Murder in the Locked Library

by Ellery Adams

  “And we like to think we helped him realize that he had the power to control his life,” Austin said. “A terrible thing happened to him, but he didn’t have to keep letting it happen to him. He held the key to his happiness. We believed in him long before he was the Book Doctor.”

  Aaron nodded. “We believed in each other. The three of us. That’s what I mean by balancing each other out. We were good for each other.”

  “To our parents and their peers, Aaron and I were spoiled brats who’d never amount to anything. We proved them wrong. And Bart?” Austin smiled though his eyes were growing moist. “Almost everyone predicted that he’d end up in a psych ward—that he’d never be able to find his own way. But he did. He found his passion and he followed it. Not only that, but he shared it with us along the way. Lucky for us.”

  Seeing that his brother was becoming emotional, Aaron squeezed his arm.

  “You three were like the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood,” Rosemary said. “Instead of pursuing a new style of painting, you sought to celebrate and preserve rare books. And then, you found Levi. He became the fourth brother.”

  “And you became the fifth,” Austin said with a wink. “Because it’s hard for me to think of you as a sister. You’re more of a library goddess.”

  The men beamed at Rosemary. She colored prettily and rose from her chair. “I’m off to have my poem printed. Levi? Are you ready too?”

  Levi said that he was and followed Rosemary to the front of the room.

  “Ms. Steward, Austin and I were hoping for the chance to speak with you alone,” Aaron said. Seeming even more troubled than before, he kept clasping and unclasping his hands. “Earlier today, the four of us met with the sheriff. He seems very capable, but something isn’t right about the way Bart . . . went. He’s always been healthy. If he had an illness—anything other than his latex allergy—he would have told us.”

  Austin looked at Jane. “It’s true. We’re closer to him than anyone. We’ve known him since we were kids.”

  “And were things always friendly between you three?” Jane asked. “Forgive me, but I can’t imagine you two as teenagers, hanging out with the quirky boy who had to be first in line and who hated odd numbers.”

  The Sullivans stared at the table in unconcealed shame.

  “We weren’t nice to him at first,” Austin admitted sheepishly. “We teased him. We wanted to fit in so badly that we were probably meaner to him than the other kids.”

  Aaron passed his hands over his face. “I still feel terrible about those days. We were such jerks. But we changed.” He glanced at his brother. “I guess it’s more accurate to say that Bart changed us. We were going to fail out of school, so we offered to pay him to tutor us.”

  “Except he didn’t want money. He wanted us to be nice. That was the payment he asked for,” Austin said. “We agreed, and within a few months, we actually became invested in our schoolwork. More than that, we respected Bart’s cleverness, toughness, and integrity. From that time on, we had his back. If anyone messed with Bart Baylor, they’d have to answer to the Sullivan brothers.”

  “I wish we’d had his back last night,” Aaron said, and turned his head to hide his expression of agony.

  However, Jane saw his face. She saw the pain written across it.

  As she left the ballroom, she felt very conflicted.

  Bart was like a brother to them, she thought. Could they betray their brother for money?

  Unfortunately, she knew the answer to that question. She also knew that the grief the brothers were exhibiting could be something other than grief.

  It could very well be guilt.

  Chapter Twelve

  While Jane was setting type, Sheriff Evans had been busy investigating. According to Butterworth, he’d searched all of the Robert Harley Society member’s guest rooms. Having gained permission from the guests that morning, he, Phelps, and Emory inspected every nook and cranny, but found nothing of interest other than a note on Levi’s writing desk. The note cited an estimate of the current market value of the exhumed cookbook.

  Jane listened to Butterworth’s summary with reluctance. She’d just come from afternoon tea with her family. It had been such a lovely diversion to listen to Hem and Fitz talk about fishing with Uncle Aloysius and to watch Aunt Octavia serve Muffet Cat a saucer of whipped cream, that Jane had wanted to linger at the table for hours.

  Normally, she restricted her teatime treats to a single pastry or two cookies. She’d overindulged today, succumbing to the temptations of Mrs. Hubbard’s two-bite apple scones, pear tart, and butter cookie sandwiches layered with raspberry jam. Having downed two cups of tea along with these heavenly pastries, Jane was feeling somewhat torpid.

