A Three Book Problem Read online

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes,” Donald said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Gemma’s being coy,” Irene said. “She’s like a seventh cousin five times removed.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort,” I said.

  “Cool,” Kyle said. “You have got to tell me all about that, Gemma. Why don’t we go for a walk in the garden after dinner and talk about your … uh … cousin.”

  I smiled at him. “Never mind me, I’d love to hear your interpretation of Kitty Winter. Villainess or righteous feminist avenger? Where do you stand?”

  He lifted his glass to me in a salute. “I’ll trust your judgment.”

  “An excellent question,” Donald said. “I myself have changed my opinion of Miss Winter over the years. Wouldn’t you agree, David, that one of the delights of Holmesian scholarship is how one can reinterpret much of the Canon as one’s knowledge of the world expands and grows.”

  “Absolutely!” David agreed. “Why I recently read …”

  And the conversation carried on.

  Eventually, David scraped his dessert plate clean, cleared his throat, and said, “Brandy and coffee in the library, gentleman, prior to the movie. And, in a nod to modern and occasionally better times, ladies are welcome to join us.”

  Napkins were folded, chairs shoved back, and people pushed themselves to their feet. Cliff patted his ample stomach. “Delicious dinner. My compliments to the chef. I can’t wait to see what’s served tomorrow.”

  “Oh, my gosh, Gemma,” Irene said. “We’re having brandy and cigars in the library. It’s like a real-life episode of Downton Abbey. I’ll play Lady Mary. Who are you? The spirited Lady Sybil, I bet.”

  “I’m Daisy, the lowly kitchen maid, and so are you. Remember what I said about helping out?” I linked my arm through hers. “Come along, Daisy.”

  “But …”

  “No buts.”

  * * *

  I should have known better. I’d told Ryan and Jayne I’d see to the cleaning of the kitchen as they’d made the dinner. Ryan might have wanted to escape to our room the first chance he got, but Jayne couldn’t leave a kitchen mess for someone else to handle, so she’d started on the dishes. And Ryan, who would usually be more than happy to leave a kitchen mess for someone else to handle, felt guilty and stayed.

  After the others headed for the library, Irene and I helped Smithers blow out the candles and clear the table of the dirty linens, the last of the glasses, and the dessert plates.

  When we carried everything into the kitchen, we found Jayne loading the dishwasher and Ryan scrubbing pots.

  “I have got,” Irene said, “to take a picture of this for the paper. You look absolutely adorable in that apron, Ryan.”

  He muttered something about laying charges for disrespecting the police.

  “What’s that mean?” Annie sat at the big island cradling a cup of tea.

  “Never mind,” Ryan growled.

  “Okay. How’d it go, Gemma?” Annie asked.

  “It went well,” I said. “Everyone raved about the food, Jayne.”

  “I always like to hear that,” Jayne said. “Why don’t you pour yourself a cup of tea? Or even a glass of wine.” This wasn’t exactly the kitchens of Downton Abbey: Ryan had a bottle of beer open on the counter next to him. He put the last of the heavy pots on the drying rack and took a swing from his bottle. “I’m beat. I’m going up. Gemma?”

  “I’ll be a long time yet. They’ve gone into the library. I need to check on the display I’ve laid out there, and set everything up for the movie. I’ll come back and finish here before the movie starts.” I looked around the tidy, sparkling kitchen. “Not that there seems to be much finishing required.”

  “Other than the dinner, how’d it go?” Jayne asked.

  “Strangely. Several of these people are not genuine Sherlockians. I’m not entirely sure why some of them are here.”

  “Does it matter?” Irene asked. “I’m here. I like to think I engaged in sparkling, witty, yet deeply significant conversation for the edification of my fellow diners.”

  “Someone once told David that the most interesting gatherings are not with like-minded people but those who are completely different,” Annie said. “David likes to think of himself as a collector of people. Putting the right combinations together for maximum effect. In reality he just enjoys watching people leap to his tune.” Her tone verged on bitter and I gave her a quick glance. She saw me watching her and dipped her head to stare into her teacup. “He doesn’t entertain often, and he doesn’t go to parties much himself, so he doesn’t have a lot of experience with groups of people. But he does like to go all out when he does.”

