Body on Baker Street

by Vicki Delany

  “I haven’t had time to run the tally yet,” Ashleigh said. “How do you know?”

  I refrained from saying, “Don’t you?” Jayne had told me not to do that. That, she said, tends to make people feel inadequate. “Just a guess.” I, as I have said, rarely guess. I simply observe. And today I observed that twenty-seven hardcover copies of Hudson House, twelve paperbacks and two hardcovers of An Elementary Affair, and seven paperbacks of Doctor Watson’s Mistake had been taken off the main display table and the new books rack.

  “Are we going to have enough on Saturday?” Ashleigh asked. “I don’t want to be the one to tell her we’ve run out.”

  “There are more upstairs, and I’ve put in a rush order. We should be okay. I’m worried about the space though. We really are going to have to pack them in. I’ll order extra chairs from the rental company.”

  A customer put a copy of Echoes of Sherlock Holmes on the counter, and Ashleigh rang it up. She popped the book into an Emporium shopping bag and bid the woman a good day. I took the copies Renalta had signed off the reading nook table and put them into their box. I’d hold some of them back for those of my regular customers who weren’t able to get to the shop for the author’s visit.

  “Twenty-eight,” Ashleigh said as I was tidying the center table.

  “Twenty-eight what?”

  “According to the computer, we sold twenty-eight copies of the book. Not twenty-seven.”

  “The computer’s wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong, Gemma. If it reported less than you thought, I’d think someone stole one. But it says twenty-eight hardcovers of Hudson House.”

  I counted the copies that remained. Thirteen. We’d started with forty. We had therefore sold twenty-seven. I looked around the shop. Moriarty sat by the cash register, allowing Ashleigh to rub the top of his head. They gave me identical smirks.

  I ran to the window. “Aha!” One of the display copies had been removed. “I neglected to check over here.”

  I turned around quickly. Ashleigh might have been in the act of rolling her eyes, but I couldn’t be entirely sure.

  The door chimes rang.

  “Donald,” I said, “nice to see you.”

  “I cannot believe you allowed that woman to step foot in your store, Gemma.”

  I didn’t have to ask what woman Donald Morris was referring to. He was a frequent visitor to the shop, prominent Sherlockian, member of the Baker Street Irregulars, noted Conan Doyle collector (if he could afford what was being offered for sale), and Holmes scholar. In the winter he wore a deerstalker hat and a houndstooth-check Inverness cape. In the heat of summer, he was more likely to wear some sort of Holmes-related T-shirt. Today it read, “You Know My Methods.”

  “I assume you mean Renalta Van Markoff, Donald. Of course I allowed her into my shop. I was hardly going to throw her into the street and bar the door. I sold a lot of her books.”

  “Twenty-eight of the newest one,” Ashleigh called.

  Donald sputtered. About once a year, he tried to start a chapter of the Irregulars in West London, but it never lasted long. Donald’s insistence on strict adherence to the canon and on doing everything his way ensured that the less committed (or the equally stubborn) soon dropped out. “Those books are an outrage! An insult to Holmes’s memory.” Donald pointed to the bookshelves. His index finger quivered in indignation.

  “Donald, you’re wearing a T-shirt with one of his sayings on it. If Holmes was a real person, which I will once again remind you he was not, he’d be offended at that.”

  “Sherlock Holmes would have adapted to the changing times, Gemma.”

  “I’m not standing here arguing with you, Donald. You’ll chase my customers away.”

  He approached the center table and picked up a book. His lip curled.

  “Step away from the books, slowly and calmly,” Ashleigh said, “and no one gets hurt.”

  “You are not helping,” I said.

  “I thought better of you, Gemma.” Donald shook his head mournfully.

  “Sorry. Now what was I doing? Oh, yes, running a business, selling people what they want.”

  He put down the book and picked up the stand displaying the poster I’d done for Saturday’s event.

  “She’s coming here again?”

  “Yes, Donald. You may not like her books. I don’t even like them all that much, although I don’t object on principle the way you do. But lots of people love them. I’m happy to serve my customers.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I’m what?”

