The next morning, Cecelia Highton-Smith sat at the breakfast table drinking her tea and nibbling on a piece of toast spread with strawberry jam.

‘Is everything all right, ma’am?’ Dolly Oliver looked up from the stove where she was stirring a small pot of porridge.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Dolly,’ Cecelia sighed. ‘I can’t help wondering what Morrie Finkelstein might do next. And that man Alice-Miranda met on the subway! It does seem rather a coincidence that he had made a drawing of her at the zoo. I hate to think the worst of people but . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Well, if there’s one thing I know about your daughter, she knows people and she’s nobody’s fool.’ Dolly took the pot from the stove and poured the porridge into a cereal bowl. ‘Is there anything else worrying you?’ Dolly asked, wondering if Hugh had yet shared his own mysterious secret.

‘No, although I am curious what sort of business associate of my husband’s makes breakfast appointments at the crack of dawn on a Saturday. We promised Alice-Miranda we’d have all of our work done during the week, and now I feel terrible because I have a couple of meetings later today myself and I’ve been caught up so many times already. Dolly, if it’s not too much bother, would you mind keeping an eye on her?’

‘Mind? Of course I don’t mind. In fact I’m looking forward to some time with her. She can show me around the park and I know she wants to go back to the Met and finish the drawing she had started for her art class.’ Dolly sat down opposite Cecelia and poured a drizzle of honey onto her steaming porridge.

Cecelia glanced up and smiled. ‘Thank you, Dolly. I don’t know what we’d ever do without you.’ She stood up and walked to the sink where she rinsed her cup and saucer and popped them into the dishwasher.

‘Leave that, ma’am,’ Dolly instructed. ‘Go and see to your work. I’ll wake Alice-Miranda shortly.’

It was almost nine o’clock but given their late night at the jazz club Cecelia was glad that her daughter was still sleeping. Her mind was abuzz. That photograph at Armstrong’s had got her thinking. Surely someone in this town had to know why Abe Finkelstein and Horace Highton had fallen out so spectacularly. Maybe there would be some record of Ruby Winters. She would see what she could find out. If only there were more hours in the day.

Alice-Miranda pulled her sketchbook from her satchel and sat down on the little stool in front of the painting of The Dance Class. Dolly Oliver peered over the child’s shoulder.

‘Oh my dear, that’s wonderful,’ she complimented, looking from Alice-Miranda’s sketchbook to the painting in front of them.

‘Thank you, Mrs Oliver. I’m so glad we could come today. I really want to work on my dog. He looks a little odd, especially as I’ve erased half of his head. Please don’t stand here waiting for me,’ the child requested. ‘I’m sure that you’d much rather have a look around and I’ll be perfectly fine on my own for half an hour or so.’

Dolly Oliver glanced around the gallery. There were several older women milling about together and a couple of students sitting on the floor with their sketchbooks. Truth be told, she was rather keen to have a peek at the Egyptian exhibit.

‘Well dear, I might pop along and see some of those treasures from Ancient Egypt, if that’s all right with you,’ she replied.

‘Of course.’ Alice-Miranda had already started working on repositioning the dog’s face. When she looked up a moment later, Mrs Oliver was chatting with the security man standing at the far entrance to the room, no doubt asking that he keep an eye on her. She wished her family wouldn’t worry so much. Where would be safer than the Metropolitan Museum of Art with its hundreds of security cameras and guards in every room?

‘Goodbye dear. I won’t be long,’ Dolly called and scurried away, aware that the Egyptian exhibit was quite a trek downstairs and across to the other side of the vast building.

Alice-Miranda spent time perfecting her work. Her fluffy dog, which didn’t appear in the original painting at all, now looked quite at home among her dancers in their frothy white tutus.

She was concentrating hard on adjusting the ribbons on one of the ballerina’s shoes when a deep voice commented, ‘You’ve done a mighty fine job of that.’

Alice-Miranda looked up to see a man studying her picture.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. Then she looked at him more closely. ‘Didn’t I see you last time I was here?’

