“This time I suggest we take a cab,” I said to Jayne.
“Thank goodness for that.”
We stood on the pavement outside Mimi’s flat. As well as our shopping bags, we now had possession of a cardboard box. The box wasn’t large or terribly heavy, and Mimi had carried it downstairs for us as our arms and hands were full.
“Paul seems to have a lackadaisical approach to his things,” Jayne said. “He leaves them scattered all over London. Do you think this is the same box he left at Sophie’s?”
“Unlikely. Sophie said clothes and a suitcase.”
“Did you believe her, Gemma? About not knowing anything about Paul’s life?”
“I did. She seemed honest, not holding anything back.” I nudged the box with my foot. “Except for this, which she took her time remembering. I need to do my civic duty and give DI Patel a call. I’m surprised the police haven’t yet spoken to the women in Paul’s life.” I tsked in disapproval.
“Maybe they’ve found a different trail and are following that one.”
“Another reason to call her. If I’m wasting my time because an overly enthusiastic book collector did the deed and has confessed all, I’d like to know.”
My phone buzzed with a text from Ryan. I opened WhatsApp to see a picture of a fishing stream. The sky was blue, the woods green with a touch of yellow, the clear water frothing as it bubbled over rocks and boulders. The message accompanying the picture said: We’ve arrived. Fabulous hotel. Great river. U still alive?
I handed Jayne my phone. “Take a picture.” I picked up several of the shopping bags, arranged the rest around my feet, and struck a pose. Big smile, right shoulder forward, right leg extended, chin lifted, hair blowing in the breeze. Jayne snapped several shots before giving the phone back to me. I sent one of the pictures to Ryan. Productive day.
Ryan: $$$$$$$$$$
Me: Got that right. Love U.
Ryan: Love you too.
A black cab drove slowly down the street, its light on. I waved, and it pulled up to the curb. “I love London,” Jayne said as we struggled to shove the box in, followed by our shopping, and then ourselves. “As easy to find a cab as a pub.”
I gave the cabbie the Stanhope Gardens address, and we drove away. I glanced up at the second floor to see if Mimi was watching us, but the curtains didn’t move and no one stood at the window.
Before we left Mimi’s flat, I’d opened the box to have a quick peek inside, not wanting to bother if it was full of Paul’s laundry or schoolbooks he hadn’t yet thrown out. Instead, I saw a variety of computer and other electronic device cables, a couple of paperbacks in not-bad condition, a stapler, a box of staples and another of paper clips, a stack of what looked like bills, and a notebook. I hadn’t yet opened the notebook. For all I knew, it contained Paul’s grocery shopping list, but I wanted to take the time to read it carefully.
We fell out of the cab at Stanhope Gardens. I paid the driver, and we carried all our bags plus the box up the steps. I let us in and called, “We’re here. Anyone home?” Not that I expected anyone, other than Horace, to answer. Dad was on his fishing expedition with Ryan and Andy; Donald was escorting the Thompson parents around Sherlock Holmes’s London; Mum was at work.
Horace wagged his stubby tail, and I gave him a good pat. “Why don’t you put the kettle on,” I said to Jayne, “while I take these bags upstairs. We can meet in the library and see what Father Christmas brought us as an early Christmas gift.”
“Will do,” she said.
My phone rang, showing an unfamiliar number. “Gemma Doyle,” I said.
The message was short and to the point. “I’ll be here.” I hung up with a sigh.
“Something wrong?” Jayne asked. “Is everyone okay?”
“Nothing wrong. That’s the airline. My suitcase will be here in about an hour.”
“That’s good news. Why do you look so disappointed?”
“I’ve just spent hundreds of pounds on new clothes I don’t need anymore. And, may I remind you, everything we bought was in season so I paid full price.”
“Doesn’t matter. Your insurance will pay for it, so now you have all those lovely things for free.”
“Insurance?”
“Your trip interruption insurance.”
“There’s such a thing as trip interruption insurance? They pay you to buy new clothes?”
“Don’t tell me you’re not insured for this trip, Gemma.”
I grimaced. “I guess I forgot to look into that.”
Jayne shook her head. “I don’t know what I expected from the woman who doesn’t know Superman’s name, but sometimes you do surprise me.”
“I know Superman’s name. Kent Clark.”
