by Sara Rosett
I knew I really should ask him about the murder. That’s what Elise wanted me to do. Quiz him on his involvement. No, quiz was too mild a word to use in association with Elise. An inquisition seemed more Elise’s style. Quimby’s questions indicated he was interested in Rafe’s movements, but Rafe said he was in the library all afternoon. I knew Elise would want a verbal confirmation of his whereabouts. I didn’t think she’d hang the continuation of the production on an overheard conversation, but so far I hadn’t figured out a way to work the conversation around to the murder. I’m not normally shy about getting to the point, but it seemed like a smarter move to tread carefully.
Rafe lounged in another of the Queen Anne chairs, his leg slung over the arm, a cup of tea cradled at his midsection. “It will have to be soon. I’m supposed to produce the letters for filming.” He frowned at the ceiling. “I still can’t believe I was so foolish. I should have kept the letters in a safety deposit box as you suggested.”
“But you have copies.”
“Of course I had copies.” Rafe licked his lips. “But they were with the originals.”
“What?”
“I know. I know.” Rafe sat up suddenly and pushed his teacup onto the tray roughly, causing a clatter of china. He paced to the windows then back. “I didn’t want to handle the originals. To prevent further damage and deterioration, you know. So I was working from the copies. It was easier to keep them all together. The copies were on top; the originals at the bottom. I should have separated them.” He paced back to the window.
“Well, then during the authentication process…photographs would have been taken or copies or scans or something, right?”
Rafe didn’t reply right away, continuing to stare out the window.
“I was told that you’d had them authenticated…” I said.
“I did, but I’ve become a victim of my own paranoia. I was so worried about being scooped, of word leaking out about what I’d found, that I went to an extremely discreet lab in what I jokingly called an undisclosed location, and required everyone involved to sign various agreements. One of those agreements was a nondisclosure agreement.”
He didn’t go on, only stared out the window. “And?” I prompted.
He sighed. “The other agreements required the lab to destroy all files and records of their procedures.”
“What?”
“I only have the analysis of the lab that the paper and ink are consistent with what was used during Jane Austen’s time and the handwriting analysis report.”
I tried to speak, but my amazement strangled the words in my throat. I carefully set down my teacup and cleared my throat. “Of all the sloppy, unprofessional things—”
He turned back to me, speaking quickly. “You know what the world is like now. A text, a mention on any social media, and I’d be blown. I had to be careful. The exclusivity was what would make the book.”
“And your career,” I said. He’d made a decision on what was best for him, angling to get all the mileage out of his find that he could. “You could have released the letters as soon as you had the authentication. They’re lost forever now.”
“I know.” He massaged his forehead. “You don’t know how many times I’ve gone over it in my mind. I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking if only I’d done this or that. But would you? I mean, think about it.” He moved back to the chair near me and sat down. He propped his elbows on his knees and leaned over the tea tray. “If you’d found them, can you really tell me you would have magnanimously released the letters without at least trying to gain something from it, personally?”
I looked away. “No, you’re right.” I would have thought about how I could leverage the letters as well, maybe as an entrance back into a grad program or simply as a way to become an expert with a book or two to my name. “But you have to have notes, right?” I asked. “Even snippets of Austen’s letters would be better than nothing.”
“Yes.” He nodded slowly.
“And you can remember the gist of some of them?”
“Of course. I’ve spent hours reading and rereading them.”
“Well, it sounds like you need to get what you remember down on paper. And make some copies. Back it up.”
“Yes.” He’d stood again and paced around the room, mumbling to himself, his focus turned inward.
Before I lost him completely, I said, “Rafe, we need a new place to shoot the interview.”
“What?” He looked at me, but his thoughts were far away.
“The interview. We need a new location to film it. Perhaps here? Is there a study or library? Elise liked the look we had in your cottage with lots of books in the background.”
“Sure. Come with me.”
Rafe left the tea things and trotted up the stairs then opened a door to a room with a desk and several club chairs. Several glass-fronted bookcases filled the walls. “I was trying to get some work done this morning before the inspector arrived.”
“This might do,” I said, glancing around the room. I pushed back the heavy velvet drapes and bright sunlight flooded in, glinting off the glass. It would be tricky, getting the light right and avoiding glaring reflection, but I thought we could make it work—as long as Elise didn’t cut Rafe from the documentary.
Rafe moved to the desk where a laptop sat beside a messenger bag. He sat down and placed his hands on the keys.
“Your laptop escaped the fire?”
“Yes, I had it with me.” He patted the messenger bag. “Fortunate, that. I would be lost without it.”
“Hmm. And too bad for any would-be thief,” I said, “if you buy Becca’s theory.”
Rafe didn’t reply, so I took out my camera, photographed the room, and made notes. “Do you think Becca will mind if we interview here?” I asked as I moved from one corner to the other.
“Are you kidding?” He glanced quickly at the door and lowered his voice. “Anything to get close to notoriety.”
I raised my eyebrows, but Rafe already had his head bent over his laptop again.
