“We were followed from Garfield Hall to London,” I said. “And likely to here. I said nothing to Jayne and Donald.”
“Can you be sure?” my father asked.
“Sure? No. Do I suspect so, yes.”
“Then you were,” he said. “Should we be having this conversation over the phone?”
“Probably not, but you’re not here and I am not there, and I need your advice.”
“Tell me.”
“Genevieve Denhaugh called us a taxi, despite my saying I could do it. The cab was genuine, but the driver was not. There are cab drivers who don’t engage in chitchat, but not usually with two friendly Americans in the back who might leave a large tip if you’re friendly in return. He didn’t wait for another fare from the station even though a train was pulling in at that moment. He dropped us and left. Almost certainly someone was waiting for us when we got off the train at King’s Cross. I saw a man buying a newspaper at a kiosk, and then I spotted the same man a couple of blocks later, behind us. When I stopped to look in a shop window, he hesitated. He did eventually pass us, turn the next corner, and disappear, but a woman took his place. She was behind us before we went into the gelato shop and picked us up again when we reached the entrance to the tube station. She went down the escalator for the train going north, not the southbound as we did to get to the Piccadilly line to Kensington. The tube was crowded, and I was unable to spot anyone else, but I suspect they didn’t give up.”
“A coordinated effort then,” Dad said. “Almost impossible to detect if several people are working a tail together and in communication with each other.”
I sat on my bed, the door closed, talking to my father in a low voice. When we arrived at the house in Stanhope Gardens, Donald went straight to his computer, saying he was going to contact his new English Sherlockian friends to ask them more about the relationship of the Great Detective and his creator to Yorkshire. On the train, he’d said something to Jayne along the lines of offering himself as a consultant to Lord and Lady Ramshaw on “Sherlock’s Yorkshire.” I suggested Jayne call my mother and ask if she had dinner plans, and if not, to make some.
“The question is,” I said into the phone, “why would Genevieve and Alistair want us—want me, I should say—followed? And why to London? I was coming here. Anyone who cares knows I’m staying at your house.”
“At a guess, they wanted to be sure you went directly to Stanhope Gardens. Call your sister, Gemma.”
“Pippa? She’ll say she can’t possibly know what I’m talking about.”
“Let her say it. She needs to know about this, and she can decide if it’s significant. We’re due to check out of the hotel in the morning. Would you like us to come back tonight?”
“No. I’ll call Pippa. I’ll keep you posted. How’s the fishing?”
“Good. Our catch is on the menu again tonight. Ryan and Andy are having a great time, and I’m enjoying getting to know them both better.”
“Glad to hear it. Perhaps don’t mention this phone call to Ryan.”
“Is that wise, Gemma?”
“Probably not.”
“Do you want some advice from an old man?”
“No.”
“You’re going to get it anyway. Ryan’s a good man. He’s obviously worried about you. It was hard for him to leave you in London, knowing you’re interfering in a police matter. But he did leave because he knows you need your space. Your mother and my marriage worked, still works, because we know when to be protective of the other and when not to be. And, more importantly, when to let the other be protective. Do you understand what I’m saying, love?”
“I do, Dad. I do.”
“Up to you if you want to keep DI Patel in the loop, but again, my advice is that you should.”
“See you tomorrow, Dad.”
I made another phone call, and not to the police detective. If I told her I’d been followed from Yorkshire and through the crowded streets of London, by persons unknown and unidentified, she’d dismiss me as deluded. I went downstairs. Jayne was in the library, curled up with her book. “I told your mom I’d like to cook for us tonight, so she gave me the address of the nearest good grocery store. I’ve been waiting for you. Want to come?”
“Sorry, I have to go out. I might not be back in time for dinner. You go ahead.”
“Go where?”
“I need to talk to Pippa.”
“Want me to come? Your mom will understand if there’s no dinner. I suppose we can always ask Donald to make it.” She laughed lightly at the idea. “Maybe not.”
“I need to go alone this time. Something we can’t talk about on the phone.”
