Chapter 7
BACK IN THE DIRECTOR’S office at the Jane Austen Centre, Richard ran his fingers through his dark hair, exhibiting the streaks of grey at his temples. “No, Officer, I don’t have any idea who could have stolen the letter.” He looked at the uniformed police officer sitting across the table from him. “Wait a minute. The letter was still here after the break-in. Arthur and I didn’t find it until the next morning.” He was struggling to recall the order of recent events. “You mean there’s been another burglary?”
“That’s how it appears.” Police Constable Bill Weston’s clear blue eyes didn’t blink.
“I thought Robert Sheldrake was sending it to the British Library or something.”
“That’s right. Mr. Sheldrake says he had put the letter in the top desk drawer. But when he came in for it just before lunch to send it to London, it was gone.” He cleared his throat. “I understand you were at the Centre this morning?”
“Yes. We stopped in briefly to buy some maps.” Richard pulled them from his pocket and held them out as evidence.
“And you didn’t go up to the first floor at all?”
“No. Wait a minute. You don’t think I—” Richard’s voice rose.
“What I mean, sir, is, you didn’t see anything suspicious? Anyone who shouldn’t have been here?”
“How would I know who should be here? Robert would be the one to ask. Or Arthur—wasn’t he working here this morning?”
“Arthur Langton? He’s the one who helped Mr. Sheldrake search the office, in case the letter had been misplaced.”
“Surely that’s exactly what happened,” Richard insisted.
“So he thought at first, but it doesn’t seem to be here. Nor any of the others.”
“Others? There were more? I only saw one letter. Lots of other stuff, but I only noticed one letter.”
“Miss Cholmley recalls seeing a packet of small brown envelopes before she was attacked.”
“Oh, so that must be what the intruder was after. Must have grabbed the stack, but dropped one in his haste.”
“And when you found Miss Cholmley, did you notice a dropped letter?”
Richard thought back. “No. Arthur and I found it still in the box with the other donated items the next morning.”
“But it was alone? You didn’t see a packet of letters?”
“No. I would have noticed. We went through everything, Arthur and I. We didn’t begin to get everything read, but we did finish sorting it all. Claire had only made a start. When I found the letter, I got rather excited and went to tell Elizabeth about it. Arthur stayed to work on the papers and returned to do more this morning. I’m afraid that’s all I know.”
The constable looked back over his notes. “So you and Mr. Langton sorted through everything in the box and you didn’t see any more letters?”
“That’s right. It’s what I said.” Richard frowned. He was sure he’d been clear in his statement.
“Well, you see, there’s a bit of a problem, sir, because Miss Hammersley says she saw them when she visited Mr. Langton here the afternoon before the robbery. She suggested perhaps you took them for further study.”
“Me? That’s insane. I don’t know what she thinks she saw, but I definitely took nothing from this office.”
“What is your address in Bath, sir?”
Richard gave the street number. “It’s a B and B near Queen Square.”
“Would you care to show me, sir?”
“What? You want to search our room?” Richard half rose to his feet.
“We need to eliminate you from our enquiry, sir.” PC Weston might be young, but his eyes were very steady and his voice insistent.
Richard shrugged. “Why not?” He led the way to the door.
“Richard, what is it?” Elizabeth met him on the landing.
“Elizabeth, this is Police Constable Weston. He wants to see our B and B room.”
Elizabeth blinked. “Goodness.”
It was a short distance to the small guest house at the back of the square. Mrs. Shurze, their hostess, was just coming in, pulling a shopping trolley as they approached the door. “Hello there. I hope you’ve had a nice morning.”
Elizabeth said that they had.
“You couldn’t have had better weather for your visit.” She eyed the uniformed officer with them. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m sure it will be, ma’am. Dr. Spenser is helping us with some information. Nothing for you to worry about.”
She looked less worried, but still not completely at ease. She started to move on when Weston asked, “You’ve been out all morning, have you?”
She indicated her shopping. “Waitrose in Northgate Street. It’s a good walk.”
