I stared out of the window of the taxi. A Saturday night in London. Despite the rain, the weather was warm and people were out in masses. Bars and restaurants were packed, drinkers clustered outside pubs, crowds streaming out of theaters. The cab edged forward. There were times I missed my city. Very much. I was more than happy with my life in West London. In love with Ryan Ashburton. Best friends with Jayne Wilson. Part owner of two successful businesses as well as two wonderful dogs. Not to mention a grumpy shop cat named Moriarty. But London … London was London. No longer the most important and exciting city in the world, but it still had a strong pull on my heart.
Ryan and I, as well as Jayne and Andy and Donald, were staying at my parents’ house in South Kensington. I asked the driver to let me off on Cromwell Road and walked the remaining distance to Stanhope Gardens. The streets were wet, but the rain had stopped as I crossed town, leaving the air as fresh as it ever gets in the crowded metropolis. Away from the bright lights of the theaters and shops, the crowds outside pubs and restaurants, the residential streets were quiet, wrapped in darkness. I glanced up regularly, looking for the ubiquitous CCTV cameras. London, the most surveilled city on earth, was full of them. Most of the cameras were mounted on poles, highly visible. Many, I knew, were not. I refrained from waving as I passed beneath them.
My parents’ house is in the center of a typical Kensington housing row. Three stairs up to the front door, painted a solid black. White pillars guarding the entrance, iron railings, set not far back from the pavement. Three stories tall, long and thin, with a terrace and a small garden in the back barely large enough for the shed where my father does his woodworking. A narrow twisting staircase leads down to what would once have been the servants’ and tradespeople’s entrance. Despite it being late October, flowers and ivy spilled from planters fastened to the railings by the pavement and the upper windows.
I’d been given a key to the house, so I let myself in. All the lights were off, save one over the front door and the chandelier, turned low, in the entrance hall. Off-white paint on the walls, white tiles on the floor. A chaise longue in soft cream and a glass-topped table on which sat a gold reproduction-antique clock. A sweeping staircase with a wide oak banister led upstairs, and a portrait of my mother, young and beautiful, hung on the wall. It had been painted in honor of her being called to the bar.
Horace, my father’s schnauzer—named after Horace Walpole, one of Dad’s favorite authors—was delighted to see me. I gave him a hearty scratch behind the ears, and he wagged his stubby tail in pleasure. He was solid black, with dense wiry fur, a beard, and small erect ears. He stood about two feet tall, weighed sixty-five or seventy pounds, and seemed to love nothing more than having people to stay.
I told Horace my parents and the rest of their guests wouldn’t be too much longer and staggered up to bed. Ryan and I had been given my childhood bedroom, the one at the front of the house, overlooking the street. The moment I moved out, the room was redecorated so that not a single memory of that childhood remained. I didn’t mind in the least. I’d had a pleasant, often happy youth, but I had little sentimentality about it.
I crawled into bed and there I lay, wide awake, thinking about Paul Erikson and our brief disastrous marriage. We must have had some good times together, although I had trouble remembering them now. He’d never been handsome, but he had that lopsided grin and sparkle in the eyes that appealed to me. And the charm, mustn’t forget the charm. While it lasted, at any rate. Owning a bookshop had been his idea, originally. I hadn’t yet decided what I wanted to do with my life, although I did know I didn’t want to continue in the government job my sister found for me one summer. But when he suggested buying the shop that had just come on the market, I realized that would be perfect for me. As Paul had said, I then had the idea of eventually owning a bookstore empire. That idea died along with the lopsided grin and the sparkle, as well as the charm.
Paul wanted me to look at a book. “The real deal,” he called it. What did that mean? A rare book most likely. I couldn’t think of any other reason he’d want me to see it. I have a small amount of knowledge about collectable books, but I’m no authority. Uncle Arthur is vastly more knowledgeable than I am, but Paul hadn’t asked me to bring Arthur. I hoped this book wasn’t a ploy to get me alone with him so he could pursue his renewed quest for my heart. As if.