Jayne gave me The Look. The one that means she knows I’m up to something. “If you’re sure?”
“I am. Thanks. I’ll text and let you know when I’m on my way back.”
At this time of day, it’s usually faster to cross London underground than by road. I grabbed my coat, took a scarf and a hat off Mum’s shelf and stuffed them into my tote bag. I’d travel openly to Isle of Dogs. If, for some reason, I had to come back incognito, the hat and scarf wouldn’t do much, but they might do something to help keep me unrecognizable in the images gathered by the CCTV cameras.
I walked quickly to the tube station and rode the long, long escalator down. A train was coming as I reached the platform, and I jumped on. Several people got on at the same time as me. The car was full, people clinging to the poles or the back of seats, crowding the doorway. A pack of boys in school uniform, laughing and elbowing each other. Men in business suits and women in yoga gear, mats under their arms. Women in business suits and men in running gear, gripping water bottles. Red-eyed tourists with huge, wheeled suitcases. Two women laden with shopping bags. At least half the people, likely more, were on their phones.
Any one of them might have been there specifically because I was. Other than the schoolboys.
I didn’t bother to pretend disinterest. They would have known I knew they were following me by the way I behaved on the street earlier. If I was being followed. I might be suspicious for no reason. Then again, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you. Although no one, as far as I knew, was out to get me.
Had someone been watching me, watching us, all along? It was possible a tail had been following us for days. I could see no reason anyone would exert a coordinated effort, hugely expensive in terms of time and resources, to find out what I was doing about the murder of Paul Erikson. Had I attracted attention when I called on Alistair Denhaugh earlier today? Impossible to say. I’d only been alerted to the possibility by the behavior of the cabbie who’d driven us to the Halifax station. The one summoned by Genevieve. Had Alistair given his wife a secret signal, one I’d missed as I was heading for the door?
If so, I could only conclude that something of far more importance than the murder of a London bookshop owner was going on here. Had I stumbled across something I shouldn’t?
I’d phoned Pippa after my conversation with Dad and told her I needed to talk to her. In person. Now. No excuses.
“I’ve no reason to make an excuse, Gemma. I’d be delighted to see you. Grant wants to surprise me with something special for tonight. Isn’t that darling? I’m home now. I took the liberty of slipping out of the office early. I can finish up what I’m working on at home.”
“On my way,” I’d said.
I took the Circle Line from Gloucester Road station to Paddington, ran up and down long escalators and through halls full of people to the Elizabeth Line, and got off at Canary Wharf. A heavy bank of clouds had moved in; the wind had picked up, blowing cold off the river. I didn’t put on my hat and scarf. I’d wait to see if I needed them.
Pippa told the concierge I was expected, and she met me at the door to her flat. She was dressed for work in a suit that must have cost in the thousand-pound range. A deep crimson wool skirt and gold-buttoned jacket worn over a black silk shell. The jacket was cut so fashionably overlarge, it showed her thin frame to perfection. She was in stocking feet, and her smile of greeting was surprisingly warm. “Come in. Grant’s ensconced in his study so we can talk freely.”
Her laptop was open on the dining room table, a towering stack of papers next to it.
“Please, have a seat.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Can I get you anything? Tea, a glass of wine. It is after six.”
“No, thanks.” I walked into the flat but didn’t sit down. I turned and faced my sister. She wandered over to the laptop and closed the lid. “Something has you concerned. What?”
“I went to see Alistair Denhaugh today. At Garfield Hall.”
Something moved behind her intense brown eyes. “I did not know that.”
“That surprises me. I believe we were followed when we left his house.”
“You believe you were, or you were?”
“The former. It was professionally done. Might be my mind looking for trouble where there is none. But I don’t think so. I told Dad, and he told me to tell you. So I am. Telling you, that is.”
Pippa dropped into a chair and indicated for me to do the same.
I sat opposite her.
“First, who do you mean by ‘we’? Jayne, I assume.”
“Her and Donald.”
