Theres a murder afoot, p.22
There's a Murder Afoot, page 22
I let out a long breath.
Perhaps it had been an act of random chance. Not of the victim, as I’d speculated, but of the location.
Even if someone who meant me harm didn’t know I was going to be crossing St. Martin’s Place, it was known I’d be in the general area around this time. Because Grant and I had been lured to the Black Star Gallery.
Had that person simply seen me standing in the street among so many others and taken the opportunity that presented itself? I tried to create a mental image of the scene as we’d come out of the church. The traffic, the crowds, the noise, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. The scent of exhaust fumes, damp clothes, restaurant ovens. Jayne called for us to wait a moment; Ryan dropped my hand to fall back, but I carried on. Someone near me had been smoking a cigarette, but I hadn’t seen their face. The scent had passed on by as the smoker went on their way.
The strong fresh odor of citrus. Close to me. Very close. Might someone have been eating an orange as they pushed me into the street? That seemed unlikely.
“Gemma?” Grant said in a soft voice.
I opened my eyes. He had a half-finished pint of beer in front of him. My tea was cold. “What’s the time?”
“Quarter after four. I didn’t like to disturb you.”
“Time we were going then. The others will be getting worried.”
“Did you think of something?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
But I had.
Chapter Seventeen
I was pretty sure I knew who’d tried to kill me, and why, but I needed time to think over what to do next.
I also needed, before doing anything further, to find out if there had been any fresh developments.
There had been one, and it was significant.
A new detective had been assigned to the case. My mother phoned as Grant and I were leaving the pub. The police, she said, had come to the house to interview Dad and her as well as Ryan and Jayne. They wanted to talk to Grant and me also.
“We’re on our way,” I said. “Half an hour maybe.”
“One other thing,” she said. “Henry got word that DI Morrison has been placed on leave, pending a review of his behavior around the arrest of Henry Doyle, which was subsequently determined to be so premature and unfounded it was thrown out of court with strong words from his lordship the judge about wasting valuable court time.”
“Morrison is not going to be well disposed to the Doyle family.”
“We can only assume that is the case,” my mother said.
Grant and I took the Tube to Gloucester Road station and walked quickly to Stanhope Gardens in the deepening dusk. If Grant was aware that I was paying particular attention—even more than usual—to my immediate surroundings, he said nothing.
DS Patel met us at the door. She might have looked marginally less stressed than when I’d seen her last, but she was as silent as ever. Ryan had followed her, and he gave me a hug. “Everything okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “Absolutely nothing happened. And you can check with Grant if you don’t believe me.”
“Somewhat like the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime,” Grant said. “That we met with no one and no one was interested in meeting with us, was the curious incident.”
Ryan raised one eyebrow. At last Patel spoke. “I wish you people would stop pretending this is an episode of Sherlock.”
“Fear not, I don’t believe that for a moment,” I said.
“DI Robinson is in the library,” she said. “She’s waiting for you, Ms. Doyle.”
“Lead on,” I said.
DI Robinson was in her midforties, married for a long time, judging by the tightness of the band of the gold ring on her left hand, and she had at least one very young child, judging by the porridge stain on the back of her right shoulder. I assumed the late-in-life child had been a surprise and Robinson was having trouble squeezing the baby into her busy work schedule. Her husband resented the amount of time she dedicated to her job, and thus he hadn’t bothered to point out the food residue before she left the house.
Either her colleagues didn’t like her much, or they were too afraid of her to point it out. I decided, by the tone of voice Patel had used to refer to her, that it wasn’t the former, and by the lack of aggression in the inspector’s eyes, that it wasn’t because anyone lived in fear of her. They simply accepted that she was having a difficult time balancing all her responsibilities and let it go.
She was sitting in my father’s chair, and although I didn’t like to see anyone else there, I said nothing. She stood when I came in, Patel introduced us, we shook hands, and I sat down, aware Robinson was studying me as intently as I had done her. I waited for her to speak.
“Tell me about Saturday evening, at the conference banquet,” she said in a Birmingham accent. I did so.
Our interview took a long time. I told her everything I remembered. Unprompted, I then told her about Elsie Saunders and how I suspected she’d pinched some of Randy’s sketches. Robinson’s face showed no reaction, but when I mentioned Arianna Nowacki and the argument with Randy in the bar, her eyes flicked suddenly to Patel, who was unfortunately standing directly behind me so I couldn’t see her, and I knew this information came as news to the detectives.