  “You are right, Gemma. It’s your role to give the public what they want. Or what they think they want. None of my business at all. I can be satisfied to remain apart from the mindless rabble.” He plucked a book off the table and carried it to the sales counter with a look that indicated a mouse might have expired between the pages. “I suppose I should see what the fuss is about. Purely in a research capacity, of course. Much like an economist might read Das Capital without being a Marxist.”

  “The comparison is hardly apt, Donald,” I said.

  “You look very striking today, my dear,” he said to Ashleigh.

  “Thanks.” Ashleigh rang up the purchase and handed him the book. “Striking” was a good word. She wore blindingly white capris, a navy-blue jacket with gold buttons over a blue-and-white T-shirt, and espadrilles. Her light-brown hair had been heavily sprayed into a shoulder-length flip.

  “I’ll have a bag, please. It will do my reputation no good to be seen carrying this work of so-called popular fiction around with me.”

  She dropped the book into a store bag.

  Donald accepted it. “Good day, ladies.” He left the shop.

  “What’s got his long woolen underwear in a knot?” Ashleigh asked.

  “Van Markoff’s books have some of the more traditional Sherlockians upset. Mrs. Hudson—you know who that is, right?”

  This time Ashleigh did roll her eyes. “Everyone knows who Mrs. Hudson is, Gemma. Sherlock Holmes’s landlady. She’s always objecting to his clients and to the poor street urchins he calls the Baker Street Irregulars.”

  “That’s right. In this series, Mrs. Hudson is Holmes’s lover.”

  Ashleigh laughed. “The wily old dog.”

  “Right. In the original books, Mrs. Hudson has no first name, no past, not even a present outside of 221 Baker Street. She does nothing other than scold Sherlock, serve kippers to Dr. Watson, and show visitors in.”

  “What are kippers?”

  “A fish. Traditionally served for breakfast.”

  “You people eat fish for breakfast? I thought you had fried eggs and sausages and fried tomatoes and such. With toast. Lots of toast. And marmalade.”

  “And kippers. Not to be confused with kedgeree, which is a dish made with smoked haddock, rice, and eggs. But that is somewhat beside the point. The premise of these books is that Mrs. Hudson, whose first name is Desdemona—”

  “Desdemona?”

  “Yup. Desdemona Hudson and Sherlock Holmes live together, in the modern sense of that phrase. They love each other desperately but cannot marry because Mr. Hudson, one Randolph, who happens to be a minion of Professor Moriarty . . .”

  My cat’s ears picked up.

  “. . . won’t give her a divorce.”

  “What about Dr. Watson?”

  “Watson lives with them, not in the modern sense of that phrase, but to provide them with a cover of respectability.”

  “It was more respectable for two single men to share an apartment than a man and a woman?”

  “Actually, it was. Anyway, the premise of the Van Markoff books is that in his stories about Sherlock, John Watson is only pretending that Mrs. Unknown-First-Name Hudson is just the landlady. Meanwhile, Desdemona is not only Holmes’s lover but his smarter partner. And, of course, she is the estranged daughter of an earl, extremely beautiful, an expert at disguise, fluent in many languages, and trained in exotic Asian arts of unarmed combat.”<
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  Ashleigh laughed. “As earls’ daughters usually are, I’m sure. I wasn’t going to read those, but you’re making them sound good.”

  “Aside from the premise, guaranteed to offend any serious Sherlockian, the books tend toward the bodice-ripping side of the aisle. Lots of heaving alabaster bosoms in low-cut gowns. Desdemona is faithful to Sherlock, and he to her, but everyone else spends most of the books bed hopping. I think the second book had a subplot about women being forced to work in high-end brothels. Mrs. Hudson objected to that.”

  “I’d hope so. I guess I can see why Donald wouldn’t like it, but he doesn’t have to read the books, does he? I’m glad he decided to let it go,” Ashleigh said.

  “Let it go? Oh, no. He’ll be here on Saturday. Guaranteed.”

  Chapter 3

  It’s Jayne and my custom to meet in the tea room every day at twenty to four for our business partners’ meeting. We have a cup of tea and enjoy the day’s leftover baking and tea sandwiches, if there are any.

