by Vicki Delany
As someone who owns the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium, you’d think I’d be a Sherlock fanatic. I am not. I leave that to Jayne and Great Uncle Arthur.
I might not admire the decoration on the pot, but it was a proper china tea service and so would suffice. I let the tea steep for a few minutes and then poured it carefully. The rich, full scent of Darjeeling rose up to caress my nose. I breathed it in and then added a splash of milk to the golden liquid. Perhaps the hardest part of my entire job has been to teach Americans to make a proper cup of tea. I take great pride in the fact that I have succeeded, here at least.
I was enjoying my first welcome sip when Jayne dropped a plate in front of me and sat on the window bench. I selected a warm scone, sliced it open, and spread butter, clotted cream, and strawberry jam. “Good day?”
“Excellent.” She took a salmon sandwich for herself. At twenty to four every day, we have our afternoon tea (consisting of whatever’s left over) and discuss the day’s business.
“I see Fiona had another fight with her husband,” I said.
“She didn’t tell me that. How do you know?”
“Wedding ring’s off again.”
Jayne leaned out and peered into the room. Fiona was sweeping the floor. “So it is,” Jayne said. She turned back to me with a smile. “That big group’s coming tomorrow.”
“What big group?” I asked.
“I told you about them. Twenty-four ladies on a bridge group holiday, plus their guide.”
I vaguely remembered something about it. I vaguely remembered promising something . . .
“You’re helping in the kitchen.”
Oh, right. That was it. “Why am I doing that?”
“Because they’re coming at four, our usual closing time, and Fiona had committed to picking up her sister’s kids at play group at four fifteen. I’m taking Jocelyn out of the kitchen and having her serve, with my help.”
“Can’t you prepare the food ahead of time?”
“Gemma! We discussed this. I will do all the prep I can, but I have a restaurant and tea room to run the rest of the day, remember?”
“Why don’t I wait tables? That way you’ll be able to stay in the kitchen.”
“Because you’ll drop one of the three-tiered glass trays, scattering my precious baking all over the floor, or you’ll spill tea down an elderly lady’s new silk shirt. The one she bought specifically for this holiday.”
“That only happened once.”
“Twice.”
“Once each.”
She rolled her eyes. Okay, so I’m not a very good waitress. I’m not much of a cook either, but I can slap a couple of pieces of bread together to make a sandwich. Provided, that is, Jayne tells me what to put in the middle.
I popped the last piece of scone into my mouth. Then I stuck my finger in the small pot of clotted cream, scooped out the remains, and sucked cream off my finger while Jayne rolled her eyes again. “Business meeting over?” I asked.
“Not yet. I’m about to run into a problem with one of my suppliers.”
“What sort of problem?”
“Ellie McNamara’s handing her farm over to her daughter, and I’m worried about that. I get most of my berries from them. I need to find a new supplier, and fast. You know I try to source everything as locally as possible.”
“Leave it to me. I heard something the other day about a new operation out near Sandwich.”
“Thanks. Before you go, you did ask Ruby to work tomorrow afternoon, didn’t you?”
“I did.” I think.
“Then we’re all set.” Jayne leaned back in her chair, signaling that we were now moving from business-partner to friend mode. “Did you notice that dream of a guy who came in around noon?”
“No,” I said.
“Liar. What was he looking for?”
“Books. First edition, good condition. And very interested too, although he pretended not to be.”
“You don’t stock books like that.”
“No, but Uncle Arthur does sometimes come across something rare. I took his card and said I’d let him know if I found something.”
“You have contact info. Good work, Gemma.”
“It’s a business transaction.”
“That can change.”
Time to change the subject. “Do you have plans for tonight?”
“I’m going to hit the gym when I finish up here, and later Robbie and I are going to McGillivray’s Pub to hear some live music.”
