Page 76 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Good work,” he said. “We’ll look him up, too.”

From the back, Andrews gave a wave.

“Oi! Sketch artist has a rough copy of the mystery woman ready. You can pick it up at the front desk.”

MacAdams fished his keys out of a pocket and beckoned to Green. It was time to pay the Burnhopes a visit.

***

They didn’t stop at Costa this time; MacAdams and Green chose assorted foods from Tesco and made it to Hammersmith by nine, hoping to catch Stanley, first, then Ava at home. Unfortunately, Burnhope wasn’t in. MacAdams half wondered if it was an attempt to avoid them. It wouldn’t work. Fifteen minutes brought them to the Burnhope residence, its top floor skylights glinting in morning sun. Green rang the bell; as before, Nanny Maryam was the one to answer. She recognized them this time, but she still didn’t smile.

“Please wait here,” she directed.

A moment later, Ava Burnhope took her place to usher them inside.

“Trisha Simmons told us you were coming,” she said, sweeping along in a floor-length duster of sea-foamgreen, MacAdams would have said, except so desaturated to the point where color words seemed irrelevant. He wasn’t just looking at her, however. He was casing the entire house.

“He is working from home, I take it?” he asked, eyes straying to the mantelpiece as she led them through. Two bronze rabbits. A sizable freestanding clock.

“He is. And does,” Ava said. “There’s a conference room upstairs and he’s in a meeting.” Ava slow-blinked at them. “You’re welcome to wait, though I don’t know how long he’ll be.”

They were in the rear music room again, exactly as MacAdams hoped. He wondered suddenly if it was soundproof. What might happen in such a space with the shades drawn? The glass “muses” stood as before, far too large to be used as weapons. But they weren’t the only sculptures on display.

“You two patronize the arts, I understand?” MacAdams asked, choosing a seat. Ava did not like her household disturbed, clearly. But she wasn’t rude, either; she took one of the chairs for herself, all poise and social graces.

“Of course. As you have clearly seen.”

“What about that one?” MacAdams asked. He indicated a figure in molten silver and orange, the size and shape of a cockatiel.

“Local artist,” Ava said. “Part of a series of ten.”

“May I?” MacAdams asked, intending to pick it up. Ava stood to intercept him.

“It’s fragile. Blown glass, Detective. You can see how delicate.” She picked it up herself and brought it gently to his notice—but didn’t allow him to touch. Regardless, it was no murder weapon.

“Do you ever purchase anything older? Or foreign?” Green asked. Ava’s look remained aloof, if slightly vacant.

“I don’t follow,” she said, replacing the glass bird.

“Antiquities. From Syria,” MacAdams clarified—and watched her eyes narrow precipitously.

“As in a building site full of stolen goods, Detective? No.” She stood up. “I am not a fool. We’ve already answered to York police, and I understand you have questions. But don’t pretend pleasantries and don’t make assumptions.”

Whatever else Ava might be—philanthropist, pianist, patron of the arts, suspected murderer—she was at least impressive about it. And he had to respect plain dealing.

“All right. I do plan to ask about the artifacts.”

“I don’t know anything about them.”

“Perhaps your friends do? Gerald Standish?” MacAdams asked.

“I don’t know him, either,” she said resolutely. He didn’t believe her in the slightest. But it wasn’t his last card trick.

“He was one of the collectors on the guest list for the gala. But no matter. Maybe you can help me with this instead.”

The sketch artist had produced a rough but serviceable rendition based on Arianna’s description back at the hotel. A young subject looked up from the folded paper, peaked chin, round cheeks still in puppy fat. The eyes were dark and large, almond shaped. Hair: black. He presented the image to Ava.

“Do you recognize this woman?” he asked.