by Ellery Adams
Jane followed them out, but she headed for the lobby restroom to scour her hands with hot water and soap.
When Felix and Butterworth returned, Felix placed the book on the table in front of Jane.
“May I touch it?” Jane asked. “I just washed my hands.”
Felix gave his assent and Jane made a cradle of her left palm before opening the cover and gently turning pages. She made it as far as the frontispiece when she suddenly understood why Bart hadn’t wanted anything to do with this book.
“Mr. Rolf. How familiar are you with Mr. Baylor’s personal life?”
He shook his head. “All I know is that he’s very well off because his family owns Lilyfield Farms. Or most of its stock. Or something of that nature.”
“Were you aware that Bart was the only surviving member of the Baylor family?”
Felix looked stricken. “No. How terrible. Was their passing recent? Perhaps that explains his odd behavior.” He bit the end of his thumbnail. “How selfish of me—to think I was being rejected when he—”
“You weren’t being rejected, Mr. Rolf,” Jane interrupted. “Mr. Baylor was rejecting this book. In particular, this plate.” She moved to the chair next to Felix so he could see more clearly. “It depicts a frightening image of a family on the deck of a ship. It’s storming. The family members are clearly terrified. They’re huddled together, staring up at that bank of ominous clouds with their big, dark eyes. To you and me, this is merely a black and white engraving from two hundred years ago, but to Mr. Baylor, this scene was probably very painful to view. Mr. Baylor’s family—his father, mother, and older brother—died in a boating accident.”
“Ooooooh!” Felix cried. He clamped a hand over his mouth as if pushing any additional noise back inside. When he’d mastered his emotions, he said, “That image must have been torturous for Mr. Baylor to look at, and I kept pushing it on him, even after he politely refused me.” The book dealer shook his head in self-loathing. “My actions were beyond insensitive. Please, Ms. Steward. I would dearly like to make amends. Mr. Baylor is a good man, a champion of book preservation, and the finest book doctor in all of America. I apologize to you for causing any distress and I must apologize to Mr. Baylor as soon as possible.”
Jane would have liked nothing more than to arrange a meeting between the two men the following morning. Instead, she touched Felix’s arm and said, “Your mistake was unintentional. Don’t be so hard on yourself. And you don’t owe me an apology. I’m honored to have you as my guest. And though you may have temporarily lost a sale in your Swiss Family Robinson customer, I have a feeling you’ll gain quite a few more in Octavia Steward.”
Felix smiled. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Again, I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest.” Jane got to her feet, signaling the end of the interview.
Butterworth turned to Felix. “Sir, may I offer you a nightcap? Or a cup of herbal tea to assist in your slumber? We stock a smooth chamomile blend flavored with a hint of orange blossom that should do the trick.”
“I’d like that, thank you,” Felix said.
When the two men were gone, Jane headed to the kitchens. Butterworth’s suggestion had resonated with her as well. Though she was physically and emotionally exhausted, she knew sleep wouldn’t come easily. She could use whatever help she could get to keep her mind from replaying the final moments of Bart Baylor’s life. And if she managed to do that, she’d also have to put a stop to the endless doubt that there was something she could have done to save him.
She was just reaching for the kettle when Butterworth’s hand gently closed over hers. “Allow me, Miss Jane. It’s best to leave the preparation of tea to the British.”
With a grateful nod, Jane plopped onto a kitchen stool and watched Butterworth’s graceful and efficient movements.
“What was your assessment of Mr. Rolf?” Butterworth asked once he had the kettle on the stovetop.
“I believed him,” Jane said. “I also believed Rosemary. Which means we have no leads.”
Butterworth frowned. “Indeed.”
They fell silent, each lost in their own thoughts, until the whistle of the teakettle shattered the stillness.
After filling a small teapot with boiling water and wrapping the pot with a napkin to keep it warm, Butterworth added a teacup, small cream pitcher, lemon slices, a selection of sweeteners, utensils, and two pieces of shortbread to a doily-lined tray. He then filled a second teapot for Jane.
