A Three Book Problem Read online

  I hurried to join her. “Irene, what are you doing here? Do you know where Arthur is?”

  “Just a minute, Gemma. Let me introduce myself to my host first.”

  “Your host?”

  “Mr. Masterson, sorry I’m late. I’m Irene Talbot.” David turned to her with a smile and extended his hand. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Ms. Talbot. May I call you Irene? I’m David. We don’t stand on formalities here.”

  I glanced around the room. I’d seldom been to a more formal gathering. Then again, this might have passed for informal in Holmes’s day.

  “No apologizes necessary,” David continued. “Please, make yourself at home. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “Do you have a gin and tonic?”

  “Of course. What country house party would be complete without a properly made G&T?” He half-turned and snapped his fingers at Smithers. Smithers rolled his eyes, but he prepared the drink without a word.

  Irene accepted her drink, full of ice and a slice of lemon, and took a sip. She sighed with pleasure, thanked David, and joined Donald and me. “Arthur called me this morning. You’d already left for the store, and he didn’t want to bother you.”

  I shook my head. “Instead he’s given me a heck of a fright. What’s happened?”

  “He’s gone to Spain. The Costa del Sol.”

  “You can’t be serious. Today?”

  “Yup. An old navy pal of his had a heart attack. He lives in Spain and he’s summoned Arthur to his side for one last hurrah.”

  “Oh, dear. That’s terrible.”

  “Not according to Arthur. The friend had the heart attack a week ago. It was mild, but it made him realize that time’s running out, so when he rose from his sickbed he decided to throw a big party and summoned the old crowd.”

  “But … but what about this weekend? It’s been planned for ages.”

  “I guess Arthur decided Spain would be better.” Irene took another sip of her drink. “As nice as this place is, I would have too. He called David to say he wasn’t coming, and asked if I could take his place. David said sure.” She spread her arms. “And here I am. I tell you, Gemma, I’ve had quite the day trying to pull together formal clothes at the last minute. I found this little number at the secondhand shop.”

  “But … but. Irene, why would Uncle Arthur ask you to take his place? You have absolutely no interest in Sherlock Holmes.”

  She put her index finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down. I’ve been thinking maybe I’d like to learn, and I told Arthur that when I was at your place for dinner last week.”

  “I don’t remember you saying anything of the sort.”

  “You were in the kitchen, trying to save the chicken. It wasn’t too bad either, Gemma. Not once you’d scraped the burnt parts off.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “The potatoes were lumpy, though. I’ll get you a proper potato masher for Christmas.”

  “Let’s return to the original subject, shall we? This weekend David Masterson has invited a circle of Sherlock experts to exchange knowledge and participate in informed debate. You, Irene, don’t have any knowledge to exchange.”

  “I’ll listen intently and agree with everyone.” She grinned at me. “Come on, Gemma. Do you think I was going to pass up the opportunity to spend a weekend at Suffolk Gardens House? Everyone in West London is dying to see this place. The owners almost never invited anyone here, and now that it’s for sale you have to prove to the realtors you can afford it before you get a showing.”

  “You checked on that?”

  “Sure I did. Tell me you didn’t?”

  I didn’t answer. Of course I had. “Try the mushroom tarts. They’re fabulous.”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Irene said. “Another reason I came is because Arthur said Jayne’s doing the catering.” She helped herself to a cocktail napkin and one of the flaky pastries.

  “Did Arthur tell you that because Jayne doesn’t have any helpers with her, the plan is he and Donald will work in the kitchen when required. Doing the dishes and the like.”

  “No, he didn’t mention that.”

  I smiled at her. “You’ll like the kitchen. All the modern conveniences.”

  * * *

  The cocktail party passed uneventfully. I amused myself, between telling the guests what my role here was, by studying their interactions. It soon became obvious they didn’t have much in common. Not even an interest in Sherlock Holmes, which was ostensibly the reason for this gathering.