“Clark Kent.”
“Right. That.”
Muttering something about people who are too smart to navigate the practicalities of life, Jayne headed for the kitchen and the kettle. Horace followed her. I wouldn’t consider Superman’s name, whatever it might be, to be something one needs to know to get through a day, but I didn’t call her back to argue. I just carried all my new, and now redundant, clothes up to my room. I could take them back to the shops and ask for a refund, but that would be too much time and bother. I did not feel like retracing our steps through London’s shopping districts.
Clothes hung and shoes put away, face and hands washed, I got Paul’s box and joined Jayne in the library. Later, I’d look into this trip interruption insurance. Just in case my things didn’t make it home with me.
The library at Stanhope Gardens is Dad’s room. Meaning it’s furnished to his, rather than my mother’s, taste. And his taste runs to blue. The carpet was a deep navy, the walls periwinkle, the bookshelves cobalt, the chairs upholstered in blues and whites. A genuine, original John Constable painting of some considerable value hung on the wall opposite the unlit fireplace, gently illuminated by a soft light mounted above. The painting was not blue, but rather a bucolic scene of the green English countryside featuring several cows oblivious to an approaching storm.
Jayne had arranged a proper tea tray with Mum’s everyday Royal Doulton china. In true English fashion, she’d added a plate of biscuits. I put the box on the floor next to the couch and took a seat while Jayne poured.
I took a sip of my tea. Excellent. “We’ll make a proper Englishwoman out of you yet.”
“Need I remind you, Gemma, I own a tearoom?”
“Speaking of which, I should give Ashleigh a call. Find out how it’s going.”
“I spoke to Mikey last night. She said everything’s under control at Mrs. Hudson’s.”
“Under control can mean a lot of things.” My phone buzzed yet again. An incoming text from an unfamiliar number: Gemma?
The number had a Massachusetts area code so I replied: I’m here. Who is this?
Mrs. R
Mrs. Ramsbatten. My neighbor. Come to think of it, I’d never phoned her and we’d never texted. If we had something to discuss, we did it over tea on her front porch, in her vastly overstuffed front room, or across the garden gate.
The old-fashioned way.
Me: Everything okay?
Mrs. Ramsbatten: Arthur not answering. Wanted to let you know I let the plumbers in. Hope that is all right?
Mrs. Ramsbatten had a key to our house. When Uncle Arthur was away and I was busy at the shop, she would pop in during the day to care for the dogs.
Me: Plumbers? Why?
Mrs. R: I saw water coming out your back door. Kitchen flooded. Broken pipe, plumbers say. They’ve cut the water and are working on it.
I groaned. I didn’t bother putting that into a text. As I was leaving for the airport, I noticed a small leak developing under the kitchen sink. I told Uncle Arthur to call a plumber, but he said he’d have a look at it first. No need to be spending money if he could fix it himself. I hadn’t had time to argue and left the house. Uncle Arthur was no handyman, but for some reason he liked to try to fix things himself. Usually I was on hand to call the professionals for backup if—when—needed.
Me: Much damage?
Mrs. R: Floor might need to be replaced. I have to say, Gemma, the house smells a great deal like a skunk has been in here. As does Violet.
Me: Thanks for the update.
Mrs. R: Hope you’re having a wonderful time. I’ve always loved London.
“Trouble?” Jayne asked.
“Uncle Arthur seems to have neglected to finish a minor bit of home maintenance.” I called the store and Ashleigh answered. “Hey, Gemma. What’s up?”
“Just checking in. Everything all right?”
“Yeah. We’re good. Business has been steady.” Her voice dropped. “You know what it’s like when Arthur’s working here. Every elderly widowed lady within a hundred-mile radius decides she wants to get her Christmas shopping done early. Everyone in their family will be getting books this year. After shopping, they go next door for tea so the tearoom’s been busy too.”
“Is he there now?”
“He is. His ankle’s bothering him, he said, so he’s taken a seat in the nook and is telling Mrs. Archibald and Mrs. Fernie about his adventures in the navy. I couldn’t help but notice he was getting around just fine before Mrs. Archibald arrived with lemonade and her homemade sugar cookies. Straight from the oven, she says. Do you want to speak to him?”
“Probably better not. Can you tell him his attention is needed at the house. Immediately.”
