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clean.”
    “Meaning?”
    “There are gaps here and there. Rather like yours,” Isherwood added with a confiding glance. “But there are no claims against it. I had the Art Loss Register run a quiet search just to be certain.”
    “The London office?”
    Isherwood nodded.
    “So they know about the picture, too?”
    “The Art Loss Register is dedicated to finding paintings, darling, not stealing them.”
    “Go on, Julian.”
    “It’s believed the painting remained in Rembrandt’s personal collection until his death, whereupon it was sold off by the bankruptcy court to help pay his debts. From there, it floated around The Hague for a century or so, made a brief foray to Italy, and returned to the Netherlands in the early nineteenth century. The current owner purchased it in 1964 from the Hoffmann Gallery of Lucerne. That beautiful young woman has been in hiding her entire life.”
    They entered a tunnel of trees dripping with ivy and headed downward into a deep storybook hollow with an ancient stone church at its base.
    “Who else knew the painting was in Glastonbury?”
    Isherwood made a show of thought. “The director of the National Gallery of Art in Washington and my shipping company.” He hesitated, then added, “And I suppose it’s possible I may have mentioned it to Van Berkel.”
    “Did Liddell have any other paintings in his studio?”
    “Four,” replied Isherwood. “A Rubens he’d just finished for Christie’s, something that may or may not have been a Titian, a landscape by Cézanne—quite a good one, actually—and some hideously expensive water lilies by Monet.”
    “I assume those were stolen as well?”
    Isherwood shook his head. “Only my Rembrandt.”
    “No other paintings? You’re sure?”
    “Trust me, darling. I’m sure.”
    They emerged from the hollow into the open terrain. In the distance, a pair of massive Sea King helicopters floated like zeppelins over the naval air station. Gabriel’s thoughts, however, were focused on a single question. Why would a thief in a hurry grab a large Rembrandt portrait rather than a smaller Cézanne or Monet?
    “Do the police have a theory?”
    “They suspect Liddell must have surprised the thieves in the middle of the robbery. When it went bad, they killed him and grabbed the closest painting, which happened to be mine. After this summer, Scotland Yard is quite pessimistic about the chances for recovery. And Liddell’s death makes it more complicated. This is now first and foremost a murder investigation.”
    “How long until your insurance company pays out?”
    Isherwood frowned and drummed one finger nervously on the wheel. “I’m afraid you’ve just hit upon my dilemma.”
    “What dilemma?”
    “As of this moment, the rightful owner of the Rembrandt is still the unnamed client of David Cavendish. But when I took possession of the painting, it was supposed to come under my insurance policy.”
    Isherwood’s voice trailed off. It contained a melancholy note Gabriel had heard many times before. Sometimes it appeared when Isherwood’s heart had been broken or when he had been forced to sell a cherished painting. But usually it meant he was in financial trouble. Again.
    “What have you done now, Julian?”
    “Well, it’s been a rough year, hasn’t it, petal? Stock market declines. Real estate crashes. Falling sales for luxury items. What’s a small independent dealer like me supposed to do?”
    “You didn’t tell your insurance company about the painting, did you?”
    “The premiums are so bloody expensive. And those brokers are such leeches. Do you know how much it would have cost me? I thought I could—”
    “Cut a corner?”
    “Something like that.” Isherwood fell silent. When he spoke again, there was a note of desperation in his voice that had not been present before. “I need your help, Gabriel. I am personally on the hook for forty-five million dollars.”
    “This isn’t what I do, Julian. I’m