There's a Murder Afoot

  There’s a Murder Afoot

  A SHERLOCK HOLMES BOOKSHOP MYSTERY

  Vicki Delany

  To Nolan Arthur Hartley Webb, who has many years of reading ahead of him.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Alex Delany, with whom I had great fun exploring London and scouting out locations for this book. Also to Cheryl Freedman, who provided many helpful suggestions.

  To Kevin Thornton, always a fun guy, for letting me play with his name. As far as I know, no one in his family is connected to the underground art word! But I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Chapter One

  My sister Phillipa Doyle is a minor functionary in the British government. What that means I’m not entirely sure, and she has never bothered to enlighten me.

  Pippa is seven years older than I am, and we have never been close. People tell me I’m smart, but I am—although I’d never admit it—the slow one in my family.

  I’d hoped Ryan and Pippa wouldn’t meet on this trip, but such was not to be.

  She extended her long thin fingers toward him, and for a moment he looked as though he scarcely knew what do to with them. Then he recovered his wits, took her hand in his, and pumped it enthusiastically. “Pleased to meet you,” he said.

  “Charmed,” she drawled.

  She wasn’t going to make this easy.

  When Pippa had come into the hotel bar, where we were gathering for predinner drinks, we’d exchanged air kisses and muttered insincerities. I hadn’t seen my sister for five years, not since I’d moved to West London, Massachusetts. She never visited me there, and when I’d come to London to visit my parents, Pippa had been out of town. Or so she’d said.

  As a child she’d been overweight and, tired of the snickering of her peers, had set out to change that with the single-minded determination characteristic of the way she does everything. By the time she’d gone to Cambridge, she’d been thin to the point of emaciated. Now, I thought, she’d lost weight since I’d last seen her. She’d probably come straight from her office, dressed in a gray skirt suit that cost in the hundreds, if not thousands, of pounds, a pink silk blouse with a bow at the neck, gray pumps—Manolo Blahnik, possibly—with four-inch heels, and small, but perfect, pearl earnings. Her brown hair, highlighted with streaks of caramel, was perfectly arranged to come to a sleek bob at her chin, and her manicure was fresh.

  In contrast, I’d been on a plane all night, and although my friends and I arrived at Heathrow on time, my suitcase had not. I’d had to run out to the shops to buy what I could so I didn’t have to go to dinner with my family wearing my traveling jeans, comfortable cardigan, and well-worn trainers. Greeting Pippa, I felt like a country bumpkin in my new black-and-white dress under a black shrug, black leggings, and practical shoes.

  My friends had all stood when I had, and I made the introductions. As well as Ryan Ashburton, I’d come with Jayne Wilson, baker and business partner; Grant Thompson, rare-book dealer; and Donald Morris, retired lawyer and active Sherlockian.

  Pippa told everyone how absolutely delighted she was to meet them and took the chair Grant offered her with a warm smile.

  Ryan found my hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. I gave him a grateful smile in return. Our on-again, off-again, on-again romantic relationship was at the moment on again, and I was determined to keep it that way.

  I hadn’t told him I was nervous about seeing my sister, but I never could fool Ryan. Which was a good part of the reason our relationship was sometimes in the off phase.

  “Are you a Sherlock aficionado, Ms. Doyle?” Donald Morris asked Pippa.

  She turned to him with a smile. “I greatly enjoyed the Jeremy Brett TV program and some of the modern interpretations, although I wouldn’t say I’m an aficionado. It is a passion of my great-uncle Arthur, whom I believe you know.”

  “Fabulous man, Arthur,” Donald said. “His knowledge of the Canon is unparalleled.”

  “Has Gemma told you about our most famous relative?” she said.

  I let out a breath, squeezed Ryan’s hand, and then released it. So Pippa had decided to play nicely tonight. That came as an enormous relief.

  Donald’s eyes grew wide beneath his thick spectacles. “You mean Sir Arthur?” He turned to me. “Gemma, you always said that wasn’t true. That you aren’t related to the great man himself. The creator of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Opinions on that differ,” I said.

