“So that’s that,” my father said. “She gets off scot-free.”
“It happens,” Ryan said. “It’s happened to me. There have been times when I’ve been absolutely positive I know who’s guilty, but I can’t build a case. Must have happened to you in your career, Henry.”
“More than I want to admit. Not to mention the times I’ve built an airtight case, and some fool of a sloppy detective, or a brilliant barrister, punches holes all through it, and the guilty party walks.”
“More tea, Ryan?” my mother said.
“Thanks.” He held up his cup. “I might get to like tea after all, if it’s made like this.”
“It is not,” Jayne said. “Not in the sort of coffee shops you find back home. If, however, you come for tea at Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room, I’ll make sure you get our very best brew.”
“I might just do that sometime.”
My mother poured. The tea was a first flush Darjeeling, light and floral. “By brilliant barrister, I should point out that Henry may be referring to me.”
“There have been times, Anne,” my father said.
“I can’t believe I slept through it all.” Andy slathered jam on his scone. A huge dollop of clotted cream followed. “And now, just when I’m raring to go, we’re off home. Where I’ll then be jet-lagged for another week.”
Jayne gave him a radiant smile. “You had a nice fishing trip, didn’t you? And a great day today?”
“I did,” he admitted.
It was Saturday afternoon, and we’d gathered for afternoon tea at the Wolseley. Yesterday, when we’d finally left the bookshop, we found Donald and Andy pacing up and down in the library at Stanhope Gardens, both of them furious at us for bringing the case to a conclusion without them. Andy had taken one look at Ryan’s black eye and the bruise on my cheek, stared at Jayne in horror and dragged her away for a full explanation. I hated to think what he’d have had to say to me if Jayne had been injured in the fight. But she hadn’t been, and by now he was used to her getting involved in my schemes. Meanwhile I assured Donald that because I knew his baritsu and brolly-wielding skills wouldn’t be required on this occasion, I thought it better to let him rest.
Friday night we went our separate ways. A chef friend of Andy’s recommended a special restaurant in London and he wanted to treat Jayne. Ryan and I went to a less fancy restaurant, and Dad and Mum treated Donald to dinner at the Sherlock Holmes Pub.
Saturday, we agreed to meet for tea in the afternoon before heading out to get in some solid tourist time. Jayne and Andy went to Hampton Court Palace for the private tour Pippa managed to reschedule. Donald wanted to go back to Baker Street and take photographs of all the Holmes-related pictures on the walls of the tube station there. He was highly disappointed when no one jumped at the chance to accompany him. My dad stepped up and said he’d love to see it, whereupon Mum suddenly remembered some last-minute work she had to attend to. At Ryan’s suggestion, he and I toured Roman London and he had a great day seeing the Mithraeum, the ancient stone walls, and the relics at the Museum of London. I had a great day watching him being so happy.
Saturday evening, the night before our return home, Grant and Pippa had us to dinner. Over pre-dinner drinks and canapés, my sister told us they’d been able to book a last-minute holiday in Majorca for their honeymoon and were leaving the next morning.
“That was short notice,” Mum said.
“Life with Pippa,” Grant said. “Good thing I’m flexible. More cheese, Andy?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“A minor crisis at work was satisfactorily resolved,” Pippa said. “I won’t be needed for a while.”
“Until the next minor crisis,” Dad said. “Speaking of which, I read in the paper this morning that the King and Queen are going to Vietnam at the end of the month. No reigning British monarch has previously been to that country.”
“Is that so?” Pippa sipped her wine.
“Would have been awkward if that announcement had been made during the Australian freighter crisis. Would have looked as though their majesties were favoring one side over another.”
“Shocking breach of protocol.” Pippa stood up. “Grant, darling, can you refill Donald’s glass and top up the cheese tray? I’ve remembered something I want to talk to Gemma about.”
Grant headed for the kitchen. I wiggled my eyebrows at Ryan and then followed my sister down the hallway to the study.
She closed the door behind us.
“Not going to Vietnam?” I asked.
“On my honeymoon? Why would I do that? Besides, I was there only a month ago. Lovely country. Nice people. I have an unofficial update on the investigation into the death of your Paul.”
“He wasn’t my Paul. Never mind. I’m getting tired of saying that. What’s happened?”
“We’ve agreed that the letter from Alistair can be admitted in court in camera, if the matter ever comes to trial, that is. Meaning the judge and relevant barristers will see it, but the jury and public will not. If that isn’t acceptable to the court, Alistair has said he will not put up any objections to it being released in open testimony.”
