The Minstrel & The Beagle

by Lila K Bell

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  THANK YOU FOR READING

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COMING SOON

  The Minstrel

  &

  The Beagle

  The Midnight Minstrel Mysteries Book 1

  By

  Lila K. Bell

  All Rights Reserved

  This edition published in 2019 by Raven’s Quill Press

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this work are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity is purely coincidental.

  Cover art: Christopher Reddie

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. The rights of the authors of this work has been asserted by him/ her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is dedicated to my Nan, who encouraged me from the first and launched my Law & Order addiction.

  1

  I had never planned to become a thief.

  If I recall correctly, my first “when I grow up” response was a horse whisperer. Then I learned how stubborn horses could be, and how patient I wasn’t, and let that dream fall to the wayside.

  After that, I wanted to be a world-class gymnast. I went to classes three times a week and trained every day. I enjoyed it, and I was good… but I wasn’t world-class good. So by the time I was twelve, that goal sort of disappeared as well.

  That’s around the time I fell prey to the curse of many rich children.

  I got bored.

  We lived in a sprawling house in Brookside, Ontario, a quaint little town off Lake Ontario, with a huge lawn, an in-ground pool, and within walking distance to some of the best shopping the town could boast. I had everything I could possibly need to keep myself entertained, and my parents were too absorbed in their own committees and parties and company to involve themselves in anything I did. I should have had no lack of healthy, constructive hobbies.

  Instead, I took to sneaking around the house at night, just for the thrill of moving around unseen. I put my gymnastics and climbing skills to use by scaling walls and perching on top of cabinets and shelving units, staying out of sight while my father rambled on his long, boring business calls. When my parents took me to events, after their friends finished ooh-ing and ah-ing over my pretty blonde curls and fancy dresses and left me to my own devices, I passed the time by snatching small items off desks and end tables.

  I became a master at being seen only when and where I wanted to be, while disappearing into the background when I needed to.

  At sixteen years old, I took up parkour. I’d learned the foundations in my years of gymnastics, but this was a whole new joy. I believed — and still do — that it’s the closest I would ever come to flying. It offered a sense of freedom I had never experienced before.

  Then the novelty wore off, and I realized that if I didn’t find a way to put my new skills to use, I would go insane. I’d end up just as crazy as my parents believed my grandfather to be — which he isn’t, he just likes to play that he is so they don’t completely forget he exists. And maybe to mess with them a little bit. I love my grandfather.

  I was seventeen when I stole my first book. It was a first edition of Wilkie Collins’ The Moonstone, valued at around five thousand American dollars according to my research. It belonged to the estate of a distant cousin, and we’d gone to their house after the wake. The book had just been sitting on the shelf in the den, squeezed between a few Archie comics and a clearly never-been-opened Complete Works of Shakespeare. As though my cousin had no idea of its value or that having it out in the open like that would decrease its worth.

  So I’d taken it.

  The way I saw it, I was salvaging something priceless. Doing the literary world a favour they would someday thank me for.

  I hid it in the bottom of my closet, in a personal safe that held my passport and some jewelery my grandmother had left me. It was the first book of my collection, and remained one of my most prized possessions.

  Now, eleven years later, that collection had almost reached a hundred. After tonight, it would have.

  I crept across the dark grass toward the tree that leaned over the Hutchings’ back fence. I jumped to grab the lower branch and pulled myself up until I was perched on the limb and could peer into the backyard below. It was empty, and the back windows of the house were dark.

  I checked my watch. Just past eleven o’clock in the evening.

  Some people might think anytime before midnight was too early to prowl around the streets of Brookside and break into people’s houses, but in this town the perfect time didn’t exist. Everyone in Brookside was too rich to stick with traditional sleeping schedules. Galas and banquets every night of the week kept people up until dawn. The younger people, those not yet rich enough to join the elite societies, went to bed early so they could rise shortly after their parents went to bed and get to work, proving to their super-rich bosses that they were eager to join the ranks.

  It was a society that revolved around money, and I hated it. If it weren’t for my grandfather, I would have been long gone.

  I climbed higher in the tree until I reached the branch that would lead me to the balcony off Tony Hutchings’ office. It had taken me three weeks to scout this house and decide what my strategy would be. My parents knew the Hutchings, which was how I knew about the gems in their library, and that should have given me an edge to staking the place out. Unfortunately, due to some unforgiveable comment Felicity Hutchings had made about one of my mother’s dresses, they currently weren’t on speaking terms, so I hadn’t had an opportunity to get inside the house and map out my route.

  Now, before you think that my being here was some kind of revenge theft, let me be perfectly clear: people were free to make any comments they wanted about my parents’ wardrobes. All that mattered to me was that the Hutchings were in possession of a hardcover first edition of A Christmas Carol, priced at almost thirty thousand American dollars. With the Canadian dollar where it was right now, it would fetch me a pretty penny if I managed to find a buyer.