Perhaps he wanted to sell the book to me. That might be it. He knew I owned a Sherlock Holmes themed store. If he’d done his due diligence, he would also know we were strictly retail. Then again, if he was capable of due diligence, he wouldn’t be in the financial mess he clearly was in.
I considered not going, but he’d hunt me down if I didn’t show up tomorrow. He knew where I was staying, and I didn’t want him rapping on the front door. My parents would not, to put it mildly, be overjoyed at a reunion. They’d not come straight out and warned me against marrying Paul, and neither had they said, “I told you so” when the marriage abruptly ended. But I’d always known they thought it.
I briefly debated whether to bring Ryan with me tomorrow, but eventually I decided not to. Paul had confessed he still held feelings for me, and he’d be instantly antagonistic toward Ryan. He’d likely come over all friendly while at the same time making snide comments about American men, full of inuendo and insults, which Ryan wouldn’t understand. But Ryan would sense the hostility, and although he wouldn’t return it, he’d be on guard and might even verge on being overly protective of me. Foolish man. I didn’t care to find myself standing between two men butting antlers over me as though I couldn’t make up my mind between them without them engaging in some sort of ridiculous courtship display.
As for my personal safety, I had no concerns on that account. I was meeting Paul at his place of business in the middle of London in the middle of the day. If I felt uncomfortable, I’d walk out. Maybe spend a bit of time at the National Portrait Gallery, which isn’t far from the bookshop. Which reminded me that on our last visit, my mother planned to take Jayne to afternoon tea at the gallery. Like so many of our plans, that one had been scuppered as we raced around London searching for a killer. Perhaps I could dare to incur Donald’s wrath by suggesting Jayne, my mother, and I have tea tomorrow afternoon after I’d been to the store. Just us girls.
No, Andy would want to come, and Jayne would want Andy to come. Jayne and I had tea together every day back home in West London, in what we called our daily partners’ meeting although it was more of a girlfriend catch-up session. I’d suggest Andy take Jayne to tea. A nice romantic gesture.
Eventually I heard a car pull up outside, followed by another. Doors slammed. Someone laughed. The front door opened, and chattering, laughing people spilled into the house. Horace barked greetings.
“Shush, everyone,” Jayne said. “We don’t want to wake Gemma.”
A full umbrella stand crashed to the floor. “Shoot. Sorry,” Donald said.
“Shush,” Jayne repeated.
“Tea?” my mother said.
“Nightcap?” my father said.
“Good idea,” Ryan said. “I’ll run up and check on Gemma first. Be right back.”
“I’d like tea,” Jayne said. “Can I help you, Anne?”
“All in hand, love. You take a seat in the library. Henry, it’s chilly enough tonight for a fire, I believe. I’ll have a dram also, as long as you’re offering.”
They clattered down the hallway. Ryan ran up the stairs. He hesitated at the door before opening it a crack. Light flooded in. He tiptoed across the thick carpet, the old floorboards beneath creaking at every step. I imagined him creeping up on miscreants in a Victorian-era opium den in Limehouse and tried very hard not to laugh. He sat on the edge of the bed. The springs squeaked.
“Awake,” I said. “Did you enjoy yourself?”
“It was a great party. I’m happy for Grant. Can I get you anything?”
I rolled over and smiled up at him. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his tie was draped around his neck. “Nope.” I had a sudden idea and said, “Grant asked me to go book shopping with him tomorrow. Want to come?”
“To look at books? No, thanks.” He chuckled. “That sounds like Grant. The day after his wedding and he’s got a line on a book so he’s off on the hunt. Despite Donald’s encouragement, absolutely no one wants to go on the Sherlock Holmes walking tour first thing tomorrow, so we’re staying in until noon at least.” He kissed me lightly. “Go back to sleep, Gemma.”
I purred happily. When the door had shut behind him, I sat up and reached for my phone. I hoped Grant would be willing to look at books the morning after his wedding.
