by Nancy Warren
“Excellent. William will be pleased. Any criticism?”
“Yes. This bowl is too small.”
“Save yourself for the second course.”
While I ate, I asked about his work, as he had an interesting job restoring and evaluating manuscripts ranging from papyrus scrolls to much more recent first editions. He said, “At the moment, I’m working on evaluating the collection at St. Mary’s College.”
I looked up at him. “For insurance purposes?”
“That’s what the college is saying, but I suspect they’re going to sell the collection. St. Mary’s is financially strapped, and word is they’re about to lose one of their biggest supporters.”
“Why?”
He settled back and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other. “Two reasons. One, the most precious items in the library’s collection are missing.”
I gulped my soup by accident and coughed. “What?” Only since I had known Rafe had I realized how precious some of these old books and manuscripts were. “Was it stolen?”
“That’s the question.” He looked into his glass where the light played off the surface of the red wine as though he found it fascinating. “The collection contains an early manuscript of Frankenstein with Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s handwritten notes.”
“Wow.” Even I could figure out that that was worth quite a pretty sum.
“There is also a handwritten manuscript of Jane Eyre. Again, it’s valuable in itself but also because it came with a collection of letters written by Charlotte Brontë.”
“So they have research as well as monetary value.”
He looked at me in an approving way. “Exactly. It’s bad enough to lose a valuable manuscript, but the additional notes and letters by the authors are essentially priceless.”
“Are there any clues as to what happened?”
Once more he turned his attention back to his wine. “The previous principal, a woman named Georgiana Quales, died nearly ten years ago. After her death, the treasures were found to be missing.”
“And nothing was found in her things? There were no letters? Nothing in her will?”
“It was a sudden death.”
The way he said the words “sudden death” made me look up. There was sudden death and sudden death. “What happened to her?”
“Her neck was broken. She was found dead at the bottom of a stone staircase that led up to the library.”
Chapter 2
“That’s a nasty trip and fall,” I said, after Rafe told me the former principal of St. Mary’s College had broken her neck falling down the library stairs.
“It was. Worse, after a blameless tenure during which she’d done a great deal to improve St. Mary’s, there is now a cloud of suspicion that taints her memory.”
I felt there was a lot that he wasn’t saying. “You knew her, didn’t you?”
“I did. I would have said Georgiana was devoted to that school and to her students. It was originally a women’s college, one of very few colleges that welcomed females. There were no lands except what the college sits on, so she always said those precious manuscripts were like an insurance policy. They could be sold if needed to save the college.”
“So where are they?”
“A very good question.”
“It’s a funny thing. One of my knitting customers is a professor there, in women’s literature, in fact. Her name is Fiona McAdam.”
He smiled slightly. “Actually, that’s not a coincidence. I met Professor McAdam, and since she was knitting at the time, I told her about your shop and suggested she come by.”
“That was nice of you. She’s been a good customer too. She was supposed to be at my knitting class tonight, but she never showed up.”
His brow creased. “That’s odd. I saw her earlier today. She said she was coming tonight and looking forward to it.”
“She didn’t look sick or anything?”
“Not then. Perhaps she came down with something.”
“Maybe. She didn’t answer her phone. I’ll try again in the morning.”
“And now, if you’ve finished your lobster bisque, William sent medallions of filet mignon in a piquant cognac sauce with a medley of winter vegetables.”
My lips twitched. “You memorized that.”
His eyes gleamed with answering humor. “Not at all. In fact, I wrote the description for William. He’s much too modest.”
I loved that Rafe was helping his right-hand man to promote his business and, having tasted plenty of William’s dishes myself, I suspected he’d soon be in high demand. “Have you considered what will happen when William is so busy with catering jobs that he doesn’t have time to be your butler and general manager anymore?”
“What are you suggesting?”
“This isn’t feudal times anymore, Rafe. He could quit.”
He looked at me as though this were still feudal times and I was some servile peasant about to be punished for impertinence. “William will never leave my service.”
I was no longer amused. “You haven’t threatened him, have you?” How else could Rafe be so certain his employee would never leave?
Wow, if I were that poor peasant, I’d just waded deeper into trouble. His eyes went cold and flat. As urbane as Rafe was, when he got that cold, hard look, I was reminded of his dark past and what he was capable of. “Do you really think I would treat a faithful servant that way?”
“No.” I didn’t, either. “But how are you so sure he won’t quit if he builds a successful business? No offense, but I doubt you’re the easiest employer.” Especially for someone with a passion for cooking.
“William stays with me out of loyalty.”
“Hey, I get loyalty. I like to think Cardinal Woolsey’s customers are loyal, but if a better shop opens, selling wool for a cheaper price, I’ll lose them.”
He put the second course in front of me, and when I tasted it, I was even more convinced that William was on his way to a thriving business. With these talents, he could end up owning restaurants with his name on them and maybe a TV deal.
When Rafe resumed his seat and I was too busy eating to mouth off, he said, “William Thresher’s family has served me for more than twenty generations.”