“Does this have anything to do with the kitchen sink?”
“What do you know about that?”
“He said there was a minor plumbing problem, but he fixed it.”
“Not entirely.” I hung up.
Jayne lifted one eyebrow in question. “Never mind,” I said. “Okay, without further ado, let’s see what we have in the box.”
Jayne helped herself to a piece of shortbread and bit into it. Her eyes almost rolled back in her head. “My goodness, this cookie is good. Do you think your mom would give me the recipe?”
“She’d be happy to. If she knew it. My mother doesn’t bake, but she does know the best places to shop.”
We crouched on the floor next to the box. I lifted the flaps and we peered in. I suspect everyone has a box full of computer cables somewhere. In case they’re needed again. Not that they ever are. I put the notebook to one side and sorted the other things first. The envelopes went into one pile. The paperback books, none of them new, went on another pile. The books were all modern thrillers, heavily dogeared. I checked the copyright pages, flipped through them and shook them in case something had been concealed between the pages, but found nothing. Something niggled at the back of my mind, but before I could grab it, Jayne said, “Any value in those books?”
“No. They’re all mass market, and none of them are signed. Likely they’re Paul’s own reading material. As I recall, he was heavily into American spy stuff.”
“No accounting for taste.” Jayne sniffed in disapproval, and I chuckled.
The envelopes all bore the logos and addresses of banks, utility companies, credit card companies. I didn’t need to open them to know they were bills, but I did anyway. Paul owed a lot of companies a lot of money.
Poor Paul. A substantial number of the envelopes hadn’t been opened, although they were dated months ago.
“He was in serious financial straits,” Jayne said.
I left the notebook until last. I sat on the couch and Jayne crowded next to me. The pages contained Paul’s nearly illegible scribble. Names and telephone numbers, mostly men’s names but a handful of women’s. Many had dates next to them. The earliest date, the first entry in the book, was about two years ago. “At first guess,” I said, “this is a list of potential customers.”
“Don’t you say you never guess?”
“Shorthand for an educated assumption in the absence of provable fact I will act upon until provable facts present themselves. Paul was selling used books. It is not unknown for rare first editions or books signed by important authors to be dropped off at a used bookstore along with all the other junk accumulated over the years. It would be logical for Paul to keep a list of people interested in buying such things if he came across them. Such as this one, Jean Hamilton, and this phone number. Next to the name Paul wrote ACD. That can only mean one thing.”
“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“It must. Here’s a name with JA and a lot of plus signs. At another educated assumption that means Jane Austen and her contemporaries or similar authors.”
“A first edition Jane Austen isn’t going to show up at the bottom of a bunch of moldy books out of Grandma’s attic.”
“You’d be surprised, Jayne. It can happen. Not often, but it does.”
Some of the names were crossed out. By which I guessed (that word again) the client was no longer interested in whatever Paul might come across.
I flipped a few pages. I had nowhere to go with this. A list of names and telephone numbers. I couldn’t start making calls and asking whoever answered, “Did you kill Paul Erikson for possession of a rare and valuable book?” All I could do was hand the notebook and the box to DI Patel. Which reminded me that I intended to call her, but I still hadn’t.
I turned a page. A familiar name leapt out at me. John Saint-Jean. “There’s a name we know.” I tapped the page with my forefinger.
“Isn’t he the guy we met the last time we were here? The one who found your grandparents’ long-lost painting?”
We both looked at the picture hanging in pride of place on the library wall. The Constable landscape.
“The very one,” I said.
Jayne indicated the initials next to the name on the page. “What’s IF mean, do you think? If something shows up, he wants to know? If what?”
I quickly sorted through my mental database of authors’ initials. “Ian Fleming, quite likely. That would suit Sir John. James Bond. 007. MI6. British spy stuff and all that. Considering we have Sir John’s acquaintance, as Jane Austen would say, I suggest we pay him a call.”
“Must we? I’m beat and still feeling jet-lagged.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest we go now. He might not be in. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to take Grant in any event. Grant met him on that other occasion, and Grant’s better placed to talk about books than you are. No offence intended.”
“None taken. Speaking of Grant, he’s trying to make a name for himself here in London as a book dealer. Shouldn’t he have known Paul?”
