The Cat of the Baskervilles

by Vicki Delany

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” I said.

  “Anything for an English woman,” he said, as though he were doing me a big favor by letting me buy him a drink. His accent was educated, veering toward upper-class. He’d had a comfortable childhood, I thought, and had gone to a good university. Good, but not Cambridge or Oxford. He was in his early sixties, late in life to be working as a PA to a crotchety old man. Either he’d fallen on hard times and taken whatever job he could get or he was such a fan of the theater that he wanted to move in its orbit, no matter what the level.

  Gerald headed toward the French doors leading outside, but I stopped him. The restaurant at the inn is excellent, and they have a beautiful patio bar for those wanting to enjoy the summer evening, but the lounge is far more private at this time of year.

  “Why don’t we stay inside,” I said. “It’s a bit chilly out tonight.”

  He shrugged, and I led the way.

  Sherlock Holmes and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would have been comfortable in this small room. Well-worn leather couches and wingback chairs around low tables. Striped wallpaper, rich red carpets. A large (although gas and now unlit) fireplace.

  We were the only customers in the place. I nodded to the bartender as we came in, and we took two chairs in a corner. The waiter took our orders. I requested a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and Gerald asked what they had in the way of Highland Single Malt.

  Unfortunately for my pocketbook, they had Macallan’s, and Gerald said he’d have that. He leaned back with a sigh. “This is most inconvenient. Not only do I now suddenly find myself unemployed, I’m trapped in a foreign country without adequate funds.” His small eyes darted around the room, and he picked at the lint on his trousers.

  “The West London police are good at their jobs,” I said. “I’m sure they won’t detain you much longer.” I knew no such thing, but I wanted to put him at ease.

  He leaned back with a sigh. “I can only hope so.”

  “This isn’t a bad hotel in which to be detained, as you put it.”

  “No. But I have to confess, as long as I have no immediate prospects for employment, I can’t fully enjoy myself.” Meaning he was broke.

  “What brought you to work for Sir Nigel?”

  “I’ve always loved the theater,” he said. “When my . . . uh . . . circumstances were more favorable, I dabbled in amateur theatricals. I directed some minor productions over the years. Quite excellent they were. Many reviews said one would never believe them to be amateur theater.” The nervous mannerisms stopped, and he looked at me for the first time. He might have even smiled at the memories.

  “Sounds marvelous,” I said.

  The waiter brought our drinks. “Can I get you something to eat?” he asked.

  “No,” I said quickly, cutting Gerald off. I had no interest in sitting over a meal with the man.

  He left, and Gerald and I lifted our glasses. “Cheers,” we said simultaneously. He took a long, deep drink and closed his eyes in pleasure.

  “How did you come to work for Sir Nigel?” I asked.

  “Even in amateur theater, at least at the level in which I moved,” he boasted, “you meet many professionals. Including some of the great actors of our age. I had dinner in London with Helen Mirren once, you know.”

  “That must have been exciting. What’s she like?”

  “As beautiful and charming and gracious as I expected. Of course, I wasn’t seated next to her, so we didn’t get a chance to chat intimately, but she did say hello. Maggie Smith herself came to one of my plays. She came backstage after and spoke to the actors. I shook her hand.” He beamed proudly. “And then there was the time Hugh Grant—”

  “Nigel?” I prompted.

  “When I was . . . uh . . . seeking employment, a friend from the old days mentioned that Nigel . . . I mean Sir Nigel, had lost his PA and needed another. So I applied. We hit it off instantly.” His eyes turned away from me once more, and he peered into the depths of his glass.

  I felt rather sorry for Gerald. Reading between the lines, it was obvious that he’d desperately wanted to be a stage director, but he had little or no talent (or, to be fair, luck). He’d had some family money that allowed him to indulge his love of theater as a hobby, but that had eventually run out, leaving him needing to make a living with no marketable skills. I smiled across the table at him. I saw no signs of indulgence or bad habits (except for a preference for good whisky at someone else’s expense), so I surmised he hadn’t gambled or drank away his inheritance. Bad investments, perhaps, or maybe just not enough to last into his old age and not the sense to realize it in time. Then again, maybe none of it was his fault. He’d phoned his mother the day of the afternoon tea. If Gerald was sixty, she had to be eighty, at least. Care of an aging parent can require a lot of money.

