A Three Book Problem Read online

  Jennifer blushed and said, “Thank you, David. The social customs of Sir Arthur’s day are of particular interest to me and …”

  “I say, Gemma,” Donald said. “Rip roaring old day, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Absolutely rip roaring, Donald,” I said.

  “I trust you’re having a marvelous time.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “Excellent, excellent.”

  Jennifer clapped her gloved hands to get our attention. “It is irrelevant whether or not Holmes would be interested in the details of a garden such as this one,” she said. “He, as Doctor Watson informs us, did not approve of physical exercise for its own sake, but the typical Victorian gentleman, no doubt including Doctor Watson himself, was a keen practitioner of what they called the daily constitutional.”

  “Sounds rude,” Kyle said to Irene. She laughed.

  David threw them a warning look. Irene snapped her lips shut and folded her face into a serious expression.

  “That means,” Jennifer continued, “a walk. Upper- and middle-class Victorians were keen on the health benefits of exercise and good country air. As they would never dare be seen in public not fully dressed, about all the exercise they could participate in was walking. Those of a more daring nature, women in particular, would bicycle.”

  “Like in ‘The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist,’” David said.

  “Exactly,” Donald said. “The point is made in the story that Miss Violet Smith …”

  Jennifer coughed. “If you’re ready, shall we begin?” She led the way, prattling on about the customs of an English country house weekend. Yesterday. during cocktails in the drawing room, dinner, and then brandy in the library, Jennifer had been quiet. She kept to herself, her head down, her fingers twisting together. She didn’t talk much, and only when spoken to, but when Donald drew her into conversation about the world of Sherlock Holmes, she proved to be extremely knowledgeable. Now that she had center stage, to talk about something that clearly interested her, her voice strengthened and her face shone with enthusiasm. David gave her a soft smile, and she blushed and turned away. David and Donald swung their sticks as they walked, and although at first they paid attention to Jennifer, they soon fell into a discussion of Dr. John Watson’s confusing marital relationships. Miranda strolled beneath her parasol; Kyle continued his attempt to chat up Irene; Steve tried to lead us in a brisk pace, but no one was interested in keeping up and he soon was far ahead, disappearing between the hedgerows. Cliff stifled a yawn, and Billy and Annie trailed along behind.

  I’m not much of a gardener, but as I walked I couldn’t help but notice that many of these plants were out of place in a reproduction English country garden. There were a lot of succulents, and quite a few plants that seemed to be suffering as the temperatures dipped with the approach of winter. I recognized hibiscus, which had to be brought into a greenhouse, and soon, if they were to survive. Likewise, the bulbs of the dahlias needed to be dug up and overwintered.

  More signs, not that I needed to see more, to show me the property was being neglected. That was a shame. It was a beautiful house in beautiful surroundings.

  If I had a spare twenty million I might consider buying it myself.

  Even if these gardens had been kept up, they’d be well past their prime in late October, but I did enjoy the walk, and I had to agree with the Victorians that there’s something about a leisurely stroll in crisp clean air to improve one’s spirits. The sea was out of sight from here, but I could smell its salty traces on the air and the sun was warm on my head. The property, I estimated, was about five acres in size, much of it formally organized with curving pathways, low stone walls, and once-pruned hedges enclosing private alcoves. A properly laid out rose garden, sad with weeds pushing up through the flowerbeds and spent flowers drooping brown and dead on their stalks, was surrounded by a boxwood hedge. Perennial beds, overgrown, unmaintained, weeds and grass invading the borders and poking through the remnants of red cedar mulch, curled around the eastern perimeter of the lawn. Stone and metal statues were tucked behind the hedges or next to a dry fountain, providing interest along with benches for relaxing. One statue in particular caught my attention: a lovely bronze thing of a girl, all pigtails and short skirt, holding out a ball to a small dog. I stopped to look at the statue while the others carried on ahead. So lifelike was the girl, she reminded me of Lauren Tierney, my eleven-year-old friend. Lauren has a cat, not a dog, but she has the same loving expression on her face when she plays with her pet as does the girl in bronze.