“You might also want to speak to Sir John Saint-Jean,” I said. “He had a history, so I’ve been given to understand, with my late uncle Randolph. He spoke to my mother before we went in to dinner.”
“Is that the bald man, tough looking, in your mother’s words, who wanted her to give a message to her brother?”
“Yes,” I said. “It would seem my uncle was involved in business to do with forged and stolen art. Plus, on a personal level, a lot of people didn’t like him all that much. I trust you’re focusing your inquires in those directions.”
“I’ll keep all that in mind.”
“Good.”
“I’m curious as to what you’re doing here, Ms. Doyle.”
“Me? I’m visiting my parents.”
“Other than that. Your friend Ryan Ashburton is a detective in Massachusetts. At the Met we don’t take kindly to vacationing police officers investigating crimes in our jurisdiction.”
“Ryan hasn’t …”
“No, he hasn’t,” she said. “He hasn’t been doing anything but visiting the popular sights of the city and talking to your father in general terms about police work. But you, with no qualifications whatsoever, seem to be running all over London investigating.”
“Perhaps I’m just nosy,” I said. “Be that as it may, I have been trying to help my father, yes. Considering that DI Morrison was prepared to railroad him, someone had to conduct a proper investigation.”
“And you thought that someone should be you? The owner of a Sherlock Holmes bookshop?”
I’d sat here debating how much to tell Robinson about Julian Lambert and his gallery, the misdirected meeting, and the shove against my back.
But now Robinson was putting me in mind of my nemesis Detective Louise Estrada, back home in West London, who never believed a word I said. If I deduced that the sky was blue, Estrada would accuse me of trying to cover up the fact that the sky was green.
Dealing with suspicious police officers can be highly tedious.
Although, in fairness, I had absolutely no proof anyone had pushed me. Things do happen in overcrowded streets.
“Thank you for your time,” Robinson said, dismissing me.
I didn’t stand up. “Are you aware DI Morrison was seen this morning watching this house? And that that happened after the court hearing?”
“Mrs. Doyle mentioned you told her something to that effect.”
“I told her because I saw him. Can I trust you’ll be mentioning it to your supervisors?”
She said nothing.
I got to my feet. “I’ll be staying in London for the time being, if you need anything.”
“Unlikely I will,” she said.
“I hope you can get home in time to put the baby to bed tonight,” I said. “Your erratic schedule must make it difficult.”
“What the …?” She shot a look at Patel. I was half turning and saw Patel give her boss a shrug and me a suspicious look.
* * *
I found everyone huddled in the kitchen. Despite Jayne’s presence to assist, there was no sign of dinner preparations.
“What do you know about DI Robinson?” I asked Dad.
“Nothing,” he said. “Never heard of her. I called a mate, and he told me she transferred in from Birmingham, but then she went on maternity leave and only just returned to work.”
“So she has no ax to grind,” Grant said. “That’s good.”
“But a reputation to make,” Mum said. “Even more so if some of her colleagues resent her for taking time off to care for a new baby.”
“Tea, anyone?” Jayne asked.
Ryan groaned.
“Oh, Gemma,” Mum said, “The police dropped a package off for you earlier. It’s Arthur’s statue. They don’t need it any longer. I put it in your room.”
I’d been rather hoping the police would keep it. I didn’t fancy lugging it all the way home in my suitcase. It might even put me over the weight limit on the plane.
“Let’s have dinner out,” Dad said. “How about Steak and Co. on Gloucester Road? I feel like a good steak.”
We chorused our agreement.
“Why don’t you see if Pippa’s free tonight?” Grant said.
“She might be,” Dad said. “I saw on the news that that standoff in the South China Sea ended peacefully.”
“Why would that affect her dinner plans?” Grant said.
“Her boss might have had to go in to a meeting,” I said. “And want her to take the minutes.”
“He works her too hard,” Grant replied. “Don’t they have recording devices in the British government these days?”
“Pippa must have been mistaken,” Donald said to Grant as they headed for their room. “The nice people at the British Library told me they don’t have a Sir Arthur display at the moment, but they hope to have the opportunity to put on something next year. They took down my contact information so I can be informed if it happens. I’d like to come back to London to see it.”
My mother had signaled to me that she wanted to speak privately, so I hung back after everyone went to get ready for dinner, including Dad. Horace stayed behind, clearly wondering what was happening about dinner.
