Moriarty Returns a Letter (13 page)

“No,” said Wembley. “It was loose—O’Shea found it on her first walkthrough—but it was still in place. Your casual observer wouldn’t have noticed. Put these on.”

Wembley gave Reggie a pair of thin vinyl gloves, and then he opened the box.

There was just one item inside: a folded piece of newspaper, cleanly cut, and not yellowed.

Wembley carefully lifted it out and handed it to Reggie.

Reggie unfolded it. It was from
The Daily Sun
. It was less than a week old. Reggie had not seen this little article himself, but he had heard of it just recently. It was from the gossip pages, and the headline read:

LAURA RANKIN TO DO IT IN REVERSE.

It was a smart-ass description of their engagement trip to Newquay, to be followed by the announcement at the family castle, before Laura would have to jet off again to another film shoot. A honeymoon-in-advance, as the paper called it. The article included an itinerary, complete with dates and destinations and the obligatory speculation on whether the prospective groom would have the stamina to make it to their destination.

It was a rude thing to publish, but it was not surprising, given that it was Lord Buxton’s paper.

“I presume the article itself is not news to you,” said Wembley.

“No, it isn’t,” said Reggie. “I happen to be aware that Laura and I are announcing our engagement at the castle. I’m even roughly aware of the itinerary, and naturally Buxton would tweak us about it in his paper, both because that’s what he does for a living and because Laura said no to him before she said yes to me.”

“Right,” said Wembley. “What I thought you’d want to know is that apparently this fisherman saw fit to clip out that article and only that article, save it in a tin box, and hide it away under the floorboards of his house.”

“Before he got stabbed to death in his kitchen.”

“Exactly,” said Wembley. “Now, I lead a quiet life, myself, Heath. Not like you. But just personally, this sort of thing would worry me.”

“So you think this dead fisherman was a celebrity stalker? Or one half of a couple of stalkers?”

Wembley shrugged. “Everyone has their fantasies, Heath. I just thought you’d want to know.”

“I appreciate it,” said Reggie. “I suppose the news media will be here shortly?”

“They’re on their way,” said Wembley.

“Do you suppose you can keep Laura’s name out of it?”

“I’ll try,” said Wembley.

“May I keep this?” said Reggie, holding the news clipping.

“What are you going to do, frame it? No, of course you can’t keep it. O’Shea will take it back to the lab, along with everything else.”

They both turned and looked toward O’Shea, who was looking back at them from the truck. She smiled and waved.

Reggie put the clipping back in the box. “You’ll let me know what she finds?”

Wembley nodded. “It might take a few days. You could be on the road. I suppose we can call your hotel if necessary.”

“Yes,” said Reggie, “given that my itinerary is public knowledge. You can try my mobile, but there might not be a signal where we’re going.”

Reggie got back in his car and drove away from Canvey Island. He was anxious to get back to London. His trip with Laura was only days away, this was not his case, and he wanted nothing to do with dead people.

10

Reggie didn’t want to have to tell Laura that a clipping of their travel itinerary had just been found in a concealed location at the scene of a murder.

And so he didn’t. Not that evening, anyway. He thought he knew what to do about the situation, but he didn’t think she’d like it, so he waited.

But in the morning, as he was sliding a perfectly grilled slice of French toast out of the skillet and onto Laura’s breakfast plate, the telly was on, and it delivered the news for him, announcing the murder on Canvey Island, and describing details in even more lurid detail than was actually visible at the scene. The telly reporter went for a contrast between the allegedly sleepy seaside town and the grisly, blood-soaked murder scene, and the fact that evidence suggested that someone at the murder scene was obsessed with a well-known, but as yet unnamed, London stage actress who was about to embark on a romantic excursion.

“Why is it always a kitchen knife?” said Laura. “You’d think we as a nation could occasionally be a little more creative than that.”

“Whatever is at hand, I suppose,” said Reggie.

“And who is this actress they’re talking about? I’d hate to be her. All those teen slasher flicks notwithstanding, what could be worse than knowing that a crazed lunatic is stalking you on your tryst?”

