Jayne dropped me back at the store and went home to change once again for her date with Eddie. She glowed with such happiness, I hated to be the one who might end up sticking a pin in her balloon. I didn’t mention that Eddie was now firmly at the top of my suspect list. I don’t think Sherlock Holmes ever said “cui bono,” but if not, he should have. Who benefits? The first question that must always be asked in any murder inquiry. Who benefits from the death?
Eddie Barker clearly did. The starring role in the festival’s centerpiece play now rested in his well-manicured, tanned hands. Not only did he land the role, but the death of Nigel would attract even more theatergoers. People like to be involved, no matter how peripherally, in a celebrity death. The more mysterious, the better.
I did a quick inventory as I came into the shop. Business had been brisk.
“Lots of people are talking about that play,” Ashleigh told me. “They saw the poster in the window and think we’re involved. Are we?”
More than I would like. “No. Although I might see about selling tickets. If people come in here, there’s no point sending them down the street to the box office.”
“Maybe we could provide some of the props,” she said, “and sell copies of them at the theater.”
“What kind of props? The play, from what I saw, is set in the nineteenth century. The characters won’t be sipping tea out of I Am SHERLocked mugs or reading Lyndsay Faye or Anthony Horowitz.”
She shrugged. “Maybe you could get some old stuff in. Like capes and hats or something.”
“I think I have enough stock, thank you.”
Her face fell, and I added quickly, “That’s a good suggestion but not entirely practical. Keep thinking, and don’t be afraid to bring your ideas to me.”
“Businesses need to expand if they are to grow,” she said.
“Right.” I didn’t add that I didn’t want to grow. I was happy with the Emporium exactly the way it was.
“There’s an active chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars in Boston. They call themselves ‘The Speckled Band.’ I looked that up last night. I bet they’d love to shop at your store. If you aren’t keen on my idea of selling franchise rights to the name, why don’t you open a second location of the Emporium?”
Perish the thought. The bell over the door tinkled, thankfully putting an end to that line of speculation.
Donald Morris came in. I was pleased to see that he wasn’t carrying the folder with the playbill. I gave him a smile. “Twice in one day. To what do I owe this honor, Donald?”
“About sixty,” he said.
Not this again. “I told you earlier, my top offer is fifty bucks.”
“Not sixty dollars, but the book About Sixty. Do you have it?”
“Oh, yes, I do.” I walked with him to the nonfiction shelf. “I thought you had this already. I remember you buying it when it first came out.”
“It will be gift,” he said, “for a fellow Sherlockian who’s in the hospital.”
“Nice of you to think of him.” I took the book off the shelf. There are sixty stories in the original Holmes canon. In this collection, a Sherlockian makes the claim as to why each story is the best. A clever idea, I thought, although some of the arguments had to be stretched mighty far. I handed Donald the book. “Did you find a buyer for your playbill?”
“Mrs. Stanton was delighted to have it. Naturally, I’ll never reveal the amount she paid for it, but she is a very generous woman. It will have a prominent place during the run of The Hound, in Sir Nigel’s honor.”
After Donald had made his purchase, I debated calling Grant and saying I was free for dinner after all. Instead, once Ashleigh had left and I closed the shop for the day, I phoned Leslie Wilson.
“I’m checking in,” I said when she answered. “Everything okay there?”
Her sigh came down the phone. “Detective Estrada came by yesterday. She took the aprons my volunteers wore and asked me all the same questions. Why did Nigel and I go for a walk? Why did we think it necessary to leave the garden for the privacy of the woods? Did I—?”
“Let’s not talk about this on the phone. Are you at home?” It was unlikely the police or anyone else was tapping Leslie’s phone, but nevertheless, I didn’t want this conversation to be on record.
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Violet loves nothing more than a ride in the Miata. She could use a treat today, so I took her with me. I don’t like leaving her at home alone all day, but when Uncle Arthur’s traveling, I have little choice. In the off-season, I can close the shop for an hour in the afternoon and take her for a good walk, but in the busiest times, I can’t usually get away. At one time, I’d considered taking her to work with me some days. She was well behaved and would stay in the office without barking to be let out or trashing the place. Let’s just say that Moriarty and Violet’s initial meeting was not a success, and I was forced to abandon that plan. When he’s home, Arthur’s with her most of the day, and he walks her regularly, which does the both of them a lot of good: exercise for Uncle Arthur and a proper doggie social life for Violet. For some reason, all the elderly ladies and their equally elderly dogs have the same walking schedule as Arthur and Violet.
