When Jayne and I walked into Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room, all conversation stopped. People turned and stared. Fiona froze in the act of pouring a cup of coffee, and Jocelyn almost dropped the tray of scones she was carrying. Even the espresso machine stopped gurgling.
“Carry on, everyone,” I said with an imperious wave of my hand.
“Miranda won’t be back today,” Jayne said, “but I’m sure we can manage without her. Now, what’s needed from the kitchen?”
A wave of questions followed me into the Emporium.
“You opened?” I said to Ashleigh. “Thanks for doing that, but you’re not scheduled to come in until this afternoon.”
“Bunny phoned me to say she heard you bolted out of the tearoom so fast you almost knocked aside a couple of customers as they were coming in, followed not much later by sirens screaming through town and emergency vehicles turning into the Stanton place, and then Jayne also ran out, discarding her apron and hairnet as she went, along with Miranda. Not that she was discarding Miranda, but that Miranda was going with her. So I figured you needed the help.” She grinned at me. Moriarty lay spread across the sales counter, belly up. He did not grin at me but rather bared his formidable teeth and hissed.
“Nicely observed,” I said, doing my best to ignore Moriarty. “And I observe you’ve been busy in my absence.”
“Not much Conan Doyle–related psychic traffic this morning. More like the usual tourists looking for books or souvenirs and regulars coming in for the latest releases. Shall I assume Sir Arthur will be back on the main table shortly?” Ashleigh patted Moriarty as she spoke. He turned his head away from me and settled into a loud purr.
“When word gets out of what inspired the murder of Iris Laval, yes. I might have trucks backing up to the loading bay.”
“Not that we have a loading bay.”
It was a busy day in the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, and not just with the Sherlock-loving and book-buying public. More than a few people came in to ask what I knew about recent events at the Stanton house. To which I played the innocent and suggested they might enjoy a nice gaslight mystery featuring murmurs of the supernatural. And what do you know, I just happen to have such books in stock.
Irene fell through the doors at 3:35 as I was preparing to go next door to join Jayne for tea. “Okay, Gemma, spill.”
I smiled at her sweetly. “I never spill. Might damage the books.”
“I was in Boston this morning, so I appear to have missed all the drama. Again! And isn’t that just my luck. My sources tell me you were at Rebecca Stanton’s house for a long time earlier today, and not only you but a considerable number of West London’s finest, as well as vanloads of forensic people, coming and going, and a guard at the gate stopping the curious from entering. The police put out a statement a few minutes ago saying an arrest has been made in the murders of Iris Laval and Daniel Stanton, plus the attempted murder of Rebecca Stanton, but no further details were forthcoming. I cannot believe those three things are not related.”
“They are indeed.”
“So what—”
I put up a hand. “I can’t tell you, and you know that. It’s a police matter now, and all will be revealed in the fullness of time.”
“The fullness of time. Yeah. Does the name Gordon McRae mean anything to you?”
I thought and came up blank. “No.”
“Big shot mob lawyer. Spotted a short while ago getting off a private plane at Hyannis Airport.”
“Even big shot mob lawyers go on vacation now and again, I’d guess.”
“Okay, Gemma. Keep your secrets. For now. I want first dibs on a statement from you, or at least to get the goods on your inside knowledge, when the time is right.”
I was about to say I’d make no such promise when the chimes above the door tinkled and two women I didn’t expect to see together came in: Bunny Leigh, in the company of none other than Mary Moffat. Moriarty emerged from his bed under the center table to greet them.
The look on Mary’s face could be described as nothing but sheer glee. “So,” she announced, “it was a spiritual killing after all!”
Irene swung around. “What? How do you know that? Who are you, anyway? Irene Talbot, West London Star.”
Mary’s eyes gleamed. “The press. I’d be happy to give a statement to your newspaper. I was there. I was a witness to the killing, and I—”
“Hold up,” I said. “What do you want, Mary? Bunny, what’s going on?”
“Mary called me,” Bunny said. “She’s had an idea.”