“The police will be releasing Randolph’s body the day after tomorrow,” Mum said. “I’ve been on the phone discussing the arrangements.”
“Why is it up to you?”
She sighed heavily. The strain of the last few days showed in the fine skin around her mouth and the shade of purple under her eyes. “There is, it would appear, no one else. He was married at one time, but that ended a number of years ago. The police gave me the number of his ex-wife, and I called her. She lives in Italy, and doesn’t want to be bothered. She was downright rude about it. He had no children, at least none that I can locate.”
“That’s sad,” I said.
“It is, isn’t it?”
I thought of Arianna, supposedly his fiancée prior to Friday. Unlikely she’d want to be saddled with making funeral arrangements.
“He brought it on himself,” I said.
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any less sad.”
* * *
Before changing to go out for dinner, I knocked on Jayne’s door. Horace had followed me up the stairs, after first checking that Mum wasn’t watching.
“Come on in!” she called, and the dog and I did so.
This room was pretty and feminine in shades of peach and cream. The bed was small, with ruffled pillows and a thick down comforter, and the curtains were pulled back to give a view over the lights of the garden to the dark shapes of the rooftops of the houses behind. Horace sniffed Jayne’s suitcase and the shoes she’d laid out next to the closet.
“You need to go home,” I said.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “Not without you.”
“I might be a while.” I sat on the bed. The dog settled his muzzle in my lap and I stroked it.
“A while as in permanently?”
“Definitely not. Just while my parents need me. Dad’s not out from under the cloud of suspicion yet.”
“This case might never be wrapped up.”
“I’m aware of that. Uncle Arthur and Ashleigh can manage the store.”
“No, they can’t.”
“All the more reason for you to go home. Someone has to keep our businesses afloat. Isn’t that right, Horace?”
The dog snuffled in agreement.
“But that’s not why I’m here,” I said. “You and I are going on an outing tomorrow, if you’re willing.”
“Of course, I’m willing. Where?”
“We’re going to look at art. Our intentions in doing so are not honorable.”
“Are you going to tell me what that means? Okay, foolish question, you never do.”
I went back to my room. Ryan was propped up on the bed, reading his phone. “Any news from West London?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said, far too quickly, closing the phone with an audible click.
“Nope meaning yes. What’s happened now?”
“Nothing you need to know about.”
Meaning something I desperately needed to know about. “Now I am worried. Tell me what’s happened, or I’ll assume the entire town has been washed away in a flash flood, bearing Uncle Arthur and Moriarty on a raft made of Sherlock pastiche novels.”
“That paints an interesting picture. I guess you’ll find out anyway. I went onto Twitter to check the police updates.”
“And?”
“Nothing of importance there. Things do seem to have been quiet in town this week. But a reference to … uh … your store caught my eye.”
I dropped onto the bed beside him. “Let me see.”
He pressed his thumb on the button to open up the screen. I leaned over his shoulder to read. A reference had been made to the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, all right. Several references. And none of them good.
The tweets were warning people to stay away. I saw words such as RUDE STAFF and VICIOUS ANIMAL.
I groaned and took out my phone. I called the store.
“Hi, Gemma,” Ashleigh said. “Hope you’re still having fun. Have you been on the London Eye yet? I was watching a BBC program last night, and everything looks so interesting.”
“An absolute riot,” I said. “Unfortunately, they get Twitter in England.”
“Oh. I guess you saw.”
“What happened?”
“It’s not as bad as it seems, Gemma. No one pays any attention to those sorts of things. Everyone uses Twitter to complain. We all know that.”
“What happened?”
“This bus tour group came in. I don’t know why anyone would come on a bus tour to Cape Cod in the winter anyway. They should know better. Probably because it’s cheap.”
“Ashleigh, get to the point.”
“I am. The group consisted of older ladies and gentlemen. One of the women said she loved Benedict Cumberbatch, and one of the men said something not polite about English men.”
“And Uncle Arthur happened to be there at the time.”
“Yeah. So he made a comment about uncouth colonial upstarts, and the old man reminded him that we’d kicked you people out back in 1776.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“It escalated from there. Some of the women took Arthur’s side, but another guy started mocking the whole Sherlock Holmes thing, and Arthur said the reason he didn’t like it was because he was too stupid to understand it. The woman who liked Benedict laughed and the man got mad at her. Arthur ordered them out of the store. They left after exchanging more insults. The woman who liked Benedict bought a wall calendar.”
