I took my iPad into the library and sent Ryan a text asking if he wanted to talk. Despite him telling me to check in every day, I got the do-not-disturb notification. I chuckled to myself and decided not to override the notice. It was all of ten o’clock. If Ryan had gone to bed that early, he must have had a very exciting fishing day indeed.
I’d enjoyed my evening with Jayne enormously. Just two girlfriends on vacation. Who knew how much fun that could be? We visited all the tourist sites we had time for, most of which I’d never seen, enjoyed a fancy cocktail at a luxury hotel, and then met Donald at a seventeenth-century pub overlooking the river, near Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre. An after-dinner stop at another pub and we were home by nine-thirty. Mum was watching something on the telly, slippers on, feet up, cup of tea at hand. Jayne went to make herself a cuppa (as she was now calling it), and Donald excused himself to go to his room and read before turning in. He’d had a marvelous time meeting the members of the Sherlock society and talked about it all through dinner. He was excited about tomorrow’s expedition and wanted to find out what places in Yorkshire might have inspired some of the locations in the Canon.
I called up the front pages of the major English papers. Only because I was curious, I wondered what crisis Pippa might be involved in. The South China Sea, Grant had said. I didn’t have to search hard. The major story over the last few days concerned an Australian freighter boarded by the Chinese navy in disputed waters, which had everyone in the area tearing their hair out. I read the articles, not because I’m particularly interested in the goings on in the South China Sea but so I could impress my elder (and smarter and thinner and prettier) sister with my depth of knowledge. We were due to have dinner with her and Grant the night before catching our flight home.
The seizing of the freighter was only the latest in a series of disputes. International tensions were running high in that area and getting higher. Enormous amounts of shipping passed through those seas; China claimed much of it; no one else agreed.
Knowledge obtained, I turned my attention to the eighth Earl of Ramshaw and his family. His ancestors had been given the title and the accompanying estates by King George III back in 1767. Like many, if not most, of the grand estates, these days Garfield Hall was open to anyone who could pay to see it. Have to make a buck somehow. The maintenance alone, never mind heating and electricity bills, on these old piles must be enormous. Educated at Eton and Oxford, Alistair had served in the Foreign Office for many years before retiring five years ago. His wife, Genevieve, the current Countess of Ramshaw, was a moderately successful author of contemporary romance novels. She wrote giant tomes with lurid covers under the pseudonym of Francesca Midmarch. Not the sort of thing I stock at the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium. And definitely not the sort of thing serious collectors would be caught dead dealing in. Although, judging by her sales, it was possible the money earned by the Countess of Ramshaw (aka Francesca Midmarch) was what allowed the family to hold on to the estate.
They had two children. Lawrence, whom I’d met at Pippa’s wedding, heir to the title and the estate, and a daughter, Zoe. Lawrence was twenty-six, Zoe twenty-nine. Lawrence had attended Oxford, following in his father’s footsteps, but dropped out before finishing. These days he’d didn’t seem to do much of anything that I could find. Zoe worked for a public relations firm in Halifax.
Lawrence took up a lot of space in the gossip columns, whereas his sister kept her head down. He was, in short, a party boy. Attendee at parties and grand openings thrown by the rich and famous. I found plenty of pictures of him on Mediterranean yachts or escorting a pretty young wannabe actress or socialite to a premiere. He was a very good-looking young man. With a beautiful woman on his arm, he made a great photo for the gossip rags. Which, I suspected, might be part of the reason he was invited to those sort of parties. That lifestyle costs money. A lot of it. More than made by an unemployed Oxford dropout even if he had a best-selling romance author mother. Particularly if his parents had a manor house and an estate to maintain.
Daughter Zoe was married to a bank executive. They had two children and lived in Yorkshire. She and her husband went to the odd charity function in London or Halifax, but the sort of thing that got space only in the local papers. Hospital and hospice fundraisers. School and church fetes.
Alistair and Genevieve didn’t engage in the sort of activities I’d expect of a retired landowner. Likely because she was still writing an impressive two books a year and touring with her books, and he was only “officially” retired. I found a couple of references to him being called out of retirement by the Foreign Office when needed to consult on events in Southeast Asia.
