Chapter 8

“Our methods are based on the observation of trifles.”

-Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Boscombe Valley Mystery

I tried, without success, to get them to leave the library so I could look around. Philip Green was wandering around staring at things, playing Sherlock Holmes.

“If any mischief was done,” Green said as he carefully picked up some papers on the desk, “maybe we’ll spot a clue.”

“What do you mean, if there was mischief?” John Turner asked Green.

“Miss McGil here thinks Tom was pushed down the stairs.”

Turner looked at me. “What? Who here would want to hurt Tom? Nobody would have a reason.”

“I know you all want to believe that,” I told them. “But one murder is committed every 21 minutes in the US, and the rate for attempted murder is even higher. According to statistics, it’s definitely possible he was pushed.”

“Possible but not probable,” Green said, “and the cops agree.”

Dodd rubbed his hands together. “Of course no one wants to think someone tried to hurt Tom. But why would Ms. McGil lie about what he said?” He looked at me and added, “I think you should explain to Philip and John what Tom found the other day. Maybe they can help us locate it.”

Now Dodd wanted totell them all about the diary and have them participate in the search. Damn him. I thought about strangling Mr. Helpful right there and doing the time for it. Instead I shot him a dirty look. If we did locate the diary - and if that diary was the cause of Tom’s accident - then the fewer people who knew about it the better.

I briefly explained that Tom had found a diary. I didn’t say whose diary it was. I didn’t discuss the contents. And I didn’t say it was missing exactly.

“No one in this house would steal anything,” Green said. “No one in this house would push anybody down a flight of stairs either, but somebody did,” I quipped grimly.

Dodd tried to sooth the situation. “Again, Miss McGil, I don’t doubt your report, but remember what Officer Whittenhall said about people with concussions who say weird things that aren’t true.”

I walked over to the windows, observing the security alarm set up. Philip Green came over and stood at my side.

“That’s the Bobbie Franks house,” he pointed, “you know, from the Loeb and Leopold murder. It’s one of the highlights of this historic Kenwood neighborhood. By the way,” he added, “you never mentioned whose diary Tom found.”

“Apparently it was the diary of David Joyce Grange himself,” Dodd interjected as he joined us at the window. My heart sunk. Why did he have to tell them? Was he being helpful or was he trying to put Tom in more jeopardy and save his firm’s reputation?

“Wow,” the Sherlockian said. “That could be one beautiful find - assuming he wasn’t mendacious.”

Turner removed his tortoise shell glasses and shook them at Dodd. “There could be something in his diary about his son, my real father. And maybe something about my mother, too. And if there is, I can use it in my lawsuit against the estate.”

It appeared everyone had a reason to want that diary. Was it really true that none of them knew about it until now? Or had Tom shown it to one or more of them this morning or talked about it over the phone? According to that policeman, neither Dodd nor Turner had been here in the mansion at the time Tom fell or was pushed. That left Ivy, the Tollers and Philip Green. Who could I trust? Who could I believe?

Tom’s computer and various reference books were stacked along one corner of the big library desk, including the revised edition of Green and Gibson’s “Bibliography of Arthur Conan Doyle.” Papers and notes were strewn across the blotter, all appearing to be in Tom’s distinctive, precise handwriting. When he did complicated appraisals, Tom often used his computer, took handwritten notes, and used a voice-activated tape recorder. No tape recorder was in evidence here.

I skimmed through the notes and saw that Tom had referenced an original autographed George Washington letter dated 1785 to Patrick Henry where Washington declines any pecuniary reward for his services to his country. He’d also recorded the manuscript of The Sign of the Four, along with other Sir Arthur Conan Doyle letters and papers. Clearly Grange’s book collection was worth millions. I checked the estate inventory but found no listing for Doyle’s manuscript of The White Company.

Philip Green flipped through reference books, checking titles. He said, “If we’re supposed to be looking for this infamous diary, we need to know what it looks like.”

Turner agreed.

Dodd, rummaging through the desk drawers, paused. “I haven’t a clue. I haven’t seen it either. Do you know, Miss McGil?”

“Tom said it was a small, brown leather bound diary.”

“Did he mention what was in it?” Green asked.

“Not really. He’d just begun to read through it.”

“So it could have great value,” Dodd said, moving to the other side of the big desk.

