Body on Baker Street

by Vicki Delany

  “Except for the small matter that she didn’t do it.” I took off my hat. Linda sucked in a breath. Grant said, “Gemma, what happened?”

  I rubbed at what curls remained on the top of my head. “I was attacked last night near the beach. West London’s a low-crime town, but it still could have been a random act. I, however, don’t believe in coincidences. I’ve been asking a lot of questions of a lot of people concerning the death of Ruth Smith.” I studied Robert’s face. A vein pulsed in his temple. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t even close to discovering what had happened. I was getting nowhere and about to give up, to trust that Donald Morris’s lawyer could get the charges dismissed before the case against him went much further. But your actions yesterday pushed me to the logical conclusion.”

  “I see you suffered a head injury,” Robert said in what he no doubt thought a sarcastic drawl. “I can only sympathize and suggest your friends take you to your doctor.”

  “Linda told me you went home to Raleigh on Tuesday.”

  “Which I did.” His voice was calm, but his eyes twitched.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you were back here yesterday. When I spoke to Detective Ashburton earlier, he told me Paige confronted Linda yesterday evening and that Kevin finally asked the police to charge her. Only later did I realize that Paige would never have asked Linda or Kevin to publish her. Linda is not a publisher. But you, Mr. McNamara, are.”

  “What of it?”

  “You were here, in this restaurant, yesterday evening. I don’t think even Detective Ashburton realized it. He assumed you and Kevin were dining alone, am I right, Linda?”

  “I . . . I guess so. I don’t think I mentioned that Robert was with us.”

  “He didn’t ask me either,” Kevin said. “We’d just arrived for dinner when Robert came in. He apologized for his harsh words the other day and said he hoped we understood that he only wants the very best for Renalta’s last book. I told him that’s what we want too and he was welcome to join us for dinner if he promised not to bring the subject up. I suggested it was a good time to toss around some ideas for a new marketing and promotion plan for Hudson House now that Renalta . . . uh . . . can’t continue. We were enjoying our main courses when Paige arrived with all her demands and complaints. And yes, she did insist that Robert not only hire her to continue the series but publish her own book. Sight unseen, she wanted a contract.

  “The police were called and she was taken away. It thoroughly spoiled the mood so we left the restaurant soon after without bothering with coffee or dessert. Robert, you told us you were going back to your B and B, and we said good night. I asked Linda if she felt like a nightcap, but she wanted to write, so we went to our respective rooms.”

  “That’s right,” Linda said.

  “Very interesting,” I said. “I have to wonder what you said, Linda, at this dinner that made Robert decide he had to come after me.”

  “What did I say?” Linda shook her head. “I said nothing. I haven’t a clue what you’re going on about. Kevin’s right. Paige Bookman killed my mother. She’s been living on her resentment of our success for years, and everything finally came to a boil.”

  “Ambition thwarted can be a dreadful thing,” Robert said. “You’re right, Linda. I’m sure you and I can settle our differences without the help of this interfering English busybody.” He gave her a very strained smile. He hadn’t met my eyes once since this conversation began even though I was seated directly opposite him. He picked up his beer mug in a shaking hand.

  “Not Linda, but me,” Kevin said. “Before Paige arrived, we were talking about Ruth’s death. Linda said she was worried that no one would ever be brought to justice. She wondered if the West London police were up to the job. And I said maybe they’re not, but Gemma Doyle is determined to see her friend exonerated, and that means finding the killer. You went rather quiet after that, as I recall, Robert.”

  Robert shoved his chair back. “I don’t have to listen to this. So I was in West London yesterday. A lot of people were. As long as we’re being brutally honest here, I’ll confess that I was worried about Renalta’s manuscript and I came back to try to talk you into handing it over, once again. But we were interrupted by that stupid, delusional woman, and it wasn’t the best time. I did not then go out and attack anyone.”

  “Should be easy enough to check what time you arrived at your B and B,” I said.