“It’s possible their paths never crossed. Grant deals in the major collectable stuff, and Paul handled,” I pointed at the stack of paperbacks, some of them showing signs of damp, “stuff that sells by the pound. Weight, not money. But maybe I should involve Grant more. I can ask him to put out feelers in an attempt to find out if there was any indication as to what Paul might have come across. The book he wanted me to see.”
“Grant’s on his honeymoon, Gemma.”
“Technically not. Pippa’s at work. They’re going to try for an actual vacationing honeymoon in the next couple of weeks.”
I turned my attention back to the notebook. On the last page, one other name leapt out at me. “Here’s another person I know. Alistair Denhaugh.”
“Who’s that?”
“The eighth Earl of Ramshaw. A cousin of my mother. You met him, along with his wife and son, at the wedding.”
“Yes, I did. And I was highly annoyed at you because you never told me your mother’s a genuine member of the aristocracy.”
“Because she’s not. Her second cousin once removed is. Or first cousin twice removed; I sometimes forget. If everyone who was distantly related to someone with a title was nobility, that would consist of almost the entire population of the British Isles. I’m not entirely sure why they were invited to the wedding; I don’t remember having much contact with them when I was growing up. Which is beside the point because I now have another name to call upon. The game, my dear Jayne, is once again—”
“Afoot. Yes, I know. There aren’t any initials next to that name. Do you suppose that means he’ll buy anything, or that Paul recorded the name for another reason?”
“No way of telling. Not yet. Before I do anything else, I fear I need to check in with DI Patel.”
“Why is that a bad thing?”
“It is my experience that the police don’t like civilian interference. I will argue that I haven’t interfered. I only wanted to express my condolences to the women with whom Paul has previously been involved. If they tell me things,” I nodded at the box, “or give me things they don’t have room for, that’s not my fault.” I pulled out my phone. “But first—”
“First?”
“She’ll take this box and its contents as evidence. I want a record of the pages of the notebook for my own use.” I began taking pictures of each page while Jayne collected the tea things.
“Should we have worn gloves checking through this stuff?” Jayne asked me as she lifted the laden tray. Between us, we’d finished off the shortbread.
“I considered it but decided not to. If I have to use the sentimental excuse for my possession of the last of my late ex-husband’s possessions, having taken care not to leave evidence of my presence might look a touch suspicious.”
“I’ll clean up in the kitchen, and then I want to give Andy a call. See how he’s getting on.”
Once I finished photographing the notebook, I called the number on the card DI Patel had given me. She answered almost immediately.
“Good afternoon,” I said cheerfully. “Gemma Doyle here.”
“I was about to pay you a visit, Ms. Doyle. I’m not entirely thrilled to find that I’m following in your footsteps.”
“You are? I mean, good to know you were able to contact Paul’s … female friends.”
“Both of whom told me you’d spoken to them already. You had lunch with Sophie Erikson and then dropped in on Mimi Reid.”
“Which is why I’m calling. To pass on information I learned from them.”
“You took a box from Reid’s flat.”
“For sentimental reasons only.”
“You expect me to believe that? Where are you now?”
“My parents’ home in Stanhope Gardens.”
“I’m sending a car around to get this box.”
Just then the doorbell rang. For a moment I thought the Metropolitan Police might have begun using Star Trek-style transporters to avoid the notorious London traffic.
From the kitchen Jayne called, “I’ll get it.” I heard the click of Horace’s nails on the hallway tiles as he hurried to beat her to the door.
“I’ll have the car pick you up too,” Patel said. “I want to know what else you’ve been up to today.”
I heard the front door open and Jayne say thank you. Horace barked. A suitcase rattled into the house, and the door was closed. My possessions had arrived.
“I’ve been up to nothing,” I said. “My marriage to Paul ended, but we held no ill will toward each other. Sophie was also married to Paul at one time, and I wanted to express my condolences to her. She told me about Paul’s latest girlfriend, Mimi Reid, so I did the same with her.”
“Sophie tells me Paul left you for her, and you were extremely bitter about that.”
“Sophie might say a lot of things. Doesn’t mean they’re true. I was glad to be rid of him. Both romantically and financially. I’ve been living in America for the past seven years. I have a new, and far better, relationship there and a successful business. Two successful businesses.”
“You own a Sherlock Holmes themed bookshop.”
