A Three Book Problem, page 9
“Can I get my things out of the library?”
“No. The room’s sealed.”
“But—”
“No buts. That room is sealed. I have also, perhaps belatedly, had the pool enclosure taped off. I trust you’ll respect those boundaries, Gemma.”
“Of course,” I said innocently.
“I’m staying if Gemma is,” Jayne said firmly.
“Are you sure?” I asked her.
“Working is better than brooding,” she said.
“There truly is a Holmes quote for all occasions. The Great Detective himself said, ‘Work is the best antidote to sorrow.’” In this case it might be for Jayne. Perhaps she would be better off here, busy doing what she loved—cooking—rather than sitting at home remembering what had happened.
“I’m not leaving you two alone,” Ryan said. “Not with a possible killer in the house. I’ll take Stella with me and Louise will stay.”
“We don’t—”
“Louise will stay,” he repeated. “I don’t necessarily agree with you, Gemma, that the killer has to be one of the people in this house. I intend to start checking into Masterson’s personal and business affairs. Need I remind you that if you learn anything at this dinner party, you are to share it with me? Immediately. Not go haring off in all directions trying to trick the killer into attacking you so as to prove their guilt or some such foolishness.”
“Would I do something like that?”
“Yes. Jayne, I’m putting you in charge of keeping Gemma out of trouble.”
“Ha!” Jayne said. “That’ll be the day.”
“Before I go,” he said, “Jayne, have you had any reason to suspect someone’s been in your room again? Since you noticed your ring had been moved?”
“No. It must have been my imagination. I probably didn’t put the ring away properly.”
Ryan and I exchanged a look. Neither of us believed that.
* * *
I’m not much of a cook, but I can lay out sandwich ingredients, which I did, as well as arrange the delicate fruit tarts, macarons, and mini-cupcakes Jayne had earlier prepared at Mrs. Hudson’s for the intended afternoon tea. If the house guests were nervous at the presence of the police outside—poking around the gardens and checking the property line—and in—Detective Estrada watching everyone—they managed not to show it. I studied them as they lined up to fill their plates. The mood was solemn, no one laughed or chatted, and they left the kitchen as soon as they had their food in hand.
“Dinner will be at eight,” I announced. “Drinks in the drawing room at seven thirty.”
“Which gives us time for the movie.” Donald snatched a pistachio macaron off the serving platter. “How about the library at four thirty?”
“The library’s out of bounds,” Estrada reminded him as she assembled a chicken salad sandwich. “Detective Ashburton and I did, however, agree that you can have your DVD player and screen back. They’re in the dining room.”
“Excellent,” Donald said. “Why don’t we use the music room? The chairs in there can be arranged so everyone can face the screen. Smithers, I mean Billy, can you set it up for us?”
“Sure,” Billy said, as I got the DVD of Murder by Decree out of the bag I’d used to bring props from the store.
Lunch served, guests departed, Jayne swung into action. She had a leg of lamb marinating in the fridge and she gave it a stir. The first course would be a clear consommé served with Jayne-made dinner rolls; the fish course, smoked salmon crostini; then the lamb with roasted potatoes and root vegetables, followed by a traditional English trifle and shortbread.
Jayne’s interpretation of a Victorian meal.
She assigned Donald to peel the potatoes and carrots and me to set the table. Detective Estrada, having finished her sandwich, perched on a stool with her police radio on the counter next to her, munched on a coconut cupcake, and watched us work. Irene had somehow managed to slip away before I could catch her and get her to help.
“You can wash up the lunch dishes,” I said to Detective Estrada.
“I’m already working, thanks, Gemma. It’s my job to watch you and Jayne.”
“Can’t you do two things at once?”
“Not those two things.”
Donald scraped his potato peeler across a potato, said “ow,” and studied the tip of his finger.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Estrada said. “I don’t want to have to do an emergency run to the hospital. Donald, hand me that thing. You can wash the lunch dishes.” She took off her leather jacket and draped it across the back of a stool.
Trying not to chuckle too loudly, I went into the dining room to start laying the table. I heard voices in the front hall and stuck my head around the corner.
Irene and Kyle stood together at the bottom of the stairs. “Interesting furniture in my room.” Kyle laid a hand on her arm. “How about I come up and see yours? Only because of my intense interest in period furniture, you understand.”
She plucked the hand off. “Kyle, I understand exactly what you’re saying.”
“Everything okay here?” I asked.
Irene turned to me with a relieved smile. “Perfectly okay, thanks, Gemma. I was telling Kyle here to run along and play. By himself.”
He touched one finger to his forehead, gave her a wink, threw me a wicked grin, and took the stairs two at a time.
“Problem?” I asked Irene.
“Nah. He’s harmless. He’s the type who flirts because he thinks it’s expected of him. Annoying, but nothing more. I suspect if he ever catches a woman, he doesn’t quite know what do to with her.”
“I don’t know about that, but if you say so … What are you up to for the rest of the day?”
“I thought I’d go for a walk. I might wander down to the property line and ask the cops if they’re finding anything of interest.”
“I’m sure they’ll tell you.”