“Pippa’s in bed with a tray bearing a pot of tea and a plate of toast and marmalade, like a proper English married woman of the upper classes,” Grant said. “Although unlike Mrs. Bennet or Lady Grantham, she has about a hundred alerts set on her phone and is surrounded by binders containing what’s probably her briefing notes.”
“Do you know what she does?” I asked.
“Not exactly, but when I first moved in with her, the security clearances I had to go through were extensive. Probably helped I’d lived in England for a while when I was at Oxford, and I managed to keep myself out of trouble while I was here. We book dealers do have a reputation of being rather dull. Speaking of which …?”
We were standing in front of the great church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Across the street, Trafalgar Square was busy, although considerably less crowded than it would be in the summer. People took pictures of themselves with Nelson’s Column in the background, fed the pigeons, listened to the buskers, or streamed up the stairs into the National Gallery. A few people carrying placards and signs mingled in the square, likely preparing for a demonstration. Someone was always protesting something in Trafalgar Square. It was a lovely fall morning, cool and crisp. The sun shone in a sky of a highly un-English blue, and most of the puddles deposited by last night’s rain had disappeared.
After I’d called Grant last night and suggested, in as few words as possible, the outing, I’d fallen into a restless sleep. I’d been dimly aware of the scent of a wood fire being lit, then the sound of others climbing the stairs, calling good night, the closing of bedroom doors, the rush of water in the pipes. Jayne shouting at everyone not to wake Gemma. All followed by the gentle sounds of a well-made old house falling into night and the distant hum of traffic from Queen’s Gate, in a city that never sleeps.
Grant was coming from Isle of Dogs to the east of the City, where he and Pippa lived, and I was in South Kensington to the west, so we arranged to meet near the bookshop.
Jayne had been up bright and early, as is her custom. She’s a baker, after all. She got the tea and coffee on and breakfast started. Despite the late hour everyone had gone to bed, the visitors emerged shortly after, all except for Andy who, Jayne informed us, was still firmly on West London time. My parents, always the proper hosts, rose when they heard their guests moving about. Jayne served a hearty breakfast of fresh croissants, scrambled eggs, sausages, and a mountain of toast. Conversation around the table in the morning room was all about the wedding and what a marvelous time everyone had.
Conveniently, my father had arranged to take Ryan for lunch with some of his longtime friends from the Met for an afternoon of talking policing. Jayne made Andy’s and her excuses to Donald, saying they hoped to go to the Tower of London. Mum announced that she needed to spend a few hours preparing for court tomorrow. Donald attempted to keep a stiff upper lip as he abandoned his plans for Baker Street and another Sherlock Holmes tour and declared he might as well come with Grant and me. I couldn’t think of a way of dissuading him without making it look as though I didn’t want his company, so I said nothing.
We were all due to meet back at the house at five thirty to go to Grant and Pippa’s for dinner.
No one seemed to think it at all strange that Grant and I would spend our day looking at old books. Last night, I hadn’t told him the reason for the outing, so I filled him in now. “This isn’t exactly an impromptu venture,” I said as Grant, Donald, and I crossed the street in a stream of pedestrians. Before stepping off the sidewalk, I reminded Donald to look to his left and pointed at the warning painted on the roadway to that effect.
“Didn’t think it was,” Grant replied as Donald peered intently to the left. “What’s up?” He looked very handsome this morning, I thought. Nothing like true love to make anyone look good.
“A man with whom I used to be acquainted contacted me last night saying he had a book to show me. Something he called ‘the real deal.’ ”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, Grant, I have no idea. This person and I were once … close, but we had a falling out. We’ve not had contact for a number of years. Judging by appearances, he’s fallen on hard times.”
“Appearances? You mean he did more than phone you? You saw him? Yesterday?”
“Yes. He sought me out about this book.”
“Does he think you’re a dealer?”
