Elementary, She Read: A Sherlock Holmes Bookshop Mystery
Page 3
Jayne had left Jocelyn to finish cleaning up the tea room and came in to give us a hand. “Do you have any more of volume two of The Complete Sherlock Holmes? I don’t see it with the others and a customer wants to get both volumes.”
“There are none upstairs,” I said. “I saw one on the shelf when I came in from helping you with the tea. Ask Ruby if she moved it. She tends to do that.”
“Where is Ruby? I don’t see her around.”
“Probably on what she thinks of as her break. What I call ‘hiding out at the busiest time.’”
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it, Gemma? She did come in on her day off.”
“For double time and a half. But I take your point. The perfect employee is unlikely to exist.”
“Not in retail,” Jayne said.
A woman placed a DVD of Game of Shadows on the counter. Jayne busted off to search for Volume II, and I asked the customer, “Have you seen this? A different interpretation of Sherlock, to be sure.”
“I have seen it, and I didn’t like it. It’s a gift for my daughter who loves Robert Downey Jr.”
Over the heads of the eager shoppers, I caught sight of Donald Morris, one of my regular customers. He pushed his way toward the counter, not looking at all happy. It took a lot to get Donald to discard his habitual houndstooth-check wool cape and deerstalker hat, but today he was dressed almost like a normal person. His black T-shirt proclaimed, “The Game’s Afoot,” and a gold-framed pin showing a silhouette of the Great Detective with his pipe was fastened to his chest. Donald was the president of the West London chapter of the Baker Street Irregulars. At the moment, Donald was the only member of that branch of the illustrious organization, as his dictatorial attitude and strict attention to the minutiae of the canon tended to discourage those with a more casual interest.
“You’re busy today, Gemma,” he said.
“Bus tour,” I replied.
He sniffed in disapproval. “Has anything of interest come to your attention lately?”
“Donald, you know I’d contact you if it had.” Donald had no interest in playing cards or teapots, but he was always on the lookout for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle books or the magazines in which the stories had originally appeared.
He glanced to one side and then to the other. A few of the contented shoppers were beginning to drift away. Jayne had located Volume II on a side table, and the customer left, happy with her purchase. Ruby had reappeared, and I made a mental note to talk to her about leaving the shop floor without permission.
At the moment, no one was in hearing range or paying us any attention. Donald leaned over the counter and dropped his voice. “Word’s getting around that a particularly important edition of a Strand Magazine original is about to be released onto the market.”
“Important in what way?” I asked.
“Signed by Sir Arthur.”
“That would be worth locating.” Original copies of the Strand Magazine in which the Holmes stories first appeared weren’t rare, and for that reason, they weren’t valuable. Not unless something, such as a signature or notation by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, distinguished one from the rest. If that was the case, neither Donald nor I were likely to be able to afford it. I didn’t mind—I wasn’t a collector—but it would eat Donald alive to know that if a rare magazine did manage to come in range of his grasp, he didn’t have the funds to buy it.
“Rumor has it a private collection of some significance is in the process of being disbursed. If you or Arthur hear something, Gemma,” he said, tapping the side of his nose, “I’d appreciate a heads-up.”
“Sure,” I said. I didn’t buy collectors’ editions or sell them, but Uncle Arthur kept his ear to the ground, and he’d once or twice found a reasonably priced item for Donald.
“Ladies! Ladies!” The tour group leader clapped her hands and shouted to be heard above the chatter. “The bus is leaving in fifteen minutes. Please finish your purchases and make your way to the parking lot.”
The rush to the checkout counter was on, and I didn’t see Donald leave, nor did I see the small woman again.
“Wow!” Ruby said a few minutes later as we surveyed the decimated shop. “That was one bunch of determined shoppers.”
“And eaters,” Jayne said. “There wasn’t so much as a crumb left for the resident mice.” She rubbed Moriarty’s head. “Not that we have any mice, do we, old fellow?”