  Or maybe I’d keep this one. It was one of my favourites.

  I dropped from the branch onto the balcony and pressed my back against the wall of the house, peering around the side of the French doors to make sure the interior was clear. The lights were off, though I spotted the flickering of a television in the doorway. Probably from downstairs. These two loved their Jeopardy!

  I pulled the lockpicks out of my side pocket and knelt down to work the lock. It didn’t take long. In most of these big houses, the owners tended to focus their attention on the main entrances, assuming no one would be able to get inside via the upper floors. Usually they’d be right. They just hadn’t counted on someone like me.

  I slipped into the office, my heart pounding as it always did at the start of a heist, and exchanged my lockpicks for a penlight. The noise from the TV drifted upstairs, and I held my breath for a moment to listen for any other noises drifting along the hallway to indi
cate that someone was about to step into the room and interrupt me. From all I could tell, the coast was clear.

  I turned my attention to the room, keeping part of my awareness on the doorway to avoid surprises. The room was lined with bookshelves, and I wished I could take my time to see if there were any other titles I could consider coming back for at a later time. Maybe in a year or two after the dust had settled.

  If there was any dust to settle. I had my suspicions that Tony wouldn’t even notice his Dickens was missing. From what I could tell, the man didn’t even read. The book was a status symbol. A “See? Look what I can afford.” There was no appreciation. And books should always be appreciated.

  I worked my way through the shelves until I found my prize. The book was protected in a small glass display case, the red leather cover shining up at me as though begging me to liberate it.

  Don’t worry, little novel, I thought. You’ll get your freedom soon.

  I tucked the penlight between my lips and pulled my lockpicks free again. After making sure the display case wasn’t set up to any sort of security system, I set to work. In no time at all, I held the book in my hands, cradling it gently in my fingers to avoid putting too much pressure on the spine. Once I got home, I’d check the condition to make sure it hadn’t earned too much wear and tear in Tony’s possession, and then it would go with the others until I decided what to do with it.

  I carefully slid the book into the satchel I wore pressed against my back and fitted the straps in place so the book hugged my spine. A balance between preventing the book from warping and keeping the bag from getting in my way as I made my escape.

  As I edged toward the window, I couldn’t help but feel a smidge of disappointment. These heists used to be enough. The rush of slipping in, grabbing my prize, and getting out. When that became easy, I’d started timing myself to see how quickly I could complete a run. When I hit my record time, the thrill of beating it faded as well. Now I was left with a sense of contentment that I’d gotten what I came for, but no real satisfaction.

  Someone coughed behind me, and my heart jumped into my throat.

  I ducked into a crouch and checked over my shoulder. A shadowed figure was approaching the office door.

  Tony.

  I only just had time to dart behind an ornate room divider in the corner. Through the reflection in the French doors, I watched Tony come into the office and turn on the light, and I crossed my fingers he wouldn’t sit down at his desk. From there, he would be able to see my reflection in the window as clearly as I saw him. The game would be up. He’d call the police, they’d call my parents, and I would have to explain to them what I was doing, which would be especially awkward because my mother would pretend the whole time that Felicity wasn’t in the room.

  Either the police would believe this was my first theft, in which case I might get off with a slap on the wrist if I returned the book, or they’d connect tonight’s foray with the dozens of others that had taken place over the years. The escapades that had earned me, Ms. Fiona Gates, the moniker of the Midnight Minstrel in the Brookside Gazette. I didn’t think even my parents’ money would let me get away with a lecture and warning in that case.

  I don’t know whether the heavens were smiling on me or having a good laugh when, instead of going to his desk, Tony stepped into the bathroom and hitched his pants down. He didn’t even bother closing the door. In all fairness to him, he had no idea he had an audience, but I couldn’t help but wish he was enough of a prude to enjoy his privacy while he emptied his bladder.

  At least that’s all it was.

  After a few extra minutes of him checking his gray whiskers in the mirror, he turned out the bathroom light and stepped back into the office.

  He paused on the threshold, and my heart began its solo percussion act again. What had he noticed? I’d been careful not to touch anything on his desk, and I never wore anything scented when I was out on a job.

  He took a step toward the bookcase, and my fingers tightened around my knees. Would he notice the empty case already? If he called the cops from his office and stayed there while he waited for them to arrive, I was in deep trouble.

  A small smile tried to work its way onto my lips even as my brain screamed at me to find a way out. This was the thrill I had needed.

  Tony took another step forward, grabbed a book of crossword puzzles off his desk, then turned on his heel and marched out.

