The game is a footnote, p.1
The Game is a Footnote, page 1
The Game Is a Footnote
A SHERLOCK HOLMES BOOKSHOP MYSTERY
Vicki Delany
To Isla Gail Webb, who has many years of reading ahead of her
Prologue
Despite being the oldest house in West London, Massachusetts, Scarlet House has led a quiet, peaceful existence. Robert and Julia Scarlet came from England in 1640 and laid the foundations for the house in 1648. Descendants of their seven children lived there for generations: a long line of farmers; some teachers and doctors; and a couple of lawyers, civil servants, and small-town politicians, along with numerous children, various in-laws, and the occasional stray relative. The number of servants working and living inside the house, and farmhands laboring outside, increased and decreased as the family and the town prospered, or failed to. Additions were added to the main building and adjacent property purchased as money permitted and needs required. James Scarlet represented Massachusetts at the Continental Congress of 1776, and various Scarlet boys fought for their new country while wives and daughters worked the farm. In 1825, Theodore Scarlet went to sea on a whaling vessel and made enough money to thoroughly renovate the house, build a substantial extension onto it, and buy the neighboring farm. On Theodore’s death, the property was inherited by his first-born son, Jeremiah. Theodore’s eldest child, a daughter, Josephine, had earlier scandalized the family and the community by moving to New York City and becoming a newspaperwoman. The second son, Edward, joined the state department and served in Europe from 1854 until 1861, when he was killed in an accident caused by a horse frightened by a crash of thunder as he returned to West London after abruptly resigning his post. Earlier that year, the three sons of Jeremiah had eagerly joined the Union Army, and they came home to all appearances unscathed. Jeremiah himself died shortly after seeing his sons off to war, when his heart gave out while he was attempting to work his fields by himself. Jeremiah’s two eldest sons had little interest in remaining on Cape Cod or in running the farm, and so it was taken on by the youngest, George. George himself had no children, and on his death in 1896, his aunt Josephine, who had earned a fearsome reputation as a reporter in New York City, returned to West London to take control of the farm. Josephine had no descendants either, and the members of the now-dispersed family had no intention of taking up the lives of farmers. And so the house passed out of the hands of the Scarlets on the death of Josephine in 1914.
The new owner, Mr. Harold Hastings, age twenty-one, intended to work the farm, but he left for the war in Europe in 1917, the moment he was called up. Harold did not return, and his wife, Abigail, was left to raise their son, Harold Hastings Jr., on her own. To do so she rented out the farmland and took boarders in the main house. Abigail eventually married the neighboring farmer, Ralph Goodman. By all accounts the marriage was a happy one, and they had a son and a daughter. When it came time to enlist for the next war, Harold Jr. was exempted because he was needed on the farm; the Goodman daughter went to Europe as a nurse; and the younger boy worked in a government position he was not permitted to discuss with anyone. Neither of Ralph’s children wanted to return to Cape Cod after the war, but Harold Jr. and his only child, Imogen, worked both farms until 1955, when the properties, situated on prime land close to the town and overlooking the ocean, were sold to accommodate the needs of the burgeoning town of West London. The family kept only the house, still known as Scarlet House, along with a much-reduced farm. In 1956, Miss Imogen Hastings married Harold FitzRoy, a high school teacher, and over the years she worked the small plot to provide for the family’s needs and to sell the vegetables (considered by many to be the best grown anywhere in the vicinity) at local markets. She also cared for a few pigs, chickens, and goats who were almost like pets—until slaughter time, of course. The daughter of a farmer, Imogen Hastings FitzRoy had little sentiment when it came to animals. In due course, Harold and Imogen’s children left Cape Cod for the bright lights of New York or Los Angeles or Dallas. Harold lived to see the millennium in, but not the collapse of the twin towers. Imogen died at age eighty-five, the result of a fall sustained while attempting to wrestle a stubborn pregnant pig into the barn. Imogen’s children had no interest whatsoever in the old house or the small-scale hobby farm, and immediately put it up for sale. The residents of West London, horrified at the idea of losing such an important part of their history, gathered together to form the West London Historical Society and managed to raise enough money to buy the property, which included the house, the barn, and an acre of arable land. Two years of additional fundraising enabled them to tear out most of the modernizations to the buildings and return the property to the state it would have been in during the mid-eighteenth century. Recently, a fire in the house destroyed some of the original furnishings and much of the carefully restored interior, but the house itself was saved and, yet again, the West London Historical Society set their highly efficient fundraising machine in motion. Restored and accurately furnished, the property is once more open to visitors as an important historical site.
In the three hundred and seventy-five years since the first logs were laid for a one-room house by Robert and Julia Scarlet, there has never been a whisper of crime or scandal or even minor irregularities touching Scarlet House or any of its residents. The recent fire was an accident, a burning candle unnoticed when the museum closed for the day; it caused no loss of life, and nothing structurally critical was damaged. In an old house, in an old town, no one has ever sensed any paranormal forces at work.
Until now.
Chapter One
“Surely you don’t believe that,” I said.
Leslie Wilson shrugged. “I don’t know what to believe, Gemma. The witnesses aren’t known as people of particularly vivid imagination.”
