I drove over. His Prius was parked on the edge of the lot, near the trees where his body had been found. He’d been beaten and robbed. There was no wallet or watch. Nor any car keys.
A lab team was on the scene when I got there. “He’s been dead between eighteen and twenty-four hours,” the medic said. “Skull fractured. Multiple blows.”
A path cut through the area from the parking lot to the street. The body lay off to one side of the path, and wouldn’t have been visible to anyone walking casually through. It had been found by one of the attendants doing a cleanup. He was lying face down. The back of his skull had been caved in, and the murder weapon, a broken branch, lay beside him.
It looked as if he’d been ambushed and forced off the lot. Then they’d killed him, taken his keys, driven to his house and robbed the place.
“Pretty cold-blooded,” said one of the officers. I’d seen it before.
A book lay on the front seat. It was A Study in Scarlet. “The car was locked,” said one of the officers. “We had OnStar open it.”
The lab team had already dusted the interior and the book for fingerprints. When they’d finished with the book, I opened it. The title page had been signed: for Henry, with best wishes, Christopher McBride
It was dated Friday night.
They’d found two sets of prints. One was Cable’s. The other, on the book, would turn out to be McBride’s.
But there was a surprise. “There’s blood in the trunk, Inspector,” said one of the techs.
“The victim’s?”
“Still checking. There’s just a trace. But it’s there.”
It was Cable’s.
So he was murdered somewhere else. I was looking at the Study in Scarlet inscription. It was easy to guess why Cable had called McBride.
I went by Agatha Brantley’s house to deliver the news. She knew as soon as she saw me, and she crumpled. Tears leaked out of her eyes and she fought back her emotions as I explained what we’d found. Then she seemed to get hold of herself. I’ve been through this kind of thing before. It’s the suspense that kills. Once you know for sure, whatever the facts are, it seems to be easier to calm down.
“He mentioned to Madeleine Harper that he had big news of some kind,” I said. “Have you any idea what that might have been about?”
“No. He never said anything to me.”
“Is there anyone you can think of who wanted him dead?”
“Henry? No, he didn’t have an enemy in the world.” That brought on a round of sobbing. When she’d gotten through it I asked if she wanted me to call someone.
She said no, that it was okay. “We were very close, Henry and I. But I’ll be all right.” She wiped her nose, began beating her fist against the arm of the chair. “He never hurt a soul.” And finally, when she had gotten control of her voice: “Hoodlums. They don’t deserve to live.”
The creator of Sherlock Holmes lived in a quiet two-story house on a tree-lined street in Gullane. He’d been a high school English teacher before hitting the big time with his detective hero. He’d retired six years earlier, and apparently had put his time to good use by starting on A Study in Scarlet.
The area houses were modest structures, surrounded by hedges. Swings hung from several of the trees. And a few kids were playing with a jump rope in the early dusk.
I pulled into McBride’s concrete driveway and eased up behind a late model white Honda, which was parked in a carport. Lights came on, and I followed a walkway to the house. I rang the bell and, moments later, McBride opened up and peered at me through thick bifocals. I identified myself and he nodded.
“Inspector Page,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you. I was so sorry to hear about Professor Cable.” He stood aside and opened the door wider. “Please come in. Have you caught them yet?”
A fire crackled pleasantly in the living room. There were a couple of oil paintings, two young women gazing soulfully at the sky in one, and at the sea in the other. A plaque was centered between them, announcing that McBride had won the Amateur Division of the annual Edinburgh Golf Festival. As had been the case at Madeleine’s and at Cable’s, books and magazines were stacked everywhere. The windows were framed by dark satin drapes. He pulled them shut and showed me to a worn fabric armchair.
“No,” I said. “But we will.”
“Yes. I’d be surprised if you didn’t, Inspector. Not that it will do Henry any good.” He was tall and lean, with dark hair, a long nose, and dark laser eyes. I couldn’t help thinking that he resembled his fictional detective. All he needed was a pipe and a deerstalker cap.
“One of your former students asked me to say hello,” I told him.
“And who would that be?”
“Mark Hudson. He’s one of us now. A detective.”
“Excellent. I’m glad to hear it. I’d hoped he’d become a teacher. But he wanted something more exciting, I guess.”
“He speaks very highly of you.” And he had. I’d talked to him before leaving the station. Hudson had nothing but good words for Christopher McBride. “He tells me he’s especially happy to see your success with Mr. Holmes.”
“Well, thank you. Please pass my best wishes to him.”
“He’ll appreciate that.” He offered me a drink. When I explained that I was on duty, he said he hoped I wouldn’t mind if he got one for himself.
“Mark says you’re related to Arthur Conan Doyle.”
“Yes.” He smiled. “It’s a distant relationship, but I used it in school. It was a back door I could use to get the kids interested in historical novels.”
“They liked his work?”
“Oh, yes.” His eyes lit up. “They loved The White Company. And they liked the Professor Challenger novels as well.” He was looking at something I couldn’t see. “There’s no profession as enjoyable as teaching, Inspector. Introducing kids to people like Doyle and Wodehouse. Makes life worth living.” He sat back. “Time to get serious, though. How can I help you?”
“Mr. McBride, you had a phone call Friday evening from Cable.”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“Did you know him previously?”
“No. I’d never met him. Until Friday. He wanted me to sign a copy of A Study in Scarlet for him.”
“I see. Isn’t that a bit unusual? Do people often call you about autographs?”
“It happens more often than you might think, Inspector. Usually, I let them know where the next local signing is. And invite them to go there.”
“But in this case you invited him over.”
“Yes, I did. When he told me what he wanted, I explained that I was not engaged, and if he wished to come to the house, I’d be glad to do it for him.” He lifted his glass—it was bourbon—from a side table, stared at it, and let his eyes slide shut. “What an ugly world we live in.”
“That was very obliging of you.”
“It’s my usual response to teachers and police officers. Absolutely. Teachers give us our civilization, and policemen hold it together.” He smiled. “Especially teachers who, in their spare time, write reviews that are read all over the country.”
“I saw the signed book.”
“It was still with him?”
“Yes. Did you by any chance sign a second book? For anyone else?”
“Why, no, Inspector. It was just the one.”
So I still didn’t know what the surprise for Madeleine was to be. “When did he get here, Mr. McBride?”
“About eight.”
“And how long did he stay?”
“Not long. Just five minutes.” His eyes fixed on me. “When did it happen?”