Max stared at the book in horror. “That’s what those pages say? Someone was murdered here?”
“It’s a very, very old tower and not always a library. Probably lots of someones have died here,” she said absently, scanning the pages and flipping rapidly, fascinated. “But it is the murdered librarian who interests me. This is the journal of the woman who had to earn her way into the librarian’s position after her predecessor was killed by a jealous stepsister. Apparently, the stepsister thought she could acquire the castle upon her sister’s death or disappearance.”
“She killed her sister and left her body in the library?” Max asked in revulsion, looking over her shoulder at the pages she read.
“It seems so. The younger stepsister had no gift and no interest in the library, but she was financially supported by her older stepsister, who was only interested in books, not the parties the younger one wanted. Or so it is surmised by the Malcolm lady who wrote this. She was the one who heeded the library’s call and traveled many miles to visit the castle.”
“Take it upstairs and read it to me, please. This is why they test librarians now?” He took her arm and helped her up the stairs while she clung to the book.
“Yes, it seems so,” Lydia said excitedly. “The trust’s solicitors were called in. The younger sister claimed the older one had disappeared, so she was taking over the position. But she was not a Malcolm, and ladies who may have been your ancestors warned she wasn’t qualified. Then the owner of this journal appeared, knew how to enter the library because the books told her, and they found the body. It’s all very horrible and sad.”
But it was knowledge. The library was speaking to her!
“Well, they can’t claim you murdered Mr. Cadwallader, but I can see where there might be concern. Do you need any more of these volumes?” He waited, letting her listen.
Lydia shook her head. “I understand now. Let’s go to bed.” She kissed his jaw. “I’ll read you the pages until you fall asleep. I want you well rested so you can be magnificent tomorrow.”
* * *
Standing in the entrance of a narrow, dark courtroom, Max squared his shoulders in his fancy new coat, and remembered Lydia’s bedtime tale. It had been as chilling and uplifting as any good novel. He had never considered women to be quite that bloodthirsty.
Their display of swords yesterday should have given him a hint.
He watched as his uncle and his barrister entered from a far door. They didn’t even glance in Max’s direction.
The spectators were mostly men. A few ladies attended—probably some of Max’s nosy relations. None of them seemed abnormally interested in him. He tugged at his cravat and breathed a little easier. Lydia was a miracle worker in more ways than one. He’d feared that not having her by his side would be an invitation to any stray female, but his magnetic ability had apparently fastened on Lydia. He hoped.
If so, he might stay in Scotland! Did he want to? He liked working.
His barrister gestured for Max to take the chair next to him. The men who had traveled all this way to serve as his witnesses began taking seats on the benches. No matter how hungover they might be, his cousins had dressed as gentlemen and sauntered in with the arrogance of the privileged. Except for Dingo, his schoolmates were mostly the ones Max had prevented from being bullied in those long-ago years—not prepossessing sorts but apparently grateful ones. Dingo either wanted another round of fisticuffs or figured he owed Max for not breaking his nose the last time they’d fought.
Once everyone was seated, the judge called both barristers to the stand, where they presented whatever documentation they’d gathered, including witness statements. Max gritted his molars in frustration that he even had to submit to this nonsense. Where was George? After yesterday, his cousin had to know he wasn’t an impostor.
What would happen if he were declared dead in front of all his old friends and family? What would happen to Lydia? He was cursing himself for three times a fool for even thinking he’d be better off declared dead—
A bailiff shouted George’s name.
Heads turned expectantly, anticipating a dramatic entrance perhaps. Max just sank deeper into his seat. His cousin had to think of his own family first, of course. Refusing to testify wouldn’t help anyone but would be typical for the conflict-avoider he remembered. Maybe sitting on his head had taught George a lesson he’d never forgotten.
Grunts of satisfaction emerged from the audience directly behind Max. What had his esteemed, immensely aristocratic reprobates of cousins done now? He refused to express curiosity.