  Despite her desire to evade her duties, Jane touched her locket and thought of the generations of Guardians who’d come before her. Her lethargy vanished.

  “Would you pay five figures for a deteriorated book?” she asked Butterworth. “I don’t care if it’s the last copy on earth, it can’t be worth that much in its current state. Or, in its previous state, I should say. Now that the writing is legible, it might be worth a small fortune.”

  “Precisely,” Butterworth said. “But Mr. Ross wasn’t aware that ours was a bound copy of the manuscript with hidden ink. Or was he?”

  Jane considered this disturbing possibility. “Is Mr. Ross facing financial hardship?”

  “None that Mr. Sinclair can find. Mr. Ross’s business earns a handsome profit each year and he’s judicious with his personal funds.” Butterworth contemplated for a moment before adding, “I don’t think he’s motivated by money. Prestige is another matter. Each time Mr. Ross acquires an extremely rare book to sell in one of his shops, he gains prestige. Judging by his interview with the sheriff, that’s what matters to Levi Ross.”

  “Even if that’s true, Bart’s death doesn’t grant Mr. Ross possession of our cookbook. He can’t sell it. Bart’s passing simply removes someone with knowledge about Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts from the picture.”

  Butterworth’s shoulders rose and fell in the ghost of a shrug. “Knowledge is power. Not many people were aware of the book’s secret.”

  “One of Bart’s friends might be a book thief,” Jane whispered. “They’ll have to be watched around the clock. The Sullivan brothers. Levi. Even Rosemary.”

  “Not only did they know of the cookbook’s secret, they were also familiar with Mr. Baylor’s habits,” Butterworth said. “Who else would be able to swap his gloves for gloves that were identical in every way except that the imposter gloves were lined with cyanide powder?”

  Jane raised a finger. “What about the accessibility of the murder weapon? It can’t be easy to obtain cyanide.”

  “Surprisingly, it is not difficult to acquire.” Butterworth pulled a sheet of paper from the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. “There are several websites offering cyanide powder for sale. The quantities are small. However, they are large enough to suit the murderer’s purpose. Obtaining a fake credit card is a simple task as well. Gone are the days of risky, back alley transactions. These have been replaced by marketplaces on the Dark Web. One can purchase almost anything using untraceable currency called bitcoins. The accessibility of illegal drugs and documents leaves us with no lead on the murder weapon.”

  “Even so, we should share this information with Sheriff Evans.” Suddenly, an expression of dismay crossed Jane’s face. “How will we explain the sudden appearance of words in the cookbook? The sheriff saw the book in its previous, blank-page state. I didn’t mention Bart’s hidden ink theory to him nor ask his permission to experiment on what’s sure to become a key piece of evidence in his murder investigation.”

  Butterworth mulled over this conundrum. “You could say that you accidentally spilled tea on the book and the tea revealed writing. This happy accident led you to research invisible inks from the nineteenth century and to proceed with Mr. Sterling’s experiment. It’s probably best to confess now and emphasize tha
t you were only trying to help. As I recall, Sheriff Evans asked for assistance researching this book.”

  Jane did as Butterworth suggested. Though Sheriff Evans looked dubious when Jane spun her ridiculous story about an accidental spill, he was too fascinated by the ruddy handwriting to question her.

  “Food manufacturing and books. Seems to be the running theme,” he said while examining the cookbook in the privacy of the Henry James Library.

  “Sinclair is looking into the three companies behind the book’s publication,” Jane said. “What we do know is that it’s very rare. Because this book is one of, if not the only surviving copy, it’s probably quite valuable. Especially now that its words have been brought to light.” Jane shot a brief glance at the spidery letters. “The killer may have known about the hidden ink all along. And of the book’s worth. If he intends to steal it, he might have deemed it necessary to eliminate anyone possessing similar knowledge. That unfortunate person was Bart.”

  The sheriff creased his brows in thought. “There’s a way to put your theory to the test.”

  “Yes,” Jane said without the slightest hesitation. “We can set a trap with The Devil’s Receipts serving as bait.”