“That is correct.”
“Do you fancy yourself some sort of Sherlock Holmes imitation?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Do you still have any involvement in the Trafalgar Square shop? Own any shares or anything like that?”
“None. Paul bought me out completely, for a fair price. I didn’t even know the shop was still in business until this week. I thought he’d sold it. That he hadn’t should tell you how little I cared.”
“Yet you were in that very shop yesterday at noon.”
“I explained how that came about.”
“I’d like to hear it again.”
“I’m sure you’re very busy, DI Patel. The first forty-eight hours of a case are the most critical. Or so my father, the ex-DCS, tells me. I have the box, and I’m happy to hand it over.”
“You have no choice in the matter.”
“Always glad of the opportunity to be of assistance. If I’m not here when your officer arrives, my friend Jayne will give it to them. Oh, one more thing. Naturally Jayne and I had a casual look through the contents of the box, so you might find our fingerprints on some of the items. You have my prints on file because of the previous case. Jayne’s can be found at the West London PD. She was printed once after a serious incident at her place of business. That’s Jayne with a Y, Wilson, as in … Wilson.”
“Ms. Doyle, I must insist—”
“I hear a key in the lock. That will be my mother, Anne Doyle, the prominent Inns of Court barrister arriving home. She is a silk, by the way. Give me a call if you need anything else.” I hung up.
I hadn’t been lying when I said I’d heard my mother, as she was now calling, “Horace, do get down. No, Henry isn’t here. You’ll have to put up with me in the interim.” Horace was actually my father’s dog. My mother was allergic, so we’d never had pets when I was a child. After retiring, my father not-very-casually suggested he’d love a canine companion for his “long lonely days alone at home,” and Mum gave in, provided the dog was hypoallergenic and stayed off the beds and the furniture.
I also hadn’t been lying that Mum was a barrister—a trial lawyer—and a silk. That’s a fancy word for a senior lawyer. Those so honored get to wear a nicer robe in court than their unhonored fellows.
Mum and Jayne came into the library. “I see your suitcase showed up,” Mum said.
“Do you buy baggage insurance when you fly?” I asked. “In case it gets lost or is late arriving?”
“Always. No sensible person would travel without insurance these days.”
“Can I get you a cup of tea, Anne?” Jayne asked, smothering a snicker.
Mum dropped into a chair. “How lovely to be served in my own home. It’s after four, so a glass of wine would be nice. It’s just us girls tonight. What would you like to do for dinner?”
“We can go out,” I said. “Someplace casual.”
“Sounds good,” Mum said.
“Haven’t you two forgotten someone?” Jayne said.
“Who?”
“Donald. Have you heard from Donald? He might be back soon.”
“Oh, yes. Donald.” I sent our friend a quick text: We’re at the house. Going out for dinner later. You?
“Can I get you some wine too, Gemma?” Jayne said.
“That would be great. Thanks. How did your court case go?” I asked my mother.
She beamed. “Exceptionally well. I was arguing for the defense. I scarcely had to say a word. The prime witness for the prosecution admitted that he was owed a considerable amount of money by the accused and he might not have actually seen the accused in the area where the assault took place. But if he hadn’t seen the accused with his own eyes, that didn’t mean the accused wasn’t there.”
“Gosh.” Jayne passed the drinks around. “Does that happen often?”
“That the chief witness completely contradicts his or her testimony on the stand? Sometimes they get nervous at the sworn testimony concept, but the opposing barrister usually does a better job of ensuring their witness knows what they’re talking about before wasting court time.” She laughed to herself and lifted her glass. “Cheers.”
The doorbell rang once more. “That might be the police here for the box,” I said. “Can you take it to them, Jayne. If they ask for me, I’m not here.”
“You want me to lie to the police?”
“Something along the lines of temporarily unavailable. Which, considering I don’t want to have to abandon this glass of wine, is true.”
“Good thing I’m not giving sworn testimony,” Jayne muttered as she got to her feet and gathered up the box.
My mother raised one expressive eyebrow at me. “Productive day, dear?”
“Productive enough I don’t want to have to go over it in detail down at the police station. I made a few discreet inquiries as to the recent activities of Paul Erikson. I didn’t learn anything significant, and nothing the police can’t find out for themselves if they ask the right questions.”
