“Four and six, not a bad price,” I said. “Must be a wartime edition.”
When I opened the cover to check the publication date, a folded sheet fell out the back of the book and drifted to the floor.
With a quick glance at the door to make sure Mrs. Woolgar hadn’t seen and would accuse me of damaging the goods, I retrieved the paper that had fallen out of Murder Must Advertise, sat down, and unfolded it.
Dear DLS,
How can I ever thank you enough for this incredibly generous gift you have given me? To think that I now possess a book signed by all the members of the Detection Club from 1933, when your entertaining Lord Peter story Murder Must Advertise was first published. You know of my great respect for all of you, and my growing library of books by you and the other authors, especially the women, whom I greatly admire for their strength, perseverance, and talents. You are kind to speak well of my François Flambeaux—knowing, as you would, that he is a particular creation of mine imbued with qualities I borrowed from my dear late husband. I don’t mind that so few readers know François, because he is still dear to me.
Where was a tissue when you needed one? Thoughts of Lady Fowling’s marriage to Sir John always touched me—she had written about him with such tenderness. I wiped my eyes with the back of a sleeve and continued.
Please know that this book will be treasured and kept safe, as I am sure it is quite valuable. What a lovely gesture for you to give it away. I look forward to a time I can share it with others.
Yours kindly,
Georgiana
P.S. I recently saw your photograph in the newspaper, taken at your previous employers, SH Benson’s. You were unveiling a plaque near the staircase at their place of business—the “site” of the death in your book Murder Must Advertise. What a jolly idea for them to make the connection between your story and the actual place that inspired it. This makes your gift all the more special!
DLS? Dorothy L. Sayers. A thrill ran through me at the personal nature of the letter.
The Detection Club? The name rang a vague bell. More research was needed, but it must have been unusual for club members to all sign a book written by only one of them.
Where was it? Where was this rare, signed, first edition of Dorothy L. Sayers’s Murder Must Advertise? I would need to conduct a search of the library, leaving no book unopened, and if I didn’t find it, I would bring the cartons out of their secure storage and examine each one of those.
Look how important this made Lady Fowling. She wasn’t only a fan—she had been considered an equal by Dorothy L. Sayers, one of the great names from the Golden Age of Mystery.
A worm of a question wriggled its way into my elation. Why was this letter that Lady Fowling wrote to Dorothy L. Sayers never sent, and instead, stashed in a book here at Middlebank? Had her ladyship imagined a friendship that didn’t exist?
“Ms. Burke?”
I leapt out of my chair at Mrs. Woolgar’s sudden appearance.
“It’s past six o’clock,” she said, her voice laced with reproof.
“What? How can that be . . . I didn’t think . . . I must change my clothes—people will begin arriving soon. But where are Val and Arthur Fish?” Then I looked down at the letter in one hand and the book in the other, and remembered what I was about. “Mrs. Woolgar—see what I’ve found!”
She approached, and catching sight of the letter and her ladyship’s spidery handwriting, she smiled. “Oh my, now where has that been?”
“Hidden. Stuck in the back of this book—the wrong book. It’s a letter Lady Fowling was writing to the author, Sayers. But it looks as if she never sent it.”
“Nonsense,” Mrs. Woolgar said, glancing at the letter before handing it back to me, “this is only her first draft. She always wrote a letter out and then copied it over onto proper stationery before posting it.”
I could’ve hugged the secretary on the spot for this bit of information, but I knew my place, and instead gathered up letter and book. “This is fantastic—wait’ll I tell you more. But now I must hurry. Hang on, where’s my phone? Oh, there. I’ll text Val and be down in two ticks.” The front door buzzed. “That’ll be the servers. Mrs. Woolgar, would you—”
“I will let them in.”
“And the chairs?”
“Yes, I’ll bring in the Chippendales. And I’ll light the fire. Now off with you.”
