I gave a weak smile and dodged that bullet by latching onto his comment about Wendy. “I think Brian Burton has worrying about Wendy covered—in all regards—and he also worries about your mum. Did Wendy tell you he had doubts about her being able to climb to Tintagel?”
That got a laugh out of him, along with an unflattering comment about his sister’s boyfriend. By then, the coffee was ready, and Peter helped me by carrying the tray with the carafe and mugs while I got the bottle of Kahlúa and the plate of cookies.
In the sitting room, Christie was curled in Belle’s lap, and Dickens was lying at Ellie’s feet. Both the ladies and my furry friends seemed content.
Dickens didn’t move, but his eyes followed the tray of cookies. “I bet Peter will give me a cookie chunk if you let him.” I knew he was right, so I cut Peter off at the pass by reminding him not to feed the dog.
As we sipped coffee, Belle offered the blue bag to Ellie. “This is a little something that made me think of you. I had to have one for myself too.” I realized it was the small framed quote she’d found at Bluebird Books.
Ellie exclaimed in delight when she pulled it from the bag and read aloud the Mark Twain quote, “'Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.’ How apropos for two old ladies! Twain had a way with words, didn’t he? I always loved his quote from the time a paper mistakenly printed his obituary: ‘The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.’ I think I’ve heard he didn’t say it exactly that way, but a biographer embellished it. Regardless, it’s a great line. They should have sold these at the literary festival at the Twain session.”
She was naming the Mark Twain books she had in her library when I interjected, “Oh my! The frame, the smashed frame.”
Four pairs of eyes looked my way and Dickens barked, “What’s wrong, Leta?”
“Belle, the missing frame from the bedroom—there was a frame in the wheelie bin, smashed. I forgot all about Dave finding it Saturday morning. There were two framed items missing, and I could tell from the shadow on the bedroom wall where one had hung. I never did find any indication there’d been a second one hanging anywhere.”
“And what was in it, Leta? Was there a document?” asked Ellie.
“No, just a shred, a corner of a document. There was no way to tell what it was. It was a combination of you holding a gilt frame and the discussion of Mark Twain that brought it to mind because that was one of the missing items—a letter to Mark Twain from Arthur Conan Doyle.”
Belle nodded slowly. “Mark Twain keeps cropping up, doesn’t he? Were there more Twain letters or books listed in the ledger—items that aren’t missing? Or was every last one taken?”
“I don’t know for sure. I was only in charge of the items on the walls and shelves and in the Miscellany binder. Teddy had the usual books like A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court and Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer, and they were all on the shelf. Two things were missing from the binder, but I found them on the desk. Beatrix went through the Author Letters binder, and I recall two Twain letters were missing, but there could have been more that weren’t. Now my head’s spinning.”
Ellie’s mouth dropped open. “I just realized I’m the only one here who attended the Twain session Wednesday evening. Matthew, Sarah, and I went and had dinner at the Chipping Camden Café afterward. We got to sample Caroline’s new spring menu at the Café.” Matthew and Sarah were Ellie’s son and daughter-in-law—the Earl and Countess of Stow.
“Oh my goodness. That’s what you meant when you said Twain session? I had no idea there’d been one.”
“Yes. This year’s festival was a departure from the norm. Typically, the conference hosts living authors. It’s an opportunity for readers to hear them speak about their process, how they come up with their characters, and how their lives influence their writing. The new chairman decided to make this one historical, to bring in experts on authors of yore. That’s why we had sessions on Arthur Conan Doyle, Graham Greene, R.F. Delderfeld, and such. Dave’s discussion of J.M. Barrie was a perfect fit.”
Peter looked amused. “So, could there have been some rabid Twain collector at the festival? You know my knowledge of this kind of thing is limited to the furor over Mum’s rare J.M. Barrie book. Ellie, did you see any shady characters lurking in the conference room?”