“I could deliver yours as well,” he offered, but she squeezed his arm, told him she’d manage, and wished him a good night.
As she crossed the lawn, her phone alert indicated the receipt of a new e-mail. Normally, Jane would ignore incoming correspondence at such a late hour. However, nothing about this evening had been normal, so she let herself into her house, where she was met by the sounds of Ned snoring on the living room sofa, and poured herself a cup of tea. She resolved to have a single sip and glance at the e-mail before waking Ned and telling him that his long night of babysitting was finally over.
The message on her phone was from Celia Wallace. It read:
I know it’s late, but I wanted to tell you about today’s discovery. My team finished reconstructing Oliver’s bones. Your friend Doctor Lydgate was right. Oliver suffered from rickets. His spine is also riddled with holes, indicating he was also inflicted with tuberculosis. Fascinating as these diseases are, they aren’t the reason I’m contacting you. I wanted you to know that Oliver has a fractured wrist and forearm. These breaks never healed and are indicative of self-defense wounds. And here’s the doozy. After examining the X-ray film, we noticed an object buried in his shoulder blade. That object was an arrowhead. Between the defensive wounds and the arrowhead, I believe that Oliver may have been murdered. I can’t say why this act of violence occurred, but Oliver probably had two assailants. The first struck him head-on, creating the fractures. The second attacker was a coward, seeing as he shot Oliver with an arrow in the back. That’s all I have for now. Will check in with you again soon. Let me know how the dirt mound progress goes.
—Celia
Jane picked up her teacup, but the liquid was already tepid, so she set it back down. Tiptoeing into the living room, she gently shook Ned’s shoulder and whispered her thanks to him.
After Ned was gone, she climbed the stairs and peeked into the twins’ room, drawing comfort from the rhythmic sounds of her boys’ soft exhalations.
In her room, she sat on the edge of her bed and reread Celia’s e-mail. She paused when she came to the lines referring to Oliver’s assailants.
The first struck him head-on, creating the fractures. The second attacker was a coward.
“He wasn’t a coward,” Jane murmured wearily into the darkness. “He was a Fin.”
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Jane saw the twins off to school before meeting Sheriff Evans in her office.
When she entered, she found him standing in front of her Hopes and Dreams board. His posture was stiff. His expression, grave.
“I’d like to gather the guests and tell them of Mr. Baylor’s passing,” the sheriff said. “Unless you can point us toward other individuals, we’ll start by interviewing the members of the Robert Harley Society.”
Jane thought back on last night’s interactions with Rosemary Pearce and Felix Rolf. The sheriff had seen Storyton Hall’s video surveillance room and would understand why Jane had conducted her own inquiries, so she recounted both conversations to him.
“Doesn’t sound like either of them wished Mr. Baylor harm,” the sheriff said when Jane was done. “Maybe the killer wasn’t close to Mr. Baylor. He may have been well liked, but he was also very wealthy. In my experience, the very wealthy accumulate enemies. Just goes with the territory.”
“Because of envy?” Jane asked.
The sheriff nodded. “That’s usually the case. It’s what I’ll be looking for this morning. A sign that someone wanted what Mr. Baylor had.”
>
“You wouldn’t know he was rich by his dress or demeanor,” Jane said. “He was humble. Understated.”
“Maybe the killer asked Mr. Baylor for money and was turned down. With that kind of money in his bank account, he must have been constantly solicited,” said Evans. “At this juncture, money is the obvious motive. Unless you think Mr. Baylor was murdered over something to do with that buried book?”
Jane’s heart skipped a beat. Involuntarily, her hand moved to the pocket where her cell phone was nestled. Last night, after reading Celia Wallace’s text, she’d been unable to sleep. Her body was beyond fatigued, but tumultuous thoughts kept her mind from shutting down.
You have two murders on your hands, spoke an unquiet voice in her head. Two murders. One old. One new. Are they related?
Jane didn’t want Sheriff Evans focusing on the cookbook. She and the Fins needed to determine how the words on its pages had been rendered invisible and reverse the process. Only then could she determine if the book was connected to Bart’s murder.