  “He’s married, isn’t he? His wife isn’t here this weekend,” I said.

  Annie’s laugh was bitter. “Her. Rebecca. Talk about opposites. She lives for parties, the wilder the better. This wouldn’t exactly be her scene, and I say thank heavens for that, right, Billy?”

  The “butler” put an opened bottle of white wine into the fridge. “I have no comment.”

  “Your name’s Billy?” I asked. “I’m glad to know that. I’m uncomfortable calling you by your surname.”

  “Is Smithers your real name?” Irene asked.

  “Are you kidding me?” he snorted. “I’m Billy Belray, and Uncle David talked me into renting a stupid costume and doing this stupid weekend. Me and Annie. Before you ask, we’re cousins.”

  I glanced at the “housekeeper,” who gave me a shrug. “Uncle David pays my expenses when I’m temporarily between gigs. I couldn’t say no. Say, I don’t suppose any of you speak Italian, do you?”

  “Sorry, no,” I said. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m planning to go to Italy next year. I’ve been trying to learn some of the language, but I’m having a heck of a lot of trouble doing it on my own. Uncle David was going to find me a tutor, but … sometimes he forgets to do things he said he’d do. Oh well. I suppose everyone in Italy speaks English. Morning comes early around here. Night all.” She gave us a nod, pushed herself to her feet, and left.

  “Early for me, too.” Jayne closed the door of the dishwasher and set the buttons. “Breakfast in the morning room at seven. Good night.” She followed Annie to the back stairs.

  Ryan picked up his beer bottle, gave me a wink, and said, “Don’t be too long, Gemma.”

  “I’ll make sure she isn’t,” Irene said.

  Ryan chuckled and I gave my friend a glare. Unintimidated, she grinned back at me and left the kitchen, chatting to Billy Belray.

  Ryan crossed the room and wrapped his arms around me. “What’s bothering you, Gemma?”

  I nestled into his embrace. “This whole thing seems off to me. A Sherlockian weekend with a bunch of know-nothings? Relatives playing the servants? Some of these people don’t like each other, and I don’t sense any warm and fuzzy feelings toward their host. Or from him to them. I can’t imagine why most of them came.”

  “Maybe like Irene they just wanted to see the house.”

  “Maybe. Except that they’re not from around here. I suppose they might have heard about the house, but still …”

  “I’ve always said your instincts are good, Gemma, and they are,” Ryan said. “But this time, there’s nothing to it. A bunch of sycophants want to get on the right side of a rich man, and if playing to his whimsy is what it takes, they’ll do it. That’s all. Let it go.”

  I smiled up at him. “You’re right. As usual. I’ll try to make my escape from the library as soon as I can. I might not even stay until the end of the movie. See you upstairs?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  And, when I finally got away, he was. Sound asleep and snoring lightly.

  Chapter Four

  Ryan woke early and gave me a nudge. “You awake?”

  I buried my face in my pillow. “No.”

  “Glad to hear it. As I have to spend another day slaving over a hot dishwasher, how about a short stroll thr
ough the garden before we have to report to work?”

  I rolled over and smiled up at him. “Now that sounds like something worth getting up for.”

  We were dressed and downstairs in record time. It was a beautiful fall day, the rising sun shining through trees ablaze in shades of rusty orange, yellow, and red, leaves crunching underfoot, the air crisp and cool, full of the whisper of winter soon to come. “The owners need to sell this house, and fast,” I said as Ryan and I strolled along the paths, wrapped in thick sweaters and scarves. “Before the neglect starts getting obvious and out of control.”

  “Neglect? Isn’t the place being well kept up? Look around you. The grass is cut, the …”

  “Kept up, yes,” I said. “At first appearance. Look further, Ryan. The peonies haven’t been cut back, the perennials aren’t deadheaded. Inside the house itself the surfaces are superficially clean, but mice have been in the cupboard under the kitchen sink and no traps or poison have been laid, cobwebs are multiplying in the far corners of our bathroom, the tops of the frames of the paintings in the hall are thick with dust, and a decidedly sour smell is coming from the powder room off the hallway. Not to mention the—”

  “I get the point, Gemma. But how much does anyone want to fork out for a house they’re trying to get rid of?”