Leslie opened the kitchen door when she heard me drive up, and Rufus ran out ahead of her.
“I brought my dog,” I said. “She’s friendly. Is it okay to let her play?”
“Rufus loves to make friends.”
I opened the door, and the two dogs greeted each other in a flurry of wagging tails and inquisitive sniffs. Violet then went on to investigate all the marvelous new smells in Leslie’s yard, and Rufus followed her.
“Have you told the detectives you walked with Nigel to the cliff edge?” I asked as Leslie and I watched the two animals get acquainted.
She hung her head. “It’s too late, Gemma. How can I possibly say I forgot that little detail?”
“You have to, Leslie. They’re concentrating on you because they think you’re hiding something. And they’re right. If you let them know what it is you’re hiding, they might move on.”
“Might. Or they might decide to arrest me.”
“If you want,” I said, “I’ll come with you when you talk to them.”
She shook her head. “No. I didn’t kill Nigel. I had no reason to. And no one can prove I did.”
“I think that’s a mistake, but it’s your decision. But you have to talk to Jayne. She’s worried. She’s beginning to realize that you’re of far more interest to the police than anyone else who was at the party. She wants to know why.”
Leslie threw up her hands. “How can I tell her about my past? About this secret I’ve kept all these years?”
“Better than worrying her half to death and driving a wedge of distrust and suspicion between you.”
Violet cornered a squirrel in an old oak and leapt frantically against the tree trunk trying to reach it. From sixty feet above the ground, the squirrel laughed.
“I know you’re right, Gemma. But it’s hard. Detective Estrada asked me about money.”
“What about it?”
Leslie waved her arm around, indicating the house falling into gentle disrepair, the overgrown flower beds, the old car that was as much rust as metal. “When Rick died, he left a lot of medical bills and not much else. I have my pension from the bank, and that pays my expenses, if I live simply. It’s obvious to anyone that I don’t have a lot of extra cash. Jeff has been after me to sell the house. I have no mortgage on it, and he says I’d make a handsome profit. I know it’s the practical thing to do, but I simply can’t.” She looked around her, taking in the old house, the spacious gardens, the peace and quiet. “I love it here. Rick and I were so happy. This is where we raised our children. I have to live somewhere, and I’m not ready to move into a soulless condo. I’m happy with my life the way it is. Although I’d love to have a pack of grandchildren. Don’t tell Jayne I said that.”
“Why does Estrada care about your finances?”
“I think she suspects I was blackmailing Nigel.”
“Why would you do that? She doesn’t know about your son. Does she?”
Leslie shook her head.
“Then she’s fishing. Was Detective Ashburton with her?”
“No. She came here alone to get the aprons.”
“Don’t talk to her again. Next time she comes, tell her you want your lawyer to be present.”
“Won’t that make me look like I have something to hide?”
“It will make you look like a citizen in danger of having her rights violated. I don’t know what game she’s playing at, but I don’t want you playing along.” I touched her arm. “I’m doing what I can to get to the bottom of this. Don’t worry.”
Her brave smile looked so much like her daughter’s.
I called Violet, and we got into the car and headed home.
* * *
Not good. Not good at all.
Louise Estrada was clearly focused on Leslie Wilson as the killer. Ryan was always telling me Estrada was a good cop and a good detective. I had yet to be convinced of that.
Ryan also told me I got Estrada’s back up and I should attempt to make nice.
Somehow, whenever I try to make nice, it goes awry.
I had to ask myself if Estrada was focusing on Leslie because I was defending her. Might Estrada not even realize she was letting me, unwittingly, push her buttons?
Surely we both had the same goal in mind? To find out what happened to Sir Nigel Bellingham at the edge of that cliff on Saturday afternoon.
I had to remember that Ryan himself wasn’t completely convinced of Leslie’s innocence either.
I pulled into my driveway but didn’t get out of the car. Instead, I called Gerald Greene. I tried to sound as though I was just making a friendly call. Checking up on a fellow countryman alone and far from our native shores. “How are you doing?”
“Doing? How do you think I’m doing? I’m stuck in this miserable town. I want to go home.”
“Are the police still saying you can’t leave?”
