Murder in the Locked Library

by Ellery Adams

  “Yes,” Sinclair said. “They’re on par with Nestle or Kraft.”

  Lachlan let out a soft whistle.

  Jane wasn’t interested in Bart’s fortune. She was interested in his story. “His parents are gone?”

  “Yes. They died in a boating accident off the coast of Long Island when Mr. Baylor was a boy. His paternal grandfather raised him for a decade. Upon the grandfather’s death, he was cared for by a series of servants and tutors until he received the first of his trust fund payments.”

  “If he had a fortune, he had enemies,” Lachlan said.

  Butterworth grunted. “I would agree. According to Mr. Sinclair’s research, Mr. Baylor was worth millions.”

  “Though one wouldn’t know it.” Sinclair took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with his pocket square. “Mr. Baylor was an unusual man in many ways. His life was seemingly uncomplicated. His interests were limited to rare books, classical music, architecture, and touring museums. The luxury items many of the megarich possess held no appeal for Mr. Baylor. He didn’t care for sports cars, multiple residences, private jets, or the like. He lived in a modest home in upstate New York where he spent his time plying his trade. The house overlooks the Hudson River and must be very peaceful.”

  Jane, who’d been staring at the photocopied image of Bart’s driver’s license, said, “There has to be a dark secret in Bart’s past. Something that followed him to Storyton Hall. Something that prompted the killer to lace those gloves with cyanide, knowing that Bart would use them tonight.”

  Sterling turned away from the bank of television screens to look at Jane. “What you just said is important. How did the killer know that Mr. Baylor would be using gloves tonight? That person could only have that knowledge if Mr. Baylor shared what he’d learned about the cookbook before he shared it with you.”

  Jane dismissed this theory with a flick of her wrist. “He might have used those gloves at any time. We have no idea when the poison was inserted.”

  Butterworth cleared his throat. “I must concur with my colleague, Miss Jane. During my search of Mr. Baylor’s guest room, I came to the conclusion that Mr. Baylor arrived at Storyton Hall with an unopened box of disposable gloves. That box remained unopened until today. When Mr. Baylor removed his first pair of gloves, he most likely did so after teatime.”

  “How on earth could you know that?” Jane asked.

  Butterworth’s shoulders moved in the ghost of a shrug. “The trash bins are emptied at the same time each day, give or take a few minutes. The housekeeping staff cleans Mr. Baylor’s guest room between eleven and eleven-thirty every morning. According to Mrs. Pimpernel, Mr. Baylor prefers not to be in his room when the housekeepers are present, so he would have exited before eleven. Considering he had lunch plans, followed by a lecture and teatime with his friends from the Robert Harley Society, I don’t think he would have had the chance to open the box until four at the earliest.”

  “Impressive,” Sinclair said, inclining his chin at the head butler.

  Though Jane was listening to Butterworth, a line in Sinclair’s report had diverted her attention. “Bart contributed huge amounts of money to a charitable organization called the Literacy Ark. Is it legit? And who operates it?”

  “Give me a minute and I’ll have your answer.” Sinclair’s fingers flew over his laptop keyboard. “The goal of the Literacy Ark is ‘to combat illiteracy across the globe by training teachers, providing instructional materials, and building or improving public school and library facilities at no cost to those who benefit from its use.’”

  “A wonderful cause,” Jane said. “I’m not surprised that someone who devoted his life to the preservation of books and knowledge would support such an organization.”

  Lachlan, who’d been reading over Sinclair’s shoulder, pointed at the computer screen. “I’m sure Mr. Baylor’s buddies, the Sullivan brothers, were pretty influential when it came time for him to write a big check. Aren’t they famous for their ability to raise impressive amounts of money for humanities-related fund-raisers? And since they founded this charity, I bet they put even more effort into the Literacy Ark.”

  Jane sighed. “I hate to say it, but we’ll have to dig deeper into this charity. The Sullivan brothers might not be the altruistic philanthropists everyone believes them to be. Maybe they’re motivated by the huge donations because they’re skimming off the top.” She shook her head. “Lord, when did I become so cynical? Can’t anyone be what they seem? Can’t Bart have been a decent person who lived a quiet life? Can’t the Sullivans truly want to make the world a better place through books, music, and art?”

