by Vicki Delany
I picked up the satchel. I could tell by the weight that it didn’t have the ornaments, but I checked anyway. It seemed to be empty. I put my hand inside and ran it around the lining. I felt something soft and pulled out—of all things—half a salmon tea sandwich.
I recognized that sandwich! I’d made it myself. I gathered more crumbs from inside the satchel. The remains of a chocolate brownie, a slice of strawberry still sticky with custard filling on its bottom, a dirty Mrs. Hudson’s napkin. Gerald had been stealing food. That’s why his satchel was fuller at the end of the party than when he’d arrived.
Didn’t Sir Nigel pay the man enough for him to eat?
I’d come out after a hard day, dressed like a cat burglar, climbed a tree, and broke into a hotel room, all so I could accuse a man of nicking leftover sandwiches and pastries. If Gerald had simply asked, we would have told him to help himself to the extra food we’d brought for ourselves.
I was about to head off out the window and down the tree when I decided in for a penny, in for a pound. I turned the knob on the door adjoining the next room, and it opened.
How convenient.
I slipped into Nigel’s room. It had been cleaned since he’d last slept in it, but no one had yet packed up his things. His shoes were laid neatly beside the desk, his shirts and trousers hung in the closet, a laptop was open on the desk. Not expecting to find anything, I opened a drawer.
A Sherlock: The Mind Palace coloring book lay on top of his underwear. I shouldn’t have been shocked to see it, but I was.
My phone buzzed with an incoming text.
Jayne: What’s taking so long?
Me: Major discovery. Almost done.
Underneath Nigel’s socks, I found a steak knife that looked a great deal like the ones used at the inn’s restaurant and a saltshaker from Mrs. Hudson’s. Jayne probably hadn’t even realized it was missing yet.
I used my phone to snap a couple of pictures of the coloring book and the stolen goods in situ. Had the police searched Nigel’s things after his death? If they had, they’ve have had no reason to know the coloring book had been stolen. I hadn’t reported its loss. They might have thought a steak knife and a saltshaker a mite odd to keep among his undergarments. But then again, many Americans thought upper-class English people were all a mite odd. Came from watching too much Father Brown or Miss Marple.
Nigel must be the one who’d stolen the ornaments from Rebecca’s house while the party was under way. I’d been the first to come upon his body, and I hadn’t seen any sign of them on him. I hadn’t searched him, but I hadn’t noticed (and I would have) any bulk in his pockets. If the police had found the items, they would have told us when Rebecca and I reported that they were missing.
Had the killer taken them? If so, why? If not, then Nigel must have hidden them somewhere in Rebecca’s house or on the grounds before he died. Did he intend to come back for them later, or was nicking things and hiding them part of his kleptomania? He couldn’t have been planning to sell the ill-gotten goods. Not a lot of profit to be made out of one saltshaker with a pink flower pattern and a single steak knife.
I thought back to Nigel’s only visit to the Emporium, when the coloring book had been taken. I couldn’t remember him being alone at any time. He’d sent Gerald into the tea room in search of a table, but the other theater people, including Leslie Wilson, had been with him in the shop. Still, people’s attention got distracted, particularly in a busy place at a busy time, and it would be a matter of a fraction of a second for a light-fingered, experienced thief to snatch the goods and slip them into a spacious pocket. The sort of pocket found in a Harris Tweed jacket.
Another text: Gemma!!!!
Me: Coming. Is the coast clear?
Jayne: Yes.
Chapter 10
“I don’t ever want to do that again,” Jayne said once we were back in the Miata and driving sedately toward town.
“You didn’t do anything,” I said, “but stand in a lovely patch of woods on a pleasant evening.”
“The tension alone was enough to kill me. I wonder if it’s too late to call Eddie and tell him I’ve finished the work I had to catch up on.”
“It’s too late.”
“It’s not even eight o’clock. Where are we going anyway? This isn’t the road to my place.”
“Take off those clothes I gave you.” I pulled into a parking lot.