“It looks as though we’re close to the Sherlock Holmes Pub,” Donald said, peering intently at the map on his phone, using his fingers to zoom in and out. “I do believe we are. If we finish our business early, perhaps we can pop in for a quick one.”
“It’s a tourist favorite,” I said. “As well as a good pub. They’ve got a substantial number of items on display, not to mention a reproduction of the sitting room at 221B. I used to go there after work on occasion when I worked near here.”
Donald’s eyes lit up.
“If you’d like to have a look,” I said, “Grant and I can meet you there when we’ve finished.”
For the briefest of moments, indecision crossed his face before he said firmly, “That pleasure can wait. I am here to offer what assistance I might be able to.”
“As for Grant’s question, I don’t know why Paul wants to show this book to me. That’s why I asked you to come with me. If this book is rare or valuable, you might be able to tell me. If it’s a lure to get my attention, then we’ll leave.”
“A Conan Doyle first edition, do you think?” Donald said. “Perhaps a signed copy. A prize worth locating.”
“No point in speculating. This person gave me not the slightest clue.”
“Does Ryan know about this male acquaintance with whom you had a falling out?” Grant asked.
“Nope. That’s the bookstore up ahead. On the corner.” The store was on Villiers Street, between the river and the Strand, behind Charing Cross station. A narrow, brick-paved street of tourist shops, pubs, fast food emporiums, and vape shops that hadn’t existed when I’d been here last. At this time of day, the street was closed to cars, and pedestrians strolled up and down. I stood in the middle of the street and studied the shop front. The awing was in dire need of a good cleaning, the front windows were dull under a layer of grime, the paint on the sign above the door chipped and peeling. Trafalgar Fine Books, it read. When I’d owned it, the business had been named Trafalgar Square Mystery Bookshop.
Long ago, I’d had my heart set on making a success of this store. Today, in the bright sunshine, amid the bustle of activity, it simply looked sad.
“It looks like a genuine bookstore,” Donald said with glee. “The sort of place Sir Arthur might have browsed after a meeting at the College of Psychic Studies, seeking out the latest volumes of fairy lore or communicating with the spirits. Do you suppose they have some early editions of his works I might be interested in purchasing?”
“It wasn’t a secondhand or used shop in my day,” I said, “but things appear to have changed.”
Grant hung back as Donald charged toward his goal. “In your day,” Grant said. “I know you owned a bookstore near Trafalgar Square. Is this the one?”
“It is. The current owner is my ex-husband. He bought me out when we separated. I got the better of the deal.”
“I didn’t know you’d been married.”
“I try not to think about it.”
“Does Ryan know?”
“Nope.”
“Don’t you think he should?”
“Like I said, I don’t like thinking about it, and I particularly don’t like talking about it. So, I never do. I now realize that might have been a slight oversight on my part.”
Grant opened the door, and we followed Donald into the bookshop. The feeling of neglect I’d sensed from the outside only increased inside the shop. The shelves were dusty, a spider had taken up residence in a corner, the display tables were piled with books, books stacked upon more books, with no sense of creating an attractive display or any notable attempt at arranging by theme or genre. The grimy windows didn’t let in a lot of light, and the scent of dust and aging paper permeated everything. When I’d managed the place, I decorated it with signed posters of book covers from authors who made an appearance at the shop. These same posters were where I’d left them, the print faded, their edges curling. A wide staircase with ornate wooden railings led up to the first floor. I’d used that area for hosting visiting authors. A space for setting out chairs and refreshments, a couch where the writer could relax and chat with readers, a lectern from which to speak to larger audiences, a small table on which to sign books. Now the upper floor appeared to be given over to used books, as indicated by a sign at the bottom of the staircase. Several shelves toward the front boasted “Sale!” A quick glance at the items on sale told me they were several years old, at least. Likely bought by bulk once their popularity had passed.
The keen-eyed Donald instantly dismissed the new hardcovers and mass-produced paperbacks on the ground floor and rushed up the stairs, searching for something by or about Conan Doyle.