George walked out from the aisle dividing the courtroom benches. Ah, question answered. His cousins must have shoved the coward forward.
He wore one of his flashy suits with the stiff collar and cravat and a vest of black silk with gold embroidery. Max thought he looked like a Western gunfighter, except the black sling on his arm and his hobbling gait ruined any swash and buckle. George had been pretty banged up.
“Mr. Franklin.” The judge’s voice dripped disapproval. “We are pleased you have chosen to grace us with your attendance, however belated.”
“I couldn’t very well sit with my father, now, could I? We’re no longer on the same side. And Max isn’t likely to look on me kindly. But I’m here. Tell me what to do.” George cradled his broken arm, as if he might be in pain.
Max almost sympathized, except he was too shocked.
“The court wishes you to attest to this documentation stating the man claiming to be Maxwell Ives is an impostor, that you have personally—”
George shrugged and grimaced. “Can’t do that.”
The entire courtroom silenced. Max sat up straight and stared. His uncle turned purple. For that matter, so did the judge.
Max had hoped George might simply refuse to commit to one side or another, but he hadn’t hoped for a complete reversal. He studied his step-cousin with wary interest.
“What do you mean, you can’t do that?” the judge asked in tones dripping with ice and sarcasm.
George usually brought out that response in everyone, sooner or later, Max recalled. One would think he’d outgrow the habit of simple declarations without explanation.
“Can’t say Maxie is dead.” George didn’t even glance in Max’s direction as he spoke. “Might wish I could. The man is still an obnoxious bully, and he did nothing to deserve his riches except be born. But it’s Max, all right. I daresay if you care to look, you’ll find he has a scar on his shin where I kicked him with my boot when we weren’t old enough for school. He sat on my head afterward. He remembers that. That’s how I know it’s him.”
“He sat on your head?” The judge glanced incredulously at Max, as did everyone else. “Would you care to bare your shin, sir?” he asked in a tone dry as toast.
“If I may speak?” Max stood and glanced at his barrister for permission. At his nod, he continued. “You might prefer to examine the burn scar on my hand and wrist.” He undid his cufflink to reveal the welt. “I sustained this while attempting to rescue my drawings after the brat flung them in the fire. Had I known scars were admissible evidence, I could bare the one on my derriere from the arrow Dingo shot at me. He’s in the audience and can confirm it. I prefer to hope his testimony of the incident is sufficient.”
The chuckles in the audience grew closer to guffaws.
The judge looked as if he’d suffered enough. Sourly, he flung down the documents he’d been reading and nodded at the bailiff. “This farce is adjourned. Take the arguing parties to my chambers. In the face of witness testimony and evidence, the plaintiff has no case.”
Uncle David stood, enraged. “You can’t do that! You haven’t even heard my side.”
The judge tossed a stack of documents at him in annoyance. “Read these. Your nephew has done just as he promised—produced a marquess, an earl, the head of one of the most esteemed academies in the kingdom. . .”
Percy? Was he talking about the bespectacled bore who had needed M
ax to prevent him from being regularly beat up?
“. . .and a distinguished representative from one of our wealthiest districts to bear witness in his favor.”
Dingo? Dingo’s parents had royal connections and wealth. Max didn’t dare turn and glare at the bully. Proving this case meant Max would be rich again. He also had aristocratic relations worth cultivating. Appearing to support Max would be just the thing a politician would do. Civilization still had its downside.
But Lydia cancelled all negativity.
“You, on the other hand, Mr. Franklin,” the judge continued, “bring me numbers and testimony from toadies who wish to continue doing business with you. You may appeal, of course, but I recommend you join us in my chambers to determine how and when the estate’s assets are disbursed.”
Max didn’t dare believe it was done so easily, until Rainford slapped him on the shoulder and Ives shook his hand. The stoic Hugh Morgan stood and waited, prepared to follow the judge and begin counting Max’s money.
