So he picked the lock. It clicked loose.
They stepped inside the gymnasium. It was almost pitch-dark, too dark to proceed without a light.
“I expect the power is on,” said Reggie, “since they have to show the place to prospective buyers.”
Laura reached for a switch on the side wall, as though she remembered exactly where it should be—and it was. Overhead lights flickered and then came on, several at a time, with a hum in the otherwise-silent room.
The bleachers on either side were contracted, up tight against the walls. There was dust on the gym floor, but even so, the shine of the heavy varnish glinted back at the lights.
“This is where we had all the dances. I was very awkward at the first one. I was quite awkward at the last one as well, but then, I was only at school here long enough for three.”
“Too bad we don’t have music,” said Reggie. “But I could put my mobile on speaker mode.”
“No. Somehow I don’t think that will quite do.”
“Should I whistle?”
“No. I’ve heard you whistle.”
“Well, if there’s no music for dancing, and you won’t let me whistle, what is there to do?”
“Oh, I could think of something. But what if the estate agent is showing the place today?”
“That would be a bonus for them, I suppose.”
“We’ll just dance quietly. If you are more ambitious than that, you’ll just have to wait and hope for the best.”
“Fair enough.”
They began to slow-dance. Reggie was careful not to whistle and spoil the mood. After a moment, Laura said, “You know, the first time I danced with a boy who reacted to me this way—”
“What way?”
“The way you’re reacting; don’t try to be coy about it. I got so embarrassed that I ran from the room crying.”
“You’re not going to do that now, are you?”
“Perhaps. Why don’t you kiss me first, and then we’ll just see—”
Laura stopped suddenly.
“What?” asked Reggie.
“Did you hear that? That banging noise. Like someone slamming a—”
Now there was a sound that even Reggie heard.
“Must be the wind rattled a pipe somehow,” he said. “Or maybe a heating system, or—”
“I think it’s time we go,” said Laura. “It could be an estate agent. Or worse, paparazzi.”
“But—”
Laura disengaged.
“Now don’t make me call the chaperone,” she said. “C’mon, I’ll race you back to the car.”
With no further discussion, they exited the gym. Reggie closed the door behind them and listened for a moment, but he heard nothing more like the sound from earlier.
They ran around the pavilion and back to the front of the school.
They made it to the MGB and jumped in without encountering paparazzi or anyone else.
Probably an estate agent had just brought someone by for a quick outside look, suggested Laura.
That seemed unlikely to Reggie, but it didn’t matter. He started the car and drove quickly on the way home, wanting as much time alone with Laura as possible before she had to go back to rehearsal.
Late that afternoon, after slow dancing led to other things back at the house, Laura sighed and got up from the bed.
She knew from the snoring that Reggie was asleep. She could nudge him and tell him to stop, and thereby get a nap herself.
Or she could take advantage of the snoring, knowing that as long as it continued, her absence would be undetected.
She put on her robe and went out on the balcony.
She heard water running in a stream somewhere. No wind whatsoever; the pine trees were misty and absolutely still.
Laura had not made many mistakes in her life. At least none worth dwelling on, which was how she measured such things. But anyone watching now as she stood at the balcony railing, just staring out at the still trees, would have thought she was dwelling on one now.
And perhaps someone was watching. Because the snoring had stopped.
Laura quickly turned and looked toward Reggie in the bed. False alarm. He was still asleep. He had just turned slightly onto his side, and so the snoring had paused. His eyes were closed and he was breathing evenly. That was nice.
Still in her robe, Laura quietly picked up her purse, put on slippers, pushed the door open, and went downstairs.
She sat at the kitchen table and took a folded sheet of paper out of her purse. She unfolded it in front of her, read it, and stared at it for a long moment. Then she picked it up and looked at the other side. She turned it again and looked closely at each of the corners. She held it up to the light.
But all of that revealed nothing. She put the letter flat on the table in front of her, read it once more, and sighed.
Now she heard a noise. She looked up.
At the top of the stairs, Reggie stood looking back down at Laura as she sat at the kitchen table. Light through the kitchen window had a translucent effect on her silk gown, and that was the first thing he had noticed. But what he was noticing now was what she had laid out before her on the table, and the tension in her face as she stared at it.
“What’s that?” asked Reggie.
Laura immediately put her hand on the unfolded sheet of paper she had been staring at. But she could hardly cover it completely, and she resisted the impulse to try to stuff it back in her purse.
“Script changes?” asked Reggie as he pulled up a chair.
“Ah … no,” said Laura. “I mean … I tried not to wake you.”
Reggie looked at the words that were visible between Laura’s fingers.
“‘Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes—’” he began to read. Then: “What the—”
“Now, I can explain,” said Laura quickly. “I know you aren’t fond of these … kinds of letters. The only reason I put a copy in my bag is because—”
“We have staff for these things,” said Reggie. “And for good reason. What’s one doing popping up on our honeymoon?”
