A Three Book Problem Read online

  The door led onto a stamped concrete patio surrounding the swimming pool, its winter cover dotted with dead brown leaves. Large terra-cotta and iron pots were full of dying annuals, the soil being taken over by more hardy weather-tough weeds. The outdoor furniture had all been taken away. A quick glance showed me that no one was out here, and there was no place for anyone to hide. The pool area was surrounded by a four-foot-high chain-link fence with a gate set into it. The gate swung open on rusty hinges, and I ran through it. I emerged onto an expanse of lawn at the side of the house, near the rose garden. I glanced around me, unsure of where to go. No one was in sight, but the hedgerows and low stone walls offered places of concealment, provided the person I was after crouched in place. I’d emerged from the library closer to the back of the house than to the front, so I turned left. I ran around the house to find myself close to the bottom of the kitchen garden. The house’s back door was closed, my car and Jayne’s van parked where we’d left them yesterday. I stopped, stood still, and listened. Birds called to each other from the trees, but otherwise all was quiet. A section of the hedge surrounding the kitchen garden moved, more than could be accounted for by a touch of the light wind, and I ran toward it. Some of the branches were bent, and another was cleanly snapped off, indicating someone had recently passed this way. I pushed through the damaged foliage to emerge at the back of the empty vegetable garden, near the bench. Again, no place for anyone to hide. I kept moving, studying the ground as best I could as I ran. It hadn’t rained for several days and the earth was dry. A few footprints marked the soft earth that had once nourished the vegetables, but the entire pack of us had walked through here a short while ago. The iron gate, which I’d heard close behind Jennifer and David as they followed us out of the kitchen garden, swung open.

  I’d made a mistake by ducking through the hedge into the enclosed garden. If I’d stayed on the path, I would have seen whomever I was after come out. I ran through the garden, burst through the gate, and emerged on the cement path leading to the kitchen door. I threw open the door and ran into the house. The kitchen was empty, the stack of cucumbers and tomatoes half-chopped on the cutting board abandoned.

  I stopped and listened. I could hear voices, natural enough, as this was a full house and the walls were thin. People were calling to each other, demanding to know what was happening. A woman wept, and a man shouted, “Stand back. Stand back.”

  In the distance, sirens approaching.

  I made my way down the hallway to the library. Miranda was the one crying, as Steve ordered everyone to stand back. Not that anyone was paying any attention to him. The rest of the weekend party—Jennifer, Cliff, Kyle, Irene, Donald, and Annie—milled about in the hallway, shouting questions at each other, trying to see what was happening in the library.

  Donald was the first to spot me. “Thank heavens you’re here, Gemma. Smithers has gone to let the authorities in and show them the way.”

  I pushed through the crowd. Over the hubbub I heard the front door open, the sound of heavy boots rapidly heading toward us, and Billy saying, “This way. Quickly.”

  Steve stepped in front of me and held up his right hand. “No one’s to go in there.”

  “I don’t recall you being put in charge, old man,” Kyle said.

  Steve swung his attention away from me. “Now see here!”

  “Let’s get out of the way, shall we?” I said. “Help is here. Let’s let them do their jobs.”

  “David,” Jennifer yelled. “Where’s David!”

  Billy came around the corner, followed by two paramedics, laden with their equipment. Everyone, including Steve, stepped out of their way.

  “Irene,” I said. “Take everyone into the drawing room and wait there for news.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Why should—” Steve said.

  “Thank you.” I slipped into the library alongside the medics.

  Jayne crouched on the floor next to David, her hands hovering in the air above him, wanting to help but knowing she was unable to. She looked up at me when I came in, and her face was very pale. Ryan stood over her, talking rapidly into his phone. He wasn’t wearing his pink apron, but that wasn’t the only change that had come over him. All the good-natured fun had fled, leaving only the cop behind.

  He caught my eye and gave me a short, sharp nod. I put my hand on Jayne’s shoulder. “Why don’t we get out of these people’s way?” I slipped my hand under my best friend’s arm and helped her to stand.

  “No one’s to touch that without protective gloves,” Ryan said to the medics.