“In the words of Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge, ‘a bit of overdone potato’ perhaps? Or more likely, more than a bit of potato distilled into vodka?”
“Apparently not.” Leslie Wilson put down her teacup. “All I’m telling you, Gemma, is what I was told. I wasn’t there.”
Leslie’s daughter, Jayne, nibbled on a cucumber sandwich. “I fail to understand what this has to do with us—with Gemma, I mean.”
Leslie picked up her cup again and stared into its depths, as though attempting to read the tea leaves. “I … uh … reminded the board that Gemma had been helpful dealing with what happened at the auction.” Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room had catered the major fund-raising event in support of rebuilding efforts following a fire in the museum. The afternoon had not gone entirely as planned.
“Helpful,” I said, “might be the word. I solved two … no, make that three murders. Which is beside the point. I am not a consulting detective—”
“As you’ve said before,” Jayne pointed out.
“And even more to the point, I’m not a paranormal investigator.”
“It wouldn’t hurt for you to come and have a look, Gemma,” Leslie said. “I … uh … sorta told them you would.”
I leaned back in my chair and cradled my own teacup. It was four PM on a Friday in January. Jayne Wilson, half-owner and head baker of Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room, and I, also part owner of the bakery, as well as part owner and manager of the adjacent business, the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, were having our daily partners’ meeting in the cozy window alcove of the tearoom. Our partners’ meeting is as much a girlfriends’ chat and gossip session as a business meeting, so Leslie Wilson had no hesitation in joining us.
Jayne and her mother sat across the table from me, both of them watching me. Except for the fine lines radiating from the corners of Leslie’s mouth, the circles under her eyes, and the gray in her hair winning its battle with the natural blonde, they could be twins. Perfect skin, heart-shaped faces, pert noses, cornflower-blue eyes. Jayne had pulled her hairnet off to take a seat in the restaurant, and her long hair was pinned up into a messy bun; Leslie’s much shorter hair still showed evidence of the wool hat she’d pulled off when she came inside. They were both slim and petite, and substantially shorter than my five foot eight. I’ve never been considered petite, and my dark, curly hair tends to look like an overused mop, particularly toward the end of the day.
They regarded me with identical expressions.
At our business meetings, we take advantage of any leftovers from afternoon tea service, and today we enjoyed dainty cucumber sandwiches prepared with a sprinkle of curry powder, along with lemon tarts topped with freshly whipped cream, and Jayne’s marvelous scones, made in the true English fashion.
“Tell me again,” I said, “what happened.”
Leslie let out a long breath. “The board sent me here as an advance scout, so what I have to say is secondhand. If you want further details, the museum members who were there will talk to you.”
I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes so I could mentally visualize the scene, and waved my right hand in the air, telling her to continue. Leslie shifted and cleared her throat. I heard the tinkle of fine china as Jayne poured herself another cup of Darjeeling and stirred in a few grains of sugar. Befitting the name of the restaurant, Jayne does a proper afternoon tea with china tea pots and cups and saucers, linens, silver cutlery, flowers in glass vases, three-tiered stands, and little pots of butter, jam, and clotted cream. The tearoom closes at four, and I could hear Jocelyn and Fiona, the assistants, going about their end-of-the-day tasks. From the Emporium next door, I heard the sound of the door opening and Ashleigh, my full-time salesclerk, ask if she could be of help before the sliding door joining the two bus inesses was closed and the lock twisted. Outside, traffic moved steadily down Baker Street, but not many pedestrians were out today. It was the middle of January: few if any tourists were in town. Christmas shopping was finished for another year, and the post-Christmas sales over. The town of West London would now fall into a pleasant, welcome slumber for a couple of months until the first days of spring saw the return of the tourist hordes and eager shoppers streaming (I hoped) through our doors.
The slow season, finally time for Jayne and her fiancé, Andy Whitehall, to get on with it. Jayne wanted a “small, simple” wedding, which I figured would be just about impossible for her to pull off, considering the vast number of friends she had, as well as her mother’s all-encompassing social network—not to mention Andy’s huge extended family, the loyal staff at his restaurant, and his own friends. Finally, the date had been set for a year from now, a winter wedding, when things were quiet in all our businesses. The church had been booked, and the restaurant where the reception would be held arranged. I’d been asked to be the maid of honor and had joyously accepted. The wedding wasn’t for a year, but time would pass quickly. I’d hoped we could get started on some further planning today.
Instead, I’d been asked to investigate a “haunting.”
“Scarlet House has been continually occupied,” Leslie began, “from 1648 until 2010. It was empty for a couple of months when the Historical Society took it on, but that means empty of people living there, not really empty, as they started work on it almost immediately. In all that time, from what we know, there has never been the slightest suggestion that the house is haunted. It’s possible, of course, that the residents didn’t want to mention it, but you’d think such a thing would get out.”
“Particularly in the old days.” I heard the scrape of a butter knife as Jayne scooped up butter to spread on the second half of her scone.
“No one stays in the house overnight anymore,” Leslie said, “but it’s always busy during the day—tourists in the summer, school visits and the like in the winter, children’s programming all year round.”