Ellie laughed. “No, although I realized when I saw him at our book club that Gilbert Ward had been in the audience. He and another gentleman seemed to be competing for who could ask the most questions. The second man was accompanied by a woman in a wheelchair, and I could tell she was trying to get him to stop asking so many questions. We had an entertaining speaker, and she showed clips from both the Ken Burns special on Twain and Hal Holbrook’s stage show. It was a marvelous evening. Instead of giving a canned presentation, she went out of her way to connect Twain to other authors who were represented at the festival. She even mentioned a letter Twain had written Bram Stoker thanking him for a photograph of Henry Irving, a famous British actor whom Twain admired.”
I was itching to start jotting notes. “Ellie, do you have a program from that session? I’d love to see it and to sit down again with you to go over it in detail. I think Belle’s right about you subbing for Wendy. Are you game?”
Ellie beamed. “I thought Belle was teasing, but I’d love to help. It sounds exciting.” She offered to host us for brunch the next day. I wondered whether Ellie had any idea what she was in for. Could it be that the Little Old Ladies’ Detective Agency is about to expand?
Chapter Seventeen
After seeing everyone off, I called Beatrix and explained I’d like to have the binders in time for my brunch meeting. I also asked if there had been any additional Mark Twain documents in the Author Letters binder.
“I plan to be in the shop around 9:30 as usual so why don’t I run the binders by your cottage before that? As for Twain, no. I think those two missing items were the only ones listed for the binder I checked, but I could be wrong. What about books? Did Teddy have any of his books?”
“Yes, all accounted for. I can’t help thinking that the Twain letters may have been the target of the break-in, though I think there was something from Agatha Christie missing too. I need to sit down with those ledger sheets and make a list before I get off on the wrong track.”
“Leta, I can’t thank you enough for looking into this. Any other time, I’d be right there with you trying to see a pattern—if there is one—but I’ve got too much on my plate right now to be of any help. By the way, Teddy’s next-door neighbor called to tell me a Fed Ex package was delivered for him today, so I’ll be making a quick stop by the cottage to get it, and I’ll pick up the ledger book then.”
“Thanks, Beatrix.” I hesitated. “This may seem an odd question, but how much do you know about Gilbert Ward?”
She paused. “Not much. I was thrilled Dave sent him my way for our book club meeting, and, since I wanted to introduce him properly, I googled him. What’s on the internet is mostly that he’s a member of the Sherlockian Club, and that he’s known for his entertaining presentations at various bookshops and clubs. I got the impression he’s a collector of sorts, at least when it comes to Arthur Conan Doyle and Sherlock Holmes material. Why do you ask?”
I explained Ellie recalled seeing him at the Twain session a week ago, and that had piqued my curiosity. “Sounds as though he took in as many of the festival sessions as possible. I had to laugh when Ellie told me he had lots of questions for the woman who made the presentation on Mark Twain.”
“Doesn’t that sound just like him? He seems to be quite a character. Oh! I meant to tell you—I figured out why Albert, Teddy’s driver, looked familiar to me. He used to work at his father’s stall at the Bolton Flea Market. Was there most weekends until he went off to Oxford. He’s grown up since I last saw him. I wonder how he wound up doing odd jobs for Teddy instead of something more in line with an Oxford education. Could be like Thom working for me last year. I
t’s not always easy to find a decent job even with a degree.”
“Um, I’ve got the story behind that.”
She remembered him as a shy, polite young man and was surprised to hear about his being sent down from school. We agreed he was fortunate to have gotten his job with Teddy.
Next, I washed my face, changed into my PJs, and climbed in bed to call Dave. “You missed a good meal tonight,” I said. “Though the good news is I made enough sauce for us to have a meal when you get back.”
“And didn’t you tell me that a good Italian sauce is even better a day or two later? Something about the seasoning improving? I’ll eat it any time you want to put it in front of me.” He couldn’t wait to tell me about driving to Kirriemuir to visit the house Barrie had grown up in. Thursday, he planned to visit the house on Picardy Place where Arthur Conan Doyle was born. The tours were welcome breaks from hours in the university library and might provide some colorful background for his book Barrie & Friends.
As I updated him on the progress, or lack thereof, on the literary angle of Teddy’s murder, it occurred to me that I’d gone a day without hearing from Gemma. Good news or bad? I wondered.