  “I’m expecting a record-breaking crowd on Saturday,” I said. We’d taken my favorite table, the one tucked into the window alcove, and I faced the street. Traffic was heavy as the first weekend of the summer approached. Pots of flowers overflowed outside the shops, and the branches of the ancient trees lining the street, lush with soft new leaves, swayed in a light wind. “I’m worried I’m not going to be able to fit everyone in.”

  Jocelyn placed a two-serving teapot in the center of the table. She wore the tea room uniform of knee-length black dress, black stockings, and white apron with the Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room logo of a steaming teacup next to a pipe. I poured my own tea, and fragrant steam rose into the air.

  “We can use the tea room,” Jayne suggested. “If we arrange a couple of rows of chairs in the doorway.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. It will interfere with your business, though, and Saturday’s your busiest day.”

  “Might help to draw additional customers in. By the way, I’ve hired Lorraine Dobbs to work here part time over the summer. The way this season’s starting, I’ll need the extra help.”

  “Good.” I sipped my Darjeeling. Delicious, as always. “She’s always reliable, and she knows enough about retail that she can help in the Emporium in a pinch.”

  “No poaching my employees, Gemma,” Jayne warned.

  I smiled at her over the rim of my teacup. “I meant when she isn’t working here.”

  “Back to this Saturday. If we have chairs arranged in the tea room, we can’t be serving also. We’ll close food and drink service at one and reopen when Renalta finishes speaking. Some of her fans are sure to stay for tea after her talk. I can’t believe I got to meet her in person. Wasn’t she amazing?”

  “Absolutely charming,” I said dryly.

  “And now I have my own signed copy. I’m so pleased. I told Robbie I can’t see him tonight because I want to finish the book.”

  “I’m sure that went down well.”

  “He understands.”

  I doubted that very much. Robbie was Jayne’s boyfriend. I didn’t much care for him, and the feeling was mutual. I thought he was a no-account layabout. He thought I was an interfering friend.

  On a recent occasion, Jayne and Robbie’s timely arrival saved me from a knife-wielding maniac. I could have handled the situation myself, thank you very much, but Robbie figured he’d single-handedly saved my life. Nevertheless, I had thanked him. More than once. I was getting weary of him constantly reminding me about the supposed Chinese belief that if you saved someone’s life, you were responsible for it from then on.

  “My mom’s planning to come back on Saturday for the talk.” Jocelyn put a plate of lemon tarts and smoked salmon sandwiches on the table. “She’s sure excited about it. She’s thrilled to have her own signed book.”

  “Thus reducing the library waiting list by one. Tell her to come early.” I helped myself to a sandwich. “I’m expecting a big crowd.”

  “What are you going to do about chairs?” Jayne asked. “You don’t have anywhere near enough.”

  “I’ve arranged with the wedding rental place to drop them off Saturday morning. I’ve ordered one hundred.”

  Jayne whistled. “You are going to pack them in.”

  “I might have to get Maureen called out of town on a sudden emergency.”

  “Maureen? What’s she got to do with anything?”

  “My greatest fear is that the fire department is going to close us down for exceeding capacity. Trust Maureen to keep a steely eye on the number of patrons passing through our doors.”

  “I’ll pop over to her store with some baking in the morning. Tell her it’s our thanks for all she does for the street. That might mollify her.”

  “It might. I’d better get back to work. We’re pretty busy today. News about Renalta is spreading.”

  “How’s Ashleigh working out?” Jayne asked.

  “Good so far.” Ashleigh had always wanted, she told me at her interview, to live by the sea. But rather than go exploring, she’d married her high school sweetheart as soon as they graduated and settled down to a life of domestic bliss in Lincoln, Nebraska. Domestic bliss had been in short supply, and the couple divorced after a few difficult years, whereupon Ashleigh, at twenty-three, finally left the cornfields and flatland behind and headed east seeking the ocean with a suitcase crammed full of an odd assortment of clothing. She was delighted to be in West London, and I was delighted to have her working in my shop. She was a good and conscious employee. That made a change from what I was used to.

