There's a Murder Afoot Page 2

  “Randolph.” Dad’s voice contained not a touch of warmth. “What brings you to this part of town?”

  “Business, what else?” Randolph studied me, his hand resting on his chin, his head cocked slightly to one side. “It’s been a while, Henry. Don’t tell me this is sweet little Phillipa, all grown up.”

  “I’m not Phillipa.” I took my cues from Dad. He was not at all friendly with this man, so I wouldn’t be either.

  “You must be her sister, then. You look very much like your mother when she was your age. Anne’s as beautiful as I remember, although you’ve aged a lot, Henry. Nice to see you two are still together. And they said it wouldn’t last.” A small smile touched the edges of Randolph’s mouth. He was about the same age as my parents, late fifties, well groomed and casually yet expensively dressed. His companions’ conversation died as they looked between us and their friend in confusion. One of the men wore a Baker Street Irregulars lapel pin. So he, at least, was here for the conference. Which might mean this Randolph, whoever he might be, was as well.

  Ryan and Pippa hadn’t left the room with the others. They stood in the doorway, watching.

  “Anne didn’t recognize me,” Randolph said. “I guess I’ve changed a lot over the years. But you knew me right off, Henry.”

  “I’ve seen your mug shots,” Dad said.

  Randolph laughed heartily. “I bet you made a point of searching for them. Oh, yes, I’ve followed your career too. Now that we’ve run into each other, let’s keep in touch.” He opened his wallet and took out a business card. He held it out, but my father didn’t accept it.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” Dad said. “I’m going to dinner with my family.” He walked away. I followed. I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder as I passed through the doorway.

  Randolph had picked up his beer, but he hadn’t taken his seat. He lifted his glass in a toast and gave me a broad wink.

  I grabbed Dad’s arm at the bottom of the stairs and spoke in a low voice. “What was that about?”

  “Best not mention this to your mother,” he said.

  “Why not? Who was that?”

  “An old case,” he said.

  “No it wasn’t. He knew Mum and he knew your children’s names, Pippa anyway. He said I look like Mum, but he looks more like her than I do. The same accent, the same eyes and chin. They even have the same mannerisms, that way of cocking the head to one side when studying something.”

  Dad grinned at me. “I see living in America hasn’t dulled your wits any. Which one of those young men is your boyfriend? The police officer, I suspect. A good choice. The other was clearly smitten by your sister, yet you didn’t seem to mind overly much.”

  “Dad. Tell me what’s going on. Those men Randolph is with are here for the conference, so I suspect he is too.”

  My father hesitated for a moment before he said, “That, my dear, is your uncle Randolph. The family called him Randy.”

  “I have an uncle named Randolph? Why have I never heard of him before?”

  “He’s your mother’s younger brother. The black sheep of the Denhaugh family. He and I never did like each other much. I haven’t seen Randy since the night he stole the Constable your grandfather had put away to provide him and your grandmother with some much-needed income for their old age. Shall we join the others?”

  Chapter Two

  The Sherlock Holmes in the Modern World conference was a big affair. Sherlockians had come from all over the world to attend a weekend of all-Holmes, all-the-time.

  I’m not an excessively enthusiastic Sherlockian myself. I enjoy the original Conan Doyle stories and many of the offshoots, and confess to having a small weakness for Benedict Cumberbatch’s portrayal of the Great Detective. But I can’t discuss the minutiae of the Canon in great detail, argue over the finer points, or identify which obscure quote comes from which obscure story.

  I leave that to my father’s uncle Arthur, founder and co-owner of the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium. Retired after a long and successful career in the Royal Navy, acting totally on impulse, Great-Uncle Arthur bought the building at 222 Baker Street in West London, Massachusetts, for its address, whereupon he turned it into a shop dedicated to all things Sherlock Holmes. He loved setting up the store, searching for and purchasing stock, and chatting with potential customers, but he soon tired of the actual running of the business and tried to sell it. He couldn’t find a buyer for such a specialized bookstore.

