Death by the Book

by Deering, Julianna

  “True enough.” He managed not to smile at the earnestness in her comments. “But I don’t think it’s random at all. There’s a definite key to it, if we could just find it.”

  “Well.” She stepped back a bit, looking rather abashed by her own boldness. “Of course, I wouldn’t know enough about the particulars in this case to actually say.”

  “Mrs. Harkness! Good morning again!”

  Drew turned to see Mr. Llewellyn hobbling across the road with the aid of a cane, just as battered as Mrs. Harkness had described him. He had a sheaf of pink rhododendrons cradled in one arm.

  “What are you doing up and about?” Drew hurried to him and took his arm. “Oughtn’t you to be in bed?”

  The two women surrounded them, clucking and scolding.

  “Now, now, ladies, don’t fuss. I’m not quite dead yet.” There was a roguish twinkle in the older gentleman’s bright blue eyes. “After all, it’s not how many times one’s knocked down that counts, but how many times he gets up, eh?”

  Mrs. Harkness shook her head. “I’m sure Dr. Wallace must have told you to take it easy for a few days.”

  “But that’s just the trouble, ma’am. I couldn’t possibly rest easy until I had offered you my apologies for yesterday morning’s unfortunate occurrence.” Mr. Llewellyn shifted the flowers into her arms. “I know it’s no compensation for your injuries, but I trust it will assure you of my sincere regrets.”

  “Really, Mr. Llewellyn, you needn’t have troubled yourself. I’m not really hurt. Accidents happen. You’re the one who looks as if he’s been caned.” Mrs. Harkness smiled on the lush bouquet. “You didn’t go out on that sprained ankle and cut these yourself, did you?”

  “No, I’m sorry to say. Mrs. Christopher brought them in from the garden. To cheer me up, she said, and I thought you were far more deserving of them.”

  He made a gallant bow, and Mrs. Webster smirked. “Oooh, I think Bobbie has an admirer.”

  Mrs. Harkness frowned. “Do hush up, Gladys, if you’re going to be silly. I’m sure Mr. Llewellyn is only being polite.”

  “Nonsense. I know a handsome woman when I see one.” Mr. Llewellyn waggled his salt-and-pepper eyebrows at her. “I may be old and a bit out of practice, but I’m not blind.”

  Mrs. Harkness shook her head. “You’re a flatterer, that’s what you are. I know it when I hear it, though I can’t say I’ve heard it much since Mr. Harkness took to his heels.”

  He grinned at her. “All’s forgiven, I hope?”

  “Nothing to forgive,” she assured him. “It likely was all my fault, stepping out into the street without looking.”

  “The fault was entirely mine, madam.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “But you’re a lady right through, Mrs. Harkness. I don’t mind who knows it.”

  Drew gave Mrs. Harkness a wink, and she looked away, blushing.

  “You really should be lying down, shouldn’t you, Mr. Llewellyn?” She wagged one finger at the old man. “What did Dr. Wallace say?”

  Mr. Llewellyn made some blustery huffing noises. “You don’t get to be my age lying about with your feet up.”

  “Please, Mr. Farthering, can’t you make him see reason?”

  “I can try, Mrs. Harkness. No guarantees, of course.” Drew moved to take the gentleman’s arm again and was immediately shaken off.

  “I can get along without help, young man.”

  “To be sure, but I thought you might take me round to your house and show me your new bicycle. I didn’t get to see it before, not up close. I hope it wasn’t damaged in the collision.”

  A light came into the older man’s eyes. “No. Not in the least. The old girl’s a battle tank.” He cleared his throat hastily. “I mean the bicycle, of course. Would you really like to come see her?”

  “Very much.” Drew raised his hat to the two shopkeepers. “If you ladies will excuse us.”

  “Do be careful,” Mrs. Harkness called as they crossed the road. “I’ll bring you over some of my bread pudding this afternoon, shall I, Mr. Llewellyn?”

