A Three Book Problem, page 8
If I was right, David Masterson had died of strychnine poisoning. That’s a quick, but very unpleasant, death. Unpleasant to be witness to, as Jayne had been. “Why don’t I give Andy a call? Ask him to come and pick you up. You should go home and lie down. Ryan won’t expect you to stay.”
“It’s lunchtime on a Saturday, Gemma. Andy’s at work.”
As the owner and head chef of his own restaurant, Andy was always at work. I knew he’d come if Jayne needed him even if he left his customers lunching on dry bread and warm water.
She pulled her hands out of mine and returned her attention to the fridge and its contents. “I’ll stay as long as you’re staying. The people are still here, at least for now. We were hired to feed them. I won’t serve the sit-down soup and salad lunch I’d planned, and I’m sure no one will be in the mood for a proper afternoon tea later, but I can throw together some sandwiches and bring out the pastries I’ve made.”
I laid my hand briefly on her arm and went back to the drawing room where everyone was helping themselves to the tea and coffee Annie had brought in. Everyone, that is, except for Jennifer, wrapped in her own world, Kyle who seemed content with his scotch, and Cliff who’d poured himself one. I wandered over to the window and pulled back the drapes. Police cars, marked and unmarked, filled the driveway at the front of the house and uniformed figures moved across the lawn.
I poured myself a cup of tea, grabbed a vacant chair, and dragged it to where Miranda had returned to the couch with her coffee and picked up the magazine.
“Did you know David well?” I asked her.
She looked at me through dry eyes. “We’ve been friends for many years.”
“That’s nice. Good friends?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that. David is … I mean he was married.”
Which, I thought, had never before stopped two people from becoming good friends, but I didn’t pursue the matter. More to the point, however, they’d never expressed any degree of fondness toward each other. Not even in an attempt to do so secretly.
“David’s late mother was a dear friend of mine,” Miranda admitted at last. “After her untimely death, he and I kept in touch. I like to think she would have wanted us to be friends.”
“That’s nice. It was nice of him to invite you to this weekend, seeing as how you aren’t interested in Sherlock Holmes.”
Her makeup cracked as she smiled. “I believe in showing an interest in many things. Curiosity keeps a woman young.” She returned her attention to her magazine. I can tell when I’m being dismissed.
I don’t necessarily do anything about it, but I can tell.
“Do you live in New York City?” I asked.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she raised her head. She stared at me from beneath her thickly mascaraed lashes. “Is that any of your business?”
“Just being friendly,” I said.
“I don’t know why it matters to you, but yes, I live in Manhattan. I love the energy and vigor of the city.”
She was saved from more of my friendliness when Steve and Estrada came in, and Estrada said, “Ms. Ireland, we’ll speak to you now.”
Miranda stood up. She patted down her skirt, fluffed her hair, and left the room.
Steve headed for the bar cart. He poured himself a shot of bourbon and swallowed it in one gulp. His hands shook slightly. Not quite as casually disinterested as he wanted to appear.
“I need to get out of this horrid dress.” Annie tugged at her collar. “I can’t believe people actually wore things this uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry,” Johnson said, “but the detectives would like you to remain here until they’ve spoken to you.”
Annie pointed to the ceiling. “My room’s upstairs. A dark, damp little thing under a sloping celling. I’ll be back before they know it.”
Johnson shook her head. Annie dropped back into her chair and didn’t press the point.
I studied them all. Donald took the seat next to me, recently vacated by Miranda. He leaned toward me and instinctively I leaned toward him.
“How can I help, Gemma?” he whispered.
“Help with what?”
“The case, of course.”
“Ryan and Detective Estrada are here. They don’t need any help. I’m staying well out of it.”
Donald winked at me.
“Really, I am.”
He winked again.
“How did you get invited to this weekend anyway?” I asked. “Had you met David before?”
“Not in person, but we have corresponded. They say he has an excellent collection of first editions of the Holmes books and other works by Sir Arthur and several original Strand magazines. He corresponded regularly with many of the most prominent Sherlockian scholars around the world, but he didn’t normally go to public events such as meetings of the Baker Street Irregulars or attend the BSI weekend.”
“Not a joiner then. Do you know why you were invited this weekend, Donald? I mean, you’re well known in the field, but …”
“But no one would consider me to be one of the most prominent, you mean. That’s okay, Gemma. I’m happy with my own small area of study. My invitation came via Arthur. Arthur, as you know, does have a considerable reputation. It was thoughtful of him to mention my name to David.”
“Do you know if Uncle Arthur has ever met David?”
“I know he hasn’t. He mentioned it when we discussed the invitation. It was Arthur who told David about Suffolk Gardens House being available for rent when David casually said he’d love to put together a small, intimate Sherlock weekend in a suitable environment. Arthur’s familiar with this house from previous visits, and he knew it would be perfect for what David had in mind.”
“Uncle Arthur’s been here? When? I thought no one from the community was ever invited.”
“You know Arthur, Gemma,” Donald said. “You yourself always say he’s been everywhere.”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean everywhere as in everywhere.”
Miranda was soon back and Jennifer invited to chat to the detectives in the dining room.
