A Three Book Problem, page 14
“You think that’s significant?”
“It might be, if I’d killed him. But I didn’t, so … No, I can’t see that it’s anything but a coincidence. There are four novels in the Canon, and I brought the three I happened to have at hand in the shop. As far as I can determine, David was never in the British Army, never traveled to India where he took part in a conspiracy to steal valuable jewels, and never spent time breaking rocks on a prison island from which he escaped by stealing a boat. So no, just a coincidence, even assuming the method of death was chosen deliberately.”
“Have you found out anything incriminating about the guests here?” Jayne asked.
“I haven’t had a lot of time to look into them.” I was finding it difficult to be a detective and run a catering/entertainment operation at the same time. “So far, nothing. Ryan will have learned more, but from what I can tell, these people appear to be what they claim to be. Steve doesn’t have much of a social media profile, but a great many people in the world don’t.”
“Sometimes that’s a good thing.”
“So it is.” I would have preferred not to have any social media presence myself, but that was impossible if I wanted publicity for the bookshop. Authors came to visit and do book signings; they often had their picture taken with me or snapped me in the background and posted the pictures on their own pages.
“Cliff does,” I said, “through his antiques and collectables business. He sometimes sells to the rich and famous and wants to make sure everyone knows it.”
“Reasonable enough,” Jayne said.
“I found some photos of Miranda, from her days of modeling, but she hasn’t done much recently, although she was in a commercial for floor cleaner about a year ago. That has to be quite a comedown. I haven’t been able to find anything out about Annie’s acting career, so I suspect she uses a stage name. I can find it, if I have to, but I haven’t had the time to do that yet, or to look into Kyle. Jennifer’s still listed on the company web page for the publishers she told me she recently quit, and she’s highly active in online Sherlock groups, but …”
I was speaking to myself. Jayne had fallen asleep.
* * *
“Dump it all on the table and tell them to have at it,” I said.
Jayne lifted the red pepper frittata she’d prepared a few days earlier out of the oven, pulled off one oven mitt, and poked the frittata with her finger. Satisfied, she put the dish on the island. “We can’t do that, Gemma. We’ve already told them we aren’t doing lunch. They’ll be wanting a nice breakfast.”
“It can still be a nice breakfast if they have to serve themselves.”
Jayne shrugged. “It’s not that much more work. Besides, it’s advertising for the tea room. I’m hoping some of these people will start frequenting Mrs. Hudson’s or tell their friends about us.”
I gave in and loaded dishes, cutlery, and glassware onto a tray and carried the lot into the morning room.
As well as the frittata, Jayne was cooking bacon and grilled tomatoes. She’d brought muffins from Mrs. Hudson’s as well as yogurt and homemade granola and would lay out the scones that had been intended for Saturday’s afternoon tea. Coffee bubbled in the pot and the tea (for me) steeped in a plain brown teapot. Freshly squeezed orange juice filled an attractive glass jug.
I’d woken to find the pale autumn sun touching the edges of the drapes and the space next to me empty. Jayne had risen, showered, dressed, and headed for the kitchen without making a sound. I yawned, stretched, and reluctantly climbed out of bed. I pulled the drapes back and peeked outside. The night’s storm had passed and the cheerful ball of the sun was rising in the east, throwing its soft light through the line of trees, turning the colors of the few remaining leaves into fire. Below, a single police car was parked in the driveway. I squinted against the light of the sun and saw the dark outline of a person in the driver’s seat. All the officers who’d been searching the property yesterday appeared to have left.
I was about to step back when a figure emerged from the portico over the front door. Louise Estrada was dressed in the same clothes she’d had on yesterday, natural enough as she hadn’t arrived here with any intention of spending the night. Carrying a mug in her right hand, she walked to the patrol car and tapped on the window.
The window lowered, and she handed the mug through. Then she bent over and talked briefly with the person inside. Clearly, neither had much to say to each other as she straightened up almost immediately and returned to the house, dodging puddles that had formed overnight.