Jayne returned. She handed me a piece of paper, dropped onto the couch, and picked up her wine glass. “That’s a receipt for the box. He did not ask for you.”
“Do you have any contacts at UCL, Mum?”
“I keep in touch with Margaret Slaughter, who’s still a professor there. You might remember them, from next door but one.”
“Sadly, yes. They had a horrible boy. A bully through and through. He hated me, and the feeling was returned. What was his name? Geoffrey. Which of His Majesty’s prisons is he currently doing time in?”
“He’s currently serving in His Majesty’s Royal Navy. First officer on a nuclear submarine.”
“We’re all doomed,” I said.
“Margaret and her husband moved once the children left home. She teaches in the department of English literature at UCL.”
“Does she now? How terribly convenient.”
“I doubt she teaches Sherlock Holmes. Margaret would consider that to be far too low-brow.”
“I need the contact information of a student. Do you think she’d provide it for me?”
“I do not. What student and why?”
“Tamara O’Riordan who worked at the bookshop. I believe she’s a student at UCL, and most likely taking English literature, judging by the contents of her backpack.”
“How do you know what was in her backpack?” asked the prominent trial lawyer.
“Don’t ask. Her contact info will obviously be in Paul’s employment records, which are kept in his office, to which I do not have access. I could always break in, but I’d prefer not to as the place remains under police surveillance.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Gemma,” Jayne said. “She’s bound to be on social media.”
“I have checked that, yes. She has a presence on Facebook and a couple of other sites, but she hasn’t used them much lately, and she keeps her accounts set to private. Many people would be eager to tell everyone about the drama around the police arriving at their work, but nothing from Tamara. At least, nothing I can see. I’ve sent her a couple of messages asking her to get in touch, but many people don’t see direct messages from people not in their contact list. I’ll keep working on that, but I don’t have a lot of time. I could try to hack into the shop’s computer in search of her phone number. It’s entirely possible, likely even, Paul hasn’t changed any of the passwords since I set them up.”
“Was he computer literate?” Jayne asked.
“Not particularly. Not at all, come to think of it. Thus the password not changing issue.”
“In that case, he would have hired a company or individual to update and maintain the store’s accounts and web page. Technology has changed a lot over the last seven years. No matter how illiterate he might have been, no publishers or book distributers will agree to do business on paper and mailing stuff back and forth these days. They’d insist on it all being online and secure. Same for his tax accountants and bookkeepers, I’d imagine.”
“That’s true,” I said. “As we know from our own businesses. Meaning, I could still hack in, but it would take me some time and I might leave a trail, inadvertently of course, for the police techs to follow. If they were so inclined. Margaret Slaughter, Mum?”
“I’ll give her a call and ask. I suspect she’ll only agree to pass on your phone number to this woman, and she can then ring you if she wants.”
“That’ll work,” I said.
My phone pinged to tell me I had a text.
Donald: Brilliant day! On my way to house now. So much to talk about! Linda and Roger gone to Grant and Pippa.
“Donald will be joining us for dinner,” I said.
Mum stood up. “Horace needs a walk. That is never my responsibility, so take care of that, please, Gemma. I’ll call Margaret now, and after that I have about an hour’s work to put in. Then I’ll be ready for dinner. You two decide where you’d like to go. Anything is fine, but I am in the mood for Italian. Choose someplace we can walk to. I’d like to stretch my legs later.” She left the room, taking her wine glass with her.
“She is so much like you, Gemma,” Jayne said. “Or, I suppose I should say, you are so much like your mom.”
“In what way?”
“Dinner choice is entirely up to us, as long as it’s Italian and in a mile radius of this house.”
Nothing I could say in response to that, so I didn’t. “Feel like a walk?”
“No. I’m going to lie down for an hour. If I fall asleep, wake me up when it’s time to go out. Have fun.”
Horace leapt to his feet the moment he heard the magic word “walk.” He looked at me with a hopeful expression I recognized from my own dogs. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
He ran out of the library at top speed.
I followed at less than top speed.
