Collectors, Cats & Murder Page 7

  Beatrix clapped her hands to her chest. “Oh, Peter, that’s so kind. It would mean the world to me and to Teddy. He plans to sit in on Gilbert’s session at the festival but was looking forward to hearing this one too. So now I just need someone to fetch him.”

  Peter looked across the table at Gavin. “Mate, can you help us out here? Would you mind running to Chipping Camden tomorrow before the book club meeting? To pick up Beatrix’s fellow bookshop owner?”

  “Not a bit. You know, if he’s the owner of Bluebird Books, I think I’ve met him. On the heavy side with a cane?”

  Beatrix beamed. “Yes, that’s him. Delightful, isn’t he?”

  “Oh yes. We had quite a chat about books on Churchill, and he recommended I read the Michael Dobbs trilogy—the fictionalized account of Churchill’s life. Loved those books.”

  The plan had come together in minutes, as things so often did when this group of friends got together.

  Lunch was never a long affair midweek because folks like Beatrix and Peter had to get back to their businesses, but it gave us all an opportunity to catch up. Often, Gavin and Libby threw a spur-of-the-moment cocktail party at the inn when they felt they had a congenial group of guests, so that was another way we stayed connected. It was at one of those affairs I’d met Dave.

  As we strolled back to Schoolhouse Cottage, as the locals referred to my home, Dave and I reminisced about our chance meeting. I’d found him attractive but thought he was interested in Wendy. Dickens had known from the get-go it was me Dave was attracted to. Strange how perceptive my canine companion was, and Dave had proved him right when he asked me to dinner. It was the first date I’d had since Henry had died eighteen months prior, and I wasn’t convinced it was a date at all, but when he asked me out a second time, I had to admit it was.

  Dave ticked off the things we had in common. “Think about it. We’re both writers. We love to read and gravitate to mysteries first. You enjoy learning about authors, and I write about them. We’re both pretty active—me with my gym membership, you with yoga and cycling. And, we’re both a bit introverted, not shy necessarily, but we enjoy our quiet time.”

  I smiled up at him. “And yet, we could have had all those things in common and not hit it off. Funny how things work out.”

  Dickens barked. “Coulda told ya!”

  At home, I gave Christie a dab of food and offered to make tea, a habit I’d picked up from my British friends, but Dave declined. “The rest of the day is free, right?” he asked.

  “Yes. Did you have something in mind? Would you like to visit Bourton or Stow?”

  “No, I was thinking more in terms of a nap—a leisurely nap.” A man after my own heart.

  I bolted upright when I heard the bell. What time is it? What is that? When I got my wits about me, I realized it was my neighbor Timmy ringing the bell that hung beside my front door. It was the original schoolhouse bell with a rope pull. Little Timmy liked nothing better than to climb on the stone bench beneath the bell and tug on the rope.

  I scrambled from the bed and ran downstairs to stop him before he disturbed all the neighbors. Dickens dashed out when I opened the door, and he and Timmy rolled on the grass. “Dickens, where’s your ball? Let’s play fetch.”

  “I hope you didn’t want to see Christie, Timmy. You know she won’t come out for hours now that you’ve rung the bell.”

  “Nope, I came to see Dickens. Christie’s not much for playing ball.”

  I yawned and told him to meet me in the garden, and I’d bring some balls. Not my preferred way to come out of a sound sleep, but I enjoyed my young neighbor. I dug a few balls from the basket in the mudroom and tossed them outside. Leaving the two companions playing, I started a pot of tea and sat at the kitchen table. I knew Deborah Watson would soon appear at my door to check on her son and share a cup with me.

  Grinning, Deborah let herself in. “Uh-oh. You have sleepy eyes. Did Timmy wake you from a nap? Sorry.”

  “No worries. It was time I got up. Grab a cup and we’ll sit out back and watch the fun.” We chatted about Timmy’s school, Deborah’s volunteer activities, and her husband John’s dental practice. The family was constantly on the go.

  It wasn’t long before Dave joined us outside. He yawned and mumbled something about waking the dead before greeting Timmy. “Can I play too?”

  They played keep-away with Dickens before relenting and letting him catch the ball. Timmy wandered to the goat willow and read the plaque on the stone. “In memory of Henry Parker. Who’s Henry Parker?”