  “That would be lovely,” he called back, and then he stumbled over the curb and had to hold on to Drew to keep from falling. “Confounded nuisance, this ankle. It’s not sprained, you know. Just turned a bit. Wallace says I’ll soon be healed up and back on my bicycle.”

  “Ah, splendid.”

  “Never saw the like of it, though. Women, God love ’em, haven’t a brain among the lot of them. Granted, it was hardly light yet and neither of us was expecting anyone to be about, but she stepped right in front of me. Couldn’t possibly pull up in time. Heaven knows what she was thinking.”

  “Perhaps her mind was on opening up her shop for the day.”

  Mr. Llewellyn harrumphed. “Fascinating, actually, the workings of the human mind. Not like a well-built machine. You can count on machines. The brain, sometimes it just goes haywire. There’s no accounting for it.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “If you’re going to carry on playing detective, young man, you’d be wise to study up. Read a good book on abnormal psychology.”

  Drew glanced at him, not liking the idea that had worried its way into his head. “Funny you should say so, but Mrs. Harkness sold me the most interesting book last week.”

  “Really? What was it?”

  “About murderesses. Lurid stuff, really.” Drew watched the man’s face. He was certainly battered enough.

  “If he’d meant to turn himself black and blue, he couldn’t have done a better job of it.”

  Mr. Llewellyn nodded. “Deadlier than the male. You can bank on it.”

  “She said someone local had ordered it and never picked it up.”

  “Did she? Rum luck for our lady shopkeeper, eh? Sounds a fascinating read, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, I thought so. A bit grim, but certainly riveting,” Drew said, still watching. “Why do you suppose people kill? I mean, not the obvious ones, the ones with something to gain, but the ones who seem to do it because . . . I don’t know, perhaps because it just pleases them.”

  “A game, I daresay,” Mr. Llewellyn replied. “You take this hatpin murderer we have now. Monstrous, clever fellow, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Seems so at this point, anyway. You didn’t happen to be about the evening before last, did you? I mean, perhaps you saw—”

  “I do generally take a ride down the lane on my bicycle before turning in for the night, but I didn’t see anything out of place that evening. What time did you say this last killing took place?”

  “About a quarter of ten, perhaps a bit before.”

  “I’d just have been coming in. This hatpin blighter is likely sitting back in plain sight, having a bit of a laugh at all the fuss being made over him. Showing who’s master, eh?”

  “Yes,” Drew pressed, “but why?”

  “Not enough time out in the fresh air, if you ask me.” By then they had reached Llewellyn’s cottage and the flame-red bicycle leaning against the garden shed. “Cycling. It’s the nearest way to a sound body and a sound mind. Now tell me you’ve seen a finer machine, and I’ll likely ask you to leave my premises.”

  For the next ten minutes the older man waxed poetical about his beloved machine, until Drew finally made his excuses and went back to his car. He still didn’t like what he was thinking. The very idea was ridiculous. He wasn’t going to mention it to Madeline or Nick. Certainly not to Chief Inspector Birdsong. Not till he’d had a chance to turn things over in his mind for a bit.

  Eighteen

  The next day, leaving Madeline and her aunt in the parlor with their lace making, Drew went to talk to Roger Morris again about what and, more important, whom he might have seen around Clarice Deschner’s cottage the day of her murder. He drove up to the jail in Winchester and then, finding Roger had been released, dropped in at the chief inspector’s office.

  “Couldn’t hold him,” Birdsong admitted. “The incident at your cottage makes him quite unlikely to be our man.”
r />   Drew just narrowly refrained from smirking. “Quite.”

  The chief inspector scowled. “He’s not out of the woods yet, mind you. But it may interest you to know he did identify that black-and-white belt as belonging to the Deschner girl. Said it was across the back of the sofa with the dress when he and the girl quarreled. Wasn’t sure about whether it was there when he found her later.”

  “No,” Drew said. “Mightn’t be something he’d notice at that point in time. So, one less suspect, eh? Now what?”

  “Two less, actually. Daniel Montford was definitely at home at the time of the murder.”

  “Oh, yes? Not just his mother saying so?”

