There's a Murder Afoot Page 4

  Jayne had asked me on the plane if I wanted her to help me write my speech. I told her I had it all in hand and opened the copy of From Holmes to Sherlock by Mattias Boström I’d brought for the flight, looking forward to the hours ahead with nothing to do but read.

  In retrospect, that might have been a mistake.

  Jayne knew plenty of stories about me living in America. Many of them I didn’t find at all amusing, but other people seemed to.

  Footsteps sounded on the floor behind me. I turned my head slightly, expecting to see a cook’s helper or a waiter. Instead it was a large man in jeans and a denim jacket. He had not a strand of hair on his head and his face was clean-shaven. A tattoo of the outstretched talons of an eagle reached up out of his shirt collar on the left side of his thick neck. He studied me through narrow eyes so dark they were almost black.

  I whirled around and tensed.

  “Doyle,” he said.

  “You have the advantage of me,” I said.

  He blinked. “What’s that mean?” London accent. East End. Not a lot of education. In contrast to his head, his hands were matted with black hair. Those hands were large and rough; an old burn scar crossed the back of the right. He smelled of tobacco, cheap aftershave applied far too liberally, and the beer he’d enjoyed at lunch.

  “You know who I am,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “That doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “It matters to me.” Behind him, I could hear the low buzz of conversation. People were leaving the lobby, heading for the two-thirty panels and my talk. No one came our way. The man filled the hallway with his bulk. I carried nothing but a small over-the-shoulder red leather handbag containing my phone, some cash, a credit card, and my room key. The key, unlike those of old, wasn’t a heavy metal thing, just a thin piece of plastic. Good for opening doors, not so good for defending oneself. The streets were dry, with no rain or snow in the forecast, so I’d worn a pair of ballet flats and wasn’t carrying an umbrella.

  “Whatever,” he said. “You tell your uncle my people want what’s theirs.”

  That took me by surprise. I stopped mentally inventorying the contents of my bag. “What? I don’t even know who you’re talking about.”

  “You know. We saw you talking to him earlier, so we figured you’d be a good one to deliver the message. Tell him.” He turned to go. I let out a long breath. He swung around. “I’m looking forward to your talk. I think Jeremy Brett was the best Holmes, don’t you?” He nodded politely and then walked away.

  What on earth?

  I needed to find my dad, and right now.

  A small figure appeared at the entrance to the hall. The man who’d spoken to me slipped past her and disappeared.

  “I knew I’d find you hiding in some dark corner,” Jayne said. “You’re late. Your fans are getting restless.”

  “That man …” I said.

  “What man?”

  “The one who passed you just now.”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone. Are you ready?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Two thirty-five. You’re late. It’s okay to be nervous, Gemma, but you can’t not show up.”

  “I’m not nervous.”

  She placed a hand lightly on my arm. “I understand.”

  “Is my dad there?”

  “Yes, and your mom too. They sent me to look for you.”

  We headed for the meeting rooms at the back of the hotel. The lobby and corridors were mostly empty now. I swerved as we passed the exhibit hall. The vendors relaxed and chatted to each other in the absence of browsing customers. No one was at my Uncle Randolph’s booth.

  Jayne grabbed my arm. “No you don’t. This way.” I allowed her to lead me on.

  To my surprise, the room was packed. People, Ryan among them, lined the walls.

  I’d thought a handful of people from the Sherlock tourist industry, if there is such a thing and there probably is, would be interested in my tales of owning a Holmes-themed shop, but no one else.

  I walked up the center aisle with Jayne. A podium with a microphone and a glass of water was at the front. A projector sat on a table and a big white screen hung on the wall. Only now did it occur to me that I should have prepared some sort of slide show to illustrate my talk with pictures of things I sold at the Emporium.

  Not only did I not have a slide show, at this moment I didn’t even have a speech.

  “Knock ’em dead,” Jayne whispered to me after giving my arm one last squeeze before releasing her grip. She took a seat in the second row. I climbed the two steps to the podium and turned to face the crowd.

