My train was packed, every seat taken, so I held on to the pole, and as we bumped and swayed and I tried to keep my footing during the turns, I recalled what I knew about Sir John Saint-Jean.
The title was inherited along with an estate and a substantial amount of family money. He hadn’t let that stand in the way of doing what he wanted in life, and he’d joined the Royal Army to become part of SAS, the elite strike unit, where he served with considerable distinction. The first time I met him, I’d taken him for a gang enforcer: short but powerfully built, with a bullet-shaped head, no hair, a tattoo of an eagle reaching up out of his shirt collar, claws stretching across his neck. I am rarely wrong in my first impressions, but on that occasion, I had been seriously off. To be fair (to me) he’d deliberately given me that impression, putting on a tough working-class accent and a “don’t you dare mess with me, mate” demeanor.
He lived in an extremely handsome house in St. John’s Wood, complete with a butler who seemed to be able to move through walls, a substantial book collection, and excellent art, mostly the old masters. He knew Pippa on a professional basis, although neither of them would tell me what that basis was.
I left the train at Marble Arch station and found Grant waiting for me by the street entrance as arranged. He slipped his phone into his pocket when he saw me making my way through the crowds toward him.
“Did your parents catch their train to Scotland?” I asked Grant after we’d exchanged greetings.
He laughed. “They did. I suspect they were glad to be out of London before Donald could arrange another outing. Mom said she put in over twenty thousand steps, according to her phone, and she does not ever want to do that again. Dad said he had no idea people care so much, and know so much, about a fictional character.”
“Donald means well,” I said, “but he sometimes doesn’t understand that not everyone shares his enthusiasm. How’s Pippa this morning?”
“Worried. Something big is happening at work, and it’s got her usual calm composure showing some cracks.”
“Must be serious,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll sort it all out.”
As we walked through the leafy streets past white row houses with black pillars and iron railings, I explained the purpose of the visit. “I found Sir John’s name in Paul’s client book. I was surprised, as I would have thought Sir John collected things out of the remit of a rundown shop like Paul’s.”
“Collectors collect many and varied things, Gemma. As you should know. We both know people who have thousands of dollars’ worth of Strand magazines or copies of Beaton’s Christmas Annual because they contain Holmes stories, but who also grab I am Sherlocked coffee mugs and World of Sherlock jigsaw puzzles off the tables in your store.”
“Keeps me in business. Have you ever done business, book business, with Paul?”
“I was warned off.”
I stopped and stared at him. “What does that mean? Warned off by who and why?”
“Pippa told me the man used to be married to you. That he cheated on you with at least one other woman, and after you left him, he was running the business you established, with little or no help from him, into the ground. She thought it best our paths didn’t cross.”
“You were okay with that?” We resumed walking.
“Plenty of book dealers in London. Which keeps me in business. I’ll confess it wasn’t a hardship. Your Paul was strictly bottom shelf.”
“He wasn’t my Paul, but I hear what you’re saying.”
“I’m working hard to establish contacts among collectors and other dealers. It can be hard sometimes, a new guy, and a foreigner to boot, breaking into a crowded market, but I’m making progress. If Paul had come across something special, something of great value, I haven’t heard about it. And I like to hope I would have.”
“Here we are,” I said. Culross Street. Very posh, very expensive, close to Hyde Park.
We approached the house at the corner of the row. Noticeably there were CCTV cameras at each end of the street, pointing away from the house we were interested in. Not a coincidence. Sir John did not like to be observed, and he knew the sort of people who could take care of that sort of thing for him.
We climbed the three steps. I didn’t bother to knock. They knew we were here. Sir John might not like to be observed, but he observed everything happening around him very carefully indeed.
The door swung silently open.
“Ms. Doyle. Mr. Thompson. Always a pleasure.” The butler, David, was tall, skeletally thin, with sunken cheeks, a high forehead, close-cropped gray hair, and a neat gray mustache. He wore a black suit, immaculate white shirt, and shoes polished to such a shine I could check my makeup in them. He dipped his head in an almost imperceptible bow.
“Nice to see you too, David,” I said. “I hope we find you well.”