I didn’t come across anything about his book collection. There were plenty of pictures of Garfield Hall on the internet, but only of the grounds and the public rooms. If he did have an extensive library of valuable books, it might not be on display for the great unwashed to paw through.
I consider myself to be among the great unwashed, but I am my mother’s daughter, and hopefully the earl would treat me as a friendly relative. I might even be allowed a peek at his book collection.
I leaned back in my chair and stretched my shoulders. The house was quiet, everyone gone to bed. Horace snoozed on the carpet at my feet. No sounds came from outside.
I yawned and closed my iPad. I don’t like to go into any situation unarmed, and I’d learned enough for now. I didn’t, for a minute, believe Alistair, the eighth Earl of Ramshaw, had murdered a used bookseller. But his name had been in Paul’s notebook and that was a lead. No matter how flimsy it might be.
“Platform twelve and three quarters.” Donald read the direction sign. “Is that a real thing?”
“No, it is not a real thing,” Jayne said. “It’s a Harry Potter reference.”
“Harry who?”
“The boy wizard. You’ve never heard of Harry Potter? You’re almost as hopeless as Gemma sometimes, Donald.”
“I know who Harry Potter is,” I said. “I also know all to be found at platform twelve and three quarters is a photo opportunity.”
We were at King’s Cross station. Our train was on time and so were we. Jayne managed to dissuade Donald from checking out the famous nonexistent platform by telling him we were late.
Last-minute train tickets for three had cost me a heck of a lot. I tried not to grumble as we made our way down the crowded aisle to our seats as passengers struggled with children, luggage, and directions.
Donald’s face was a picture of sheer disappointment. Today, he’d dressed in his Ulster cape and a deerstalker hat, in imitation of his hero. He carried his ever-present black umbrella. “I was expecting a private carriage, Gemma. Of the sort that whisked Holmes and Watson through the ‘smiling and beautiful countryside’ to the Copper Beeches.”
“Train travel has changed in the last century, Donald,” I said.
“Excuse me,” Jayne said as she bumped a pair of knees protruding into the aisle. The large man spreading himself across two seats and beyond was about to give her a sharp retort, but then he caught sight of her long blonde hair and pretty face and mumbled, “All okay, love.”
We found our assigned seats and squeezed in. Jayne and I were together, with Donald in the row ahead. No point in talking about our mission, not with all these people around, so I pulled out my phone and checked the news for updates on the South China Sea situation. Vietnam had now become involved, as they claimed China had no rights to the area where the Australian ship had been traveling.
Next to me, Jayne took out a book. She was reading The Isolated Séance, by Jeri Westerson, a recent book featuring the adventures of a couple of the Baker Street Irregulars.
“Haven’t you finished that yet?” I asked. “You got it to read on the plane.”
“I slept on the plane.”
“I will never understand how anyone can do that.”
“We’ve been so busy during the day, I’m asleep as soon as I lie down.” She opened the book.
I half stood to peer over the seat in front of me to see what Donald was reading. The Worlds of Sherlock Holmes, by Andrew Lycett, a recent book analyzing the times of the Great Detective and his creator. Right up Donald’s alley.
I had not brought a book, so I stared out the window as the outskirts of London retreated and the “smiling and beautiful countryside” came into view. It might not have been smiling, but it was beautiful, and I enjoyed sitting quietly, letting my mind focus on the problem at hand as we sped past old farmyards and lush green fields.
“Have you heard from Mikey?” I asked Jayne, referring to the woman she’d hired to do most of the baking for the tearoom in her absence.
“I told you yesterday,” Jayne said, “everything’s going well. Why do you keep asking?”
“No reason.”
“You think the place is going to fall down around Ashleigh and Arthur if you’re not there to keep it standing. Relax, Gemma. If the building burned down, you can be sure Maureen would have let me know.”
“Maureen has your number?” Maureen MacGregor owned the shop across the street from us at 221 Baker Street. She and I were not exactly friends. Jayne, on the other hand, got on with everyone.
“In case of emergency. Will you please let me read. I’m at an exciting part.”
I went back to staring out the window.
We changed trains at Leeds for Halifax and after a short trip disembarked at our destination. The day was sunny but cool, a strong wind blowing off the rolling green hills. I hailed a taxi waiting outside the station.
“Garfield Hall,” I said to the cabbie. “Do you know where that is?”
