Murder in the Reading Room

by Ellery Adams

  Following a dinner of chicken piccata, buttered noodles, and roasted green beans, the four of them played several rounds of Parcheesi. The twins were then packed off to bed. Jane tucked them in and warned them not to read by flashlight because it was a school night. She went back downstairs, poured two glasses of wine, and carried them into the living room. Snuggling close to Edwin on the sofa, she told him about her hike with William.

  “I feel so guilty. Like I’m cheating on him, even though he doesn’t know me,” Jane confessed, her eyes filling with tears. “This is so hard, Edwin. I’ve waited all this time to be with you, and now that you’re here, it feels like I’m doing something wrong.”

  “Sweetheart.” Edwin squeezed her hand. “Until it becomes easier, we can be together like this. We can have dinners, fiercely competitive board games, and wine time. We can flop down and read on rainy Sunday afternoons. We can take horseback rides or run errands together. I don’t care what we do, as long as I’m with you.”

  “Will you escort me to the Victory Gala tomorrow night?”

  Edwin raised her hand to his lips. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the books in the British Library.”

  Jane arched her brows. “How many do they have?”

  “Twenty-five million.”

  Jane sighed. “That must be heaven.”

  “No.” Edwin clinked the rim of his wineglass against hers. “This is.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  On the final morning of the conference, Michael Murphy was scheduled to give a lecture on the nonhuman cost of the Great War. The afternoon was left open for the historians to enjoy the reading rooms or available activities at Storyton Hall, to stroll through the village or sign up for a fishing or canoeing trip with Storyton Outfitters.

  Jane ran into Michael by the lobby coffee urns.

  “I heard you can expect a full house for your talk,” she said, gesturing for him to fill his cup first. “I guess people do want to listen to you even though you’re not talking about art theft.”

  Michael laughed. “Don’t give me too much credit. This audience is far more forgiving than my students.”

  “Well, if you impart a quarter of the information that you, Mr. Kelley, and Mr. Banks shared during yesterday’s lunch, then everyone in the Shakespeare Theater is in for a treat.”

  Noting that Michael’s neck had gone red, Jane realized that she should make it clear that she wasn’t being flirtatious. Stirring cream into her coffee, she asked, “Did you buy anything in yesterday’s auction?”

  “A scarf. It’s thick and super soft.”

  “A gift for your fiancée?”

  Michael’s neck turned a brighter shade of red. “The scarves weren’t really Robin’s style, so I got it for myself.”

  Though Michael was pouring a sugar packet into his coffee as he spoke, he turned his body slightly away from Jane’s, his right foot pointing down the hall. His body language indicated his desire to escape this conversation.

  “You supported the cause at any rate.” Jane began to move away from the table. “Good luck with your talk.”

  Jane had planned to check off items on her to-do list, but she was too distracted by her interaction with Michael to go to her office. Instead, she went to see Sinclair.

  The head librarian was on the fifth rung of the wheeled ladder, dusting a shelf housing folk and fairy tales. It had always been one of Jane’s favorite sections of the Henry James library.

  “Housekeeping?”

  Sinclair looked down at her. “The shelves don’t really need dusting. Still, the task lets my mind wander, and I have a reason for it to wander in this particular section.”

  Naturally, Jane was interested in Sinclair’s remark. However, she wanted to ask him about Michael Murphy first.

  “During one of my first classes on interpreting body language, Butterworth told me to pay attention to feet. People use their feet to indicate open or closed positions, or to make it clear that they’d like to get away from you.”

  Sinclair looked down at his feet, which were encased in black loafers polished to a high shine. “Do mine say that I’m paying attention?”

  “Yes. They’re lined up and facing forward,” said Jane. “As were Michael’s. Until I brought up his fiancée. He didn’t mention her name when we were cooking together. Today, he did. I think he regretted it and wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible. What do we know about Mr. Murphy’s personal life?”

  “Let me return to terra firma, and we’ll see what I have in my office.”

  Sinclair had done more digging on the BackStory officers than the rest of the historians because the officers had organized the entire centennial event. This meant Michael Murphy’s folder was thicker than most.