Moriarty purred. I tentatively extended my own hand in a gesture of friendship. He narrowed his piercing amber eyes and hissed. I hastily withdrew my hand. I never learn.
“A good day, Gemma,” Jayne said. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’m off home.”
“See you tomorrow.”
She gave us a wiggle of her fingers and left.
“Let’s try to get this stuff straightened up,” I said to Ruby. “Some people have no respect for the proper placement of goods. I see we sold the entire collection of Jeremy Brett DVDs. Excellent. I’ll order more tomorrow.”
“Everyone says he was the best Sherlock,” Ruby said, heading for the center table to attempt to restore some sort of order to the display.
I glanced around the shop, trying to make sense out of the chaos. As well as the Brett DVDs, I’d need to order more of Mr. Holmes, starring Ian McKellen, the playing card sets, thimbles, The Mind Palace coloring book, some of the Laurie R. King books, and Echoes of Sherlock Holmes, a recently published pastiche anthology.
As usual, customers had picked up books to read the inside cover or the first page and, finding it not to their liking, retuned them to the shelves in the incorrect place so that many were now out of alphabetical order. That would never do. Shaking my head, I set about organizing them. A book with fading red leather binding had been shoved in the middle of the bottom shelf. I could tell instantly it didn’t belong there. That sort of leather binding should be with the historic books and magazines, not the current ones. I pulled it out. It had been slipped into a clear plastic wrapping. The binding was Morocco leather, adorned with gilt flourishes. A Study in Scarlet was embossed in ornate gold cursive on the cover. Judging by the thickness, it was probably not a book but a bound magazine. A common practice for preserving magazines of value—financial or otherwise—early in the twentieth century. It was old but at first glance seemed to be in good condition, with no obvious stains, discolorations, or tears. It certainly didn’t belong to me. I pulled it out of the wrapping and flipped it open. A cold sweat ran down the back of my neck.
Beeton’s Christmas Annual. 1887. The illustration on the original cover was of a man rising from a desk chair to switch on a lamp. The large headline read, “A Study in Scarlet.” Smaller print said, “by A. Conan Doyle.”
I was so shocked, I might have yelped.
Ruby came over to see what I was holding. “What’s up?”
“I . . .” I leapt out of my skin as the door flew open.
“Sorry,” Jayne said, “I forgot my . . . Are you okay, Gemma? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I . . .”
“What have you got there?” Jayne said. “Did someone dare to file the second editions in with the modern books?” She plucked Beeton’s Christmas Annual out of my hand. “Wow, this one is really old. It cost one shilling. I wonder how much that was.”
“Ruby,” I said, “lock the door.”
“But it’s only quarter to six.”
“We’re closing early today.”
“You’re the boss.” She crossed the room, flipped the sign on the door, and turned the lock.
“You can take the rest of the day off,” I said.
“Fifteen whole minutes? Thanks, but I can stay longer. Won’t even charge you for my time.” She leaned close to Jayne, attempting to get a good look at what she was holding.
I snatched the magazine back and snapped it shut. “Good night, Ruby.”
She looked for a moment as though she might argue. But instead she said, “Okay, okay. I’m leaving. Night, Jayne.”
“Check the door’s locked,” I said.
“Gemma, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“After you check the door.”
“Okay, okay.” She dashed off and was back a couple of seconds later. “All present and accounted for. My lady’s castle is secured for the night.”
“This isn’t ours,” I said, showing her the bound magazine.
“Are you sure? Sorry, foolish question. What do you suppose it’s doing here?”
“That is the question.” I opened it, slowly this time. “This looks like an original. The magazine, I mean. The leather binding would have been added later. If it is, and if it’s in as good condition in the inside as appears from the cover, it might be quite valuable. A Study in Scarlet is the first Holmes story published, and it was first published in Beeton’s Christmas Annual in December of 1887.”