“Regular stop, love,” he said.
“Is it far?” Jayne asked.
“Not far. From America, are you? Welcome to Yorkshire. First time here?”
“Yes, it is,” Jayne said.
“We’re staying in London,” Donald said. “This is our first venture out of the city.”
For the rest of the drive the cabbie entertained Jayne and Donald with an exhaustive list of the delights to be found in Yorkshire, beginning with, “My sister owns the best pub in Halifax. Mention I sent you and she’ll take care of you.”
We soon left the city behind and drove up and down steep, narrow, twisting roads lined with hedges or houses with doors opening directly onto the narrow pavement. “Are people allowed to park every which way?” Jayne asked, and the cabbie laughed. “Gotta put the car somewhere, love. Not a lot of space on some of these streets.”
“It is beautiful,” Jayne said. “Look at all those sheep.”
“Do you like lamb, love?” the cabbie asked as he took a sharp corner without slowing to check if anyone was coming from the opposite direction. Fortunately, no one was.
“Oh, yes.”
“My sister’s pub does a brilliant lamb stew every night of the week.”
Donald pointed out the green hills, dotted with sheep, and the network of dark, low drystone walls crisscrossing them, while I mentally reviewed what I hoped to learn at our destination.
My research told me that Garfield Hall, like most of the grand old houses, closed for the tourist season at the end of October, but it wasn’t that date yet and so our taxi joined a scattering of cars and tour vans driving through the ornate gates. The driveway was about half a mile long, surrounded by perfectly maintained lawns and expansive gardens, nicely maintained woods rolling into the distance.
“Oh, wow!” Jayne said when the huge house came into view. “Look at that.”
“Far as I can go,” the cabbie said. “Ticket booth’s ahead to your right.”
I paid and we piled out of the cab.
“I hope you gave the driver a nice tip, Gemma,” Donald said. “He was very friendly.”
Jayne’s mouth hung open as she took in her surroundings. “Imagine living here.”
Garfield Hall wasn’t one of the largest, most historical, or most famous stately homes in Yorkshire, but it was impressive nonetheless. Work began in 1770, under the first earl, and it took more than fifty years to complete to the satisfaction of the second earl. Made of soft golden stone and brick, two stories tall in the center, wings flaring out to the east and west, the main entrance accessed by a wide, sweeping staircase. Doors and upper windows guarded by classically draped stone angels, rows of tall windows in arched recesses. More sculptures dotting the roofline.
“Imagine cleaning the place,” I said. “Or paying the heating bill. Like most of the great houses built in centuries past, the estate is now reduced to a tourist attraction. Only because Lady Ramshaw earns a respectable living as a writer of popular fiction is she not selling tickets or leading tours herself.”
“Where do we go, Gemma?” Donald asked. “We don’t have to buy a ticket, do we?”
“I hope not,” I said. “Let’s follow the path to the doors and tell them we’re expected.”
If I wanted us to look like members of the family, as though we belonged here, that impression was doomed to failure. Jayne’s eyes were as wide as her mouth, and she oohed and aahed over every perfect pot of flowers, admired the tall, beveled windows and the rows of Greek columns, pointed out the roofline, the turrets in the corners, and the patina of great age in the stone walls to Donald. Donald strode along, his Ulster flapping, his black umbrella swinging, looking not like the lord of the manor or a visiting consulting detective, as he no doubt intended, but more like a movie extra late for the day’s call. He also couldn’t help commenting on the perfection of the grass and the craftsmanship of the house.
We joined the small queue at a side entrance. Ahead of us, a woman dug through her cavernous handbag mumbling, “I know I have the tickets, George,” in a broad South Carolina accent. Next to her, George rolled his eyes and said, “I told you to let me handle it, Lou.”
“Last time I let you handle it, you lost them and we had to pay again. Sorry,” she said to me. “Please go ahead. They’re in here somewhere.”
“Gemma Doyle,” I said to the smiling young lady in a black trouser suit and white blouse guarding the door. The family crest of red and white bands was sewn on her right breast pocket. “We’re here to see Lord and Lady Ramshaw.”
“You may inform them of our arrival. I am Ms. Doyle’s personal security advisor. D. Morris, of West London, Massachusetts,” Donald intoned.
