by H. Y. Hanna
I walked slowly down the aisle, trailing my hand reverently along the spines of the books on the shelves, occasionally pulling out a volume to flip through. There is nothing as beautiful as an old book, I thought, lovingly caressed and read for years.
Towards the back of the store were the more expensive rare and antiquarian books, locked up in glass cases, and in the corner, next to an old leather Chesterfield armchair, was a large writing desk. There was a man behind it and a quick glance told me that this was the same “Edwin” I had met at the fête. In fact, I thought he was wearing the same brown tweed jacket with matching waistcoat and olive-green corduroy trousers, together with a faded bowtie which made him look slightly ridiculous.
He glanced up as I approached and I saw something flicker in his eyes as he rose politely. “May I help you, miss? Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Um… no, just browsing…” I paused, then added, “I’m sorry about what happened at the fête. It must have been very upsetting for you, being a friend of the family.”
“I’m sorry? I’m afraid I don’t follow…”
“Dame Clare Eccleston. We met when I was driving her daughter home after the—afterwards. Actually, we also met briefly earlier: you were just coming out of the cat show pavilion as I was going in. We… sort of had a collision. I was carrying lemonade.”
“Oh, yes, of course…” He took his spectacles off and polished them busily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognise you.”
Liar, I thought. He had recognised me all right, the minute I entered the shop. I saw the way he had looked at me as I approached him—and unless I had been mistaken, there had been a flicker of apprehension in his gaze.
Why? Why should he have been nervous to see me?
“Have you been a friend of the Eccleston family for long?” I tried again.
“I knew Sir Henry Eccleston,” he said shortly. “He had an interest in antiquarian books and collected first editions.” He replaced his spectacles and said briskly, “Well, if you need anything, let me know. We have general second-hand books, as well as rare and first editions.”
I nodded and started to turn away, then on an impulse, turned back to him and said, “I don’t suppose you have any books on poisons?”
He stiffened. “Poisons?”
“Yes, I was thinking… something that might mimic a heart attack,” I said, watching him.
“No, I’m afraid we don’t have any books on that subject.”
I raised my eyebrows slightly and glanced around the store. “You have a lot of books here—you don’t have a single volume on poisons?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said coldly. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.” His tone was final.
I gave up. I wasn’t even sure why I had brought up the subject anyway. It had just been… a bit of a hunch. I turned to leave. Just as I was nearing the door, however, I came across a woman who was browsing one of the upper shelves. She put a hand out to stop me as I walked past her.
“Excuse me,” she said in a low voice. “I couldn’t help overhearing your question just now. I’m not sure if this is what you are looking for but I did see a few books on herbal remedies and such, including poisons, on that shelf over there.” She pointed to her right. “They’re just next to where I was looking for recipes.”
“Oh, thank you. That’s very kind of you.”
“Perhaps Mr Perkins misunderstood what you were asking for,” she suggested. “Or maybe he simply forgot that he had them.” She laughed, looking around. “I probably also wouldn’t remember if I had a shop with this many books!”
I smiled at her. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. Thanks anyway for letting me know.”
I glanced over my shoulder and saw Edwin Perkins watching us from his table, his mouth compressed in a thin line. Ignoring him, I turned and walked over to the shelf the woman had indicated. Sure enough, there were a few books on homeopathic herbal medicine, such as a reprint of an 1880 publication called Principal Homeopathic Medicines and an Antique Apothecary Book, and finally one entitled Home Remedy Secrets—Potions to Heal and Harm.
Curious, I reached up and pulled the last volume out. It had a faded cover, the edges curled and worn, and the pages yellowed with age. I opened it gently and skimmed some pages. There was a recipe for dandelion tea to clear up acne and eczema, and another for a comfrey salve to relieve aches and bruises. I flipped to another page and found a recipe for nutmeg oil which brought relief from rheumatic pain and toothache but which in higher doses could be lethal. Hallucinations, liver damage, and death. It seemed you could produce a whole pharmacy from your garden, as long as you had a bit of gardening expertise and knowledge of herbal remedies. With the right equipment, you could even make home-made, hand-pressed tablets. I wondered how closely they resembled the store-bought pills.
Thoughtfully I shut the book and slid it back into position on the shelf, then glanced over at the desk again. Edwin Perkins was still watching me.
Suppressing a shiver, I turned and left the store, stepping out into the afternoon sunshine with some relief. I didn’t like to admit it—even to myself—but that man gave me the creeps.
I mulled over the whole episode as we drove home, barely listening to my mother chattering next to me. It wasn’t until we were drawing up to the house that what she was saying filtered through.
“…and I told Helen I’m sure you’d be able to help Lincoln with choosing new curtains for his townhouse and you can discuss it together over dinner tonight—”
“Wait—” I turned to my mother. “What did you say? Aunt Helen and Lincoln are coming over for dinner tonight?” I was aghast.