We should have enough seats for everyone, as long as we had no surprise guests. If need be, I could perch on the ladder. I left Mrs. Woolgar talking to Bunter—“Come now, boy, dinner”—and flew up the stairs to my flat. As I unlocked the door, a text came in from Arthur Fish.
Just off m4. Plenty of time.
Plenty of time—was he mad?
I changed into my dress for the evening—geranium pink with a ruched waist and, most importantly, a bit of give. Next week, I would wear it with a jacket and the week after that with a floral scarf. Long ago, I’d learned to squeeze as much use as possible out of my wardrobe. Pulling the band off my ponytail, I combed my hair, twisted it up, and secured it with a spring clip, and then, carrying my shoes, I went downstairs, stopping at the library to greet our two servers before arriving at the front door out of breath and with mere seconds before the door buzzed.
Mrs. Audrey Moon and Mrs. Sylvia Moon—both cocooned in layers of wool—beamed at me. Behind them, I saw Jane Arbuthnot’s ramrod posture, and Maureen Frost’s steel-gray pageboy with Adele’s mass of red curls in the far back. The board. They had been invited early to meet our speaker, and here they were. Where was he?
“Oh, Hayley!” Audrey Moon exclaimed. “We’re so proud of you.”
I blushed and greeted the Moons with kisses on their cheeks, shook hands with the next two, and received a hug from Adele.
“Well,” Mrs. Arbuthnot said, “where is our illustrious speaker?”
“Minutes away,” I said. “Mrs. Woolgar, would you—”
The secretary escorted the group upstairs, but Adele hung back.
“Here it is,” she said, “your first outing. You all right?”
“Fine. Fantastic. Fabulous.”
“What’s wrong?”
“No trains from Paddington and Val drove up to collect Arthur Fish. They turned off the M4 about twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh, the trains—I didn’t realize.”
“I’m sure they’ll arrive,” I said. “But what if they’re late? You know the others will say I was too ambitious with these literary salons, and then they’ll never agree to—”
“Look”—Adele tore off her coat, thrust it at me, and adjusted the purple tunic she wore over red leggings—“you wait here for them. I’ll go up and make sure everyone has a glass of wine, and then I’ll ask Audrey and Sylvia about their cruise. That’ll be good for half an hour at least. Everything will be fine.”
I made a choking noise that was meant to be assent.
Two early birds came to the door next, and after that, others began to drift in. I knew one or two, but most were strangers to me. Nevertheless, I welcomed them warmly and sent them up to the library. “Do have a glass of wine,” I called after.
Keeping the door ajar meant there would be no incessant buzzer as people arrived, but the cold air would do me in. I paced, rubbing my bare arms and panting from the stress. Finally, I’d counted everyone in, closed the door, and stood facing the stairs, wondering what I would tell them all. The buzzer went off behind me and my heart leapt into my throat.
There they were—Val with bloodshot eyes, and our speaker, a slender man with thinning hair, round wire-rimmed glasses, and rosy cheeks. Each carried a carton of books in his arms.
I could’ve kissed them both, one more than the other.
“What a cock-up,” Arthur Fish said after brief introductions. “I’m terribly sorry, Hayley—it was awfully good of Val to be my
driver. Look now, I’m ready to go—point me in the right direction.”
Adele looked down from the landing.
“Mr. Fish, is it?” she asked. “Welcome to Bath.”
“Adele Babbage, board member,” I said, “meet Arthur Fish, our speaker for the evening. Adele will see you up.” He moved toward the stairs. “Hang on.” I took the carton of books from Val and put it on top of Arthur’s. “Now then, off you go.”
Adele hurried halfway down to retrieve one of the boxes and led our speaker away.
I returned to Val, took his face in my hands, and kissed him. “Thank you, thank you.”
He pulled me close and whispered, “I’m at your service.”
Giggly with relief, I said, “Oh, I like the sound of that.”