I hurried through my morning preparations and went down to find the cooking of breakfast well under way. “You should have woken me,” I said to Jayne.
“I can manage, Gemma.”
“You can, but you shouldn’t always be the one managing. I wonder how Irene’s feeling this morning?”
Jayne chuckled. “None too steady, I suspect. Louise has been in already. She took a coffee to the cop guarding the house. Another was stationed at the front gate yesterday, but he’s left and the gate’s been locked.”
“Good morning!” boomed a cheerful voice as Donald came in. “Looks like it’s going to be another beautiful day.”
“You’re up early,” I said. “You’ve already been for a walk.”
He grinned at me. “That’s my Gemma. Holmes himself couldn’t have done better.”
“Jayne Wilson could,” Jayne said. “Anyone can see that you’ve got fresh mud stuck to the tip of your walking stick and some on your shoes. You’re tracking mud across the floor. You should have taken your shoes off at the door.”
“You’re beginning to learn Gemma’s methods,” Donald said. “Well done, Jayne.”
I went into the utility room that runs off the kitchen and found a mop. I handed it to Donald. “As the scullery maid is busy, you can mop up after yourself.”
He studied the unfamiliar object in his hands. “Somehow I imagined an English country house weekend would entail less … work.”
Jayne and I laughed. “Be glad you don’t have to get down on your knees to scrub the steps with hot water or blacken the fireplace grate,” I said.
“As Jayne so astutely noticed, I have been for a walk. The storm has passed, leaving everything fresh and dewy. I fear it won’t last though. More bad weather is moving in, or so the forecast says.”
“What of the police presence?” I asked. “Anyone still around? Other than the car parked outside.”
“Not that I saw. I might have woken him up when I tapped on the window to say good morning. I pretended I hadn’t noticed.” Donald hoisted his mop and left the kitchen. That cop was darned lucky it was Donald who found him napping and not Estrada.
“When that’s done,” I called after him, “come back and help with the food.” I pulled out my phone. “I’ll give Irene a call. She can help too.”
“Let her sleep it off, Gemma. We’re fine,” Jayne said.
I put my phone away. “My good deed for the day.”
* * *
I insisted that Jayne join us at the table for breakfast. To my surprise, everyone, including a bleary-eyed, pale-faced Irene, had come down. Donald and Jennifer were again in costume—walking suit for him, floor-length shirtwaist dress with rows of buttons up the sleeves for her—but the rest of us wore our street clothes.
We’d laid the platters of food out on the sideboard, next to the coffee and juice, and people helped themselves.
“Next time we do this,” Steve said, “it would be nice to have a couple of footmen standing stiffly to attention, waiting to attend to our every need, don’t you agree?”
Annie snorted. “Dream on, buddy. There will be no next time. Unless you’re prepared to fund it. Are you?”
He didn’t take offense. “Out of my price range, I’m afraid. Cliff, what about you? You do a nice little trade, I hear.”
“Oh yes,” Miranda snapped. “Cliff’s antiques. It’s all about business for him. Isn’t that right, Cliff?”
“Gotta take advantage of every opportunity in my line of work. It’s not personal, Miranda.”
She didn’t reply.
“I can’t say this hasn’t been fun,” Cliff said.
“Well, I can!” Jennifer protested. “A man died. Our host died, need I remind you?”
Cliff lifted his hands. “I haven’t forgotten. Other than that, it’s been fun, I mean.”
“And,” Jennifer looked from one person to the next, “someone in this room murdered him.”
No one said anything. This was the first time that word had been said aloud, but everyone had to have been thinking it. Before switching off the light and putting my iPad away, I’d checked the West London news. As Ashleigh told me, the police were reporting that someone had died at Suffolk Gardens House. They’d updated their statement last night to provide David’s name, and said he was renting the house for the weekend with a “group of friends.” The death was described as “under investigation.” The cause of death had not been released. I studied the faces around the table.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jennifer,” Miranda said. “No one murdered David. He had a heart attack or something. The police are overreacting.” She turned to face Estrada. “Small-town cops have nothing better to do. They need to create something out of nothing. Helps justify their budget.”