I tried not to let my disapproval show. Fortunately, Jayne was finishing the last of her tea and not looking at me. Jayne was my best friend as well as my business partner, but she had the world’s worst taste in men. Every time she found a new boyfriend, I figured it couldn’t get any worse. And every time, it did. Not that her boyfriends were violent or of the criminal element. Nothing like that. But they seemed to have problems finding—and keeping—regular employment. In a thriving tourist town in season, that was a difficult thing to accomplish. Robbie was an artist, as Jayne’s boyfriends usually were. The sensitive, creative sort. The sort, Jayne always patiently explained to me, who couldn’t be lumbered with the tedious monotony of a regular job, as they had to be ready to leap into the act of creating art whenever the muse happened to strike. I might have mentioned once that Picasso was said to have remarked that inspiration comes when you are working. Jayne reminded me that Picasso hadn’t always been famous.
“What about you?” she said. “Want to come with us? We’re going to have dinner before the show.”
I got to my feet. “No thanks. I have a wild night planned in the company of Violet and a good book.” Violet is Uncle Arthur’s dog. “I better get back at it. See you tomorrow.”
“Be here at three o’clock. I need you in the kitchen, Gemma. Don’t forget.”
“As if I ever forget.”
“Did you call Ruby to remind her of the extra shift?”
“Why? Oh right.”
Jayne dug in the pocket of her apron. “Never mind. I’ll do it.”
Chapter 2
A kitchen is not my natural environment, but the following afternoon found me in the back of the tea room as ordered, ready to help out.
“It would look more appealing if you mixed the offerings up a little,” I said.
“No, Gemma, it would not.”
“We can tuck the circular sandwiches around the scones, and the square sandwiches in with these small brownies, that way you’d have consistency of shape.”
“I don’t want consistency of shape. I want sandwiches on the bottom tier, scones in the middle, and the tarts and cookies on the top. That’s the way afternoon tea has been served since time immemorial.”
“Actually, afternoon tea isn’t a long-standing tradition. It’s generally considered to have begun around 1840 when Anna, Duchess of Bedford . . .”
“Gemma, stop talking. Butter that bread. The smoked salmon spread and the chicken salad are already prepared. The cucumbers, watercress, and herbs are sliced. All you have to do is put the sandwiches together. Follow the assembly instructions I prepared, and cut them according to the design I printed out for you. When they’re ready, cover them in plastic wrap. Got it?”
“I am capable of making sandwiches.” I glanced around the busy kitchen. “Do you have a ruler?”
“What do you need a ruler for?”
“It says here that the cucumber sandwiches are to be two inches long by three quarters of an inch wide. A ruler would ensure accuracy.”
“Roughly, Gemma. Roughly is good enough.”
“Very well.” I set about cutting the crusts off the white sandwich bread slices laid out before me. Jayne began rolling out the dough for another batch of strawberry tarts. The tea room had been exceptionally busy all day, she said, meaning they’d had to serve some of the food she’d prepared for the big group due to arrive at four. At the moment, Jocelyn was washing dishes and Fiona was arranging pots of tea for a table of six who’d just come
in.
I, of course, had neglected to ask my shop assistant, Ruby, to work today. Mondays and Tuesdays were her days off. She told Jayne she couldn’t possibly come in at the last minute. So Jayne had offered her double time and a half. Jayne was not happy with me.
I was rather enjoying this making of sandwiches. Like a well-oiled machine, I went down the row buttering the crustless slices of bread (lightly), back up the row adding an ice-cream scoop of chicken salad, down the row sprinkling on pretty green herbs, back up the row putting the tops on, and finally slicing them into triangles.
“Those have got to be the neatest sandwiches I’ve ever seen,” Fiona said.
“Thank you,” I said. Next up: the smoked salmon spread, which would be rolled into pinwheel shapes.
At five minutes to four, I had assembled and sliced one hundred sandwiches, the scones were warming in the oven, and the last of the tiny lemon tarts were cooling on the counter. The dishes were washed, the pots of clotted cream and strawberry jam laid out on the tray, the huge kettles boiling.