“I … It was nothing, really. I was at Baker Street Chambers, you know, that last day in London before the wedding, and I’d just gotten off the phone with you, and I had to get rid of Mr. Rafferty; then I went into your office and changed clothes, and when I came out, I saw that I had accidentally knocked one of the letters onto the floor, and so I picked it up, and—well, this is it!”
Reggie stared at Laura, not just perplexed but also astonished. He had never seen her get a hand caught in any sort of cookie jar, much less make excuses about it.
“I wanted to tell you, Reggie,” she continued, “and I was going to. I just … I just kept putting it off because I know how much you want nothing to do with the letters anymore. You remember what you said before we left London?”
“Yes. I remember my rant. I said I wanted nothing more to do with the bloody letters. I also said I never wanted to see another bloody paparazzo as long as I lived. I even said I didn’t want to see another bloody solicitor and client walk in at Baker Street Chambers ever again. But of course what I meant in all that was just that I wanted the whole bloody world to get lost so that I could be with you.”
Laura looked at him.
“I wish you wouldn’t say things to me like that when I have to get dressed for rehearsal,” she said.
Reggie ignored that for the moment, and he slid the letter from under Laura’s fingertips. It read as follows:
Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes:
I swore a solemn vow not to tell a single living soul. But it is said that you are a character of fiction. And therefore not a living soul. I can tell you, then, without breaking my vow:
Something is terribly wrong in Bodfyn. Please send Scarecrow.
“‘Something is terribly wrong in Bodfyn,’” repeated Reggie, musing over it.
“Yes,” said Laura.
“Aside from the name of the place,” said Reggie.
“Of course
,” said Laura.
Reggie frowned and sat down at the table.
“I can understand why you picked this letter up. I understand why you put it in your purse. And I understand now why you brought us here, I do—you care about this weird little place. And about your friend and mentor, Mrs. Hatfield. What I don’t understand is how on earth this letter managed to come to you.”
“As I said, I was waiting for you at Baker Street, and—”
“Yes, but what I mean is, what sort of coincidence can it be that a letter about Bodfyn—a town of fewer than two hundred people—could arrive at Baker Street Chambers, addressed to Sherlock Holmes, just at the right moment for you to happen to see it?”
“A nearly impossible coincidence?”
“Yes,” said Reggie. “That’s what worries me. I don’t believe the letter, I don’t believe most of them, and I wouldn’t have done anything to check this one out because I don’t give a rat’s ass about the town in any case. But you do. And it arrived in perfect timing for you to be there to receive it.”
“I can’t explain it, either,” said Laura. “But there it was. What was I to do?”
Reggie had no answer; he just shook his head.
Laura started back up the stairs.
“Where are you going? I think we need to figure this out.”
“I do, too,” said Laura. “But I need to get dressed. I have to go back now for one more run-through.”
“Bloody hell. Can’t you just tell them no?”
“Really, Reggie. I can’t let them all down. I’ll have to go. But I’ll be just a couple of hours. We’ve had such a wonderful day. Don’t make me feel bad about it now. Why don’t you just go back to the pub? Have a pint or two. Play some darts. Like you used to do.”
“You mean like when I was single and had nothing better to do?”
She kissed him quickly on the lips.
“I’ll be back before midnight. I promise. Just don’t turn them into a pumpkin while I’m gone.”
10
At the pub, Charlie, the same bartender from the night before, came over to pour Reggie’s beer.
Reggie just stared at the counter, too worried to look up.
“Foster’s,” said Reggie.
“Just the one?” asked Charlie.
“For a start,” said Reggie.
The bartender poured the Foster’s, gave a conspicuous glance at the empty bar stool next to Reggie, and got a look on his face that could only be described as gloating.
Reggie focused on his beer, took a long draft, and when he finally glanced up, he was annoyed to see the man still standing there.
“What?” asked Reggie.
“You and the lady were here.”
Reggie nodded.
“I’m trying to remember,” the bartender continued.
“It was last night,” said Reggie.
“No,” said the bartender. “I mean, why she looks familiar. Like someone from the cinema, I think.”
Reggie rubbed his forehead. He didn’t need this. If the bartender recognized Laura, and phoned in a tip, the paparazzi would descend on them in worse fashion than if they had not attempted to travel incognito at all.
No answer was safe.
“Seems unlikely,” said Reggie lightly, as if the man had been joking.
“Don’t see how you would know who I went to the cinema with back in the day,” said the man. He gave Reggie a defiant look, and then he turned away and went through the doors to the back kitchen.
Reggie was too preoccupied to wonder about that reaction. In fact, he was glad the bartender was gone. He had Laura’s letter in his pocket, and he took it out now for another look. He was worried.
The lack of a signature bothered him. The urgency of the summons bothered him.
Most of all, it bothered him that whoever had sent it knew that Laura Rankin was Scarecrow from Bodfyn.
How else could they have imagined the letter would get to her? And how did they know she would be there to receive it? They would almost have had to hand-deliver it while she was there.