Estrada calmly ate her frittata.
“Jayne and Gemma, you were there when he died. That was it, right? His heart?” Miranda said.
“His heart certainly gave out.” I spread butter and jam on a scone. Jayne made scones the traditional English way, small and light and buttery, which she served with afternoon tea at Mrs. Hudson’s. I loved them.
“David was over fifty at least,” Cliff said. “Goes to show, doesn’t it?”
What it went to show, he didn’t say.
“I suppose,” Jennifer admitted. “Even the strongest of men’s hearts can give out no matter their age.”
Miranda threw her a quick glance. The edges of her mouth turned up and she looked at Rebecca. Her smile grew even wider. At last Miranda realized what had been going on between David and Jennifer. I was only surprised it had taken her this long. Miranda, I thought, was a woman who lived for gossip. The murkier the better. Jennifer was plain, plump, quiet, and, in Miranda’s eyes at least, dull. Blinded by her own prejudices about what made a woman desirable, it hadn’t occurred to her that David and Jennifer might have something in common, and that something had been sufficient to spark an attraction between them.
Rebecca tapped the side of her coffee cup with a spoon. All she’d served herself from the buffet was a small bowl of fruit. “I have news,” she announced when she had everyone’s attention. She paused, enjoying the dramatic effect. “I’ve decided to stay in the house for the rest of the rental period. Until Thursday.”
“Why would you want to do that?” Annie said.
“Because I don’t feel like rushing home,” Rebecca said. “I’m here now and I’m comfortable.” She let out a long dramatic sigh. “And, as long as my dear, dear David remains in West London, I want to be near him. The police told me yesterday they can’t say when they’ll be releasing his body.”
Jennifer burst into tears and pulled a lace handkerchief out of the pocket of her dress. Miranda threw her a malicious smirk.
“Might as well,” Annie said. “I don’t have to be in New York until Thursday.”
“Did I invite you to stay, Ann?” Rebecca asked.
“Nope. But seeing as how Uncle David did, and unless you’ve signed another rental agreement he’s the one footing the bill, you can’t throw me out. What about you, Billy?”
“Sure,” Billy said. “I’m temporarily between jobs at the moment.”
“Kyle,” Rebecca said. “You’re welcome to stay.”
He shrugged and helped himself to more bacon. “Might as well. You got any plans, Irene?”
“Sadly,” Irene said, “I have a job to get back to.”
“What an excellent idea,” Miranda said. “This is such a lovely house. So nice to have the enjoyment of clean country air, isn’t it?”
Rebecca sputtered.
“Even better,” Miranda said, “I’ll be close by to give you what moral support you need in your time of grief.”
More sputtering.
Miranda turned to Jennifer. “I hope you’ll agree to stay on with us, dear. I’m sure you and Rebecca, now the Widow Masterson, will soon make fast friends.”
Jennifer’s face turned puce. She sucked in a breath. Fresh tears filled her eyes. She picked her napkin off her lap, folded it neatly, and placed it on the table in front of her. She’d loaded her plate, probably out of habit, but hadn’t taken a bite. She pushed her chair back. “I think not. I have a headache all of a sudden. I’m going up to my room.” She headed for the door and paused as she passed my chair. “If you’re still offering, Gemma, I’ll take that ride into town.”
“Sure,” I said. “Jayne and I are planning to leave as soon as everyone’s finished breakfast and we’ve cleaned the kitchen. I’ll come up and get you.”
“Thank you. I’ll be ready.” Jennifer walked out of the dining room, her back straight, her steps firm, her dress swishing around her legs.
“Not me,” Steve said. “I’m off home. Enough’s enough.”