“Yeah, okay,” she said. “You’re expected. Go on in. Go around the red rope to your immediate left, past the private sign, and take the staircase. I’ll tell Genevieve you’re here, and she’ll meet you at the top of the stairs.”
“Did you hear that, George,” Lou whispered. “Those people have been granted an audience. I wonder who they are, that she has a bodyguard.”
As though the Earl of Ramshaw was the pope or something and we were supplicants.
We did as instructed. The staircase was a good thirty steps, and Donald was trying hard not to huff and puff when we reached the top. If this was the private stairs and hallway, I could only imagine what the public areas must be like. The stairs were made of black marble, the banister of thick oak, no doubt from trees felled to plant the lawns. Paintings of family members long gone hung in gilt frames on the walls, a huge chandelier was suspended above the landing, and light flooded in from the wide arched window at the top of the staircase.
Genevieve, the Countess of Ramshaw, stood at the top of the stairs next to a huge table of swirling brown and cream marble with gilded legs. Two-foot-high candlesticks of ornate silver rested on the table on either side of a marble bust of a young woman, bodice cut low, hair tightly curled around her head.
Genevieve extended both of her hands toward me, and I took them in mine. “Welcome to Garfield Hall. This is an unexpected pleasure, Gemma. And you brought friends. How nice.”
I introduced her to Donald and Jayne. Jayne politely said, in a considerable understatement, “You have a beautiful home.” Donald started to sort of bow, but then thought better of it and stammered out greetings.
“Alistair is in the drawing room. Have you been to Garfield Hall before, Gemma?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Dreadful old pile,” she said, “but my husband and I are fond of it. The upper portion of the east wing, where we are now, is where we live during the tourist season. Next month we’ll be able to stretch out a bit and use some portions of the rest of the house for Christmas entertaining and the like. It’s not always easy, living in a home open to the public, never mind the comings and goings of volunteers and staff needed to run it. But it keeps the heat on. I was hoping to get a chance to talk books with you at the wedding, but such never happened.”
“Books?” Donald said. “Are you a collector also, m’lady?”
She laughed. “Genevieve, please. I am an author. As I’m sure Gemma knows.”
His eyes lit up with interest. “I apologize if I didn’t recognize the name immediately.” I could almost see his mind whirling through the list of authors he did know, desperately searching.
“Unlikely you would,” she said. “I write under a pseudonym, and my books are probably not to your taste.” She studied his attire, the Ulster cape, the unnecessary umbrella, the obviously fake accent, and smiled again.
She opened a small side door, and we went into what was the family sitting room. Alistair was relaxing on a plush red couch, reading something on his iPad. He closed the device, put it to one side, and got to his feet with a smile of greeting. “Gemma. Welcome. How was the train journey?”
“Easy and comfortable,” I said. I introduced him to Jayne and Donald. Once again, Donald did a quick half bow and said, “An honor to make your acquaintance, m’lord.”
“Alistair, please.”
“Tea, everyone?” Genevieve asked. “The journey from London can be not only tiring but boring. Unless you Americans would prefer coffee.”
“Tea for me,” Jayne said. “Please.”
“Excellent choice,” Donald said.
“I’ll get it,” Genevieve said. She slipped out of the room, and her husband invited us to take a seat.
“I know you’re busy,” I said as we found places on the ornate but not very comfortable chairs. “I thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”
“I regret not keeping in better touch with your mother all these years. I traveled extensively for most of my career, foreign postings and the like, and when we were at home we had the house,” he waved in hands in the air, taking in close to three hundred years of responsibility and tradition, “to worry about.”
Genevieve must have had the tea things ready, as she was soon back, carrying a tray. Jayne leapt to her feet to help her, and Genevieve gave her a warm smile of thanks. Seven cups and saucers were on the tray, and I wondered who else would be joining us.
Donald, it wasn’t hard to tell, was simply in his element. He was seated in a drawing room of a stately manor house initially built in 1770. He was sipping tea out of Royal Doulton teacups and nibbling on chocolate biscuits. That the biscuits were stamped with the name of a commercial vendor, the tea was overly stewed, and his saucer had a chip out of the side, was irrelevant.
