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“Pity you weren’t on the town council,” said Sam as they walked into the next room. “And here’s a painting that will feature in my PhD thesis,” she continued as they stopped in front of a large canvas. “It’s hard to believe that Rubens completed the work in a weekend, because he had to attend the signing of a peace treaty between the English and Spanish on the following Monday. Most people are quite unaware that he was a diplomat as well as an artist,” she said before moving on.

Seb felt he ought to be taking notes, but his mind was on other things.

“This is one of my favorites,” said Sam, stopping in front of The Arnolfini Wedding.

“I’ve seen that somewhere else,” said Seb.

“Ah, so you do listen to me occasionally. You saw it when we visited the National Gallery last year.”

“So what’s it doing here?”

“It’s probably on loan,” said Sam. “But only for another month,” she added after taking a closer look at the label on the wall beside the portrait. “But more important, do you remember what I told you about it at the time?”

“Yes, it’s the wedding of a wealthy merchant, and Van Eyck must have been commissioned to record the event.”

“Not bad,” said Sam. “So really Van Eyck was just doing the job of a modern-day wedding photographer.”

Seb was about to say something, but she added, “Look at the texture of the bride’s dress, and the fur on the lapels on the groom’s coat—you can almost feel it.”

“The bride looks heavily pregnant to me.”

“How observant of you, Seb. But any wealthy man at the time had to be sure that the woman he’d chosen to be his wife was capable of producing an heir to inherit his fortune.”

“What a practical lot those Dutch were,” said Seb. “But what if you weren’t rich?”

“The lower classes were expected to behave more properly.”

Seb fell on one knee in front of the painting, looked up at Sam and said, “Samantha Ethel Sullivan, I adore you, and always will, and more than anything on earth I want you to be my wife.”

Sam blushed and, bending down, whispered, “Get up, you idiot. Everyone’s staring at us.”

“Not until you’ve answered my question.”

A small group of visitors had stopped looking at the paintings and were waiting for her reply.

“Of course I’ll marry you,” she said. “I’ve loved you since the day you got me arrested.” Several of the onlookers, looking rather puzzled, tried to translate her words.

Seb stood up, took out a small red leather box from his jacket pocket, and presented it to her. When Sam opened the box and saw the exquisite blue sapphire surrounded by a cluster of little diamonds, she was for once lost for words.

Seb took out the ring and placed it on the third finger of her left hand. When he leant forward to kiss his fiancée, he was greeted with a round of applause. As they walked away, hand in hand, Samantha glanced back at the painting and wondered if she ought to tell him.

12

“MAY I ASK what time you left the office on Friday evening, sir?”

“It must have been around six o’clock, inspector,” said Sloane.

“And what time was your appointment with Mr. Hardcastle?”

“Five. We always met at five on the last Friday of the month, to go over my department’s figures.”

“And when you left him, did he seem in good spirits?”

“Never better,” said Sloane. “My monthly results were up by two point two percent, and I was able to tell him the details of a new project I’d been working on that he became very excited about.”

“It’s just that the pathologist has put the time of death at around six o’clock on Friday evening, so you must have been the last person to see him alive.”

“If that’s the case, I only wish our meeting had lasted a little longer,” said Sloane.

“Quite so. Did Mr. Hardcastle take any pills while you were with him?”

“No. And although we all knew Cedric had a heart problem, he made a point of not taking his medication in front of members of staff.”

“It seems odd that his pills were scattered randomly over the floor of his office while the empty bottle was in his hand. Why wasn’t he able to get hold of at least one of the pills?”

Sloane said nothing.

“And Stanley Davis, the night porter, told me that you phoned in on Saturday morning to check if a package had arrived for you.”

“Yes, I did. I needed a particular document for a meeting that was scheduled for Monday morning.”

“And did it arrive?”

“Yes, but not until this morning.”

“Mr. Davis tells me he’s never known you to telephone on a Saturday morning before.”

Sloane didn’t rise to the bait.

“The pathologist has issued a death certificate concluding that Mr. Hardcastle died of a heart attack, which I have no doubt the coroner will confirm at the inquest.” Still Sloane said nothing. “Can I assume that you’ll be around for the next few days, Mr. Sloane, should I have any more questions?”

“Yes, you can, although I was planning to travel up to Huddersfield tomorrow to pay my respects to Mr. Hardcastle’s widow, and to see if there’s anything I can do to help with the funeral arrangements.”