The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  “You don’t have to explain to me, Gemma,” he said.

  “Actually, you do,” Estrada said. “As the two of you just happened to come across the body.”

  “Is it this Nigel fellow who you found, Gemma?” Ryan asked.

  I nodded.

  “Was he a friend of yours, Mrs. Wilson?” Ryan said.

  “No. I mean . . . no, he wasn’t. But I admired his acting so very much.”

  Officer Stella Johnson broke out of the woods at a trot, and Estrada waved her over. “Take these women into the house. They’re not to talk to anyone until we’ve had a chance to interview them.”

  “Mrs. Wilson can go home,” I said. “She didn’t see anything. She just followed everyone else who followed the paramedics and the police through the woods.”

  “Mrs. Wilson,” Estrada said, “can go home when I say so. No one leaves here until we talk to them.”

  “How many people were at this fund-raiser, Gemma?” Ryan asked.

  “One hundred and eight ticket holders, twelve members of the cast, crew, or festival office, six volunteers, including Leslie here, Jayne, me, and two staff from the tea room.”

  “That would be . . .” Estrada tried to count. She struggled not to tick the numbers off on her fingers.

  “One hundred and thirty people. Most of whom have left already,” I said.

  “One hundred and thirty.” Ryan groaned. He gave his head a shake and spoke to Officer Johnson. “See that Gemma Doyle stays put until I can talk to her.” He headed into the woods. Estrada threw me another poisonous look before following him.

  Leslie and I headed for the house in the company of the uniformed police woman. Leslie pulled a tissue out of her pocket, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes.

  Gerald came around a corner as we reached the patio. “What’s happening? Why are all these police here?”

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “Making a call to my mother in England, if you must know.” He eyed the policewoman with us and shifted the weight of his bag. “She likes me to check in regularly when I’m traveling with Sir Nigel.”

  “When did you last see him?” I asked.

  “Not since he was . . . uh . . . overcome with vertigo after the tea and needed a private moment to compose himself. What’s going on?”

  “Let’s go,” the policewoman said. “You were told to wait in the kitchen. And no talking. Sir, you are not to leave the property until one of the detectives has spoken to you.”

  “Detectives!” He clutched his bag closer. “What . . . ?”

  “Find Pat or Rebecca,” I said to Gerald, “and get them to explain.”

  We went into the house, leaving Gerald standing open-mouthed on the patio.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea, Stella?” Leslie asked the officer. “I’m going to have one.”

  “Okay, thanks. That would be nice.”

  No, it would not. I needed to get Leslie away from the listening ears of the police before she said anything she might regret. “Why don’t you go and get Jayne,” I said. “She can help me with the things. Perhaps all the officers would like something.”

  “Detective Ashburton said she was to stay here,” Johnson said.

  “No, he said I was to remain here. And I will do so.”

  Leslie twisted the tissue in her hands and stared off into space. Was she upset at the death of Nigel Bellingham or upset at having killed him? I shoved the thought away. It was entirely possible Leslie had argued with Nigel, and either she’d shoved him in the chest, tipping him over the edge, or he’d backed up and gone over accidentally. If that had happened, she would have run to the house, screaming for help.

  Leslie Wilson would not have walked away, leaving a man lying alone at the bottom of the cliff in the face of the incoming tide, and pretended to know nothing about it.

  I rubbed at the scrap of cloth in my pocket. “Leslie,” I prompted. “You’re going to fetch Jayne?”

  Johnson opened her mouth as if to argue, so I said, “Uncle Arthur’s trip is lasting longer than he expected. I hope your grandmother was able to find another euchre partner.”

  “Card partner, yes,” Johnson said, “but she does love your uncle’s company. An unmarried man isn’t so easy to come by at her age.”

  My attempt at distraction failed, as before I could get rid of Leslie, the French doors opened and Rebecca and Jayne came in.

  “Detective Ashburton told me I could make tea and lay out some of the leftover food,” Jayne said. “He and Estrada are down at the beach, and they’ve said no one can leave until they’ve given a statement.”

  “Got it,” Johnson said.