Weston helped her lift the cart up the steps. “Don’t let us detain you, ma’am.”
She went on with only a brief look back over her shoulder.
Richard led up the stairs to their first-floor room and unlocked the door. Elizabeth stepped in first, then drew back. “Oh, my, we didn’t leave the room like this.”
A less-careful traveler might not have noticed, but Elizabeth was nearly fanatical in her travel organization. When they left the room this morning, the top was down on her black rollerboard suitcase, the drawer in her bedside stand was closed, and the wardrobe shut tightly. She especially recalled the wardrobe door because it could only be latched by turning a small key which Mrs. Shurze left inserted in the lock for that purpose, and it had taken Elizabeth more than one attempt to get it right.
Elizabeth dashed around the bed and yanked open the drawer in the bedside stand, then heaved a sigh of relief. Her journal was there. Not that it contained anything of great importance, but it was so personal. She wouldn’t want to lose it.
“Perhaps the maid?” Weston suggested.
“Yes, someone was in to make the bed. But they shouldn’t have disturbed our other things.” Elizabeth turned to go get their hostess, then startled because Mrs. Shurze was right behind her.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
PC Weston asked about the maid.
“Afsheen,” Mrs. Shurze replied. “She’s a good girl. She comes in every morning to do the washing up after breakfast, then cleans the rooms. Been with me three years. I never had a complaint about her.”
“Where could we contact her?”
“Now see here, I don’t want you upsetting her. She’s a good worker.”
“I’m sure she is, ma’am, but she might have seen something. Someone lurking on the pavement, for example. Or heard something while she was doing another room.”
Mrs. Shurze gave the information. When Elizabeth and Richard finished checking their belongings, it seemed that nothing had been taken.
Elizabeth closed the door behind the departing officer with a shiver. “Richard, what is going on?”
When he didn’t reply, she kicked off her shoes and sank onto the bed. What had they got themselves into? Their dream holiday was going all wrong: Claire hit over the head, the letter with its exciting possibilities stolen, Richard accused of stealing . . .
Her first reaction was to pull the duvet over her head and block it all out. That was quickly followed by a desire to do something wildly frivolous and forget all about it. Why not? They were on vacation. They could get on a train and go into London. See a show. Or go to the seashore. How far was Brighton? Maybe—
“Richard—” She came to her feet in one swift bounce. “It’s Edith’s letter. It has to be. Or the chest of papers she mentions. This proves there’s something to it. We’ve got to find them.” Her words shocked herself as much as they did her hearer.
“Elizabeth, what are you saying? I was just going to suggest that we get out of here before something else goes wrong.”
Elizabeth caught her breath. So they had been thinking exactly the same thing. But no, she was sure her reaction to flee was wrong. “We’re on to something. I know it. Let’s go find Arthur. I wonder who else he told
about the letter. Or Muriel, or Gerri. Somebody let the cat out of the bag and now the lion hunters have moved in.”
Richard barked a short laugh, really more just a release of tension. “What a quick-grown feline. But I think I agree. Let’s go back to the Centre. It seems to be the focus.”
“I hope Arthur’s still there. I have a few questions for him. I wonder if the police thought to search his room. And Gerri—why was she so quick to implicate you? Was she protecting Arthur?” Now that Elizabeth started, she could think of quite a few questions she would like to ask a lot of people.
But when they got back to 25 Gay Street and she stormed her way up the stairs to the office, she found more people than she had counted on. Indeed, she glimpsed Arthur on the far side of the room. But he was fully occupied in a struggle to protect the neat stacks of papers on his work table as what appeared to be a horde of people milled around the tiny space.
As might be expected, Muriel Greystone was at the center of the hubbub. “All right, everyone. So good of you to come so quickly. But I knew the press would want to be in on the ground floor. Let me introduce you all.” She looked toward the door. “Ah, the doctors Spenser. Perfect. Now,” she indicated a tall, silver-haired man wearing a white turtleneck, “this is my old friend and publisher Paul Exeter from Albion Press and,” she turned to a jeans-clad woman with her long hair pulled back in a clip, “this is Beth from The Bath Chronicle. She’ll be able to get the story out right away. Isn’t that right, Robert?”
