A Curious Incident Read online

  “Taken in for questioning, but not actually arrested. As far as I know, the police found no evidence pointing to Sheila as the killer, but she had been heard to threaten Anna earlier in the day by a substantial number of people. She maintains her innocence.”

  “What’s Sheila’s alibi?”

  “She doesn’t have one. Lauren spent the night at my house, which had been prearranged in expectation of Sheila celebrating winning the trophy, and David was out of town. She—”

  I lifted one hand. “He was out of town? Do you know where or why?”

  “No, I don’t. He travels quite a bit on business, or so he says. ‘Out of town’ can mean a lot of things.”

  “Interesting that Sheila planned on doing this celebrating without the company of her husband.”

  “As I said, the marriage isn’t doing so well. Anyway, the police dragged Sheila downtown in the middle of the night, but they had to release her because they don’t have any evidence of her being at the scene of Anna’s death. You can be sure they’re looking hard for it and building their case. They have no other suspects—again, as far as I know. I got a call from Sheila at five this morning, asking me to come and get her at the police station. I probably should have left Lauren in bed, but I didn’t know how long I’d be, so I woke her up and took her with me. That was a mistake. Sheila was ranting and raving about going to prison for something she didn’t do, calling the West London police incompetent, and threatening to sue them.”

  “And so Lauren decided to call on outside help,” Jayne said.

  “Yeah,” Irene said.

  We started at a rapping on the tearoom door. A man’s face peered in, smiling and waving as he mimed drinking coffee. Fiona broke off from scrubbing the spotless table and unlocked the door for him.

  “I was passing and saw you all still here.” Detective Ryan Ashburton leaned over and gave me a light kiss on the top of my head. “Any chance of a cup of coffee for a hard-working cop?”

  “I haven’t emptied the pot yet,” Fiona said.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll have to take it to go. I have an appointment at the bank across the street to look at a suspect’s accounts.”

  “How’s the case going, Detective?” Irene asked. “Are you going to formally arrest Sheila Tierney?”

  He gave her a tight smile. “No comment.” He looked tired, I thought, the tender skin under his ocean-blue eyes drawn, and the stubble on his jaw thick. But he managed to still look mighty good, as he always did, with his six-foot-three frame, wide shoulders, powerful arms, strong jaw, and high cheekbones. He was dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt under a short leather jacket.

  “One day you’ll slip up and tell me all,” Irene said.

  “One day. But not today. I’m sorry,” he said to me, “but dinner’s off tonight.”

  “I assumed that,” I said.

  “Strange case, this one. I’m thankful that for once it has absolutely nothing to do with you, Gemma.”

  “Will you look at the time,” Jayne said. “Gotta run. Those dishes won’t wash themselves.”

  Irene leapt to her feet. “I’m off. Call me if you need anything more, Gemma.”

  The vacuum cleaner roared to life. Fiona ran for the kitchen.

  “What did I say?” Ryan asked.

  “About that …” I said.

  Chapter Four

  Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a business to run. He could devote all his time to being a consulting detective without having to deal with pesky things such as handling employees and business partners, ordering stock, serving customers, paying and collecting bills, or dealing with irate authors who didn’t know why I wasn’t featuring their book prominently in the shop window.

  He didn’t have a cat who hated him or a dog who loved him and needed regular attention.

  He didn’t have to cook for himself or even clean the rooms at 221B Baker Street, as the faithful Mrs. Hudson took care of those pesky details for him. Although, honesty forces me to admit, I’ve been known to let those tasks slide myself.

  But most importantly, Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a significant other who blew a gasket on being informed that he’d been asked to ‘informally’ look into a police investigation.

  “What could I do, Ryan?” I said after Jayne and the others had fled. “The little girl asked me to help.”

  “What could you have done? You could have said no, Gemma.”