“Why did you go all the way to Halifax to see Alistair? I doubt it was for a continuation of the family reunion.”
“It was not. I found his name in Paul Erikson’s client list.”
One perfectly sculpted eyebrow half rose. “Is that so? The same book containing John Saint-Jean’s name? Sir John has been in touch with me about that.”
“Yes.”
“Sir John is a collector. He has a nice library. Nothing extraordinary, but works of some importance and value. I wasn’t surprised to hear a used bookseller had his name, and neither was he. It was more that he wanted to inform me of your interest. I didn’t know Alistair collected. No reason I should, I suppose.”
“He doesn’t. And that’s what has sparked my interest. Rather like the curious instance of the dog in the nighttime, the curious instance of a non-book collector having a listing in a bookseller’s client list. He tried to fob me off with some story about wanting to rebuild the family library, but his children and his wife were there, and they didn’t play along. Alistair can’t afford to collect at that level. He can’t afford to collect at any level other than via regular high street bookshops. When his wife left the room because he dismissed her on the pretext of needing fresh tea, he tried spinning his story, telling me his wife didn’t approve of his collecting, so he hadn’t told her about it. It’s my impression Lady Ramshaw controls the spending in that family. If he dropped a few thousand pounds on books, she’d have something to say about it. Alistair’s name was the only one in Paul’s notebook that didn’t have a mark beside it indicating what the buyer was interested in. Sir John’s, for example, said ‘IF,’ for Ian Fleming. He confirmed that.”
“I can see Sir John being interested in Fleming, yes.”
“No one collects nothing in particular.”
“Alistair might. If he doesn’t know a great deal about books and only wants to build a grand library with whatever he can get his hands on. But I do take your point. Such is unlikely. You’re also correct that the family is barely hanging on to Garfield Hall, and Genevieve runs the estate as best she can. Alistair spent much of his working years overseas in Foreign Office postings. Genevieve spent winters with him and the rest of the year at the house, trying to keep the place going. She’s done a remarkable job. Her writing income has been invaluable to them. Goodness knows what’s going to happen to Garfield Hall when Alistair and Genevieve are no longer around. Nothing good, I’m sure.”
My sister studied my face for a long time. In the corner a lamp switched itself on. Night was rapidly falling and lights coming on all over the city. Pippa stood up and crossed the room. She pulled the curtains closed.
“Alistair’s name was in Paul Erikson’s client book,” I said. “But he’s not in the market for books. His name is the last entry in that notebook. I wonder why. I suspect you’d like to know too, Pippa. Genevieve Denhaugh called someone who was not a taxi driver, but pretended to be one, to take us to the train station. When we disembarked from the train, people were waiting for us. Not one person, clumsily trying not to be seen as they trundled along behind us, but a coordinated effort involving several individuals. Three at the minimum. By the way, I don’t know if I was followed here. I didn’t spot anyone, but I’m not a professional at that sort of thing.”
“You possibly were, although it might not have been necessary. My address is not unknown. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
“You do that, Pippa.”
“I know you have some notion that you’re an amateur private detective back in America, but I’m going to advise you to tread very, very carefully here, Gemma. Things are happening that are none of your concern.”
“Whatever you and Alistair are up to is none of my concern. But the murder of Paul Erikson is. Alistair is involved in that whether you and he want him to be or not. Let me remind you, if you need reminding, who it was who got Dad cleared of that murder accusation.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” She sighed.
I waited.
“Alistair is highly placed and highly regarded in the Foreign Office. He served as our ambassador or high commissioner to several countries in the Far East and the Pacific Rim. Served with considerable distinction, I might add. He’s highly regarded, not only by us and our allies but also by some of our adversaries. If I can call them that.”
“The South China Sea situation. The seized Australian freighter. Is it something more than a freighter?”
“No, it is not. But it is Australian, and Australian citizens are among the crew. As are some British. The situation is delicate, and Alistair is heavily involved in discussions. Other countries are interfering, each with their own priorities. This sort of thing does happen on occasion, unfortunately, and they’re eventually sorted out and everyone keeps face. But in this instance, there is a considerable complication, of great significance to the United Kingdom, which I am not free to discuss with you.”