  The frizzy-haired woman, Jennifer, the bearded man, and the older man, who went by the names Cliff and Steve, chatted comfortably with Donald about the Great Detective and discussed the props I’d brought. The former fashion model, Miranda, drank steadily and sat by herself most of the time, a carefully arranged look of total boredom on her face. Eventually, she left the room, drink still in hand, without a word to anyone. The young man, Kyle, gave up on me and tried to charm Irene. Irene didn’t seem entirely averse to his attentions. “I’m from New York City,” I heard him say to her. “A musician.”

  David didn’t interact with his guests very much. I noticed the occasional little smile Jennifer threw in his direction, and the way he stiffly pretended not to notice. Kyle, Steve, and Cliff avoided speaking to David or even looking at him. In turn, he stood by himself, sipped his whiskey, and watched everyone with a sly smile on his face.

  Was he, I thought, pretending to be the Great Detective? Observing everything and everyone while not getting involved? If so it was an odd approach to hosting a weekend.

  “Nice party.” The bearded man came up to me and offered me a huge smile. “I’m Cliff. Cliff Mann. How do you know David?”

  Our host’s head turned at the sound of his name, but he made no move to come and join us.

  “I don’t,” I said. “I haven’t had the pleasure until today. I’m one of the hired help. I brought all the props you see around you.”

  Cliff looked confused. “You mean the hat and pipe and stuff?”

  “Yes. I own a shop in West London. The Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium. If you’re a Sherlockian you might have heard of it.”

  “I … uh … yes, yes, I think I have. You sell books, do you?”

  “Anything and everything to do with the Great Detective. Do you collect yourself?”

  David took a step toward us. “I …” Cliff said. “No. No, I don’t. Excuse me.” He scurried away.

  That was odd, I thought, but I put it out of my mind. I was supposed to be working. The platter of mushroom tarts hadn’t lasted long, and I whisked it off the table and took it into kitchen. We’d be serving dinner at eight, so the canapés wouldn’t be refreshed.

  The morning room, where breakfast would be served, was next to the kitchen. As I passed I heard the squeak of a drawer. I peeked into the room to see Miranda closing one drawer and opening another. She put a hand in and rifled through the contents. She didn’t hear me, and I slipped away. This wasn’t my house, and it wasn’t any of my business if Miranda was admiring the furniture.

  In the kitchen, Jayne was seasoning the soup and Ryan chopping tomatoes and cucumber for the salad. I took a moment to admire him. Nothing more attractive than a man preparing food.

  Ryan heard the creak of the floorboards and looked up. He gave me a grin. “How’s it going out there?”

  “Well enough. The guests have all arrived, with one exception. Uncle Arthur isn’t coming. He’s gone to the Costa del Sol instead.”

  “Sounds like Arthur,” Jayne said. “My goal in life, should I be fortunate enough to live so long, is to be an Uncle Arthur. Old and fancy free. Taste this and tell me if it has enough salt.” She scooped a spoonful of thick orange liquid out of the pot and held it out to me. I tasted. I sighed with pleasure. “Yummy. What is it?”

  “Carrot and ginger.”

  “Where’s the Costa del Sol?” Ryan asked.

  “Spain.”

  “Arthur went to Spain with a day’s no
tice?”

  “You know Arthur,” I said. “He comes. He goes. The food’s almost finished, so I’ll start clearing up. Oh, Irene’s here in Arthur’s place.”

  “Irene Talbot?” Ryan asked.

  “Yup.”

  “I’ve never known her to be interested in Sherlock Holmes. Is she planning to do a piece for the paper?”

  Irene was a reporter—the only full-time reporter left in these days of dwindling newspaper revenue—at the West London Star.

  “If she is, she’s undercover and I don’t think that would be such a good idea,” I said. “No, she’s here to see the house and eat Jayne’s food and wear fancy clothes.”

  I picked up a tray and headed back down the long dark hallway, past the rows of stern-faced gentleman with enormous whiskers and pale ladies with feathers and lots of jewelry glaring at me from their dusty gilt frames.

  “… most preposterous theory I’ve ever heard,” the bearded man was saying as I came into the drawing room. His face was turning red and his eyes bulging. “A disgrace to the memory of Sir Arthur.”