“What sort of idea?” I asked suspiciously.
“Mom,” Ashleigh said, “this is not a good idea. Whatever it is.”
Bunny hesitated.
“I thought you found a new partner,” I said to Mary. “Where is she?”
“When she heard Madame Lavalier had accidentally summoned the forces that ultimately killed her, she—”
“Where did she hear that?”
“Everyone knows, Gemma,” Irene said. “I mean, that’s what people are saying. The paper can’t print that as anything more than a rumor, which is why I was hoping to get the solid facts from your side of the story.” She smiled sweetly at me.
“Nice try,” I said.
“What’s going on?” Jayne came into the shop. “Gemma, are we having our meeting?”
“It would seem I have been delayed,” I replied.
“Jayne!” Irene exclaimed. “The very person I’ve been planning to chat with next. You were at Rebecca Stanton’s home this morning along with Gemma and the police, I heard.”
Jayne’s eyes widened in panic. She looked around, seeking escape.
“Leave Jayne alone,” I said, “or our deal is off.”
“I don’t recall you agreeing to make a deal,” Irene said.
“I’m mulling it over.”
“Bunny,” Ashleigh said, “I’m waiting to hear about this idea I already know I’m not going to approve of.”
“Mary says—”
“Let me tell them,” Mary said. “This is all so terribly exciting. As we all know, Madame Lavalier summoned forces from beyond that ultimately proved to be out of her control.”
“We know that, do we?” I said.
“The police department has a leak,” Irene said. “I won’t mention any names, but one of the civilian clerks was mighty quick to spread the word, saying witnesses to the death of this medium testify she was felled by an unseen force.”
“Rubbish,” Ashleigh said. “I was there, and I didn’t see any unseen forces.”
“Exactly!” Mary Moffat said. “Mrs. Rosechild decided perhaps she didn’t want to follow in Madame Lavalier’s footsteps after all.”
“Wise woman,” I said.
“She’s gone back to New York City to resume her bookkeeping profession.”
“Didn’t see that one coming,” Ashleigh said.
As we spoke, customers began edging ever closer. By now, we were in the center of a good-sized circle. Even Moriarty was listening with rapt attention.
“I’ve just heard the news.” Donald Morris pushed his way into the shop. “Gemma, you put yourself in danger once again. Why didn’t you ask for my help?”
“Is it true what people are saying?” a customer asked. “Was Madame Lavalier killed by a ghost, and the same spirit later did in Daniel Stanton?”
“I heard,” another customer said, “that there’s been an arrest in those cases. The police wouldn’t have arrested a ghost, would they?”
I lifted my arms over my head and brought my hands sharply together. “This is a bookshop. We sell books here and other items of interest. Let’s return to that, shall we? Donald, no, I didn’t put myself in danger, but thank you for your concern. In addition, there’s no evidence indicating any spirit from the great beyond killed anyone. Too many people like to overdramatize situations of which they know next to nothing, and I know you people are not among them. Donald, would you be able to mind the shop for a short while?”
His Inverness cape swirled around him as he gave me a slight bow. “I’m always ready to provide what assistance is needed, my dear. You know that.”
“Great. Mary and Bunny, upstairs. Ashleigh, you come too. We need privacy before this thing turns into even more of a circus.” I headed for the stairs, trusting them to follow.
They did, as well as Irene, Jayne, and Moriarty.
“The poetry of Sir Arthur,” Donald said to the assembled shoppers, “is often overlooked by scholars. I myself am currently reading a fascinating treatise on the subject. Shall we see what’s on the shelves over there?”
“Fairies,” a woman said. “He believed in the existence of fairies, right? I’d like to read about that.”
I hustled everyone, invited or not, into my office and shut the door on the babble of questions and breathless speculation coming from below.
“Let’s make this quick,” I said. “Donald has a tendency to sometimes forget about the minor matter of collecting payment for items chosen.”