Laura paused even as she said that.

“Not knowing?” volunteered Reggie.

Laura looked at him.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” she said.

Reggie told her.

Laura poured syrup over a single bite of French toast.

“I really like these corner pieces,” she said to Reggie. “You get them so nice and crispy.”

She ate that crispy, syrup-soaked bite and mulled things over for a moment.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose I should be flattered that I’ve finally arrived as a celebrity. Though I would think commercial fishermen are not your typical scrapbookers.”

“Scrapbooker?”

“It’s what fans do these days.”

“I thought we referred to such people as stalkers.”

“They’re only stalkers if they pin your photo to the wall and draw a red bull’s-eye on it. Or if they jump the hedge and show up on your back porch invited.”

“Well, this is close enough,” said Reggie.

“But it’s moot, isn’t it? You said the poor man is dead.”

“Well, yes. But we don’t think he was completely alone in that house. Someone else was there, or he wouldn’t be dead now.”

“So we’re saying there was a little nest of Laura Rankin worshipers holed up in a fisherman’s little house and now one or more of them is on the loose?”

“I’m sure
worshipers
is a bit strong. But just in case you still have a living fan left, especially one obsessed with both you and kitchen knives, I want to adjust our itinerary a bit.”

“What do you mean?”

“I want to change things up. We can go to all the same spots, but different hotels than the ones published. Except for the castle, of course. I know we have to go there. And I assume it’s got fortifications.”

Laura put her fork down and stared.

“Reggie, even if you try, you won’t find alternative bookings at this late date. And anyway, you’ve told me yourself what terrible hotel luck you have. Whereas mine has always been wonderful, and none of what you’ve said gives me any reason to think this will be different.”

“But—”

“Are you sure this isn’t just an angle to get me to switch the whole thing to a sunnier clime?”

“It’s not that at all,” said Reggie.

“Well, then—I think you need to learn to just not worry. And if an obsessed whatever does turn up, I mean besides the specific paparazzi that are officially invited, there are more old shotguns in the castle than I can even count. And my aunt is trained on every single one of them.”

“Now I’m really worried.”

“There, you see? It’s all a matter of perspective, when you compare it to a real danger. And make sure my aunt gets a really good look at you when you meet her for the first time. It might even be a good idea to be wearing whatever you’ll be wearing in the evening when you try to sneak down the drafty hall from your room to mine.”

“You don’t mean that we have to stay in separate—”

“Well, once we’re in the castle, yes, of course. I told you—there are these family traditions.”

“Bloody hell,” said Reggie.

11

Reggie dropped Laura off at her home in Chelsea that morning, and then he went on to Baker Street Chambers. He headed for his office, intending to start wrapping things up before his trip.

But Lois caught him in the corridor.

“You’re going to kill me,” she said.

“Nonsense,” said Reggie. “If I were going to kill you, it would have been in the first week you were hired. You’ve been bloody well perfect since then.”

“Thank you, and I hope you’ll keep that in mind when I tell you this,” she said. “There are two things. First, I’m afraid I got some dates mixed up. I scheduled a motion for you first thing in the morning on Tuesday.”

“You don’t mean on the Tuesday that—”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. First thing in the morning on the very day after you and Laura get back.”

Lois, her cheeks turning just a little pink, reluctantly produced a rolled-up legal brief that she’d been hiding behind her back, and she gave it to Reggie. “I think it’s a simple one, though,” she said, hoping for a reprieve.

Reggie glanced at it. “It is,” he said. “Not to worry. I’ve still got an hour this afternoon, and if it requires more than that, I’ll just take it with me, and I’ll prep for it on the way back.”

Reggie opened his briefcase, stuffed the brief inside, and closed the briefcase.

“And then there’s the other thing,” said Lois.

“Yes?” said Reggie.

“I think I’d better just show you,” she said.

Lois walked across to the window that overlooked Baker Street. She looked down, grimaced at what she saw, and said, “Yes, there he is. I’m so very sorry, he caught me off guard while I was worrying about my mistake with the scheduling, and he asked if you’d be in at all this morning, and in my weakened state I answered truthfully before I could stop myself.”

