A Curious Incident Read online

  A Curious Incident

  A SHERLOCK HOLMES BOOKSHOP MYSTERY

  Vicki Delany

  To my mom. Always my inspiration

  Acknowledgments

  A book is never the work of one person, and I have two people in particular to thank for helping me make the world of Gemma and Jayne and the gang the best I can achieve. Cheryl Freedman, my good friend, turns her professional editor’s eye on the manuscript and makes many helpful suggestions and offers encouragement. Sandy Harding works hard to fix my mistakes and oversights and provides even more encouragement. Thanks very much to them both.

  Thanks also to Kim Lionetti, my agent at Bookends, and to the crew at Crooked Lane Books for their support of this series and all my writing efforts.

  And to Sherlockians everywhere. Keep on believing.

  Chapter One

  “I am not a consulting detective.”

  “Can’t you at least say you’ll try and help her?”

  “That would be unfair to her, Jayne. I can’t give the girl false hopes.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Poor thing. I wish there was something we could do.”

  I glanced across the room. The little girl was perched on the stool behind the sales counter, watching us, all wide eyes, knees and elbows, long sun-kissed golden hair, and hope.

  Hope that I was about to crush.

  I sighed, pasted on a smile that no doubt looked as fake as it felt, and walked across the shop floor toward her, feeling perfectly terrible.

  She blinked rapidly, fighting back tears.

  “All I can do, Lauren,” I said, “is keep my eyes open. You’ll do that too, won’t you, Jayne?”

  “Absolutely,” Jayne said.

  “We’ll tell all our friends to be on the lookout. Maybe you and your mum can put more posters up around town?” I’d seen plenty of those signs over the last two days. One hung in my own shop window, another in the window of Mrs. Hudson’s, the tearoom next door.

  “But,” Lauren said, her lower lip trembling, “she’s been gone for two whole days! Aunt Irene said you make it your business to know what others do not. She said you can find out things no one else can. She said you’re better than the police. She said …”

  Mentally, I cursed Irene Talbot. I might have once or twice attempted to help the West London police in the performance of their duties—okay, I solved their cases for them—but they would have arrived at it eventually. I think.

  Locating a missing house cat is far out of my area of expertise.

  I’m Gemma Doyle, and I’m part-owner, manager, and general dogsbody of the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, located at 222 Baker Street in West London, Massachusetts, and all I want is to be a shop owner. Not a consulting detective.

  My assistant, Ashleigh, stood behind the girl, making frantic gestures at me. I ignored her. I would not promise to find the blasted cat, because I couldn’t. Jayne, still dressed in a hairnet and apron, touched Lauren lightly on the arm in a gesture of support. When Lauren had asked if she could meet me, Jayne Wilson had come out of the kitchen of the tearoom next door to bring her to my shop.

  My own cat, Moriarty, was curled up in Lauren’s arms. He glared at me, no doubt also telling me to get out there and solve the case. I briefly considered offering Moriarty to Lauren as a replacement for her missing pet.

  Moriarty and I weren’t exactly the best of friends. He was a good shop cat and generally got on well with our patrons, many of whom adored him. But, for some unknown reason, he disliked me intensely, and he never missed an opportunity to let me know precisely what he thought of me.

  If I sent Moriarty to a new home, he’d find his way back here, just to spite me.

  And the poor child would have lost another cat.

  “I can pay you,” Lauren said. “Out of my allowance. What do you charge?”

  “It’s not that,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I need to be completely honest with you. I can’t do anything to help you.”

  Moriarty, Ashleigh, Jayne, and Lauren all looked at me as though I’d promised them a visit from Benedict Cumberbatch and instead sent Great-Uncle Arthur wearing a curly wig.

  “That’s okay.” Lauren put Moriarty on the counter and gave him a sad pat. She hopped off the stool. “I understand,” she said bravely. “I’ll go now. Mom will be finished with her lunch soon.”

  “Why don’t you give Gemma your phone number and address,” Ashleigh said. “She can call you if she has any ideas.”

  I threw Ashleigh a poisonous look, which she pretended not to see.

  Lauren rattled off a number and an address not far from my own house.

