Chapter One
For reasons unknown to everyone, Sherlock Holmes’s birthday is celebrated every year on January 6. For reasons obvious to everyone, Jayne Wilson’s birthday is also celebrated every year on January 6. Because that’s the date on which she was born.
Which meant that I had two birthday parties to attend in one day.
In the afternoon, the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, of which I am half-owner, full manager, general shop clerk, cat wrangler, and occasional scullery maid, put on a party complete with balloons, streamers, and books on sale. Tea and teatime sandwiches were served along with an elaborately decorated cake topped by a cutout of the silhouette of the Great Detective as most commonly known: deerstalker hat on head, magnifying glass in hand. The party was well attended. Not only bookshop regulars, but Sherlockians from far and wide came. No one loves a party more than a bunch of Sherlock aficionados. And few people love a sale more, particularly if they happen upon a volume that by chance they’d overlooked earlier.
First party over, old stock cleaned out, used cups, dirty dishes, and the few leftovers returned to Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room, door locked behind the last celebrant, vacuum cleaner put to use, shop cat fed and watered, it was time to get myself ready for the next birthday party.
This time, I wasn’t going to be the host. I didn’t have to pretend to be enjoying myself, I could really enjoy myself. Even better, I wouldn’t have to stay behind to clean up.
Still, I shouldn’t complain. The birthday girl herself had put in a great deal of work for the afternoon party, mainly in terms of making the cake and sandwiches, and preparing everything to be perfectly presented.
It had all been flawless, as anything Jayne did always was.
I’m Gemma Doyle, and I own the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, located at 222 Baker Street, West London, Massachusetts. I also own one quarter of Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room, which occupies 220 Baker Street. Jayne Wilson, birthday girl, baker extraordinaire, best friend, owns one half of the restaurant. My great-uncle Arthur Doyle is a silent partner in both businesses. Silent for good reason. Uncle Arthur has a great many life skills, but the efficient running of a business is not among them.
“My friend Rachel’s a bartender at the Blue Water Café.” Ashleigh, one of my shop clerks, clattered down the seventeen steps from the upper level, pulling on gloves, wrapping a long scarf around her neck, zipping up her coat. All at the same time. “She says it’s going to be a big night. Andy’s pulling out all the stops.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“Are you going to dress all glam, like?”
“Whatever glam means,” I said. The most “glam” thing I owned was the dress I bought the previous autumn at Harrods in London for my sister’s wedding. The reason I had to go shopping at Harrods as soon as it opened on the day of the wedding was that my luggage failed to arrive at the same time I did, and I couldn’t go to my only sibling’s nuptials in my
travel-stained (literally in the case of the coffee I’d spilled down my front at the very start of the endless journey) clothes. My mother had taken me on the shopping expedition, my mother who is not known for her restraint in spending on clothes. Particularly when it’s someone else’s money.
And so tonight I had a very “glam” dress to wear.
“Have fun,” Ashleigh said as she slipped out the door. “Take lots of pictures.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall behind the sales counter, hanging next to a framed reproduction of Beeton’s Christmas Annual, November 1887, the first time Sherlock Holmes appeared in print. Next to which was a shelf containing the glass statue presented to Great-Uncle Arthur for his efforts in promoting the tales beyond England’s shores.
Arthur was highly proud of that statue, although honesty forces me to admit, although never to his face, that Sherlock Holmes scarcely needs any promotion anywhere these days. As evidenced by the fact that I can run an entire, and very profitable, business dedicated to nothing but the Great Detective and his creator, and their lives and times.
I had a sudden thought. Maybe Uncle Arthur wasn’t as proud of the award as he said he was. Otherwise, why was it here, in the shop, and not at home in his study, which is jammed full of his lifetime of memorabilia?
“A matter to consider another day,” I said to the sole remaining shop employee, Moriarty.
If Moriarty were human, he would have curled his upper lip in distain. As it was, he turned and walked away, hips swaying, tail held high. My shop cat is not, to put it mildly, all that fond of me. I’ve never quite understood why. He gets on well with our customers. He lets young children pat him and elderly ladies fuss over him. He gets along fine with Ashleigh and Gale, my other human employees, and with the staff from the tearoom.
It’s only me he doesn’t like. Me and Ryan Ashburton, lead detective with the West London police, who also happens to be the man in
my life.
I sometimes wonder if Moriarty, the cat, fancies himself an eight-pound version of Moriarty, the master criminal. If so, and if he regards me as some sort of female Sherlock Holmes with curly hair and a tendency to put on weight if I’m not careful, it might account for his distain, if not occasional outright hostility.
“You won’t burn down the shop while I’m out, will you?” I said as he settled himself into his bed under the center display table. He did not reply.
I considered checking for concealed pyrotechnic devices before leaving, but I was running short of time. I had to get home, wrap the gift I’d delayed getting until the last minute, “glam” myself up, and head to the restaurant for the party.
It was a few minutes after five, but in early January in Massachusetts it was almost fully dark outside. I bundled myself up, turned out the lights, locked the doors behind me, and walked rapidly down Baker Street in the direction of the harbor.
The windows of most of the restaurants and shops still twinkled with holiday decorations. Illuminated wreaths hung from the tops of lampposts. A strong cold wind blew off the ocean. I wrapped my navy-blue wool and cashmere coat around me, pulled my scarf tighter, and picked up my pace as I approached Harbor Road.