Two women were in the shop. Employees, I guessed. I didn’t recognize either of them, but that wasn’t unexpected. I’d been away for seven years, and staff turnover in the retail trade is high.
One of them was watching Donald, obviously wondering if she should ask if he needed any help. She was tall and thin to the point of scrawny. Her hair was dyed a deep black, parted in the middle with locks falling in two rivers across most of her face, fringe cut in a sharp line at the level of her eyelids. She wore a loose-fitting black dress that showed the network of tattoos on her lower arms. A row of silver rings ran up one ear and her left nostril was pierced. Lace-up platform boots added to her height. Eventually, she followed Donald up the stairs.
The woman behind the counter was in her late forties, dressed in a black blouse under a slightly tattered red cardigan. Her brown hair was in a short, plain cut, and her makeup inexpensive and too heavily applied. She was peering intently at the computer screen in front of her. She lifted her head when we came in and gave us a disinterested glance. Clearly finding us not worth bothering with, she turned her attention back to the screen.
Only one customer was in the store. As we entered, he clattered down the stairs and put a used paperback on the counter. “I’ll take this one please.” I recognized it instantly. The first Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes book by Laurie R. King, The Beekeeper’s Apprentice, with the original cover. The cover was creased, but otherwise the book looked to be in good condition. He passed over a ten-pound note, and the clerk made change before giving the book a little shake and slipping it into a small plastic bag. The shake, I assumed, was to get rid of any residue of bugs that might be inside it. Or any bug that might have taken up residence between the pages. Grant had also noticed, and I felt, as much as saw, him shudder at the very idea.
“Hi,” Grant said once the customer had left, gripping his change and the bag containing his book.
The clerk nodded without the slightest bit of interest. Her eyes remained glued to her computer screen.
I often find the excessive friendliness of American shop clerks overwhelming. I can read the signs that say 50 percent off everything, thank you very much. Not everyone in the shop needs to remind me. Likely because I’m English, I’d prefer to be greeted by silence rather than someone cheerily asking how my day has been going so far. Particularly when the expression says the speaker couldn’t care less, but the words are a job requirement.
On the other hand, there is something about being almost totally ignored that can be off-putting.
Grant glanced at me.
“We’re here to see Mr. Erikson,” I said. “Is he available?”
“I don’t quite see what I’m looking for here,” from upstairs Donald spoke to the younger clerk. “I was hoping for some older books.”
“Older? Those there are old.”
“First editions and the like.”
“Sorry. American, are you? That’s nice. I’d like to go to America someday. My aunt’s friend lives in Phoenix. She says it’s too hot.”
“It … uh … can be,” Donald said.
“Mr. Erikson?” I prompted.
The older clerk tore her attention away from her computer. The screen faced away from us, so I couldn’t see what she found so interesting without climbing over the counter. Which I had no inclination to do. “Tamara,” she called, “is Paul in?”
Tamara’s head popped over the upstairs railing. “What?”
“Paul. This … lady wants to see Paul. Is he here?”
I also own a bookshop. I like to think my staff know whether I’m on the premises or not. Which reminded me: I needed to check in with Ashleigh as to how things were going in my absence. My main worry about my head salesclerk wasn’t that she’d try to steal from me or close early to go to the pub, but that she’d buy another store in my absence. Ashleigh had dreams of owning a bookshop empire. As she wasn’t yet financially in a position to be able to pull that off, she was full of suggestions as to how I could have the aforementioned bookshop empire. Starting with opening a second branch of the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium and exploring franchising opportunities. Only last week, I’d observed her leafing through a book on the legalities of franchises titled Franchising for Dummies while having her break at Mrs. Hudson’s. I’d turned and fled, without stopping for my own tea and muffin, before she could call me over to tell me what she’d learned.
“Yeah.” Tamara skipped down the stairs, and Donald followed. “I mean, I think so,” she said. “The office door’s closed, Faye. It was open when I left last night.” Her face crunched in thought. “I think it was open anyway. I don’t usually pay attention.”