“I can’t imagine who’d want to stop Mr. Baylor from sharing what he learned about a deteriorated book,” Jane said in what she hoped was a light tone.
But Sheriff Evans wouldn’t be put off that easily. He rubbed his bristly chin with slow, contemplative movements and said, “Mr. Baylor was the majority shareholder of one of the largest food manufacturing companies in the United States. The cookbook discovered in your back garden was controversial because it could have harmed the uninformed public of nineteenth-century England. Those two facts make me want to have a closer look at certain food manufacturers. Especially those who would have benefited from the cookbook’s distribution.”
Jane saw where Evans was heading. “Is there a link between Lilyfield Farms and the food company that published Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts?”
“None that I can find,” the sheriff said. “But I know next to nothing about this cookbook of yours.”
Does he think I’m withholding information? Jane wondered.
Ignoring the anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach, she spread her hands in a gesture of transparency. “If Sinclair and I discover any new information, we’ll tell you straightaway. We plan to research the book more thoroughly today. Up to this point, most of what we know came from Bart. This is no surprise, seeing as there’s nothing left but a partial cover and pages that have been so ravaged by time and weather that the ink has literally seeped away.”
“Luckily, we have an entire resort filled with rare book experts at our disposal,” the sheriff said. He collected his hat from where it was perched on the corner of Jane’s desk. “After I inform the guests of the sad news about their colleague and my desire to speak with certain individuals, I may ask for their help. I want to learn more about this book and everything I can about Mr. Baylor’s life. Someone wanted him to put on those gloves and transfer the cyanide to his lips. According to your statement, this lip tapping was a prevalent behavior of Mr. Baylor’s. The killer used this knowledge to his or her advantage.”
“Which means that person is here, in Storyton Hall,” Jane said unhappily.
Sheriff Evans donned his hat. “More often than not, a murder is deeply personal. The killer felt compelled to end Mr. Baylor’s life using a quick, but painful method. This murderer is observant, clever, and capable of blending in with your current group of guests. This person won’t be easy to ferret out, and because we have no idea what precipitated their actions, we have no idea if their goal has been achieved.”
Jane didn’t like the sound of that at all.
First, Bart was killed. Hours later, she learned that the two-hundred-year-old man buried on the grounds of her ancestral home was also a murder victim. Now, Sheriff Evans was suggesting the possibility of more violence.
I won’t allow it, she silently vowed.
Squaring her shoulders, Jane promised to assemble the guests in the Shakespeare Theater without delay. This was an easy task, seeing as the day’s first event was being held there. What was heart-wrenchingly difficult was witnessing the reactions of the conference-goers when Sheriff Evans broke the news of Bart’s death.
Gasps rose throughout the room and people turned to each other, eyes wide with shock and sadness. Jane saw heads shaking in disbelief and hands reaching for tissues.
The hardest hit were Levi Ross and Aaron and Austin Sullivan. Rosemary had been told the previous night, of course, though this didn’t prevent a fresh round of tears from wetting her cheeks. The men in her group fussed over her, but they were equally shaken. Not one of them managed to hold back tears.
Jane caught Sterling’s eye. Like the rest of the Fins, he’d been carefully studying the faces in the crowd, hoping to spot a tell—the slightest indication that something was off about a person.
He shook his head. He hadn’t seen a thing.
Jane made eye contact with the rest of the Fins. One by one, they responded as Sterling had. None of the guests had reacted suspiciously.
Though Jane hadn’t expected to identify the killer following the sheriff’s announcement, she still wanted to let that person know that they were being watched. If the killer became nervous, perhaps he or she would make a mistake.
I just pray that mistake doesn’t involve more violence, Jane thought.
The sheriff finished his statement and said that he was willing to answer questions if there were any.
Hands shot up around the room.
Signaling for Sterling and Sinclair to exit the theater, Jane led them away from the doors. “We need to find out what’s written inside that cursed cookbook.” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “Sterling, there must be an early nineteenth-century formula for creating invisible ink and another for revealing it.”