‘Yes,’ he said with a smile back at her. ‘That’s right.’

‘You suggested that I make the dog look as if he was dancing and so that’s what I’ve done,’ Alice-Miranda replied.

‘It looks very good,’ the man nodded. ‘As though it should have always been there.’

‘Do you come here often?’ Alice-Miranda stood up and placed her sketchbook on the fold-out stool.

‘Mmm, yes, I suppose I do,’ the man replied.

‘And do you have a favourite?’ Alice-Miranda asked.

The man nodded. Alice-Miranda noticed that he was very well dressed and had quite the loveliest hands. His fingers were long and elegant, with the most perfectly manicured nails.

‘Which one?’ Alice-Miranda looked up at him.

He nodded again.

‘Oh, silly me. That one there, just next to us,’ she said, pointing. ‘It’s lovely.’

Alice-Miranda considered the small painting of a mother and her young son. He was resting his head in her lap. She was dressed in clothes from a more genteel time and the boy was wearing suspenders and a cap.

‘That’s a beautiful picture,’ Alice-Miranda commented. ‘I think it captures perfectly just how much they love each other.’

The man’s brown eyes twinkled. ‘Yes, I’ve always thought that too,’ he replied.

‘And what about you? Do you have a favourite?’ he asked.

‘Well, I love this Degas of course, but there’s another painting in the gallery next door. It’s terribly clever with all sorts of creatures entwined in it. It looks medieval, I think.’

He smiled. ‘I think I know the one.’

‘I am so sorry,’ Alice-Miranda said. ‘I’ve completely forgotten my manners.’

The man frowned.

‘I should have introduced myself. My name is Alice-Miranda . . .’

Her voice was drowned out by a message over the intercom system requesting security at the front entrance.

‘. . . Jones,’ she finished.

She held out her tiny hand and he smiled.

‘It’s lovely to meet you, Alice-Miranda. I’m Ed.’ He held onto her hand for just a moment but long enough for Alice-Miranda to know that his hands were as soft as they were lovely to look at.

‘Do you have a surname?’ she enquired.

‘No, Ed’s just fine,’ he replied.

‘Well, Mr Ed, it’s lovely to meet you too.’

The man began to laugh. ‘Please, just Ed is fine. You’re far too young to know this but there was once a television show about a talking horse called Mr Ed.’

Alice-Miranda bit her lip and giggled. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I had no idea. But I’d love to see it. I’m sure my pony Bonaparte would love it too. On second thoughts, he’d probably want to be the star and he’d be awfully mean to Mr Ed,’ she babbled.

‘Well, all the best with finishing your picture.’ Ed leaned down and picked up the sketchbook. ‘Perhaps you could redefine that man’s face a little. At the moment he looks, ah . . . too happy.’ He handed the book to Alice-Miranda.

‘Oh yes, I see what you mean. Faces aren’t really my strong point,’ she said, frowning as she studied the picture.

‘Well, just let your hand draw what your mind sees. You’ll be fine.’

Alice-Miranda wondered what he meant. She turned to ask but just like the first time she’d met him, he’d completely disappeared.

‘Goodness, Ed must be a magician. He’s certainly good at vanishing,’ Alice-Miranda said to no one in particular.

‘Hello dear, who are you talking to?’ Dolly Oliver asked.

‘Myself actually. I met a lovely man and he was helping me with my picture, but he’s gone,’ Alice-Miranda replied.

Dolly studied Alice-Miranda’s drawing. She looked at the Degas on the wall and back to the sketchbook.

‘I think I prefer yours my dear,’ she smiled. ‘That dog just adds something Mr Degas missed. He’s got far too much white space down there in the front.’

‘Thank you,’ Alice-Miranda grinned. ‘But Mr Degas was one of the world’s best artists and I’m just a little girl learning to draw. How was the exhibition?’