“Not only for itself as a period diary of an important personage in Chicago history,” Philip Green added, “but also it might provide additional information about his purchases and enhance the price of various things in the collection.”

My cell rang. It was Debra, calling from the hospital. Tom was still unconscious. They’d put braces and slings on all his injuries, and he was in the recovery room. From there he’d be in Intensive so they could monitor any possible internal bleeding. Debra said the power of attorney had overcome any hurdles in getting to see him, and she promised to stay with him. I hung up and explained Tom’s condition to Dodd, Green and Turner.

“By the way,” Green asked, “did you know that Tom and I are old acquaintances? We met in the Baker Street Irregulars Sherlockian Society in Chicago before I moved to New York.”

“No, he hadn’t mentioned that.”

Dodd picked up his briefcase. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “Tom never mentioned an associate or an assistant or whatever it is you’re calling yourself.”

“Assistant. I’m his assistant. “ I tried to sound confident, but I was nervous. Why was he questioning my credentials now? Did he have something to hide?

“Come to think of it, Tom always prided himself on his appraisal technique,” Green chimed in. “He used to expound about the ability to appraise. Said it was a personal and unique talent - an art really. He insisted that a person’s knowledge, experience and background all contributed to a good appraisal. So given his strong views, it seems odd to me that he’d take on any assistant.”

Dodd hunched his shoulders. “I’m curious too. I’m going back to the office to check the contract. I believe it names him as sole appraiser.”

“Principal appraiser,” I countered loudly, relying on my knowledge of most consulting contracts that specify who can do what. “You go and check that contract. In the meantime, since he’s out of commission, I’m taking over. Unless of course you want to delay the appraisal.” I took a few steps toward the library doors, hoping it would be a signal to finally get them to leave.

Dodd followed me, his chin up. “The firm may wish to void this contract and hire another appraiser altogether. After all, we don’t know when Mr. Joyce will be fit to return.”

I stopped and confronted him. “Meaning I’m not good enough?” I wondered if he’d cancel the contract right now. If so, I was sunk. Who’d help me find the truth? Not the cops.

“We don’t know whether you’re capable of stepping into his shoes, do we?” Dodd asked.

Before I could reply, Green joined in. “Why don’t we see if she can answer a question for us?” he proposed.

This was turning into a contest. Everybody wanted to play, including Turner, who laughed and said, “Let’s put her to the question.”

I felt like Joan of Arc. I was tired. I was hungry. And now I was being referred to in the third person, which I hate. Worse, I was stuck. I didn’t want to get thrown out before I had a chance to really search, so I put up a bold front. “Ask away,” I said.

“Very few people outside the industry would know this one,” Green assured Dodd and Turner. “But Tom Joyce would definitely know. Let’s see if you do, Miss McGil. What was the best selling detective novel of the 19th century?”

I almost fainted in relief. I actually knew the answer - thanks to Tom. The reason I remembered was that Tom had won a bet from me on this question a few months ago. I hadn’t known the answer then, and I’d had to buy Tom dinner at the Chicago Firehouse Restaurant, one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. He wanted to eat there because it really is an old firehouse turned into a trendy up-scale steak house. Parts of the movie “Backdraft” had been filmed on location there. We’d enjoyed ourselves, but it had cost me plenty, so naturally I’d never forget the answer. I hoped Green wasn’t going to ask me the value, because that I did not know.

“That’s an easy question,” I said and watched their eyebrows arc in surprise.

“The best selling detective novel of the 19th century was The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, by Fergus Hume. The first edition was published in Melbourne, Australia in 1886, at Hume’s expense.” I smiled broadly and added, “It’s the rarest-known book in the genre - only two copies are known to exist.”

Their shocked looks gave me a rush of confidence. Thank you Tom! But I couldn’t afford any more questions. I’d skated by this one on thin, lucky ice.

I seized the advantage and said firmly, “You try to void that contract, you’re asking for a lawsuit and an injunction that will stop all the work here. Now please leave so I can get started.” Two could play the threat game.

Dodd’s watch gave a tiny ping. He glanced at it. “I have obligations. I’ll see you tomorrow Miss McGil, after I’ve reviewed the contract.”

As he left, both Turner and Green scowled at me.

“We’ve come up empty-handed on locating the diary, but we’ll be back tomorrow,” Green said.

Turner agreed. “And I have to know if it mentions my father.”

After they left, I was finally alone in the library.