  Butterworth was about to speak when there was a knock on the door. “That should be someone from the kitchen staff.”

  The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the room as Butterworth placed a tray in the center of the table. In addition to coffee, there was a basket of croissants, corn bread muffins, Mrs. Hubbard’s famous dill rolls, and crispy cheddar breadsticks—kept warm beneath a cotton napkin.

  “I ordered a bold decaf. Eventually, you will need to sleep.” Butterworth served coffee to Jane first before offering it to his fellow Fins.

  Jane helped herself to a croissant, but decided to forgo the butter. The pastry was so light and flaky that it was perfect as it was.

  “What of Mr. Rolf?” she asked Sinclair. “After his behavior by the gazebo this evening, I’d like to take a closer look at his profile.”

  “Mr. Felix Rolf is a rare book dealer hailing from New Orleans,” Sinclair began. He scanned his notes and then nodded as if silently confirming a fact. “His antiquarian bookshop is best known for its selection of rare and unusual children’s books.”

  “I saw two such books this morning. They were magical.” Jane proceeded to describe the pop-up book and the panorama picture book that Felix Rolf had shared with Aunt Octavia.

  “As we’ve already seen, the rare book world is a small one,” Sinclair continued. “One’s reputation is everything. Mr. Rolf enjoyed a spotless reputation until he was linked to a forgery two years ago.”

  Jane put down her unfinished croissant. “A forged book?”

  “Not a book. An etching by a famous nineteenth-century children’s book author and illustrator,” Sinclair said. “Mr. Rolf sold the etching to a private collector. Within a year of making the purchase, the collector passed away and the etching was bequeathed to a museum. The museum curator questioned the drawing’s provenance. You see, the author’s etchings were based on tracings of her watercolor paintings, but the animals in the etching Mr. Rolf sold were slightly smaller than those in her painting. This raised a red flag in the curator’s mind. He thought the animals should be the same size. He also found the paper suspect and declared the piece a forgery. An investigation into its origin commenced.”

  “Were arrests made?” Butterworth wanted to know.

  Sinclair shook his head. “None. Mr. Rolf cooperated with the authorities, but since he’d purchased the etching online and the seller was long gone, there was no hope of finding the culprit. Those in the business claim that, after so many years of experience, Mr. Rolf shouldn’t have made the purchase from an unknown source. Some believe that his story is a complete fabrication while others believe he was a hapless victim. Those who continue to patronize his shop admit that even the shrewdest rare book dealers can be duped. That’s all I was able to glean about his reputation based on newspaper articles.”

  Sterling, who was still focused on the television monitors, suddenly swung his chair around to face the rest of the group. “I don’t know the man, but I can tell when a person won’t take no for an answer. Watch this.” He pointed at the center screen. “When we left Mr. Rolf, he looked like he was heading back to the main building, having been turned down by Mr. Baylor.”

  Onscreen, Felix Rolf had nearly reached the back terrace when he ran into Rosemary Pearce and the Sullivan brothers.

  Rosemary seemed happy to see Felix. She signaled for Aaron and
Austin Sullivan to keep walking and flashed a warm smile at the rare book dealer.

  As for Felix, he beamed at Rosemary. Once again, he started talking rapidly and with great animation. At one point, he gestured in the direction from which he’d come. He was clearly complaining, and Jane guessed that his complaints centered on Bart.

  Rosemary appeared to listen patiently until Felix’s tirade was finished. She then gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and opened her purse. She pulled out a plastic bag and handed it to Felix before continuing on her way.

  “Ms. Pearce rejoins the Sullivan brothers and the trio engage in a lengthy conversation with a man wearing a feathered cap and Olympic rings on his chest,” Sterling explained to the room at large.

  Jane recalled the costume well. “He was dressed as Lord of the Rings.”

  Sterling nodded. “I like it. However, you might not like this, Miss Jane. Do you see Mr. Rolf? He’s going to do an about-face and head back toward the gazebo.”

  “And Mr. Baylor?” Lachlan asked.