  “Brilliant!” I said. “Leslie, give Jayne a hand.”

  “As you’ve packed up the catering dishes without washing them,” Rebecca said, “you might as well use mine.” She opened a cupboard door to reveal white mugs perfectly arranged, all the handles pointing in the same direction. Next, she opened the fridge. Aside from a couple of condiment bottles in the door racks, a container of milk, and a single bag of coffee beans, it was as empty and glaringly white as the High Arctic in winter. She pulled out the coffee and handed the bag to me. Presumably it would be my task to prepare the drinks. I wondered if Rebecca even knew how to use the machine.

  I certainly didn’t. I’m mostly a tea drinker, but I make coffee on occasion. When I do, I use a French press and preground beans, not one of these space-age contraptions. I studied it carefully, searching for the on switch. Officer Johnson pushed me aside. “I’ll do it.”

  “We’re to set the things up outside,” Jayne said. “Ryan doesn’t want anyone coming into the house.”

  And possibly sneaking out the front. I had to admit, the thought had crossed my mind.

  “If they want me,” Rebecca said, “I’ll be in the living room. This has all been most difficult. Leslie, why don’t you join me? I’m sure your daughter and her friend can handle the refreshments.”

  Leslie hesitated, and I jumped in. “Good idea. You need to sit down, Leslie.”

  “Thank you,” Leslie said. “It has been a shock.”

  We didn’t have much left in the way of food, but we made big pots of tea and coffee. I helped Jayne carry everything outside. A group of party guests and some of the actors were seated at the patio table. Eddie leapt up to help Jayne with her tray. “I wanted to come inside and see if you’re okay, but he”—Eddie nodded to an officer guarding the door and listening in on potential witnesses—“said no admittance.”

  “Not even to us,” Fiona said. Jocelyn took the tray from Eddie, and they set out the mugs and plates.

  “Thanks,” Jayne said. “I’m fine. It’s upsetting, but it has nothing to do with me. You must be devastated, Eddie. You must all be. What will this do to the production, do you think? Will they continue with the play?”

  Eddie shook his head. “I don’t know.” He swallowed a sob. “It’s up to Rebecca and Pat and the festival directors. Right now, it doesn’t seem to matter much.” He looked grief-stricken, and I reminded myself that Eddie was a professional actor. One who had a great deal to gain from the death of Sir Nigel Bellingham. If the play continued, the understudy would take the main role.

  Word that refreshments were being served must have drifted down to the cliffside, and people started coming back to the house.

  Rebecca was inside with Leslie. Most of the remaining members of the festival had gathered on the patio and around the bar, as had a handful of guests and Leslie’s volunteers, except for Mrs. Franklin, whose son had picked her up before the drama began. It made a lot of people for the police to get statements from. I watched Louise Estrada moving through the crowd, taking down names and phone numbers. I overheard someone say Pat was at the cliffside, insisting on remaining until Nigel was taken away. Donald had left earlier, forgetting his coat, and I hadn’t seen the chap with the pink shorts and the man-bun in a while. Estrada turned her head and looked directly at me. I went back to the kitchen.<
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  Jayne stood at the sink filling a kettle. Johnson had been called outside to help Estrada.

  “What’s the matter?” Jayne whispered to me.

  “What do you mean, what’s the matter? A man’s dead. Quite possibly murdered.”

  “You’re as jumpy as . . . well, as a cat on a hot tin roof. Eddie’s got a role in that play.”

  “I am not jumpy,” I said. “I’m tired, and I want to go home.”

  She studied my face. I forced out a smile. “Gemma, do you know something about this?”

  “What would I know?” I was horrified that she seemed to be reading my thoughts. That would never do.

  “You seem to be awfully concerned about Mom.”

  “Not concerned, just . . .”

  “When you’re at a loss for words, Gemma, I know something’s up. What?”

  I was saved from having to find an answer when the door opened once again and Ryan and Estrada came in.

  “Will you leave us, please, Ms. Wilson?” Estrada said.

  Jayne fled.