  Evans stared at the cookbook. “If we can use the devil to catch a demon, we will.”

  * * *

  After Jane and the sheriff outlined a plan, Jane went home to make supper for the boys.

  When presented with his bowl of chicken noodle casserole, Hem blurted, “I wish Mr. Edwin would cook for us!”

  Fitz eyed his bowl with unconcealed dislike. “Me too. I bet he never makes casseroles.”

  Jane scowled at her sons. “Maybe not, but you have home-cooked meals every night. For that, you should be grateful. You should simply thank the person who cooked for you and keep your negative comments to yourselves.”

  Hem was instantly contrite. “Sorry, Mom. You’re a good cook. It’s just that Mr. Edwin just makes everything fun. Remember how he showed us how to sear steaks?”

  “Or flip omelets?” Fitz added. “Plus, he tells stories when he cooks.”

  Jane realized that she’d been so preoccupied with murder that she’d barely spoken to the twins since she got home. She normally bonded with her boys in the evenings. They’d talk over supper, watch television together, and wrap up the night by listening to an audio book while they worked a jigsaw puzzle. On colder nights, all three of them would change into their pajamas, snuggle on Jane’s bed, and read until it was time for the twins to go to sleep.

  “I can tell you a story about invisible ink,” Jane said. “I’ll use vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce to illustrate my point. When I’m done, you can eat the ice cream. How does that sound?”

  The boys cheered and attacked their casseroles with gusto.

  Jane told them how the book that had been found along with Oliver, the skeleton, appeared to be filled with blank pages. As she described Sterling’s discovery and the spidery handwriting done in reddish-brown ink, the twins hung on her every word.

  “What did the writing say?” Fitz asked breathlessly. “Is it a spell book?”

  “Or directions to a buried treasure?” Hem wanted to know.

  Laughing, Jane put the lid back on the ice cream carton. “It’s a book of recipes.”

  The boys exchanged disappointed glances. “Why would someone hide recipes? That’s dumb.”

  “Actually, some of them were dangerous,” Jane said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “They included poisonous ingredients. They’re still dangerous; so don’t tell anyone what I’ve told you. Pinkie swears?”

  The boys performed their most solemn of oaths before devouring their ice cream. After putting their bowls in the dishwasher, they launched into a debate over which jigsaw puzzle to begin next.

  “Let’s do rock, paper, scissors,” Hem said. “Two out of three wins.”

  Jane finished cleaning the kitchen and joined the boys at the table. Fitz, who’d won the right to choose the puzzle, had selected one of his favorites. The puzzle featured the covers of R. L. Stine’s Goosebumps books. Jane’s gaze was drawn to a particular cover that showed a mansion in purple with a blood-red door. It was titled, Welcome to Dead House.

  Pretty soon, that’s what people will call Storyton Hall, she thought glumly.

  Fitz put his small hand over hers. “Are you okay, Mom? You look sad.”

  She pulled him in for a hug. “Sad? No way. This is my favorite time of the day. Being with my boys is like having a giant sundae with sprinkles and a cherry on top.” She smiled at her sons. “Fitz, why don’t you fire up the audiobook? I’m ready for a tale of adventure.”

  * * *

  The twins were barely settled in their beds when Jane’s cell phone rang. Betty was calling from the Cheshire Cat.

  “Kyle just left,” Betty said. Her voice was quivering with excitement.

  Jane glanced at the clock on her nightstand. “Is he calling it an early night?”

  Betty snorted. “Hardly. He started drinking at five. Three hours later, he paid his tab and wobbled out of the pub.”

  “Was Bob able to get anything out of him?”

  “Bob’s a wonderful listener, but he’s not a great talker. Bless his heart,” she added loyally. “So I took over. I told Kyle how fascinated I was by the archaeological investigation—which is no lie—and asked what happened when the boys first signaled for him to stop his machine. The question made him squirm on his bar stool.”

  Jane sensed that Betty was drawing out the scene. She couldn’t blame her. It made for dramatic storytelling, but she was in no mood for drama. “And? Were you able to confirm that he picked something out of the dirt?”