  A wooden bench was tucked next to the statue, and I imagined generations of women coming here with a book to enjoy the day and the privacy afforded by the surrounding hedge. The house, I knew, was being sold fully furnished, but I was surprised the family hadn’t taken some items, like this statue, away. Sad, I thought, that the heirs hadn’t wanted anything of what the original owners had no doubt painstakingly collected and dearly loved. As it hadn’t been removed, this statue was probably of no significance and not much value, but I liked it. I’d like to have it in my own yard.

  “Gemma, are you coming?”

  “Oh. Sorry, Irene. I was admiring this statue.”

  “It’s nice, isn’t it? I wonder what it would be like to have a garden like this. Heck of a lot of work, I’d assume. I have trouble keeping a plant alive on the windowsill of my apartment.”

  “If you have a place like this,” I said as we walked down the slight slope and through the line of trees marking the boundaries of the property, “you hire a team of gardeners to do the work for you. All you have to do is cut flowers to arrange in the dining room and front hall and admire it all.”

  “I can do that,” Irene said.

  Dead leaves and broken branches crunched under our feet, and overhead the dying, brilliantly colored leaves swayed in the light wind. Through the trees a small shallow stream ran along the chain-link fence, moving quickly toward the sea, bubbling over rocks and gravel. Tiny silver fish darted among the rocks, visible in the clear fresh water.

  “Oh to be rich,” Irene sighed. “Must be nice, but I’m not likely to ever know, not working at the West London Star.”

  Kyle fell back to walk next to her. “You’ll have to marry a rich man. As it happens, I can help you with that. I’m a musician, like I told you, and my future’s looking bright.”

  Irene laughed. “Gonna get that big record deal any day now, are you?”

  “Doesn’t hurt to hope,” he said. “I have an inside track for a job opening.” He glanced at David, head bent close to Donald’s. “If it comes through.”

  Not wanting to hear Kyle brag about himself, I increased my pace as the group turned and headed back toward the house.

  “No matter how large or how small, any country house worth its salt would have had a kitchen garden,” Jennifer was saying when I caught up with her. “I had the opportunely to poke around first thing Friday morning, and I was absolutely delighted to discover that this one does too.”

  Jennifer had stopped at the back of the house, close to the kitchen door, and the group gathered around. Probably as protection from hungry deer, a thick hedge about my height enclosed a section of the yard. “While the gillie, or head fishing guide, was collecting fish from the private lake or streams running through the property, and the lord of the manor took his guests shooting grouse or partridge …”

  “How horrible of them,” Miranda said.

  “… one of the cook’s army of helpers would be in here, collecting the day’s vegetables and fresh herbs from the kitchen garden. They truly did have a local diet.”

  “While the working poor starved in the streets of the cities,” Kyle said.

  “Wouldn’t have taken you for a revolutionary,” Irene said.

  “I’m not,” he said. “Which is why I intend to never be one of the working poor. I’m all for having an army of kitchen helpers. Right, Mrs. Higgins?”

  Annie pulled a face.

  “I’ve had enough exercise for one day,” Cliff said. “I’m going inside.”

  “But this is the most interesting part of our tour,” Jennifer said.

  “You call that exercise?” Steve said. “That little walk isn’t even a decent warm-up.”

  Cliff waved to us over his shoulder as he walked away. Billy scurried after him.

  I wasn’t all that interested in seeing a rundown kitchen garden either, but I trotted after the group. A beautiful wrought iron gate, all curlicues and swirls, was set into the hedge. David slipped the latch and opened the gate and we entered the kitchen garden. As expected, the beds were laid out in neat rows, but they contained little except for a few seedy heads of lettuce, runaway kale, and dead tomato vines. Someone had harvested the last of the vegetables before leaving the place to run wild. A gravel path, quickly filling with weeds and grasses, ran down the center of the garden, ending at an iron bench.

  “Fascinating,” Kyle said as he theatrically suppressed a yawn. “Too bad they didn’t grow grapes and bottle their own wine. Speaking of wine, I think it’s time to open the bar. Anyone interested?”

