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He ordered his men to arrest her.
“What is the meaning of this?” thundered our host from the top of the stairs. “Unhand my guest!”
“Lady Treloar is under arrest for the murder of Ambrose McDonald and the theft of Lord and Lady Quorne’s artwork.”
Lady Quorne appeared beside Sir Gregory Heatherton. “My painting!Shetook it?”
Several guests had followed the sound of the voices and joined them on the stairs. Others streamed down the staircase towards us, now on the ground floor in the entrance hall. The front door still stood open, but the footman had melted away, replaced by an indignant butler.
Sir Gregory and Lady Heatherton pushed through the crowd and demanded to know what was going on.
I took a leaf out of the footman’s book and drew Miss Hessing into the background. Lady Treloar watched me go through eyes narrowed to slits. Despite her captured wrists, she stood magnificently defiant, her jaw firm and her shoulders thrown back.
The detective calmly closed the front door. Clearly D.I. Hobart wasn’t coming. I hoped he might, but given he no longer worked for Scotland Yard, it was understandable. Harry’s absence wasn’t a surprise either.
I looked around for Floyd and spotted him halfway up the staircase, watching proceedings. He didn’t see me standing behind him; nor did his parents. As far as they were aware, I had nothing to do with this incident.
Miss Hessing, however, stared at me. Besides the police and Lady Treloar, she was the only one who’d heard me point out Lady Treloar to the detective.
Everyone else listened to what he had to say. “The painting stolen from the Quornes’ house on the night of March thirtieth was found hidden in Lady Treloar’s gallery.”
The crowd gasped.
“You sold it to us in the first place,” Lady Quorne said to Lady Treloar. “Why did you steal it back?”
“For money, of course,” her husband said.
The detective shook his head. “For her reputation. The painting was a forgery.”
Lady Quorne clutched her throat and collapsed into her husband’s arms. Another guest tried to revive her by fanning her face, but it wasn’t until Lord Quorne lightly tapped her cheek that she opened her eyes.
“You sold us a forgery?” Lord Quorne growled at Lady Treloar once his wife had recovered.
Lady Treloar lifted her chin further and refused to speak.
“Not knowingly,” the detective said. “She didn’t learn that it was a fake until Ambrose McDonald informed her.”
The final piece now clicked into place. She hadn’t stolen the painting to sell to a secret collector. She’d taken it so no one else would find out it was a forgery. If they did, her reputation would have been ruined and her business with it. Harry must have found it in her gallery, behind that hidden door. She was probably waiting for a good time to destroy it. The discovery was the definitive proof we needed.
“And how did McDonald know?” someone asked.
“The forger himself told him,” the detective said. “The forger confirmed as much tonight.” Even though he was speaking, they were Harry’s words. Harry had found the painting earlier and must have taken it to Underwood. Underwood admitted he’d painted it. Harry passed all of this on to the detective, probably in the presence of his father, who’d given him the name of a trustworthy colleague.
The guests had fallen silent, stunned by the presence of a thief and murderer walking amongst them. “My god,” one woman muttered. “Did you kill Mr. McDonald just because you inadvertently sold one forgery?”
Lady Treloar swallowed heavily. “Take me away now, please.”
But the detective didn’t give the order. He wasn’t finished with the theater. Indeed, this was rather more theater than an arrest usually warranted. I got the impression he was enjoying himself. “That’s not why she killed him. The victim learned of the forged painting several weeks ago through his friend, the forger. He informed Lady Treloar, who attempted to dismiss it. She said the same thing you did, madam. It was just one painting and she hadn’t known it was a fake. But a few nights later, she stole it off the Quornes’ wall so that no one else would realize it was a copy. The crime went unsolved for a few weeks, until McDonald learned that Lady Treloar wasn’t in Biarritz as she claimed, but was here in London at the time of the theft. He guessed why she’d lied about her whereabouts and confronted her on the night of the Bunburys’ ball. He threatened to inform the police unless she gave in to his blackmail demands.”
Murmurs filled the entrance hall and stairwell, all the way up to the next two levels, where guests leaned over railings to hear.
“What of the footman they arrested?” someone asked.
“Didn’t he try to steal the Bunburys’ painting?” said another. “Isn’t he involved somehow?”
The detective put up his hand, calling for calm. He puffed out his chest, and I was reminded of a blustery actor on the stage before his scene-stealing monologue. He was relishing this. “He’s largely innocent, as it happens, and will be released.”
Lady Bunbury clapped her hands. “We are all relieved to hear it. Shall we return to the music and dancing now? It has been quite enough excitement for one evening.”