  Dave knelt beside Timmy and explained. “Henry was Leta’s husband. He died before she moved here with Dickens and Christie, and this stone helps her remember the happy times they had together.” I had wondered whether Dave would feel uncomfortable about the marker in the garden, but he had taken it in stride and commented about how thoughtful Ellie was.

  Timmy studied Dave, and then looked back toward his mother. Deborah nodded and added. “Timmy, do you remember we went to the funeral for Nicholas last year? Like Leta’s husband, he died in an accident.” Nicholas, the previous Earl of Stow, had perished when his car ran off the road. Timmy nodded and seemed unfazed, which I supposed was a good thing. Dickens ran up with a ball and playtime resumed.

  When my neighbors said goodbye, I took the leftover pastitsio from the refrigerator and stuck my head in the sitting room where Dave was stoking the fire. “Is it too early for a glass of wine?”

  “Not at all. How ’bout I put some music on and we put our feet up. Any chance we’ll see Christie before tomorrow?”

  I raised my hands in the who-knows gesture. “She may come out after dinner, but no guarantees.” I returned to the kitchen where I prepared a plate of grapes, hummus, and pita chips, and I smiled as Billy Joel’s “Shades of Grey” played in the background. It was a song about being mature enough to realize that not everything in life is black and white.

  Dave wandered into the kitchen to see if he could help. “That Billy Joel album is one of my favorites,” he said. “Have you ever seen him in concert?”

  “No. I wish I could. I’ve seen Paul McCartney twice, and that was a treat.”

  “Well, Billy Joel plays pretty regularly at Madison Square Garden. Let’s say we try to see him there soon.”

  I beamed. “I would love that!” Dave uncorked a bottle of red wine and filled two glasses.We carried the wine and hors d’oeuvres to the sitting room and made ourselves comfortable. When I heard a Van Morrison tune come on, I was confused. “Aren’t we listening to CDs?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I don’t have a Van Morrison CD.”

  With a grin, Dave turned to me. “You do now. I thought my brown-eyed girl needed one.”

  It was my turn to grin as I thanked him. “So, the evening is complete. Good food, good music, and good wine. What more could we ask for?”

  “A good woman? I’m pretty sure I’ve found one.”

  I slugged him. “Only pretty sure? Ye of little faith.”

  How is it I’ve found a man who’s so easy to be with? “Moondance” was the next song, and the lyrics echoed my thoughts. It is a marvelous night.

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday evening was crisp and cool, and Dave and I decided to walk to the Book Nook. Turning right out of the driveway, we strolled up Schoolhouse Lane past the gates to Astonbury Manor, and I commented we’d get to see Ellie tonight.

  I noted the parking spaces on the High Street were filled—all the way down to the Village Green and the lot in front of the Village Hall. We had a big crowd tonight. Trixie, Beatrix’s niece, greeted us when we entered the bookshop. “Good evening. Can you believe how many people are here tonight? Good thing Aunt Beatrix brought in extra chairs.”

  I waved at Belle, seated with Ellie in the front row. They pointed to the three empty seats beside them, and I took that to mean they’d saved two for me and Dave. Wendy must be parking the car. I spied Gavin speaking with a portly blonde man who sported a bow ti
e and Harris tweed vest—or waistcoat, as the Brits called it. He was on the short side, perhaps 5’ 7”, with a blonde mustache and long sideburns. This had to be Gilbert Ward, our guest speaker. Dave had told me Gilbert spoke like someone out of the pages of an Agatha Christie novel, and his attire seemed a nod to that affectation.

  Gilbert motioned to Dave so we made our way through the crowd. “Hello, Gilbert. Let me introduce Leta Parker, my . . . my girlfriend.” I could tell he found the word awkward. I felt the same way about boyfriend. They seem such odd terms for couples our age. I never imagined I’d have a boyfriend in my 50s.

  Gavin smoothed the awkward moment. “And quite a girl she is. Leta is our resident American, a Greek cook, and on occasion, a regular Nancy Drew.”

  Gilbert looked amused. “You don’t say? Then I imagine you quite enjoyed The Sherlockian, with an amateur detective as the main character.”

