Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  “You must have a crackerjack manager to be able to take the paraphernalia of Lady Fowling’s life and showcase it for all of Bath—for all of Britain and the world—to see in such a short time.”

  A thrill of fear shot down my spine. “Yes, it is a short time, but I am confident it can be done. We’re speaking with a local person for manager.”

  “So, you’ve filled the post?”

  “We haven’t quite reached an agreement yet.” The silence at the table screamed in my ears, and to put myself out of my misery, I added, “So, how long have you been in Bath, Oona?”

  “A few days—a week.”

  “On a job?”

  “Holiday,” she said. The fact that Oona continued to dress for work while on holiday did not surprise me. “I’m waiting for the tap on the shoulder from the British Library,” she continued. “They have a position opening up this summer—it’s only a matter of time before I hear.”

  Enough of this cat-and-mouse game—it was too stressful not knowing which role I played.

  “As we haven’t actually hired this local fellow,” I said, “if you are at all interested, I’m sure the board would listen to your ideas on our exhibition. That is, if you didn’t mind interrupting your holiday.”

  Only a twitch in her firmly set mouth betrayed her nonchalance. “I suppose I could—that is, if you wanted to set something up.”

  “As it happens, we have a meeting this afternoon at four. If you arrive at half past, they’ll be ready for you.”

  “Done.”

  * * *

  * * *

  When we’d finished, I glanced at the time and panicked— two o’clock. Oona had spent more than an hour interrogating me about the collection and the Society. I rushed down to New Bond Street and into the Bertinet bakery, where I swooned at the scents of butter and sugar and savories. Five minutes later, I carried away what they had left of Portuguese custard tarts, petit fours, and macarons and hurried off while wolfing down a ham-and-cheese croissant. I paused in a shop doorway only long enough to text Val.

  News on venue and manager. See you soon.

  Dropping my phone in my bag and stuffing the last bit of croissant in my mouth, I hiked up to Middlebank, thinking about what I’d done. Oona’s eagerness to consider the managerial post disconcerted me, but I quashed any worry by telling myself she didn’t seem the type for a holiday and that I put her quick agreement to appear at the board meeting down to wanting to stay busy.

  Mrs. Woolgar came out of her office the minute I walked in the front door. She had already made her opinion clear when it came to the exhibition—how could we even think of putting her ladyship’s life on display?—but would attend the board meeting because she was the First Edition Society’s secretary, and that was her job.

  “I’ve some lovely pastries for the meeting,” I said, hurrying up the stairs with my two boxes. “See you at four.”

  By three thirty, the library table had been laid with a platter of delectables, and nearby, the kettle sat ready. In my office on the ground floor, I had just finished printing out the agenda for the meeting that I had amended to include Interview with potential exhibition manager when the front door buzzed.

  Val wore his good suit, ready for battle.

  “Come in, come in.” I pulled him across the threshold.

  “You’ve had a busy day if you’ve found us a venue and a manager, and”—he brushed a finger across my mouth and pastry flakes fell onto my sweater—“you managed to have lunch, too?”

  I laughed. “I have even more news than that. Come up to my flat and I’ll show you.”

  On the coffee table, I’d laid out Lady Fowling’s letter about the first edition of Murder Must Advertise signed by all members of the Detection Club in 1933. “According to Mrs. Woolgar, this is a draft of her ladyship’s letter to Dorothy L. Sayers,” I said.

  While Val examined it, I hovered. “And it was stuck in a book on the shelves?” he asked. “How many years has it been there and no one knew it? And where did Lady Fowling hide the signed book?”

  “Mrs. Woolgar may know more, I haven’t had a chance to ask. But wouldn’t this be an enormous draw for the exhibition—with all those signatures? Although I suppose we should find the actual book before we start shouting about it.”

  “Yes, better to have it in hand. And now, what other news?”

  I began at the beginning, telling of my appointment with Zeno Berryfield.

  “Do you remember when that fellow was electrocuted on the Isle of Man?” I asked, going into my bedroom to find a different pair of shoes and calling back to Val. “I shudder to think what Berryfield would come up with for us. But we don’t have to worry—now there’s Oona.”

  I related the highlights of my association with her, and thought I did a fine job at sounding entirely neutral.

  “What aren’t you telling me about Oona?” Val asked, standing when I walked back out to the sitting room. “How was it working with her?”

  I collapsed on the sofa, holding one shoe. “It was hell. No one was safe from her fury. She barked orders, demanded the near impossible.” I pointed a shoe out the front window in the general direction of the Charlotte. “I rewrote the interpretive signage at least a dozen times; she was never satisfied. We worked all hours, and it was just when Dinah was studying for her GCSEs and I should’ve been at home helping her.”

  “If it was that awful, why put yourself through it again?”

  “Because she’s brilliant.” I held the shoe up in surrender.

  “You wouldn’t consider managing it yourself?” Val asked, echoing my mum.