“Very well, thank you, Ms. Doyle.”
We stepped into the house.
“My congratulations on your marriage, Mr. Thompson.” David’s accent still caried faint traces of the Scottish Highlands.
“Thank you,” Grant said.
“Sir John is expecting you. He’s in the library.”
“Where else?” I asked.
A face muscle might have actually twitched, but in the dim light of the hallway it was hard to tell. “Please, follow me.”
We followed David past framed portraits of Saint-Jeans past and present, including one of Sir John’s niece dressed in hospital scrubs with a stethoscope around her neck.
David opened a door at the end of the hallway and announced, “Ms. Gemma Doyle and Mr. Grant Thompson.” We entered the room and the door shut soundlessly behind us.
Our host was standing at a window, looking into the back garden. He turned to us with a smile, the curtains fell closed, and he crossed the room rapidly, hand outstretched. He wore many-times washed brown corduroy trousers, a beige cardigan missing a button and sporting several holes, and much-loved bedroom slippers.
Unlike its owner, the library might have come straight from Baskerville Hall. Heavy gold and red curtains and matching carpet, a fireplace, now empty as the day was warm for the time of year, fine art on the walls, rows of bookshelves. Chairs upholstered in red and gold damask, solid wooden desk.
“Never would have believed it if I hadn’t heard it from totally reliable sources,” Sir John said in his deep voice, the vowels like cut glass. His tone was warm and friendly, his eyes twinkled with welcome and good humor. “Phillipa Doyle got married.” He slapped Grant on the back with such force my friend stumbled.
“And Gemma, as lovely as always.”
“Are you a fan of Downton Abbey?” I asked. “Fond memories of Upstairs, Downstairs maybe?”
Sir John laughed heartily. “You mean David? We can both play roles, as required. He enjoys impressing American visitors. Although you’re not so American anymore, are you, Grant? In London for the long haul?”
“I intend to be, yes.”
“Please, sit, and tell me how I can be of service.”
The door opened, and David came in with a tea tray. Fine china cups and saucers in a delicate pattern of pink and light green with gold trim, matching teapot, plate of chocolate-covered biscuits that looked to be homemade. He laid the tray on the table and slipped soundlessly away. “I took the liberty of assuming it was too early for whiskey,” Sir John said, “but if you’d prefer—”
“Tea will be fine,” Grant said. Sir John hadn’t asked me. He knew I didn’t care for whiskey.
Our host fussed with the tea things. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Milk,” I said. “Please.”
“Both,” Grant said.
Tea served, biscuits passed around, Sir John took a seat. “I’m sure you want to get directly to the point. You didn’t specifically say why you wanted to meet with me today, Gemma, so let me guess. Your former husband, one Paul Erikson, proprietor of Trafalgar Fine Books, barely clinging to life as it was, has been murdered. And you, my dear Gemma, impatient of police routine, are out to get justice for him.” He studied my face carefully. “Because you hold a remnant of feelings for the man, in sentimental memories of better times, or simply because you, along with Grant here, were the ones who found him? I do believe you are still with the American policeman, are you not? His name escapes me.”
I doubted anything escaped Sir John Saint-Jean. “I saw Paul on Saturday evening in the lobby of the hotel hosting Grant and Pippa’s wedding. He told me he had a book he wanted to show me. That it was, and I quote, ‘the real deal.’ We arranged for me to come to the shop the following morning to see this book. Which I, along with Grant, did. Whereupon we found him dead and no book to be found.”
“Why are you calling on me? If you need information not publicly available, Pippa would be a better source.”
“I am under strict instructions not to involve Pippa or her office in this.”
“She might have said something along those lines to me as well.” Grant put his teacup down and went to examine the books. He let out an occasional gasp as he ran his finger across the spines.
“Paul himself directed me to you,” I said.
An eyebrow twitched. “How so?”
“I found your name in a notebook he kept of either current or potential clients. Next to your name and phone number, he had written the initials IF. Which I assume, although I insist I never assume or even guess, means Ian Fleming.”
“Well done, Gemma. I have lately taken an interest in Ian Fleming. Did you know he was an intelligence agent during the Second War?”