  “I did that the first time.” Over dinner one evening last week, I’d entertained Ryan with all the details of the Adventure of the Missing Cat. “But then I ended up solving the mystery anyway. Lauren Tierney’s faith in me is, unfortunately, now boundless.” I gave him what I intended to be a wistful smile.

  He did not return it.

  He dropped into a chair. “Aside from anything else, Gemma, I’m afraid you’re going to break the little girl’s heart.”

  “You think her mother did it?”

  “I haven’t got an opinion yet one way or the other. I don’t know much more than what’s been in the papers. Not that I’d tell you if I did. Sheila Tierney and Anna Wentworth didn’t get on, to put it mildly. Someone destroyed Sheila’s garden, and Sheila believed Anna did it, and confronted her over it. Whether she later murdered the woman is what we’re trying to determine. She denies it.”

  “Here you go, Detective.” Fiona put a take-out cup on the table.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Right now, we’ve got nothing we can take to court, which is why Mrs. Tierney hasn’t been charged, but we’re going over the area where the body was found, with a fine-toothed comb. If there is something, I intend to find it. Without your help, Gemma.” He stood up.

  “Can I ask one quick question?”

  “Might as well. What?”

  “Who found Anna? The paper didn’t say.”

  “Her husband. The dog came home without her, dragging his leash behind him, so he assumed something had happened, and he went out looking for her. It didn’t take long: the dog led him straight to her. She hadn’t left the house more than half an hour earlier, according to her husband. We’re talking to anyone who was on that street around that time or might have glanced out their window.”

  “I don’t intend to get involved, Ryan. Really. I told Lauren I’d do what I could because I didn’t know how to say no. I’ll give her my advice, tell her that I have full trust in the West London police, which is true, and she has to put her trust in you also. I’ll give her back her ten-dollar retainer on my services.”

  “You took ten dollars from an eleven-year-old girl?”

  “I refused, but she left it on the counter. I only saw it later.”

  Ryan left, shaking his head. I watched him cross the street and run nimbly up the steps of the bank. Almost certainly he was checking into the finances of the Tierney family.

  I sipped my tea and thought about all—precious little though it was—I’d learned about this case from Irene.

  I’d been totally honest with Ryan. I’d go to the Tierney house and speak to Lauren. I’d tell her to put her faith in the police.

  But I’m a curious sort, and my curiously had been roused. This case appeared to have its origins in a ruined garden, so I might see what I could find out about the inner workings of the West London Garden Club.

  Common, or garden, gossip, I have found, is often the best way to get at the underlying kernels of truth in people’s relationships. I’ve also found that a surprisingly large number of people who delight in spreading the gossip in their private circles are reluctant to share such details with the police. Particularly if the gossip concerns the deceased.

  All that “don’t speak ill of the dead” rubbish.

  The dregs of tea were cold in my cup and the sandwiches nothing but crumbs when I finally got up and unlocked the sliding door leading to the Emporium. Several people were browsing, and Ashleigh was at the nonfiction shelf, helping a customer make a selection among the biographies of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the nonfiction books about his era. The customer eventually chose The Wicked Boy by Kate Summerscale and brought it to the counter. Ashleigh rang it up, popped the book in a paper bag, and waved the customer on her way.

  “What did you think of Out of Africa?” I asked after the customer was gone.

  “Loved it,” Ashleigh said. “Then again, I love anything with Meryl Streep. Hey! How’d you know I watched it last night?”

  I winked at her. My shop assistant did more than dress according to her mood; she changed her entire persona on a daily basis. A couple of weeks ago, I’d overheard her and Fiona discussing the movie. Ashleigh said she’d never seen it, and Fiona said it was one of her all-time favorites. Today’s outfit was one in Ashleigh’s regular rotation—African safari: beige pith helmet, khaki-colored belted jacket, and sturdy brown hiking boots. It was elementary to conclude that she finally got around to watching Streep and Robert Redford romancing their way around Kenya.

  “I have to go out for a bit,” I said.