  “What an excellent idea,” Miranda said. “I’m in.”

  “Irene?” Kyle asked.

  She shook her head. “Too early for me.”

  “I have to finish making up the rooms.” Annie pushed at the gate and followed Kyle and Miranda.

  “I don’t suppose you found a physick garden?” Donald asked.

  “No such luck,” Jennifer said. “They wouldn’t have needed one, not in the twentieth century in New England. By Holmes’s day the physick garden was largely out of date for the same reason. People could go to the apothecary for their medicinal needs.”

  “What’s a physics garden?” Irene asked.

&nbs
p; “Not physics,” Donald said, “but physick.” He spelled the word out.

  “A medicinal garden,” Jennifer said. “Containing plants that would be used to treat common ailments.”

  “A great many of which we call, in modern times, poison,” Donald said.

  “They treated the sick with poison?” Irene said.

  “Even in modern medicine much of what we take to cure us can kill us in a larger quantity,” Jennifer said.

  I added, “Which is why doctors and chemists worry about people overdosing.”

  Donald rubbed his hands together in glee. “By chemists, Gemma means pharmacists. You’d be surprised how many common garden plants are deadly.”

  “Thank you so much for leading our tour, Jennifer. Most enjoyable and highly educational.” David dipped his head in a slight bow toward her. The remaining guests, including me, applauded.

  She flushed with pleasure. “Not at all. I enjoyed it.”

  Before leaving, I turned my attention to the gate. It appeared to have been individually crafted, and it was beautifully made. I rubbed my fingers across it, enjoying the feel of the smooth, cool surface. It had been built, I guessed, by the same craftsman who made the gate at the top of the driveway, which had been standing open yesterday when Jayne, Ryan, and I arrived.

  Everyone headed back to the house. Jennifer and David were the last to leave the kitchen garden, talking together in low voices. I heard the gate clang shut behind them.

  * * *

  After the walk, I spent a pleasant hour in the drawing room with Donald, Steve, and Jennifer discussing the modern pastiche versions of the adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. The group had broken up to go their separate ways before lunch, and I’d wandered into the kitchen to give Jayne and Ryan a hand with lunch preparation. Lunch was going to be a light meal of soup, bread, and salad as Jayne would be serving a full afternoon tea in the music room at four o’clock.

  I found Ryan alone, perched on a stool next to a mug of coffee, reading his phone. I gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head. “You’re not checking in with work, I hope.”

  “Fear not. The station knows I’m off and not to be contacted unless it’s a genuine emergency. My mom’s inviting us, meaning you and me, to a birthday dinner next week.”

  “It’s not your birthday. Not mine either.”

  “No, it’s hers.”

  “She shouldn’t be putting on her own birthday party.”

  “She always does. She says that’s the only way she can be sure of getting one.” He pulled me close and gave me a long kiss. We separated at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

  “Is this house supposed to be haunted?” Jayne said as she came in.

  “Not that I’ve ever heard,” Ryan replied. “The house isn’t old, and far as I know no one’s been murdered here.”

  “Why are you asking?” I said.

  She shrugged. “I think someone’s been in my room.”

  Ryan sat up straight. “Is something missing?”

  “No. Nothing like that. But … never mind. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s obviously not nothing if it’s bothering you,” I said. “What?”

  “My ring isn’t where I put it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I mean, pretty sure.” She held up her bare left hand. “I wore it to bed last night, like I always do, and this morning I took it off. Like I always do. I put it in its box and put the box on top of the dresser. I remember admiring the ring, and thinking about …” She blushed. “Never mind what I was thinking about … When I went up just now to put on a fresh apron I looked at the ring again. It was in the box, but not properly tucked into the satin lining. It was just … lying on top. I must have forgotten moving it.”

  “You don’t forget things, Jayne.” Ryan said. “Has the housekeeper been in your room?”

  “No one made my bed or changed the towels, and I wouldn’t expect them to do that until we leave. We aren’t guests here.”