  My parents sat together in the front row. They smiled broadly, and Mum gave me a small wave. It reminded me of when I’d had the role of Gwendolen in my school’s production of The Importance of Being Earnest when I was in fourth form. The only reason I, who had no interest whatsoever in theater, got the part was because both the lead and the understudy took ill and I was the only one in the class who knew the lines. I’d been roped unwillingly into helping to build the sets and had overheard most of the rehearsals.

  I glanced at Ryan. He gave me a big thumbs-up. I studied the crowd. Grant sat next to Pippa. Donald had found a group of the like-minded, all of them wearing Inverness capes, ulsters, or tweed suits.

  I did not see the man who’d accosted me in the kitchen hallway, nor did I see my Uncle Randolph.

  “Good afternoon,” I said. “My name is Gemma Doyle, and I own the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium at 222 Baker Street in West London, Massachusetts.”

  Chapter Four

  “Excellent speech, Gemma,” Donald Morris said.

  “Glad you approve,” I said.

  “Good job, darling,” my mother said.

  “Imagine,” Pippa said, “you managed to make a dead fictional character sound interesting. Although I fear no one can make him believable.”

  “I wouldn’t say that too loudly if I were you,” Grant said.

  My sister gave him a smile.

  We stood outside the lecture room. People crowded around, not only my family and friends, but others wanting to press their business cards on me or tell me about the must-have merchandise I needed to come and see right now.

  Ryan put his arm around my shoulders. “They liked your jokes too.”

  “I told jokes? Dad, I need to talk to you in private.”

  “I’m thinking a celebratory drink would be nice,” Pippa said.

  “I’m in,” Grant said.

  “You’ll have to go without me,” Donald said. “I want to hear the panel on the importance of Watson. Oh, Jayne, I’ve arranged for us to go to the Sherlock Holmes Museum at noon tomorrow. I don’t think I can wait until Monday.”

  “I don’t …” Jayne said, as Donald wandered off.

  “Dad,” I said. “I need …”

  “Is this a private party or can anyone join?” Randolph Denhaugh pushed himself into the circle.

  My father instantly went into full cop mode. Straight shoulders, head up, back stiff, knees slightly bent, fingers flexed. Ryan noticed and did the same.

  My mother stared at the newcomer. He grinned at her.

  “Get lost,” Dad said.

  Randy ignored him. “Anne. It’s been a while.”

  Mum’s mouth hung open, but she quickly recovered her wits and said in a low voice, “Randolph? Randy? Is that you?”

  “The one and only.” He opened his arms and stepped toward her. Dad pushed himself between them. “I said, get lost.”

  “It’s all right, Henry.” Mum made no move to enter her brother’s hug, and he dropped his arms. “I’m surprised to see you here, Randy. Have you gone straight at last?”

  Grant threw a questioning look at Pippa.

  “I have,” Randy said. “Straight as an arrow. I heard someone mention a drink. Sounds like a grand idea to me.”

  “You are not invited,” Dad said.

  “Come on, Henry. Be nice. For old times’ sake.” Randy looked at my sister, who didn’t appear all that surprised to see him. He smiled, but there was something deep and unpleasant behind the smile. “I’m sure you know everything there is to know about me, Phillipa Doyle. In return, I’d like to hear what you’ve been up to all these years. The parts you can talk about, anyway.”

  “This is hardly the place,” Pippa said. “If you want to come to my office one day next week, I know people who’d like to have a chat with you.”

  “I’ve nothing to say to anyone in your office, love. I’m out of the loop these days. How about that drink, Anne? We can talk about the old times and how close we were as children.” He reached out a hand to my mother. My father knocked it aside.

  Randolph turned to face him. All the charm and fake friendliness fled in an instant. “Keep your hands off me, Henry. Don’t you dare touch me again.” He almost spat out the words.

  Ryan stepped closer to Dad. Randy glanced at Ryan. He might not have been afraid of my father, but the much younger, six-foot-three, well-muscled American was another matter.

  “Stay away from my family,” my father said.