Unlike the last time I had out my camera around Rafe, he hardly looked up. I finished, packed my things away, and said we’d be in touch about the interview. “Sure. Good,” he said as he typed away.
I’d found a possible location for the interview, but as far as Rafe’s guilt or innocence…well, I hadn’t been able to subtly work it into the conversation, and I couldn’t go back to Elise with information I’d learned through eavesdropping. I might as well try the direct approach. “Rafe, did you have anything to do with that woman’s death? I’m sorry to ask, but it’s critical that the production have all the information…”
“Hmm?” The movement of his fingers slowed.
“The woman found in your cottage. Were you…involved…in her death in any way?”
“No, of course not,” he said matter-of-factly as his fingers resumed their quick tapping. “No idea how she came to be there.”
“Okay. We’ll be in touch.”
I went down the stairs slowly, surprised to realize that I believed him. There was something so calm and straightforward in his manner. There was no sign of the smugness he’d shown earlier with Quimby. He didn’t seem to be lying, but then again, detecting when someone was lying was not something I had a lot of experience with. I wondered what Inspector Quimby would think if he’d been there.
Becca was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs, her arms crossed. “Rafe showed you the study?” she asked, her carefully plucked eyebrows arching. Or at least, it appeared she was trying to raise her eyebrows, but her incredibly smooth forehead didn’t want to give a centimeter. She’d changed into riding breeches, which skimmed her slim figure, and had woven her red-gold hair into a braid that fell across one shoulder.
“Yes. The production planned to interview Rafe in his cottage, but now we need to make alternate arrangements. Rafe thought the study might work,” I said, not sure how she would react. The interactions we’d had during the pre-production for th
e feature film hadn’t gone well, to put it mildly.
She uncrossed her arms. “How much?” she asked crisply, and I knew she was in.
“I’ll discuss it with the producer and get back to you this afternoon.”
“Good.” She opened the door. “Have Alex call me. He and I worked so closely together last time. He knows exactly what I want.” She managed to make the words into a double entendre.
I knew that if we used Grove House, Alex would want to stay as far away from Becca as possible, but I managed to keep a straight face as I said, “I’ll pass along your request.”
“See that you do.” Becca closed the door the moment I crossed the threshold. I was lucky I didn’t get my heel caught in the door. I shook my head and braced myself to drive back to the village.
I rolled to a stop in front of my cottage and took a moment to do some deep breathing. I’d had to repeat the slipping back, struggling forward procedure on the way out of Becca’s drive, but I’d been ready for it this time and had managed to struggle forward once the car was on level ground and readjust the seat. Fortunately, the road back to Nether Woodsmoor didn’t have any sharp inclines, but I had made a wrong turn which took me into the center of Nether Woodsmoor, which wasn’t difficult to navigate or congested by any means—it certainly wasn’t London or Manchester—but by the time I turned onto Cottage Lane, my palms were sweaty, and I was as jittery as a thoroughbred before a race. I’d returned to Honeysuckle Cottage so I could download my photos and put all the information together for Elise on a possible new interview location.
I’d made a stop on the way back to the cottage, the local library. I wanted to give Elise several options so she couldn’t complain, but while the library was located in a picturesque golden stone building with hanging flower baskets outside the front door, the inside had been totally remodeled. The gray metal bookshelves with their industrial look did not convey the “country estate library” vibe that Elise wanted.
While I was inside the library, I asked the woman at the checkout counter if she’d worked yesterday, hoping she could tell me if Rafe had been in the library all afternoon, but she shook her head. “That’d be Christina. She’s usually here, but had an appointment today. Do you need a library card? I’m afraid only she can do that. I’m only a volunteer.”
I told her it was fine, that I’d drop in again later, and then I returned to the MG. Before I got on the road again, I had found Beatrice’s phone number on the list of contact info Alex had sent me. I left a message on Beatrice’s voicemail, asking if she knew of any other locations in homes or other buildings around the area that had a study or library that might work for the interview. Becca might be on-board with the idea of the interview taking place at her house, but we didn’t have anything in writing yet, and I always like to have a backup plan, especially when the home owner was as mercurial as Becca.
I stepped out of the car and surveyed Lilac Cottage as I walked to my door. The crime tape was gone, and a crew of men in coveralls and heavy gloves were carrying chunks of scorched wood and burnt-out furniture out of the cottage and heaving them into a metal dumpster, which was located directly in front of Rafe’s cottage. I saw Quimby across the lane on his phone, his back turned away from the scene.
Half an hour later, I was putting the finishing touches on my report when a knock sounded at the front door. I had set up my laptop and spread out my notes on the round table in the kitchen.
Quimby was on the front step.
“Hello Ms. Sharp,” he said, leaning so that he could see over my shoulder into the cottage. His face lit up. “Your cottage has the same layout as Mr. Farraday’s cottage, yes?” I nodded. “Brilliant. Would you mind if I had a look around?”
Quimby was already lifting his foot to move across the threshold. I closed the door a bit more and stepped into the narrow gap blocking his way.