  His eyes moved toward me, and I saw something very dark in their depths. He got to his feet. “I’ve had enough of this. Enough of her and her preposterous ideas and enough of arguing with you about the new book. My lawyers will be in touch, Miss Marke. I had a verbal contract with Renalta, and I expect you to honor it. I want that manuscript by the end of the week.” He headed for the door.

  I also stood. I stepped away from the table and called after him. “Your wife’s photographs are wonderful. I’d like to place an order for the book you made of them. She’s been taking pictures for a long time, I understand. Since the days of film.”

  Robert hesitated for a moment, and his shoulders stiffened. Then he continued walking. I followed him.

  Ryan Ashburton stepped onto the veranda. “Why don’t we continue this conversation down at the station? I’m also interested in your whereabouts after dinner last night, Mr. McNamara.”

  Robert whirled around. He stared at me. “I should have finished you off when I had the chance.”

  The tables in the restaurant would soon be set for dinner. China, cutlery, and crisp linen napkins were stacked on a small table next to the doors, along with an arrangement of wineglasses. In one swift move, Robert McNamara snatched up a crystal glass and smashed it against the edge of the table. He clutched the stem to which shards of crystal remained fastened.

  Ryan yelled a warning and reached for his gun.

  Before I could move, Robert grabbed me, whirled me around so my back was pressed against him, and held the broken glass against my exposed throat.

  Chairs overturned as everyone leapt to their feet. Jayne yelled, “Gemma!” and Linda screamed.

  “Careful there, buddy,” Grant said.

  “Put that gun away,” Robert yelled to Ryan. “Now!”

  “No need to get excited.” Ryan slipped the weapon into the holster. “I just want a little chat, that’s all. Accusations have been made against you. I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

  Ryan was the picture of calm authority. He held his arms loosely to his sides, kept his face relaxed, and allowed the visible tension to drain out of his body. But his fingers were clenched into fists, and his eyes didn’t stop moving. He glanced at me, gave me an almost imperceptible nod, and then moved on, checking out whatever was behind us.

  Robert backed up slowly, dragging me with him. His left arm was tight around my neck, and his right hand kept the broken glass pressed against my throat.

  Grant took a step forward, his hands held out of front of him. “Don’t do anything you might regret, buddy.”

  “I regret nothing. Nothing except not killing this one when I had the chance.” Robert continued walking backward. I staggered, trying to keep myself upright.

  “You won’t get very far, Robert,” Ryan said calmly. “This is the Cape, remember? Only two bridges out.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Robert said.

  Andrea, her husband Brian, and several of the staff had come to see what was going on. They clustered behind Ryan, faces white. Andrea held up a phone. “I’ve called nine-one-one.”

  “Thank you, Andrea,” Ryan said. “Please meet my colleagues at the door and ask them to wait in the lobby. The rest of you, stay inside, please.”

  I took a quick glance to my left. Recognizing that control had to be left to Ryan, Grant retreated. He held Jayne tightly. Kevin and Linda stood close together. Her eyes were round and her face white with anger. Irene had her phone in hand and snapped pictures. She was smart enough to keep the phone down, not hold it up to aim for a proper shot, which might serv
e to push Robert over the edge.

  He stopped abruptly. His knees buckled, but he quickly recovered. He’d bumped against one of the low stone walls.

  “You might be able to get off the death of Renalta,” I said in a low voice. “But you certainly won’t if you kill me in front of a restaurant full of people, some of whom are taking pictures.”

  “Shut up!” He tightened his grip on my neck. He was surprisingly strong. Madness does that to a person, or so I’ve been told.

  He bent his right knee and reached behind him with one leg to test out the height of the wall. “I’m going to pull you over. Don’t make any sudden moves.”

  His grip on me loosened as his body rose, but the broken glass remained pressed against my throat. There was no possible chance he would be able to get away. I could hear sirens rapidly approaching. The inn would be surrounded in minutes. I didn’t want to find out what he was going do when he realized that.

  I took a deep breath and forced my body to relax. I dropped my shoulders, loosened my hips, and flexed my knees. When the time came, I had to be ready to move. The wall was only about one foot high, and he was scrambling across it. “Up you come,” he said.