“So he should,” I said. “A man died because of that letter. Paul wasn’t an innocent, but he was desperate and he made a foolish mistake. Is that relevant, though? The police don’t have a case against Faye, and our testimony about what she said isn’t enough.”
“A simple case of murder is normally not part of my remit, but in this instance, I had a word with the commissioner and asked to be kept informed.”
“You had a word with the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police?”
“Didn’t I just say that? Do attempt to keep up, Gemma. DI Patel is building herself a reputation as a determined, dogged detective. Once she got out from under the thumb, more like the boot, of the odious DI Morrison. When Paul’s shop and offices were originally fingerprinted, they got hundreds of prints, as could be expected in such a place. Countless will never be identified. Obviously, the employees’ prints were everywhere, and no one regarded that as significant initially. But then—”
“But then Patel said let’s examine some of this again, and they found Faye’s where they should not have been.”
“On the zipper of Paul’s backpack and on his shaving case. No employee would have a legitimate reason to go through their employer’s personal items. Faye Forgate was brought in for questioning a short while ago.”
“She’ll find a reason for her prints being there. Maybe Paul asked her to fetch something for him.”
“She can try to bluff her way through. As I’m sure you know, Gemma, once the police find a hole in a witness statement and they start to burrow further and deeper, more often than not the entire edifice of lies crumbles. Tamara O’Riordan was interviewed again early this afternoon. She told the detectives Paul instructed his staff to keep out of his things and to give him some personal privacy while, in his words, he was temporarily short of accommodation. If the case does go to court, and I’m fully expecting it will, you’ll have to return to testify.”
“Always a pleasure. I suspect Faye will fold as soon as she realizes what going to court will mean for her son. At the least, she won’t want the letter to be released in open court, and I hope it isn’t. I don’t know Greg Forgate, never met him and have no desire to, but he doesn’t deserve to have his name dragged through the tabloids because of a juvenile indiscretion, or because of something his mother did recently he didn’t know anything about.”
“I suspect you’re right.”
“I hope you have a wonderful honeymoon.”
“I intend to, Gemma. I fully intend to.”
When dinner was over and we were making our farewells, Ryan whispered to me that he’d like to go for a walk before returning to the house. A cab was called for Mum and Dad, Jayne and Andy, and Donald. After we’d seen the others off, Ryan and I walked through the quiet streets, holding hands, not saying much.
“Do you miss it?” he said to me, as we stood on the pedestrian bridge, looking over South Dock. A cold wind was blowing down the river, bringing the promise of winter soon to come. Lights from the city filled the sky and reflected off the black river. We were well wrapped in cardigans, gloves, and scarves. A woman passed us, a Labrador puppy dragging her across the bridge, and two young men ran past, shouting into the night.
“London? Dreadfully. I’ve lived in this city most of my life, and I can still turn a corner and suddenly realize I’m standing in front of a fourteenth-century church I’ve never seen before. In West London, I feel as though I know every inch of the town. But a city is just a place, and once you’ve seen one fourteenth-century church, you’ve seen them all.” I lifted my hand and stroked his cheek. The eye looked considerably worse today. “I love this city, but West London is where I belong. Where I found the life I want.”
He put his hand on top of mine and together we watched the traffic moving on the river below.
“Gemma,” Ryan said at last, “do you think—”
My phone trilled to announce an incoming phone call. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I’ll ignore it.”
“Better not. Who knows what might have befallen Donald between here and your parents’ place.”
I pulled it out and checked the display. “Ashleigh. I do have to answer. Hi, Ashleigh, what’s up?”
“I thought I’d better tell you myself, Gemma, rather than you hear it through social media or get an angry text from some of the businesses on the street.”
I groaned. “What’s happened now?”
“The power’s out at this end of town. Most of Baker Street is affected, and the business owners are not happy.”
“Why is that my problem? The power will be back on soon, won’t it? If it’s one part of town, not further spread. We have nothing that will spoil without refrigeration. You might want to pop into the tearoom and see if they’re managing, although I’m sure Mikey’s run into that sort of situation before. Now, remember I’ll be home—”
“Uh, Gemma?”
“Yes?”
“Thing is, it’s sorta our fault. And thus people are mad. At us.”
“Our fault? How is that even possible?”