I was not consoled by news of the sale of one calendar. “Twitter says something about a vicious animal?”
“Yeah. That. Moriarty took a swipe at the arm of the guy who didn’t like Sherlock. He didn’t draw blood, though. Not that I saw.”
“Ashleigh! We’re lucky he didn’t complain to the town.”
“He threatened to, but one of the women said he was a sissy if he went crying to the police about a cat scratch. Don’t worry about it, Gemma. I think their bus trip wasn’t going very well even before they got to the Emporium.”
* * *
We enjoyed a pleasant dinner and avoided any talk of what was keeping us in London. My dad seemed in fine form, laughing with Jayne, talking books with Grant and police with Ryan. Mum smiled and sipped at her glass of wine, but when she glanced at Dad, I could see the shadow of worry behind her eyes. Donald regaled us with the plot of the Bruce-Partington Plans, much of which happened not far from where we currently were.
Pippa had not joined us, and Grant tried, and failed, to hide his disappointment.
As we lingered over coffee and dessert, I said, ever so casually, “I want to pay a call tomorrow morning on Arianna.”
“Who’s Arianna?” Dad said.
“Randy’s fiancée. Ex-fiancée. She needs to know about the funeral arrangements.” I didn’t mention that at my request Pippa had had Arianna placed under unofficial protection, which meant she could be just about anywhere in the country.
“Can’t you phone her?” Ryan said.
“That’s not something you discuss over the phone.”
“Sure it is, if it’s someone you arranged to meet only because you thought they might have murdered the deceased.”
“I’ll go with you,” Jayne said.
“Thanks.”
“Might as well tag along,” Ryan said.
“Not a good idea,” I said. “She’s likely to be … emotionally fragile.”
“In which case the presence of a strong young man would come in handy,” Donald said, not at all helpfully. “Women like that sort of masculine support, or so I’ve been told.”
I pretended to consider the idea; then I said, with a reluctant shrug, “Probably better if Ryan stays with Dad in case DI Robinson comes back with more questions. Or if Morrison comes to the house. No one saw him hanging around this afternoon, or as we were coming out for dinner?”
Perhaps it had been an act of random chance. Not of the victim, as I’d speculated, but of the location.
Even if someone who meant me harm didn’t know I was going to be crossing St. Martin’s Place, it was known I’d be in the general area around this time. Because Grant and I had been lured to the Black Star Gallery.
Had that person simply seen me standing in the street among so many others and taken the opportunity that presented itself? I tried to create a mental image of the scene as we’d come out of the church. The traffic, the crowds, the noise, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. The scent of exhaust fumes, damp clothes, restaurant ovens. Jayne called for us to wait a moment; Ryan dropped my hand to fall back, but I carried on. Someone near me had been smoking a cigarette, but I hadn’t seen their face. The scent had passed on by as the smoker went on their way.
The strong fresh odor of citrus. Close to me. Very close. Might someone have been eating an orange as they pushed me into the street? That seemed unlikely.
“Gemma?” Grant said in a soft voice.
I opened my eyes. He had a half-finished pint of beer in front of him. My tea was cold. “What’s the time?”
“Quarter after four. I didn’t like to disturb you.”
“Time we were going then. The others will be getting worried.”
“Did you think of something?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
But I had.
Chapter Seventeen
I was pretty sure I knew who’d tried to kill me, and why, but I needed time to think over what to do next.
I also needed, before doing anything further, to find out if there had been any fresh developments.
There had been one, and it was significant.
A new detective had been assigned to the case. My mother phoned as Grant and I were leaving the pub. The police, she said, had come to the house to interview Dad and her as well as Ryan and Jayne. They wanted to talk to Grant and me also.
“We’re on our way,” I said. “Half an hour maybe.”
“One other thing,” she said. “Henry got word that DI Morrison has been placed on leave, pending a review of his behavior around the arrest of Henry Doyle, which was subsequently determined to be so premature and unfounded it was thrown out of court with strong words from his lordship the judge about wasting valuable court time.”
“Morrison is not going to be well disposed to the Doyle family.”
“We can only assume that is the case,” my mother said.
Grant and I took the Tube to Gloucester Road station and walked quickly to Stanhope Gardens in the deepening dusk. If Grant was aware that I was paying particular attention—even more than usual—to my immediate surroundings, he said nothing.