  When Jayne moved aside, I could plainly see what Ryan had been referring to. The same thing that had had me running out of the library. A dart was embedded in the side of David Masterson’s neck.

  Chapter Five

  “You’re not the kitchen helper then?” Annie said.

  “I was the kitchen helper,” Ryan replied. “This weekend only. The rest of the time I’m a police detective.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “And, because I am the lead detective with the West London PD, I’m taking control of this case. So yes, Mr. Fraser, you will do as I tell you.”

  “Just making sure we know the situation here.” Kyle dropped back into his chair.

  I glanced at Ryan and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. Kyle had announced that he’d suddenly remembered an important appointment in town. Ryan had told him he was going nowhere, and an argument threatened to break out.

  The argument hadn’t gone far, and Kyle decided his appointment could wait.

  We were all gathered in the drawing room. Quickly and efficiently, the paramedics had loaded David onto their gurney and left in a great hurry, but I could tell by the look they gave Ryan and the expression on their faces, they knew they were too late. Ryan had ordered everyone to wait in the drawing room. With another silent nod to me, he’d asked me to keep an eye on them. When Kyle decided it was a good time to leave, I’d asked Ryan to join us, and he’d come in, accompanied by his hastily summoned partner, Detective Louise Estrada, and Officer Stella Johnson.

  Estrada had managed to keep her face impassive when she spotted me sitting quietly on the couch, my hands in my lap, my ankles primly crossed, but it hadn’t been easy for her. She and I don’t exactly get along, and she’s complained, loudly and often, that I seem to get myself involved in police matters more than the average citizen should.

  “I’m going to talk to each of you privately,” Ryan said. “I expect the rest to wait here, and not talk among yourselves.”

  Donald raised his hand.

  “Yes, Donald?” Ryan said.

  “May we discuss matters pertaining to why we have originally gathered here? By which I refer to the Canon?”

  “You don’t mean to tell us you bunch are collectors of historical artillery pieces?” Estrada glanced around the room as though searching for models of ancient fighting machines.

  “Not cannons,” Donald explained as though he were speaking to a particularly clueless child. “The Canon. The Sherlock Holmes novels and stories by—”

  Louise Estrada wore her usual work clothes of black leather jacket, black blouse, black trousers, and black boots with one-inch heels. No jewelry, no makeup. Ryan’s partner was a tall, lean, attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with flawless olive skin, thick black hair, and large dark eyes with which she could give a penetrating stare that would instantly silence the most ruthless of criminals. She’s been known to silence me on occasion. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Not that nonsense again.”

  Jennifer sucked in a breath in shock. Kyle chuckled.

  “I should have guessed,” Estrada said. “At first glance I thought there’d been a gun battle in that room. Then I noticed that the bullet holes in the wall are fake and they’re arranged in a strange pattern.”

  “The queen’s initials,” Donald said.

  “The what?”

  “The bullet holes form the letters VR. Victoria Regina. Not that the queen’s middle name was Regina. That word means queen or female ruler. Holmes was bored and so he shot the queen’s—”

  “Is this directly related to the death that happened in that room today?”

  “No,” Donald said.

  “Then I really, really do not care.”

  Donald sank further into his seat.

  Ryan’s phone rang and he checked the display. “I have to get this. One moment.” He slipped out into the hallway.

  He was back a moment later. His face was impassive, but I knew by the set of his jaw the news wasn’t good. “I’m sorry, but that was the hospital calling. Mr. David Masterson has died.”

  I ran my fingers lightly across my right cheek as I studied the people in the room while they reacted to the news.

  Cliff bent his head and whispered what might have been a private prayer. “Sorry to hear that,” Kyle said. Miranda sobbed into a handful of tissues, but I suspected it was more for effect than grief. Her eyes and nose were clear and dry, and although the tissues she clutched in her hand were crumpled and damp, they weren’t sodden.

  Annie, on the other hand, was genuinely crying, loudly and copiously. She sat on the love seat next to Jayne. Jayne’s arm was wrapped around the other woman’s shoulders to provide what comfort she could.