“Arthur and Bunny—”
“I already don’t like the sound of that, “I glanced at Ryan. He gave me a quizzical look in return.
“Yeah, well. You see, Bunny happened to find out that some of her backup band, you know from when she was a singer.” Bunny Leigh was Ashleigh’s long-lost mother. She’d been a major pop star in her youth. Which was many years ago, and she wasn’t letting go of the fame and adoration easily. “The band, what remains of them, were in the area. Having done a gig in Boston and going on to Provincetown for some musical festival. So she thought it would be a great idea if they could hook up with her for one more show. An impromptu concert, like.” Ashleigh’s voice trailed off.
“And?” I prompted.
“And, well, they couldn’t find a suitable venue on the spur of the moment, so she asked Arthur if they could use the store.”
“My store.”
“Yours and Arthur’s store.”
“Yes, that one. And?”
“Arthur thought it was a great idea, and he took it to the street’s business association. They said yes, figuring it would get people into town in the off-season, so part of the blame is on them, right? It’s a slow time of year, and the town agreed to close off the block for a couple of hours so Bunny and her band could perform on the sidewalk in front of the store. I mean, there’s not enough room inside the store for a concert and an audience, right? Anyway, a van full of all this equipment pulled up into the alley this morning, and they unloaded it all. Brought it into the store and out to the sidewalk. Took ages to get it all set up.”
I could see where this was going. “Did they think to check if the wiring in the nineteenth-century building which now houses the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium could provide that much power without tripping a lot of fuses?”
“I guess not. Anyway, they lugged all their stuff out onto the sidewalk. Like speakers, amplifiers, microphones, the whole works. A real professional-looking show. Bunny was really excited, Gemma. She put on one of her sparkly outfits and had her hair done and everything. A big crowd gathered too. I guess people don’t have much to do in the middle of the afternoon in October.”
“It would appear not,” I said. Ryan had returned to watching the river.
“One of them flicked a switch to start the show and … well, the power went out over half of West London. Poof. Just like that.”
“I don’t imagine Bunny took that very well.”
“It turned out okay. She made a joke about it and sang a couple of songs without the mic and the backup music. But then Maureen came stomping over and complained, and Arthur got up to tell her what she could do with her complaints, and Maureen said she’d had enough of us; she’s going to see that the store is shut down.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“No, but Arthur told her to go ahead and try it. I tell you, Gemma, for a moment there, I thought they were going to get into a stand-up, knock-down fight. And I don’t know who’d win. One of the band members tried to get involved, and he yelled at Maureen to leave, and I quote, ‘the old guy’ alone, and Arthur said he didn’t need some wet-behind-the-ears punk defending him. Maureen left, hurling threats behind her. She started phoning the other businesses on the street and managed to get them riled up too. Norm at the restaurant was mad because he was in the middle of dinner prep and his food was ruined. Or so he said. And Jen at the decor shop is threatening to sue you … us … because she twisted her ankle coming down the stairs when the lights so abruptly went out. I think you have a case there, Gemma. There are windows in that building. It’s not that dark in the daytime, even without lights.”
“Play nice until I get home, Ashleigh. If anyone complains, be very polite and say you have no idea what happened. Do not, under any circumstances, admit fault. Perhaps it’s best if you send Uncle Arthur home for the rest of the day. Where is he now?”
“In the nook with Bunny and her pals, having a good laugh over what happened. He’s telling the band guys about all the bar fights he was in in his early days in the navy. They seem to like that.” As if to emphasize her point, a roar of male laughter came down the phone line. “I managed to persuade him not to go to Norm’s restaurant to tell him he once had a steak there that was so overcooked, he should turn his ovens off more often.”
“Thank heavens for small mercies. See you tomorrow.” I put my phone away.
“Do I want to know?” Ryan asked.
“You do not.” He slipped his arm around my shoulders and we stood together, looking out over the dark, rapidly moving river. The tide was out, and the mudbanks were exposed. In Sherlock Holmes’s time, the poorest of the poor, those called mudlarks, would have been clambering down the banks, searching for flotsam and jetsam that might be of some worth. In Gemma Doyle’s time, a party boat slipped under the bridge, all music and lights and drunken cheers. The tall buildings surrounding us were ablaze with lights. Pippa’s building shone like a beacon, reaching up into the night sky.
“I was looking forward to relaxing back into work,” I said. “Maybe going in late a few mornings, taking an afternoon off. Not gonna happen.”
Ryan just laughed.