  Leafing through papers in the folder, Sinclair frowned. “I found no trace of a significant other. None of Mr. Murphy’s social media posts reference a partner. No one else is on his lease, bills, or bank accounts.”

  “Can we check under his list of known associates for someone named Robin?”

  Retrieving the list, Sinclair scanned the names. He looked at Jane. “No Robin. But I trust your instincts. I’m going to call the supervisor of Mr. Murphy’s apartment building. If our ginger-haired guest is engaged, the super will know.”

  Sinclair had barely finished spinning a yarn about being an agent of the Census Bureau searching for clarification regarding the permanent residents of Mr. Murphy’s apartment when the super interrupted.

  “I only got one name on the lease. If Michael and Robin are getting hitched, I say good for them. It ain’t against the law no more. Am I right?”

  Jane now knew why Michael avoided discussing his love life. Robin was a man. He was a fiancé, not a fiancée.

  After Sinclair ended the call, Jane said, “Why would Michael hide his relationship? I doubt he’s the only gay professor at his university.”

  “There must be another reason.” Sinclair began to review the material in Michael’s folder from the beginning.

  Jane felt a sudden chill. “He could be Parrish’s man. He’s a professor who also has time to travel. Look at how much leave he got for this centennial tour. Even if he’s in league with Parrish, he might want to keep his relationship a secret. Otherwise, he couldn’t protect Robin.”

  Though Sinclair made a noise, he didn’t look up from the stack of papers.

  Jane waited patiently for as long as she could. However, her mental to-do list kept growing. It was time to move on.

  “This will take a few more phone calls,” Sinclair eventually said. “Before I start, I want to explain why I was dusting the folk and fairy-tale section. Mr. Parrish and your great-uncle believe they found a clue in Master Cyril’s journal yesterday evening. The entry makes reference to Mr. Parrish’s grandfather and to Champ with a capital C.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Sinclair set Michael’s file aside. “Champ was one of Hemingway’s many nicknames. Master Cyril’s entry seems deliberately confusing. He was in Africa when it was written, and I’ve been wondering if it makes reference to an African folktale.”

  “Do you know many African folktales?”

  “Only a few. After looking in the library, I realized that most of our books on this subject are in the Beatrix Potter Playroom. Our other African books are in the Safari Room.”

  Jane decided that she needed to read this diary entry for herself. As she made to leave, she asked, “What country was Cyril visiting when he wrote that entry?”

  “South Africa.”

  Jane thought of the books she’d read in the setting. Titles like Ancestral Voices by Etienne van Heerden, Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country, and The Covenant by James Michener ran through her mind. The last title tickled something in her memory, and Jane took the staff stairs two at a time until she reached her great-aunt and great-uncle’s apartments.

  After letting herself in, Jane walked into the living room and froze. Aunt Octavia was on the sofa. Muffet Cat
was snoozing on her lap. And a guest sat in the sofa opposite Aunt Octavia’s.

  “Hello, Nandi.” Jane smiled at the postmistress of Storyton before turning to her great-aunt. “You must have read my mind.”

  Nandi grinned. “Why? Were you going to invite me for a social visit too? I only get one lunch break per day. I’m a government employee—not the lady of the manor.”

  “You’re a stellar postmistress and Storyton’s expert on African folktales,” said Aunt Octavia. “I’ve heard the story of Anansi the spider dozens of times while waiting in line. I enjoy it, but not as much as your tales about leopards. Muffet Cat listens very attentively when I repeat them to him.”

  Muffet Cat gave Aunt Octavia a look of pure adoration. As a reward, she pulled a treat from the pocket of her hibiscus print dress and fed it to him. She then looked at Jane and said, “I was hoping Nandi might help us make sense of the strange line from Cyril’s diary. It mentions a place called the Castle.”

  Nandi frowned. “My ancestors didn’t exactly live in castles.”

  Jane knew that Nandi was part Zulu and part British and that she was named after Shaka Zulu’s warrior mother. She was very proud of her heritage and spoke of the Zulu whenever she had the opportunity.