“Got any plans for tonight, Gemma?” Jocelyn leaned against the counter, enjoying a brief moment of quiet before the tea-loving hordes descended. Jocelyn was in her midtwenties but already had three school-aged kids. She adored those children (if not her husband, a regular—or so I’ve been told—at many of our town’s drinking establishments), but she noticeably pined for her lost youth and all the fun times she thought we single women were having without her. This time, I didn’t have to make up a story about planning a wild night on the town.
“Uncle Arthur’s leaving tomorrow for who knows where, and I’d like to spend some time with him before he goes. I never know how long it will be before he comes home again. That reminds me. I said I’d treat him to dinner out. I’d better take care of that now . . .”
“Dinner in a nice restaurant,” Jocelyn said dreamily. “With an adult. How wonderful that must be.”
I took out my phone and texted my friend Andy Whitehall to make a reservation for dinner. Andy owned the Blue Water Café, one of the most popular places in town. It sat at the edge of the boardwalk and extended out over the water. The fresh seafood and traditional New England cooking were as fabulous as the view. “Now,” I said, putting the phone away again, “where were we?”
Before Jocelyn could answer, my phone beeped with an incoming text. Out it came once more.
Andy: Gemma! Not again. You have to call earlier. We’re full to the rafters tonight.
Me: Sorry. I’ll be with U. Arthur. He’s leaving town tomorrow. Pls?
Andy: This is positively, absolutely the last time. Come at seven thirty. We’ll find you a table.
Me: Thx.
Fiona’s head popped around the kitchen door. “A tour bus is coming down the street.”
Jocelyn wiggled her shoulders and straightened her uniform skirt. Jayne took off her baking apron and put on the waitress one. Earlier, she’d slipped into the washroom to replace her jeans and T-shirt with a plain black knee-length dress cut into severe lines. “Show time. Now, Gemma, you remember what you have to do?”
“Sandwiches on the bottom, scones in the middle, pastries on the top. Sir! Yes, sir!” I saluted.
She did not smile. “Keep the kettle hot and the tea flowing.”
“Good luck,” Fiona said, heading out the back exit.
At that moment, the front door opened and an explosion of laughter and excited chatter filled the tea room.
Now that the guests had arrived, I didn’t have all that much to do. The tour company had arranged for everyone to have the full afternoon tea, so there wouldn’t be any individual orders, other than the tea itself. We offered a full menu of loose-leaf teas, and I had been given the heady responsibility of ensuring that the right blend got into the correct pot.
Once everyone had been served, my duties were over. I took off my apron and returned to the Emporium to prepare for the rush of customers when the women finished their tea. A couple of people were browsing, and Ruby was ringing up purchases. I gave the shop a quick glance before slipping behind the counter to help pop items into paper bags with our store logo on them.
“I’m going to have to reorder The Beekeeper’s Apprentice,” I said to Ruby. “I see you had a rush on it. As well as four of the boxed sets of the complete canon. And that hideous Robert Downey Jr. puzzle moved at long last. Nice to see the Jeremy Brett poster was sold, and three sets of playing cards and two of that Scotland Yard game.” The game didn’t actually have anything to do with Sherlock, but we pretended it did.
“The puzzle didn’t sell,” Ruby said. “I put the mugs on top of it.”
I was horrified. “How many times have I told you, don’t do that. How am I supposed to keep inventory if things are always moving around?”
“Most people these days keep their inventory on the computer,” Ruby said.
“The computer is a functioning backup,” I admitted. “The large group about to come in are bridge players. This once only, you can rearrange the displays so the playing cards and bridge sets are front and center.”
“Got it,” Ruby said. She flicked a lock of purplish-colored hair out of her eyes. She had intended the color to be deep red—ruby—but something had gone badly wrong. She’d only been working for me for two weeks, and I wasn’t entirely comfortable with her yet. She seemed to always be watching me, more than I liked. Then again, maybe I just wasn’t comfortable with having someone else working in my bookshop. In the winter, when business was slow, I enjoyed being in the shop by myself, watching the snow fall, tending to the occasional customer, and sometimes having time to settle into the reading chair by the window with the newest Laurie R. King or Rhys Bowen and a cup of tea. But summer hours are longer, and we’re much busier, so it isn’t possible for me to do everything on my own. Finding good temporary staff can be difficult, and I’ve heard some real horror stories from my fellow shop owners. At least Ruby always showed up on time and could count change. At her interview, she’d told me her father was a huge Sherlock fan and she’d grown up with the canon. I’d tested her with a few easy questions (Where had Dr. Watson served as an army doctor? The answer—Afghanistan) and she’d passed with flying colors. I’d hired her on the spot.