Mary and Bunny smiled at each other. Mary’s grin was broad and self-satisfied; Bunny’s not quite so sure. She, I suspected, was being talked into something she wasn’t entirely convinced was a good idea. She focused her attention on Moriarty, who’d taken a position in the middle of my desk, and gave him a hearty scratch behind his ears.
“Okay, here it is.” Mary paused for dramatic effect and to ensure we were all paying rapt attention. “Bunny and I are going into business together.”
Ashleigh groaned.
“What sort of business?” Jayne asked.
“The lecture circuit. Bunny will talk about her life and career and all the famous people she knows.”
“And you’ll do what?” I asked.
“I’ll be her manager, of course. Any number of old pop stars are out there—”
Bunny winced at the word “old.”
“So we need to find our niche. What’s different about Bunny? What’s our angle? I’m thinking the psychic circuit. I have plenty of contacts there, you know. Bunny was at the séance at which a spirit crossed over to kill the medium. That’ll bring the ghost hunters in as well as the regular fans who want to meet Bunny.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Ashleigh said. “Mom, have you thought this through?”
Bunny continued fussing over Moriarty, who is always happy to be fussed over. She spoke in a low voice. “It won’t hurt to give it a try, as Mary says. I don’t have to commit to anything yet.”
“Sounds like a brilliant plan. Not.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called up a very familiar number. “Except for one small thing. You’re not free to travel, Mary.”
“Sure I am. I have nothing to keep me here.”
I put the phone on speaker and laid it on the desk.
“What’s up, Gemma?” Ryan said.
“I’m at the Emporium and with me is, among others, Mary Moffat. You wanted to speak to her, I believe.”
Ryan’s voice deepened, moving into cop mode. “I’m sending officers now. Can you keep her there until they arrive?”
I smiled at Mary. Her face had gone pale. She shouted at the phone. “You can’t detain me, Detective. I told you everything I know about what happened to Iris. If she tried to pull a fast one that night and it went wrong, that had nothing to do with me.”
“I’m not interested in you, Ms. Moffat,” he said, “but the Boston PD are.”
Everyone stared at Mary. Bunny stopped paying attention to the cat. Moriarty was not pleased.
Mary’s cat-that-swallowed-the-cream look had been wiped away in an instant. She grimaced and shifted her feet.
Ryan continued, “The Boston PD allege that you and Iris Laval conspired to extort grieving individuals with your séance act. I’ve no doubt you intended to do the same in West London, but that plan ended with the death of your partner. The police in Boston have persuaded several of your alleged victims to come forward and testify.”
Earlier today, when we finished at Rebecca’s house, Ryan had walked me to my car. He told me Max and Larissa Greenwood had decided to encourage their daughter Laura to take her story to the police. Ryan was confident that once one victim spoke out, others would come forward. I’d realized almost from the beginning of all this Mary was the brains behind their nasty little operation, and I was pleased that ultimately she wouldn’t be getting away with it. I glanced out the window onto Baker Steet. Traffic was steady, and pedestrians strolled up and down the sidewalk, popping in and out of shops. People left Mrs. Hudson’s carrying take-out cups or brown bags containing Jayne’s marvelous baking. A woman exited the Emporium directly below me, bearing a bulging shopping bag. I hoped Donald remembered to ask her to pay.
“I have suddenly remembered an appointment.” Mary opened the door. “Most important. I have to be going.”
“What about our partnership?” Bunny asked.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t count on it, Bunny.” I turned away from the window. “Mary, looks like your ride’s here.” A police cruiser had pulled up in front of the Emporium. Two uniformed officers got out and walked inside.
“There’s your story, Irene,” I said. “If you want it.”
In the short time Ashleigh and I had been upstairs with Mary and Bunny, Donald had conducted a roaring trade. His impromptu lecture on the poetry of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, which bored everyone in earshot, turned on a dime to a discussion about the author’s spiritualism (including his belief in fairies), and he led the eager customers to the nonfiction section.
Even better, I thought as I surveyed the once-again-almost-empty shelves, everyone had paid!