Mrs. Woolgar loomed at the top of the stairs. “Well, I must say, that was close. Ms. Burke, why don’t you join our guests in the library, and we’ll give Mr. Moffatt time to change his clothes.”
“He’s perfect just as he is,” I replied.
“It’s all right,” Val said. “I’ve at least got a jacket and tie.”
“Good, well, I’ll go on up—but we won’t start without you.”
“No, don’t wait. I’ve already heard his entire talk on the way here.”
I flew up the steps and entered the library with a smile on my face, breathlessly greeting people that I had just greeted at the door. “Good evening, hello, so wonderful of you to be here.” I looked for our speaker, and spotted him chatting with Mrs. Moon and Mrs. Moon. Whatever he said had sent them into peals of laughter. As I approached, I took two glasses of red off a tray that passed by.
“Mr. Fish, glass of wine?”
“Thanks, Hayley,” he said, “just what I need.”
Adele came up behind and spoke in my ear. “That’s his second.”
In one smooth movement I took the glass away from Mr. Fish and passed it off to Adele. “Here, let us take care of that for you while you get yourself settled.” I led him to the fireplace and turned to the room. I felt the comfortable warmth behind me, heard the merry crackle of logs, and smelled that hint of woodsmoke—along with another odor. I sniffed. Burning herb of some kind. I glanced behind me into the fire, where a small lump with a leather tail smoked and then burst into flames. Thanks, Bunter.
I took a deep breath and straightened, raising my voice over the murmur of conversation. “Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the First Edition Society’s literary salon season.”
3
“. . . and that’s why,” Arthur Fish said, wrapping up, “you’ll never find death by Morris Men in any of her novels.”
Generous applause broke out around the library, accompanied by smiles and chatter as the servers circulated with more wine. I made sure our speaker got that second glass he so well deserved and stood back to admire the scene. We had done it—pulled off a winner for the inaugural literary salon in the First Edition library.
A queue began to form in front of Arthur Fish as he settled at the end of the table with a stack of his books at his elbow and a pen in hand. Time for me to mingle.
I didn’t get far—a stocky fellow not quite my height appeared in front of me. He had a shaved head, and I caught a glimpse of a tattoo behind his left ear, peeking up from his wool scarf.
“So,” he said, “Middlebank opens its doors at last.”
“Hello, good evening,” I said, taking a step back. “We’re delighted to welcome you. Have you come far this evening?”
It was one of those questions the Queen asked people when they lined up to meet her, and I now could see how handy it was to have that query ready.
“Just up the road. What are your plans? Will you be adding to the library? Taking away?”
“Selling? No,” I said, “we wouldn’t sell any volume Lady Fowling herself had—”
“Came across a 4.50 from Paddington. Boot sale. Saturday last. Near Beaulieu. Crime Club Choice edition. 1957. Near fine. Two quid. Worth seventy-five.”
I flinched as he peppered me with details. “Did you now? I do so love a good Miss Marple.”
“Appointment with Death; 1938. Orange cloth. Sunning on the spine. Still, ten pound. Boot sale. Leicester. They didn’t know what they had.” He nodded as if confirming the truth of the matter.
“That’s a Poirot story, isn’t it?” I asked, proud at how well versed I was in Agatha Christie’s work.
“Endless Night; 1967. Gilt-lettered spine. Three-pound fifty at a house clear-out.”
Dear God, someone save me. My gaze flickered round the library— I saw everyone else in congenial conversation while I stood there listening to the deals of the century.
“Well,” I said, in that let’s wrap this up tone of voice, “you obviously have an eye for it, Mr.—”
“Bulldog!” Arthur Fish called from across the room.
The fellow turned his head, and now I could see the detail of his tattoo. It was a stack of books—five of them, I thought—and quite intricate work. I could almost read the titles.
“Hayley,” Arthur said, walking over to us, “do you know Bulldog Moyle?”