Dave was intrigued by my idea that the killer, perhaps a collector, could have been after Twain material. “It’s hard to imagine a literary festival as a hotbed of conniving collectors, but I guess anything is possible.”
“Uh-huh, when Gemma blasted me yesterday, she expressed a similar sentiment—more along the lines of not wanting to believe we could once again have a murder connected to books or authors. Maybe it takes English majors and writers to find that idea believable. I wonder whether she’d get a kick out of that John Dunning series about booksellers and book scouts. They’re filled with murders. Maybe I should get her the first one, Booked to Die—only after she’s solved this case, of course. I wouldn’t want to distract her.”
My boyfriend enjoyed a good mystery as much I did. “Loved those books. Have you read all of them?”
“No, only two. Perhaps I’ll get back to them after this. By the way, not that I see Gilbert as a conniving collector, but his name came up tonight. Ellie remembered seeing him at the Twain session Wednesday. As you would expect, she said he asked tons of questions. I wonder . . . is he as much an expert on Twain as he is on Doyle? Would he be able to help me understand the significance of these documents? Until my scholarly boyfriend wraps up his research trip and has the time?”
“Ha! He’d jump at the chance, expert or not. You know, beneath his showman exterior, he’s amazingly well-read, even if he is careful to say he’s no scholar. I’ll text you his number and you can ask him. I can see him going all Sherlock Holmes on you. Are you ready to play Watson?”
I paused before responding. “Sure. But tell me, how well do you know him? Do you have any reservations about my involving him?”
“Now, where did that come from? Did you sense something unsavory about him? Or are you just being cautious?” He chuckled. “Wait, you cautious? That can’t be it.”
Not being sure how to take that last remark, I chose to ignore it. “I’m not sure where it came from. I need to be sure he doesn’t share any details about the theft with anyone else since there’s an ongoing police investigation. Maybe that’s it.”
Dave seemed to be finding this humorous, and I thought that was a good thing. “Don’t want him to put the word out on the conniving collector grapevine? I think if you ask him, he’ll keep quiet about it.”
“Okay. I’ll give him a call once you send me his number.” We moved on to Dave’s plans for the rest of the week. He was confident he’d be able to wrap up his research Thursday, get an early start for Astonbury Friday, and be back in time to take me to dinner. “Okey dokey, can you see me turning into a pumpkin?”
“Yes, I can. Goodnight, Tuppence. Love you.”
“Love you back.” I smiled as I turned out the light and snuggled beneath my comforter.
The next morning, Dickens was fired up at the prospect of seeing Ellie’s Corgi. “I can’t wait to see Blanche,” he barked. “Wonder if she has some new toys?”
Thursday was one of Caroline’s days at the Manor House, so Belle and I were treated to a leisurely meal of Eggs Benedict and fruit. I could tell I wouldn’t need lunch. Dodging Dickens and Blanche while carrying two mugs of coffee, one for me and one for Belle, I followed my friends to the library.
Ellie stoked the fire, and I placed the binders on the large ottoman as Belle got settled. Seeing her prop her cane beside the easy chair reminded me of Teddy’s missing cane. Was it merely an opportunistic theft—nothing to do with the main goal of the break-in?
Beatrix had placed the loose pages in their proper places in the binders with yellow sticky notes attached, so we’d know they’d been found on the desk. Though she hadn’t recalled any other Twain material in the Author Letters binder, Ellie thought we should double-check, so that’s where she started, cross-referencing to the ledger sheet copies as she went along.
I suggested that Belle flip through the Miscellany binder so she could see the two sheets that had been removed and replaced. Meanwhile, I pulled out the spiral-bound notebook I’d brought with me and, in large block print, listed the wall items I’d been unable to locate. When Ellie and Belle were done, the next step would be to check through the ledger sheets to find anything else identified as missing and complete the list.
Caroline arrived to refill our coffee mugs and bring homemade treats to the dogs. She had gotten their measure and asked them both to sit before handing over the treats.
As they followed her back to the kitchen, Dickens turned to bark, “Leta, we need some of these at home.” For the moment, Caroline was his new best friend.
Ellie closed her binder. “I’m ready to dive in. How ’bout you ladies?”