At five thirty on a Monday, the mews of South Kensington were busy with people returning from work or school. Rather than stroll down the pavements, I took Horace to the enclosed private garden on the opposite side of the street from the house and unlocked the gate. The sounds of a crowded city fell away almost instantly. The flower beds had been turned over in preparation for winter. Most of the big old trees were still in leaf, although a few of the branches were turning and a scattering of dull yellow leaves dusted the ground. An elderly gentleman walking an equally elderly black lab was heading our way. “Horace,” he (the man, not the dog) exclaimed. The dog lifted his ears and his tail twitched in recognition.
“Good evening,” I said.
“If that is Horace with you, young lady, you must be visiting Anne and Henry. I know they have visitors from America here for their daughter’s wedding. As you are obviously English and not American, and you look very much like Anne, particularly the hair, I will assume you are one of the daughters. As you are not Pippa, whom I have met on more than one occasion, you must be Gemma.” His eyes twinkled.
“Nicely deduced,” I said.
They walked on and so did we.
We didn’t get far before my phone rang, showing an unfamiliar number. “Gemma Doyle here.”
“Hi, Gemma. It’s Tamara. You wanted to talk to me.”
“Thanks for calling me back so promptly.”
The ubiquitous nature of mobile phones these days presents some problems to the consulting detective. Not that I am a consulting detective, nor do I want to be. Mobile numbers are not recorded in a publicly available database as landlines are. People can see who’s calling and decide not to answer. Because of the amount of spam calls and the availability of voicemail, a great many people never answer a number they don’t recognize.
On the other hand, now that people carry their phones with them everywhere, they are always contactable. Anyplace and anytime.
“I took first year’s Introduction to the Romantics course from Professor Slaughter. That was ten years ago, but I still live in fear of incurring her displeasure,” Tamara said.
“I understand. Reminds me of a certain headmistress at my old school.”
“I assume you’re calling about the bookshop. Far as I know, it’s still closed. Are you thinking of taking it over when it can open again?”
“Me? Goodness, no. I rather doubt it will ever reopen.”
“That’s what I was expecting, but I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I need the job, but what can you do? It was just a job. For me, anyway.”
I watched Horace sniff at the base of a park bench. Judging by the amount of attention he was paying to it, he’d found something of enormous interest there. “I’d like to talk to you about recent goings-on at the bookshop. Do you have time this evening?”
“Absolutely and totally not. I have a seminar to give tomorrow, and I am way behind in my prep. The police have called on me a couple of times and completely threw my schedule, not to mention my attention span, off.”
“Seminar to give? Are you a graduate student?”
“I’m a PhD candidate.”
“In English literature?”
“Yup. My dissertation is on subversive feminist influences by male authors in Victorian literature.”
“There were subversive feminist influences by male authors in Victorian literature?”
“Believe it or not, yes. Sadly overlooked until recently, but not entirely sadly as it’s given me a fresh field of research. I could talk to you about that forever, but now is not the time.”
“What about tomorrow? Would you have time to meet with me tomorrow? Not to discuss subversive feminist literature, but Paul Erikson.”
She lowered her voice and a tinge of apprehension crept in. “Why are you asking? You’ve been divorced from him for a long time, right?”
“Have the police said anything to you about cause of death?”
“I know they’re regarding it as suspicious.”
“That would appear to be the case. As for why … I can’t always explain, Tamara, but I sometimes find that I can be of help to the police in these matters.”
“What are you, some sort of Sherlock Holmes?” She laughed heartily.
“If you’re ever interested in feminist influences on Sherlock Holmes,” I said, “I can recommend a few good books.”
“I considered doing my thesis specifically on him at one time, but that’s a very crowded field.”
“So it is. Did you have anything to tell the police?”
“Not really. Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I do have a lot of work to get done tonight.”
“How about tomorrow? I can meet you anywhere. Any time.”
She was silent for a few seconds. “Okay. My seminar’s at ten. If I’m not finished my prep tonight, I’ll kill myself. Just kidding. We can do breakfast. I get off the tube at Warren Street station and there’s a place I like near there. Say eight o’clock. I’m out of a job, remember, so you’re buying. I don’t suppose you know who’s going to pay me for last week?”
“See you tomorrow.” I hung up.
“Most satisfactory,” I said to Horace. If anything underhanded had been going on at Trafalgar Fine Books, the people most likely to know about it were the staff. Shop clerks spend a good part of their day just watching. Watching people browse, waiting until customers indicate they need assistance. Watching people who might have an eye to selecting something and leaving without bothering about the minor matter of payment. Watching the boss and their fellow employees for gossip-worthy tidbits.