“Could you tell him I’m here, please,” I said to Faye. “He’s expecting me.”
“He is?”
Obviously, visitors calling on the boss was not a common occurrence at this establishment. Then again, it was Sunday. Maybe Paul didn’t conduct business on Sundays.
It wasn’t easy, but I forced out a smile at the woman. “Yes, he is.”
Her hand edged toward the phone on the counter. “Paul has a cot set up in the office. He sleeps here sometimes. When he’s been working too late to go home. You know how it is?”
“No,” I said. “I do not know.” If Paul was reduced to spending the night on a cot in the back of a bookshop, he truly had fallen on hard times.
“He doesn’t like to be disturbed. If he’s sleeping, I mean.”
“You’re obviously busy here,” Grant said. “Why don’t we go and check for ourselves? As my friend said, we are expected.”
Faye sighed in relief. The decision had been taken from her. “American, are you? If you’d like some books set in the U.K., we have lots.”
“I would certainly hope so,” I said in my most pompous English accent. “Considering we are in London.” I headed for the door at the back, threw it open, and marched into the dark hallway.
Donald and Grant followed.
Muscle memory kicking in, I slapped the wall to my right and the light of a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling came on. The floor was sticky with grime; paint peeling from the walls; damp patches dotting the ceiling. I might have heard the sound of a small animal scurrying for shelter.
“Very Dickensian,” Donald said with satisfaction. “Perhaps I should have inquired about books by Dickens rather than Conan Doyle.”
“By used,” Grant told Donald, “I think this store means Harold Robbins paperbacks. Maybe Jacqueline Susann?”
“Who?” Donald asked.
If the back rooms were still laid out as when I’d been in charge, the manager’s office would be at the end of the hallway on the right. The manager had the privilege of a little window overlooking the alley. Staff loo to the immediate left. A small room with a fridge for the staff to keep their lunches in and a table for them to sit at. A door leading to the alley at the end of the corridor. The space above the offices was used for storage of books yet to be unpacked, those to be returned, and all sorts of random junk and things that might be needed someday.
I rapped on the rear right door. “Paul. It’s Gemma. I’m here for our meeting, as arranged.”
No answer. Even by English standards, this was an old building. The store in it might well be about to crumble into dust, but the walls were thick. No sound came from outside.
I knocked again. “Paul, I’m here now, and I will not be coming back.”
I stepped back and threw up my hands. “What a total and complete waste of time.”
“Not at all,” Donald said. “This is as fascinating as a museum. Look at that brickwork and the intricacy of the plasterwork on the ceiling. When was that laid do you think, Gemma?”
I was about to turn to leave, but I hesitated. I was here now, and I had been invited.
I opened the door and stepped into what had once been my own office.
The buildings surrounding the alley blocked the thin autumn sun, but even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter much. The window in here was no cleaner than the ones overlooking the street. The room smelled of decaying paper, musty carpet, mold in the walls. I hadn’t wanted to spend money on nonessential items, so the desk I bought for the store was a DIY one and the bookshelves also. The filing cabinet was a WWII-era junk sale reject. I’d brought a few pictures from home to hang on the walls but had taken them with me the day I left. Nothing had replaced them.
An army cot was set up against the far wall. Sheets in place, a single thin pillow at its head, a red and blue striped blanket neatly folded at the foot. A backpack lay on the cot. A bottle of whiskey was open on the desk beside the computer, an empty glass next to it. A mobile phone rested on the desk.
Paul Erikson was in the office chair, dressed as I’d seen him last night, the jacket tossed over the back of his chair. He did not greet us.
Donald sucked in a breath. Grant’s hand shot out and grabbed my arm. “Gemma.”
“I see,” I said.
Paul was slumped in the seat, his head back, his throat exposed, his eyes closed. His arms dangled at his sides. His throat was red and raw. He did not move.