  I glanced at Dave, hoping this joking reference to my sleuthing wouldn’t put a damper on our evening. I answered Gilbert truthfully. “I was much more intrigued by the tale that came to life in the fictional diary—Doyle’s friendship with Bram Stoker, the fact he wrote a story that Stoker produced as a play—all of that is fascinating. Will you be shedding light on the facts behind the fiction?”

  “To the extent that’s possible, young lady. You know the missing diary has never been found, which means I can only piece together disparate facts to arrive at a probable explanation.”

  As I was chuckling at Gilbert’s manner, someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Beatrix, accompanied by an elderly gentleman whom I assumed must be the owner of the Chipping Camden bookshop. “May we interrupt, Leta? I’d like to introduce you all to my friend Teddy Byrd.”

  She made the introductions and thanked Gavin for delivering Teddy safely to her door. Teddy must have been an imposing figure in his prime. Even stooped over his cane, he was taller than Dave and Gavin, and he dwarfed Gilbert. With his bald pate, surrounded by fuzzy white hair, his wire-rimmed spectacles, and his rotund figure, he could have been a character from an Agatha Christie novel—I could imagine him as the vicar of Miss Marple’s church in St. Mary Mead.

  What ensued was a lively conversation among Gilbert, Teddy, and Dave about Doyle, Stoker, J.M. Barrie, and Robert Louis Stevenson. Gavin and I exchanged glances and smiled. It was like being a fly on the wall at a gathering of Victorian and Edwardian literary scholars. Tonight’s book discussion coupled with Gilbert’s presentation promised to be entertaining.

  Beatrix quieted the guests and told us to take our seats, so I grabbed glasses of wine for Dave and me and sat next to Wendy. Beatrix started with facts about author Graham Moore. We all found it amazing he’d been only twenty-eight when he published this debut novel in 2010. Beatrix further surprised us with the fact that Moore had also written the screenplay for The Imitation Game, the 2014 movie about Alan Turing, the genius behind cracking the German’s Engima code during WWII, and that he’d won an Academy Award for that effort.

  As for the book, Sherlock Holmes lovers would enjoy it for its nod to real-life Sherlock scholars and societies, and Anglophiles were sure to get a kick from the many well-known authors, actors, and playwrights it featured. I appreciated it for both reasons. While I’d learned of the friendship between J.M. Barrie and Arthur Conan Doyle when Dave had written his article on Barrie’s lost manuscript, I’d been unaware of Doyle’s friendship with Bram Stoker. I was eager to hear what Gilbert would add to that part of the story.

  He kicked off with questions for the audience. “Who’s read any of the original Sherlock Holmes stories?”

  Several of us raised our hands, and a few said we’d mostly watched the old black and white Basil Rathbone movies followed by the movies with Robert Downey, Jr. and the BBC Benedict Cumberbatch series.

  Ellie interjected, “I adored The House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz, and you know he wrote Foyle’s War, right? I adored that series too.”

  Gilbert was enjoying the audience’s obvious love of the subject. “How about Bram Stoker’s Dracula? How many of you have read it?”

  I was interested to see I wasn’t alone in only having seen the movies. I’d never read the book but recalled watching the black and white Bela Lugosi versions with my father on lazy weekend afternoons. As an adult, I’d enjoyed the version with Gary Oldman and Winona Ryder and, of course, the campy Love at First Bite with George Hamilton.

  “It’s not unusual for readers to be surprised Stoker wrote twelve novels, Dracula being the fifth. Fact: He was close friends with Doyle. Fact: He attended Doyle’s second wedding in 1907. Fact: He produced a play based on a Doyle short story. Fiction: He helped Doyle solve the mystery of the letter bombing. Fact: Doyle did receive a letter bomb, just not in 1900.”

  Gilbert was an engaging speaker, and he had the full attention of the audience. I found the Q&A as fascinating as the book. One attendee asked about Doyle’s trips to the States and American authors he might have met while there. Another questioned why Oscar Wilde didn’t figure more prominently in the story.

  Gilbert prefaced his answers with a caveat. “I’m an avid Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes fan, but I am by no means an expert. I can tell you he made a trip from New York to Boston especially to meet Oliver Wendell Holmes, but unfortunately, Holmes died shortly before he arrived. As for Oscar Wilde, the two knew each other well and respected each other’s writing. We’d have to ask Graham Moore why Wilde doesn’t have a larger part in his tale.”