Some employees, as I well know from years of owning a shop, don’t pay much attention to anyone or anything, unless the customer coughs in their face for attention. Faye, for example, had been filling in her time while searching for a suitable husband for her “spinster” daughter. Tamara, younger, probably smarter, would have been on the lookout for something to occupy her mind while she spent what could be a long, boring day.
Horace and I arrived back at the house as a black cab was pulling up, and Donald leapt out. He wore a Harris tweed jacket over a brown vest and was carrying his sturdy black umbrella. He had a self-satisfied glow indicating he’d had a marvelous time. I sincerely hoped Linda and Roger Thompson had similarly enjoyed their tour of Holmes’s London. Donald’s enthusiasm can get the better of the unwary at times.
“Good timing,” I said. “Did you have a nice day?”
“It never ceases to amaze me,” he said in his newfound London accent, “how, despite believing I know everything there is to know about the Great Detective and his creator, I can always learn more.”
“I hope Linda and Roger enjoyed themselves.”
“Oh, yes. They did. I believe I quite tuckered them out. I suggested dinner at the Sherlock Holmes Pub, but they wanted to get back. Jet lag, you know. It effects some people adversely.” He bounded up the stairs. “The most exciting thing has happened.”
“What might that be?” I asked as I let us into the house. I undid Horace’s leash and he wandered off in search of water and attention.
“I have an invitation to lunch tomorrow with none other than members of the Sherlock Holmes Society of London. We’re going to the Langham Hotel, an important place in Sir Arthur’s literary life. Grant arranged it. He has their acquaintance—”
“As Jane Austen might say.”
“Exactly! He has their acquaintance through his book dealing. He purchased some first editions of the Canon in excellent condition and is looking for buyers. I would dearly love to have possession of even one of them, but …” His voice trailed away.
“But,” I said, “you can be satisfied knowing they are loved and enjoyed and cared for.”
“Exactly!” he said again.
“Is Grant joining you for this lunch?”
“I don’t believe so.”
My mother descended the stairs. She’d changed out of her court suit into cream trousers and a navy blouse with a thin white belt. “All finished for the day. I rang Margaret and gave her your message, dear.”
“Thanks. Tamara called me already.”
“That was fast. She must have been keen to talk to you.”
“People can rarely resist when they’re caught up even peripherally in a police investigation.”
“Did you and Jayne decide on someplace nice to go for dinner?”
“We thought Italian, and as it’s a nice evening, we can walk.”
“What a good idea,” Mum said. “Donald, I hope you’ll join us.”
“Thank you. I’d love to. Are you scheduled to be in court tomorrow, Anne? I’d like to sit in and observe, if I may.”
“My case wrapped up sooner than expected, so no. Tell me, Donald, when you were practicing—”
I ran upstairs and tapped lightly on the door of Jayne and Andy’s room. “Wha …” said a muffled voice.
“Dinner time. You don’t have to get up, if you don’t want to.”
“Gosh no. I don’t want to be left behind. Wait for me. Be right there.”
While I waited by the front door for the others, I called Grant. “If I can tear you away from your marital bliss, I’d like your company tomorrow.”
“In terms of marital bliss, I’m free. My wife—such a nice word—has an important meeting all day tomorrow. Something about the uncertain situation that has arisen in the South China Sea and the necessity of briefing the minister. I suspect that doesn’t involve going to church, does it?”
“It does not. Grant?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t think you’re supposed to tell anyone what Pippa lets slip.” Never before, in all her life, had Pippa likely let anything slip. Marriage was making her soft. I smiled at the thought.
“Not even you?”
“Not even me. Did your parents enjoy their day?”
“I don’t know. They walked through the door like a couple of zombies and went straight to their room, saying they didn’t want dinner. My mother might have mumbled something along the lines of if she never heard the word ‘Holmes’ again, it would be too soon. What’s on tomorrow?”
“I need your book collector knowledge. This time I’m going to phone ahead to ensure our subject is available. Any time you are not?”
“At your service, madam.”
“I have someplace to be in the morning, so I’ll try to set this meeting up for noon. I’ll let you know when it’s confirmed.”