  “I assume you’ll be packing up his things,” I said.

  “I’ve done so. Such a sad task.” He tilted his glass back and forth and studied the liquid swirling about. His eyes were completely dry. “You must still have contacts in England, Gemma. Do you know anyone in theater? I’m an excellent PA. I was more to Sir Nigel than a PA, really—more like a friend and confederate. I was, you might say, the Watson to his Holmes.”

  “The day you and Nigel came into my shop, I later noticed a coloring book had gone missing. I was at the Stanton house after the party, when Rebecca discovered that some small art items of varying value had disappeared. By which I mean they’d been stolen.”

  His eyes flicked up in surprise. Then he ducked his head again.

  “You know anything about that, Gerald?”

  “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because I suspect that if the police searched Nigel’s things, which you so conveniently packed up, they’d find some of the missing items. Maybe a few other things that don’t belong among a gentleman’s traveling necessities.”

  “You come by your name honestly, I think.”

  “Gemma?”

  “Doyle.”

  “The relationship to Sir Arthur is tenuous,” I said.

  He took a deep breath. “Nigel Bellingham was what psychologists call a kleptomaniac. What others might call a common or garden thief. When I hung up his jacket on Wednesday before going to dinner, I found your coloring book in a pocket. That evening, a steak knife from the restaurant where we’d dined. Part of my job, Ms. Doyle, was to keep Sir Nigel out of trouble and his tendencies from becoming common knowledge. In the parlance of what I see on American TV, I cleaned up after him.”

  I refrained from pointing out that that phrase was normally used on crime dramas to mean getting rid of the bodies. “Mrs. Stanton’s items?”

  “She will find them in a plant pot by the front of her house. Hiding in plain sight, really. Nigel went to the loo before they sat down to tea. He was in the house a long time, and I was getting suspicious. When he came out, I took him around the side of the house and patted down his pockets. I found several small glass ornaments, which I took to be of considerable value. I confiscated the items and later stuck them beneath a flowering plant.”

  “Is that what you were doing when the police first arrived?”

  “I sought some privacy to ring my mother, as I told you. At the same time I took the opportunity to dispose of the items in question. A coloring book and a steak knife is one thing. Fine art, no matter how small, is entirely another altogether. If he’d been found with those things on him, he might have been arrested. He certainly would have been disgraced.”

  I sipped my wine. “All of which sounds beyond the performance of a PA’s normal duties. If you’d been the one found with the items, between taking them off Nigel and hiding them, you would have been in a lot of trouble.”

  “I call it other duties as assigned,” he said.

  “Were you blackmailing him?” I asked.

  “You’re very blunt, Ms. Doyle.”

  “So I’ve been told. I prefer not to beat about the bush when both parties know what’s being
discussed.”

  Earlier, I’d considered the possibility that Gerald was the thief and Nigel was blackmailing him. I dismissed that idea now. Gerald, as I earlier observed, was no actor. He was habitually a nervous man, but as he talked, he didn’t get more agitated, his gaze settled on me without trying to will me to believe him, and he engaged in none of the traditional “tells” of a poor liar.

  “I was not blackmailing him. I was, however, highly paid for my discretion.”

  “Was that explicit? I mean, did he tell you that?”

  “He never said a thing. I was, I’ll admit, surprised at the interview when he told me what the salary would be. Far, far higher than I’d expected. I assumed he wanted the best and was prepared to pay for it. He went to a dinner party the first night of my employment. The next morning, when I was tiding his clothes, I found a seventeenth-century snuffbox in his pocket. The pattern continued. Nothing was ever said between us. I returned the items whenever I could.”

  “You say you were highly paid, but you’re worried about spending a few more days in West London in a prepaid hotel room?”