  He ended his presentation with a reminder that he was speaking at the Chipping Camden Literary Festival Saturday afternoon and that his friend Dave Prentiss was leading a session Friday.

  After a robust round of applause, the audience descended on the table displaying Sherlock Holmes books, calendars, and notecards in addition to Conan Doyle biographies. A line quickly formed at the checkout counter.

  Teddy remained in his seat and waved Dave, Gilbert, and me over. “Gentleman, let me extend an invitation to you both, and to you too, young lady, I believe you’d enjoy viewing the collection of literary memorabilia I have in my library. It’s somewhat eclectic, but it does include letters and newspaper articles written by Doyle, Barrie, Wodehouse, and others. I’m especially proud of the humorous Barrie article about the personality of his typewriter. Would early afternoon tomorrow work, or perhaps mid-morning Saturday?”

  I could tell Gilbert and Dave were intrigued, but when they compared schedules, a joint visit didn’t seem to be in the cards. Gilbert liked Friday, but Dave wanted plenty of prep time before his presentation that afternoon. He preferred Saturday, but Gilbert had the same issue about reviewing his notes for his two pm Sherlock presentation. The only pressing engagement I had beyond the two presentations was a Saturday afternoon massage appointment in the hotel spa.

  I looked at them. “Teddy, would it be too inconvenient for you if Gilbert came on Friday and Dave and I made it Saturday morning?”

  Teddy smiled. “It would be a terrible imposition for me to have to brag on my collection more than once, but if I must, I must. Actually, it will be three times in two days, as Beatrix will be joining me for dinner Friday evening. She’s seen my collection many times, and it’s a game for her to pick out the recent additions. Consider it done—Gilbert on Friday and Leta and Dave Saturday.”

  Peter had arrived to pick up Teddy and Belle, so we told Gilbert we’d meet him at the Ploughman and left him to chat with other members of the audience. At my cottage, we let Dickens out. He made a quick trip to the garden and barked. “A walk? Are we taking a walk?”

  Dave glanced at me. “Let’s take him with us.”

  Dickens thought that was a grand idea and clambered in when I opened the rear door. The parking lot of the pub was surprisingly full for a Thursday evening, and Barb had her hands full inside. “What on earth?” she said as she greeted us. “Where did this crowd come from?”

  I surveyed the tables. “Looks like spillover from the Book Nook. Who knew book lov
ers could be so thirsty? Hope you have a table for three. We’re expecting one more.”

  Barb found us a table in a corner and took our drink orders while Dickens squirmed beneath the table. When we saw Gilbert in the doorway, Dave stood and waved. Several people greeted Gilbert as he made his way through the crowded room. He’d added a pipe to his ensemble since we’d seen him at the bookshop. I saw it as another affectation, since smoking of any kind wasn’t allowed in the pub.

  “Goodness, this is quite the reception. It’s not often I enter a room where I’m this well-known. And who’s this?”

  Dickens stuck his head out for a pat. “I’m Dickens, and I’m pretty well known too.”

  Barb arrived with three glasses, a pitcher, and three shot glasses filled with an amber liquid. “Astonbury Ale and shots of Cotswolds Single Malt, compliments of that large table across the room.” Gilbert grinned and waved an acknowledgment in their direction.

  “Okay, Barb,” I said, “I’m not a whiskey drinker, and I had no idea there was a Cotswolds brand. Where does this come from?”

  “You’ve at least got to sip it, Leta. It’s from the Cotswolds Distillery in Shipston-on-Stour. The distillery tour could make for a nice day trip for you and Dave.”

  “A sip is all it will be. I might have a mixed drink from time to time—but shots? Not happening!”

  Barb shook her head. “Right, then, how ’bout food? Is food happening tonight?”

  We ordered several appetizers before Dave and Gilbert dove into a discussion of Doyle, Barrie, and Bram Stoker. Gilbert wondered whether Barrie and Stoker had known each other well. He’d not run across references to a friendship between them, but as Doyle was friends with both men, it was likely their paths had crossed.

  As Gilbert packed his pipe with tobacco, Dave pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket. “I’ll have to see what I can find in Edinburgh in the Barrie collection. I’ve never seen anything on it either. Teddy may have an idea, though he strikes me more as a collector than a scholar. Still, you can pick up lots of information from memorabilia.”