  “I’m simply making an observation,” I said. “And as long as I’m observing, I’ll observe that the position of the rising sun on the horizon indicates that it’s not long after six o’clock and Jayne needs to have a full English breakfast for eight people on the table at seven.”

  Ryan sighed. “A man’s work—”

  * * *

  I didn’t join the party for breakfast. While Jayne flipped sausages, grilled bacon, fried eggs, heated baked beans—and Ryan supervised the browning of the toast—I laid the table and brought out tea and coffee. Breakfast was served in the morning room, and in true country house fashion, the food was laid out on the long oak buffet for guests to help themselves as they came down.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Annie, again wearing her housekeeper’s dress, was assembling a tray. “Can you believe it,” she growled. “Her Ladyship, aka Miranda Ireland, waylaid me in the hallway last night and demanded her breakfast be brought up to her. She read somewhere that married women didn’t join the family and guests at breakfast, but instead had a tray served to them in their room, and although she is no longer married, she was a couple of times, so that counts. I swear some of these people are letting this weekend go to their heads.”

  “Is that true, Gemma?” Jayne asked.

  “Is it true Miranda has been married a couple of times? How would I know?”

  “Not that. I mean that a married woman doesn’t have breakfast at the breakfast table.”

  “How on earth would I know that?”

  “You’re English.”

  “Believe me, the Englishwomen I know not only have their breakfast at the kitchen table, they make it first. Except for my mother. She orders her croissants and pastries from Paul’s Boulangerie in South Kensington.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ryan sighed happily at the thought of our brief holiday in London in January. “Best chocolate croissants I’ve ever had.”

  The toast popped and Annie dodged around him to grab two slices for Miranda’s tray.

  Jayne cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon.”

  Ryan changed color. “Your croissants are okay, but the cakes and tarts, not to mention the cookies, at Mrs. Hudson’s can’t be beat.”

  “Try harder, buddy,” Jayne said.

  I intervened before things could get out of hand. “Let’s review what’s on the schedule for today. After breakfast, they’re going for a walk on the moors, otherwise known as the back yard. Then they have private time followed by a light lunch at noon, some sort of games in the afternoon. Afternoon tea—”

  “My specialty,” Jayne said.

  “At four, followed by a showing of Murder by Decree, which I will modestly mention was my suggestion in a feeble attempt to contribute something of importance for the weekend. Turns out David loves the movie, but Cliff has never seen it, so that gives David a leg up on Cliff.”

  “That sounds rude,” Ryan said.

  “Followed by dinner at eight. You are, I trust, pulling out all the stops, Jayne?”

  “Do you doubt it, Gemma?”

  “No,” I admitted. “This dinner is going to be super formal, as Holmes might have enjoyed at Baskerville Hall or Merripit House.”

  “Except,” Jayne said, “rather than twenty courses, including fish and game caught locally by the grounds staff this very morning, I’m doing four courses with stuff I bought at the supermarket.” She glanced at Ryan. “Seeing as how my kitchen maid can’t peel a potato.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m trying.”

  “Just wear the apron,” I said. “And everyone will forget your culinary shortcomings.”

  He growled. Jayne tried to hide her laugh.

  “After dinner,” I continued, “the guests will return to the library for coffee, brandy, and hopefully not cigars, and David will read from a paper he spent the entire summer writing.”

  “What’s the paper about?” Jayne asked.

  “I don’t know. He’s keeping it to himself. Considering the quality of the couple of books he self-published, I do not have high hopes.” I was suddenly aware of Annie, taking a long time to assemble Miranda’s breakfast tray. “Sorry, forget I said that. I’m sure other people have different opinions.”

  “Everyone raved about those books,” Annie said. “To David’s face. What they said behind his back was another matter entirely.” She left the kitchen with Miranda’s tray, still grumbling.