“Didn’t you once tell me these magazines were so common they aren’t of any monetary value?”
“This one is different.”
“How valuable is it?”
“If it’s intact and in good condition, it might be exceedingly valuable. Virtually priceless.”
“Can you take a guess?”
“I never guess.” I hurried to the computer. Jayne followed. I quickly found what I was looking for. “This is the most expensive magazine in the world. Only thirty-one copies are known to exist and many of them don’t even have the front cover. In 2010, a copy signed by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was offered for auction by Sotheby’s London at four hundred thousand pounds. The highest price offered was two hundred and forty thousand, so it went unsold.”
“How much is four hundred thousand pounds?”
As was my habit, I’d checked the business news over my breakfast. I calculated. “At the exchange rate as of this morning, that amounts to approximately six hundred twenty-eight thousand and forty-six dollars.”
“Approximately,” Jayne said.
“The rate of exchange varies throughout the day,” I pointed out.
“For a magazine?”
“It didn’t get that price,” I said. “I’ll investigate further to see if it sold at a later time, and for how much. In 2007, however, a copy that was not in excellent condition, having some minor repairs, sold for one hundred and fifty-six thousand dollars.”
“Do you think this one is also signed?” Jayne said.
I’d placed the bound magazine on the counter while typing at the computer. We leaned over it. Moriarty jumped up and studied it also. I was prepared to put him on the floor, but he made no move to touch the precious object. “I don’t dare turn the pages to find out,” I said. “Judging by the thickness, it might be fully intact. Even having all the original pages of advertising will increase the value, although the Holmes story itself is the most important thing. We can see that it has the original cover, and it seems to be in good condition. A signature or some sort of writing by Conan Doyle would up the price considerably. We need to take this to a rare book dealer.”
“Aren’t you a rare book dealer?” Jayne asked.
“Not in the least,” I said. “We carry what’s generally available on the market. Second and later editions, reprints, occasionally some damaged firsts. I’ve never seen anything remotely of this quality. Or potential price.”
“How did it come to be here?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” I said again.
I opened a drawer and pulled out a magnifying glass. I bent over the magazine and studied it in closer detail. As far as I could see, the paper didn’t have a single flaw apart from natural aging. My quick reading of the web page that discussed sales of the magazine mentioned that even copies with missing or torn pages were worth a small fortune.
“What are we going to do?” Jayne asked.
“First, we’re going to move it. It’s far too valuable to leave lying around. The bank will be closed by now, so I’ll put it in Uncle Arthur’s safe overnight.” I closed the binding and slipped the magazine back into its plastic wrapping.
“Arthur has a safe?”
“It came with the house. Next, we have to locate the owner. I find it impossible to believe she left it here by accident.”
“Why do you say ‘she’?”
I remembered the woman who’d come in while the bus group was here. She’d been carrying a plain white plastic bag, the type you get at any store to carry your purchases home. The object the bag contained had been about the size and weight of this magazine. She’d been swallowed by the crowd, and I had not seen her browsing, nor had I noticed her leave. Had she come here wanting to sell me the magazine and changed her mind for some reason? Perhaps she hadn’t expected the shop to be so crowded and us to be so busy. In that case, why on earth would she leave the magazine behind and not just come back another time?
“I believe I saw her,” I said.
“Do you know her?”
“Never seen her before.”
“Then how can we possibly find her?”
I closed my eyes and mentally pulled up the scene. The woman, badly dressed, appearing down on her luck, not smiling, eyes darting around the room. I focused on the bag in her hand. It was made of thin opaque plastic, with no decoration or store logo printed on it. The contents, the magazine with the red binding, were a faint outline. But something else had been in the bag. A piece of paper of some sort, either small or folded over.
“Search for a bag,” I said. “An ordinary store bag. White plastic. She took the magazine out of the bag it was in and slipped it onto the book rack in an attempt to conceal it. She might not have bothered to take the almost-empty bag away with her.”
