Джек Макдевитт - A Voice in the Night

I stopped at the front door. “One more thing: Do you know Christopher McBride?”

“Christopher McBride?” Her eyes widened. “I met him once. At a party. But that was long before Sherlock Holmes.”

“Do you know of a connection between him and Professor Cable?”

“No,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“He called McBride Friday night. Just before he called you.”

“Really?” She looked surprised. “I can’t imagine he’d have been talking to Christopher McBride and then not mention it to me.”

“Maybe it had something to do with the surprise?”

She shook her head. “Amazing,” she said.

I wandered over to McDonough’s Books, in Old Town. The store manager, Sandra Hopkins, was there when I walked in the door. Sandra and I went back a long way. “I wasn’t here when he called, Jerry,” she said, consulting the computer. “But I’ve got the order right here.”

“Okay. What did he want?”

“Catastrophe Well in Hand: The Collected Letters of James Payn. Edited by Gabriel Truett.”

“James Payn? Who’s he?”

“Victorian era novelist and editor.” She reached under the counter and produced a copy. It had a golden cover overrun with shadowy figures. “It’s just been released.”

“Any idea why Cable would have been interested in it?”

“Cable was interested in anything having to do with the Victorians.”

I was leaving McDonough’s when a call came through: Cable was dead. A patrol vehicle had located his body in a patch of woodland off the parking lot at the Newbury Shopping Center outside Portobello.

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.”