The women finished their tea and poured into the Emporium. They all looked much the same: five foot four to six, either thin but not excessively so or chubby but not fat, iron-gray or dyed-blonde hair, dressed in ugly but sensible shoes, beige shorts or capris, and T-shirts adorned with some sort of flower pattern. Their jewelry was subdued and tasteful. Several of them made a big fuss of the preening Moriarty, who’d emerged from his bed under the center table to accept the praise he thought of as his due. They smiled broadly and laughed heartily at each other’s jokes. At a guess, this was one of the highlights of their trip: I couldn’t imagine they were able to maintain this level of excitement all the time. Even I had trouble keeping track of my stock the moment they hit the floor. They picked up everything, turned boxes over, put them back in the wrong place, showed their finds to their friends, exchanged items with each other.
But most of all, they bought. And oh, how they bought.
It was quite delightful.
I was wrapping up the Christopher Lee bust for a lady whose own bust could have stood on a pedestal when a woman came in off the street. She was in the same age range as the bridge players but clearly not part of this group. She was in her mid- to late sixties, about five foot two and very thin, with a prominent chin and a nose like a hawk. Her dark trousers and jumper looked to be too hot for the day, and a brown cotton scarf with tattered ends was tied loosely around her neck. Her gray hair was pulled back into an unkempt bun; her nails were chewed and the cuticles ripped. The jumper had a layer of dust on the shoulders and the right hem of the slacks was unraveling. The laces on her trainers (what Americans call “sneakers”) dragged behind her. But for some reason, I didn’t think she was a street person. Just a woman who was too tired to go through the
motions anymore. Perhaps she’d been on a long, difficult journey or had suffered an emotional trauma.
She carried no handbag, only a generic white plastic bag with little in it.
“That high tea was great,” the customer with the grand bust said to me. “I’ll be telling all my friends about this place.”
“What high tea?” I said. “Oh, you mean afternoon tea. You really shouldn’t get those mixed up. High tea, sometimes just called tea, is what the working man calls his dinner, and afternoon tea is what you had.”
She took her bag of purchases and whispered something to a friend that I didn’t catch. I waved good-bye to Christopher Lee. Now that he was leaving, I might miss him.
Like many of the buildings on Baker Street, this one had started life as a home. Later, most of the interior walls on the main floor had been removed to make one big room. A set of steep stairs at the back leads to the second level, which contains my small office, an excessively crowded storage area, and an overflow storage room that also serves as the staff restroom. A sliding glass door has been cut in the east wall, leading directly into the tea room at 220 Baker Street.
The shop space is crammed full with bookshelves, display racks, and tables. A comfortable reading nook nestles by the front windows, with its cracked and worn brown leather wingback chair, a small pie-crust table, and a good lamp.
With the twenty-four women on the tour, their guide in her neat blue uniform shorts and matching T-shirt, and assorted other customers, I lost sight of the small woman almost immediately.
Ruby took the floor, walking through the crowd and asking if anyone needed help, while I staffed the cash register. The sets of playing cards ranged from reproductions of the original Strand illustrations to Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock and, as expected, we sold a lot of them. The Holmes and gaslight bookshelves were thoroughly picked over, the salt and pepper shakers decimated, the bone china thimbles gone. Only one of the women didn’t seem to be having a marvelous time. She kept to herself, idly flipping through the books. Eventually, she selected a copy of How to Think like Sherlock by Daniel Smith and handed me her credit card. Her face was pinched, and I suspected her shoes were too tight.