  “I thought it might be a modern name for something far older,” said Aunt Octavia.

  Nandi suddenly brightened. “It could be a reference to Giant’s Castle.”

  “Is that a building?” Jane asked.

  “No, it’s a mountain in KwaZulu-Natal. In South Africa,” said Nandi in a dreamy voice. “It’s very beautiful. Tall, rugged, and mighty. Even more wonderful is what exists inside Giant’s Castle.”

  Jane sat down next to Aunt Octavia. Nandi’s reverent tone was hypnotizing. “Which is?”

  “Rock art by my ancestors. The San.” Nandi’s dark eyes sparkled as she spoke of the caves and the images painted on the cave walls. Many of the paintings had been there for nearly four hundred years. Others had been there for thousands.

  “They sound magical,” said Jane. “Have you seen them in person?”

  Nandi wore a faraway expression. “Yes. And magical is the right word to describe them. You see, to my ancestors, animals were much more than food. Man and beast shared a special connection. My people believed that every animal had a spirit. The animals also had gifts to give to man. Or to take away from him.” She glanced at the mantel clock and spread her hands in a show of disappointment. “I would love to talk to you about this all day, but I need to get back.”

  “Could we call you at work if we have more questions?” Aunt Octavia asked.

  “Sure. Even better, Jane could ride to the village with her bike basket filled to the brim with Mrs. Hubbard’s cookies.”

  With a booming laugh, Nandi showed herself out.

  Jane pointed down the hall. “Is Uncle Aloysius in his study?”

  “No. He and Mr. Parrish are in the Safari Room. They’re searching the African books for answers.”

  “What was the line from the diary? Do you remember it exactly as it was written?”

  Aunt Octavia snorted in affront. “I may be old, but my mental faculties are still intact, thank you very much.”

  Catching sight of Muffet Cat’s glare, Jane quickly apologized.

  Mollified, Aunt Octavia recited the line. “‘Our victory near the Castle ensures that he will remain the Champ.’”

  “I think I’ll do a little online research on Giant’s Castle,” Jane mused aloud. “Any message for Uncle Aloysius if I see him later?”

  Aunt Octavia seemed vexed. “No message. Just look out for him, Jane. He’s like a little boy in a sandbox, digging for pennies. To him, the treasure isn’t as important as the actual digging. I have a feeling his partner doesn’t share his sentiment.”

  “I’m not sure if Parrish is capable of happiness,” Jane said and left the apartment.

  In her office, she sat at her computer and ran a search for Giant’s Castle. Though she found several fascinating facts about the mountain, none seemed to apply to the cryptic line in Cyril’s diary. Next, she read about the region’s rock art. To her, the collection in Game Pass Shelter at Kamberg was the most compelling. As she scanned images of the paintings, she was amazed by how vibrant the colors were after so many years. She was also captivated by the movement the paintings conveyed. The antelopes looked ready to leap off the wall.

  Eventually, she came across an article on symbolism and shamanism, which explained the meaning of the images on the wall.

  When she finished the article, she sat back in her chair and thought about Hemingway’s African hunting trips. Cyril had also hunted in Africa. Had Parrish’s grandfather as well? Was hunting the common tie among these men?

  Turning back to her computer, she searched for info on Hemingway’s hunting excursions. Jane wasn’t squeamish, but she disliked seeing images of the animals Hemingway had killed. Their dead eyes stared at the camera in doleful accusation. It was the same look Jane saw whenever she entered the Isak Dinesen Safari Room. As she thought about those mounted heads, she wondered if Cyril Steward and Ernest Hemingway had pursued the same game.

  Did they meet in Africa?

  The notion wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Ernest Hemingway respected other men who shared his interests, which were primarily boxing, hunting, mountaineering, flying airplanes, fishing, and drinking. According to Uncle Aloysius, Cyril enjoyed all of these activities.

  Jane decided to share what she’d discovered with Uncle Aloysius and Ramsey Parrish. She caught the two men on their way to lunch in the Rudyard Kipling Café.