  We were approximately the same height, so he’d be vulnerable if I could stand on the wall above him. Half-dragged, sore knee protesting, I scaled the wall. Ryan had taken a couple of small steps toward us. He stared into my eyes.

  Robert moved before I was ready, and he pulled me down after him. I fell against him; he grunted, and the tip of broken glass came away from my throat. I let out a huge scream and threw myself forward, intending to leap over the wall and make a dash for safety.

  Instead my right knee collapsed in a blaze of pain, and I stumbled.

  Robert grabbed me before I hit the ground and hauled me tight against him. “Don’t try that again.” No trace of Southern charm now; his voice was hard and full of menace.

  Ryan stood next to the wall. “Are you all right, Gemma?”

  “She is for now,” Robert answered. “Up to you how long that lasts.”

  At this point the ground sloped gradually away to the street below. This wasn’t part of the gardens, so the area was covered in small rocks, low scruffy bushes, and wild plants. All was quiet. Too quiet. No cars moved on what was normally a busy road.

  We started down the slope. Robert’s arm didn’t ease away from my upper chest, and the glass didn’t move from my throat. He walked backward, dragging me with him, his attention fixed on Ryan. If Robert tripped on a stone or slid in a patch of loose earth and the broken glass slipped, I’d be done for.

  I heard a branch snap and then a thud, loud and very close. Robert let out a soft grunt, and his grip on me broke as he toppled to one side. I leapt forward and spun around.

  Robert McNamara lay on his side in a patch of weeds. He groaned.

  Louise Estrada stood over him, a Maglite in her hand. “I thought,” she said to me, “I told you not to get involved.” She pulled handcuffs off her belt.

  My sore knee gave way, and I dropped to the ground.

  Chapter 17

  I spent a substantial part of the evening at the police station. This time, they treated me with great courtesy, showing me to the nice interview room—the one with a picture on the wall, a box of tissues at hand, and a comfy chair that was not bolted to the floor. Officer Johnson even brought in an office chair so I could put my foot up to rest my aching knee.

  The chief of police himself sat in on the interview. I explained my reasoning calmly and laid out my points one by one.

  “What does Mr. McNamara have to say for himself?” I asked when I’d finished.

  “That he didn’t kill Ruth Smith, and if he did, he didn’t mean to,” Estrada said. “He’s called his lawyer and is now resting comfortably in a cell. We’ll talk to him again tomorrow.”

  “He might have been able to bluster his way out of your accusations,” Ryan said, “but to attack you in a public place in a room full of witnesses, not to mention a police officer, was not very smart. Not to mention tantamount to a confession.”

  “Which was, of course, what I was counting on. ‘The emotional qualities are antagonistic to clear reasoning.’”

  “Say again?” the chief said.

  Estrada groaned. “Not Sherlock Holmes, I hope.”

  “The Sign of the Four,” I said.

  The chief lumbered to his feet. He held out his hand. I accepted it with some surprise, and we shook. “Thank you, Ms. Doyle. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll call a car to take you home now.”

  “I can take her,” Ryan said.

  “We would have gotten him anyway, you know,” Estrada said, somewhat ungraciously. “Without putting lives in danger.”

  “As it was only my life, I’m sure you don’t consider that to be too steep a price to pay, Detective,” I replied.

  “Whatever,” she said. “I’ll be watching you, Gemma. Try to stay out of trouble.”

  “Trouble,” I said, “finds me.”

  * * *

  “I’m having a party?” I asked Ryan when we turned into Blue Water Place and I could see cars filling my driveway.

  “You don’t think Jayne and the rest would have gone quietly home to bed after all that, do you? Let them give you a hug and ask a question or two, and then I’ll tell them you need your rest.”

  “I’m feeling quite invigorated, truth be told,” I said. “Something about successfully escaping a brush with death can do that.”

  “You might be fine now, but you’re going to crash sooner or later. And crash hard.”

  “Probably.”

  Violet was first to greet us at the door, but Jayne, Robbie, Grant, Irene, and Donald followed closely.