  Irene’s eyes flicked around the room, and I assumed she was composing her newspaper copy. Steve sat in a delicate armchair that looked as though it would collapse under his weight at any moment. His posture was erect, his arms crossed over his chest, his feet placed solidly on the floor in front of him. Kyle sprawled on the couch, trying to seem blasé and oh-so-cool in the face of the drama, taking up more room than he should. But the twitch in the corner of his right eye told me he wasn’t as casual a
bout all this as he wanted us to think. Silent tears ran down Jennifer’s face, and she huddled into herself in the space on the couch Kyle had left for her.

  “As I said, I’ll be needing to speak to each of you privately,” Ryan said.

  “You think someone killed him?” Kyle asked. “Well, let me assure you, it wasn’t me.”

  “I think nothing,” Ryan said. “Not yet.”

  “While we’re waiting until it’s our turn to be interviewed,” Donald said, “perhaps we could start the movie. Murder by Decree is one of my favorites.”

  Jennifer’s head snapped up. “You want to watch a movie? Now? Have some respect. A man,” she swallowed heavily, “has died.”

  “I mean no disrespect,” Donald said. “None at all. We have nothing better to do. In my experience, these things take time.”

  “Your experience?” Miranda said. “Are you a police officer too?”

  “They’re coming out of the woodwork,” Kyle muttered.

  “I am not,” Donald said, “but I’ve been of assistance to Gemma … I mean Detective Ashburton, on some of her … I mean his cases.”

  All eyes turned to me.

  “Not that I have cases,” I said quickly. “Donald means he’s helped me solve minor problems at my shop. Isn’t that what you mean, Donald?”

  “Uh, yes. Like the time your sales machine computer … thing … broke and I fixed it for you,” said the totally computer-illiterate Donald.

  “No movie,” Estrada said.

  “In that case,” Kyle said. “How about a drink? Smithers, why don’t you open the bar?”

  “That would not—” Officer Johnson began, but the fake butler spoke over her. “My name’s not Smithers, as you well know, Kyle. As you also know perfectly well, I am not a butler, and from now on you can pour your own blasted drink.”

  Smithers, who I must remember to call Billy, had been pacing up and down, up and down, across the room. Letting off nervous energy, I wondered, or did he have something specific to be nervous about? His face, until he’d turned on Kyle, had been expressionless, but his body language told me he was troubled. David had been his uncle. Was that it, or something more?

  Whoever had killed David Masterson—and that person, I believed, was in this room—wasn’t about to stand up and confess.

  “Ms. Doyle,” Ryan said, “I’ll interview you first. Officer Johnson, stay here and ensure no one discusses what happened. Ms. Talbot, I hope I don’t have to remind you that nothing is to appear in the papers without my permission.”

  Miranda perked up. “Papers? You’re with a newspaper? How interesting.”

  Ryan and I walked out of the room, followed by Louise Estrada. As we left, I heard Kyle say, “Okay, you don’t have to serve. Get the bottle out and find some glasses, will you?”

  Miranda said to Irene, “If you’d like a photograph, can you wait until I’ve had a chance to fix my hair? I must look a total mess.” She was probably disappointed that no one hurried to assure her she looked as lovely as ever.

  “I’m particularly fond of the pea scene in Murder by Decree,” Steve said to Donald, “although otherwise I didn’t care for James Mason as Watson.”

  With the library blocked off and the group gathered in the drawing room, Ryan had appropriated the dining room as his interview space. I couldn’t think of any place that seemed less suitable. The walls were covered with gold silk paper, the art consisted of a series of framed black-and-white sketches of crumbling castles. A round mirror in a gilt frame was mounted above the fireplace, and a teardrop chandelier hung over our heads. The table had not yet been set for lunch, and the shine of the dark wood of the table reflected the candelabra. The golden drapes were closed, the lamps switched on, the chairs tucked up to the table, and the fireplace contained nothing but cold gray ash. Ryan and I pulled out chairs and Estrada stood against the wall.

  “Did you tell Louise why we’re here?” I asked.