  “Okay, but don’t forget I asked to leave early today.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, Gemma, I did. I have a doctor’s appointment at five fifteen.”

  “Are you sick? You don’t look sick.”

  “No, I’m not sick. I told you, although I don’t have to inform my boss about my medical problems, you know, it’s for a renewal of my asthma prescription.”

  I vaguely remembered something about that. I glanced at the clock behind the sales counter. It was ten to five. I’d been sitting and thinking in the tearoom longer than I’d realized.

  I didn’t have time to do what I needed to do and be back in ten minutes. The consulting detective business would have to wait for closing time.

  “Okay,” I said. “My errand can wait. See y
ou tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Even in the summer we have early closing on Mondays. I locked the door of the Emporium precisely at five to seven and headed home.

  Ryan had not called to tell me he’d solved the case and our dinner date was back on. I hadn’t expected him to, but it would have saved me a lot of trouble.

  * * *

  I walked past my house without stopping to get Violet. I’d never been inside Mrs. Ramsbatten’s home and didn’t know if my dog would be welcome. It shouldn’t matter: I didn’t intend to stay long.

  I opened the gate in the white picket fence and walked up the moss-lined flagstone path between two rows of lush, perfectly trimmed bushes bursting with red blooms. Not an overblown flower or dying bud could be seen. Mrs. Ramsbatten opened the door to my knock.

  “Gemma! This is a surprise, but a nice one. Please come in. What can I do for you?” She was just shy of five feet and almost as round as she was tall, with silky white hair forming a halo around her head, plump red cheeks, warm hazel eyes, and rimless glasses. She wore a colorful housedress and had fluffy slippers on her feet. If she ever disappeared in December, I’d assume she’d gone to stay with her husband, Mr. Claus, at the North Pole.

  I stepped over the threshold into the small, neat foyer. A pie-crust table, dark with age and layers of polish, held a silver platter containing the day’s mail: one letter and three flyers from fast-food restaurants.

  “I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time,” I said. On the way over, I’d debated how to approach the topic I was interested in. As I’d never called on Mrs. Ramsbatten in the five years we’d been neighbors, I couldn’t pretend to be dropping in for a casual chat.

  “Of course,” she said. “Is everything all right? Arthur?”

  “Uncle Arthur’s well. As far as I know.”

  “He sent me a lovely postcard from Tunisia.”

  That was it: he’d gone to Tunisia.

  She led the way into the living room and asked me to take a seat. “Would you like a cup of coffee? Or perhaps you’d prefer tea.” She chuckled. “You English and your tea.”

  “No, thank you.” I settled into an armchair covered in faded red and gold chintz. The last of the day’s sunlight streamed through the large bay window and shone on the row of potted plants lining the window ledge. The room was immaculately clean, and that was no small feat considering there was enough furniture in here to stock a warehouse. Two couches, a love seat, several armchairs, a coffee table that looked like it had been carved out of an entire tree, several side tables. Every inch of available space was covered with collectables: china figurines of shepherds and shepherdesses; small sculptures; souvenir plates, including several celebrating the marriage of Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer; teacups and matching saucers; family photographs in silver frames; blue Wedgewood bowls and candlesticks; more candlesticks; several clocks, all showing exactly the same time; a collection of miniature porcelain and painted wood houses. One table appeared to be dedicated to tiny hedgehogs. The walls were hung with a plethora of art, paintings ranging from what looked to my untrained eye to be original works from noted Cape Cod artists to mass-produced prints of old masters.

  Not a single speck of dust rested on anything. She must, I thought, spend her entire day—when not working in her garden or ours—dusting.

  I didn’t know where to look first. If anyone was ever murdered in this room, it would take the police months to sort through it all.

  A gas fireplace, unlit in early summer, filled the far wall. Mrs. Ramsbatten plucked a postcard off the mantle and waved it at me. “See? Here it is. Arthur’s always so thoughtful.” The mantle was lined with postcards. Everything from tropical beaches to roaring lions, dancing Hawaiians, majestic snow-topped mountains, the Blue Mosque, Buckingham Palace, soaring cathedrals, and rolling green hills. Some were new and crisp, many yellowing with age.