  He sighed, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. It had been a brazenly personal question, after all. But I find that once people start trying to explain their actions, they rarely stop. “I was raised in the Kent countryside. I had a good childhood, and I have fond memories. I’m hoping to buy a small property there for my retirement years. Another benefit of working for Sir Nigel was that my living expenses were light. I lived in a small apartment in his house and traveled at his expense. I put every bob I could into my savings.”

  “Be that as it may,” I said. “He didn’t seem to treat you very well.”

  “I assume you’re asking if I killed him.”

  I lifted my eyebrows.

  “On the contrary, his death is a severe blow to my plans. If we’re being honest here, Ms. Doyle, I’ll tell you that I hated the man. He was arrogant, rude, and sneeringly condescending. I kept telling myself one more year . . . one more year . . . and then I’d have enough saved to retire and buy my house. I did not kill him.”

  I believed him. Gerald might love the theater, but he wasn’t much of an actor. His early attempt at a suitable expression of mourning was a complete failure.

  “I hated him, in some ways, but I also felt sorry for him. He had achieved great heights in his chosen profession, and equally great was his fall. His friends abandoned him. Dinner party invitations dried up. No one would work with him. His parents are long deceased. He hadn’t spoken to his only sister in years. His ex-wives would have nothing to do with him. All he had left was a bottle and a collection of pilfered items. You have no idea, Gemma, how excited he was when he got the offer to perform here, in The Hound. It was, truth be told, sad to see.”

  * * *

  I’m well aware that the Internet is not always the best the place to go for factual knowledge, but for gossip, nothing beats it.

  I had only one drink with Gerald and left him ordering another. I gave the bartender enough money to cover it. I untied Violet, and we drove to the beach for a long walk. I’d have enjoyed an evening swim in the warm waters of Nantucket Sound, but I knew that if I went home for my swimming costume, I’d never leave the house. Violet enjoyed the walk, as she always does, and as it always does, watching her play in the surf and chase sandpipers gave me a lot of time to think over what I’d learned today.

  When we got home, I searched for Gerald Greene on the Internet. I eventually found a list of productions over the years from an amateur theater company in Reading, and Gerald had credit as director for ten years’ worth of performances. Not that I had reason to doubt his story, but I never take anything on face value. The website featured pictures of the actors who’d appeared, but none of the director. I found no further information on Gerald, and Greene is such a common name in the UK, it was not worth my time trying to investigate his past without a lot more to go on.

  I next searched IMDb for information on Edward Barker. He was, so the page reported, recently divorced from an actress named Garnet Hogan, to whom he’d been married for three years. I clicked on Garnet’s info and wasn’t at all surprised to see that she was a small, fine-boned, blue-eyed blonde in her early thirties. Her list of recent credits included two supporting roles as the best friend in moderately successful Hollywood romantic comedies.

  Was Garnet on her way up and thus ready to dump Eddie, stuck in small off-Broadway roles? Or did jealousy at her success on his part get in the way of the marriage?

  Wouldn’t have been the first time that happened.

  I searched the gossip blogs, looking for nothing more than dirt. A familiar name leapt out at me. Well, well, what do we have here? Before he married Garnet, Eddie’s name had been linked to that of none other than Renee Masters. The dates were close enough that it would appear they broke up shortly before his marriage. If Eddie dumped Renee for Garnet and now he was single again, Renee might be wanting to get the relationship back on track. Which would explain Renee’s hostility to Jayne.

  I didn’t find anything scandalous about the other actors. Ralph Carlyle had a solid career in repertory theater. Solid, steady, and respectable, with few highs and not many lows. He was married with four children and lived in New York City.

  The bio listed him as thirty-eight years old, which is what I’d estimated when I met him. Far too young to play Watson to Nigel Bellingham’s Holmes—the two men were supposed to be similar in age—but just right against Eddie Barker.