Sterling surprised her by saying, “There are several. For example, rice water becomes invisible when dry. When rubbed with iodine, it turns blue. This ink was used during the Indian Rebellion of 1857, which probably occurred after the publication of our cookbook. However, I’ve been focusing more on inks made with foodstuffs. Specifically, the juice from onions or turnips. Seems more fitting, considering it’s a cookbook.”
“I agree,” Jane said. “What chemical process would reveal onion or turnip juice?”
“We don’t need one,” Sterling said. “We just need to apply heat.”
Sinclair, who’d yet to speak, arched a brow. “As in, the heat from an iron?”
“Exactly,” replied Sterling.
Jane looked at Sinclair. “Would you assist Sterling? If Sheriff Evans takes the book as evidence, we might not get another crack at it.”
He hesitated. “I will. But before I go, I must ask if you heard from Doctor Wallace last night? I received an e-mail from her.”
“Unfortunately, yes. What are your thoughts on her message?”
Sinclair raised two fingers. “First, we must complete her request regarding the dirt mound. Her students are already working, but we should lend them an extra pair of hands. Or two. If another piece of evidence is hidden in that mound, it must be brought to light as swiftly as possible.”
Jane pointed at his second finger. “I know what that finger represents. The earthmover driver. He’s a question mark in our minds. Did he pick up an object from the ground and drop it in his pocket? We set this issue aside because the boys weren’t sure of what they’d seen, but we can’t let it go any longer. The man must be questioned, and he has to be questioned in such a way that he doesn’t dare lie or refuse to answer.”
“Which means we need to intimidate him.” Sterling’s eyes gleamed. “As soon as we finish with the cookbook, Sinclair and I will get his name from the contractor—”
“I’ll do that. And when I have it, I’ll give it to Mrs. Pratt,” Jane interrupted. “If this guy’s a local, she’ll have a mental dossier on him.” She sighed. “We have so much to do. I wish there were more of us. I wish . . .” She trailed off, unwilling to give voice to her deepest desire.
Sinclair t
ouched her shoulder. “Edwin would come home? Have you heard from him?”
“Not a whisper,” Jane said. “I haven’t received cryptic postcards, surprise packages, or hurried phone calls with bad reception. Nothing.” She shook her head. “Edwin would have been helpful, but he isn’t here. I have my Fins and I have my friends. Along with the twins, Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia, you’re my family. That has, and always will be, more than enough.”
When Jane stepped back into the theater, it was clear to her that Sheriff Evans was no longer taking questions. According to Butterworth, who hastily filled her in, the guests had been told to try to enjoy the remainder of their conference. Evans then asked the members of the Robert Harley Society to meet him in the Madame Bovary Dining Room.
“Why there?” Jane murmured under her breath. She had no time to reflect on the question because the sheriff was headed straight for her.
“I’d like to form a better picture of Mr. Baylor. Would you please see to it that we’re not disturbed?” Evans gestured at the distraught and ashen-faced group following him at a leaden pace. Levi came first. His eyes were downcast and his hands were buried deep in his pockets. Aaron Sullivan had an arm around Rosemary’s waist and Austin walked on her other side, looking lost.
Jane realized that she’d never seen the Sullivan brothers with somber expressions. Their faces had always been lit by smiles. Watching them now, Jane saw the heaviness of their limbs and the dullness in their eyes and felt responsible for the loss of their joie de vivre.
She was so fixed on the pall clinging to the group that she didn’t notice Deputy Emory until the younger woman stood directly in front of her.
“Are you okay, Ms. Steward?”
Jane summoned a smile. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Thanks for asking.”
Deputy Emory’s eyes, which reminded Jane of cornflowers, filled with sympathy. “I can understand why you’d have a restless night. What I don’t understand is why people seem so bent on doing bad things in Storyton. I’m referring to our whole area. I just don’t get it. It’s one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever seen. That sense of peace is why I moved here after graduate school.” She shook her head in dismay. “I could have gone to another place. There were so many other careers I could have chosen. But I had to be in this place. It chose me.”