  “Not exactly,” Betty said, sounding deflated. “He clearly didn’t want to discuss that day and shut down the conversation by grumbling about the project being on hold. Luckily, when he was on his fourth or fifth round, a bunch of locals showed up. It’s our monthly trivia contest night, so the pub was pretty full, and several villagers grilled Kyle about the Storyton Hall skeleton.”

  Jane could picture the locals gathering around Kyle in hopes of learning juicy tidbits to mete out the next day in their shops. “Who were some of these villagers?”

  “Sam from Hilltop Stables, all three Hogg brothers, Magnus and the cook from Daily Bread, Captain Phil, and Wes from Spokes. Randall was there too. He wasn’t able to deliver any lectures because everyone was focused on Kyle. In exchange for a beer, he offered to describe the skeleton. After another, he exaggerated his role in discovering the bones. I was mighty upset that Kyle failed to mention the twins, but I let it slide.”

  Jane smiled into the phone. “It was nice of you to think of the boys.”

  “Well, they’re such darlings!” Betty exclaimed fondly. “But back to Kyle. He droned on until eventually, he ran out of things to say. The rest of the men settled down at tables to wait for the trivia contest to start.”

  Jane sighed. “Why do I feel like your tale is almost over?”

  “It is, and it isn’t,” Betty said cagily. “You see, over the course of the evening, I noticed Kyle touching the front pocket of his shirt. He wore a button-down in khaki canvas. The kind of shirt with pockets that have flaps. Oh, I wish I had Mabel’s description for fashion.”

  “It’s okay, I know what you mean,” Jane assured her friend.

  Betty released a small breath. “Here’s the crux of it, Jane. I could see that something was in his left breast pocket. I have no idea what it was. All I know is that Kyle would repeatedly brush his fingers over the bottom of that pocket like he needed to make sure whatever he had in there hadn’t gone missing.”

  “Did he seem to make that motion when the subject of the skeletal remains was raised?”

  “Yes,” Betty said. “There’s one more thing. When he asked for his bill, I might have made an error in judgment by pretending to have heard a rumor about an artifact disappearing from the site. I even went on to say that I hoped the culprit wasn’t a Sto
ryton Hall staff member, seeing as I’m fond of the ones I know, and I didn’t want anyone to face jail time due to a spur-of-the-moment mistake.”

  Jane was confused. “That sounds like a clever ruse. Why are you questioning your judgment?”

  “Kyle’s face went a bit green after my speech,” Betty said. “I don’t know if it was the beer, a guilty conscience, or both. He didn’t beg for a ride home as usual. He simply walked out of the pub, past all the yowling cats gathered around the Cheshire Cat statue, and turned left.”

  “Left?” Jane asked, wanting to be sure she’d heard correctly.

  “Left,” Betty repeated. “Toward Storyton Hall.”

  * * *

  The Fins were summoned to Jane’s house. After a flurried exchange of whispers in her kitchen, it was decided that Butterworth and Sinclair would remain with the sleeping twins while Jane, Lachlan, and Sterling set off to find Kyle Stuyvesant.

  “How will we convince him to show us what’s in his pocket?” Jane asked Sterling once they were underway.

  Without taking his eyes off the road, Sterling said, “We’ll offer him a ride. If he refuses, Mr. Lachlan and I will encourage him to accept. And by encourage, I mean force. Then, we’ll take him to the dig site and insist that he hand over what he stole.”

  Having no better ideas, Jane nodded. Because she was sitting between the two Fins on the bench seat of a pickup truck used by Storyton Hall’s groundskeepers, she had to put her palm against the dashboard to keep from ramming against one of them with every curve in the road.

  The night seemed darker than previous nights. A cool wind had sprung up and it carried the scent of impending rain.

  Lachlan glanced out his window. “There’s no moon. It’ll be easy to pass our guy if he sticks to the shadows. If he ducks behind a tree, we might never spot him.”

  “He should be beyond Broken Arm Bend by now. And you’ll spot him. You have raptor vision.” Sterling used the truck’s high beams to illuminate the road ahead. The light bounced off a pair of large, yellow eyes peering out at them from the gloom.