  Harry O’Leary, who played Stapleton, had a few minor movie roles as a child but now only acted in summer theater. Tanya Morrison, who played Mrs. Hudson as well as Mrs. Barrymore, had also been in movies in her youth, the last of which was many years ago. She was now retired and living on the Cape with her husband of thirty years. She took the occasional part at the festival to keep her hand in. Her bio mentioned that she donated her salary back to the theater company.

  Other than Renee and Eddie, they seemed like a boring bunch.

  But, I reminded myself, murder can sometimes be a very mundane business.

  Chapter 13

  “How’d it go?” I asked Jayne.

  “How’d what go?” The rush of color into the tips of her ears told me she knew exactly what I was talking about.

  I took a sip of my tea. I hate drinking out of a takeaway cup, but I was en route to the shop, and I’ve found through experience that balancing cup and saucer while unlocking the door can end in disaster. Moriarty seems to instinctively know when I’m least able to defend myself from flying claws.

  “Your evening,” I said, “with the handsome and eligible Eddie. He is single, by the way—officially divorced with no children on record. I checked on that.”

  She glanced up from the tart shells in front of her. “Gemma, I did not ask you to do that.”

  “I have your interests at heart.”

  She shook her head. “I asked him, okay? He told me all about it. His wife decided there were better career options for her in Hollywood than in New York, so she dumped him. At first, he was crushed, devastated. Lots of acting couples, he told me, have cross-country marriages, but she didn’t want to go to the trouble of working things out. He realized why when she set up housekeeping with some third-rate character actor the week she arrived in California.”

  I decided this was not the best time to point out to Jayne that she was too trusting for her own good sometimes. No doubt Garnet would spin a different story. “Where’d you go for dinner?”

  “The café. It was lovely.”

  “Did you see Andy?”

  “Yes. He gave us the best table and sent out a bottle of wine on the house. He’s such a nice man. I know you think he’s got a crush on me, Gemma, but we’re just friends. He was so nice to Eddie.”

  If that was true, I figured Andy was a loss to the theater world.

  “And after dinner?” I wiggled my eyebrows.

  Jayne flushed. “We bought ice cream c
ones and went for a walk along the boardwalk.” She sighed. “It was so romantic. And then—not that it’s any of your business, Gemma Doyle—he drove me home and gave me a kiss at the front door. That was all.”

  “He rented a Smart car? That must cost a pretty penny.”

  “He likes to have his own transportation because he doesn’t want to be dependent on others for getting him around. It’s a superfun little car. Hey, how’d you know that?”

  “I saw it outside the barn and figured a vehicle like that would suit him.” Here on Cape Cod, Eddie was trying to make a good impression. What better than playing the role of a responsible, environmentally conscious consumer? Not a bad look for a visiting actor. Jayne always told me I was too cynical. Maybe he really was a responsible, environmentally conscious consumer.

  The soft smile faded from Jayne’s face. “I called Mom after you and I went to the rehearsal. She didn’t answer, so I left a message. She still hasn’t called me back. I’m getting seriously worried. She’s hiding something from me, something mighty important, and you know what it is, don’t you, Gemma?”

  “Ashleigh comes in at one. I’ll take a break at four to take Violet for a short walk. Let’s have our partner’s meeting at my house today. Four fifteen.”

  “Don’t change the subject!”

  “I’m not changing the subject. I’ll invite your mum too.” I gave her a wave with my tea mug and left her to her bread dough and pastries.

  Speaking of pastries, I’d had time this morning to relax over the British online newspapers with a breakfast of yogurt, muesli, and fresh berries, but one of those brownies would suit me nicely for elevenses.

  It was quarter to ten, and the tea room was almost empty. The business breakfast crowd had filled up and left, the late-morning tourists were yet to arrive, and it was a long time until lunch.

  Today was Jocelyn’s regular day off, and Lorraine, the part-time staffer, was taking a rare moment of quiet to adjust her shoe. Lorraine was an older woman, retired from running her own successful shop on Baker Street. She claimed she soon began to miss the human interaction of the retail trade and signed on to work at the tea room part-time over the summer. What Lorraine called human interaction, I knew, meant gossip.