  Birdsong looked faintly disgusted. “From five minutes past ten until ten twenty-seven, young Mr. Montford was sitting on the doorstep in his back garden, smoking approximately two and a half cigarettes before retiring into the house. If the murder was done between nine thirty and nine forty-five, as we suspect, he couldn’t possibly have gotten back to London by ten.”

  “More and more, I think we’re on the wrong track. It’s got to be someone near to hand, someone no one pays much mind, who can get in and out everywhere rather unnoticed, someone we’re used to seeing about, perhaps.”

  Birdsong narrowed his eyes. “Anyone come to mind, Detective Farthering?”

  Drew only shrugged. “Could be anyone. Nick had rather an interesting idea. He thinks the killings are somehow moving closer to Farthering Place. And yes, geographically I suppose they are.”

  “Does he now? What’s he reckon the reason for that might be?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? Maybe it’s something you lads ought to have a go at. If it’s convenient, of course.”

  Birdsong looked him over contemplatively. “You, perhaps?”

  Drew grinned at him. “Modesty forbids . . .”

  “Yes, well, I can’t see your modesty being much use if our killer comes after you.”

  “As I told Nick, Inspector, I just can’t see why anyone would target me. I’m nobody.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. If you’re the target, someone at least thinks you’re somebody.”

  “But why? What would anyone gain from killing me?”

  Birdsong pursed his lips. “Hard to say. Privileged young lord of the manor? All the advantages of money and position? Might breed a bit of resentment in someone not so smiled upon. Dare I say jealousy?”

  “Nick and I were wondering if it mightn’t be a game.”

  “I’ve wondered myself. You’re rather celebrated locally, aren’t you? Just at the moment, I mean. Perhaps someone, jealous again, would like to do you one better, eh?”

  Before Drew could even think what to say in reply, a young constable popped his head into the room.

  “Beg pardon, sir. A Miss Forest to see you. About her hatpins.”

  Birdsong and Drew exchanged glances, and then they both stood at the entrance of a tiny, birdlike creature, prim and faded and wizened as an old apple. She accepted the straight-backed chair the constable offered her and peered at Drew.

  “Mr. Farthering, isn’t it? I’ve heard you’ve been in and out of trouble with the police for some while now, though I didn’t expect to find you here in Winchester of all places.”

  He managed to look repentant. “Yes, ma’am, but the chief inspector here has done his best to teach me the error of my ways.”

  Birdsong grimaced. “Mr. Farthering is helping us in our investigation, madam. That’ll be all, Parkins.”

  The constable vanished, and Birdsong sat down at his desk, his hands folded expectantly. “Now, how can we be of service, madam?”

  “Someone broke into my shop last night, and I’d like to know what you mean to do about it.”

  Birdsong’s gaze flickered between Drew and the older lady. “Just what sort of shop, may I ask?”

  “I carry items for ladies of taste and refinement, Inspector.” Miss Forest’s stern expression dared him to insinuate anything different. “None of the trash you see in most shops these days.”

  “I understand, madam.”

  “Now, I told the young man at the desk that I had had some things taken. I don’t know why I’m required to repeat the information. Couldn’t he have seen to it? I don’t know why I’ve been made to come up here. The officer in Farthering St. John couldn’t be bothered, I expect. He was certainly eager enough to hand me off to you.”

  “I’m sorry, madam,” Birdsong said. “But if you would just bear with us, perhaps we can find the thief and your stolen property. Just where is this shop?”

  “It’s the one round the corner from the church, down at the end of the high street in Farthering St. John. Do you know it?”

  “Forest’s Ladies’ Emporium,” Drew supplied.

  She nodded. “Quite right. I should like to know what you are going to do about the theft, Inspector.”

  “What exactly was taken, madam?”

  “I have a list here.” She took a folded paper from her purse, opened it, and smoothed it out on the table in front of her. Then she opened her purse again and brought out her spectacles. Those in place, she began to read. “Two antique pearl brooches, four china teacups, a box of rhinestone Christmas ornaments, a pair of antique hatpins, half a dozen silver bracelets, and a lithograph of Trafalgar Square.” She looked over her glasses at the chief inspector. “That’s in addition to the display case that was damaged and the porcelain shepherd and shepherdess that were smashed to pieces.”