  Whereupon I arrived on the scene, fresh from getting rid of my partnership in a mystery bookshop near Trafalgar Square and looking for a fresh start. Now I own half the business and run it. Uncle Arthur is a silent partner, in the bookstore as well as in the bakery next door, which we call Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room and own along with Jayne Wilson, who also serves as head baker and restaurant manager.

  At this moment, Great-Uncle Arthur was at the shop, keeping an eye on things with the help of my assistant, Ashleigh, and caring for our cocker spaniel, Violet. Our shop cat, Moriarty, pretty much looks after himself. It was mid-January and business was slow, so I hoped they’d be able to manage without me. Jayne had reluctantly left the tearoom in the hands of Fiona and Jocelyn, her helpers. It hadn’t been easy, but I’d managed to convince her to come. She’s been working nonstop since opening the bakery a year and a half ago; she needed the break.

  Donald had heard of the conference some time ago and made plans to attend. Without asking my permission, which I would not have given, he’d proposed my name as a speaker. When I received the invitation, I’d been about to refuse, but Uncle Arthur suggested I accept the award in his place. The timing was perfect: January, when business in the shop is at its slowest. Donald told Grant about the event, and Grant decided to come along. Ryan then decided to come too, saying he had vacation time to use up. (I hoped he wasn’t with us because he wanted to keep an eye on Grant, who had once had feelings for me.) As our group got larger and larger, I managed to convince Jayne to join us as a delayed birthday treat. Jayne’s birthday is January 6, which I remember only because it’s the same date as Sherlock Holmes’s. Not that the Sherlock of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s imagination has a birthday, but for some reason fans have settled upon that day.

  When I discovered that Donald had done nothing at all about planning how to get to the conference, never mind where to stay once he arrived, I took over managing the details of the trip. By the time I made up my mind to come, the conference hotel was fully booked, so I put us all in the Bentley, also located on the street named Harrington Gardens, wanting to be as near the action as possible. Jayne had balked at the expense and wanted to back out of the plan, so I’d had to talk her into sharing a room with me by telling her it was my birthday gift to her.

  That left Ryan in a room one floor below us, bunking in with Donald.

  He hadn’t complained about that too much.

  As well as delivering my talk on Sherlock Holmes and popular culture on Friday afternoon and accepting Uncle Arthur’s award at the Saturday evening dinner, I planned to check out things I might want to stock in the shop. We’re primarily a bookstore, but over the years we’ve gradually accumulated all the paraphernalia that goes with the name of the Great Detective these days: coloring books, socks, teacups, coffee mugs, puzzles, dolls, calendars, life-sized cardboard cutouts; the list is practically endless.

  My lecture was scheduled for two thirty on Friday, the first day of the conference. I planned to relax in the morning and tour the exhibit hall before giving my talk.

  * * *

  The restaurant prices at our hotel were well out of my comfort zone, so first thing Friday morning Jayne and I went in search of breakfast. We ended up at Garfunkel’s, located in a small arcade off Gloucester Road, where I enjoyed a proper English breakfast with an excellent cup of tea before heading to the conference.

  “Let’s check out the exhibit floor,” I said. “I’m looking for items we can stock in the Emporium. Nothing our regular customers would
find too expensive and nothing we’ll have trouble importing into America.”

  We walked into the exhibit space. The room was large and well lit, with a high ceiling, ornate ballroom chandeliers, and a practical multicolored carpet. Tables and booths had been laid out in rows, every one of them covered in some variation of Holmes-related merchandise, ranging from costumes to art to books to scale replicas of the sitting room at 221B or Baskerville Hall. Quite a few people, vendors as well as those browsing, wore some variation of Victorian attire. I saw one person dressed as Data role-playing Sherlock from the old TV show Star Trek: The Next Generation.

  “Donald’s going to be in heaven,” Jayne said.

  “Speaking of heaven, always nice to see you two in a morning.” Grant Thompson popped between us.

  “Good morning. How are you today?” I asked.

  “Just great.” He was almost sparkling. The green flakes in his hazel eyes shone in the light from the chandeliers. He was freshly shaven and smelled of good soap. I recognized the scent; before turning in last night, Jayne had switched on the jets in the deep tub in our room and poured in the entire bottle of hotel-provided bath salts.