  Pippa had instantly taken Donald’s measure and decided to play along. Great-Uncle Arthur insisted that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a distant relative of ours. My father maintained there wasn’t the slightest bit of evidence to support that.

  Although, I suppose if you go back far enough, most everyone is related in some way or another, particularly those who share a name.

  Pippa had never shown any interest at all in the tales of Sherlock Holmes, and I assumed she was pretending to in order to be polite to Donald. That Donald was a devotee of the Great Detective was obvious. Not only was he here in London the night before a Holmes conference, but he wore a pin attached to his jacket indicating he was a member of a Sherlockian society. His ulster was tossed over the back of his chair. That type of garment—a calf-length coat with a small cape—had last been fashionable around the time Holmes and Watson were dashing through the fog-shrouded streets of London hunting for the origins of the goose that swallowed a priceless jewel.

  The waiter placed another small bowl of nuts and wasabi peas onto the table. “Can I get you something from the bar, madam?”

  “A soda water, please,” Pippa said. “With a slice of lemon.”

  “Good beer, this,” Grant Thompson said. “I’ve missed a good English beer.”

  Pippa turned her smile on him, and this time genuine interest flashed in her eyes. “You’re obviously an American, but you’ve spent time in England. How marvelous. Oxford would be my guess.”

  “I did my PhD in English lit there, yes,” Grant said.

  A middle-aged couple came into the bar, and I leapt to my feet. “Here they are now.” I ran across the room and gathered the newcomers into a deep hug.

  My mother hugged me in return and then stepped away so my dad could shake me with enough enthusiasm to make my teeth rattle. “Gemma,” he said when we finally separated. “Here you are. Gosh, but I’ve missed you.”

  “I missed you too, Dad. Come and meet my friends.” I led my parents to our table. “Everyone, this is Mum and Dad. Anne and Henry Doyle.”

  We were having drinks in the downstairs bar of the Bentley Hotel in Kensington. My American friends and I were in London for the weekend-long Sherlock Holmes in the Modern World conference being held at a big convention hotel a few doors down the street.

  I’d come because I was giving a talk on Holmes’s influence on popular culture, Grant because he was on the lookout for rare books at a good price, and Donald because Sherlock Holmes was his life. Jayne was here for the vacation, and Ryan had come because he was Ryan.

  I noticed my mother glancing between Ryan and Grant, sizing them both up, wondering which one was with me. They were similar in age, and both extremely handsome. Ryan, all six foot three of him, had the look of his Black Irish ancestors, with warm blue eyes and thick dark hair cut very short. Grant was slightly shorter but also fit and lean, with brown hair curling around his collar and hazel eyes containing flakes of green that danced when he smiled.

  Greetings over and introductions made, my parents took their seats. We occupied a large round table in a corner with enough space for us all. A plush banquette, covered in red silk with a pattern of tigers and cheetahs etched in gold thread, was tucked into an alcove, and the chairs around the table were upholstered in green and gold velvet. Paintings of
big cats hung on the walls, and the doorways and alcoves were trimmed in gilt. Being in the basement, the room had no windows; a soft golden light, the type that makes everyone look good, came from lamps and the candles on each table.

  This time, it was my turn to give Ryan’s hand a squeeze. He was anything but the nervous sort, but he’d been nervous at meeting my parents for the first time. Earlier, he’d called me down to his room to help him choose what to wear. He didn’t want to look too formal, as though he were trying to impress anyone, or too casual, as though he couldn’t be bothered to make the effort. I’d told him to take off the suit and tie and wear jeans and a leather jacket and just be himself. He looked so good tonight.

  Of course, he looked good all the time.

  I gave him a smile and his blue eyes twinkled in response. My mother noticed and she nodded in approval.