  “Why don’t you join us?” her great-uncle said. “We can fill you in.”

  Jane agreed, and the three of them found a table facing the Anne of Green Gables Gazebo. Jane ordered tossed salad with grilled shrimp. Uncle Aloysius and Parrish went with a soup and sandwich combo.

  Stealing a glance at Parrish, Jane reminded herself that he was dangerous and turned to her great-uncle. “Before you fill me in, can you tell me if Cyril ever met Ernest Hemingway? On a hunting expedition, perhaps?”

  Uncle Aloysius shook his head. “There’s no indication of such a meeting. The mention of Champ is the only thing we’ve found that might refer to Hemingway. Like you, we thought it possible that they met on safari. There’s no written or photographic evidence of this, however.”

  “Mr. Parrish, we don’t know your grandfather,” said Jane. “Maybe he’s the key. Could you tell us about him?”

  Parrish gave a little shrug as if to say he’d provide a few details, but that was all. “An outdoorsman and a scholar, I consider him to have been a kindred spirit of Hemingway’s. He excelled at nearly every sport, served in two wars, and was a global traveler. He loved food, drink, and literature. His short marriage produced one son.”

  “Was he in South Africa at the same time as Cyril Steward?” Jane asked.

  “He was. However, his diary doesn’t mention an encounter.”

  The waiter arrived with their drinks, which gave Jane the chance to think of another question. “And the letter from Cyril to your grandfather?”

  “Nothing but politeness and platitudes. What led me to Storyton Hall in search of the lost suitcase was the following two lines, ‘It eases my mind to know that the case will be safe in your home. In another life, we might have worked together with much success.’”

  Jane stared at Parrish. “They were in league. At least, for this particular mission. It proves that our families can collaborate—that enmity can be put aside for the greater good.”

  The waiter delivered their food and moved on to take drink orders from a neighboring table. Following him with her eyes, Jane saw Clarence and Isabel Kelley dining with Archie.

  “I sent you the list of the books I read,” Clarence said to Archie. “What was your favorite?”

  Though Jane was close enough to hear Archie’s reply, she didn’t listen. Instead, she put her hand on her fork and froze.

&nb
sp; “A book list,” she murmured.

  Uncle Aloysius raised his brows. “Pardon?”

  “I need to look at an image on my phone,” Jane said to Parrish. “A letter written from William Cecil to your father.”

  Parrish, who’d just started on his soup, put down his spoon. “Is it dated?”

  “I’ll pop in the ladies’ room to look,” said Jane. “It wouldn’t do for the manager of Storyton Hall to break the technology rules by using my cell phone in a public space.”

  Jane hurried to the restroom and locked herself in a stall. She pulled up her phone’s camera roll and found the image of the letter from William Cecil to Cyril Steward. It seemed like weeks ago that Sinclair had shown this to her in the secret library.

  As Jane reread the short missive, she found nothing of interest. It was a cordial letter sent from the master of one great house to another. Mr. Cecil had also included a list of the books he’d recently read. He didn’t go into specifics about the titles. He simply listed them, which was rather odd.

  After committing the titles to memory, Jane returned to the table.

  “The letter is from January 2, 1923,” she began without preamble. “When was Hemingway’s suitcase lost?”

  “The end of December 1922,” said Parrish.

  Jane’s pulse quickened. “The four book titles William Cecil listed are Lost Illusions, Stories of the Railway, The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes, and Ivanhoe.”

  Uncle Aloysius glanced at Jane and Parrish. “Lost Illusions by Honoré de Balzac was set in Paris. The book’s hero was a poet.”

  “So we have a writer in Paris. Next, we have a book about trains,” said Jane. She could sense them homing in on a significant clue—the thing that would lead them to Hemingway’s missing work.

  “The reference to Sherlock Holmes is likely twofold.” Parrish said. “First and foremost, the stories are all mysteries. Secondly, the word case is in the title.”

  Jane’s face broke into a smile. “It has to be a reference to the lost suitcase. What about Ivanhoe? It’s been a long time since I read that book.”