I stopped chewing and stared. “Come again?”
“This William’s many-times grandfather bound himself and his sons to me in perpetuity.”
“That sounds like slavery to me.”
“Which shows that you have no experience of slavery. In every generation, one son comes to work for me, trained by his father. No coercion has ever been required. Yes, William could leave me. Yes, his son could decide he’d rather be a race car driver or a botanist, but so far that hasn’t happened. The Threshers prize loyalty and, frankly, working for me has been extremely beneficial to the family. They’ve always kept my secrets and promoted my interests, as our destinies are so aligned.”
“Is there a little William in training to be your next servant?”
He smiled slightly. “Not yet.”
I wondered if Rafe’s generosity with the catering was as selfless as I’d assumed. “It must be hard for William to meet women stuck in your manor house all day long. If he goes into society more with his catering business, he might meet a woman and father your next butler.”
“I support him in whatever he does.” Said in a tone so snooty I knew I was right. Rafe wanted William to get busy on making the next Crosyer butler, general factotum and keeper of dark secrets.
There was no more to be gained poking him about William, so I thought about missing manuscripts and missing knitting students instead. “You mentioned two reasons why a major funder might back out of St. Mary’s College. What was the second reason?”
He settled himself back in the same chair. “That is the more interesting reason.” He paused, as though choosing his words carefully. “A poltergeist has been reportedly causing havoc in the library.”
I bur
st into surprised laughter. “A poltergeist? Are you kidding me?”
He looked down his nose at me, which usually meant I’d said something he found foolish. “Lucy, I am a vampire talking to a witch. What is so amusing about a poltergeist?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Too many horror movies, I guess. Anyway, don’t they need an exorcist?”
He shook his head. “You’re thinking of demonic possession.”
Silly me.
“A poltergeist is a very interesting being. The energy of young people, particularly disturbed youth, attracts these kinds of spirits.”
“Really? College is full of disturbed young people.” I thought back to my own college days and all the drama. Students had to cope with the emotional upheaval of moving away from home for the first time, college romances, the eternal gnawing question of what will I be when I grow up? On top of that was the schoolwork itself and the pressure to get good grades, maybe hold down a part-time job to help finance the degree. I could imagine that if a spirit was drawn to youthful energy in turmoil, a college would lure it the way catnip enticed Nyx.
“Are you really there to value the library’s collection, or were you secretly called in to get rid of the poltergeist?”
He shook his head. “Officially, there is no poltergeist. I was merely asked to evaluate the library’s collection. However, rumors abound. Ask some of the students, especially those who’ve found themselves alone in the library after hours. Ask the caretaker, Wilfred Eels. He’s got some colorful stories.”
Even though the food was delicious, I put my knife and fork down. “Have you seen this poltergeist?”
He shook his head.
I was a bit scared at the very idea of a restless ghost. Well, I’d believed Rafe’s long-deceased wife was one not so long ago and that she was trying to kill me. I am not without fears of supernatural mayhem.
I went back to my meal. “I wonder if the coven could help.” I didn’t know, but we had protection spells and charms to ward off evil. Perhaps one of my sisters would know how to get rid of a poltergeist. Seemed worth asking.
“How are you getting on with your advanced witch’s training?”
This is what I’d taken to sarcastically calling it. The head of our coven, Margaret Twigg, along with my cousin Violet and great aunt Lavinia, had decreed that since I had missed out on all the training young witches normally received, I needed a crash course in the basics. Like remedial witchery.
I thought they were joking when they’d insisted I take broom-riding lessons, but I’d discovered they were serious and found it was surprisingly fun to soar through the air without having to worry about traffic or which side of the road I was driving on. Nyx was my co-pilot and an excellent one too. They’d also had me working on increasingly complicated spells, a lot of which focused on defense. “It’s going fine, but there’s a lot to learn, and they’re pushing me to progress quickly. Rafe, they say there’s a band of dark witches that are attempting to destroy our sisterhood. Do you think that’s true? Or is it just Margaret Twigg being dramatic?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Believe me, the undead have our own politics to deal with. I try to stay out of yours.”
I never knew I had special powers until I’d arrived in Oxford. If anyone had asked me if I’d like to be a witch, I would’ve said no, thank you very much. However, it turned out I had skills and powers and, according to Margaret, if I didn’t learn to control them properly, I was vulnerable to being controlled by someone else. Someone who might not have the best of intentions. It was that more than anything that made me agree to these extra lessons.
Maybe I was just paying attention more now, but I noticed things that I hadn’t before. Strange flashes of insight which were either bad dreams or, as Margaret Twigg believed, omens of the future.
In the meantime, I barely had time to knit, and that was another area where my skills were seriously lacking.
Rafe looked as though he was going to say something and then his mobile rang. He glanced at it, and his face grew still. He took the call. I could tell from his expression that it was bad news. When he got off his mobile, he said, “I must go. A dead body has been discovered at St. Mary’s College.”