The assistant director stood just outside the door, wringing his hands. “Really, Dr. Greystone, I don’t—that is, this is most premature . . .”
Elizabeth moved so she could speak to Robert quietly. “What is she doing? Is this a press conference? A publisher? What’s to publish?”
Robert shook his head. “She asked if she could use Claire’s office to talk to some friends. I had no idea. Claire will have a fit. She’s very careful that everything we release to the press be polished. The Centre has worked hard to build a reputation for excellence. Can you do anything with her?”
Elizabeth laughed at the idea of anyone reining in Muriel Greystone. “I doubt it, but I’ll see what I can do.” Muriel was introducing the young blond newspaper reporter to Arthur and ordering him to answer her questions as Elizabeth edged her way to the tall, distinguished-looking man with his back to the bookcase. “You’re Muriel’s publisher?”
“Paul Exeter, Albion Press.” He held out his hand.
“Elizabeth Spenser,” she returned. She didn’t see any reason not to use a direct approach. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not sure. We’ve published Dr. Greystone for years, so when she rang and said she had a monumental find that would impact on her upcoming book . . .”
Elizabeth smiled. “You thought it best not to argue.”
He returned her grin. “That’s about the size of it. Our offices are in Bathwick, just across the river, and I thought it might be a good experience for our interns.” He indicated two young people in the corner behind Claire’s desk. “Jack and Polly. Keen to learn the publishing business. Students of Muriel’s at St. Frieswide’s. At least, Polly was, and she recommended Jack.”
“Albion Press?’ Elizabeth asked.
“Bit of a pun, that. Of course, Albion’s an old name for England, but an Albion press was an early hand printing press. A real contrast to today’s all-electronic approach, but it emphasizes our main market niche— history.”
“What do you publish?”
“Textbooks, biographies, scholarly work. We’re launching a new line of facsimiles of historical documents. I understood Muriel wanted to offer us something in that line. I don’t quite understand why she brought the Chronicle’s crime reporter into it.” He nodded toward Beth.
“What is Muriel’s new book about?”
“Ah, Analysing Jane—an analysis of Jane’s style and how she worked. I’ve seen the rough draft. An examination of Jane’s rewrites of Persuasion and Pride and Prejudice. I thought it was nearly finished, but she said she’ll now be adding a chapter on The Watsons.”
Muriel, her trademark purple blouse shimmering in the light from the window, called for their attention again. She held up the box from the end of the work table and told about its donation, then went on to mention a few of the items lying out on the table. “Unfortunately, the most interesting of my discoveries has gone missing, but I assure you I will recover all in time for Albion Press to include a facsimile in my book.”
“Her discovery?” Elizabeth raised her eyebrows, but she didn’t comment further. “So are you interested? Will you publish the facsimiles? If she finds them, that is.”
Paul shook his head. “Possibly. But it’s early days. This seems most unorthodox.”
“Exactly what I think,” Elizabeth agreed. “I wonder what she hopes to gain by such grandstanding.”
“Occupying the ground so no one else will take credit for the find. Typical.”
Elizabeth was startled by the caustic tone in the newcomer’s voice. “Gerri, I didn’t realize you were here.”
Before Geraldine could reply, Muriel rapped on the table for attention. “So, that’s the story to this point. I knew you would all want to be in on the excitement. You can be assured I’ll keep you updated as the documents are studied more closely. And when we recover the letters, of course. I’m sure they’ll turn up. Merely misplaced or in the possession of someone simply wanting to study them for academic purposes, no doubt.” She looked around the room meaningfully, her eyes resting on Arthur, Geraldine, Robert, Elizabeth, and Richard each in their turn. “I pledge to work tirelessly for the recovery of this valuable find for the literary world, and I shall personally lead the undertaking. The Jane Austen Quest, I’m calling it.” As she spoke the last, she looked aside at Beth’s notes to be certain the reporter had recorded the title correctly.
