Chapter 6

‘‘In solving a problem of this sort, the grand thing is to be able to reason backward.’’

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet

All the way to the mansion, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tom and what happened. The Grange diary, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Jack the Ripper, and Tom. What he found was explosive stuff. Proof of the Ripper’s identity wasn’t just about money and prestige - there would be reverberations through history. If someone else knew about the notes, I was certain that was why Tom had been attacked.

Tom was a member of several Sherlockian societies around Chicagoland, and he’d always had a lively interest in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in the Jack the Ripper murders. He’d taken me along as his guest at some of these meetings, and we’d often discussed the Ripper murders too. I knew that Conan Doyle was 29 years old and already famous in 1888, the year the Ripper murders took place. And I knew too that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle personally worked with Scotland Yard detectives to help solve some real criminal cases of the time. It’s only natural to think that Doyle would have gotten involved in solving the most notorious crime of the time - the Jack the Ripper murders. I knew that Tom would be able to evaluate the authenticity of any notes Doyle had written - if and when he got his hands on them. Anything written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle about Jack the Ripper would be the hottest news item in the world. The Internet would explode, and such a discovery would be the apex of anyone’s career. I only hoped Tom would get well enough to find the notes and enjoy his fame. But where were they? If someone had them, why hadn’t they gone public with them long ago? The diary was the key, and I had to find it. Briefly I wondered if the Grange diary was a fake, a joke, planted for Tom - or someone else - to find.

The shock over Tom’s injuries was beginning to wear off, and I realized I was starving. I spied a neighborhood grill and ordered a giant coffee and an egg and bacon sandwich. While I ate, I again thought of Auntie Elizabeth’s warnings about bad things coming in threes. We Scots like to be forewarned.

The Grange Mansion was an Italianate four-story pale yellow brick building set back from the street. Its impressive columns, three-story balcony, and big carved lions were surrounded by a 5-foot wrought iron fence topped with spikes that ran along the front of the mansion and a 6-foot brick wall that surrounded it on the other three sides. In addition to the walled entry, motion sensors with floodlights were installed under the eaves at each corner of the building. When I came earlier, I wasn’t paying much attention to security. Now I looked closely but didn’t spot any outdoor cameras. I wondered how sophisticated the rest of their security system was.

The gate was unlocked, and a paved pathway, landscaped on both sides, led to a big wrap-around porch flanked by Ionic columns. The Palladian windows, decorative balconies and ornate bay windows reminiscent of an earlier era were still a delight to behold.

I rang the bell. An older man with a florid face and silver-white hair opened the door. He wore a dark suit. I guessed he must be a butler. I hadn’t heard him turn off any alarm.

“Yes?”

“I’m DD McGil, Mr. Tom Joyce’s assistant. I’m here to proceed with the rest of the appraisal for him.”

“Yes. Come in,” he said. “I’m Toller.”

The large foyer opened onto a marble staircase extending up to the fourth floor. I wondered if this was where Tom had fallen.

“How is Mr. Joyce?” Toller asked as he motioned me into a room off the foyer.

“He’s in intensive care at Billings.”

“I hope he’ll recover. Wait here. I’ll get Miss Douglas.”

I perused the room for security devices. Every window was equipped with window alarms. The particular model they were using was affixed with tape and had an on-off switch, definitely not what I recommend to my clients for maximum security. I didn’t see any cameras, visible or hidden, and there were no motion sensors in the room. The only one I’d noticed so far was above and to the left of the doorway leading from the foyer into the room.

The paintings were a mix of 19th century portraits and landscapes. Nothing modern. Two blank spaces stood out where paintings had been removed. None seemed to be visibly wired for alarm, but they might be imbedded with invisible security microchips. The furniture - a chaise lounge, a chair and a writing desk - was all arranged to maximize the room’s architectural details. There simply wasn’t anywhere to hide cameras.

I turned at the distinctive sound of high heels clicking on the marble floors. A black haired, well-dressed woman walked confidently into the room and introduced herself as Ivy Douglas. Seeing her, I remembered more details about her and her family and the estate from articles that appeared regularly in the society columns of the Chicago Tribune. She was the Dowager’s niece, and she had inherited the Grange estate after her aunt’s death a little over a year ago. She was known as a very rich, very party girl.