  Donald swept me into his arms and hugged me with gusto. Then everyone else had a turn, and hugs were exchanged all around, although the men merely shook hands. Donald might have intended to give Ryan an enthusiastic embrace, but Ryan stepped nimbly out of the way. Greetings taken care of, I was bustled into the living room and settled onto a sofa. Jayne tucked a cushion behind me and a woolen throw around me, pressed a cup of tea into my hands, and asked if I wanted anything to eat. I said no, but she ran off anyway, calling, “Don’t say a word until I get back.”

  She reappeared with a platter of crackers and cheese.

  “Got any beer, Gemma?” Robbie asked.

  “I’ll have one too,” Irene said, and Jayne returned to the kitchen.

  I sipped my tea, enjoying the delicious warmth. Now that I was sitting down, I was suddenly totally exhausted. I closed my eyes.

  Irene asked Ryan if Robert had been formally charged with the murder of Ruth Smith, and Jayne hissed, “Shush, don’t wake her.”

  “I’m not asleep.” I struggled to open my eyes. “Just resting.” I lifted my teacup. “Cheers.”

  “I have to know one thing before we leave you in peace,” Jayne said. “What did that comment about Robert’s wife mean? It obviously meant something to him. Was she in on it?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “Far as I know, anyway.”

  Ryan said, “Irene, anything Gemma says about the evidence against Robert McNamara is off the record. You can’t be reporting it.”

  “Understood,” she said. “But I want an exclusive later.”

  “I’m not going to tell you how it felt to have a piece of broken glass pressed against my carotid artery,” I said. “Now or at any other time.”

  “Just the facts, ma’am,” she said.

  “I’m thinking I can use that image in my new art project.” Robbie held his hands in front of him as though attempting to imagine how it would look.

  “That sounds appealing. Not,” Irene said.

  “Mrs. McNamara?” Jayne prompted me.

  “The McNamara and Gibbons Press website contains brief biographies of the staff, including Robert. His bio mentions that his wife is a professional photographer. Simply out of curiosity, I followed the link to her website and found it very impressive. She
has a long list of credits with highly respectable magazines going back twenty or more years. All the way back to the days of film.”

  Donald let out a bark of laughter. “Of course.”

  “I don’t get it,” Grant said. “No one photographed Renalta’s death, or did they?”

  “Other than a handful of pictures that were given to us, no,” Ryan said.

  “Photographers today, professional and amateur, use digital cameras,” I said. “Film is almost dead, but not entirely. Many serious photographers still like to use it on occasion. I’m not an expert in photography . . .”

  “Imagine that,” Irene muttered.

  I ignored her. “. . . but some say film has distinct advantages. In an interview with a photo magazine that was posted on her website, Mrs. McNamara said she prefers to use film in some situations, particularly for shots that need a long exposure.”

  “I’ve been thinking of maybe using photographs in my art,” Robbie said. “That’s called mixed media.”

  “Get to the point, Gemma,” Jayne said.

  “The point,” I said, “is that as an important photographer of long standing, Mrs. McNamara would have learned to work in film. She would almost certainly have done most of her own developing, and it is entirely likely she still has a darkroom in her house.”

  “Elementary!” Donald said.

  “I still don’t get it,” Grant said.

  “Give her time,” Jayne said. “She needs a long introduction. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll live so long as to hear it all.”

  Ryan grinned. I’d told the police my theory at the station.

  “Potassium cyanide is used in the developing process. I believe it’s somewhat out of date these days, but some photographers still like to use it.”

  “How do you know these things, Gemma?” Irene asked.

  I considered giving them a casual wave of my hand and saying, “Doesn’t everyone?” Instead I confessed. “My father was an enthusiastic amateur. He was extremely strict about forbidding us entry to his darkroom unless he was there to supervise. The place had about as many locks as the jewelry room at the Tower of London. The first time I met Robert, he mentioned that his wife was traveling and thus not able to attend his mother’s birthday party. When I began to put the pieces together, I concluded that only in her absence would he be able to search her darkroom and remove what he needed. It’s likely that over the years, he picked up some knowledge from her.”