DS Patel met us at the door. She might have looked marginally less stressed than when I’d seen her last, but she was as silent as ever. Ryan had followed her, and he gave me a hug. “Everything okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “Absolutely nothing happened. And you can check with Grant if you don’t believe me.”
“Somewhat like the curious incident of the dog in the nighttime,” Grant said. “That we met with no one and no one was interested in meeting with us, was the curious incident.”
Ryan raised one eyebrow. At last Patel spoke. “I wish you people would stop pretending this is an episode of Sherlock.”
“Fear not, I don’t believe that for a moment,” I said.
“DI Robinson is in the library,” she said. “She’s waiting for you, Ms. Doyle.”
“Lead on,” I said.
DI Robinson was in her midforties, married for a long time, judging by the tightness of the band of the gold ring on her left hand, and she had at least one very young child, judging by the porridge stain on the back of her right shoulder. I assumed the late-in-life child had been a surprise and Robinson was having trouble squeezing the baby into her busy work schedule. Her husband resented the amount of time she dedicated to her job, and thus he hadn’t bothered to point out the food residue before she left the house.
Either her colleagues didn’t like her much, or they were too afraid of her to point it out. I decided, by the tone of voice Patel had used to refer to her, that it wasn’t the former, and by the lack of aggression in the inspector’s eyes, that it wasn’t because anyone lived in fear of her. They simply accepted that she was having a difficult time balancing all her responsibilities and let it go.
She was sitting in my father’s chair, and although I didn’t like to see anyone else there, I said nothing. She stood when I came in, Patel introduced us, we shook hands, and I sat down, aware Robinson was studying me as intently as I had done her. I waited for her to speak.
“Tell me about Saturday evening, at the conference banquet,” she said in a Birmingham accent. I did so.
Our interview took a long time. I told her everything I remembered. Unprompted, I then told her about Elsie Saunders and how I suspected she’d pinched some of Randy’s sketches. Robinson’s face showed no reaction, but when I mentioned Arianna Nowacki and the argument with Randy in the bar, her eyes flicked suddenly to Patel, who was unfortunately standing directly behind me so I couldn’t see her, and I knew this information came as news to the detectives.
“You might also want to speak to Sir John Saint-Jean,” I said. “He had a history, so I’ve been given to understand, with my late uncle Randolph. He spoke to my mother before we went in to dinner.”
“Is that the bald man, tough looking, in your mother’s words, who wanted her to give a message to her brother?”
“Yes,” I said. “It would seem my uncle was involved in business to do with forged and stolen art. Plus, on a personal level, a lot of people didn’t like him all that much. I trust you’re focusing your inquires in those directions.”
“I’ll keep all that in mind.”
“Good.”
“I’m curious as to what you’re doing here, Ms. Doyle.”
“Me? I’m visiting my parents.”
“Other than that. Your friend Ryan Ashburton is a detective in Massachusetts. At the Met we don’t take kindly to vacationing police officers investigating crimes in our jurisdiction.”
“Ryan hasn’t …”
“No, he hasn’t,” she said. “He hasn’t been doing anything but visiting the popular sights of the city and talking to your father in general terms about police work. But you, with no qualifications whatsoever, seem to be running all over London investigating.”
“Perhaps I’m just nosy,” I said. “Be that as it may, I have been trying to help my father, yes. Considering that DI Morrison was prepared to railroad him, someone had to conduct a proper investigation.”
“And you thought that someone should be you? The owner of a Sherlock Holmes bookshop?”
I’d sat here debating how much to tell Robinson about Julian Lambert and his gallery, the misdirected meeting, and the shove against my back.
But now Robinson was putting me in mind of my nemesis Detective Louise Estrada, back home in West London, who never believed a word I said. If I deduced that the sky was blue, Estrada would accuse me of trying to cover up the fact that the sky was green.
Dealing with suspicious police officers can be highly tedious.
Although, in fairness, I had absolutely no proof anyone had pushed me. Things do happen in overcrowded streets.
“Thank you for your time,” Robinson said, dismissing me.
I didn’t stand up. “Are you aware DI Morrison was seen this morning watching this house? And that that happened after the court hearing?”
“Mrs. Doyle mentioned you told her something to that effect.”
“I told her because I saw him. Can I trust you’ll be mentioning it to your supervisors?”
She said nothing.