“Everyone knows that,” Grant said.
“Not everyone, but yes, it’s part of his biography. Fleming—an actor playing him, at any rate—has a part in the movie Operation Mincemeat. Excellent production. If you haven’t seen it, I suggest you do so. To continue, I want to amass a collection of Fleming. Biographies, mostly. Important historical records in which he’s mentioned. And, of course, his works of fiction.”
“James Bond.”
“To that effect, I have put my name and news of my interest out to book collectors and the like. I wouldn’t normally bother with anyone on the level of Paul Erikson, but considering Bond is as famous these days as he ever was, that the name of both the character and the author is instantly recognizable, and people are still reading the original books, I considered it possible, likely even, someone might drop off a box of books containing a first edition among all the other jumble of worthless pulp fiction at a used bookstore.” He sipped his tea.
“Such as Trafalgar Fine Books.”
“Yes.”
“Did you get a bite?”
“I didn’t go to the shop personally. I rang Paul about six months ago. He took my name and number and said he’d keep an eye out. I never heard from him again. You don’t suppose this book he wanted you to see is a Fleming?”
“I don’t know why he’d show something like that to me. I sell Conan Doyle and his contemporaries as well as current fiction featuring the Great Detective or set in his time, which we call gaslight. James Bond has never put his fictional foot into my shop.”
“I might be able to locate some items of the sort you’re looking for,” Grant said.
“Let me know if you do,” Sir John said. “I’m prepared to pay whatever’s required.”
“What do you know about Alistair Denhaugh?” I asked.
“Your mother’s cousin. The Earl of Ramshaw. We are not friends, but I know of him. Why do you ask?”
“His name was also in Paul’s book. Do you know what he collects?”
“I didn’t know he was a collector. I’ve never been to his home. On the occasions our paths crossed, it was strictly work. Alistair was important in diplomatic circles in his day, our ambassador to China for a number of years, as well as a few other posts in the Far East. He’s officially retired now.”
“Officially?”
He grinned at me. “The pertinent word. I’ve heard he still maintains his contacts and can be persuaded to use them if required.”
“What does that mean?” Grant asked.
“He knows people who know people,” I said. “And he can be called upon to introduce people to people they need to know.”
“Precisely,” Sir John said. “Case in point: his name was mentioned in the Times recently as being invited to participate in talks around that Australian freighter business.”
“Is that the South China Sea problem I heard about?” Grant asked.
“That’s where the ship was seized, yes. It’s hoped the situation will not escalate. As these initially minor things can sometimes do.”
I brought the subject back to the matter at hand. “I doubt that, or anything do to with Alistair’s contacts or past job record, has anything to do with his name being in Paul’s book. Paul definitely did not know that sort of people. There were no initials next to Alistair’s name, as with most of the others, including yours.”
“Alistair might have varied tastes. Some amateur collectors will collect anything they hope is worth showing off to their less-knowledgeable friends.”
Grant laughed. “Keeps me in business.”
I asked Sir John if he knew of anyone Paul might have owed money to, other than his bank and credit card companies, and he said he did not. “The London underworld is not my area of interest, Gemma. I have to confess I don’t have many contacts in the Met either. Sorry I haven’t been able to be of help.”
I stood up. “A negative can be as valuable as a positive.”
“Except,” he said, also standing, “if you only accumulate negatives, you’ll get nowhere. When do you return to America?”
“We’re supposed to go on Sunday. I intend to be on that plane. I’ve left our businesses and our home in the not-at-all-capable hands of my great-uncle.”
“First-rate master and commander, Arthur Doyle,” Sir John said. “Hopeless businessman.”
I turned around to find the library door was already open, David standing stiffly next to it. I wondered if he and Sir John communicated telepathically. Nothing would have surprised me.
“The police called a few moments ago, sir. I told them you were temporarily indisposed, and they request you return the call at your earliest convenience. Something to do with a gentleman by the name of Paul Erikson.”
Sir John looked at me.
“I gave them his notebook,” I said.
“Once again, you’re two steps ahead of the authorities.”