  We were starting to attract a crowd. People hesitated as they passed us, some giving us questioning looks.

  Randolph let all the air out of his chest, and he shrugged. “You never did like me, Henry. That’s okay, because I never did like you. Working-class ingrate, thinking you were good enough for my sister.”

  “That’s enough.” Mum’s voice was low but full of command. As one of the top barristers in the city, she knew how to take control of a room with not much more than a whisper. “Randy, I’d like to say it’s nice to see you, but you didn’t need to ambush me in front of my family and in a public place. Which, I’ve no doubt, you did in a desire to a
ttract as much attention as possible. In that at least, you haven’t changed a bit. My daughter’s here for a few days and I want to spend what free time I have with her. Please call my chambers next week and we can have lunch.”

  “I don’t think—” Dad said.

  “We can have lunch,” Mum said, “and at that time you can tell me what you want from me.”

  “I don’t want anything, Anne,” Randy said.

  “That,” she said, “I do not believe.”

  Memories crossed his face, memory and emotion, and I guessed he was thinking about how brother and sister had been close once, when they were children. “Believe it or not, Anne,” he said in a low voice, “people can change. If they really want to. Maybe it’s my time.” He blinked and the traces of emotion fled. “If you change your mind, I’ll be around all weekend. I’m an honest man, here to earn an honest living. Come and see me in the exhibit hall. I’ll offer you a discount on a picture.” He turned to me. “You and I can talk about stocking my drawings in your store.”

  “They won’t appeal to my customers.”

  “Then I can do something that will appeal. Your talk was interesting.”

  “I didn’t see you there,” I said.

  “I didn’t intend that you should.”

  I didn’t believe him. He hadn’t been in the room. I didn’t remember much about what I had to say, although I seemed to have filled the hour and even told jokes and took questions. I’d been watching everyone in there, observing who was coming and going, thinking about the big man who liked Jeremy Brett and did not like Randolph Denhaugh. He knew Randolph was my uncle, and I wondered how. I hadn’t known that myself until last night.

  He hadn’t come to hear me either.

  “Anne will not be changing her mind,” Dad said. “And I certainly won’t. I’m glad you claim to be on the right side of the law these days, but nothing can change the past.”

  “My business is with my family,” Randy said. “With Anne and my nieces. Not with you, Henry.”

  “I’m going to have a drink with my family,” Mum said. “Which no longer includes you, Randolph. That was your choice, not mine. I’d give you my card, but you seem to be well informed about our doings. If you want to talk privately, you can call me.” She took Jayne’s arm. “I suggested to Gemma that we have a little trip to Harrods tomorrow for lunch and some shopping. Would you like to join us?”

  “Oh yes. That would be fun.” They walked away, heads close, chatting in light voices.

  Pippa gave Randy a glare, and then she followed them. Grant hurried after her.

  “What did he mean, people in your office?” I heard Grant ask my sister. “I thought you worked for the Department of Transport?”

  “He’s not as well informed as he thinks he is,” Pippa replied.

  Dad, Ryan, and I were left with Randy. A tense group in a big crowd.

  “As pleasant as this has been,” I said. “I’ll go with Mum. Come on, Dad.”

  Randy stared at my father. A vein pulsed in his neck. Dad stood his ground. They were close in age, Randy a fraction taller, although he carried a lot more weight on his belly and around his chin.

  Ryan remained braced to intervene.

  Dad broke the silence. “Stay away from my wife.”

  “Or what?” Randy said.

  “I still have contacts at the Met,” Dad said, meaning the Metropolitan Police.

  “I’m sure you do. Then again, I have friends also.”

  I threw a look at Ryan. This was escalating far too fast.

  “Yeah, well, as for me,” Ryan said, “I don’t know a single person in this city who’s not in this hotel right now, but I’ve heard a lot about your English beer. Anything you’d recommend I try, Henry?”

  “I’m warning you …” Dad said.

  “Is everything all right here?” The female security guard pushed herself into our space. The radio at her shoulder spat static. “It sounds rather tense. Perhaps you gentlemen can continue your conversation elsewhere.”