Red-faced, Robert pushed his way forward. “Dr. Greystone, I really must protest. Nothing has been established. All this publicity—it could be very harmful . . .”
“Nonsense. Exactly what you need. You’ll see—when the article comes out in the Chronicle, it’ll double your visitors. Especially if the national press picks it up—and they will. You mark my words. And you, Paul,” she turned to the publisher. “Double our print run, eh?”
“But what about the police enquiry?” Elizabeth asked.
“Precisely my point,” Muriel replied. “No sense in someone else trying to take credit for the find or to sell it on now that it’s known as stolen property.”
Elizabeth didn’t catch Robert’s muttered reply. But the look he shot at Muriel should have been enough to make even that redoubtable lady take a step backward.
Chapter 8
BY COMMON CONSENT THE next morning, Elizabeth and Richard gave the Jane Austen Centre a wide berth and Elizabeth more than once found herself looking around her to be sure Muriel didn’t waylay them for some scheme—scholarly or promotional—of her own devising. This Sunday was their last day in Bath. Tomorrow they would be going on to Chawton—with Muriel in charge of the tour by prior arrangement. So Elizabeth was determined that today would be just hers and Richard’s.
They began with Holy Communion at the Abbey. The unbroken sweep of the long nave, the pale golden stone arches leading to rich fan-vaulting high overhead, the midmorning light streaming through the intricate stained-glass east window and the gentler light falling from the high clerestory windows made Elizabeth feel she must be worshiping in paradise itself. When the organ pealed forth and the choir began an anthem, Elizabeth relaxed and knew she could give herself over to the beauty and peace such worship engendered.
Especially the beauty of the language of the Prayer Book. Just such language as formed Jane’s own spirituality and that of her whole family. Jane was the granddaughter of a clergyman, the daughter of a clergyman, and had two brothers in the clergy. But the rest of the family was equally devout. Elizabeth smiled as she recalled that Jane�
�s brother Francis, while stationed in Ramsgate, became known as “the officer who knelt in church,” an indication of his piety. Following his example, Elizabeth slipped to her knees.
The pealing of the organ accompanied them down the aisle after the final “Thanks be to God.” The bright sunlight made Elizabeth blink as they entered the Abbey yard with the bells ringing from the tower high over their head. She took a deep breath and squeezed Richard’s arm. “Ah, what could be lovelier than a Sunday in England?”
The ringing changes accompanied them like a waterfall of sound as they crossed the yard and entered the Grand Parade. They paused, leaning on the stone balustrade, to look down into the beautifully landscaped Parade Gardens below them lining the banks of the River Avon. They moved on, walking slowly and dodging the other passersby as necessary, for surely all the world was out strolling the streets of Bath and the banks of the Avon on this perfect midsummer day.
“Ready for lunch yet?” Richard asked.
“Not yet.” But as she answered, Elizabeth spotted a small shop displaying scrumptious-looking pastries and sandwiches in its window. “Let’s buy something to take with us. We can have a picnic when we get hungry.”
They did just that, then crossed Pulteney Bridge lined on both sides with flower-bedecked shops and continued on up to Laura Place. The street here divided in a diamond shape to allow for the great circular fountain in the center. Richard consulted his informative map. “Ah, this is the widest street in Bath. By 1800, this side of the river had become the most fashionable part of the city. At that time, houses here cost £300. Today they’re around four million pounds.”
“Goodness.” Elizabeth calculated. “More than six million dollars.”
“At least,” Richard agreed. “Little wonder Jane thought houses here would be above their price, even though her father very much fancied something in the area.”
Beyond Laura Place, they entered Great Pulteney Street. “Jane settled the Allens and Catherine Morland here very comfortably.” She smiled; the characters from her favorite novels were as real to her as historical people. Sometimes she even had difficulty recalling whether a certain place brought back a scene from Jane’s novels or her letters—whether something happened to one of Jane’s characters or to the authoress herself. But then, it probably didn’t make too much difference, since Jane never wrote about a place she didn’t know personally.
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