I stood up. “All right if I visit the loo, Officer?” I asked Johnson.
“Okay,” she said.
I hoped Stella Johnson hadn’t acquainted herself with the layout of the house, as when I walked out of the drawing room, rather than turn left for the downstairs powder room, I turned right, walked down the hall, and exited via the front door.
A uniformed officer stood on the steps, guarding the scene. He whirled around as I opened the door and his hand might have reached for his gun before he remembered where he was and lowered it with a sheepish expression. He was very young, and I’d never seen him before. His badge, his uniform belt buckle, and his boots were so shiny they reflected the sunlight. His trousers were ironed to a knife point, with no sign of wear on the knees or the hem. First week on the job, I guessed.
“Good afternoon,” I said in my snootiest British accent. I find it often goes a long way toward intimidating nervous Americans. “I’m in search of a breath of fresh air.”
“Who are you?” he asked in a nervous squeak. He coughed and lowered his voice. “I mean, who are you?”
“A house guest. Never mind me. I’ve spoken to the detectives already. Carry on!”
“Ma’am, I don’t know if you’re allowed to leave the house.”
“Quite all right.” I walked away from him at a rapid pace, pretending not to hear his protestations.
Every time the drawing room doors opened, and when I’d been in the kitchen making tea, I could hear voices as officials walked through the house, worked in the library, or crept about outside, crawling through the shrubbery.
The West London police had wasted no time in putting a full investigation in motion. They were good at their jobs, but in case they overlooked something that might prove to be important, I wanted to have another look at the path the killer had taken after throwing a poisoned dart through the ripped screen door of the library. I was interested, very interested, in the dart itself, but I knew I’d be allowed nowhere near it. I’d simply have to wait, like Ryan, for the toxicology report to say what had been on it. Assuming Ryan would tell me, which was by no means guaranteed.
Unlike Sherlock Holmes, I do not have an encyclopedic knowledge of poisons, their origins and effects, but unlike Sherlock Holmes I have access to the internet. When I had a chance, I’d try to find out what I could about what might have been used. Not everyone has ready access to a poison so powerful a mere scratch can fell a grown man in less than a minute, but these days, almost anything’s available for those prepared to do a bit of research and with the right mindset.
I was also interested in what the killer had used to propel the dart. Not their own hands, I’d decided, therefore Ryan had probably been right when he guessed a blowgun, although it could have been some sort of bow. Whoever it was must have been extremely confident of their abilities. If they’d missed, David, Jayne, and I would have seen the thing flying through the air and embedding itself in the wall or the carpet. From then on David would have been on his guard, and I would have called the police—aka Ryan Ashburton, the kitchen maid.
Although, depending on what we were doing at the time and the lighting in the room, we might not have noticed the dart whiz past. Was it possible this was not the first attempt? I’d have to warn everyone not to pick up any darts they found lying around.
Or did Ryan want to keep that detail to himself for now? I’d better check before I started talking of things the police were keeping mum about.
I made my way around the house to the pool enclosure and the door to the library. It seemed odd that the patio and pool would be off the library, but perhaps the layout of the rooms in this house had moved over the years.
I placed my feet with care, watching where I went. I put my hands behind my back and studied the screen door. The edges of the largest of the tears were clean and sharp. Meaning they were recent and had been cut, not decayed over time. The library was empty. The police had completed their search for evidence. They wouldn’t have found anything in the library, as the killer hadn’t needed to step inside.
I followed the path I’d taken earlier, moving slowly this time, studying the ground. Nothing. No footprints marred the stamped concrete or the hard ground. Unfortunately, I found no dropped driver’s license or abandoned piece of clothing either. I also didn’t find a blowgun or a small bow.
I ducked through the hedge into the kitchen garden, where I found evidence that the police had taken casts of footprints, but as most of us had been in there earlier in the day, those wouldn’t help much.
Dust from a soft gray powder was trapped in the crevices of the iron gate I’d admired earlier, meaning it had been fingerprinted. Again, any one of us could have touched it. I had.
I retraced my steps, hoping I’d overlooked something. I stopped under a wide window with the curtains pulled across it and thought. What might I have missed? Had I been right to chase the killer where I had? Was it possible they’d taken a different route and not gone into the house by the kitchen? Had I been wrong in assuming this person had been one of the weekend party? I closed my eyes to draw up a picture of the scene as it had happened.
I leapt out of my skin at a bellow in my ear.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing listening at the window?” Ryan Ashburton’s head stuck out of the window, the white drapes curling around his shoulders.
“Oh. Sorry. Is this the dining room? I didn’t realize. I wanted some fresh air.”
Estrada’s head was next to pop out of a window. “You’re supposed to stay in the house with the rest of them.”
“I am? Sorry.”
“The officer at the door has orders to keep you all inside.”
“Sorry,” I said again. “Don’t be too hard on him. I bullied him.”
“Why does that not surprise me?” she said.
“It’s his first week on the job,” Ryan said. “I should have warned him about you. Please go back inside, Gemma. We can talk later about … uh, anything you might have noticed.”
“Which is nothing, I’m sorry to say.”