“Yes. Fortunately, I have a hotel room. Sir Nigel’s and my rooms were paid in advance. Mrs. Stanton wants me to leave so she can get a full refund, but I don’t see why I should have to. As it is, I have to pay for my own meals and other expenses here. My salary ended with Sir Nigel.”
“How about a drink at the bar in your hotel?”
Long pause.
“My shout,” I said.
“Brilliant idea,” he replied.
I agreed to meet Gerald in fifteen minutes and backed out of the driveway. I brought Violet with me, hoping I could find out what I needed to know from Gerald quickly and still have time to go for a walk along the water’s edge.
A strong wind was blowing off the ocean, and the sun was low in the sky to the west, but I didn’t want to leave the dog in the car, so I tied Violet to a tree at the side of the parking lot of the Harbor Inn and told her I’d be back as soon as I could. She didn’t object and settled down on the cool grass for a short nap.
Gerald was waiting in the lobby and got to his feet when he saw me. “Good evening, Gemma.”
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” I said.
“Anything for an English woman,” he said, as though he were doing me a big favor by letting me buy him a drink. His accent was educated, veering toward upper-class. He’d had a comfortable childhood, I thought, and had gone to a good university. Good, but not Cambridge or Oxford. He was in his early sixties, late in life to be working as a PA to a crotchety old man. Either he’d fallen on hard times and taken whatever job he could get or he was such a fan of the theater that he wanted to move in its orbit, no matter what the level.
Gerald headed toward the French doors leading outside, but I stopped him. The restaurant at the inn is excellent, and they have a beautiful patio bar for those wanting to enjoy the summer evening, but the lounge is far more private at this time of year.
“Why don’t we stay inside,” I said. “It’s a bit chilly out tonight.”
He shrugged, and I led the way.
Sherlock Holmes and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would have been comfortable in this small room. Well-worn leather couches and wingback chairs around low tables. Striped wallpaper, rich red carpets. A large (although gas and now unlit) fireplace.
We were the only customers in the place. I nodded to the bartender as we came in, and we took two chairs in a corner. The waiter took our orders. I requested a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and Gerald asked what they had in the way of Highland Single Malt.
Unfortunately for my pocketbook, they had Macallan’s, and Gerald said he’d have that. He leaned back with a sigh. “This is most inconvenient. Not only do I now suddenly find myself unemployed, I’m trapped in a foreign country without adequate funds.” His small eyes darted around the room, and he picked at the lint on his trousers.
“The West London police are good at their jobs,” I said. “I’m sure they won’t detain you much longer.” I knew no such thing, but I wanted to put him at ease.
He leaned back with a sigh. “I can only hope so.”
“This isn’t a bad hotel in which to be detained, as you put it.”
“No. But I have to confess, as long as I have no immediate prospects for employment, I can’t fully enjoy myself.” Meaning he was broke.
“What brought you to work for Sir Nigel?”
“I’ve always loved the theater,” he said. “When my . . . uh . . . circumstances were more favorable, I dabbled in amateur theatricals. I directed some minor productions over the years. Quite excellent they were. Many reviews said one would never believe them to be amateur theater.” The nervous mannerisms stopped, and he looked at me for the first time. He might have even smiled at the memories.
“Sounds marvelous,” I said.
The waiter brought our drinks. “Can I get you something to eat?” he asked.
“No,” I said quickly, cutting Gerald off. I had no interest in sitting over a meal with the man.
He left, and Gerald and I lifted our glasses. “Cheers,” we said simultaneously. He took a long, deep drink and closed his eyes in pleasure.
“How did you come to work for Sir Nigel?” I asked.
“Even in amateur theater, at least at the level in which I moved,” he boasted, “you meet many professionals. Including some of the great actors of our age. I had dinner in London with Helen Mirren once, you know.”
“That must have been exciting. What’s she like?”
“As beautiful and charming and gracious as I expected. Of course, I wasn’t seated next to her, so we didn’t get a chance to chat intimately, but she did say hello. Maggie Smith herself came to one of my plays. She came backstage after and spoke to the actors. I shook her hand.” He beamed proudly. “And then there was the time Hugh Grant—”
“Nigel?” I prompted.
“When I was . . . uh . . . seeking employment, a friend from the old days mentioned that Nigel . . . I mean Sir Nigel, had lost his PA and needed another. So I applied. We hit it off instantly.” His eyes turned away from me once more, and he peered into the depths of his glass.