Suddenly, I realised the real reason my mother wanted me to go with her to the hair salon, so that I would “look my best”. She was up to her old match-making tricks again! Helen Green was my mother’s closest friend and their joint greatest dream (and lifelong mission) was to see me married to her son, Lincoln. The thing was, I did like Lincoln a lot—he was a great guy—but as a friend, nothing more. It had taken me a while to understand my own feelings but I knew now that my heart belonged to Devlin. Ever since that day when we’d met as Freshers in our first week at Oxford, there had never really been anyone else but him.
My mother, though, wasn’t so easily convinced. I had thought that she would have given up by now, but no, it seemed that she had simply been rallying her forces and planning new lines of attack. As for Helen, she was still full of indignation at my audacity in choosing Devlin, with his working-class roots, over her beloved son, an Eton-educated, upper-middle-class, eminent doctor. She had been decidedly frosty in her manner towards me lately and it made for a lot of awkward conversations. I thought with dread of an entire evening sitting across the table from Helen and Lincoln… I couldn’t face it.
“I can’t come,” I said impulsively. “I won’t be home for dinner tonight.”
My mother looked at me in astonishment. “Why ever not?”
“Because I’m… I’m moving into Devlin’s place.” So much for not rushing into it.
“What?” For once, my mother forgot her own rule of “never say what?—say pardon?” She stared at me, an expression of absolute horror on her face.
“You mean… you’re going to live together?” She made it sound like we were going on a killing spree together.
“Well, yes,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “Lots of couples do it nowadays. It’s no big deal. It’s an ideal solution. I’m having trouble finding a place to rent, Devlin’s got loads of room… It would be really handy for me to get to work, as well as come into Oxford—his place is about halfway between here and Meadowford—and… it would be easier for us to spend more time together as well.”
My mother looked like she had swallowed an incredibly nasty slug. I almost felt sorry for her. As we parked the car and went into the house, I felt guilt begin to weigh down on me. I thought of how excited my mother had been earlier and winced when I thought of how
I must be ruining her evening. How was she going to explain things to Helen Green when they arrived? I felt terrible.
In the hallway, I hesitated, wondering if I should stay for dinner after all. I could always leave afterwards. At least that way, my mother would salvage a bit of her pride and it would be a sop to her feelings.
Then I stiffened my resolve. No. I had to do this. If I caved in now, I’d be back down the slippery slope of pandering to maternal approval. Whether my mother liked it or not, Devlin was in my life for good now.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Muesli peered excitedly through the bars of her cat carrier as we arrived at Devlin’s place. As soon as we were in the house, I let her out to explore her new home. She took a few steps, then stopped and looked back at me.
“Meorrw?”
“New digs, Muesli,” I said with a smile.
She vibrated her tail, then turned and trotted off. We watched as she made a wide circuit, weaving her way between Devlin’s modular lounge suite and side tables, past the bookcases, rubbing her chin against the entertainment system in the corner, slipping behind the curtains to look out of the French windows at the darkness outside, then turning and scampering across to the gleaming stainless steel kitchen on the other side of the room.
Devlin lived in a converted barn—a huge, airy space renovated with modern furnishings but retaining much of its rustic charm. The ground floor was basically one large, open-plan room, with the kitchen at one end and living room at the other, as well as a laundry and downstairs toilet. Muesli trotted importantly up the open spiral staircase ahead of us as we took my things up to the mezzanine level where Devlin had his bedroom and en suite.
“I thought you might like to have the side of the bed nearest the bathroom. And I’ve cleared a couple of drawers for you,” said Devlin as he set my case down by the built-in wardrobe. “But if you need more space, just let me kn—Gemma? Is anything the matter?”
I had stopped by my side of the bed and was fingering the bedspread nervously. Suddenly, the enormity of what I was doing hit me: I was moving in with Devlin O’Connor. Aside from the lingering guilt I still felt from my mother’s disapproval, there was a stab of panic. Was this a good idea? Were we moving too fast? After all, we’d only really been “going out” (again) as a couple for a few months now—wasn’t this rushing things?
“Gemma?” Devlin came over to me and put a gentle hand on my arm. “What’s wrong?”
I blinked. “Nothing, I guess. Just…” I shrugged. “It feels a bit weird.”
“It’s not that different to when we were always sleeping over at each other’s rooms, back in college. Only a much bigger room and—” Devlin grinned wickedly, “—a much bigger bed.”
I blushed slightly and gave him a playful shove. Then I thought about what he had said. He was right. This wasn’t really any different to when we had been at college together and practically living in each other’s rooms. And in a way, although it might have felt like we were moving a bit fast, we weren’t really like most couples who had just begun dating. We’d known each other since we were eighteen and had spent almost every waking hour together when we were students at Oxford. For goodness’ sake, we had almost been engaged! In some ways, Devlin and I knew each other better than most couples ever would.
“Hey…”
I looked up to see Devlin watching me and realised that my thoughts must have been clearly written on my face.
“Remember, you can check out anytime you like,” he said gently. “Although I think Muesli might have something to say about it,” he added, nodding at his bed and grinning.