“Toller tells me you’re here about the book collection.”

Her perfume was the kind that costs $300 a whiff. Her sleek Ralph Lauren top and slacks made me acutely aware I was still wearing yesterday’s outfit. “Yes, I’m DD McGil. I just came from Billings emergency room where they took Mr. Joyce.”

“Oh, that fellow doing the book appraisal. Yes, I heard he had an accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident. He was pushed.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. No one here would push him. And that’s not what the police said. How is he doing? Will he be all right?”

“We don’t know yet. He almost died. He’s in a coma, and it’ll be a few more days until we know about any internal injuries.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Tom‘s assistant. I’m here to take over the appraisal. He’ll be laid up for awhile.”

“I’m afraid I misunderstood. I thought Toller said you were here to buy the book collection. I have nothing to do with hiring. You’ll have to talk to the executors. They take care of all those details.” She called for Toller and turned to leave. At the doorway, she said, “Please stop repeating that Mr. Joyce was pushed. It’s simply not true. I’m missing a very important charity event tonight to be here while the police investigate, and they’ve assured me no crime was committed. I want that clear. Tomorrow I’m hosting a huge affair for the auctioneers and potential buyers of the estate, and I can’t have that lie being bandied about. It’s slander, and if you keep saying it, I’ll sue you.” She twirled out the door, her heels clicking sharply down the corridor.

When Toller returned, I explained what Ivy Douglas said.

“Aye,” he said. “I’ll get Mr. Dodd from the executors.”

While I waited, I realized how tired I was. The shock of Tom’s injuries was wearing off, and I could feel myself wilting. That coffee I had was the only thing keeping me on my feet. I needed sleep, but that wasn’t going to happen any time soon.

Toller returned with a trim, tall man in his mid-thirties he introduced as Mr. James M. Dodd.

“I’m with the firm of Morrison, Morrison and Dodd, the executors handling the Grange estate,” he said, extending his hand.

My Auntie Elizabeth, the Scottish Dragon, would have called him a Skinny Malinky Longlegs. He had a nice head of brown hair, very attractive dark eyes, and a pleasant manner. His suit was designer, his red tie jaunty, his handshake straightforward.

I handed him a Joyce and Company business card from Tom’s wallet.

He gave it a long look then frowned as he scrutinized my rumpled outfit a la yesterday. “I don’t remember Mr. Joyce mentioning an assistant.”

“Maybe he didn’t have occasion to, but I’m DD McGil. I’m the ‘and Company’ in Joyce and Company.” I hoped I could bluff him into accepting me without checking me out or asking me technical questions I couldn’t answer.

“The contract with Mr. Joyce...” Dodd began.

I smiled and interrupted, trying to gain the upper hand. “First of all, Mr. Dodd, I’d like to see exactly where Tom was pushed down the stairs.”

“Pushed? What are you saying? The police say it was an accident.”

“But Tom said otherwise.” I didn’t want to argue with him. I was already standing on thin ice.

“They said he was unconscious. How is he?”

“I just left Billings. They’re still working on him. He’s in intensive care in a coma. It’ll be some time before they know the full extent of the damage. Did Tom tell you anything about finding a diary?”

“Not specifically. He did make an appointment to see me. He said it was to discuss something important he’d found, but he didn’t say what. Whose diary is it?”

“So you never got a chance to meet with him before he went down the stairs?”

“No. Our appointment was for tomorrow morning. When the police called about an accident, I came right over from my office. That was a little before six.”

“Please show me where it happened.”

We left through a door on the far side of the room. I tried to make a mental map of the interior as he took me down a long corridor with rooms off each side. As Dodd opened a door leading into a large butler’s pantry, he turned and asked: “When did Mr. Joyce supposedly find this diary? And whose diary is it supposed to be?”

“He told me it was David Joyce Grange’s.” I left out the part that Tom had been snooping in the library desk. “He believed it might be valuable and was anxious to appraise it and show it to you.”

“Then that must have been what he called me about,” Dodd agreed. “Did he say where he found it?”