“I heard they’ve closed the front gate and put a guard on it. To keep away the curious members of the public and the fourth estate. Good thing I find myself on the right side of that line.”
“I thought you might be taking your leave of us.”
“Ha! Anything but. This is a hot story, Gemma. Wealthy New York City philanthropist murdered at Suffolk Gardens House. Your intrepid reporter is not only on the scene, but part of the weekend house party.” She rubbed her hands together. “It’s the scoop of a lifetime.”
“Except for the small matter that the police haven’t yet ascertained whether or not it was a murder.”
“Sure it was, and you know it. You were a witness. I need to interview you.”
I gave her a look.
“Jayne then.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying, Gemma.”
“Yes, I can. And I will if you badger Jayne.” I kept my eyes fixed on her face. Irene was a good friend to Jayne and me, but she was, above all, a newspaper reporter.
She had the grace to flush and look away. “I figured I’d stay another night as long as the others are. Who knows what confessions might come out over dinner? Besides, I never pass up an offer of Jayne’s cooking.”
“How’s your room?” I asked.
“It’s great. Spacious, with a big four-poster bed, a writing desk, chaise longue, and adjoining bathroom. I assume Arthur was to be the guest of honor, so I got the best guest room. Lucky me.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “I overheard someone saying the house has poltergeists. That some of their things had been moved.”
“Surely you, of all people, don’t believe that rubbish?”
“Just asking.”
* * *
I’ve seen Murder by Decree several times. It’s one of my favorite Holmes movies: absolutely dripping with atmosphere and an increasing sense of dread as Holmes and Watson participate in the hunt for Jack the Ripper. I joined the others in the music room at four thirty for the viewing, but as much as I like the movie, I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to what was happening on screen. Instead I watched the audience in the flickering light.
Miranda had not come down, and I’d gone up to her room under the pretense of checking that she was okay. She yelled at me through the closed door to go away as she was taking a nap. The rest of the party were here.
My initial impression was that no one, with the exception of Annie and Jennifer, was particularly upset at the death of our host. Whether they didn’t like him, or didn’t know him all that well, I couldn’t tell.
The centerpiece of the music room was a grand piano. The walls were painted Wedgwood blue, and the chairs, carpets, and drapes patterned in matching blue and yellow. The art was mass-produced prints of English masters, Gainsborough portraits and Constable landscapes, in ornate, but dusty, gilt frames. When I came in, the drapes had been closed and the round center table pushed up against the wall so the chairs could be lined in rows facing the portable screen. A side table had been pulled in front of the screen, and Billy had set the DVD player on it to project the image. I didn’t see any signs of the sound system that had been used to play the music I’d heard earlier, and I assumed it resided in the cabinet on which glasses, a bottle of wine in a cooler, and several beer bottles, both opened and not, now rested. I wasn’t sure why we were bothering with a formal time to gather for predinner drinks later as many of the guests, not to mention the former staff, were now happily helping themselves.
Donald had taken a chair next to Steve, and they carried on a steady commentary with each other on their favorite parts, repeating lines along with Christopher Plummer, James Mason, and the other actors. Kyle and Billy watched the movie with one eye, while keeping the other on the screens of their phones. Irene, Annie, and Cliff seemed to be enjoying it, but Jennifer was fidgety: she couldn’t settle in her seat. She kept shifting position, and constantly tugged at the hem of the arms of her baggy sweater and twisted the fabric around and around her fingers.
Not wanting to make herself too comfortable in the soft damask-covered chairs, Estrada had carried a straight-backed chair in from the dining room and put it at the back of the room. She turned down the police radio stuffed into her pocket, but the annoying sound of static burst through every now and again. Officers were still outside, poking through the undergrowth, studying the ground, taking fingerprints, shoe prints, and tire treads, guarding the front door. Most of the guests had stood at the windows watching, off and on, but what was going on outside was less exciting than the on-screen exploits.
At last the movie came to a satisfactory conclusion. I switched on the lights, and everyone began to stand up.
“Do you think there’s something to that?” Kyle asked. “That the Duke of Whatever was Jack the Ripper and they hushed it up to avoid a scandal?”
“Such has been speculated,” Donald said, “but never seriously. Serious Ripper scholars will tell you that—”
“There’s such a thing as Ripper scholars?” Estrada said to me.
“It’s still a mystery. A sensational mystery at a fascinating time in history.”
She shook her head. I suppose for someone who deals in murder and mystery in real time, the details of a case more than a hundred years old aren’t worth worrying over.
The guests filed out of the music room and everyone headed for the stairs to get changed or have a rest before dinner. “I’m going to the kitchen to check in with Detective Ashburton,” Estrada said. “Try not to get into any trouble while I’m gone, Gemma.”
“Dinner’s at eight,” I said. “Cocktails at seven thirty. Dress was supposed to be formal, but I don’t know who’s going to make the effort, so you should be okay in that outfit.”
She glared at me and stalked out of the room.
I’d only been trying to be helpful.
I crossed the floor of the music room and pulled open the thick drapes we’d earlier closed to darken the room. I was in time to see a nifty little white Mercedes SLK pull to a screeching halt by the front door and a woman leap out. The fresh-faced young officer guarding the door stepped toward her and put up his hand. She yelled something at him, and he glanced around, clearly panic-stricken, searching for help.