“I’ll give you my number,” Cliff said to Rebecca. “If you need anything, feel free to give me a call. And … uh … when you get around to going through David’s things, I’d like to have first refusal.”
You can’t get much more blunt than that, but Rebecca didn’t take offense. “So kind,” she said.
I helped myself to another scone.
* * *
“Friday night,” I said to Louise Estrada, “I overheard someone telling David they wouldn’t have come if they’d known someone was going to be here. I’ve been wondering about that.”
“You heard someone talking about someone? May I remind you, Gemma, that someone didn’t die. David Masterson did.”
“May I remind you, Louise, that it is the small details that are infinitely the most important.”
“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but in the West London PD we look for the big details. Details like who killed Masterson. What’s this?”
“It’s a bowl. Our bowl. Jayne brought it from the tea room. You can put it in that box, please.” Reluctantly, Estrada took the bowl out of my hands and did as I’d asked. Jayne and I were cleaning the kitchen, while Donald carried in the used breakfast dishes. Irene had avoided kitchen drudgery by asking Rebecca if she’d mind giving her a short interview about David that she could write up for the paper. The two women then adjourned to the drawing room. As they left, I heard Rebecca ask if the paper would be sending a photographer and where did Irene think the light would be best.
Estrada had avoided kitchen drudgery by simply refusing to do anything to help.
“Did you hear from Ryan this morning?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“And—?” I said.
She said nothing. I didn’t push it. These walls had ears. If the police wanted to keep details back from the suspects, so be it.
Although I saw no reason they’d keep details back from me.
With Donald’s help, we got everything cleaned up and our things loaded into the bakery van and were ready to leave not long after ten. As we didn’t have Ryan to drive the van, Jayne would take it to Baker Street, and I’d follow in my car. Estrada had sat on a stool at the kitchen island and watched us carry the boxes and coolers outside. Fortunately, they were a good deal lighter leaving than they had been arriving. We’d left cold meats and a selection of cheeses in the fridge and rolls in the bread box so the party could make their own lunches.
A patrol car pulled up to the back door, summoned to take Estrada to the police station. She got into it and they drove away. She did not wave us a cheerful goodbye.
“I promised Jennifer a lift into town,” I said to Jayne. “I won’t be long.”
“What’s she planning to do?” Jayne asked.
“She doesn’t want to go back to California, and she intends to stick around to hear the contents of David’s will. She has, as they say in the classic novels, expectations in that regard.”
“That’ll come as a shock to the man’s wife,” Jayne said.
“If that’s what happens. It might not. David was in his fifties and apparently in good health; he had no intention of dying anytime soon. Rewriting his will would not have been a priority for him. After I’ve dropped Jennifer off, I’m going into the store for the day. As I didn’t know what time we’d be finished here, Ashleigh agreed to work today, although she usually doesn’t on Sundays.”
“You were in such a rush yesterday to hurry her out the door, I didn’t get a chance to ask how things had gone Friday and Saturday.”
“I wasn’t in a rush to get her out the door, as you put it. She was more than welcome to stay and pitch in. If she wasn’t going to do that, I didn’t want her continuing to ask questions about what had gone on here and making up her own wild stories when information was not forthcoming.”
“Whatever,” Jayne said. “The effect was the same. She left.”
“When I called to ask her to bring more games and such, she told me business had been quiet on Friday night, but busy on Saturday. Someone brought in a dog and, to the surprise of everyone, Moriarty didn’t attempt to engage it in a battle to the death. The lack of my presence has calmed him down.”
Jayne shook her head. “You give that cat far too much credit, Gemma. Give him another name and you’ll soon forget he’s supposed to be some sort of criminal mastermind.”
“How about Milverton?” I said. “Has a certain ring to it.”
“After the guy in that paper you read us last night? How’s that supposed to be an improvement? Although honesty forces me to confess I couldn’t follow David’s argument all that well.”