“Probably behind some books on a shelf,” I lied as we walked through the butler’s pantry into a big kitchen. A tidy woman in a white blouse and dark skirt was preparing a tray of sandwiches. She waved and called Dodd over to ask a question. After they spoke for a few minutes, Dodd introduced her as Mrs. Toller, the housekeeper. I wondered if she and Mr. Toller, the major domo, were live-in help or if they left every night. I also wondered why Dodd was taking me through the kitchen to the grand staircase. It would have been much easier to go directly to the foyer. But I found out why soon enough. We headed to a door at the other end of the kitchen that opened onto a landing. When we stepped out onto the landing, I saw a winding wooden staircase that extended from the upper floors down to the basement.

James Dodd motioned, and we walked up one flight to the second floor landing. “They call this the old servants’ staircase,” he said.

The spiral staircase was steep, narrow and worn. My feet barely fit on the pie-shaped treads, and the stairs were tricky to navigate. There was no banister to hang on, so I followed Dodd’s example and touched the wall to steady myself in the enclosed curving staircase. The small second floor landing had an unpainted wooden floor. This area was a big change from the decorative staircase in the main foyer.

Dodd pointed to the landing. “This is where he was found.”

I surveyed the small space. “Where’s the crime scene tape?”

Dodd was defensive. “What crime? The police said it was an accident. No one even considered he was pushed.”

“But that’s what Tom said.”

“No one heard about that. You can see for yourself the condition of these steps. A person has to exercise caution here. It’s very easy to lose your balance.”

It was true that a misstep on the steep stairs in this tight stairwell would be very easy, especially since both the landing and staircase were poorly lit. Only a few small wall sconces holding low wattage bulbs provided light. This old servants’ stairwell in the back of the house was a reflection of another time, a time when the help lived in, but their domain was separate and definitely not equal. I believed Tom when he said that someone tried to kill him. But given the conditions of this stairway, he was going to have a heck of a time proving it. Maybe Tom knew who had pushed him. And if he did, would he wake up soon and tell me?

“Where did he fall from?” I asked.

“They’re not sure. It could have been from the third floor to the second or he could have fallen all the way down from the fourth floor,” Dodd said.

I looked up. “What’s on the third floor?

“That’s the ballroom,” Dodd smiled. “It’s only used when Miss Douglas has special charity functions.”

“What about the fourth floor?”

“That’s the old servants’ quarters. This second floor houses all the family bedrooms. There are eight of them.”

“Why would Tom use the servant’s staircase?” I wondered aloud.

The estate attorney shook his head. “I’ve wondered the same thing. Even Toller and Mrs. Toller avoid it. Where was he going?”

“Or where was he coming from? Didn’t anybody see him?”

“Apparently not,” Dodd said. “I’ve asked everyone. So did the police. From what I gather, he was last seen by Philip Green around 5:00 in the library where he was working on the appraisal.” Dodd abruptly pulled his cell out of a pocket. It must have been on vibrate because I hadn’t heard it ring.

“Hold on,” he said, “I have to answer this.”

When he ended the call, he said, “Follow me. The officer who responded to the 911 call is waiting in the library.”

Instead of using the spiral staircase in the servant’s quarters, we went through another door to a second floor corridor leading to the atrium. That took us to the magnificent staircase in the main foyer I’d admired earlier.

“You mentioned someone named Philip Green,” I said “Who is he?”

“Green’s a world-renowned authority in Sherlockiana,” Dodd replied. “He’s been working with the estate for a few weeks putting together a separate catalog of all the Sherlock Holmes material in the collection. If he doesn’t purchase it all himself - he’s an avid collector - he’ll contact other interested parties throughout the globe.”

“Incidentally,” I said as we circled the grand staircase, “the diary was not among Tom’s effects at the hospital. Neither was his cell phone. Do you have any idea where they might be?”

“I didn’t even know about the diary, as I told you. I only hope it’s not lost. Your colleague had an obligation to immediately notify us if he found anything - especially anything valuable. He should have insisted on seeing us today and not waited until tomorrow. I have no doubt the firm will investigate what’s happened and his potential negligence. In the meantime, the sooner that diary turns up, the better it will be for Mr. Joyce.”

“Where were you Mr. Dodd when he was pushed...”

“You mean when he fell,” he interjected.

“Down the stairs?” I finished and waited for his answer.

“I already told you I was in my office at the firm,” Dodd said as he opened the twenty-foot high double doors leading into the Grange library.