The tea went off without a hitch. All the actors, even Renee and Nigel, were charming and entertaining, and the guests seemed to be enchanted. A place had not been prepared for Gerald, and he’d taken a seat at the patio table. As I passed, having refilled my pot, I suggested he go into the kitchen and ask Jocelyn for a cup of tea.
“Can’t leave. I have to be here at his beck and call. Yup, there he goes. Another Prosecco is needed.” I glanced down the lawn to see Nigel holding his glass aloft. From here, it looked as though he was waving his arms about to illustrate a point.
“Those eyeglasses you’re wearing are good,” I said. “I can’t tell that it’s empty.”
“It’s always empty,” Gerald said. “Except when it’s full.” He shifted the bag across his chest and got to his feet. No one was staffing the bar, but a bottle sat in a silver ice bucket. Gerald grabbed it, poured a glass, and carried it across the lawn.
Shortly after, people began pushing back their chairs and getting to their feet. A number of the guests were regulars at the tea room, and some of them slipped into the kitchen to offer Jayne their congratulations. No one congratulated me on the precision of the slicing of the sandwiches or on the excellent pouring of decaffeinated green tea (no mishaps this time), but I basked in their praise nonetheless.
On Jayne’s instructions, the workers cleared the leftover food from the plates—sea gulls were already circling—but the rest of the cleanup would wait until the guests had left.
“Drat,” said one of the volunteers as she carried in a tray on which nothing remained but crumbs, and not many of those. “I was hoping to snag one of those brownies.”
“Mmm,” said another around a raspberry tart.
Rebecca’s head popped into the kitchen. “We’ve one more special moment planned. Come out, all of you. You’ve worked so hard and done such a marvelous job, you deserve to enjoy it.” Rebecca noticed that Jocelyn had begun laying out the extra sandwiches held back for the volunteers. “Bring your food with you. You’ve done so much in support of the festival, and it’s much appreciated.”
Most of the crowd had gathered around the patio. Prosecco was being served again, but there weren’t many takers. Everyone was stuffed to the gills with scones, sandwiches, pastries, and tea.
Rebecca clapped her hands for attention, and conversation died.
“I hope you all enjoyed that,” she said. Loud cheers. “I’d like to thank Jayne Wilson from Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room in West London for that delicious repast.” Jayne blushed and bowed to much applause. Eddie was the most enthusiastic clapper of all.
“My thanks also to Leslie Wilson and her team of marvelous volunteers. Without the hard work and support of people like them, like you all, the festival would not exist.” More applause. “Leslie, ladies, take a bow.”
Someone had dragged a patio chair to the bar area for Mrs. Franklin. She punched the air in triumph, and the audience applauded enthusiastically. Two of the volunteers curtsied deeply with practiced flair. The older one of the pair staggered as she tried to straighten up and had to be helped. She blushed and giggled and said something about “not as young as I once was.” Rebecca hesitated for a moment, giving Leslie a chance to accept her thanks. Everyone looked around, but Leslie was nowhere to be seen.
“She’s still working, I assume,” Rebecca said. “Now for a special treat, I’ve asked our honored guest, Sir Nigel Bellingham, to recite a few lines from The Hound of the Baskervilles. Sir Nigel.” She smiled broadly and extended her right arm, palm up in invitation.
Nigel stepped forward. He tripped over his own feet and almost fell into Rebecca. Her smile didn’t falter one inch, but the lines around her eyes tightened. She plucked the half-empty champagne flute out of his hand.
He turned to face the crowd and blinked rapidly. Then he composed his face into serious lines. It was amazing, I thought, how an actor could seemingly change his physical appearance with nothing more than a shift of posture and a few small gestures. The years melted off Nigel, he grew several inches, his eyes hooded and blazed with a fierce intelligence. I could almost smell the scent of pipe tobacco, feel the damp fog, and hear the clop of horses’ hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels across cobblestone streets. “Bear in mind, Sir Henry,” he rumbled in his deep resonant voice, “one of the phrases in that queer old legend which Dr. Mortimer has read to us, and avoid the moor . . . when . . . I mean, in those hours of darkness when . . . when . . . the powers of evil are exalted.” He hiccupped, and the entire edifice crumbled and the pretense disappeared as though into that London fog. His mouth opened, but no further words came out. He closed it again. He hiccupped again.
Gerald shouted for a glass of water.
“That is to say . . . when the powers of evil . . .” Nigel swayed. He might have fallen had Pat Allworth not grabbed him by the arm. “Are you unwell, Sir Nigel? Dear me, is it the heat of the day? Jet lag, maybe? Why don’t you rest for a few moments?”
Sir Nigel Bellingham burped. Pat recoiled. Whispers ran through the crowd.
“Bear in mind, Sir Henry,” said a deep voice from the midst of the onlookers. People stepped aside to let Eddie through. I’d thought him too modern and too handsome, with his playful California-surfer-boy looks, to play Sherlock Holmes, but gravitas settled over his shoulders like an Inverness cape as he recited the lines.