That Alistair Denhaugh, the eighth Earl of Ramshaw, wore faded trousers and his socks had holes in the heels, and that Lady Ramshaw was in jeans and a T-shirt proclaiming the glories of her favorite football (i.e., soccer) team was also irrelevant.
“You told me you have appointments today,” I said, once tea had been served and formalities finished. “I’ll get straight to the point of our visit. Do you recognize the name Paul Erikson?”
“I do,” Alistair said, “but only because that name has been in the news in the last few days. The man was found dead in his bookshop in London, and the police are treating the death as suspicious. I haven’t kept up with your mother’s side of the family as much as I should have since the death of her parents, but I do remember her telling me some years ago you and your new husband bought a bookstore specializing in crime novels, if memory serves. I was sorry to miss your wedding. I believe we were in Malaysia at that time, is that right, darling?”
“Around that time, yes.”
The rest of our little tea party came into the room. The couple’s son, Lawrence, Viscount Ballenhelm, along with a woman I recognized from last night’s online research as Zoe Denhaugh. Lady Zoe, as she would be more formally known. Alistair introduced us all, omitting his children’s titles.
“Hey.” Lawrence dropped into a chair and lounged back, stretching his legs out. A lock of blond hair fell over his forehead, and he was fashionably unshaven. He was dressed in beige trousers and a brown linen shirt, seriously wrinkled. I wasn’t entirely sure if he was totally bored at meeting us or if that was just a pretense he put on. Likely he didn’t even know. I had to admit, he was extremely handsome with high sharp cheekbones, full lips, and startlingly blue eyes under thick black lashes.
Zoe, on the other hand, gave us a broad smile and walked toward me, hand outstretched. I leapt to my feet. She was dressed as though heading to a business meeting, in a slim-fitting navy trouser suit, hems just short of her ankles, white shirt with top button undone, discreet gold jewelry, and black pumps with two-inch heels. Strawberry blonde hair was tied loosely at the back of her head. “A long-lost distant relative. Always so exciting.”
We shook hands. Her manicure was perfect, the nails a soft pink. I said, “Not exactly. I haven’t been lost.”
“Lost to us, I fear. My parents are dreadful at keeping up family ties. I hope you don’t mind me intruding on your little get-together. I dropped in to talk to Mum about the publicity campaign for next year’s book. You have a bookshop in America, she tells me. Perhaps we could arrange an event there.”
“You’d be very welcome,” I said. “I have to warn you that contemporary romance is not in our mandate, but we’d be delighted to make an exception.”
“Great. How about it, Mum? Fancy a trip to America?”
“That might work,” Genevieve said. Her accent could cut glass, as could her daughter’s.
Lawrence pushed himself out of his chair, took his cup of tea to the window, and looked out. “They get more slovenly every day,” he drawled. “That woman missed the rubbish bin by yards and is pretending not to notice. Mind if I open the window and give her what’s for, Mum?”
“Yes, I do mind,” Genevieve said in a voice indicating they’d had this conversation many, many times before.
“Don’t know why you put up with it. We can manage fine without—”
“Gemma and her friends have come a long way to speak to me,” Alistair interrupted. “Gemma, please, you have questions for me about this man who died? I’ll help if I’m able, but I don’t know why you think I can.”
Lawrence turned from the window. Zoe sat up straighter in her chair.
“Paul Erikson,” I said. “And yes, he was my former husband. He owned a bookshop near Trafalgar Square. At one time the shop dealt exclusively in new releases, but over the past few years, it branched out into used books. Popular fiction, generally. Most used books sell for a pound or two at that sort of store, but occasionally something of interest might pass through their hands.”
“You’ve found some of Mum’s old books and think we’re interested in having them?” Zoe said. “Heavens, no. We scarcely have enough room in the cellar for all the publishers’ copies we can’t get rid of.”
“That’s not it,” I said. “Because of my relationship with the deceased, and other factors, I’m assisting the police in this matter.” Jayne’s head swiveled toward me as I stretched the truth a tiny bit. I wouldn’t call it a lie. I was assisting the police. That they hadn’t asked for my assistance was irrelevant. “Have they been in touch with you?”
“No, but no reason they should,” Alistair said. “I didn’t know the man.”
“Your name and a phone number were in his client list.”
“What?” Genevieve said.