  The former soldier faced him, braced for combat. “I’ll have you know, Cliff, that respectable scholars—”

  “Respectable! Ha. You mean people like you, Steve Patterson. Pack of dilettantes, the lot of them.”

  David wasn’t in the room, but Miranda had returned. The others clutched their drinks and the last of the canapés, awkwardly watching the exchange. Smithers passed Irene a fresh drink.

  Donald approached the arguing men, trying to smile, wringing his hands in front of him. “Now, now, gentlemen. Let’s remember that we’re all friends here.”

  Steve turned on Donald. Spittle flew. His small eyes were dark in a dark face. “What makes you think that?”

  “I … I …” Donald floundered. “Aren’t we?” he finished weakly.

  I stepped forward and spoke loudly, trying to sound as though I was in command. Someone had to be in the absence of the host. “It’s time to freshen up before dinner. Drinks will be served in the library at seven forty-five, and dinner promptly at eight. Please don’t be late. At eleven we’ll be showing The Scarlet Claw starring Basil Rathbone in the library.”

  “Excellent!” Donald exclaimed. “One of my absolute favorites.”

  “Rathbone is so overrated.” Miranda suppressed a yawn. “People only like him because they’re expected to. Don’t you agree, Jennifer?”

  “What? Uh … Don’t be ridiculous,” the frizzy-haired woman stammered. She took a long glug of her drink.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cliff said.

  Miranda turned on the bearded man. “And I suppose you think your taste is so much better, Cliff? As if.”

  The others began chiming in and soon the argument had moved on to a discussion of who was the best of the old-time Holmeses on film.

  I put my tray on the table and piled it with used dishes, dirty glasses, and crumpled cocktail napkins. Smithers began closing the various bottles and placing them under the cart in an unmistakable signal that the bar was closing. Kyle snatched the wine bottle out of the cooler before Smithers could put the top back on it.

  The guests filed out of the drawing room. A sub-argument had broken out over the virtues (or lack thereof) of the various Watsons.

  The young man approached me and held up the wine bottle. “We weren’t properly introduced. Kyle Fraser.”

  “Gemma Doyle.”

  “I’m not entirely sure what your role here is this weekend, Gemma. Why don’t we find a quiet spot where we can finish off this bottle and you can tell me?”

  “Sorry. One of my roles is to help the cook. Right now, I suspect I’m needed in the kitchen.”

  “You’re English!” His eyes twinkled. He was a good-looking man. And didn’t he know it. “I love English people. Come on, sneak away with me. Let’s have some fun. Let those old fogies argue about Sherlock this and Holmes that.”

  “I have enough fun in my life, thank you.” I picked up my tray, turned, and walked away.

  “Hey!” I heard him say. “Irene, what’s your hurry? Let’s find a quiet corner and finish this bottle.”

  I headed toward the kitchen, feeling that I was again being watched over by someone’s disapproving ancestors. As I passed the library, low and angry voices came out of the not-quite-closed door. I slowed. What can I say? I’m naturally curious.

  “You should have told me,” a voice said. I couldn’t make out who it was. “I never would have come, not if I’d known he’d be here.”

  “You can always leave,” David replied.

  “… pest … I don’t know why you aren’t …”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  The voices trailed off as they walked away from the door.

  Chapter Three

  A proper formal Victorian dinner party might have consisted of twelve or more courses. Each course would have had its own cutlery and been accompanied by a specific wine, which would have been served in its own glass. The napkins would have been elaborately folded and the table laden with candlesticks, flowers, plants, stands of fresh fruit, and maybe even an ice sculpture. The entire meal would have taken hours to get through, with time provided for each course to be digested. The kitchen staff would have been working from early in the morning to early the next morning.

  We might have been playing at being Victorians, but we definitely were not Victorians. Jayne adapted a nineteenth-century menu for modern tastes and served a marvelous dinner beginning with carrot and ginger soup and a salad bursting with locally sourced Cape Cod produce. The main course was roast of beef with roasted potatoes and root vegetables, Yorkshire pudding and gravy. Two choices were offered for dessert: a chocolate cake decorated with a thick topping of chocolate ganache and piles of fresh raspberries or a lemon meringue pie. Unable to decide, I chose both. Ryan had absolutely refused to act as a footman, so Smithers waited on the table and served the wine. A lot of wine was served.