  “I assume he was Mr. Rolf’s target,” Sterling said. “However, there’s no way of knowing if Mr. Rolf and Mr. Baylor have a second exchange because we don’t have coverage around the koi pond. What we can see is Mr. Rolf’s return to the main building twenty minutes from this point. How would you describe his appearance?”

  Jane stared at a still frame of Felix in the elevator cab.

  “He looks weary,” she said. “Like he can’t wait to crawl into bed.”

  Sinclair nodded. “I agree. The man is nearly gray with fatigue.”

  “Even so, we need to speak with him,” Butterworth said. “We must know what he discussed with Mr. Baylor.”

  “Before we call Mr. Rolf, I’d like to ask Rosemary Pearce a quick question,” Jane said. “I want to find out what was inside that bag. I want to know what Felix Rolf did with whatever Rosemary gave him.”

  Sterling rewound the footage of Felix walking from Milton’s Gardens to the manor house, but it was impossible to determine what was in his pockets. After all, he’d pulled a tissue-wrapped book from the right one. There was no telling what he had in the left.

  Jane reached for the phone and dialed the front desk. After asking to be connected to Rosemary’s room, Jane remembered how Rosemary had given Bart her flatware in the Agatha Christie Tearoom so that he’d have an even number of utensils. Rosemary obviously cared for Bart. She was his friend.

  Jane felt a twinge of guilt. Instead of telling Rosemary that Bart was gone and offering her comfort, Jane was planning to question her.

  I have no choice. I am the Guardian of Storyton Hall, Jane thought.

  It had not been an easy role to embrace, and Jane often wrestled with what the title required of her. Especially at moments like this one.

  Rosemary’s phone rang and rang, so Jane put down the receiver and said, “It’s late, but the Ian Fleming Lounge is still open. Most of the guests were outside when the ambulance arrived, but some of them will have noticed the presence of the sheriff and the paramedics. Maybe Rosemary already guessed who was taken away in the back of that ambulance.”

  Sterling switched to the camera feed in the Ian Fleming Lounge and there was Rosemary, ensconced in a leather club chair with a glass tumbler in one hand and a book in the other.

  “She doesn’t look distraught,” Sinclair observed.

  Jane rose to her feet. “No, she doesn’t. In fact, she seems to be genuinely focused on her reading. Lachlan, you’re my wingman for this mission. I’m hoping your good looks and quiet presence will throw her off guard. Also, I believe you’ll be able to tell if she’s trying to hide feelings of guilt. Butterworth might be our body language expert, but women of a certain age have a tendency to let their guard down when you’re around.”

  Lachlan, who was unaware of his effect on the opposite sex, reddened in embarrassment.

  Butterworth, on the other hand, seemed to relish Lachlan’s discomfort. After informing Jane that he would make himself available should Sheriff Evans require assistance, the butler clapped Lachlan on the shoulder and said, “Into the trenches, Mr. Lachlan.”

  The mood in the Ian Fleming Lounge was tranquil. Not many guests remained at this late hour, and most sat at the bar. Rosemary and another man were reading in club chairs, but as they were sitting on opposite sides of the room, Jane wasn’t worried about the man overhearing their conversation.

  “It must be a good book,” was how Jane interrupted Rosemary’s reading.

  Rosemary showed Jane the cover so that she could see the title.

  “Library: An Unquiet History, by Matthew Battles. Sounds interesting.”

  “It’s kind of like a library world tour,” Rosemary said. “I’m enjoying it immensely.”

  Jane pretended to hesitate. “I hate to come between a reader and her book, but could I talk to you for a moment?”

  “Sure thing.” Rosemary immediately closed her book and set it aside.

  “This is Mr. Lachlan, our head of recreation.”

  Lachlan and Rosemary shook hands and Rosemary seemed too captivated by Lachlan’s green eyes and rugged good looks to wonder why he was joining them.

  “This might sound strange, but would you mind sharing what you know about Felix Rolf?”

  Rosemary was clearly surprised by the question, but she answered all the same. “Felix? Well, he can be an odd duck at times, but so can I. People who devote their lives to the study, preservation, or sale of books are bound to be a little odd. I mean, we spend most of our lives indoors, hunched over books, manuscripts, and maps. Felix is just as devoted and passionate as the rest of us. He’s amazing at finding really unusual children’s books. His store is truly a magical place.”