  The waiter brought Pippa’s drink and asked what the newcomers would have. Mum ordered a Kir Royale and Dad a single-malt scotch. My mother had come straight from court and was dressed in her regular uniform of black suit with white blouse and black shoes with low heels. Dad, recently retired, wore neatly pressed beige trousers and an oatmeal sweater. In contrast, Donald looked like an unmade bed—which he was, as he still wore the clothes he’d slept in on the plane—in many-times-washed jeans and a rumpled T-shirt under his equally rumpled sports jacket. Jayne looked lovely, as she always did no matter how jet-lagged she might be, in a navy-blue dress with a thin white belt. Grant, like Ryan, had dressed suitably for a casual dinner.

  When the waiter left to fetch the drinks, Dad asked Donald if this was his first time in London, and Donald erupted with enthusiasm. “I can’t believe I’ve never been to England before. Imagine, I’m treading the very streets frequented by Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.”

  “You do know they weren’t real people, don’t you, Donald?” I teased. Donald knew, but his enthusiasm got the better of him sometimes.

  “Imaginatively speaking, of course,” he said. “But Sir Arthur himself trod these ancient cobblestones.” Donald’s eyes shone, and I thought of the construction work we’d had to detour around on the approach to the hotel. Not many ancient cobblestones left in Kensington.

  “On the cab ride here,” he continued, “we drove right past Gloucester Road station. I couldn’t believe it! The very place where, in The Bruce-Partington Plans, Holmes himself walked along the rails, intent on a mission of the utmost national importance, to ascertain if the houses backing onto the rail track had windows looking over it. I was so excited to see more, I didn’t take the time to unpack but rushed off to have a closer look.” He leaned over and pulled a leather briefcase off the floor. “Would you like to see my pictures?”

  “Of Gloucester Road station?” Mum said. “Perhaps not right now.”

  Undeterred, Donald pulled a small compact camera out of his case and switched it on. He leaned closer to Jayne and held the camera in front of her face. He flicked happily through it. “I particularly loved the flower seller. QUEEN OF GLOUCESTER ROAD spelled out in flowers. Isn’t that clever?”

  “Very clever,” Jayne agreed, suppressing a yawn. London time is five hours ahead of Massachusetts, and we’d been on a late flight last night. I should probably have put dinner with the family off for another day, but the conference began tomorrow and we’d be busy over the weekend.

  “What time’s your talk, Gemma?” Dad asked.

  “Two thirty tomorrow.”

  “We’ll be there,” he said.

  “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to,” I replied. “It’s not going to be very exciting.”

  “A lecture on Sherlock Holmes pastiche,” Pippa said. “What could possibly be more thrilling?”

  Donald didn’t catch my sister’s sarcasm. “I totally agree! Gemma is going to be fascinating, and her talk will be about far more than just books. I printed out the schedule for the weekend, and I’ve marked off the lectures and panels I’m planning to attend.” He rummaged around inside his bag. “Would you like to see?”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  He pulled the sheets of paper out anyway. “The weekend will be all about the conference, but on Monday I’ll be free to visit Baker Street and the Sherlock Holmes Museum. I’m scheduled for a walking tour of Holmes’s London on Monday afternoon.”

  I sipped my glass of prosecco. “I assume you’re too busy to come and hear me speak, Pippa.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” she replied.

  Jayne glanced between us.

  “And you, Grant,” Pippa said. “Will you be speaking also?”

  “Not me,” he said. “I’m here to check out the books for sale. I’m a rare-book dealer, and I specialize in Victorian and Edwardian crime fiction. I have several clients at home who might be interested in some of the items on offer this weekend.”

  “Book collecting must be so interesting,” she said.

  He straightened in his chair and adjusted his shoulders. “I find it so.”

  Pippa was seated on the other side of the table from me. Too far away for me to give her a solid kick in the shins. Instead I gave her a warning look. She smiled in return before turning back to Grant. “Do tell me about your time at Oxford. I myself went to Cambridge.”

  “We’re rivals, then,” he said.

  “So we are.”

  “Did you remember to get us banquet tickets, dear?” my mother asked.

  “I did, and it’s a good thing, because they told me they’re almost sold out. Are you sure you want to come? I can probably sell the tickets back to the organizers.”