  “Do you think the damage was deliberate?” Drew asked.

  “Well, the display case was where the stolen items had been kept, Mr. Farthering. I would say the thief was quite deliberate in breaking it to get them.”

  “And the porcelain?”

  She pushed her glasses further down her nose, studying Drew for a disdainful moment before turning her attention to Birdsong. “Really, Chief Inspector, whether or not the act was deliberate, I have been effectively robbed of those figures.”

  “Certainly, madam. Have you noticed anyone unusual in your shop or hanging about in the street nearby?”

  “Unusual? Hardly. I have my regular customers, respectable women, of course. A couple of other ladies with shops across the way sometimes come by for tea and a chat. I get a tourist now and again. That American girl and her aunt came in once or twice.” She glared at Drew. “Never bought so much as a handkerchief.”

  Drew shook his head in commiseration. “But nothing out of the ordinary?”

  She pursed her lips in thought. “Well, more amusing than extraordinary. That old gentleman who rides his bicycle around the village at all hours, Mr. Llewellyn, he’s come in two or three times to look at some of my ladies’ jewelry.” For the first time there was a spark of warmth in her faded blue eyes. “I think he has a sweetheart somewhere.”

  Drew pressed his lips together, feeling something twisting in his insides.

  The chief inspector cleared his throat. “If we could keep our discussion a little nearer the point, madam . . .”

  The woman’s expression once again became severe. “As you say. I want to know what you plan to do to find whoever is responsible for the damage done to my property.”

  “Certainly, madam. We’ll do everything in our power, but at the moment we’re most interested in your hatpins.”

  “The hatpins? They were hardly worth anything. I told the man at the desk that they didn’t matter, but that was all he wanted to know about. He didn’t care that my shop had been vandalized. I shall never be able to feel secure about it again. Really, Inspector, it is the most outrageous—”

  “The hatpins may have been used in the hatpin murders. I’m sure you’ve heard about them.”

  She put one little claw of a hand to the cascade of lace at her throat. “Oh.”

  “Don’t be alarmed, ma’am.” Drew gave her an encouraging smile. “There’s nothing to worry you about this, but you can be a tremendous help in the investigation.”

  Birdsong took a small bo
x from his desk drawer, removed the lid, and held it out for the lady to see.

  “Look at this closely, Miss Forest. Is it one of yours?”

  She reached out as if she would take the pin from him, but faltered and instead held her hands clasped in her lap. “Certainly one of mine. I recognize the little sparrow on the end. But it couldn’t have been taken yesterday. It’s one of my very old ones. I keep it—kept it, I should say—and one or two others in a box in the back room of the shop.”

  Drew glanced at the chief inspector. “So you didn’t even know it had gone missing?”

  She fidgeted with her small handbag. “Most everything in the back is packed up. How could I know?”

  “Of course not,” Drew soothed. “And it would stand to reason that you might not know if any of the others in that box might—”

  “Oh, dear. I hadn’t thought. Did you say all of these dreadful murders had been done with hatpins?”

  “Not the murders precisely, no. But the hatpins were used at the scene of each one.”

  “Used?” Her faded blue eyes flitted from Drew to the inspector and back again.

  “We’re not releasing that information to the public at the moment, madam,” Birdsong said with a scowl at Drew. “And I will have to ask you to keep anything mentioned here in confidence, all right?”

  “Oh, yes, Inspector. Certainly.”

  Miss Forest eased herself out of the chair, preparing to take her leave, and Drew cleared his throat. “The other pins, sir?”

  “I was just getting to that, if you don’t mind.” Birdsong made his expression a little more pleasant as he turned from Drew to the lady. “I will have to send an officer along with you back to your shop, madam, to have a look at the box of pins you say are kept in your back room. To see if any others are missing.”

  “Yes, of course. But you realize I couldn’t possibly have known—”