  I released my breath in a silent whoosh and counted to thirty before edging my way around the side of the divider and easing open the balcony door.

  In another five minutes, I was climbing down the tree and sprinting across the lawn toward the street. I pulled off my black gloves and mask as I went, freeing my blonde hair so the thick waves tumbled down to my chin, and undid the top three buttons of my shirt. From cat burglar, I morphed into evening runner, with my satchel tight against my back.

  After jogging the last three blocks to where I’d parked my Toyota, Bessie, on a side street, I yanked open the back door with the extra oomph the latch required. I set the bag on the seat and belted it in so it didn’t slide around too much on the drive. Bessie’s suspension was shot, and each little speedbump felt as though we’d gone off-road. Fortunately, I wasn’t too concerned about the book falling to pieces during a bit of a rough ride.

  Despite her decrepit state, I loved Bessie. I’d bought her for six hundred dollars after the sale of one of my first stolen books and kept her parked in the lot of a restaurant within walking distance of my house. I knew the owner of the bar, so he didn’t make a fuss. She wouldn’t last me much longer, but I did everything I could to extend her life, and I only ever took her out when I was on a job. My parents would never look me in the eye if she suddenly appeared in our driveway.

  I slammed the door, turned around, and jumped with a low shriek when my gaze fell on the tall figure slouching against my hood.

  “Well, hey there, Fi. What brings you to this part of the neighbourhood at this time of night?”

  “Ryan Clark, I am going to murder you,” I said, pressing my hand to my chest.

  Ryan’s only response to my oh-so-genuine threat was to laugh and shoot me one of his smiles that tended to set my knees wobbling.

  Under the street light, he looked especially dangerous, with his leather jacket unzipped to show his white T-shirt and the faded jeans that were moulded to the muscles of his thighs.

  Ahead of Bessie was Ryan’s matte black Ducati Monster, a beautiful piece of work that warmed my insides as much as its driver.

  “I might ask you the same question,” I said.

  He only smiled, and I was fully aware that I wasn’t going to get an answer as long as I didn’t answer him. That was fine by me. From what little I knew of Ryan from my encounters with him at the Treasure Trove, Brookside’s underground bar, neither of us were employed in careers we’d talk about in police—that is, polite—society.

  “I was just passing by,” he said at last. “Spotted Bessie and figured I’d wait around a little while to see if you came back. Have a good run?”

  He jerked his chin at my attire, and his gaze lingered along my waistline. At first I thought he was leering until I realized the edge of my mask was sticking out of my pocket. Stuffing it back in would only draw more attention, so I leaned my hip against the side of the car to put it out of sight.

  “Good time of night for it,” I said. “Not many people out and about to interrupt me.”

  His smile widened, and I felt my own grow in response. “Hint taken,” he said. “I’ll let you get back to it.”

  He leaned in close, and my breath caught in my throat as he tucked his finger under my hair and pulled it loose from my collar. “Stay out of trouble, Fiona. I’d hate to have to come see you in jail.”

  He winked and headed back to his motorcycle. I stayed put, unable to get my legs working as the Ducati revved up and rumbled down the street.

  Only when Ryan was out of sight did I release my br
eath. Bessie’s hinges complained as I opened the door, and the seat groaned as I collapsed into it and slammed the door behind me.

  “That man is going to be the death of me,” I said to Bessie.

  She offered nothing but a sympathetic grunt as I started the engine and headed home with my precious Christmas cargo in the back seat.

  2

  I slipped into the house through my bedroom window, which was easily accessible with the help of the trellis and the drainpipe, and headed directly for my reading room.

  I know it sounds like I complain a lot, but I’m well aware of the upsides to having more money than you know what to do with and still be living with your parents. For one thing, not only did I get my own bedroom, but also an attached office space that I’d converted into a warm and cozy nook. The chairs were deep, the footstools were soft, and the lighting was just bright enough to keep you awake, but also soft enough to allow for some luxurious nap time on cold, rainy days.

  And just like yours truly, keeping her true nature buried beneath the veneer of a bright, happy, young woman with socially acceptable pursuits, my reading nook was more than it appeared on the surface. Aside from being my comfy hideaway, it was also the location of my secret book collection, which was kept in a hidden room I’d had built, oh yes, behind a bookcase. How could I resist?

  Grabbing hold of a stiff copy of Austen’s Lady Susan, I tugged it forward until it caught, then pulled the door the rest of the way to reveal my inner sanctum.

  The project had taken a week to complete, four summers ago while my parents had been out of town. I’d taken a quarter of the massive walk-in closet, which could have housed the entire inventory of a Nordstrom outlet, and replaced the sliding doors with the bookcase. Storage complete, I’d then installed the proper lighting and ventilation system, ensuring my treasures were safe and well-preserved.