It didn’t take us long to find what we were looking for. The bag had been shoved into the small trash container next to the sales counter.
While Jayne peered over my shoulder, I reached into the bag and pulled out a postcard. It showed a view of boats in West London Harbor, bobbing happily on the water on a sunny summer’s day. I flipped the card over. Nothing was written on it, but it had been stamped “West London Hotel” with a phone number and address. I knew the place. Not one of the finer tourist accommodations in the area, but clean and inexpensive.
“I suggest,” I said, “we pay a visit to the West London Hotel.”
“Elementary, my dear Gemma,” Jayne said.
“Sherlock Holmes never said that,” I replied.
“Perhaps not, but Jayne Wilson did.”
Chapter 3
Great Uncle Arthur is a wandering soul. He loves ships and the sea and all the places they take him to. He’d been desperate to join the Royal Navy during World War II, but to his intense disappointment, the war ended before he’d been old enough to enlist. He joined up as soon as he could and had a long and honorable career, eventually becoming captain of one of HRH’s battleships. Arthur was my father’s uncle, and although he rarely visited us over all the years I was growing up, I received a steady stream of postcards with colorful stamps from exotic and exciting places.
Arthur’s passions in life were the sea and Sherlock Holmes. He was, so he maintained (although my father had his doubts), a distant cousin of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle himself. When he retired from the navy, he bought himself a sailboat and spent years wandering from one port to another. Eventually, in 2008, he found himself in West London, Massachusetts, looking at a “For Sale” sign blowing in near-hurricane winds next to a pretty little yellow two-story building at 222 Baker Street. He bought the building as well as a house by the harbor to live in and opened the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop. Great Uncle Arthur is a wonderful sailor, but not much of a businessman; 2008 wasn’t a good year for independent bookstores, so the business didn’t do very well. But he’d never married and had no children; he had his navy pension and life savi
ngs to provide a comfortable income. He’d been content for three years, spending as much time on his sloop, the Irregular, as at the shop. Then the wanderlust returned, and it returned with a vengeance. Uncle Arthur decided it was time to sell the store and move on, but he couldn’t find a buyer.
At the time, I was living in London, where my husband and I owned a mystery bookstore near Trafalgar Square. People tell me I’m highly observant, but I wasn’t observant enough to notice that my husband was having an affair with one of the part-time sales clerks—willful blindness perhaps. Until the day the other part-time clerk took me aside and told me I was being made a fool of.
My husband got the store and the clerk (good luck to her, and good riddance to him) and I got the value of my share of the business as well as half of our house. And a row house in central London isn’t inexpensive. Uncle Arthur suggested I come to America to get a fresh start, and I jumped at the chance. I bought half the bookstore, keeping him as a silent partner. I meant to run it as a bookstore, the way Arthur intended, but I soon came to realize that books about Sherlock Holmes weren’t enough to keep the store profitable. I changed the name to the Sherlock Holmes Bookshop and Emporium and started stocking Holmes-related knickknacks and collectables as well as books and magazines. I bought half of Uncle Arthur’s house, too, and he kept rooms to use whenever he happened to be passing through. He’s almost ninety now, and although his steps are getting slower and his hearing is fading, he can still be counted on to wake up one morning and decide he’s off to Africa for a couple of months.
“Not a word to Uncle Arthur,” I said to Jayne as we walked toward the harbor and my house. I’d put the magazine into an Emporium tote bag and clutched it firmly.
“Why not? He might be able to help.” Jayne had lived in West London all of her life except for the years in which she’d owned a bakery in Boston. But she’d missed her beloved Cape Cod—waking up every morning to a view of the sea—and she’d missed living in a small town. She came home a year ago, just as the drugstore at 220 Baker Street was closing. It had been Arthur who’d introduced the two of us as well as the idea of Mrs. Hudson’s Tea Room. Fortunately, the two buildings shared a wall, and it was an easy job to break through.