  “Donald, on the other hand,” I said, “is excited about hearing David’s paper.”

  “Donald gets excited over everything,” Ryan said.

  “Okay, so we have a full schedule.” Jayne clapped her hands. “Let’s get to work, people. Chop chop.”

  “Irene seems to have mistaken this for a holiday,” I said. “I’ll go to her room and drag her out of bed.”

  “You most certainly will not,” Jayne said. “If you wander off you’ll find yourself studying the Chinese porcelain or some such thing and never return.”

  “I haven’t noticed any Chinese porcelain,” I said. “A few rough imitations are scattered about in the downstairs corridor and the front hall, but nothing worth examining. Have you seen some genuine pieces?”

  “I was speaking in general terms,” Jayne said. “I can barely distinguish Chinese pottery from Navaho. Are you telling me you can?”

  “An extra course I took at university when I was bored with my regular classes.” I noticed the glance Jayne and Ryan exchanged. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Four slices of perfectly browned toast jumped out of the toaster, and Ryan put them into the silver rack. As Jayne flipped sausages, she said, “Can you start dishing up the platters and take the things out, please, Gemma. It’s almost seven.”

  I did as instructed. Jayne’s phone rang and, spatula busy in one hand, she dug in the pocket of her jeans with the other. “Hello? Oh, David. Hi. Yup, almost ready. Yes, we can do that. Eleven in the library? Sure.”

  “What’s that about?” I asked when she’d put the phone away.

  “David wants to meet with me in the library later. Something about going over the dinner menu. I sure hope he doesn’t expect me to change it at the last minute. I’ve done all the prep I can and I brought the necessary groceries.” The timer on the stove dinged and she took the bacon out of the oven.

  * * *

  I didn’t join the party for breakfast, but at nine o’clock I met them by the front door to go on the walk. The air was warming as the sun came up, and I wore jeans, a favorite wool sweater, and sturdy hiking shoes.

  Irene slid up to me and whispered in my ear, “I didn’t get the memo about dressing the part.” Her clothes were much the same as mine—thoroughly twenty-first century.
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  Donald, David, and Steve were dressed as though they were extras in a historical movie, in checked Harris Tweed or brown wool jackets, with waistcoats and cravats and tall hats. They even carried sturdy walking sticks. Cliff was more casual, in a white shirt and blue tie under a cashmere cardigan. Miranda’s sage green skirt came to just above her ankles. She wore leather boots with heels and carried a pale peach parasol. Jennifer’s lilac dress was long and full, tight at the bosom, worn under a waist-length purple velvet cape adorned with gold embroidery.

  Kyle, also in his street clothes, came to join Irene and me. “Good morning.” He smiled at Irene. “Sorry I missed breakfast. Did you sleep well?”

  “I did,” she said. “There’s nothing like this lovely country air.”

  “We’re still in West London,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, but this property’s so big it seems like we’re in the distant countryside.”

  I was surprised to see Annie and Billy join the walking party. Annie had pulled her Doc Martens on under her housekeeper’s dress and a slightly tattered oatmeal sweater over it, and Billy was in the black suit, although he’d dispensed with his tie.

  “Now that we’re all here,” David said, “shall we begin? A brisk walk in the garden to get our day off to an excellent start.”

  “Why are we doing this?” Steve said. “Sherlock Holmes wasn’t a gardener.”

  “Hard to be,” Cliff replied, “as he lived in the city.”

  “So did Nero Wolfe,” David said, “but he had his orchids.”

  “Who’s Nero Wolfe?” Miranda asked. No one answered.

  “Holmes would have made a point of knowing his surroundings, wherever he might be,” David said. “As shall we. Let’s be off. If anyone needs anything fetched from the house, Mrs. Higgins and Smithers will be happy to run and get it for you.”

  “Absolutely thrilled,” Annie mumbled. “Not.”

  “As we admire our surroundings, Jennifer will educate us on the country house party habits of the ladies and gentlemen of Holmes and Watson’s era. Jennifer …”