“I tried calling the number, but it’s out of service.”
“We had the landline to our private number disconnected recently,” Genevieve said. “No need for it any longer. No need to keep paying for it.”
“The cops came around Monday morning,” Lawrence said. “You weren’t here. I told them that and they left.”
“You didn’t tell me?” Alistair said.
“Guess I forgot. My bad.” Lawrence didn’t look terribly concerned.
“My name is not unknown in certain circles.” Alistair put his teacup on the table. “Likely a casual acquaintance of mine gave that information to your friend and didn’t know we can no longer be reached at that number. I’m sorry you’ve wasted your trip.”
“If your name was given to Paul, it would be because you have potential as a client. Are you searching for anything in particular? In the way of a book, I mean?”
Zoe laughed. “This family is hardly in the position to be collecting rare books. If we had that sort of money, we’d be better to fix the plumbing.”
I kept my focus on Alistair. He shifted slightly and gave his daughter a stiff smile. “Good investments never come amiss, Zoe. Yes, I remember now. I once mentioned something to a Foreign Office acquaintance. Forget his name. Must be getting old.” He laughed. No one joined in. “I’d heard books make excellent investments. Have to find something to invest in these days, what with the stock market doing what it’s doing.”
“You have stock?” Zoe said.
“No,” Genevieve said.
“We’re not entirely destitute,” the Earl of Ramshaw said.
“Could have fooled me,” his son and heir said.
Jayne and Donald simply looked confused.
“Which is why,” Lawrence said, “I keep telling you we need to get out of the tourist business and put this dump to its real value, which is—”
“Not again,” Zoe said. “As I keep telling you, every stately home in England wants to be the new Downton Abbey. It’s not going to happen. We’re not that special.”
“As I keep telling you,” Lawrence snapped, “we know who’s going to be in charge one day and then we’ll see.”
“If you and your crazy schemes do anything to damage the reputation of this family and disgrace our forebearers, I’ll …” Zoe sputtered to a halt before she could tell us what she’d do.
“Lawrence, I’d rather you don’t discuss your father’s eventual death in front of guests,” Genevieve said.
“And I’d rather you don’t sound as though you’re looking forward to that eventuality,” Alistair said.
“Nothing wrong with planning, haven’t you told me that many times?” Lawrence asked.
“I am only sixty-five,” Alistair said. “Plenty of life in the old dog yet.”
Jayne shifted uncomfortably in her chair. This conversation was getting entirely too personal for her. As for me, I didn’t mind in the least. The more personal it got, the more likely something interesting would slip out.
“I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to London today. Don’t know when I’ll be back.” Lawrence put down his teacup and headed for the door. Before he could make a dramatic exit, he finally remembered some of his manners and turned to us. “Nice meeting you. Thanks for coming. Have a look around the house before you leave. We’ll have to ask you to pay, though. Can’t be offering freebies to distant relatives who crawl out of the woodwork. Seventeen pounds. Each.”
Not so mannerly after all.
The door slammed shut behind him and an awkward silence ensued.
“More tea, Jayne?” Genevieve said brightly.
“Thank you. Yes, please. It is excellent.” It wasn’t excellent, more like mediocre as though bought in a box of two hundred bags from the local Tesco, but Genevieve appreciated Jayne’s attempt to be polite.
“It’s awful,” Zoe said. “My great-grandmother had her tea delivered directly from Twinings. Isn’t that right, Mum? They prepared a mixture of leaves to her exact specifications.”
“The good old days,” Genevieve said, “for those who had money, anyway.”
“Which could be us again, if only Lawrence manages to grow up before he’s in charge.”
“Enough!” Alistair said. “I’m tired of hearing about it.”
Zoe crossed the room and gave her father a light, affectionate kiss on the top of his head. “Sorry, Dad. He deliberately tries to rile me up, and I fall headfirst into it every time. I have to be off. Can I offer you a ride to the train station, Gemma?”
“We still have some time before we have to leave,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
“And you. I will be in touch about Mum’s book. I hope we’ll get a chance to meet again, Jayne. Donald.” She left.
“That,” Genevieve said, “was incredibly embarrassing. Those two are not toddlers, but they haven’t learned not to air the family laundry in front of anyone who happens to wander into hearing range. I apologize.”