I felt rather sorry for Gerald. Reading between the lines, it was obvious that he’d desperately wanted to be a stage director, but he had little or no talent (or, to be fair, luck). He’d had some family money that allowed him to indulge his love of theater as a hobby, but that had eventually run out, leaving him needing to make a living with no marketable skills. I smiled across the table at him. I saw no signs of indulgence or bad habits (except for a preference for good whisky at someone else’s expense), so I surmised he hadn’t gambled or drank away his inheritance. Bad investments, perhaps, or maybe just not enough to last into his old age and not the sense to realize it in time. Then again, maybe none of it was his fault. He’d phoned his mother the day of the afternoon tea. If Gerald was sixty, she had to be eighty, at least. Care of an aging parent can require a lot of money.
“I assume you’ll be packing up his things,” I said.
“I’ve done so. Such a sad task.” He tilted his glass back and forth and studied the liquid swirling about. His eyes were completely dry. “You must still have contacts in England, Gemma. Do you know anyone in theater? I’m an excellent PA. I was more to Sir Nigel than a PA, really—more like a friend and confederate. I was, you might say, the Watson to his Holmes.”
“The day you and Nigel came into my shop, I later noticed a coloring book had gone missing. I was at the Stanton house after the party, when Rebecca discovered that some small art items of varying value had disappeared. By which I mean they’d been stolen.”
His eyes flicked up in surprise. Then he ducked his head again.
“You know anything about that, Gerald?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because I suspect that if the police searched Nigel’s things, which you so conveniently packed up, they’d find some of the missing items. Maybe a few other things that don’t belong among a gentleman’s traveling necessities.”
“You come by your name honestly, I think.”
“Gemma?”
“Doyle.”
“The relationship to Sir Arthur is tenuous,” I said.
He took a deep breath. “Nigel Bellingham was what psychologists call a kleptomaniac. What others might call a common or garden thief. When I hung up his jacket on Wednesday before going to dinner, I found your coloring book in a pocket. That evening, a steak knife from the restaurant where we’d dined. Part of my job, Ms. Doyle, was to keep Sir Nigel out of trouble and his tendencies from becoming common knowledge. In the parlance of what I see on American TV, I cleaned up after him.”
I refrained from pointing out that that phrase was normally used on crime dramas to mean getting rid of the bodies. “Mrs. Stanton’s items?”
“She will find them in a plant pot by the front of her house. Hiding in plain sight, really. Nigel went to the loo before they sat down to tea. He was in the house a long time, and I was getting suspicious. When he came out, I took him around the side of the house and patted down his pockets. I found several small glass ornaments, which I took to be of considerable value. I confiscated the items and later stuck them beneath a flowering plant.”
“Is that what you were doing when the police first arrived?”
“I sought some privacy to ring my mother, as I told you. At the same time I took the opportunity to dispose of the items in question. A coloring book and a steak knife is one thing. Fine art, no matter how small, is entirely another altogether. If he’d been found with those things on him, he might have been arrested. He certainly would have been disgraced.”
I sipped my wine. “All of which sounds beyond the performance of a PA’s normal duties. If you’d been the one found with the items, between taking them off Nigel and hiding them, you would have been in a lot of trouble.”
“I call it other duties as assigned,” he said.
“Were you blackmailing him?” I asked.
“You’re very blunt, Ms. Doyle.”
“So I’ve been told. I prefer not to beat about the bush when both parties know what’s being discussed.”
Earlier, I’d considered the possibility that Gerald was the thief and Nigel was blackmailing him. I dismissed that idea now. Gerald, as I earlier observed, was no actor. He was habitually a nervous man, but as he talked, he didn’t get more agitated, his gaze settled on me without trying to will me to believe him, and he engaged in none of the traditional “tells” of a poor liar.
“I was not blackmailing him. I was, however, highly paid for my discretion.”
“Was that explicit? I mean, did he tell you that?”
“He never said a thing. I was, I’ll admit, surprised at the interview when he told me what the salary would be. Far, far higher than I’d expected. I assumed he wanted the best and was prepared to pay for it. He went to a dinner party the first night of my employment. The next morning, when I was tiding his clothes, I found a seventeenth-century snuffbox in his pocket. The pattern continued. Nothing was ever said between us. I returned the items whenever I could.”
“You say you were highly paid, but you’re worried about spending a few more days in West London in a prepaid hotel room?”