I had a vision as though I were watching a movie clip. I could see Fiona McAdam lying sprawled. I didn’t know her well, but she was one of my customers. She had no family here in Oxford, and from what she’d told me, very few friends.
I got to my feet. “I’m coming with you.”
Chapter 3
Silently, we got into Rafe’s black Tesla and purred through the night to St. Mary’s College. “Oh, poor Fiona,” I moaned.
There was a heavy feeling in my chest as though I might have prevented her death. I’d been thinking about her all evening. I’d even phoned her. Why hadn’t I taken the trouble to search for her?
“Calm down, Lucy. You don’t know anything yet.”
He was right. One strange vision didn’t mean I was right, any more than all of my dreams came true. However, since I’d moved to Oxford, I seemed to draw unnatural death the way youthful tumultuous energy drew poltergeists. The worst part was, most of the deceased I’d stumbled upon had turned out to have been murdered.
Fiona McAdam seemed like a nice person, a dedicated teacher who had come to Oxford from somewhere in Scotland, based on her accent, to share her knowledge and to work on research projects.
Who would want someone like that dead? And why?
It didn’t take long to reach the college and, naturally, Rafe knew the night porter and was allowed right in the gates and even welcomed to one of the precious parking spots.
Oxford CID was already on the premises. We saw a couple of police cars in the parking area. We’d been alerted so quickly that the ambulance wasn’t even here yet. I looked at Rafe curiously. “Who called you?”
He was always cagey about his sources; his network was incredible. All he said was, “An associate.”
“Dead or undead?” He simply looked at me and didn’t answer. I kept pushing at him for more information about himself and his network because once in a while, he’d tell me something. Not tonight, though. Still, he’d let me come with him, so I wasn’t about to antagonize him.
Women had been attending Oxford since Victorian times, and several women’s colleges had been built then, including St. Mary’s. However, women weren’t officially awarded degrees until the 1920s. All the colleges were co-ed now, though the last holdouts had only begun allowing men within the last couple of decades, including St. Mary’s. In keeping with such old-fashioned notions, St. Mary’s had a Victorian gothic look with ivy creeping up the sides of the gray stone building. In the dark with my imagination working overtime, the vines looked like ghostly fingers trying to pull the dark building back down into the earth.
There was a bustle of activity at the main entrance, and without even seeming to change our course, Rafe put an arm around my waist and led me down a narrow, ill-lit path. Dark bushes rose on either side of us so it was like being in a green tunnel. The path took us to a side entrance. The building might be old, but I noticed that the security was up to date. He used a key card to open the door, and we walked into a dimly lit corridor. Ahead was a bulletin board with various notices. One made my throat clutch with sadness. “Pre-Feminism and the Brontës” was the title. “A lecture by Professor Fiona McAdam.” I scanned the first paragraph. “How did the language of the Brontë sisters whisper the messages of feminism from behind the aprons and bonnets of their repressed country life?”
I snapped a quick photograph of the poster since Rafe was already striding ahead to the scene of the death and I didn’t dare pause to read the whole notice or I’d lose him.
The lecture was scheduled for next week and open to the public. Would they have to cancel it?
I hurried to catch up. He strode down corridors as though he knew exactly where he was going, though it seemed like a rabbit warren to me. We turned once, passed a series
of closed doors. Then I heard voices. He opened another door, and we came through to the bottom of the staircase. I hadn’t expected to come smack upon the corpse, but one thing I knew right away was that this picture didn’t match my vision.
The victim wasn’t even female. The dead man lay on the flagstone floor, face down. I saw his blue-clad legs first. He was wearing the kind of pants an electrician might wear. Navy blue and made of thick cotton. A muddle of keys hung from the belt. He wore a matching navy-blue shirt, and I could just make out the back of his head with sparse, curly gray hair. There were several people crowded around the body. I recognized two of them:
Detective Inspector Ian Chisholm of Oxford CID and his sergeant.
I knew Ian quite well. We’d even dated a few times. He was kneeling beside the body, though not touching it. Standing, watching him was Detective Sergeant Barnes, who was quite new to Oxford.
When Rafe and I arrived at the scene, Sergeant Barnes turned and stepped in front of us, blocking our view. “You can’t come in here.”
At the words, Ian raised his head. He rose and walked toward us. “Rafe. Lucy.” His eyes were friendly enough but sharp. “What brings you here?”
A perfectly logical question given that I worked in a wool shop, I wasn’t a student here and had no connection with this college. Why hadn’t I guessed there would be cops at the scene who would have questions? I should have thought up a story.
Naturally, I hadn’t, but Rafe spoke up. “I’ve been asked to evaluate St. Mary’s library collection. I found an extraordinarily interesting book about Victorian knitting, which I believe could be quite valuable, so I invited Lucy along to have a look.” There was a tiny pause, and then he added, “Since she owns a knitting shop, I wanted her expert opinion on the text.”