Harbor Road is aptly named. In the summer, the waterside boardwalk is lined with tubs of flowers and crowded with tourists eating ice cream, watching fishing boats unloading and seals playing in the water, visiting the small lighthouse, buying crafts to take home or fresh fish and farm produce for dinner, or finding a seat at the outdoor coffee shops where they can watch other people doing all of those things. Those who don’t want to cook for themselves are offered a choice of dining establishments ranging from hot dog stands to full-service bars and restaurants. The boardwalk runs along the small harbor where charter boats bob at anchor and pleasure cruisers tie up for a visit to town. The public pier circles the harbor to the north of the intersection with Baker Street; to the south, jutting over the water, sits the open deck (currently closed for the season) of the Blue Water Café, the setting for this evening’s celebration.
Tonight, the boardwalk was mostly empty, flowers in the tubs dug up, awnings pulled down over the cafés and ice cream shops, vendors’ booths closed. But the beam of the lighthouse still flashed, as it would throughout the
night, and inside the restaurant all the lights were on. Through the wide windows I could see staff laying tables. I wasn’t close enough to read the sign on the menu board outside, but I knew what it said. The restaurant would be closed for a private event.
Jayne’s birthday party.
This wasn’t a particularly memorable birthday, not a year ending in a five or a zero, but Andy Whitehall was making a heck of a big deal out of it.
The birthday party would likely rival their wedding, scheduled for six days from today. Andy initially suggested having the wedding reception at his own restaurant, but Jayne had, wisely, put her foot firmly down. Jayne might be small of stature and soft-spoken, but when Jayne’s size-six foot goes down, it stays down.
She knew if Andy’s place hosted the reception, he’d spend most of the party on his feet, popping in and out of the kitchen, tasting the food, making adjustments to the seasonings or the garnishes. Yelling at his highly competent staff. Andy would want everything to be perfect for Jayne’s wedding, and he still didn’t quite understand that his love and attention were all she needed to make the occasion perfect.
It’s my nature to be early anyway, but as the head bridesmaid for Jayne’s wedding, I wanted to be at the birthday party before most of the guests arrived. The party wasn’t intended to be a pre-wedding reception, but various relatives had come to the Cape ahead of time and had been invited to the dinner. Jayne’s brother, Jeff, was in town, and he and his wife would bring Jayne to the restaurant, along with Leslie, their mom.
Me, I was on my own.
Ryan was out of town, some sort of ill-timed police training thing. Fortunately, the training thing would be finished in a few days, so he’d make it home in time for the wedding. Good thing, too, as he was the best man.
Uncle Arthur and I had spent a quiet Christmas morning together in the 1756 saltbox house we share, enjoying mimosas and almond
croissants, made by Jayne herself at her bakery, opening presents from each other and our family back in England. Ryan, our friend Donald Morris, Jayne and Andy, and Leslie Wilson joined us later for dinner. Uncle Arthur is the cook in our house, and he made a hearty English roast of beef, served as it should be with Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes, three veg, and dark rich gravy. Jayne brought homemade fruit tarts for dessert. I’d managed to put together a charcuterie board for pre-dinner snacking while opening more presents.
Before December was over, Uncle Arthur packed a bag, bid the dogs farewell, remembered at the last minute to say goodbye to me, and leapt into a taxi to take him to the airport. I assumed he was headed somewhere hot as he took only one carry-on suitcase. I didn’t ask where he was going. He likely didn’t know. Uncle Arthur joined the Royal Navy the day he finished school and spent the rest of his life, until compulsory retirement reached him, at sea. Over those years, he’d risen through the ranks from common sailor to master and commander of one of HRH’s battleships. The sea still called to Uncle Arthur, and when she beckoned, he answered. He’d been invited to the wedding, and he promised to be back in time. I wasn’t holding my breath.
I dressed carefully and studied myself in the mirror. Little I could ever do about my hair—those dratted curls! But I’d added a rare touch of blush to my cheeks, mascara to my lashes, and dark red lipstick to my lips. My dress was navy blue, a wide chiffon skirt with a lacy overskirt, boat neck, elbow-length sleeves, and a thin belt. With some effort, I’d managed to save the overly expensive Harrods dress after it had been in a bar brawl at a top London nightclub (don’t ask).
Tonight, as I intended to enjoy a few glasses of the no-doubt excellent wine Andy would order specifically for this party, I’d take a cab home, so I decided to walk to the restaurant. If I did that, I’d have to wear my boots, but I could carry my party shoes in a bag. Snow had started falling while I’d been getting ready, and when I let the dogs in from one last after-dinner romp, they shook a pile of the white stuff onto the mudroom floor.
“I won’t be too late,” I said to them. “Guard the house."
licked ice off his paw.
A cab was pulling up to the house next door to ours as I came down the front step. My neighbor, Mrs. Ramsbatten, was on her front porch waiting for it, and she spotted me as she headed for the car. “Gemma! Are you going to Jayne’s party? Would you like a lift? I meant to make the offer earlier, but everything got ahead of me.”
“That would be nice,” I said.
Mrs. Ramsbatten, all four-foot-eleven of her, might look like the stereotypical elderly neighborhood widow, somewhat confused, always well-meaning, but although her eyesight was failing, and she needed the assistance of a cane to get around, her razor-sharp mind was as alert as ever. ...
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