“Why?” When I met Quimby during the earlier investigation, he had been quick to suspect I was involved in that murder. I wasn’t about to give him carte blanche. “Am I a suspect?”
“Should you be?”
“No, but you told me once that you consider everyone a suspect.”
Quimby grinned. “True, but I’m not trying to gain access to your residence to search it. I simply want to see the layout of Mr. Farraday’s home before the fire. And I do have a few follow-up questions to ask you. You are perfectly within your rights to deny me access. I can ask you those questions right here, if you’d rather.”
“But then you might think I have something to hide, which I don’t.” I opened the door and stepped back.
“Thank you.” He paused at the front room, his attention fixed on the contemporary furniture. “Ah…interesting.”
“Isn’t it?” I let him hang for an awkward moment then said, “It belonged to the former tenant.”
“Ah.” He walked around the room, examined the window, then eyed the space between the window and my couch. He moved back into the hall, looked up the stairs, but didn’t go up, then touched the door to the storage space under the stairs. “May I?”
“Go ahead.” I waved a hand, but then felt a frisson of doubt. There hadn’t been anything unusual or…incriminating…in there when I put my suitcase away, had there? I hadn’t really looked around. I’d just shoved it in and closed the door.
Quimby switched on a pencil-sized flashlight. I stepped closer and watched over his shoulder as the bright circle illuminated my small suitcase then a mop, broom, and tank vacuum. I tried to keep my sigh of relief inaudible. Quimby moved my suitcase slightly, then hunched over and entered the small space. “Not expansive, but room enough for a body even with more items than you have stored in here.”
“I suppose so,” I said, trying not to think about how horrible it would be to be trapped in a burning house.
Quimby closed the door and looked toward the kitchen. “May I?”
“Yes, of course,” I said, still thinking about the unknown woman.
I followed Quimby into the kitchen. He examined the backdoor then retraced his steps through the kitchen to the hallway. He walked the route several times, then said, “Would you mind if I tried an experiment on the lock on your backdoor? I’ve cleared it with Lady Stone.”
“Are you going to try and open it without a key?”
He blinked, and before he could assume that I had been eavesdropping on his earlier conversation—something that I was sure he would frown on—I said, “Beatrice told me the locks on these cottages are not very secure. That’s why the bolt is there.”
“Right. Unfortunately, the fire service had to damage the locks on the doors of Mr. Farraday’s cottage to get inside. They’re not in good shape.”
“Yes, sure. Give it a go. I’ve had so much trouble getting the locks to open that I’ve certainly wished I had another way to get inside.”
Quimby gave a small smile then stepped onto the back porch. I swiped up the set of keys that I’d left on the kitchen table and hurried outside after him. I managed to lock the door from the outside with the key after two attempts, then stepped back.
Quimby examined the lock with his slim flashlight then removed a screwdriver from a pocket of his jacket. After about three experimental twists of varying pressure, the lock clicked and the door swung open easily.
“Well, that’s frightening,” I said, mentally vowing to always use the bolt lock. “Do you think the front lock would be as easy to open?”
“I assume so. They are the same model of lock, but I’d like to try it.”
We trooped to the front door, our heels tapping loudly on the hardwood floor. We repeated the process, but this time, it took Quimby only one attempt to get the door open. I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. “You’re awfully good at this breaking and entering stuff.”
“I’m a quick study, Ms. Sharp,” he said blandly as he removed a package of tissues from his pocket and wiped down the screwdriver before putting it away. “Thank you. That was very helpful.”
The trace of humor on his face vanished. “This is a one-time event. An experiment. I’d never authorize anyone to try something like this without the resident’s permission.”
“It’s okay. I was joking. Well, partly. I do intend to keep the bolts locked whenever I’m home.”
“That would be wise. Now, just a few more questions, if you have the time?”
The workers next door were giving us curious glances, and I noticed a woman who lived in the cottage at the end of the lane was taking an extra-long time to make her way up the path to her cottage as she squinted in our direction. “Yes, let’s go back inside.”
I started to offer him a seat on the couch, then said, “The kitchen will be more comfortable, I think,” and led the way down the hallway. “I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I’m afraid I haven’t even been to the store yet to buy food. I could get you a glass of water, though.”
“No need. This will only take a moment.” Quimby pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, and I sat down opposite him. “Have you thought of anything that might be helpful to our investigation?”
“Um, no.” My thoughts veered to the letters, but they had nothing to do with the woman. Unless she was in the cottage looking for them? In the cupboard under the stairs? No.
Perhaps Rafe put her there, a contrary voice whispered, but Quimby was already asking his next question.
“What time did you leave your cottage last night?”
“It was seven-twenty or a little after.”
“You remember the exact time?”
“Yes. When Alex and I parted at the back gate we made plans to go to dinner in twenty minutes. It was seven then.”
“I’m sorry, what’s this about the back gate?”
I explained about the lane being blocked earlier that evening because of the fire in the bin, and how we had to park in the lot for the bike trail. “So we walked home along the path behind the cottages,” I said.
