“What’s next, Gemma?” Grant asked.
We were standing on the street corner. I could almost feel the CCTV camera recording my every twitch. “Do you think I’m wasting my time with this?”
“Your time to waste.”
“Okay, do you think I’m wasting everyone else’s time with this?”
“Your friends are here to support you. Always. Do you think you’re wasting your time?”
“Let’s walk for a bit,” I said. “I need to think things through. I’m getting nowhere. The book Paul wanted me to see is preying on my mind. If not for this mysterious book, I’d assume he made enemies somewhere, and those enemies killed him, and it would be completely beyond my skills to find them. A matter for the police only. But there is the book. What is it? And why did he think I’d be interested in it?”
“A Conan Doyle? Would that be worth killing for?” Grant asked.
“Don’t forget the magazine containing the first-ever mention of Sherlock Holmes, which passed through my hands at the time you and I met. What was the potential value of that? Three quarters of a million dollars. Maybe more now.”
“Worth killing for,” Grant said. “For some people, anyway. What’s next, then?”
“Sir John said I’m two steps ahead of the police. That’s only because they have a heck of a lot more people to talk to, never mind hours, days of CCTV tape to pore through, bank records to examine, forensic results to pick through, and all the rest of that time-consuming, budget-straining stuff. I’ve spoken to as many of Paul’s former lovers as I could find. Which is almost certainly not all of them. I spoke to the shop staff I’ve met, which is again not all of them. I called on Sir John only because I recognized his name in Paul’s notebook, but I don’t have the time to visit everyone, and most of them are unlikely to invite me to tea, at any rate. More likely to hang up on me. Do you think my sister would like a souvenir of London?”
“No.”
“Buy Pippa one anyway. This shop should do. It’s conveniently empty of customers at the moment so you can have a good browse. I have to phone someone. It’s going to be a difficult conversation, and I’d prefer not to have a lot of noise in the background.”
“Who do you need to call?”
“Paul’s mother. Not in search of evidence, but a condolence call.”
I’d earlier looked Mrs. Erikson up in the directory. She was still living at the address she’d been at when Paul and I had been married, and she still had a landline with the number I remembered.
While Grant spoke to the salesclerk in his American accent and pretended to be interested in mugs with visages of the king and queen on them, I stepped into a dark, quiet corner of the tiny, overcrowded shop and made the call.
A familiar voice rattled off the number, as many older English people still do as a way of answering. The voice sounded older than I remembered, choked with fresh sorrow.
“Mrs. Erikson. Alice. It’s Gemma here. Gemma Doyle.”
“Gemma. Oh, my dear, it is so wonderful to hear from you. Are you in London?”
“I am. I heard about Paul. I am so sorry.”
“My poor lost Paul.” Her voice broke. “Gone far too soon. I’ve missed you, dear. Are you still living in America? Paul told me you’d moved there.”
“I am. I came to London for my sister’s wedding.”
“I hope you’ll have time to pop round for a visit.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“Mum?” a voice asked. “Who is it?”
“My daughter Kate is here. You remember Kate, I’m sure?” Mrs. Erikson asked me.
“I do.” Paul’s sister lived in Bristol. I’d only met her on a few occasions, and when I had, I found her outgoing and friendly.
“It’s Gemma calling,” Mrs. Erikson said. “Isn’t that nice? Hold on a minute.”
I watched Grant taking his time to choose between an official coronation mug or one of the new king relaxing at home with the new queen. As much as anyone can relax in a business suit and tie or in a dress with heels and pearls. Grant’s gaze wandered on to commemorative cups of Charles’s first wedding. I wondered how many of those were still hanging around.
“Gemma? Kate here. It’s nice of you to call.”
“I wanted to extend my condolences. How’s Alice doing?”
“Not well. But to be honest, she hasn’t seen much of Paul over the last years. Nor have I. Not often since you left, come to think of it. Mum was not at all happy when he took up with that horrid Sophie.”
“Water under the bridge. When would be a good time for me to drop by for a visit?”
“We’re about to go out. We have to shop for,” Kate’s voice dropped to a whisper, “funeral clothes. It’s not going to be a fun outing, and Mum will find it hard. The police are still holding the body, and they’re not telling Mum much of anything. My father tells me the same. We’re having a gathering here on Thursday. Sort of a wake, I guess. You’d be welcome.”
“I’ll try to make it.”
“Two o’clock or any time after. It will be nice to see you, Gemma.”
“Until then.” I put my phone away.
Grant picked up the box nearest him and took it to the sales counter. He’d settled on an official coronation set. He pulled out his wallet, not looking at all happy at completing the transaction.
Before I put my phone away, I called up the pictures I’d taken of Paul’s notebook and found the number next to Alistair Denhaugh’s name. I dialed and a mechanical voice told me the number was no longer in service.
Interesting, but until I found out why Paul had Alistair’s phone number, I wouldn’t read too much into it being wrong. Alistair might have given him a made-up number, or Paul might have written the number down incorrectly.