I got to my feet. “I’ll be staying in London for the time being, if you need anything.”
“Unlikely I will,” she said.
“I hope you can get home in time to put the baby to bed tonight,” I said. “Your erratic schedule must make it difficult.”
“What the …?” She shot a look at Patel. I was half turning and saw Patel give her boss a shrug and me a suspicious look.
* * *
I found everyone huddled in the kitchen. Despite Jayne’s presence to assist, there was no sign of dinner preparations.
“What do you know about DI Robinson?” I asked Dad.
“Nothing,” he said. “Never heard of her. I called a mate, and he told me she transferred in from Birmingham, but then she went on maternity leave and only just returned to work.”
“So she has no ax to grind,” Grant said. “That’s good.”
“But a reputation to make,” Mum said. “Even more so if some of her colleagues resent her for taking time off to care for a new baby.”
“Tea, anyone?” Jayne asked.
Ryan groaned.
“Oh, Gemma,” Mum said, “The police dropped a package off for you earlier. It’s Arthur’s statue. They don’t need it any longer. I put it in your room.”
I’d been rather hoping the police would keep it. I didn’t fancy lugging it all the way home in my suitcase. It might even put me over the weight limit on the plane.
“Let’s have dinner out,” Dad said. “How about Steak and Co. on Gloucester Road? I feel like a good steak.”
We chorused our agreement.
“Why don’t you see if Pippa’s free tonight?” Grant said.
“She might be,” Dad said. “I saw on the news that that standoff in the South China Sea ended peacefully.”
“Why would that affect her dinner plans?” Grant said.
“Her boss might have had to go in to a meeting,” I said. “And want her to take the minutes.”
“He works her too hard,” Grant replied. “Don’t they have recording devices in the British government these days?”
“Pippa must have been mistaken,” Donald said to Grant as they headed for their room. “The nice people at the British Library told me they don’t have a Sir Arthur display at the moment, but they hope to have the opportunity to put on something next year. They took down my contact information so I can be informed if it happens. I’d like to come back to London to see it.”
My mother had signaled to me that she wanted to speak privately, so I hung back after everyone went to get ready for dinner, including Dad. Horace stayed behind, clearly wondering what was happening about dinner.
“The police will be releasing Randolph’s body the day after tomorrow,” Mum said. “I’ve been on the phone discussing the arrangements.”
“Why is it up to you?”
She sighed heavily. The strain of the last few days showed in the fine skin around her mouth and the shade of purple under her eyes. “There is, it would appear, no one else. He was married at one time, but that ended a number of years ago. The police gave me the number of his ex-wife, and I called her. She lives in Italy, and doesn’t want to be bothered. She was downright rude about it. He had no children, at least none that I can locate.”
“That’s sad,” I said.
“It is, isn’t it?”
I thought of Arianna, supposedly his fiancée prior to Friday. Unlikely she’d want to be saddled with making funeral arrangements.
“He brought it on himself,” I said.
“Yes, but that doesn’t make it any less sad.”
* * *
Before changing to go out for dinner, I knocked on Jayne’s door. Horace had followed me up the stairs, after first checking that Mum wasn’t watching.
“Come on in!” she called, and the dog and I did so.
This room was pretty and feminine in shades of peach and cream. The bed was small, with ruffled pillows and a thick down comforter, and the curtains were pulled back to give a view over the lights of the garden to the dark shapes of the rooftops of the houses behind. Horace sniffed Jayne’s suitcase and the shoes she’d laid out next to the closet.
“You need to go home,” I said.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “Not without you.”
“I might be a while.” I sat on the bed. The dog settled his muzzle in my lap and I stroked it.
“A while as in permanently?”
“Definitely not. Just while my parents need me. Dad’s not out from under the cloud of suspicion yet.”
“This case might never be wrapped up.”
“I’m aware of that. Uncle Arthur and Ashleigh can manage the store.”
“No, they can’t.”
“All the more reason for you to go home. Someone has to keep our businesses afloat. Isn’t that right, Horace?”
The dog snuffled in agreement.
“But that’s not why I’m here,” I said. “You and I are going on an outing tomorrow, if you’re willing.”
“Of course, I’m willing. Where?”
“We’re going to look at art. Our intentions in doing so are not honorable.”
“Are you going to tell me what that means? Okay, foolish question, you never do.”
I went back to my room. Ryan was propped up on the bed, reading his phone. “Any news from West London?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said, far too quickly, closing the phone with an audible click.