“Is it open every day?” I asked.
“We don’t have visitors every day, no, but the farm needs tending every day, even in winter, and the volunteers who work in the barn are allowed access to the house, to have their lunch if the weather’s poor and to use the restroom, etcetera.”
“Does everyone and their goat have a key to the house?”
“No. The board chair, Robyn Kirkpatrick—you remember Robyn, Gemma?”
“Oh yes. I certainly do.”
“She and the head of the volunteer committee, who is currently me, and the treasurer have our own keys. A rotating key’s exchanged between the docents and the farm volunteers, and a spare is kept hidden under a plant pot in the garden, in case the volunteer forgets their own.”
“Therefore,” Jayne said, “in Gemma’s words, everyone and their goat has a key.”
“Precisely,” I said. “Any one of them could have had a copy made; anyone who lives with them, or even anyone simply dropping in for a nice cuppa or to fix the plumbing, could have taken it to have a copy made. Anyone who knows about this plant pot has access to a key. Anyone who’s looking for a key will immediately think of checking under a plant pot. I hope you don’t have your own keys hidden in such obvious places, Leslie.”
I heard Leslie shift uncomfortably. I had no doubt she’d be scurrying home after this meeting to relocate the spare key to her house.
“Now that we’ve established that those known to be in possession of a key is irrelevant,” I said, “continue.”
“It started a couple of weeks ago. Brenda, one of the volunteers, couldn’t find the rolling pin she uses to make pies as part of the kitchen demonstration. She’s known to be … shall we say slightly flighty, so no one paid much attention. We simply assumed it would turn up, and in the meantime we asked the woodworker we use to make another period-appropriate pin. The original one did turn up, a few days later, in the airing cupboard, buried in a pile of woolen blankets. People suspected Brenda had had the rolling pin in hand when she accessed the cupboard, and left it there. But then a week later Donna, who is not known to be at all flighty, couldn’t find the volunteer record book. It’s just a notebook the volunteers leave messages in for the people on the next shift, and where they record anything out of the ordinary that happens. The previous volunteer said she’d made a note in the book that they were almost out of furniture polish, and left the notebook in its regular place in the volunteers’ office. Donna searched high and low, and eventually found it in the flour bin.
“Someone’s playing a practical joke,” Jayne said.
“Maybe,” Leslie replied, “but incidents are continuing. An object that was where it was supposed to be one day isn’t there the next. Nothing seems to be going missing during the day. Meaning, if someone’s working in the kitchen and goes out to the barn for a chat, everything’s in place when she returns. But it might not be there the next morning.”
“All this disappearing, or rather moving around, of objects is happening in the house only? Not in the barn or other outbuildings?” I asked.
“Only in the house. One of the candlesticks from the main bedroom disappeared for a couple of days, to be later found in the cradle in the nursery. Tucked neatly into the baby’s blanket.”
“I assume if there’d been signs of a break-in, you would have told me that from the beginning.”
“I would. Believe me, Gemma, the board has been over the house with a fine-toothed comb. Nothing.”
“What are the volunteers saying?” I asked.
“At first we thought it was one of them playing a practical joke, or some kids fooling around. But some are starting to whisper about a poltergeist.”
I opened my eyes and studied her face. “You don’t buy the former. I can hear it in your voice.”
“We know our volunteers, Gemma. They’re our friends, neighbors. Many of them have been with the society since its founding. As for kids, they do silly things, but they get bored easily and soon go on to do silly things someplace else. Kids like to see the results of their so-called pranks. In most of these cases, no one from outside the Historical Society has been around at the time the object was either lost or found.”
“And this has happened to several different people?”
“Yes. If it was always Brenda, we might think it was time to suggest she move on. But different people, different days of the week.”
“Tell me about what happened last Thursday night.”
“You heard about that?”
“Everyone heard about that,” Jayne said. “Dave Chase came in here for a coffee on his way home from trying to settle his animals down. You know Dave—he loves to be the center of attention, and he enjoyed having an audience.”
“If not for the fact that Dave was summoned from his bed by a neighbor,” I said, “I wouldn’t have given his story any credit at all, seeing as to how he does think of himself as a master storyteller. I know what he says happened, but tell me again.”
“At about four AM, the Scarlet House neighbors were woken by sounds coming from the barn.”
“What neighbors? Which house?”
“The one immediately to the east on Harbor Road. The farmland backs onto their property. The animals were in an uproar, the chickens clucking, the pigs squealing, the donkey braying, the sheep baaing.”
“I get the point,” I said.
“Just painting a picture,” Leslie said.
“Speaking of people who like to tell stories,” Jayne said, her voice full of affectionate humor.
Leslie ignored her. “They made sufficient racket that the neighbors at first thought the barn might be on fire. They ran out of their house but didn’t see anything amiss. No fire. No smoke in the air. No one, as far as they could tell, on the property. All quiet and peaceful except for the animals, who continued to bray or cluck or snort or whatever they do. Their names are Craig and Cassie Jones. The neighbors, not the farm animals.”
“We got that, Mom,” Jayne said.