“No need,” I said. “I’m aware of the stresses on aristocratic families these days and that these estates can often be more a curse than a blessing.”
“So true,” Alistair said. “I feel the responsibility to the past. To my family. To our proud history. Much to do and little time to do it. Garfield Hall is one of the very few old houses that never suffered a fire; almost all of the materials and fixings and the like are original. Genevieve, darling, the tea has gone cold, and I would like another cup, as would Jayne. Do you mind?”
She hesitated and then stood with a smile. “Not at all.”
She left the room without closing the door behind her.
Alistair shifted in his chair and stared in the direction of the windows.
Donald said, “The weight of history is—” I lifted one hand, and he stopped.
“Paul Erikson’s client list,” I said quietly.
“Yes. I’ll confess, now my wife has left the room, that I’m not surprised to be on it. As you might have gathered, my family is reasonably comfortable from my job in the Foreign Office and my pension, as well as my wife’s writing. We enjoy a comfortable, upper middle-class income. The estate is nothing but a burden, but one I’m willing to bear for the sake of my family legacy. I should not be investing our money in collectables such as books. But,” his face twisted, “I have been sorely tempted. My grandfather’s great library was sold many years ago by my own father. Something had to be done about the black mold in the walls and the holes in the roof and to install modern tourist facilities.” He rubbed his forehead and looked very tired all of a sudden. “I’d prefer my wife not know I’ve been dipping my toes into the waters, so to speak. Perhaps I have some foolish dream of rebuilding the library as it once was.”
Donald couldn’t hold himself back any longer. “That would be an excellent idea. A great library would make your home stand out. Collectors would flock to see it. As you might know, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has strong connections to Yorkshire. He did a short medical placement in Sheffield, which I believe is not too far from here, and he married his first wife, Louisa Hawkins, in a church in Masongill. Did you know, as a matter of extreme interest, that the vicar was named Sherlock? In addition—”
Alistair blinked. I said, “Perhaps you can send an email with your suggestions, Donald.”
“Excellent idea, Gemma. Emphasizing the Conan Doyle angle, as well as a library specializing in his works, would be a wonderful promotional opportunity. I myself have many contacts and—”
“I don’t know much about Conan Doyle,” Alistair said.
“We’ll leave those details with you for now, Donald,” I said. “We don’t want to take up too much of Alistair’s time.” Donald whipped a small notebook and pen out of his coat pocket. He wet his index finger with the tip of his tongue, touched it to the nib of the pen, and began making notes.
“Before Genevieve gets back,” I said, “did Paul contact you about a particular book you might be interested in, Alistair?” The woman was no fool. I suspected she was standing just outside the door, listening.
“No, he did not. As you mentioned, he didn’t have a current number for me.”
“Did you hear of a book he recently came into possession of, which he was trying to sell?”
“I did not. I still do some consulting work for the Foreign Office, and I’ve been caught up in … business, the last while. My foolish idea of rebuilding the library was, truth be told, a whim, Gemma. One I will be unlikely to pursue any further.” Smiling, he nodded toward Donald. “Despite your friend’s enthusiasm.”
We heard the clatter of china and silver in the hallway, and Alistair said brightly, “What other sights do you plan to see while you’re here? If you haven’t been to York, it is well worth the visit.”
Genevieve came in with the tea tray. She pointedly avoided catching my eye as she bustled about with the teapot. “All out of biscuits. So sorry. I’ll have to make a run to the shops later. What time is your conference call, love?”
That was quite likely the broadest hint I’d ever heard that he should make his escape. Alistair checked his watch. “It is getting on. I still have some work to do to prepare.” He stood up. “Thank you for coming, Gemma. I hope it won’t be so long until next time. Please, don’t hurry. Visit with Genevieve a while. You can tell her all about selling books in America. Nice meeting you, Jayne, Donald. I hope you don’t have to hurry off. Regardless of what my son says, please tell Melissa at the door you’re to be my guests if you want to tour the house and gardens.”
He left the room. The door shut quietly behind him.
Genevieve smiled brightly at us. “This house is, of course, not my own, as I simply married into the family. But I love it as though my own history were wrapped up in its walls. Like my husband, I will do a great deal to protect it.”
“I’m sure you will,” I said.