He sighed, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. It had been a brazenly personal question, after all. But I find that once people start trying to explain their actions, they rarely stop. “I was raised in the Kent countryside. I had a good childhood, and I have fond memories. I’m hoping to buy a small property there for my retirement years. Another benefit of working for Sir Nigel was that my living expenses were light. I lived in a small apartment in his house and traveled at his expense. I put every bob I could into my savings.”
“Be that as it may,” I said. “He didn’t seem to treat you very well.”
“I assume you’re asking if I killed him.”
I lifted my eyebrows.
“On the contrary, his death is a severe blow to my plans. If we’re being honest here, Ms. Doyle, I’ll tell you that I hated the man. He was arrogant, rude, and sneeringly condescending. I kept telling myself one more year . . . one more year . . . and then I’d have enough saved to retire and buy my house. I did not kill him.”
I believed him. Gerald might love the theater, but he wasn’t much of an actor. His early attempt at a suitable expression of mourning was a complete failure.
“I hated him, in some ways, but I also felt sorry for him. He had achieved great heights in his chosen profession, and equally great was his fall. His friends abandoned him. Dinner party invitations dried up. No one would work with him. His parents are long deceased. He hadn’t spoken to his only sister in years. His ex-wives would have nothing to do with him. All he had left was a bottle and a collection of pilfered items. You have no idea, Gemma, how excited he was when he got the offer to perform here, in The Hound. It was, truth be told, sad to see.”
* * *
I’m well aware that the Internet is not always the best the place to go for factual knowledge, but for gossip, nothing beats it.
I had only one drink with Gerald and left him ordering another. I gave the bartender enough money to cover it. I untied Violet, and we drove to the beach for a long walk. I’d have enjoyed an evening swim in the warm waters of Nantucket Sound, but I knew that if I went home for my swimming costume, I’d never leave the house. Violet enjoyed the walk, as she always does, and as it always does, watching her play in the surf and chase sandpipers gave me a lot of time to think over what I’d learned today.
When we got home, I searched for Gerald Greene on the Internet. I eventually found a list of productions over the years from an amateur theater company in Reading, and Gerald had credit as director for ten years’ worth of performances. Not that I had reason to doubt his story, but I never take anything on face value. The website featured pictures of the actors who’d appeared, but none of the director. I found no further information on Gerald, and Greene is such a common name in the UK, it was not worth my time trying to investigate his past without a lot more to go on.
I next searched IMDb for information on Edward Barker. He was, so the page reported, recently divorced from an actress named Garnet Hogan, to whom he’d been married for three years. I clicked on Garnet’s info and wasn’t at all surprised to see that she was a small, fine-boned, blue-eyed blonde in her early thirties. Her list of recent credits included two supporting roles as the best friend in moderately successful Hollywood romantic comedies.
Was Garnet on her way up and thus ready to dump Eddie, stuck in small off-Broadway roles? Or did jealousy at her success on his part get in the way of the marriage?
Wouldn’t have been the first time that happened.
I searched the gossip blogs, looking for nothing more than dirt. A familiar name leapt out at me. Well, well, what do we have here? Before he married Garnet, Eddie’s name had been linked to that of none other than Renee Masters. The dates were close enough that it would appear they broke up shortly before his marriage. If Eddie dumped Renee for Garnet and now he was single again, Renee might be wanting to get the relationship back on track. Which would explain Renee’s hostility to Jayne.
I didn’t find anything scandalous about the other actors. Ralph Carlyle had a solid career in repertory theater. Solid, steady, and respectable, with few highs and not many lows. He was married with four children and lived in New York City.
The bio listed him as thirty-eight years old, which is what I’d estimated when I met him. Far too young to play Watson to Nigel Bellingham’s Holmes—the two men were supposed to be similar in age—but just right against Eddie Barker.
Harry O’Leary, who played Stapleton, had a few minor movie roles as a child but now only acted in summer theater. Tanya Morrison, who played Mrs. Hudson as well as Mrs. Barrymore, had also been in movies in her youth, the last of which was many years ago. She was now retired and living on the Cape with her husband of thirty years. She took the occasional part at the festival to keep her hand in. Her bio mentioned that she donated her salary back to the theater company.
Other than Renee and Eddie, they seemed like a boring bunch.
But, I reminded myself, murder can sometimes be a very mundane business.