I next called my mother and she answered immediately. “This is a surprise. A pleasant one, I hope.”
“I want to visit your cousin Alistair Denhaugh. I don’t know where he lives.”
“Why?”
“Families don’t get together often enough these days, do they?”
“I see them as often as I like. Which is at weddings and funerals. I was surprised when Pippa told me they were coming to her wedding. Apparently she has recently been meeting with him on some business matters so she extended the invitation. They were staying at the townhouse in London, but Genevieve told me on Saturday they were going up to Yorkshire the following day. Why?”
“Do you have a number for either of them?”
“I do.”
“Mum!”
“I’m meeting Jayne at three at the Wolseley on Piccadilly for tea. Popular place with the tourists, but they do an excellent tea, so I knew it would please Jayne. You’re welcome to join us. The table is under my name.”
“Once I’ve spoken to Alistair or Genevieve and arranged to call on them, I’ll try to make it.”
We were at an impasse. Mum gave in first and rattled off a phone number. “That’s Alistair’s personal number. I was once given Genevieve’s and I managed to lose it. Most unfortunate. I’ll have my PA adjust the reservation to three people, shall I?”
“Can I bring Grant?”
“Certainly.” She hung up.
“Did I hear my name?” Grant now carried a small brown paper bag.
“We’re going to tea later. Command performance. Unless … Let me make a call.” Trains between London and various cities in Yorkshire run several times a day. If my distant cousin could see me, I’d dump my mother and send Grant in my place. She would be unlikely to mind.
Such was not the case. Alistair’s voicemail picked up and all I could do was leave a message. I’m not averse to dropping in on people unexpectedly in the hope of finding them at home and off-guard, but I didn’t want to travel all the way to Yorkshire, having paid the exorbitant fare for a last-minute ticket, to find them unable to receive me.
“We have two hours to kill,” I said to Grant. “Want to visit the Portrait Gallery?”
“I’d love to.”
I have to admit, it was nice to have an afternoon “off duty.” While Grant and I had a quick tour of the National Portrait Gallery, studying the faces of the great and the good, and the great but not at all good, of Britain past and present, I wondered how to approach Alistair Denhaugh, if ever he returned my call. We could talk on the phone, but I prefer to meet people face to face whenever I can. Should I come right out and tell him why I was interested in speaking to him? If he did know something about any illicit activities Paul might have been up to in the book-buying business, he wouldn’t tell me over the phone. He might not tell me in person either, but I could get clues from facial expressions and body language.
I could say I wanted to pay a family-friendly visit as we hadn’t spoken much at the wedding. Which would have made him instantly suspicious as we hadn’t spoken much at the wedding because neither of us wanted to. The only other time I’d met the eighth earl and his wife had been at my christening.
All of which would have to wait until, even if, he returned my call. At the appointed time Grant and I made the short walk to Piccadilly to meet Jayne and Mum for tea.
The Wolseley is located in, of all things, a former car dealership. Black marble pillars, white and black checkered marble floor, golden walls, heavy chandeliers, wait staff in white shirts, black vests, and white aprons. Ironed white tablecloths, silver place settings. Despite it being a Tuesday in October, the place was full. Most of the clientele had gone to some trouble to dress well. Men were wearing suits and ties or shirts with collars and jackets; women, dresses or tailored slacks. A noticeable number of people were jumping up and down taking pictures of their friends posing with the silver teapots, white china, and three-tiered stands of the traditional afternoon tea offering.
“I asked Pippa to join us,” Mum said as she accepted a peck on the cheek from Grant. “But she couldn’t spare the time. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering for us all. As I recall, Gemma, you’re fond of Lapsang Souchong?”
“That I am,” I said.
“I’m used to Pippa being busy,” Grant said. “Par for the course. But something extra seems to be up right now. I’m surprised she could take the time to make it to our wedding.”
“The advantage,” Mum said, “of inviting a large number of guests and paying a substantial down payment. Hard to back out the night before, claiming pressure of work.”
Grant chuckled.
Our waiter began rearranging the cutlery on the table to accommodate the individual teapots and the accompanying containers of milk and sugar. A silver strainer was perched on the rim of each cup. “Shall I pour, madam?” he asked Mum.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“Any idea what’s going on that has Pippa’s interest?” I asked Mum as I poured my tea through the strainer, the scent deep and rich and smoky.
“I can always guess. So could you if you read the papers.”
“I’m beginning to think Pippa isn’t really a secretary in the Department of Transport, or whatever it’s called.” Jayne said. “This tea is absolutely amazing. I wonder if I can order a supply for the tearoom.”
Our food arrived on two stands. It all looked marvelous, and we dug in. I happily slathered jam and clotted cream on my currant scone. The scone was almost as good as the ones Jayne makes. Almost but not quite, and I told her so.