Estrada was in the kitchen on her phone, so I decided to do what I could to be of assistance. I opened the front door and stepped outside. It was just past six thirty; the sky to the west was streaked in shades of gray and pink, and the trees lining the driveway formed dark, indistinct shapes.
The new arrival was waving a red-tipped finger in the uniformed officer’s face. “I demand, yes, demand, to speak to the person in charge. At once!”
He heard the door open and gave an almost visible sigh of relief at the arrival of a higher authority. Even if it was only me.
“Hi,” I said. “Welcome.”
The woman peered down her nose, quite a feat considering I was standing on the steps and she was about five foot one. She was in her mid-forties, with streaked blonde hair cut in a razor-sharp line at the level of her pointed chin and small dark eyes, expensively dressed in artfully distressed jeans and a scoop-necked pink silk shirt worn under a waist-length blue leather jacket. Gold and diamonds sparkled in her ears and on the tennis bracelet around her right wrist. Her hands were freshly manicured, the long nails painted a dark red. She might have been pretty, I thought, but for the narrowness of the eyes and the thinness of her lipsticked mouth. Her entire being spoke of money and arrogance. I can tell a lot about a person from their appearance, but I try not to make instant judgments as to their character.
I decided, on the spot, that I did not like this woman.
She studied me and then she said, “I want to speak to the person in charge. Is that you?”
“Uh, no,” said the young cop. We both ignored him.
I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no. I said, “Can I help you?”
Standing in front of the Mercedes SLK, dressed as she was, she practically screamed money. But all of it new money. She had not grown up rich; there was far too much aggression in her attempts to push her weight around, as if fearing we’d see through her soon enough. “I certainly hope someone can,” she sniffed.
“Mrs. Masterson,” I said. “I’m Gemma Doyle.”
“Good,” she snapped. “You know who I am. Are you in charge here?”
“You might say that.” I had, after all, earlier set the dining room table, and if all went well I’d be allowed to whip the cream for the trifle later.
The young officer cleared his throat. “Ms. Doyle, I don’t think—”
“Oh, all right,” I confessed. “Detective Ashburton has gone into town. Detective Estrada is in the house.”
“Call them. The detectives. Tell them I’m here.” She marched past me into the house. “I’ve had the worst possible news and a long drive.”
I followed her. “Have you come from New York?”
“I was at a friend’s place in Bridgeport when I got the call from this Detective Ashburton. I came immediately, of course. The traffic onto the Cape was a nightmare!” She stopped so abruptly I almost crashed into the back of her. She sucked in a breath, and said, “My … uh … husband? Where is … he?”
“He’s been taken to West London Hospital.”
She let out a relived sigh as she studied her surroundings. “My, this is … nice. I didn’t quite believe David when he told me he’d found the perfect house for his Holmes weekend.”
At that moment Donald, Miranda, and Steve came into the front hall. Miranda stopped dead and her eyes widened. Mrs. Masterson sucked in a breath and her eyes narrowed.
“Oh, hello,” Donald said.
“Rebecca. I thought I saw your car drive up.” Annie approached from the other direction, and Mrs. Masterson turned.
“Good afternoon, Ann.” Her tone was polite but chilly enough to keep the predinner drinks on ice.
“I guess you heard what happened, eh?” Annie said. She’d removed the lacy cap and run her fingers through her hair and kicked off the shoes, but otherwise she hadn’t changed out of the drab housekeeper costume. “We’re all pretty upset. Are you … okay, Rebecca?”
“I will be. I haven’t yet fully processed the dreadful news.” She dug in her tiny Kate Spade bag and found an unused tissue. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes, but the tissue came away dry. I’m well aware that everyone handles grief in their own way, and I made no judgment of Rebecca Masterson on that account. Not yet.
“My suitcases are in the car. See to them, will you, Ann. If the house is full, I’ll take David’s room.” She glanced quickly at Miranda and added, “I assume that room’s free.”
“It is, far as I know,” Miranda said.
Annie looked like she was about to say something, but she bit her tongue, and said, “I’ll bring your bags up.”
“Why don’t I show you the way?” I said. “We’re having drinks in the drawing room at seven thirty and dinner at eight. The group thought it would be a fitting tribute to David to continue with the formal dinner.”
“David was born far past his time. He sure liked to stand on ceremony,” Rebecca said. “That’s why he loved those old-time English people so much. I think they’re nothing but dull.”
“Donald,” I said. “Would you mind helping Annie with the suitcases?”
“I’d be happy to,” my friend said.
The staircase matched the rest of the house: grand and majestic and shabby, with a heavy dark oak banister, worn and bleached red runner on the creaking steps, fading prints of eighteenth-century portraits in frames thick with dust hanging above the landing.
I led the way toward the staircase before I realized I didn’t know which was David’s—now Rebecca’s—room. I turned around to face the people watching us. “Uh?”
“Second on the right,” Annie said. “David got the master suite.”
Rebecca tossed her hair, grabbed the banister, and ascended.