“It’s all over but the shouting,” the marquess declared, pounding Max once more for good measure. “If you need investment to mine that shale, let us know. Although I’d advise building an easier access road on the slope so people might actually reach the place.”
As everyone crowded out the narrow aisle, Percy came up to congratulate Max. “I talked to your son Bakari yesterday. Quite an interesting lad, more so than you ever were, old chum. When you’re ready to send him off to school, I hope you’ll consider mine. We pride ourselves on an eclectic body of students with the intelligence and background to lead international diplomacy into the next century.”
Dingo joined them, grinning broadly. “I’ll sign his references. We’ll need diplomats in the future who can navigate Egypt’s murky waters.”
“He’s six years old, drat you,” Max cried, pushing them out of the courtroom into the hall. “He can’t even ride a horse yet. And just because his skin is brown doesn’t mean he isn’t as English as. . .”
Dingo grinned and smacked Max on the back. “You don’t have to defend yourself anymore, Dwarf. Just accept our goodwill and kiss your lovely bride for us.”
Shouts of “He has a gun!” rang out in the high-ceilinged hall.
As one, Max’s friends and family pulled weapons from their tailored suits and formed a phalanx to guard Max, as if he were royalty.
They didn’t count on gunshots ricocheting off marble pilasters.
Thirty
“They’re coming,” Lady Agnes said placidly, clicking her knitting needles. “Positions, ladies.”
Lydia rolled her eyes at this prediction. She could not see outside the hall to the road up the mountain. Still, if she accepted the lady’s odd gifts, she had to listen. At the urging of her new cousins-in-law, Lydia took the enormous throne of a chair the ladies designated as hers.
A deputation of Malcolms had remained at the castle to defend Lydia from impostor testers. Lydia had tried to tell them she could handle this, but one did not tell forces of nature like Lady Phoebe and Lady Dare that they weren’t needed. They were enjoying themselves too much.
Lydia glanced ruefully at Miss Trivedi, who was handing her more documents to sign. “You realize if I fail this test, that the solicitors will go to court to stop me from transferring the trust to Mr. Morgan?”
“You won’t fail,” Miss Trivedi said with certainty. “The trust’s solicitors chose the wrong side and must pay the price.”
Lydia admired the ruby on the bookkeeper’s ring finger. “That is new, isn’t it?”
The Hindu lady smiled briefly. “Your wedding and too much champagne finally persuaded Mr. Morgan to ask. We are to be wed in autumn. I have insisted that he must meet my family, so we will leave for India shortly after the nuptials.”
That alarmed Lydia more than the impending arrival of the testers. “What about Max’s investments? And the trust? How will we know how much we have to spend on the tower?”
“Everything will be prepared and in good hands before we leave. Do not worry. And Mr. Ives is a very astute businessman. He simply prefers that other people manage the paperwork. We will have competent solicitors to assist his endeavors, and there is always the telegraph.”
“And Lady Dare’s studio? Weren’t you helping her look for abused women?” Lydia asked in concern, darting a glance to the photographer, who was busy setting up equipment.
“Now that Azmin understands her gift, anyone can be her assistant. She’s employing one of the school’s art students, plus a normal photographer. She’s more involved with finding abused women and helping them than doing studio portraits.” Miss Trivedi placed the signed documents into her folder.
The door knocker pounded the ancient plate, followed by the tolling of the entrance bell as the visitor discovered the rope.
“Anxious, aren’t they?” Lydia said, almost amused. “I’m amazed they’re still functional after all they imbibed yesterday. And very bad wine it must have been. Mr. C didn’t like wine, so it’s been moldering down there for decades.”
“Better than drinking your whisky barrels dry,” Lady Phoebe said, coming to stand by them.
“Oh, Mr. Folkston emptied those for the reception. We need to restock.” Lydia nervously watched the wide foyer entrance.
“Your reception was quite grand. You need to have more gatherings in this gorgeous hall,” Phoebe advised. “It is good for local business. Drew and several of your guests enjoyed your whisky so well that they have ordered from your supplier.”