Belle nodded her agreement, and I read aloud from my notebook. “Okay, here we go. Two author letters documented by Teddy as being on the wall are missing: ‘Agatha Christie to G.K. Chesterton 22_4_1935’ and ‘Doyle to Twain 70th Birthday tribute 5_12_1905.’ What do you have to add, Ellie?”
“Two pieces are also missing from the Author Letters binder. ‘Twain to Doyle on meeting in America 29_8_1894’ and ‘Twain to Barrie on seeing Peter Pan in London 29_12_1905.’”
I nodded. “Your turn, Belle.”
“Nothing missing because you found the two pieces among the papers on Teddy’s desk, but we should probably make note of them. Why were they pulled out but left behind? We have 'T.S. Eliot/notes on A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court 15_3_1924’ and ‘Twain on Arthur Conan Doyle for the Strand 23_7_1907.’ Is it significant that it’s the only place T.S. Eliot shows up?”
I shrugged as I tore the page from my notebook and placed it on the ottoman so we could all study it. There are common elements, but what do they mean? “What do you think? I had the idea this all had to do with Mark Twain, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
Dickens and Blanche chose that moment to scamper into the library and skid to a stop in front of the fireplace. Each carried a rawhide chewy. Spoiled rotten, I thought.
Ellie shook her head at their antics and returned to the task at hand. She moved her finger down the page. “You’re right, Doyle shows up almost as often as Mark Twain. In the stolen documents, he’s noted two times to Twain’s three. And J.M. Barrie appears once, as does Dame Agatha.”
Leaning in, Belle spoke. “If you look at the pages that were removed, Twain shows up two more times. His name isn’t mentioned, but we all know he wrote A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. Plus, he appears as the author of an article on Doyle. Is it simply that these aren’t valuable? But, then, I’d think anything by these famous writers would be worth a significant amount.”
I kept coming back to the list. “I’m puzzled by what was taken and what remained behind, and I can’t discern a pattern. If you bothered to pull pieces of paper from the binders to carry off, why not take all of them? Bottom line, we have four item
s that were stolen, so I’m thinking they must be of especially high value. When Wendy and I researched collectible books and letters last year, we were amazed at what they could go for. Last night, I googled the Edgar Allan Poe books that were in the safe. They’re valued at £8575. Amazing.”
Ellie laughed. “Stumped or not, talking about authors and books is fun, and at least we’ve got a complete list—four items. Where do we go from here?”
“I think we’ll set this aside. I plan to contact Gilbert Ward later today to see if he can shed any light on these documents. Since he’s a collector of sorts, he may have an idea. Are you ladies game to talk about suspects? Belle rattled off a list earlier this week.”
Our resident Miss Marple beamed. “That’s what the Little Old Ladies’ Detective Agency does. We identify suspects and means and motive. Let’s have at it.”
As Belle and Ellie brainstormed possibilities, I wrote one name per page in my notebook. We had to set aside any reservations about the likelihood a person would smother an elderly man in his sleep. We didn’t debate the names. I wrote any name thrown out. There weren’t that many—only four.
Fiona
Albert
Pris
Beatrix
Ellie expressed her disapproval. “How can we suspect that sweet girl you tell me took care of both Teddy and his wife?”
“It’s partly about opportunity, Ellie. Fiona has a key, and there was no sign of a break-in. She says it was her routine to let Watson out—that’s the cat—and then lock up after seeing Teddy to bed. Plus, I’ve learned from Beatrix that Fiona has a motive. Teddy bequeathed her a substantial sum of money plus the flat above Bluebird Books.”
“Okay, I can see that, Leta, but what’s Albert’s motive? What do you know about him?”
“I’m not sure I know all that much. It’s mostly that he was in and out of Teddy’s cottage almost daily, either delivering things or picking him up to drive him somewhere. In all that, I keep wondering whether Teddy could have given him a key at some point. And, as Belle and I discussed earlier, both Albert and Pris have easy access to Fiona’s flat where the key hangs on a hook for all to see. And, well, he did steal some things from his girlfriend’s flat when she broke up with him.”
Collectors, Cats & Murder Page 19