People turned from watching Sir Nigel being led away to Eddie performing.
I glanced at Jayne beside me. She was beaming, and the light of love—or at least the light of momentary infatuation—shone in her eyes. Oh, dear.
Nigel was helped to a chair at the patio table. Someone produced a glass of water. Gerald leaned over him, while Pat and Rebecca, each more furious than the other, watched. I edged closer in a brazen attempt to listen in.
“Quite all right now,” Nigel said.
“Give him a few minutes,” Gerald said. “He’ll be fine shortly.”
“He’ll be fine,” Pat said, “when he sobers up. Although that doesn’t appear to ever happen.”
“Perhaps it’s the heat.” Rebecca saw me watching. “Gemma, do you have any food left over? I expect Sir Nigel didn’t have a thing to eat, he was so involved in chatting to his guests. One of those nice sandwiches would help settle him.”
“I’ll find something,” I said.
The kitchen was quiet. I put two roast beef sandwiches on a plate, tucked in a napkin, and carried the food outside. Gerald took the plate out of my hand and mumbled something that might have been, “Thank you.” Then again, it also might have been, “Get lost.” Pat and Rebecca had left the two men alone.
Thunderous applause, appreciation mixed with relief that the climax of the afternoon had been saved, broke out. Eddie took a deep bow. “Let’s hear it once again for the master chef herself, the source of our delightful tea, Miss Jayne Wilson.”
Blushing furiously, Jayne stepped forward. Eddie swept up her hand and pressed it to his lips. More applause, more clicking of cameras and smartphones. Irene had cleared out before the tea, so at least the tale of Sir Nigel’s fumbling failure at acting wouldn’t make the front page of tomorrow’s Star. Renee stood on the sidelines, ignored, phone in hand, glaring at Eddie and Jayne.
Gradually, people began to leave. The bar was closed and the food cleared away, but a handful of guests lingered. A young couple walked hand in hand across the lawn to the water’s edge. Eddie and the other actors, some of whom I hadn’t met, continued chatting to admirers. Renee had put her phone away and was flirting playfully with two elderly gentlemen. Donald was talking to Grant, no doubt asking him if he wanted to buy a playbill. Jayne and Jocelyn had melted back into the kitchen, and Fiona herded the volunteers as they gathered up the rest of the dishes and table linens. Rebecca stood at the side gate, bidding her guests good-bye, and Pat was deep in conversation with a man I’d noticed earlier. He was in his late forties, permanently tanned, with manicured hands and perfect teeth. His few strands of graying hair were pulled off his face and tied at the back of his head into a man-bun. The watch around his left wrist was a Rolex Oyster, and a thick link of gold chains circled his right. He wore pink Bermuda shorts, a white golf shirt, and handmade Italian loafers without socks. He didn’t appear to have come with anyone and had spent most of the party by himself, simply observing everything. Other than a casual greeting or polite exchange, he’d engaged in conversation only with Pat, who spent a lot of her time with him. Fussing around him, I would say.
Sir Nigel sat at the table, all alone, nursing a glass of water. Even Gerald had momentarily disappeared. I was heading in Nigel’s direction, planning to ask if he needed anything, when Leslie Wilson marched across the patio with strong determined steps, her face set into hard lines. She stopped in front of Nigel and stood close, very close, to him. “It’s time for you to hear a few truths,” she said.
I left them alone and went into the kitchen to help Jayne pack up her dishes. The volunteers were gathered around the table, enjoying their sandwiches and the leftover pastries and chattering about the day. “You did good,” I said.
“I did. Oh, and the tea went okay too.” Jayne laughed. “Isn’t Eddie an absolute dream?”
“Only if you like the handsome, charming type,” I said, and she laughed again.
Before much longer, the rented dishes were packed away, the leftover food either eaten or wrapped up as a treat for husbands, and the volunteers said their good-byes. Fiona and Jocelyn collected Mrs. Hudson’s serving trays and most of the special tea sets and placed the boxes by the back door, ready to be taken out to the van, while Jayne put leaves of Darjeeling into the Sherlock Holmes pot and added freshly boiled water. She then produced a plastic container with a secret stash of scones and poured the tea into four of the Holmes cups she’d held back. “I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’m starving.”
Fiona, Jocelyn, Jayne, and I lifted our cups in a toast.
After the chaos of the past three hours, Rebecca’s kitchen was almost as sterile as it had been when we entered. We talked about highlights of the afternoon as we sipped tea and ate. “I hope they do this again next year,” Fiona said. “A couple of out-of-town guests asked me for the address of the tea room.”
“Good publicity for sure,” Jayne said.
Pat came into the kitchen, her star-shaped heels clattering on the ceramic tile. “Has Nigel been in here?”
“No. Not all day as far as I know,” Jayne said. “Is he lost?”
“I’ve ordered a van to take the cast to their hotels, and we’re ready to go. But I can’t find him.” She swore heartily.