  “I’ll take you back to your mom,” Jayne said. “Come on.” She put her arm around Lauren’s thin shoulders, and together they walked through the sliding door into the tearoom. Jayne turned her head and gave me a glare of disapproval.

  “I am not a consulting detective!” I called after them.

  Moriarty turned his back on me, lifted his tail high, and leapt off the counter. He stalked across the room, as disapproving as Jayne.

  “Why I am feeling guilty?” I said to Ashleigh. “Why does everyone think I can find the cat? The next time I see Irene Talbot, I’m going to kill her.”

  “Poor little thing,” Ashleigh said. “She really is upset.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

  “I don’t think Irene actually told her to ask you to help find Snowball …”

  “Is that the cat’s name? Not very original.”

  “The girl’s eleven years old, Gemma. Originality isn’t a strength at that age.”

  “I suppose not. Is the cat white?”

  “Didn’t you look at the poster in the window?”

  “I might have glanced at it. As I have no interest in lost cats”—I threw a look at Moriarty, who was pretending to ignore me—“I didn’t pay much attention.”

  The missing-cat poster was stuck to the window next to one we’d put up yesterday when a couple of women from the West London Garden Club asked if we’d help spread the word about their annual garden tour.

  “I thought you noticed everything.” Ashleigh always dressed to suit whatever mood she was in that morning or what was currently on her mind. Today, no doubt inspired by the garden club visit, she wore a floppy straw hat with a wide ribbon around the brim, a pair of baggy trousers tucked into yellow-and-purple rubber boots, and a T-shirt that proclaimed “Gardening is Life!” among a plethora of flowers.

  “Not everything,” I said. “And never info about missing cats. Or about garden clubs either, as I have no interest in gardening.”

  “Sounds like Irene’s been spinning stories about how her good friend Gemma Doyle is smarter than the police, and when Lauren and her mom came in for lunch and Lauren found out that you work right next door, she decided to talk to you. Smart kid, I’d say.”

  “I liked her,” I said. “I’d help her if I could, Ashleigh, but I never make promises I can’t keep.”

  The chimes over the door tinkled. Two women came into the store, and Ashleigh and I went back to work. Moriarty did not. His job is to greet customers, but apparently he’d gone on strike today. He stayed in his bed under the big center table all afternoon, bristling with disapproval.

  It was late June and the start of the summer tourist season on Cape Cod. We were busy most of the day as a steady stream of customers came into the shop. Whenever I glanced next door at 220 Baker Street, I could see a lineup at the counter for takeout, as well as people waiting patiently for tables for afternoon tea, Mrs. Hudson’s specialty.

  Every day at precisely 3:40, Jayne and I have our daily business partners’ meeting in the tearoom. We sip tea, eat whatever remains of the day’s baking, and chat. Occasional
ly we might even talk about the businesses. Great-Uncle Arthur and I own the Emporium, and we’re half partners with Jayne in the tearoom. I run the bookshop, and Jayne’s the manager and head baker at Mrs. Hudson’s. The tearoom, of course, is named in honor of Sherlock Holmes’s long-suffering landlady.

  Our shop is dedicated, as the name indicates, to all things Sherlock: the original stories, contemporary pastiche and short-story collections, other books by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, nonfiction relating to the author’s life and times, and works of fiction set in Holmes’s time frame, sometimes called the Gaslight Era. We also stock merchandise related to the Great Detective, of which there is a substantial amount. Earlier this year, Great-Uncle Arthur received an award from an English Holmes society for helping to spread word of the Great Detective in North America. The award, an ugly glass statue, currently stands on a top shelf above the sales counter, next to the framed reproduction cover of Beeton’s Christmas Annual, dated December 1887, in which “A Scandal in Scarlet,” the first Holmes story, appeared.

  Today at three thirty, the shop was comfortably busy. “I’m going to skip the partners’ meeting with Jayne,” I told Ashleigh.

  “Alert the press,” she said.