  “Of course we want to come,” Dad said. “Arthur is being honored.”

  My great-uncle Arthur Doyle had opened the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium at 222 Baker Street, West London, Massachusetts. A few years later, I’d joined him in the business, and I was now the manager and co-owner. He was being given an award at the conference’s Saturday night banquet for helping to spread the love of Sherlock Holmes beyond Britain’s shores. Actually, I was being given the award and would be saying a few words of thanks in his place. Arthur had considered attending the conference until he heard he’d be expected to give a speech, so he’d suggested I (more like forced me to) come instead.

  “I reserved us a table at a place not far from here.” My father scooped up a handful of nuts and popped them into his mouth.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Jayne had a nap when we checked in, but we’ll all want an early night.”

  Jayne attempted, and failed, to smother another yawn.

  Pippa flirted with Grant, and Grant flirted back. Mum asked Jayne if she had plans for the visit apart from the conference. Dad asked Ryan what he did for a living, and my father, a retired officer in the Metropolitan Police, was absolutely delighted to hear that Ryan was a West London police detective.

  It was early, just after five, but the bar was filling up. I caught quite a few American accents and wondered if those people were here for the conference.

  A burst of loud laugher came from the stairwell and a group of men came in. They were a mixture of nationalities—American, English, French, a Scotsman—but they had one thing in common: they weren’t here for their first drink of the day.

  They grabbed a table in the center of the room and, with much shouting and laughing, pulled up chairs.

  “Do you live nearby, Mrs. Doyle?” Jayne asked.

  “Call me Anne, please. We’re not far at all. The location of this conference of yours turned out to be very convenient for us.”

  “Things have changed a lot on the force since my day,” Dad said to Ryan. “Even though that wasn’t long ago.”

  “What do you do, Pippa?” Grant asked.

  “A minor clerical position with the Department for Transport,” Pippa said with a light laugh. “I’m basically just a pencil pusher.” She ran her hands across her glass as she talked. She was, I knew, keeping them busy and out of the nut dish.

  I sipped my prosecco a
nd glanced around the room. The waiter had brought tall glasses of beer and bowls of nuts for the newcomers at the center table. The men lifted their glasses, clinked, and said, “Cheers,” before taking a hearty swig. One of them did not join the others in the toast. Instead, he stared intently at our table. He caught me watching but did not turn away.

  I leaned across Ryan and spoke to my dad in a low voice. “Center table. Big guy in a blue shirt. He seems to be watching you.”

  Beside me, I felt Ryan stiffen. Dad stretched his shoulders with a groan. He leaned over to speak to Jayne, which, not at all incidentally, gave him a view of the room behind him.

  Shock, followed by anger, crossed his face.

  The big man in the blue shirt grinned.

  My dad turned back to our table. He picked up his glass and finished his drink. “Time to be off. The restaurant won’t hold our place much longer.”

  “Excellent,” Donald said. “I’m starving. Perhaps we could go to a genuine English pub one night?”

  “I know the perfect place,” I said.

  “Is something the matter?” my mother said to my father.

  “No.” He got to his feet, his face set in tight, angry lines.

  Ryan jumped up, ready to follow him.

  “The walking tour should be fascinating,” Donald said to Jayne. “I hope it doesn’t rain.”

  The man at the center table watched us gather our coats and bags. The waiter hurried over with our bill. I grabbed it. “I’ll sign for it.” If Donald had to calculate his share of the bill, determine the exchange rate, work out a suitable tip, and then examine every pound note and coin in his wallet, we’d never get out of here.

  Dad stepped back and allowed Mum and Jayne to precede him. Mum was telling Jayne she must visit the food hall at Harrods, which was within easy walking distance of our hotel.

  “What’s wrong?” Pippa asked in a low voice. “Why the sudden rush?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Dad said. “I’m hungry. Let’s go.”

  I gestured to Grant and Ryan to go with Pippa, Jayne, Mum, and Donald. Dad and I followed. As we passed the big table in the center of the room, the man in the blue shirt stood up. “Henry Doyle.”