  The heavy drapes were closed against the night, the chandelier above the table turned low. A row of white pillar candles in heavy glass candlesticks ran down the center of the table on either side of a vase bursting with red roses; masses of votive candles flickered on the sideboard, and a fire crackled behind the grate. The dishes left in the house for the use of renters were cheap and mismatched, and so Jayne had borrowed the crystal glasses, fine china place settings and serving dishes, and silver flatware from her mother. Leslie had been thrilled to get all the old pieces she and her own mother had collected over the years out of storage and washed and polished. The linens, white tablecloths, and dark green place mats and napkins, came from Mrs. Hudson’s, as would the china for tomorrow’s traditional afternoon tea.

  Everyone, with the exception of Miranda, who had nothing but a half a spoonful of soup and a small serving of salad, along with plenty of wine, ate and drank with gusto, but it was a wonder to me that they managed to do that with all the squabbling they engaged in.

  It didn’t sound like good-natured arguing or reasoned debate. As I’d observed earlier, there was an underlayer of genuine hostility between some of these people. I listened without participating, enjoyed my dinner very much, and tried not to feel too guilty at the thought of Ryan and Jayne laboring away in the kitchen.

  I was seated between Jennifer, who barely said a word all through the meal, and Kyle, who kept trying to refill my wine glass. In that he was unsuccessful as I confined myself to one. Miranda, seated on the other side of Kyle, eventually wrested control of the bottle from him and kept it to herself.

  I’m no Sherlock Holmes expert, but in the five years since I moved from London to Cape Cod to run the bookshop that Great-Uncle Arthur started on a foolish whim I couldn’t help but learn a lot. Not to mention that Arthur himself is a Sherlockian and he surrounds himself with the like-minded. The saltbox house we share is often a gathering place for debate and discussion and, whether I wanted to or not, I’ve picked up a great deal.

/>   Nevertheless, I’d been worried about holding my own in this company, but I needn’t have bothered. As early as the beginning of the cocktail hour I realized that, other than Donald and David, only Jennifer and Steve had any true depth of knowledge. Cliff knew little more than what the average customer in my shop did; Kyle was obviously not interested in the least, and I wondered if Miranda had even read any of the Canon. She was an enthusiastic fan of Benedict Cumberbatch, and when David commented that, in his opinion, Cumberbatch’s interpretation verged on blasphemous parody, she dared to tell him that it was ridiculous to believe anyone could actually be that observant or quick-minded.

  While David and Steve sputtered, Jennifer protested, Cliff laughed, Kyle called to Smithers to bring another bottle, and Irene studied the details of the furniture and the paintings on the wall, Donald said, “As it happens, I myself know someone with a mind like that.”

  “Really,” I asked. “Who’s that?”

  “You don’t know?” Irene said.

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t have asked, now would I?” I said.

  Irene and Donald exchanged a look I couldn’t decipher, but they seemed to be highly amused about something.

  “For your information, madam,” David said to Miranda when he’d recovered his wits. “It’s generally believed that Sir Arthur based Holmes on a professor of his at Edinburgh University, one Doctor Bell, who was able to ascertain intimate details of a person’s life and character simply through observation.”

  “Okay,” Miranda said. “Whatever. I guess.” That cemented it. Anyone with anything beyond the most basic knowledge of Sir Arthur knew the story of how Holmes had been inspired by Dr. Bell. I wondered why Miranda was here. I hadn’t noticed any sort of affection or secret glances between her and David, or her and anyone else. They barely seemed to be on speaking terms.

  “Why’s Mr. Doyle a sir, anyway?” Miranda asked. “Was he really rich, or like a relative of the queen or something?” Her eyes widened and she leaned across Kyle to address me. “Hey! I’ve just realized. Your name’s Doyle. Are you a relative of this Sir Arthur guy?”