“We’ve just met,” I said. “Mr. Moyle—Bulldog—was telling me about his collection.”
“I can imagine he was,” Arthur replied. “Listen, Bulldog, did you see those bound volumes of The Strand that came up for sale—”
Leaving them to it, I backed away and into Val.
“The evening’s a success,” he murmured in my ear, and the tingling that shot down my neck had nothing to do with literary salons.
I snuggled against him and turned to whisper, “I suppose I’d better buy one of his books.”
* * *
* * *
Thank you, Arthur, for such an enjoyable lecture,” I said. The book signing had ended, the servers had cleaned up, and our inaugural crowd for the literary salons had left. I now stood at the open door, shivering slightly. “I hope we made it worth your while.”
I’d say we had. Handing him his remaining carton, I could tell it was practically empty, and thought he’d sold more books than people attended.
“My pleasure,” Arthur said. “And thanks to Val for going the extra mile—literally—to get me here. The best of luck with your exhibition. I look forward to seeing it.”
I’d been flying so high by the end of the evening—and on only half a glass of wine—that I’d blithely shared the news of our next project. A bit too blithely, apparently, from the look Jane Arbuthnot now threw me as she buttoned up her coat.
“Yes, well,” I said to Arthur, “we certainly hope that the exhibition will become a reality, although, of course, there are many details to work out.” I flashed Jane a smile.
The board members departed, and then Val gave me a sweet and lingering kiss on the cheek and left with his carload—he had offered to take the Moons home and drop Arthur Fish at the rail station for a late train back now that Paddington had reopened.
I had not had one second to tell Val about my discovery—Lady Fowling’s letter indicating the existence, but not the location, of a well-signed first edition of Murder Must Advertise. That news must be given in person. I would do it tomorrow, before the board meeting.
Only Adele, Mrs. Woolgar, and I remained. The secretary murmured something that may have been a compliment about the evening—or not—and retreated to her flat.
“Good show, Hayley,” Adele said, wrapping a paisley scarf round her neck. “I’d best be off. I told Pauline I’d stop in at the Minerva on my way home.”
I stuck out my bottom lip. “Good that someone has time for her significant other.”
“Isn’t Val coming back?” she asked.
“No.”
“You two need a little less work and a little more play.”
“Agreed.” I recovered my spirits. “We’re off to the
seaside—not this weekend, but next. And no one can stop us.”
* * *
* * *
I had Wednesday completely under control. We held no morning briefing, as I had an appointment with exhibition manager Zeno Berryfield. I’d booked his only available time, which meant he must be in high demand.
Bath College’s modern black building lay just to my right when I reached James Street West, but I turned away and headed east to Berryfield’s office. Val would have no time for a visit—he had classes all day and only a half hour to get to the board meeting at four o’clock. Bless him for finding another teacher to cover his last class. He and I were well prepared for the meeting, and if Mr. Berryfield was the right man for the job of manager, the board would see our proposal in a new light. Even if we did still lack a venue.
I located the right building number, but no sign for Make an Exhibition of Yourself! Regardless, I rang the bell. No one answered, but I heard the snick of the lock as it opened, and I entered to find my only option was a staircase. Two flights up I came to another door with Your Business Here, Ltd., painted on the glass panel. Inside, I saw a large room with rows of desks and men and women busy on phones and computers. I stepped inside for directions.
“Ms. Burke?”
A man appeared in front of me. A large man—he towered over me, blocking the light and casting himself in silhouette.
“Mr. Berryfield?” I asked.
“Heigh-ho.” He took my hand and shook it vigorously. “Come through, will you? Tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
He took off down an aisle, and now I could see him in full color. He wore a teal-blue business suit and high-shine black oxfords, his black hair just long enough to comb. I hurried after him, and he held up at a desk by the window that was clean apart from a laptop and a mobile phone. When he turned, I saw his wide tie sported large, multicolored polka dots, reminding me of a package of Smarties.
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