“With a note,” Madeline continued. “That read: ‘This should belong to someone who will adequately appreciate it.’”

“And this, you see, is why I have no confidence in Gaudet,” George said. “He’s been utterly useless in getting to the bottom of the matter.”

“What sort of painting is it?” I asked.

“A building, some cathedral. Signed by Monet.”

“And what has the industrious inspector done on your behalf?”

“He questioned my servants, none of whom could afford to buy a pencil sketch from a schoolgirl, after which he declared himself sympathetic to my lack of enthusiasm for the canvas.”

“You do not like Impressionism?”

“No, Gaudet is simply incapable of reading a chap correctly. I adore Impressionism,” he said. “We have seventeen works in that style. I bought two of Monet’s haystack series last year.”

“So the thief knows your taste?” I asked.

“Evidently.”

“We’ve no objection to the painting,” Madeline said. “But how am I to sleep when an intruder has made such easy entry into our home?”

“You’ve every right to be unsettled,” I said. “What is the inspector’s plan?”

“He’s concluded that there’s no harm done and no point in looking for the culprit.”

“Madame du Lac is great friends with Monet. She could perhaps find out from him who previously owned the work. You may find you’ve been the victim of nothing more than a practical joke at the hands of well-meaning friends.” We called her over at once and relayed the story to her.

“Mon dieu!” she said. “I know this painting well. It was stolen from Monet’s studio at Giverny not three days ago—he wired to tell me as soon as it happened. He’d only just finished with the canvas. The paint was barely dry and the police have no leads.”

I would not have believed, a quarter of an hour ago, that anything could have distracted me from the memory of the brutalized body beneath the tree, but suddenly my mind was racing. “Was there anything else in the note?” I asked.