  “Uh …” I said.

  She settled herself in the chair opposite me, folded her hands in her lap, and smiled. “First, let me say I was totally devastated when I heard about that poor kitten.”

  “Not your fault,” I said. “All’s well that ends well.”

  “Yes, but it might not have. She must have run into the shed when I was putting away my basket of tools, hid when she heard me coming, and then I shut the door on the poor dear thing.” Mrs. Ramsbatten patted her chest. “So lucky you found her in time. How clever you are, Gemma.”

  “Not me. Violet alerted me and I simply followed her lead. I took a soup bone out of the freezer that night as her reward.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. Now, what can I do for you, dear?”

  “You’re a member of the West London Garden Club.”

  “Oh yes. A founding member, as it happens. I was board chair for many years, but I’ve cut back my participation in recent years, although I’m part of the annual summer garden tour committee.”

  Brilliant! Just what I wanted to know. “I heard there was an incident yesterday.”

  The hazel eyes opened wide. “Incident! That’s putting it mildly, Gemma. A garden was sabotaged. It was dreadful, simply dreadful. Unthinkable. In all our years, nothing like that has ever happened before. Those poor plants. The roses will never recover.”

  I’d meant the death of one of their members, but okay. The destruction was a good place to start. “Do you have any idea who’d do something like that?”

  “I don’t like to name names, dear, but some of our members have been known to let personal rivalry get the better of them.” She shook her head. “Never to that extent, though.”

  “It was Sheila Tierney’s garden that got hit, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Come to think of it, Sheila’s cat was the one locked in my shed, or so I heard.”

  “Sheila’s daughter’s cat, but yes.”

  “Sheila’s a marvelous gardener, but I’m sorry to say she’s disproved the point I’ve always made about gardeners and their gardens.”

  “What point’s that?”

  “I’ve long maintained that to be a truly first-class gardener, one has to be a good person. Anyone can nurture a plant”—I didn’t interrupt to explain that any plant I brought home soon died—“pull weeds, and design a pleasing layout. But to have a truly excellent garden, the gardener must truly love the garden. The garden will then love the gardener in return. Only a gentle, loving, generous person can love a garden the way it deserves, and the garden will respond in kind.”

  “You don’t think Sheila’s a loving person?”

  Mrs. Ramsbatten peered at me from beneath her bushy white eyebrows. “No. Thus disproving my theory. She did have a lovely garden.”

  Is it possible, I thought, that Sheila realized at the last minute her garden wasn’t going to be the winner, and she decided to save face by ripping it all up and accusing someone else? She would get the sympathy factor, if not the trophy. “Do people think she might have sabotaged it herself?”

  “Oh no, dear. No one thinks that. I was simply making a point about the woman’s character. She was completely focused on winning the trophy this year. She received an honorable mention when she was last in the tour, three years ago, so she went all out to make sure she won this year.”

  “What about Anna Wentworth?”

  “Poor Anna. Such a tragedy. I suspect that’s why you’re here, dear. Investigating, are you?”

  “No. Not at all. Just curious.”

  She winked at me. “If you say so, dear. I didn’t know Anna well. She moved to West London about four years ago, and it’s taken her time to create her garden. You can’t rush a garden, which, in my mind, is the most precious thing about gardening. A garden will be ready when it is ready, and not a moment before. No amount of yelling or badgering, or even begging, will get a plant to grow or a flower to bloom before its time. Anna wrote a couple of books on gardening, had what they call a blog—whatever that might be—and occasionally spoke at club meetings around the Cape and beyond. I haven’t seen her garden myself, but I hear it’s top notch. This was her first year on the tour, and everyone said she would be the one to beat for the trophy.”

  “You haven’t seen her garden? You said you were on the committee.”