  Like a light being switched off, the fight went out of Randy’s face and body. “Nothing to worry about. We’re locked in a bitter discussion of who’s the best Holmes. My friend here”—he indicated Ryan—“likes Robert Downey, but I insist no American can properly portray the Great Detective.” He gave the guard his big warm smile. “I’m sure you’ll agree.”

  She tried not to smile back. She was in her late fifties, rough around the edges. Despite her job, she was the right age to be charmed by my uncle. “Not a Holmes fan myself. See you don’t get too enthusiastic about this discussion. People are becoming alarmed.”

  A small crowd milled around us. They pretended to be minding their own business, but ears were definitely flapping.

  “I have to get back to my booth,” Randy said. “I’ve left it unattended for too long. Catch you all later.” He walked away, followed by the security guard.

  Ryan let out a long breath. “That’s not good, Henry.”

  “Thanks for backing me up. It wouldn’t have come to a fight. He’s not the type.”

  “Sounds like you haven’t seen him for a long time,” Ryan said. “Maybe he’s the type now.”

  “Maybe,” Dad said. “Shall we join the ladies?”

  * * *

  We found Jayne and my mother in the lobby, using their mobile phones to exchange scone recipes. My mother was by no stretch of the imagination a baker—she found boiling an egg a challenge—but I appreciated that she was trying to make Jayne comfortable.

  “Where’s Pippa?” I asked.

  “She and Grant seem to have left without us,” Mum said. “Is everything okay, darling?” she asked Dad.

  “For now.”

  “Imagine, after all these years, Randolph shows up out of the blue.”

  “He’s got a booth in the exhibit hall where he’s selling sketches from the Canon,” I said.

  “He’s making art out of artillery pieces?”

  “Not cannons. The Canon. C-A-N-O-N.”

  “What canon?”

  “Sherlock Holmes. That’s why we’re here, Mum. Remember?”

  “Are you all right, Anne?” Dad asked.

  She shook her head. “No. I’m not. It came as such a shock. So like Randy to pop out of the woodwork like that. If he’d wanted to meet with me, he should have called or sent me a letter.” She took my hands in hers. “I hope you don’t mind, dear, but I’d like to go home. I did enjoy your lecture. I’ll call you first thing tomorrow to make arrangements for the shopping expedition.”

  I gave her a hug and felt the fragile bones beneath the thin frame. “Sure.”

  Dad took her arm and they walked away. I thought they looked very old as they made their way across the hotel lobby.

  “That’s real British stiff upper lip,” Ryan said. “My mom would have thrown things.”

  “She’ll wait until she gets home to do that. What’s next on the agenda?” I asked Jayne.

  “Count me out,” Ryan said. “The time change is killing me, so I’m going to the hotel to put my feet up and see what I can get on TV. What are we doing for dinner?”

  “Let’s coordinate by text,” I said. “Tonight we’re free, but tomorrow’s the banquet.”

  Ryan gave me a kiss on the cheek and left.

  “I’m wanting to hear the panel on Basil Rathbone and other old-time Sherlock movies,” Jayne said. “Are you coming?”

  “I’d planned on taking another pass through the exhibit room. I saw some interesting things this morning I want to find out more about. Now I’m rather afraid to. I don’t want to run into Randy again.”

  “That is so weird, your mom having a brother she hasn’t seen in your whole lifetime.”

  “It is that,” I said.

  “Catch you later,” Jayne said. “I’ll text you when I get out of the panel to find out what’s going on.”

  I decided to gather my courage around me and venture back into the exhibit hall. That was why I’d come, and I couldn’t allow some long-lost relative to scare me off. There were things I wanted to see and people I wanted to meet. I’d simply have to try to stay as far away as I could from Randolph Denhaugh, black sheep.

  I spent a productive hour browsing and chatting, accepting compliments on my speech, and collecting business cards and brochures. Importing things into America to sell at the Emporium might present a problem, but some of the vendors already had contacts on the other side of the pond I could tap into.