“Gladly. What are we doing at McGillivray’s?”
“Gerald has some explaining to do. Fortunately, I know where he is.” I parked the car, took off my jumper, and tossed it and most of the contents of my pockets into the back. I got my handbag—a cute little red leather number—out of the boot of the car and put on a pair of giant gold hoop earrings. Black trousers, gray T-shirt, red bag, and gold jewelry. Perfect for a pub evening.
Jayne shook her head.
Uncle Arthur, who is exceptionally well-traveled, tells me he’s never been to a country that doesn’t have an Irish pub. Some towns barely have any people, but they all seem to have the need for an imitation Irish pub.
McGillivray’s is the West London version. Just like being back home. Except that you don’t have to line up at the bar to get served. I like that.
On a Sunday night, the place was half-empty. The sign on the door informed us that a troupe of Irish balladeers playing “Traditional Songs From the Old Country” would be performing at nine. I hoped we’d be finished by then.
Gerald had taken a booth and sat hunched over a pint of dark ale. The glass was almost full, and I assumed it wasn’t his first.
He wasn’t alone. That had not been part of my plan.
Irene Talbot looked up as we approached. A bottle of beer, as well as a digital recorder and notepad, was on the table. “Hey, it’s the dynamic duo.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jayne said. “We don’t go around doing strange things, you know. I’ve been at home . . . all evening . . . I . . .”
I tripped over a loose floorboard and “accidentally” jabbed her in the ribs. “Jayne’s had a long day. Those strawberry tarts don’t bake themselves. Mind if we join you?”
“Hardly,” Gerald said, “considering that I’m here because you suggested it. How’s your car?”
“Fine. A stupid little thing. I ran out of petrol.” I tittered. “Silly me.”
Irene threw me look. I squeezed onto the bench beside her, leaving the seat next to Gerald for Jayne.
“What can I get you?” the waitress asked, laying beer mats on the table in front of us. She wore a black T-shirt and a short red-checked kilt. The first time I’d been in here, I’d told the waitress the kilt was traditionally worn in Scotland, not Ireland. She’d replied, “What’s a kilt?” I could have also pointed out that it was not worn that short, and never by women, but I decided to save my breath.
“I’ll have a glass of white wine,” Jayne said.
“Tomato juice, thanks,” I said. “You do know, Gerald, that this woman, as nice as she is, is a reporter.”
“I’m not exactly undercover here, Gemma.” Irene indicated her recording equipment.
“Just making sure.”
“I’m happy to talk to the press,” Gerald said. “Sir Nigel deserves to be remembered. He was a giant of English theater, as well as a kind and generous man.” He sniffled and buried his nose in his beer.
“Have you worked for him long?” I asked.
“Ten years. Not nearly long enough.” He wiped his dry eyes. Gerald might move in the theater world, but he was a heck of a lousy actor.
“Know of any reason anyone would want to kill him?” I asked.
“Gee,” Irene whispered to Jayne, “even I was going to approach that question obliquely.”
Gerald shook his head. “Everyone loved him. I was telling this lady about the charitable foundation he was setting up in London. ‘The Play’s the Thing,’ he called it. It would give poor children an exposure to theater in a playful yet educational environment.” I made a
mental note to look up this charity. I’d bet my last copy of The Sign of the Four, narrated and signed by the late Sir Nigel Bellingham, that if the charity existed, it was just a shell, an attempt to restore some of Nigel’s rapidly fading status among his peers. Said peers would be asked to give generously.
“That’s so nice,” Jayne said.
“Was he murdered?” Irene said. “The police are being noncommittal. They haven’t come out and said they’re investigating it as a homicide, but Ashburton and Estrada have been questioning everyone who was there.”
“What do you think happened, Gerald?” I asked.
“A tragic accident. He wandered too close to the cliff. Lost his footing, perhaps. He wasn’t a young man.” Gerald hastened to add, “Although he was in perfect health. More than capable of putting on a regular series of performances.”