Chapter Six
“You’re not serious,” Jennifer was saying as I reentered the drawing room.
“Totally serious.” Steve said. “It’s what he would have wanted.”
“Seems rather poor taste to me,” Donald said.
“I’m with Steve,” Kyle said. “It’s a great idea. David hated waste.”
“He did not,” Annie said. “And even if he did, how would you know?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
No one answered me, so I glanced at Jayne. “They want to go ahead with the formal dinner tonight, as planned,” she said.
“It would be in honor of David,” Miranda said. “A fitting tribute.”
“As long as we’re stuck here anyway, we might as well enjoy ourselves,” Billy said. “But, to make things perfectly clear, I’m not waiting on you.” He looked down at himself. “And I’m not wearing this blasted suit any longer either.”
“Well, I’m not doing it.” Annie had undone several of the buttons at the top of her housekeeper’s dress and rolled some of the material up into the belt so her knees were clear. “He was my uncle too.”
Billy pointed to Jayne and me. “Isn’t that why they’re here?”
“You can deduct tonight’s meal from our fee,” Jayne said.
“Not that you’re likely to get paid,” Miranda said, “now that David’s dead. I hope you got a good advance.”
Irene said nothing. She’d been warned, very sternly, by Detective Estrada that not a word of this was to appear in the papers. Earlier she’d excused herself and slipped off to the loo. I’d noticed her touching her pocket, as though to confirm that her phone was there, and she’d been gone a long time. Ordering her editor to clear the front page, I assumed. Today was Saturday and the West London Star didn’t print on Sunday. All she’d be able to do today would be get something onto their Twitter feed.
“We’ll all chip in to cover the expense,” Cliff said. “Come on, let’s do it. For David. One last time.” He lifted his glass. It had been refilled while I was out of the house.
“No,” Jayne said. “I don’t want—”
“Sure,” I said.
Jayne threw me a look.
“Why not? We’ve bought all the food. We’ve done the prep. Jayne will cook and I’ll help serve. Seeing as how we’ve lost our best kitchen maid, Irene will take that role.”
“I will?” Irene said.
“Donald can be the butler. He can serve the wine, as well as enjoying dinner, of course, if you don’t mind a little informality.”
“I’d be happy to,” Donald said. “If you think it appropriate, Gemma. A man did die in this house today.”
“As others have said, David would want us to carry on.”
“How do you know what he’d want? You only met him yesterday. Didn’t you?” Jennifer’s eyes narrowed as she studied me.
I had no answer to that so I didn’t try. Instead, I began gathering used coffee cups.
“Perhaps we can watch the movie before dinner,” Donald said.
“The screen and DVD player are still in the library,” I said. “The police have told us not to go in there.”
“Can’t you ask Detective Ashburton? As a personal favor I mean?”
“I don’t think so, Donald,” I said.
All eyes turned to Officer Johnson.
“I’ll mention it to him,” she said. “Won’t promise though.”
“How about some lunch first?” Steve said. “It’s almost three. Dinner won’t be for hours yet.”
“Isn’t afternoon tea on the schedule for four o’clock?” Miranda said. “I was looking forward to that. I had a light breakfast so as to allow myself a teatime scone. I do love a proper afternoon tea. I remember one time in London—”
“No tea,” I said. “Jayne doesn’t have time to get that ready, but we’ll lay out sandwich ingredients and the tea pastries in the kitchen. How’s that sound? We’ll be ready in ten minutes or so. Come along, Jayne, don’t dawdle.”
As soon as we arrived in the kitchen, Jayne put her tray on the counter and turned to face me, hands on hips. “I do not want to cater this dinner, Gemma. It’s unseemly, and we’re not so hard done by we can’t afford to cut our losses.”
“Of course it is, and yes we can.” I touched her arm. “I meant it when I said you should go home. You’ve had a shock and it’s going to hit you later. I can manage the dinner.”
“You can’t cook.”
“How hard can it be? You’ve done most of the preparation. Irene and I can finish it off.”
“Can Irene cook?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“The prep’s the easy part, Gemma. Why do you want to do this, anyway?”
“I do have a reason: I want to keep these people together for as long as possible and observe their interactions.”
“You’re snooping?”
“I prefer to call it using my deductive powers for good. Get them liquored up, feed them a hearty dinner, and see what details they let slip.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Ryan said as he came into the kitchen. “Unfortunately, I don’t think I can pretend to be the waiter.”
“They’ll be charging in here in a couple of minutes in search of sustenance,” I said. “If you’ve learned anything I need to know you can tell me later. What are you up to now?”
“I love the way you’re assuming I’ll share with you what I learned.”
“Won’t you?”
“Not necessarily. But, seeing as how no one has been marched out in handcuffs, I can tell you I’m not arresting anyone at this time.”
“David was married,” I said, “but his wife didn’t come on this weekend.”
“Annie gave me her contact information. I called her and she’s on her way. Louise is outside checking with the forensics people. It’s a Saturday but I managed to persuade the pathologist that due to the possible nature of the poison used this is a rush job, and she’s going to do the autopsy at five. The lab’s promised to get that dart examined as soon as possible. I have to go.”
