It seemed to Sir Michael now that he had been dreading this day for twenty years, that he had been watching for it, ever since his wife died. But the fact was, for much of that time, he hadn’t believed the warnings were real. He had thought they were all a figment of Ann’s final madness. He hadn’t known enough. He hadn’t got sufficient information. All he’d had to go on were his wife’s ravings, the things she had said to him that terrible night when she lay on the floor, the blood gushing from her. Get the Rhinehart triptych. Don’t let him have it, no matter what. Iago. He’ll kill you for it. Hell kill everyone. And on and on in the same vein. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t trust anyone. Everything depends on it. He’ll kill you. He’ll kill anyone. Well, what on earth was he supposed to have understood from that?

All the same, he had done what he could. Then and now, out of loyalty to her, he had done what he could. But he was stumbling blind; he had never been certain what it was he was dealing with. When The Magi came up for auction—out of loyalty to his wife—he had sent Sophia to make a strong offer for it, more than strong enough, he thought, to secure the thing. It was only when poor Jessica was outbid, when the price skyrocketed as high as it did, that he began to believe—to believe truly—that Ann’s hysterical gibberish might have been grounded in fact.

And now, tonight, there came the rumors from the street. That the Madonna was in play. That that crazy old bastard Jervis Ramsbottom had vanished, might even be dead. And now, tonight, the real fear, the terror, had struck him like a blow. And he had begun to think: Yes. Yes, it’s all happening, just as she said it would. Iago. He’ll kill everyone. And Sir Michael had finally thought, Good God. I’m next. They’re going to come for me next.

Then—even as he’d thought it—Sophia phoned. She was coming here to the Grange tomorrow, she said. She was coming with Richard Storm.

And everything fell into place. He had been suspicious of Storm from the very beginning. Calling Jessica off at the auction like that. Weaseling his way into Sophia’s life like that. Now he was certain: if Storm was not this Iago fellow himself, he was surely working as his agent. This was how they were going to get at him. Through the American. Through Sophia. By corrupting the daughter he loved more than anything in life. By stealing the one thing he loved best—just as they had before.