  The detectives didn’t look at each other as they crossed the kitchen floor and pulled stools up to the breakfast bar. The air between the two of them was so electrified, the coffeemaker was in danger of a power surge. They’d been arguing, and it was easy to guess what they’d been arguing about. Me. Not long ago, Ryan had been taken off a case when Estrada had told their boss that Ryan and my past relationship had destroyed his impartiality. I suspected she’d tried the same tactic again and had been overruled on the grounds that I was not a suspect this time but the person who came across the body, and that in the company of another person. Although, in Estrada’s mind, I probably was still a suspect. Fortunately, I had not the slightest reason to want to kill Sir Nigel Bellingham.

  I kept my hands out of my pockets and took a seat.

  “We’ve spoken to Grant Thompson,” Ryan said. “He told us his version of the story. Do you want to tell us what happened?”

  I quickly related the sequence of events. Pat reporting that they couldn’t find Nigel. People heading off to search the house and grounds. Me volunteering to search the woods. Grant joining me. I didn’t say he’d asked me out to dinner, as that was not the least bit relevant, only that he’d volunteered to accompany me to help with the search. We discovered the body, Grant called 9-1-1 immediately and then ran to guide the first responders to the scene. I climbed down to the beach, realizing that if Nigel was alive, his face had to be taken out of the approaching water.

  “Why did you look over the cliff?” Estrada said. “You could see from the woods that he wasn’t standing there.”

  “We saw the cravat caught on a bush. You did find it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, we found it,” she said. “Hard to miss. It has been identified by several people as the one Bellingham was wearing all afternoon.”

  I didn’t pretend to be grieving or in shock. I kept my voice calm and neutral and my English accent level. I suspect Estrada thought I sometimes put on airs. I wondered if she watched Downton Abbey. I try hard not to sound like Lady Mary Crawley at her snootiest, but my mother’s influence does sometimes slip through.

  Ryan asked me if I’d seen anyone in the woods, and I answered truthfully, adding that I hadn’t heard anyone either.

  “Did you see signs of any tensions or disagreements among the people here today? Particularly between Bellingham and anyone else?”

  “That would be an understatement,” I said. I told the police everything, leaving out only the few angry words I’d overheard Leslie say to Nigel.

  “That’s what we’ve been told,” Estrada said. “He drank too much and made a fool of himself in front of a hundred people who’d paid two hundred bucks each to meet him.”

  “That’s about it,” I said. “Have you met his PA, Gerald . . . ? Sorry, I don’t know his last name.”

  “Greene,” Estrada said.

  “Tell me about him,” Ryan said.

  “I’ve nothing to tell. His job was to follow Nigel around and do what he was told to do. He’ll be the person here closest to Nigel, and the one most likely to know if he had any problems or was worried about anything. Have you considered that this might be a suicide? Maybe Nigel realized his glory days are long past and decided to end it all. Gerald might be able to tell you about Nigel’s state of mind these days.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job,” Estrada said.

  “We’re considering all possibilities,” Ryan said. “Including that he got too close to the edge and slipped, although that’s unlikely. That cliff edge is solid; I tested it myself. But as several people have told us, the man was falling-down drunk. Did you see any sign of drug use, Gemma?”

  “No,” I said. “Alcohol was his poison. It was obvious he’d been drinking before coming into the bookshop on Wednesday early in the afternoon, although everyone politely pretended not to notice. This afternoon, it probably didn’t help that he was a heavy smoker, and Rebecca ordered him not to light up. He might have drank even more than usual to compensate.”

  “Was Bellingham given the same food and drink as everyone else here?” Ryan asked.

  “If you’re asking if he might have been deliberately poisoned,” I replied, “that’s not possible. The food was prepared by Jayne and her staff, including me, at Mrs. Hudson’s, brought here, and laid out on three-tiered trays about this big.” I illustrated with my hands. “The trays were carried down to the tables by our volunteer helpers. All the trays contained the same food and were distributed randomly. Nothing was prepared separately for Nigel or anyone else. Two trays were put on each table, and the guests picked off the trays themselves. The tea was served in pots made in the kitchen, not prepared in individual cups.” I’d been wandering from table to table with my pot of decaf green tea. I called up a mental image of the head table. “Nigel Bellingham didn’t eat a thing. Nor did he have any tea,” I said.