I turned to look. Muesli had made herself comfortable in the middle of the duvet. Her loud purring filled the room. She certainly had no qualms about moving in with Devlin—in fact, she looked like she was in kitty heaven!
I chuckled in spite of myself. “The little minx. You know she hogs the bed at night.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Devlin laughed. “Come on, let’s go downstairs. Are you hungry? I thought we could rustle up some pasta for dinner.”
“Sounds great,” I said, following him back down the stairs.
As we cooked dinner together in the large, modern kitchen—boiling the pasta, simmering the tomato sauce, chopping up some fresh herbs—I listened to Devlin tell me about his day.
“By the way, I had that pill tested,” he said. “The one that Dame Eccleston was holding in her hand when she died.”
“And?” I looked at him eagerly.
“It’s kosher. Perfectly legit, bog standard angina pill, such as would be prescribed by any doctor and dispensed by any pharmacy.”
“Oh.” I rocked back on my heels, disappointed. “I was so sure…”
Devlin gave a sigh. “Gemma, I told you not to listen to Mable Cooke’s over-imaginative—”
“But what if it’s not just her imagination?”
“We’ve been through all this,” Devlin said impatiently. “I can’t start a murder investigation just because your mother thought a pillbox was in the wrong place—”
“It’s not just that. A couple of other things have come up,” I said.
Quickly, I recounted a carefully censored version of what had happened at Eccleston House that morning, glossing over the bit where I’d caught the Old Biddies breaking and entering. Devlin was no fool, however, and he gave me a wry look when I finished.
“Why do I get a feeling that there’s more to that story than you’re telling me? Never mind…” He held up a hand with weary resignation as I started to protest. “I don’t really want to know. I’m sure it involves Mabel Cooke and her friends doing something they should probably get arrested for.”
“So what about what the maid said?” I asked. “About the fight between Dame Eccleston and her daughter?”
“Do you really think Mary Eccleston could have killed her mother?”
“I—” I stopped. “I don’t know,” I said at last. “I just can’t believe it… but then, maybe I don’t want to believe it. You know, because I like Mary. But as my mother said—and I hate to admit it but she’s right—just because I like Mary doesn’t mean that she can’t be a murderer. But still… I just can’t believe it! For one thing, if she was the murderer, that anonymous note wouldn’t make sense. If we assume that it was sent by the murderer, then that would be suggesting that Mary had sent the letter herself. But if she had, surely she would want everyone to know about it as much as possible, to make people think that her mother had enemies—that the murderer was a stranger, someone outside the family?” I shook my head. “But she didn’t—she was really reluctant to tell us about it and when she finally did, she kept downplaying it; she said it was just another prank letter like the ones her mother got in college last year.”
“Did you suggest that she report it to the police?”
“Yes, and she was adamant about not showing it to the police. I think if it wasn’t for Audrey insisting that she show it to us, Mary wouldn’t even have mentioned it. So I don’t think she sent it herself—which means that the murderer is much more likely to be someone else.”
“Did it look like a prank letter?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t see the ones Dame Eccleston received before so it’s hard to compare. Audrey was pretty freaked out by it. It was a bit disturbing. I mean all anonymous letters are a bit creepy, aren’t they? But it wasn’t even the actual message—it was the way the person had cut these letters out and stuck them on—and then that horrible picture of Dame Eccleston with her eyes crossed out and her face disfigured like that…” I shuddered. “Audrey thought the person who had sent it must be unbalanced and I’m inclined to agree with her. You could really feel the… the hatred.”
Hatred. I thought uncomfortably of what Riza had said and the image of Mary Eccleston standing there, screaming: “I HATE YOU! I WISH YOU WERE DEAD!” flashed across my mind. I pushed the thought away.
“I suppose I can see if my sergeant has time to in
terview Mary Eccleston tomorrow about the note,” Devlin was saying.
“No, don’t do that,” I said quickly. “I would hate for Mary to think that I was telling on her, behind her back. She might still report it to the police herself.”
“Fine. But in that case, there’s not much else I can do.”
“But… surely this is enough now to start a murder investigation?”
“Based on what? Dame Eccleston died suddenly, that is true, but it wasn’t an unexpected death. It was certified by her doctor that she had a weak heart and was likely to have a heart attack any time. There’s no reason to suspect that her death was due to any other cause. That little bit of inconsistency with the pillbox doesn’t really prove anything. The fact that she received an anonymous nasty message a few days ago might mean something—on the other hand, there are a dozen cases of school and workplace bullying each week, all involving nasty anonymous notes, and that’s not even counting all the trolling that goes on on social media sites and online forums! Bloody hell, if we went by those parameters, we’d be having to treat half the deaths in Oxfordshire as murder!”
“Isn’t there any way to check if Dame Eccleston did die of natural causes?”
“Only if we do a post-mortem.”
“Well, can’t you do that?”
“Not without justifiable reason. It costs time and expense for the forensic pathologist to perform a post-mortem. We don’t do them unless there’s a compelling reason to suspect that a crime has been committed. Or…” Devlin added, “if a family member requests it and is prepared to foot the costs for an independent pathologist.”