She studied everything before picking up a slice of cake and chewed thoughtfully. “This cake’s a little bit dry. I’d add a splash of cream to the batter or maybe another egg. Otherwise, it’s good. My customers would probably like icing on the top, rather than the powdered sugar. And drop the jam filling. I don’t like jam in cake. I’d replace it with pastry cream.”
“In other words,” Grant said with a smile, “it’s a perfect Victoria sponge but not to your taste.”
“A matter of cultural and culinary differences,” she said with a laugh.
My phone buzzed, and I checked the display. None other than my cousin Alistair. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’d like to take this.”
“I hope you’re able to have an actual vacation this time,” Mum said to Jayne as I slipped away. “Not be constantly following Gemma around on her wild-goose chases.”
“I can do both,” Jayne said. “Donald and I toured Tate Britain this morning, before he went to meet his Sherlock friends, and now I’m here having tea.”
“Alistair Denhaugh, returning your call,” said the man at the other end of the phone.
“Thank you. A matter has come up I’d like to speak to you about. I can come up to Yorkshire later this afternoon and—”
“Is everyone all right? Your mother?”
“Sorry. Yes. This isn’t a family matter.”
“What is it about then?”
“Do you collect rare books?” I asked.
“You own a bookshop, Anne tells me. Not only that, but Pippa’s new husband is a dealer in such items. Do you or he have something you think I might be interested in?”
“I’d rather not talk about it on the phone.”
“Is your sister sending you?”
“Pippa? No, this has nothing to do with her.”
There was a long pause. “I’m engaged this evening and most of tomorrow, but I have some time in the late morning. An LNER train leaves King’s Cross at seven, arriving in Halifax at ten. You’ll have to change at Leeds for Halifax. A taxi will bring you to the house. Garfield Hall. Until tomorrow.”
He hung up. Notably the eighth earl had not given me an address like 123 First Road, turn left at the second intersection past the church. He assumed any taxi driver would know where to find Garfield Hall.
“Andy called me last night,” Jayne was telling my mother when I returned to the table. “He’s enjoying the trip so much. He was hesitant to take the time away from the restaurant to come here, but he’s glad he did. Although he’s having a heck of a lot of trouble getting up in time for the morning fishing outing. And then he’s wide awake when everyone else at the hotel is off to bed.” She chuckled. “He’s still suffering seriously from the time change and jet lag.”
I sat down and fluffed my napkin. Unlike Jayne, I do like a nice Victoria sponge, and I helped myself to the last slice of cake. “England, Britain, is so much more than London. How about we venture into the countryside tomorrow morning? Catch a train bright and early. Yorkshire is particularly nice at this time of year.”
My mother turned her head sideways and peered at me from over the rim of her glasses. “Gemma?”
I smiled at her.
“That would be great,” Jayne said. “Can we go to Highclere Castle? That’s where Downton Abbey was filmed, and I’d love to see it.”
“I have in mind someplace almost as impressive, and we’ll get the private tour there. Grant, care to join us?”
“I would if I could, but I have something I can’t get out of. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to arrange a meeting with a prospective buyer and she finally agreed on tomorrow.”
“Take your Donald,” Mum said. “Not exactly bodyguard material, but he’s better than—” She didn’t say Jayne.
“Why do we need a bodyguard?” Jayne asked.
We separated in front of the restaurant. Mum was heading back to work to finish up for the day; Grant going home to finalize the details for his meeting tomorrow. “Hopefully,” he said, “I can drag my wife away from work to join me for a special celebratory dinner tonight.”
“What are you celebrating?” Jayne asked.
“It’s our third wedding anniversary. Third day, that is.”
“Isn’t that sweet?” Jayne said as we watched him head for the tube station, a decided bounce in his step. “I never knew Grant had it in him to be such a romantic.”
“It’s sweet all right,” I said. “Sickeningly sweet.”
“You are such a cynic, Gemma. Never mind, What’s on the menu for the rest of the day?”
“It’s five o’clock now. I need to do some research to prepare for our trip tomorrow.”
“You mean like the sights in Yorkshire you want us to see? I can do that.”
“Not exactly. As you may have guessed, Jayne, I have an ulterior motive.” I turned to face her. “I shouldn’t have presumed you’d want to come with me.”
She put her hand lightly on my arm. “Always, Gemma, always. And I sort of guessed, I will admit, this has something to do with the death of Paul.”
“Be warned. Our train leaves at seven, so we’ll have to be up early.”
“I’ll manage. Are you getting anywhere?”
“As has been pointed out to me, all the negative evidence I’m finding is leading me only to negatives.”
“Whatever that means. As for today, I’m fine on my own for a while. I’d like to see Piccadilly Circus and maybe take a walk down Whitehall, cross the river, and walk along the riverfront. Just take everything in.”
“Let’s do that together,” I said. “The London Eye might be fun, and we can visit a couple of pubs along the way. Mum won’t mind if we miss dinner, but Donald probably will. I’ll call him and ask if he wants to meet up with us.”
“If I can fit in dinner after that tea.”