‘Dusty and delightful,’ Dolly replied. ‘Now don’t rush, dear, I’ll just have a wander around in here and then I think we should grab a bite of lunch. I’m rather peckish.’

‘Me too. I’m almost finished,’ Alice-Miranda replied.

Dolly Oliver wandered around the room spending mere seconds glancing at some of the artworks but lingering longer on the things that caught her eye. After lapping the gallery she arrived at the small painting beside The Dance Class.

Alice-Miranda was packing up her pencils and sketchbook. She folded her stool ready to return it to the lady at the education desk.

‘I’ve seen that painting before,’ Dolly mused, pointing at the mother and son, ‘but not here.’ She shook her head as a vague memory scratched at the back of her mind. ‘I can’t for the life of me think where it was but it’s certainly familiar.’

‘The man I met, Ed, said it’s his favourite painting in the whole gallery,’ Alice-Miranda announced.

‘Well, it is especially lovely and I do like the light on the mother’s face. She looks as though she adores that child,’ Dolly said. ‘There’s something a little mesmerising about it.’

And right then and there Dolly remembered exactly where she had seen it.

‘Oh my goodness me!’ she exclaimed. ‘That painting.’ She waggled her finger.

‘What is it, Mrs Oliver?’ Alice-Miranda’s eyes widened.

‘My dear girl, you’ll hardly believe this but many years ago, not long after I started working for your newly married grandmother, she insisted I accompany her to a house party. You see, I commenced my employ with your family as your grandmother’s maid.’

‘But you’re not a maid,’ Alice-Miranda protested. ‘You’re part of the family.’

‘Yes, well, things were different back then, dear,’ Dolly smiled. ‘At the house party I met your father for the first time. He was just a tiny lad, not yet four years old.’

‘Where was the party? Was the painting there?’ Alice-Miranda was practically bursting.

‘My dear, it was at Pelham Park,’ Dolly replied.

‘But Pelham Park is where Daddy’s family lived.’

‘Yes, and that painting, I’m sure of it, it was hanging in the guest bedroom where your Granny Valentina stayed. I remember commenting that it was such a lovely piece,’ Dolly remarked, ‘and thinking what a pity that it was closeted away in a bedroom and not in a more public part of the house.’

‘I wonder how it came to be here,’ Alice-Miranda murmured. ‘Did Grandpa Kennington-Jones give away his collection?’

‘Goodness, no. I’m sorry to say, dear, but Henry Kennington-Jones had a reputation for being . . . well, not exactly the most generous of souls, especially after his wife and their eldest son were killed in that terrible motor accident. Your poor father, it’s a credit to himself that he turned out to be such a wonderful man. They all said that he was just like his mother. She was a real beauty, your grandmother Arabella; apparently she’d been an artist’s model before she married your grandfather. I only met her on that one occasion and a warmer woman you’d be hard-pressed to find. But Henry was a hard fellow. For him life was all about the business.’

‘What a delicious mystery!’ Alice-Miranda exclaimed. ‘We must find out how the painting came to be here. I wonder if Daddy gave it away when he inherited the estate.’

‘Mmm, that’s a possibility.’ Dolly peered in closer to read the citation beside the painting. Then she shook her head. ‘No dear, I don’t think so.’

Alice-Miranda leaned in too and read the words aloud. ‘“An anonymous gift to the museum, 1971.” Daddy would have been a little boy then and Grandpa was still alive, wasn’t he?’

‘This is a mystery, indeed!’ Dolly Oliver declared before her stomach let out a gurgly whine. ‘Oh dear, I think that tummy of mine is telling me that our detective work will just have to wait. Where would you like to have lunch?’

Alice-Miranda giggled as Mrs Oliver’s stomach registered another high-pitched complaint. ‘I know exactly what I want. Let’s go and see Mr Gambino and Mr Geronimo.’

The tiny child slipped her hand into Dolly’s. She glanced back at the painting. She had a strange feeling about that picture and one way or another she was going to find out how it came to be in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, so very far from home.