That letters written to Sherlock Holmes would get delivered and read at Baker Street Chambers was common knowledge. The Daily Sun had made sure of that over the past few years—always in a way designed to embarrass Reggie Heath.
That Laura Rankin was marrying Reggie Heath of Baker Street Chambers was also common knowledge.
But it was not common knowledge that Laura was Scarecrow. He himself had not known that until today.
And other than Mrs. Hatfield, Reggie did not know of anyone who knew all those things and also had a reason to summon Laura that was both urgent and benign. In his experience, urgency by definition usually suggested at least the possibility of a consequence that was not benign.
He didn’t like it. He didn’t know quite what was going on, but whatever it was, he didn’t like doing nothing about it.
He took out his mobile phone, intending to call Baker Street Chambers. But Mrs. Hatfield was right: He got no bars at all. It was a dead zone. He also couldn’t ring Laura to check on her. He would get no reception unless an unknown satellite, the clouds, and the stars should all align.
Reggie grabbed his mac, went outside, and began walking toward the theater at the opposite end of town. True, his previous visit there had been a disaster, and probably everyone was onstage and would regard his presence as an intrusion.
Still, he would check. He walked quickly up the street. And, as sometimes happened, the more Reggie walked, the more clearly he was able to think (or so he felt). It was still light out, and there were locals about, visiting the grocer, the tea shop, the estate agent—quite a normal little town, really. What sort of jeopardy Laura could possibly be in was not apparent. He was probably worried about nothing.
By the time he reached the theater, he was almost in good spirits. He walked up the pavers to the entrance. He could hear voices from inside. The door was locked, but he put his ear to it.
“Out, damned spot!”
Yes, that was Laura’s voice, clear as a bell. If nothing else, he knew she was fine. He could relax.
He turned and began walking back toward the pub.
He passed the estate agent’s office along the way, with its listings of properties for sale posted in the window. He paused. He recognized one; it was a glossy picture and detailed listing for Laura’s former boarding school.
Just as Reggie stopped to look, the door opened and a crying woman stepped out.
It was Mrs. Hatfield.
She saw Reggie, started to turn away, then gave up on that and settled on just putting a silk handkerchief to her face.
“Oh. This is so embarrassing,” she said.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I … I’m fine. I just … have been such a fool.”
She looked very much as though she would tear up again.
“Let me buy you a cup of tea,” said Reggie.
She nodded. The tearoom was only two doors away and still open. They went right in, sat down, and got a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of vanilla biscuits.
“Is there … something wrong at the theater?” asked Reggie. “I was just there, but of course I was careful not to intrude.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” said Mrs. Hatfield. She managed a smile. “The play is coming along splendidly. Thanks to your wife, young man. We’re doing the final dress right now. We will be ready to open tomorrow night, no question.”
“Then why, if I may ask, are you…”
“Because it is going so splendidly,” said Mrs. Hatfield, “and everyone in town has bought tickets and is coming tomorrow, absolutely everyone, and so I know it is going to be such a success…”
“Yes?”
“That I came to talk to the estate agent today about the school. About how much it will take. So I will know how close we are getting in the fund-raising, and … and…”
“And?”
She got her sniffles under control and looked directly at
Reggie.
“We might as well be having a bake sale to send a man to the moon!”
“Oh.”
Reggie could offer nothing else. Of course a community theater’s weekend play could not raise enough money for a down payment on such a property. That should have been obvious from the start.
“Was there … some sort of commitment made? Did you have a previous discussion with the estate agent?”
“Oh, no, not me; I left that to Mr. Turner. I only came in today because I was just so excited about how well it was going, and I thought … Oh, I don’t know what I was thinking. Poor Mr. Turner, he will be so disappointed.”
“I take it that he believed you could raise enough money?”
“Oh yes. He was certain of it. He said that our little play this weekend would … would make it possible to buy the school, open it again, and save the town itself!”
Reggie was silent for a moment. He hadn’t given it much thought at all—it was Bodfyn’s business, after all—but the entire plan was highly unlikely. Even if the money were raised, the property would never be a school again. It was simply too far now from the population centers.
“You’ve still staged a wonderful play, Mrs. Hatfield, I’m sure. That’s something to be proud of. It’s a shame if someone gave you unrealistic advice.”
“Oh, no, it’s our own fault. Mr. Turner’s and mine. He was so sure; he did so much research on it, he told me. But what do we know? We’re just a couple of sad and foolish old academics!”
“No, Mrs. Hatfield, you are not. I don’t know anything else about you, but I know that you are Laura’s mentor. And in my opinion, there is nothing sad or foolish about that.”
She began to recover a little now.
“Thank you,” she said. “I suppose I’d better be going back to the theater now.”
She got up from the table; Reggie paid the bill and walked outside with her.
“Would you like to join me, and see the final rehearsal of the last act?” she asked.
“No, thank you very much,” said Reggie. “I thought I would just go down to the pub and … get to know it a little better.”
“That’s fine, dear. You just go and have a good time. And take a look through that telescope, too!”
A Baker Street Wedding Page 7
