arrived for you, and there are some packages with it. Is it your birthday?” The receptionist sounded breathless with excitement.
“No, it’s not my birthday, nor any other special occasion. I’ll be right out.”
She counted the roses: four dozen, and what a delicious scent. Most hothouse roses had no fragrance at all—they might as well be lettuce. Someone had spent a bundle. “Gorgeous,” Coleman said, and looked at the card: “‘From your secret admirer.’ Well, that’s nice. I wonder who it can be? I’ll take the packages to my office. I’ll come back for the flowers.”
Zeke appeared in the reception area and picked up the vase of roses. “I’ll bring them. Who’re they from?”
Coleman handed him the card and, in her office, tore the wrappings off the packages. “Lots of doggie goodies for you, Dolly—and for me—wow! Coffee truffles, and chocolate-covered coffee liqueurs. Somebody knows I’m addicted to caffeine and chocolate.”
“Coleman, don’t eat any of that stuff. Don’t give any of it to Dolly, either,” Zeke said, setting the vase of roses on Coleman’s desk. “Do you have a shopping bag? I’m going to pack everything up.”
Coleman frowned at him. “Who’re you—the food police? I wasn’t planning to pig out,” she said, and leaned over to pick up Dolly, who was standing on her hind legs, begging, “but I think Dolly and I could each have one treat. I’ll have a truffle, and Dolly—”
Zeke held up his hand. “No, Coleman! Don’t touch it. I’m taking all this stuff to my office, and we’ll ask Rob to come get it. If he says it’s okay, fine.”
“Are you saying there’s something wrong with the food?” Coleman and Dolly were still staring at the boxes. Dolly was licking her chops, and Coleman could taste the chocolate.
“Rob asked me to be on the lookout for threats to you, and I don’t like anonymous gifts. Will you call Rob, or shall I?” He poured the candies into the shopping bag, careful not to touch them. A Doggie Treat—Dolly’s favorite brand—fell to the floor and bounced across the room. Dolly scurried over to pick it up before Zeke could reach it. He watched, helpless, terrified that it might harm her.
But Dolly stopped short several inches away from the treat, sniffed at it, growled, and backed away. Zeke sighed with relief. Coleman shrugged. “She usually loves those things, but they’ve been near the candy, and she doesn’t like chocolate or caffeine.” Zeke grabbed a piece of paper from the nearby wastebasket, used it to pick up the treat, and dropped it into the shopping bag. Coleman was on the telephone with Rob, explaining why she had called.
Rob agreed with Zeke. “I’ll be there right away,” he told Coleman. “We’ll get everything checked, but it’s good you didn’t taste or touch anything. Would you like to have a late lunch? I’ll spring for a gooey dessert as consolation for your not being able to eat the candy.”
Coleman smiled. “Absolutely! Could we go to Swifty’s? If I can’t have chocolate, I’ll settle for a cheese soufflé.”
Coleman didn’t believe anything was wrong with the candy. She thought the presents were from Heyward Bain. He could afford roses like that. But she shouldn’t eat the candy anyway, and sometimes paranoid people were right. After all, she would never have believed that Chick would be murdered, or that someone had bugged ArtSmart.