“Which is why you’re involved.”
“Which I am not free to discuss with you. Alistair’s personal contacts are important in this situation. As I said, he’s highly respected by all sides and has an impeccable reputation. I can say the same for his wife. They have, however, one flaw.”
“The son, Lawrence.”
She nodded. “Viscount Ballenhelm himself. The word layabout and wastrel come to mind.”
“That’s two words.”
“So it is. I can think of more. Happens sometimes, in the great families. The daughter, Zoe, is exactly as she appears. A hardworking mother and successful businesswoman. Lawrence is also exactly as he appears. As I said, a disappointment to his parents.”
“Okay, but what’s the specific deal right now? I read about him in the gossip papers. He goes to all the best parties. Knows all the other failsons.”
“He’s having an affair with a minor royal. That has not yet been picked up by the lesser quality papers. We’d prefer it never is.”
“What of it? This isn’t Sherlock Holmes’s time where the king of Bohemia’s marriage can be derailed because he once had a picture taken standing next to an opera singer, both of whom were fully dressed. No one’s going to be scandalized. Unless she’s underage. Is she?”
“The opposite. She’s considerably older than him. Her children are his age. She’s married.”
“Again, a tempest in a teacup. Older women will be cheering her, the minor royal, on. And all the lads will be slapping him on the back. As for the royal family themselves, they have enough troubles these days with the major royals, never mind the lesser ones. They might be grateful if the spotlight is turned away from them for a while.”
“All of which is true. But it does put Alistair in a position to be compromised.”
“I don’t see it. But then I’m not the eighth earl of anything and I don’t move in the highest levels of government. Or the royal family. You think it’s possible Alistair could be blackmailed over his son’s indiscretions? I mean, you know about it. Does he?”
“I don’t believe so. Not specifically, but he and Genevieve are concerned about the boy.”
“The boy is twenty-six.”
“He acts like he’s sixteen.”
“Point taken. I met the little charmer today. He’s anxious for his father to kick the bucket, as the Americans say, so he can take over the title and run the estate the way he wants to.”
“Yes, into the ground. But that is not my concern.”
“Now, we circle around back to Paul Erikson. You think it’s possible Paul was blackmailing Alistair over something to do with Lawrence? Why would he do that, and how would he get himself into the position to do so? Paul didn’t exactly move in the same circles as Lawrence and his minor royal.”
“Social circles are not as strict as they once were.”
“No, but moneyed ones are. Paul was so broke he was living in the back of his shop.”
“I don’t know, Gemma. I don’t even know if Paul had anything on Alistair or his son. Maybe he jotted the name down in his little book for some totally innocent reason.” Pippa stood up. “Now, I have a dinner date with my husband, to which you are not invited.”
I remained seated. “How do you want me to proceed?”
“I do not. Drop this, Gemma. Completely. Walk away and forget about whatever happened to Paul. You and your friends are going home on Sunday. Enjoy London. Take Jayne to all the places she so desperately wants to see. If you like, I can get you into the private rooms at Hampton Court Palace.”
“Oh, goody. A bribe.”
“Precisely. Think how happy that will make Jayne. Arrange a special dinner date with your delectable detective. I can recommend some nice places, well off the tourist trail. What’s happening is now far beyond you, Gemma.”
I considered arguing, just because that’s the way a younger sister treats a bossy older sister. But I decided to quit while I was still able to. Pippa was connected enough to have me arrested and held in the dungeons under the Tower until further notice. I stood up. “Hampton Court Palace it is. Can you make it Friday? Paul’s mother has invited me around tomorrow, and I would like to see her. Is that okay?”
“Perfectly okay. I’m not telling you not to care that someone you once loved has died, Gemma. I’m advising you to leave the investigating to the people who do that for a living.”
I walked to the door. “Bye, Grant,” I called.
“Can I come out now?” he called back.