“If you say so.” I wondered why Gerald was lying. Was he trying to protect Nigel’s reputation out of a sense of loyalty? Perhaps. He’d been close to the man for ten years, although Nigel hadn’t been at all nice to him. Some people lied simply for the sake of it. And there was that “not speaking ill of the dead” thing. But Gerald didn’t look to me like the sort who’d let a little thing like that stop him.
Was he lying because he’d killed Nigel? He’d have no trouble getting close enough to push the man off the cliff. I thought about the stale sandwich and the pastry crumbs. If he stole food, what else might he have nicked? A Sherlock coloring book?
Was Gerald, not Nigel, the thief? Had Nigel discovered that his PA had sticky fingers and blackmailed the man? They had adjacent hotel rooms, and the door was unlocked. Had Nigel discovered the stolen goods in Gerald’s room and taken them as evidence?
Blackmail was a powerful motive for murder.
“Sir Nigel had been married four times,” Irene was saying. “I don’t suppose any of his ex-wives were out for revenge.”
“Out of the question,” Gerald said. “They might have been divorced, but he got on extremely well with all of them. They remained great friends.”
“That’s not what I read in the gossip columns,” Irene said. “That incident in the National Gallery got a lot of press in the UK.”
“Malicious gossip,” Gerald said. “Gross exaggeration. Miss Fotheringham got her heel caught in the carpet, that’s all. I thought you were a respectable reporter with a respectable newspaper. If that is not the case, then this interview is over.” Rather than leaping dramatically to his feet and storming out, Gerald took another mouthful of beer.
“If any of Nigel’s ex-wives had been at the tea party,” Jayne said, “they would have been noticed.”
“I have several publicity pictures of Sir Nigel on the computer in my hotel room,” Gerald said. “I’ll send you some, and you can select the ones you want to use. Perhaps one as he appeared in Roman Wars would be a good choice. Remind your readers that he had a successful screen career, as well as in theater.”
“Didn’t he hate Roman Wars?” Jayne said. “Do you think he’d want that being his obituary picture?”
Gerald hid a grin. Oh, yes, I thought, Gerald will get his revenge in his own way. Revenge for what was the question. For being an unkind employer or for being a blackmailer?
“I suppose you have no reason to stay on in West London,” Jayne said. “You worked for Nigel directly, right? Not the theater company?”
“As charming as your delightful little town is,” Gerald said, “I would love nothing more than to be on my way. Your overzealous police have told me I’m not to leave.”
“Then they must be thinking it’s a murder. Don’t you agree, Gemma?” Jayne said.
“Not necessarily,” Irene said. “They like to keep all their options open.”
“Let me assure you, I didn’t kill him,” Gerald said. “I don’t know anything more about it than anyone else. I told them that.” He finished his beer and raised his hand to summon the waitress to bring him another.
The troupe of “Irish balladeers” arrived and began setting up their equipment. As they talked among themselves, I caught not the merest suggestion of a brogue. They were as Irish as the waitresses’ kilts.
Chapter 11
“Have you thought to check with the police in the UK about Gerald Greene, Nigel’s personal assistant?” I said.
“I might have. I might not have. Why don’t you tell me why I might want to do that?” Ryan Ashburton said.
On past occasions, Ryan has, albeit reluctantly, confessed that he values my observations and my judgment, but police department politics mean he can’t openly allow me to be involved in his investigations. I try to keep him informed of what I learn while not fully letting him in on what exactly I’ve been up do. It’s a delicate balancing act.
I’d considered my dilemma last night. It was, according to my deductions, entirely possible Gerald had killed Nigel. I couldn’t keep that from the police, so I called Ryan as soon as I got to work on Monday morning. I intended to tell him over the phone, but he said he was on his way to pick up a coffee anyway and would drop into the bookshop.
I’ve said that I’m a good liar. And I am if I want to be. But there’s something about Ryan Ashburton’s penetrating blue eyes that makes me blurt out all sorts of things. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I hoped he’d keep his sunglasses on while we talked.