  “I hope you didn’t get back to the hotel too late,” Jayne said. After dinner, my parents had bid us good night and headed home. Grant and Pippa had gone for another drink, while the rest of us staggered our weary way back to the hotel and collapsed into our baths or beds.

  “Not too late,” Grant said with a grin. I swallowed a sigh. Pippa was, sometimes, not a nice person. I don’t mean she intended to be cruel, but she didn’t always (like ever) pick up on other people’s unspoken signals, and the only thing in her life that mattered to Pippa was Pippa, followed by her job and our parents. I reminded myself that Grant would be on the flight home with the rest of us on Tuesday, so she couldn’t do too much damage to his heart. Besides, he was a big boy. He didn’t need my well-meaning advice.

  “Have you seen Ryan and Donald this morning?” I asked.

  “They were having coffee in the hotel restaurant when I came down. Donald couldn’t stop complaining about the price of the breakfast.”

  “Welcome to London,” I said.

  “Ryan wants to see the Parliament buildings,” Grant said. Ryan had not the slightest interest in Sherlock Holmes. “So he set off by himself as soon as he finished one cup of coffee. He asked me to tell you he’ll try to get back in time for your talk. Did you hear your dad say he’s going to see if he can arrange a visit to Scotland Yard?”

  “I did. That’ll make Ryan happy.”

  “Speaking of happy,” Jayne said, “here comes Donald.”

  Our friend had dispensed with the ulster this morning and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed, YOU KNOW MY METHODS. “I see people are dressing up already,” he said with a pout. “I thought they’d only do that for the banquet on Saturday.”

  “Are we supposed to wear costumes?” Jayne said. “I didn’t bring anything.”

  “Neither did I,” I said. “And I have no intention of playing dress-up.”

  “Catch you later,” Grant said, and we went our separate ways. Donald had his face buried so deeply in the program book he bumped into a young woman in full Victorian dress complete with aisle-filling bustle. He almost knocked her into a display of Sherlock-themed teacups. He carried on, not noticing the poisonous glare she threw after him.

  Jayne and I walked down the closest row of tables and booths. I wasn’t ready to get into buying conversations yet, just having a first look. But one of the largest displays had me stopping dead in my tracks.

  The walls of the foldable partitions were covered in pencil and pen-and-ink sketches illustrating scenes from the Canon. Holmes leaping nimbly across the moors. Holmes and Watson having tea in 221B or relaxing with their newspapers and pipes on a train. Holmes’s walking stick slashing frantically at a bedside bell pull. A visit by the unruly young mob of street urchins he called the Baker Street Irregulars. Mrs. Hudson ushering in a darkly cloaked visitor.

  The drawings were exceptionally well done. The representations were faithful to the spirit of the Canon and to its earliest illustrators. Even out of context and out of costume, this Holmes would be instantly recognizable—the lean face, the hook nose, the piercing intelligence in the eyes. Holmes and Watson wore the dress of Victorian gentlemen: hat, cane, cloak. The women, Mrs. Hudson, Irene Adler, and Violet Hunter recognizable among them, were in long dresses with either hats or aprons.

  On first look, the pictures were standard Holmes fare, although exceptional in their quality. But look again, and something modern lay beneath the surface. The window out the train carriage showed a glass-and-concrete high-rise in the distance. An iPad was falling off the edge of the breakfast table. Mrs. Hudson had trainers, what Americans call sneakers, peeking out from beneath her dress. Look once more, and the modern became disturbing. The high-rise was all shattered windows and crumbling concrete; the iPad showed an image of an ambulance outside a hospital at night; Mrs. Hudson’s laces were undone and her shoes covered in mud.

  “Those are good,” Jayne said.

  “Slightly creepy, though,” I replied.

  “Then you perceive my intent,” said a deep voice. “Many don’t on first glance. But then again, I’d expect nothing else from Henry Doyle’s daughter.”

  The man who’d spoken was the one my father had talked to in the bar at the Bentley last night. My uncle Randolph, apparently.