Lydia knew absolutely nothing of spirits but nodded as if she did. “We’re hoping to hire locally for the construction Max anticipates. And we’re keeping a tailor and seamstress busy with new uniforms as we add staff. But if this goes all wrong and the trust doesn’t come to me. . .”
“We will not allow that to happen,” Lady Phoebe said firmly. “We will hire lawyers, if necessary. We are Malcolms, and this is our library, and that’s what the trust intended.”
While Lydia appreciated the loyalty, she knew Calder Castle would languish if they fought legal battles. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She had to carry out Mr. C’s prediction and assert her hitherto invisible authority. Somehow, she must save the tower so the library might continue—in front of men who wouldn’t believe her.
“Misters Lawrence and Harrison esquires,” the footman announced from the doorway, as if the hall truly were a queen’s throne room.
The two gray-suited gentleman strolled in as if they’d been invited. Lydia wondered if that attitude of authority was arrogance or terror. They had to be just a little bit intimidated by the towering ancient oak hall adorned in weaponry and even more so by the nearly dozen ladies scattered about the seating area who had locked them up yesterday. Lydia didn’t think she knew all the women who had taken residence in her front room. She suspected the gray-haired ones might be friends of Lady Agnes and Lady Gertrude.
The visitors pretended not to notice the swords or the ladies. Lydia suspected their male bravado was derived from wearing guns or knives beneath those baggy, unflattering coats. She’d rather this test did not come to an outright battle.
Without rising to greet the new arrivals, Lydia spoke. “Your business, sirs?”
They had to look past her sea of feminine bodyguards to the far end of the hall, where she sat enthroned before the towering fireplace. The ladies truly did have a sense of the dramatic. She doubted the visitors could see her clearly in the filtered light from the floor-length, gothic-style windows.
The gentleman proceeded further into the hall. Small game tables blocked their path.
“We have come to test Miss. . . Mrs. Ives’ suitability as a librarian as required by the trust,” the older, taller gentleman said.
Mrs. Ives. Lydia considered the sound of that. She had never thought to be a wife. She’d always wished to be the Malcolm Librarian. She was both now, but in this instance, she was very definitely the librarian.
“I am the Malcolm Libra
rian,” she responded with the soul-deep certainty she hadn’t felt the last time she’d said it. Today, she was the authority here, and she rather enjoyed the power. It was as if she’d spent a lifetime preparing for this position. “Do you have credentials?”
The taller gentleman waved a document. Nearly as tall as he, Lady Gertrude snatched it from his hand and perused it. “It’s signed by the bounders currently managing the trust,” she said grudgingly.
Lydia really hadn’t doubted that. She’d met the bounders. “Then, gentlemen, how may I help you?”
“We have here a list of questions the librarian must answer to prove her right to the position.” The shorter, younger gentleman skirted an empty table, avoiding Olivia’s enormous skirt and the skein of yarn she dropped at their feet. They came to a halt when Azmin set up her camera tripod in front of Lydia.
Lydia wanted to laugh at the silly annoyances. She knew the ladies were simply expressing their disapproval. But after reading the journal last night, she’d decided to maintain the solemn demeanor of a judge.
Lydia didn’t accept the papers they brandished. Instead, she held up the early librarian’s journal. “According to this, there are no lists of questions. The only test to be administered is finding this book. I found it. Anything else is purely spurious pageantry for the sake of the solicitors. Turn around, address the ladies who own the library and represent its origins. If there are any objections to my status, they are the ones who must speak up. The trust’s solicitors are merely there to handle necessary business, not pass judgment.”
Lydia’s chair was on a small rise in front of the fireplace. Combined with her height, she looked down on the gentlemen from a lofty position. She could tell they didn’t like that. Both appeared flustered and annoyed.
“There is nothing in the trust agreement about the means of testing,” the older, more distinguished of them blustered. “We are perfectly in our rights—”
The Librarian's Spell Page 26