Moriarty is a great shop cat. He loves everyone and is affectionate and friendly. Toward everyone other than me that is. And Ryan. For some reason Moriarty hates Ryan almost as much as he hates me.
Ryan momentarily forgot that, and when the cat jumped onto the table next to us, he attempted to give Moriarty a pat. The man was now sucking blood off his finger while the feline gave me a satisfied smirk.
“I don’t know why you keep that cat,” Ryan said. “He’s a menace.”
For once, Moriarty had slipped up and done me a favor. Ryan had been distracted from his interrogation of me.
“The customers seem to like him,” I replied as Moriarty stalked off, presumably to gloat over his successful attack on the forces of law and order. “I had a shoplifter in here the other day. Someone pinched one of those coloring books when Nigel and Gerald were here. I noticed it was gone later that afternoon.”
“Other people were here too, weren’t they?” Ryan studied his finger. The bleeding had stopped already. “What makes you think Greene took it?”
Out of nowhere, I had the sudden compulsion to take Ryan’s hand in mine and kiss his finger better. I looked at him, but he’d turned to watch the cat cross the room, tail swishing. I swallowed, and when Ryan turned back to me, I said calmly, “That satchel he carries all the time is big enough to conceal things. I saw him at McGillivray’s last night, talking to Irene Talbot about Nigel, and his bag wasn’t with him. I wondered if he only used the bag to carry things for his boss.” I hoped that would be enough to have Ryan checking up on Gerald. No need to mention the saltshaker and the knife or that I knew exactly where the coloring book was at this moment.
“I find it hard to believe you only thought to put the missing coloring book and the theft from Mrs. Stanton together last night,” Ryan said.
“No more detecting for me,” I said. “I had more than enough the last time.”
He studied my face for a long time. I smiled.
“I can tell you,” he said at last, “that I checked Gerald Greene’s phone. He did phone a number in England on Saturday. The call was placed after the nine-one-one call to the police, around the time he told you he’d been talking to his mother. The conversation lasted about ten minutes.”
“Worth knowing,” I said. “Although it doesn’t tell us what he was up to before Nigel died.”
“Do you know Jayne’s mother very well?” Ryan asked.
My smile disappeared in a flash. “Why are you asking me that?”
“She provided the aprons for the volunteers to wear to the tea, right?”
“What of it?”
“One of those aprons got torn a
t the tea. A piece of pink edging came off. A picture of the six women, wearing the aprons and posing for the camera, was taken before the guests arrived. The pink trim is intact on every one of them. I hadn’t known about any aprons until I saw those pictures, and they all have big pockets . . .”
“So you thought one of the women had secreted something in her pocket? A vial of poison perhaps, slipped out at an opportune moment. Aside from the fact that that’s ridiculously fanciful, surely the autopsy showed you Sir Nigel wasn’t poisoned?”
“The autopsy hasn’t been done yet, Gemma. It’s scheduled for this afternoon. In the meantime, we’re investigating all possibilities. Estrada went back to Mrs. Wilson’s house yesterday afternoon and asked her to hand over the aprons. We hoped she hadn’t washed them yet, and we might find some evidence on them. Turns out she had washed them, but I noticed one is torn. I called Mrs. Wilson back, and she says she doesn’t know who wore which one. None of the pictures we have show a woman wearing a torn apron.”
“You think that’s significant because . . .”
“We can’t find the edging. I’ll admit it’s a small piece, but I ordered the garbage collected from the scene searched. Mrs. Wilson says the women took off their aprons and she tossed them into the bag to bring home without checking them. She didn’t notice one was torn. I don’t believe her.”
“Why not?” A chasm was opening up at my feet. I kept my voice calm. I headed toward the door. Maybe if I could get Ryan outside, he’d put his sunglasses back on.
He shrugged. “She has that look, Gemma. She’s hiding something. It might be something small, and it might be something big, but it is something. If you know what it is, you have to tell me.”