“Perhaps he took a taxi earlier,” Jayne said.
“Gerald didn’t call one for him. I’m starting to get the impression that Nigel doesn’t do a thing, can’t do a thing, for himself.”
“He’s probably ashamed of fluffing his lines,” Fiona said. “So he snuck off without telling Gerald or anyone else.”
Pat looked doubtful.
“Where did you see him last?” I asked.
“I left him at the patio table. I was so furious I didn’t dare stay a minute longer.”
Jayne got to her feet. “I’ll check the library and the living room. Perhaps he . . . uh . . . dozed off in there.”
“Passed out more like it,” Pat said. “I’ll get Rebecca to search upstairs. He might have decided to go for a nap. Did you see anyone talking to him after I left him?”
Leslie Wilson. Who, I realized, also hadn’t been seen since. She hadn’t joined the volunteers in the kitchen for their snack. I put my teacup down. “I’ll have a look outside. Maybe he went for a stroll in the woods.”
Pat muttered a bad word and stomped out.
Jayne and I exchanged a look and headed in different directions.
The cast and crew, minus Sir Nigel, were milling impatiently in a group. “Leave him to find his own way back,” the iron-haired woman who’d been introduced as the wardrobe mistress said. “I’ve already lost most of a day on this nonsense.”
Renee was checking her phone. One of the male actors tapped his watch. “I’ll wait in the kitchen,” Eddie said. “Call me when we’re ready to go.” He gave me a wink as he passed me.
A handful of guests, unwilling to see the party end, lingered. The bar was closed, the patio table empty. The party tent, with its bare tables and pushed back chairs, looked sad and lonely. A few sea gulls hopped about on the ground in search of fallen crumbs.
I stood at the edge of the lawn, debating which way to go to start my search. Grant saw me and hurried over. “Everything okay, Gemma?”
“Hard as it is to believe, they appear to have lost Sir Nigel.”
He laughed. Then he read my face. “You’re not joking.”
I plunged into the woods to the right at a rapid clip, and Grant followed. The property was extensive, but it wasn’t exactly in a wilderness. The surrounding woods were tame and well-maintained. In the shelter of the pine trees, all was cool and quiet. “Nigel!” I called. “It’s time to leave. They’re also searching the house,” I said to Grant. “He’s probably fallen asleep on a couch or something.”
“Nigel!” Grant shouted. “Come out, come out wherever you are.” He dropped his voice. “I’m glad I caught you before you left, Gemma. Are you free for dinner tonight?”
“That would be nice,” I said. “After today, I need someone to cook for me. As long as it’s a late one—I just finished a couple of scones.”
He patted his flat belly. “I stuffed myself with scones, sandwiches, and cookies. Wow, they were good. I lucked out and got a table with a couple on a gluten-free diet. While they plucked the grapes and strawberries off the display, scooped the filling out of the fruit tarts, and pretended they weren’t at all desperate to dive into those sandwiches, I gorged.”
I laughed. “Gluten-free, afternoon tea is not.”
“And,” he said, “as an added bonus, they showed genuine interest in collecting rare books, and I gave them my card.”
We walked through the woods toward the sea, calling Nigel’s name. Frankly, if not for the fact that the last time I’d seen him he’d been confronted by Jayne’s mum, who seemed prepared to take no more nonsense (and what did she mean, hear a few truths?) from him, I wouldn’t have bothered with this search. Let his PA and the theater people deal with him.
I was dead tired, but before going home and putting my feet up (and now getting ready to go out to dinner), I still had to pop into the shop, check with Ashleigh on how the day had been, and go through the end-of-day routine.
The trees ended abruptly, and we stepped out of the woods onto a rocky cliff. The sparkling blue waters of the Atlantic Ocean spread before us.
“Beautiful spot,” Grant said. Below, waves crashed on the rocky beach.
“Sure is.” I was about to turn away when something caught my eye. A scrap of cloth, caught on the branches of a thin bush. A paisley cravat. Grant reached out to pluck it off the bush. “Isn’t this . . . ?”
I grabbed his hand. “Don’t touch.” A patch of grass had been pressed down, as though trodden on. A dying bush at the edge of the cliff was bent over, it’s branch half-broken. “Something happened here.”
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of another scrap of cloth lifted on the breeze. A torn piece of pink ruching was caught on the sharp thorn of a bush. I made no move toward it and didn’t point it out to Grant.
“Stay there. Don’t move.” I stepped carefully toward the edge of the cliff, watching where I put my feet. It hadn’t rained in a week, and the ground was dry, but the mark of a man’s shoe print was visible in the dirt, and tuffs of grass were compressed.
I stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down. The tide was coming in, and the surf was rough. The cliff wasn’t very high—they aren’t along this stretch of the coast—not more than twenty feet. Not high, but high enough. The rocky beach was only a couple of feet wide, and water crashed against a row of boulders.
A man lay on the beach below me. His face was pressed into the ground, and the incoming waves lapped at his head. He wore a seersucker suit, and he was not moving.