  “How do you know that?” Estrada asked. Always with the suspicions. Must make for a very tedious life.

  “Because I observed, Detective. You might try doing that someday.”

  She bristled, and Ryan said, “Gemma,” in a low voice.

  “All I mean,” I said, “is that’s what I saw. He put no food on his plate, and his teacup remained empty.”

  “With a hundred and eight guests, you can tell me what one person ate,” Estrada said.

  “In this case, it’s understandable,” Ryan said. “Nigel Bellingham was the star of the show.”

  Estrada grumbled something that I decided to take as an apology.

  “He drank instead,” I continued. “Pretty much constantly, but as with the food and tea, the Prosecco was shared. Bottles were kept in the fridge, and when opened, they were put in an ice bucket on the bar. Glasses were circulated by volunteers acting as waiters before the tea, but wine was not served at the tables. After they sat down, if anyone wanted a glass, they had to go to the bar to fetch it for themselves.” I called up the scene again. “I don’t think anyone did, except for Nigel, who had Gerald running back and forth with a fill-up.”

  “So this Gerald was in possession of Nigel’s glass?”

  I nodded.

  “The glass is . . . ?”

  “They’ll be by the outside bar, waiting for the rental company to collect them. We didn’t wash them. There was, I’ll add, nothing individual about Nigel’s glass. They were all the same.”

  Ryan nodded to Estrada, and she spoke into her radio, telling someone to collect the glasses.

  “You must have set the tables before everyone sat down, and I noticed place cards,” Estrada said. “People would have known where Bellingham was going to sit, and which would be his cup and plate.”

  I really didn’t want to give up Jayne’s beloved Sherlock Holmes-themed tea set, but I had no choice. “The dishes at Nigel’s table were ours—I mean, from Mrs. Hudson’s. The rest were rented because we don’t have enough for a crowd of that size. We used our special
china for the head table.” I nodded toward the box by the door. “But as I said, he didn’t have anything to eat or drink.”

  “As you said,” she repeated. “We’ll take that box with us.”

  “Does anything else here belong to you? To the tea room?” Ryan asked.

  “The plastic containers, serving trays, and teapots are ours.”

  “Leave them here. You can take your personal belongings, such as your purses, but nothing else. I’ll let you know when you can pick them up.”

  “We can’t operate a tea room without teapots,” I said. “We brought almost every one we have.”

  “Can’t be helped,” Ryan said. “We may not need to analyze them, but I won’t know if that’s necessary until I finish interviewing the witnesses.”

  “The man didn’t die by poisoning,” I pointed out. “He fell to his death.”

  “Right now, Gemma, I don’t know what I’m dealing with. As you pointed out, he might not have been murdered at all. I’m not going to secure the dishes, but I don’t want them leaving the premises until I’m sure I don’t need them.”

  I didn’t bother to argue. My main aim at the moment was to keep them from searching me. And finding the pink ribbon hidden at the bottom of my pocket.

  “Did you take any pictures today?” he added.

  “Yes. I used Jayne’s camera because we hoped to get some photos we could use for advertising. I didn’t take any of specific people though—mostly the tables and the place settings.”

  “Where’s the camera now?”

  I pointed toward Jayne’s bag on the floor by the back door. Next to her mother’s.

  Estrada rummaged around inside it and found the camera. She didn’t look at Leslie’s bag. “We’ll take this. What about your personal phone?”

  “I didn’t use it.”

  She held out her hand. Suspicious sort. “Let me see.”

  I could have put up an argument, told her she’d have to get a warrant, but I didn’t. I’d save my rousing defense of the law for a more suitable time. Still, I wasn’t going to have her pawing through my phone. I unlocked it and opened the photos app. The most recent picture was of Violet playing in the backyard. She’d been caught in midair, her long ears flying, as she leapt for a ball. Outside of the warm light cast by the carriage-house lamps over our garage, all was dark. I held the phone up. “As you can see, this is the most recent picture. It was taken at night. Nothing today.”