“Nope meaning yes. What’s happened now?”
“Nothing you need to know about.”
Meaning something I desperately needed to know about. “Now I am worried. Tell me what’s happened, or I’ll assume the entire town has been washed away in a flash flood, bearing Uncle Arthur and Moriarty on a raft made of Sherlock pastiche novels.”
“That paints an interesting picture. I guess you’ll find out anyway. I went onto Twitter to check the police updates.”
“And?”
“Nothing of importance there. Things do seem to have been quiet in town this week. But a reference to … uh … your store caught my eye.”
I dropped onto the bed beside him. “Let me see.”
He pressed his thumb on the button to open up the screen. I leaned over his shoulder to read. A reference had been made to the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, all right. Several references. And none of them good.
The tweets were warning people to stay away. I saw words such as RUDE STAFF and VICIOUS ANIMAL.
I groaned and took out my phone. I called the store.
“Hi, Gemma,” Ashleigh said. “Hope you’re still having fun. Have you been on the London Eye yet? I was watching a BBC program last night, and everything looks so interesting.”
“An absolute riot,” I said. “Unfortunately, they get Twitter in England.”
“Oh. I guess you saw.”
“What happened?”
“It’s not as bad as it seems, Gemma. No one pays any attention to those sorts of things. Everyone uses Twitter to complain. We all know that.”
“What happened?”
“This bus tour group came in. I don’t know why anyone would come on a bus tour to Cape Cod in the winter anyway. They should know better. Probably because it’s cheap.”
“Ashleigh, get to the point.”
“I am. The group consisted of older ladies and gentlemen. One of the women said she loved Benedict Cumberbatch, and one of the men said something not polite about English men.”
“And Uncle Arthur happened to be there at the time.”
“Yeah. So he made a comment about uncouth colonial upstarts, and the old man reminded him that we’d kicked you people out back in 1776.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“It escalated from there. Some of the women took Arthur’s side, but another guy started mocking the whole Sherlock Holmes thing, and Arthur said the reason he didn’t like it was because he was too stupid to understand it. The woman who liked Benedict laughed and the man got mad at her. Arthur ordered them out of the store. They left after exchanging more insults. The woman who liked Benedict bought a wall calendar.”
I was not consoled by news of the sale of one calendar. “Twitter says something about a vicious animal?”
“Yeah. That. Moriarty took a swipe at the arm of the guy who didn’t like Sherlock. He didn’t draw blood, though. Not that I saw.”
“Ashleigh! We’re lucky he didn’t complain to the town.”
“He threatened to, but one of the women said he was a sissy if he went crying to the police about a cat scratch. Don’t worry about it, Gemma. I think their bus trip wasn’t going very well even before they got to the Emporium.”
* * *
We enjoyed a pleasant dinner and avoided any talk of what was keeping us in London. My dad seemed in fine form, laughing with Jayne, talking books with Grant and police with Ryan. Mum smiled and sipped at her glass of wine, but when she glanced at Dad, I could see the shadow of worry behind her eyes. Donald regaled us with the plot of the Bruce-Partington Plans, much of which happened not far from where we currently were.
Pippa had not joined us, and Grant tried, and failed, to hide his disappointment.
As we lingered over coffee and dessert, I said, ever so casually, “I want to pay a call tomorrow morning on Arianna.”
“Who’s Arianna?” Dad said.
“Randy’s fiancée. Ex-fiancée. She needs to know about the funeral arrangements.” I didn’t mention that at my request Pippa had had Arianna placed under unofficial protection, which meant she could be just about anywhere in the country.
“Can’t you phone her?” Ryan said.
“That’s not something you discuss over the phone.”
“Sure it is, if it’s someone you arranged to meet only because you thought they might have murdered the deceased.”
“I’ll go with you,” Jayne said.
“Thanks.”
“Might as well tag along,” Ryan said.
“Not a good idea,” I said. “She’s likely to be … emotionally fragile.”
“In which case the presence of a strong young man would come in handy,” Donald said, not at all helpfully. “Women like that sort of masculine support, or so I’ve been told.”
I pretended to consider the idea; then I said, with a reluctant shrug, “Probably better if Ryan stays with Dad in case DI Robinson comes back with more questions. Or if Morrison comes to the house. No one saw him hanging around this afternoon, or as we were coming out for dinner?”