  “I might even allow her to close up so I can get off home at a decent time some nights. Although I do wish she’d do something about her dress sense.”

  “What’s wrong with her dress sense?” Jayne asked. “She always looks presentable.”

  “Presentable yes. More than presentable. ‘Eclectic’ might be the word. I don’t want to have to worry about what she’s going to show up in next.”

  “Bikini babe or Catholic nun? Who do I feel like being today?”

  “I can’t begin to imagine what the size of her closet must be.”

  Jayne laughed. “I’m looking forward to seeing what she wears next. It adds a bit of excitement to the drudgery of my day.”

  “One thing we don’t need any more of around here is excitement. As you’ve already told Robbie you’re busy tonight, why don’t you meet me for dinner? I’ll go home at six, walk and feed Violet, and then come back to the store around eight. That should give you time to finish the book. Ashleigh can close up at nine.”

  “Sure. Where shall we go?”

  “How about the Blue Water Café?”

  “We’ll never get a reservation with such late notice, not on a Thursday in summer,” Jayne said.

  “You make the call,” I said. “Speak to Andy. He’ll find us a table.”

  “You think?”

  “Guaranteed.” Our friend Andy is the chef and owner of the Blue Water Café. It’s my goal in life to see Jayne ditch Robbie and get together with hardworking, respectable, smart, kind Andy. He adores her, but she just can’t see it. He’d make sure Jayne got a table tonight if he had to turn the president away.

  The door to the street opened, and Grant Thompson’s head popped in. “Is this a private meeting or can anyone join?”

  “Come on in,” I said. “We’re closing in a few minutes, but we can always find something under the counter. And the coffeepot hasn’t been emptied yet.”

  “Coffee’d be nice, thanks. Any muffins left?”

  Jayne called to Fiona, who was stacking chairs on the tables prior to sweeping the floor.

  “Tell you the truth,” Grant said, “I’m here for more than coffee and treats. I want to talk to you, Gemma.”

  “Why?”

  “I heard Renalta Van Markoff was in the Emporium earlier.”

  “Yes!” Jayne squealed. “She was talking to people and signing books. She’s so friendly and gracious. I got a book sig
ned.”

  “I also see,” Grant said, “by the sign in the window that she’ll be back on Saturday.”

  “For a formal talk followed by a signing,” I said.

  “I’m hoping you can reserve a couple for me,” he said.

  “I can, but I wonder why you want them.” Grant was a rare book dealer. He specialized in late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century detective fiction. I couldn’t see that the works of Renalta Van Markoff would be of any interest to him.

  “I concentrate on one area,” he said, “but it doesn’t do to be too limited. Signed books are worth holding on to. Someday, I might find a buyer.”

  Fiona put a cup of coffee and a muffin on the table in front of him. “Are books worth more if the author has signed them?”

  “Usually,” Grant said.

  “Don’t they have to be old to be valuable?” she asked.

  “Age helps. Rarity helps even more. Renalta Van Markoff’s books aren’t exactly rare, far from it, but they might be of some value someday. I’ve heard it rumored that she has arthritis in her right wrist so she doesn’t sign an excessive amount of books.” That, I thought, might explain why she wanted her water bottles to be unsealed. Good thing I’d asked her to sign some store stock for me before she tired.

  “I’m a book dealer,” Grant continued. “I buy and sell. Sometimes I can sell right away, but sometimes I have to hold onto what I buy for a while. That’s the nature of the business. I’ll plan on coming on Saturday. What’s your reserve limit?”

  “Three.” Visiting authors usually sign books that have been preordered, in most cases for those who couldn’t make the personal appearance. If I didn’t have a limit on the number a single buyer could take, it would be an unfair monopolization of the author’s time.

  “Three’s good. Signature and date.” He finished his coffee. He smiled at Jayne. Jayne smiled back. Grant cleared his throat and looked at me. “Do you happen to be free for dinner tonight, Gemma?” The green flecks in his deep-brown eyes sparkled in the afternoon light, and his thick brown hair curled around his ears in the moist sea air.