  “If I did that, Irene would assume I was embarking on a case.” Irene is a reporter at the West London Star. “I have to get home and pay some attention to Violet,” I said, referring to my cocker spaniel. She’s technically Great-Uncle Arthur’s dog, but he travels a great deal, and most of the dog-ownership responsibility has fallen to me. I don’t mind. I love Violet, and—unlike my cat—she loves me in return. Our neighbor Mrs. Ramsbatten, who pops in to give Violet a walk when Uncle Arthur’s away, had gone out of town for a few days, and it wasn’t fair to Violet to leave her locked up in the house all day.

  “Why don’t you bring her to work with you?” Ashleigh said. “She’s a well-behaved dog.”

  Moriarty had finally emerged from his bed and was making his way across the shop floor. He leapt straight into the air, hissing and spitting.

  “That’s why,” I said. “Back soon.”

  I went into the tearoom and asked Fiona, one of the waitresses, to tell Jayne that something had come up and I was going out.

  “You should have said you’d help that little girl find her cat,” Fiona said.

  “Does everyone in West London know my business?”

  “Pretty much,” she replied.

  I walked briskly down Baker Street toward the harbor. The town of West London is situated in the Lower Cape area of Cape Cod, nestled between the Atlantic Ocean and Nantucket Sound. It was a perfect summer’s day and the tourists were out in force, popping in and out of stores, lining up for lattes at coffee shops, or enjoying cool drinks on restaurant patios. On Harbor Road they shopped for or munched on fresh fish, watched seals play in the cool waters under the pier, or explored the grounds of the historic lighthouse. The ocean was calm today, and brilliant white sails and powerful motorboats dotted the water. On the horizon, a cruise ship drifted past. I looked northeast out to sea in the general direction of dear old England and wondered how my friend Grant Thompson was getting on now that he’d taken up housekeeping with my brilliant, mercurial, single-minded sister, Pippa. My mother had reported that Pippa was happier than she’d ever known her eldest daughter to be and that Pippa wasn’t working quite the long hours she always had. That pleased me very much. The cheerful tone of my parents’ emails also pleased me: clearly, they’d recovered from the upsetting events of January during my last visit.

  I walked down Harbor Road for a few minutes, simply enjoying the break from the shop and the beauty of the day, and then turned inland at Blue Water Place, my street. The 1756 saltbox house where I live with Great-Uncle Arthur soon came into view. Arthur is one of the world’s great travelers, and at the moment he was in Thailand with friends from his Royal Navy days. Or was it Trinidad? I can never get his whereabouts straight.

  Our garden was a riot of color and beautifully maintained foliage. No thanks to me; I have a pure-black thumb when it comes to gardening. Mrs. Ramsbatten and some of her garden club friends who’d recently moved into apartments but missed their gardens maintained it for us. For the heavy work, cutting the grass and such, we shared the services of a lawn maintenance company.

  Butterflies flitted about, drifting from one fragrant plant to another; a bee buzzed past my ear, and a large black crow eyed me from the branch of an ancient oak as I walked up the driveway and let myself into the house through the mudroom entrance. The scent of basil rose from the herb bed Mrs. Ramsbatten and her friends had planted by the door. Violet greeted me with her usual excess of enthusiasm, and I proclaimed my joy at seeing her with a hearty thumping of her rump and sides. Mutual greetings over, she ran in excited circles while I got the leash off the hook, and we set off on our walk.

  I didn’t want to take too much time away from the shop, so rather than getting the car and taking Violet for a good run on a deserted stretch of the coast or along a meandering woodland trail, we stayed on our street.

  Summer hours at the Emporium are long, and I like to be on hand from opening until closing, seven days a week. It’s a long day alone for Violet, but fortunately Mrs. Ramsbatten is happy to pop in and give the dog some attention and a bathroom break. Mrs. Ramsbatten is in her eighties and walks with the aid of a cane, so Violet doesn’t get a proper walk, but I’m happy knowing she at least gets a romp in the yard, some company, and a refreshed water bowl.

  This week, my neighbor was visiting her sister in Sandwich for three days, so I was trying to make a point of getting home to Violet at least once during the day.