  “Are you the artist?” I asked.

  He gave me a slight bow. I studied him. The resemblance to my mother was there, but on him, I thought, the familiar features had a touch of meanness about them. Meanness and bitterness.

  Then again, maybe I was being influenced by my father’s reaction to this man.

  He held out his hand. I took it in mine. His grip was strong. I kept mine firm without trying to engage in a battle of wills.

  “Randolph Denhaugh, at your service.” Denhaugh was my mother’s maiden name. “My friends call me Randy.”

  “I’m Gemma Doyle, and this is my friend Jayne Wilson.”

  He didn’t even glace at Jayne. That was unusual. Men liked to look at Jayne. “Ah, yes. Gemma. I’d heard Anne and Henry had a second daughter some years after Phillipa. My mother’s name was Phillipa. Did you know that?”

  “I know my maternal grandmother was Phillipa.”

  “She was a formidable woman. No one ever dared call her Pippa. Or, heaven forbid, Pip.”

  “Was she still alive when you stole the Constable?”

  The edges of his mouth turned up. “So you’ve heard of me, then. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “I heard of you last night for the first time.”

  “I didn’t steal the Constable. I took it as part of my inheritance. Although honesty forces me to admit that my parents hadn’t died yet.”

  “A constable’s a police rank,” Jayne said. “How can you steal one?”

  “You brought an American friend. Isn’t that nice.” Randy held out his hand, and Jayne took it. Her face was a picture of confusion, not only at misunderstanding Constable but at my attitude toward this apparent stranger.

  “John Constable is one of England’s greatest landscape painters,” I said. “If you go to the National Gallery or the Tate Britain, you’ll see many of his works.”

  “He’s never been to my taste,” Randy said. “I find his paintings too stodgy, too provincial.”

  “Stodgy,” I said, gesturing to the display, “is not a word I’d use for your art.”

  He grinned. “Sherlock in the modern world. Isn’t that what this little gathering is here to celebrate?”

  “You don’t seem to be celebrating it.”

  “What I’m attempting to say here, in my own small way, is that Holmes would take one look at our world and flee back to his own. Wouldn’t you agree, Gemma?”

  “As I know Holmes isn’t a real person, I have no opinion on what he might or might not do in any circumstances.”

>   “Fair enough,” he said, “but a man has to earn a living. And this is how I am attempting to earn mine these days.” He gestured to the metal cashbox, pile of business cards, and receipt pad on the table. “I’m surprised to see you here, at this thing.” He dipped his chin to indicate the conference badge on the lanyard around my neck. “Wouldn’t have taken a daughter of Anne for a Sherlock fanatic.”

  “Gemma owns—”

  I cut Jayne off. “I’m interested in a great many things.”

  “I remember hearing something about Henry’s eccentric uncle Arthur being convinced he’s a relative of Conan Doyle.”

  “Arthur isn’t—”

  I cut Jayne off again. “Your work is impressive. I hope you do well here.”

  “Thank you. Your parents and I might not be close, to put it mildly, but I hope you and I can be friends. Perhaps we can have lunch one day or a drink later.”

  “Perhaps.” I took Jayne’s arm and we walked away. I imagined I could feel my uncle’s intense stare boring into my back.

  “What on earth was that about?” Jayne asked once we were out of Randy’s hearing. “Is that guy a relative of yours? You weren’t very friendly.”

  “He’s my mother’s brother, and I’d never even heard of him before last night. Dad said he’s the black sheep of the family.”

  “Wow. Sounds interesting,” Jayne said.

  My father had said nothing further about it, despite my questions as we walked through the darkening streets to dinner.

  Jayne and I made a circuit of the hall, and I made a mental note of the vendors I wanted to talk to in more detail later.

  Jayne checked her watch. “We’d better go if we want to get a seat. It’ll be standing room only for Mark Gatiss.” Gatiss, who plays Mycroft Holmes on the Sherlock TV show as well as being a writer and coproducer, was scheduled to appear at eleven, and I was looking forward to hearing what he had to say about creating and working on the hugely popular show.