  “I’d love to see it one day,” Jane said. Thinking of the books Felix had shown Aunt Octavia before church service, she realized she really would like to visit such a shop. “Does every member of the Robert Harley Society know him well?” she asked Rosemary.

  “The Sullivan brothers don’t collect juvenile-themed Americana, so they’ve never dealt with Felix. I’m sure they know him by sight. Most people do.” She finished the last sip of her drink and studied the empty glass, her eyes shining with humor. “I’ve always been surprised that Aaron and Austin didn’t go in for children’s books. Even though they have almost a decade on me, they’re so boyish and carefree. A side-effect of having truckloads of money, maybe.”

  She delivered this line without the slightest trace of spite or jealousy, and Jane believed that Rosemary was perfectly content with her lot in life. Jane rarely met anyone who found complete fulfillment following their passion. However, it was possible that both Bart and Rosemary were such people.

  Lachlan interrupted her musings by pointing at Rosemary’s glass. “May I get you another drink?”

  She smiled shyly. “No, thank you. I never have more than two.” And before Jane could slip in another question, Rosemary began asking Lachlan about the Falconry Program.

  “I’d be glad to give the Robert Harley Society a tour of the mews,” Lachlan said. “Would your friends enjoy holding birds of prey?”

  Rosemary considered this. “We’d be wearing gloves, right?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Trailing off, Lachlan looked to Jane for help.

  Picking up on her cue, Jane said, “The gloves aren’t sterilized between uses.”

  “Oh.” Rosemary pulled a face. “That might be a problem for Bart. Unless he could wear his own gloves underneath.”

  “Does he carry an extra pair of latex-free gloves wherever he goes?” Jane inquired in what she hoped was an innocent tone.

  Rosemary shrugged. “Sometimes he goes for the latex-free. Other times, he wears white cotton. It depends on the occasion. I started keeping an extra pair of cotton gloves in my bag in case of emergency. For Bart. Not for myself. I decided to do this following an incident at our conference two years ago. You see, Bart didn’t participate in this great activity because he didn’t want to touch
something that everyone else was handling.”

  Jane felt her pulse quicken. “That’s really thoughtful of you. Has he needed your emergency gloves since he’s been here?”

  “Yes, tonight! Well, maybe.” Rosemary laughed. “Let me explain. I ran into Felix on my way out to the gardens and Felix asked for advice on how to convince Bart to examine a book he desperately needed repaired. I gave Felix the gloves and explained that Bart had issues with germs. The gloves were in a plastic bag, of course.”

  “But they were cotton? They weren’t purple, latex-free gloves?”

  Though Jane had to clarify this point, she could instantly see that she’d gone too far. Rosemary knew something was amiss.

  Jane reached out and touched the other woman’s arm, silently imploring her not to speak. Turning to Lachlan, she said, “Please get Ms. Pearce that refill and meet us in the Daphne du Maurier Morning Room.”

  After Lachlan moved away, Jane leaned closer to Rosemary. “Ms. Pearce. I need to tell you something confidential, and it would be best if I could do so in private. Would you please follow me?”

  Rosemary nodded nervously and collected her book.

  Jane wanted to walk slowly through the hallways of Storyton Hall. She wanted to delay breaking such difficult news to this lovely young woman. She wanted to avoid the pain she was on the verge of inflicting. She could only pray that Rosemary would take a small measure of solace from knowing that the very last thing Bart had seen before his death had been books. Rows and rows of beautiful, timeless, dependable books.

  Chapter Nine

  Jane invited Rosemary to make herself comfortable in one of the yellow damask chairs facing the back terrace. Lachlan set Rosemary’s whiskey on the table near her elbow and withdrew to a chair in the far corner of the room.

  Though the September sky was dark, it was drenched with stars. A large moon hung low on the horizon and illuminated the hills surrounding Storyton Hall with an ethereal light. Jane believed the view might lend Rosemary more comfort than the empty hearth or shelves of paperback novels elsewhere in the room.