  We trotted down the sidewalk, cool in the shade of the green canopy and dappled sunlight formed by the huge trees, some of which were as old as my house. When we reached Mrs. Ramsbatten’s yard, Violet jerked at the leash and tried to veer into the garden. I pulled her back. “Your friend’s not there, Violet. You’ll see her soon.” She’d done the same thing yesterday, and I assumed Violet was wondering where Mrs. Ramsbatten was. It was nice to think that Violet was fond of the woman.

  An aging Ford sedan was parked in her driveway. My neighbor didn’t use her car very much these days, if at all, and it was covered by a light layer of dust.

  Fifteen minutes later, we retraced our steps, heading home. As we passed in front of Mrs. Ramsbatten’s neat white picket fence, intertwined with bushes bursting with red flowers, Violet whined and once again yanked at her leash. I was about to pull her back when I had a thought.

  I dropped my end of the leash.

  The dog scratched at the gate, and I opened it. Violet hurled herself through it and ran across the immaculate lawn and around to the back of Mrs. Ramsbatten’s house. I hurried after her. By the time I reached the backyard, Violet was scratching at the door of the small black-and-white garden shed, with its cheerful red door and flower boxes overflowing with tumbling ivy and colorful annuals. When I called to her, she turned her head and looked at me. She barked once, then returned her attention to the red door.

  “What have you got there?” I asked her. I put my ear to the door and listened. Inside, something rustled. Mice, probably, startled by the sound of the dog, or garden implements settling.

  But perhaps not.

  I keep a small flashlight attached to my set of keys. I took it out, switched it on, and turned the door handle. It wasn’t locked. Slowly and carefully, I pushed open the door of the shed and shone my light in.

  Two huge amber eyes stared at me from the far corner. Then the owner of the eyes, a pure-white kitten, arched its back and hissed.

  I’d found Snowball.

  Chapter Two

  Murmuring soft words. I edged into the shed. I closed the door behind me, leaving Violet outside. I didn’t want to scare the cat and chance it bolting and being lost again. Frightened eyes stared at me, and she offered no resistance as I scooped her up. The tiny body shivered, and I could feel the bones beneath the skin and fur. Today was
Monday. Mrs. Ramsbatten had left on Saturday morning, and by Lauren’s account, Snowball had gone missing two days ago. The little cat must have come into the shed, chasing mice perhaps, and then the door closed on her. Mrs. Ramsbatten’s eyesight wasn’t all that good, and she probably hadn’t noticed the kitten hiding in a corner of the dark shed.

  I cradled the cat to my chest and carried her to safety while Violet ran on ahead, making her way home. The first thing I did when we got to the house was pour some fresh water into a small bowl. The cat watched me warily from a corner of the kitchen. I scooped her up and put her on the counter next to the water. She gave me one dubious glance and then dove in headfirst. Next, I found a can of salmon in the pantry and dished up a small serving.

  The fish disappeared in record time. The cat wouldn’t have eaten for days, so I didn’t want to give her too much.

  When the water and salmon were gone, she sat down and began washing her whiskers. I put out one hand; she gave me a long look, then rubbed her face against my arm. She started to purr.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “Now it’s time to get you home.” I took a canvas tote bag down from a hook in the mudroom, scooped up the kitten, and dropped her into the bag. I didn’t want her to escape, so I zipped the bag shut, leaving a sliver at the end open so air could get in.

  “You,” I said to Violet, “are the hero of the day, but I’m afraid you’ll have to stay here.”

  The address Lauren had given me was only a couple of blocks from my house, so I walked quickly, cradling the tote bag in my arms while the little pink nose and twitching white whiskers tried to push their way out and plaintive cries broke the peace and quiet of the neighborhood.

  The house I was after was a typical one for the street and the area. A late-model SUV was parked in the driveway beneath towering old oaks. The house was painted a cheerful yellow, with a dark-gray roof and matching shutters. Two stories, double garage. I estimated that it had at least four bedrooms, numerous bathrooms, and a den and TV room. The lot was large, and carefully trimmed shrubs and trees blocked the view of the neighbors. I walked along the brick pathway—not a weed pushing through the cracks—curving between shrubs of juniper and boxwood, to the wide front steps lined with terra-cotta urns overflowing with purple, yellow, and white flowers. Feeling rather pleased with myself, I walked up the steps and rang the bell.