  “I did,” he said.

  “Unbelievable,” she muttered.

  “I don’t suppose I can tiptoe into the library and get some of my books and games?” I asked. “If the guests are to remain here, they’ll need something to do.”

  Estrada gave me that penetrating stare.

  “Just asking,” I said meekly.

  “I was in the kitchen cutting vegetables for the salad for lunch,” Ryan said, “when Jayne called and told me someone had been killed in the library. I might have thought she was getting into the spirit of the weekend, except for the tone of her voice, which told me this was no joke. Less than ten minutes before, you and she had gone to the library to meet with David Masterson, as arranged. When I got to the library, you weren’t there, but Jayne said you’d told her to call 911 and then me.”

  I nodded. “That’s right. I ran after the person who did this.”

  Estrada groaned. I spread out my arms. “Obviously I had no luck, otherwise I would have told you who it was right away.”

  “Gemma,” Ryan said. “I seem to recall on another occasion advising you not to chase someone you think is a killer, alone and unarmed. Maybe you should have waited for the police? Meaning, in this case, me.”

  “Sorry,” I said, although I wasn’t sorry at all. I hadn’t been intending to tackle the perpetrator as though I were an American football player, but I hoped I could at least get enough of a look at them to be able to identify him or her.

  “Did you see this person? The one you chased?” Ryan asked.

  “No, not even a glimpse. Sorry. They moved fast, and there are all sorts of places on this property where someone can duck behind a fence or through a hedge or turn a corner.”

  “Take us through exactly what happened,” Ryan said.

  I did so. David had been seated at the desk reading when Jayne and I arrived. He closed his book, got to his feet, and walked around the desk, talking to us. Someone fired a dart through a tear in the screen door, and it struck him in the side of his neck. Involuntarily I lifted my own hand to indicate the spot on my neck. He dropped on the spot, and I left him in Jayne’s care and gave chase.

  “Have a look at the screen,” I said. “As I mentioned earlier, this house is not as well kept up as it first appears to be.” I gestured around me. The wallpaper peeling at the edges, the watermark in the plaster ceiling, the dust gathering in clumps on the picture frames. “The screen on the library door is in particularly poor condition. Screens are intended to keep out small insects, but the hole in the center of that one wouldn’t stop Moriarty.” Meaning my shop cat. “Louise, you might want to check and see how recent the tearing is.”

  “I might, might I?” Estrada said.

  “You might. If someone cut or ripped it with the intention of creating an access point for their projectile, that would indicate the attack was planned. I didn’t hear the sound of screens ripping, nor see anyone lurking outside the sliding door or peering through the windows when Jayne and I came in. But I will admit I didn’t look toward the door or windows because David greeted us immediately. After firing the dart, whoever did so ran across the pool enclosure, through the gate, rounded the house to the rear, and then went through the hedge into the kitchen garden. The ground’s hard, so you likely won’t be able to get footprints, but if they left the path and went across the lawn or through the vegetable beds, some residual prints might be visible. Unfortunately, that will probably be of no use to you. I have to mention that we all, with the exception of Jayne and you, Ryan, toured the gardens after breakfast. Even Annie Masterson and Billy Belray, who are pretending to be the housekeeper and the butler, respectively, joined the expedition. As there are no vegetables to be wary of trodding upon, we would have not minded where we were putting our feet. Our dart thrower crossed the kitchen garden and exited via the gate.” I closed my eyes and thought, trying to visualize the scene. Estrada shifted but said nothing; Ryan’s chair squeaked.

  “Cliff Mann left the group before we went into the vegetable garden, saying he wasn’t interested. Billy joined him, but the rest of us accessed it via the gate and everyone, including me, sort of wandered around. We didn’t stand in one place. Jennifer and David were last to leave the kitchen garden at the end of our tour, and one of them pulled the gate shut after us. I distinctly remember hearing the sound as the latch fell into place. Their prints will be on it, but they won’t be the only set. The ironwork is quite nice and some of our party examined the gate earlier. Including, unfortunately, me. By examined, I mean touched.”