Reggie joined her at the window and looked down.

Below in the street was Rafferty. He was standing next to his hatchback, which was parked illegally at the curb, and he was pacing back and forth impatiently, hands clasped behind his back.

And now he looked up.

Reggie and Lois both shrank back from the window.

“What’s he want now?” said Reggie.

“Something to do with the letters again,” said Lois. “Do you want to go out the back through the car park? I’ll say I forgot to tell you he was here.”

“Won’t work,” said Reggie. “See the way he’s pacing? He must have seen me drive in. He walks up to the corner, looks at the car park entrance to make sure I’m not on my way out, and then he goes back to his vehicle, and then he goes to the corner again. I’ll never get past him. I suppose if I timed it perfectly I could just run him over, but then there’d be a fuss.”

“I’m so very sorry,” said Lois.

“Well,” said Reggie. “Perhaps I’ll be able to just sneak by him. You can lock up after me.”

Reggie took his briefcase with him and went downstairs to the lobby. He picked another suited businessman, crouched down a bit to try to hide behind him, and then trailed behind him out onto Baker Street. Then Reggie started out at a quick pace toward the car park.

“Heath! Glad I caught you!”

Reggie stopped. “I’m leaving the city for a few days, Rafferty. As you know full well.”

“Yes, and this will be right on your way. Won’t take a moment of your time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We have to retrieve the letters.”

“What, you mean the ones we just put on display for the hotel?”

“Yes. They want us to take them back immediately.”

“Why is that?” said Reggie. “Surely the exhibit isn’t closing already?”

“I’m as annoyed with them as you are, Heath.”

“It’s not them I’m annoyed with,” said Reggie.

“Just last week they were all keen on having the letters,” said Rafferty, heatedly, “and now apparently we’re just not good enough for them after all.”

“Bloody shame,” said Reggie. “I was hoping the hotel would just keep the things.”

“I need you to help me bring them back,” said Rafferty. “As I explained before, we can’t have strangers handling them.”

Reggie assessed Rafferty’s level of stress, which seemed considerable.

“I can spare twenty minutes to help you collect them,” said Reggie, finally, checking his watch again. “But then you’ll have to drive them back yourself; I’m got some chores of my own.”

“Agreed,” said Rafferty.

Rafferty drove the hatchback and Reggie followed in his Jag.

This time they managed to park in the front without being challenged. The older doorman came out and tried to open their doors for them, and the younger one went quickly inside and came back a moment later with the hotel manager herself.

She was very happy to see them.

She said, “This is so good of you; thank you for your understanding.”

“It is your hotel after all,” said Rafferty, in a voice like that of a rejected lover. “The letters will survive without you.”

If the hotel manager had a response to that, she managed to keep it to herself. She escorted them once again through the main lobby, with considerably more urgency and purpose than when they had brought the letters in.

That didn’t bother Reggie at all.

There was a telly in the downstairs lounge adjacent to the lobby, and as the three of them went up the ramp toward the mezzanine Reggie caught a glimpse of the screen—just as the obligatory soccer match was being interrupted by a news program.

The broadcast headline was about the murder of a fisherman on Canvey Island.

As Reggie looked at the screen, so did the hotel manager, but if the news story mattered in any way to her, she did not show it.

They walked quickly along the corridor.

“Did something fall down?” said Reggie, as they reached the entrance to the letters exhibit.

“Excuse me?” said the woman.

“You’ve got the entire wall covered in the corridor, except for the spot right next to the letters exhibit. Didn’t you have some sort of document on display there before?”

“Oh,” she said. “It was damaged. A slight scratch in the glass. We’re having it repaired.”

They didn’t pause; she ushered them right along into the letters exhibit.

“You’ll ring me when you’re done, please?” said the woman.

“If you like,” said Rafferty.

Twenty minutes later, they had all the letters back down off the walls, including the one from the easel display, and nearly all of them stowed back into boxes.

The hotel manager returned.