  “This is a private house, not a hotel,” Ryan said. “The rooms don’t have locks, so anyone can go anywhere. No ghosts required.”

  “Some people are more curious than they should be,” I said. “As long as nothing’s been taken, I don’t think we should make a fuss, but maybe you should put your ring away.”

  “I did. I locked it in my suitcase.”

  “Good,” Ryan said. “Let me know if anything else seems to be tampered with. You too, Gemma.”

  Jayne glanced at the clock on the stove, and began untying her apron. “It’s almost eleven. Time for my meeting with David in the library.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said. “He might have some new ideas for the entertainment.”

  To be honest, I was starting to feel like a spare wheel here. I wasn’t really needed to help in the kitchen, I could only rearrange the puzzles, books, and props so many times, and no one was particularly interested in engaging with me in spirited Sherlockian debate. David, Donald, and Jennifer were far above my level of expertise; Steve and Cliff had some knowledge but not a great deal of interest in talking about Sherlock all the time; Kyle, Miranda, and Irene could barely distinguish Holmes from Watson.

  “Do you think I should curtsy?” Jayne said.

  “No, I do not.”

  Promptly at eleven o’clock, I rapped on the door to the library.

  “Come in,” David’s high voice called, and I opened the door.

  Our host for the weekend sat behind the big desk, brow furrowed, fingers steepled, still dressed in the Harris Tweed suit he’d worn on our walk earlier. He was reading one of the books I’d brought from the store, the other two close at hand. He closed his book, put it with the others, rested his hands on top of the stack, and said, “Mrs. Wilson. Miss Doyle. Do come in.”

  For a moment, I almost considered dropping into a curtsy myself, so perfect was the atmosphere. The lord of the manor in his study, tending to the serious business of the estate, the applewood fire burning cheerfully in the grate, the head cook (and her lowly assistant) come to consult on the menu for the dinner party. I put my hand in the pocket of my jeans and touched my phone as if it were a lodestone, linking me to my own time and my place in the world.

  The fire was burning more for atmosphere than for heat as the day continued warming as the sun rose in the sky. The rich scent of grass given its final cut for the season and of the woodlands closing down for the winter drifted through the open sliding door that led to the pool and patio enclosure.

  “I trust everything is to your satisfaction in the kitchen, Mrs. Wilson,” David said.

  I didn’t bother to point out that Jayne was not married, therefore she was not Mrs. Wilson. Cooks and housekeepers, at least in historical fiction, are always Mrs., whether married or not.

  “Yes, sir. Uh, I mean David. We’re good to go.”

  “Excellent. I simply wanted to confirm. This evening is important to me, you know.”

  I wanted to ask why, but I didn’t.

  “I understand,” Jayne said.

  He stood up and walked around the desk. “Things have not been going so well in my life of late. This weekend is a chance for me to get back on track. I thank you both for helping …” Something flashed through the air in front of my face. David stopped abruptly and let out a sudden sharp cry. His eyes widened and his left hand flew to his neck. His mouth opened. It closed again. He stared at me, took a step backward, and staggered against a chair. The chair fell over with a crash and David collapsed onto the floor next to it.

  Jayne gasped, and I crossed the room in two quick strides to drop to David’s side. His body was stiff and he looked at me through wide, frightened eyes, struggling to breathe. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his body jerked, fell back, jerked again as though he were trying to get up, but his muscles wouldn’t let him. “Call 911,” I told Jayne. “We need an ambulance, fast.” I lifted David’s hand away from his neck, and what I saw there had me jumping to my feet. “Stay with him. After you’ve got 911, call Ryan and get him in here. Do not, under any circumstances, touch that thing in his neck, and tell Ryan the same.”

  I ran across the room. The sliding glass door had been pulled open, but the screen door was shut. The screen, I noticed, was badly torn. I grabbed it and pulled. It didn’t move. I found the latch and flicked it and the door slid open a good deal slower than I would have liked on stiff and dirty runners. Behind me, I heard Jayne yelling into her phone. “Hurry, hurry!”