  “No, how could I do that? But I could learn from her. Oona has a way of seeing the subject and bringing it to life. The Jane Austen exhibition won an award.”

  “Yeah,” Val conceded. “It was amazing. I took two of my classes over and went again on my own.”

  “Did you? I worked the exhibition every day.”

  For a moment, we were quiet, drifting away in what-ifs.

  “We were that close,” Val said, “and didn’t even know it.” He rubbed my arms and kissed my forehead. “Right; if she’s that good, she’s the one.”

  * * *

  * * *

  While the board settled at the library table exclaiming over the pastry selection, Bunter sashayed in and curled up in one of the fireplace chairs. I poured the tea. Although I had proposed the exhibition at a previous board meeting—complete with budget— a review would do no harm. And so first, Val spoke about Bath College’s commitment to support the venture through promotion and staffing, and I continued with other details. Then Maureen Frost unknowingly provided a setup.

  “This is still all speculation, isn’t it, Hayley? I don’t see the point in going over the idea without any concrete way forward.”

  “Indeed,” I said with conviction, “what would be the point? Fortunately, I do have an update. The Charlotte has become available in April.”

  The board and everyone else in Bath knew that the Charlotte was the best, and so I let this news sink in. Jane Arbuthnot spoke up first. “But that’s barely three months. How can that be enough time to do Georgiana’s life justice?”

  “If anyone can do it, Hayley can,” Sylvia Moon said.

  “And with her second-in-command, Val,” Audrey Moon added, and Val gave her a wink.

  “Mr. Moffatt has his own work,” Maureen said, “and it wouldn’t be fair to require too much of him.” She had softened toward Val since he’d arranged for her to do a dramatic reading of an Agatha Christie short story for one of his writing classes.

  “Hayley understands Georgiana,” Adele said, and I smiled, grateful she’d decided to back the event. “Who better to help us share her with the world?”

  “Still, April . . .” Mrs. Woolgar said.

  “I would like to point out,” I said, �
��that with the week of setup beforehand, the opening gala for the exhibition would fall on the twenty-first of April.”

  I watched the faces round the table, and after two seconds, I heard a catch in Mrs. Woolgar’s breath. “Her ladyship’s birthday,” she whispered.

  “Yes—what would’ve been her ninety-eighth,” I said. “And what better way to honor her?”

  I’d left the library door open, and the sound of the buzzer gave us all a start. I looked at the time—twenty-eight minutes past four. Val went down to answer, and I moved swiftly and surely into the next step.

  “As you can see on our agenda,” I explained, “I’ve asked a potential exhibition manager here today to give both you and her a chance to chat about the possibilities.” I heard voices on the stairs, and when Val arrived at the door with our interviewee, I rose.

  Oona entered, portfolio tucked under one arm. She was a picture of calm, undisturbed even by Bunter’s tortoiseshell form streaking past her and out the door.

  “Hello, Oona,” I said, “thanks so much for finding the time to meet with us today. First Edition Society board members, may I introduce Oona Atherton.” I went round the table with names.

  “Oh, Adele—good to see you again,” Oona said.

  “Yes, hello, Oona,” Adele replied, her face as red as her hair.

  “And Glynis Woolgar. Mrs. Woolgar was Lady Fowling’s personal assistant and is now secretary to the Society.”

  “How do you do?” Mrs. Woolgar said.

  We settled at the table. “Tea, Oona?” I asked with dread.

  “No, thank you,” she replied as she took papers from her portfolio and waited.

  Good. I gave the board a précis of Oona’s work, and she passed round copies of her CV. Board members asked about previous events. I provided feedback on the exhibition she had managed for the Jane Austen Centre—sans the “hell” description. Eventually, I gave Oona the opportunity to interview us.

  She began with that wide smile of hers. “I have only one question. I would like each of you to tell me one memory you have of Lady Fowling—or, if you never met in person, the first thing you think when you hear her name.”

  The silence that followed worried me, until Jane Arbuthnot piped up. “She listened and heard everything you said.”

  Next, Maureen Frost smiled. “Do you remember the fancy-dress ball here at Middlebank when she came as Lord Peter Wimsey—monocle and all?”

  “She put Sylvia and me in one of her detective stories,” Audrey Moon said, two red spots on her cheeks. Her sister-in-law laughed and added, “We were music-hall dancers!”

  “I think of her great generosity,” I said, deciding I shouldn’t tell them I had regular conversations with Lady Fowling’s portrait on the landing.

  “She welcomed discussions with other writers,” Val said. He had told me about the time—donkey’s years ago—that Lady Fowling had spoken to one of his genre-fiction classes.

  “She saw beyond the surface and understood what a person needed,” Mrs. Woolgar said, and then dropped her gaze to her lap. Jane Arbuthnot reached over and patted the secretary’s hand, and—not for the first time—I wondered about Mrs. Woolgar’s personal history.

  Adele took her turn last. “She was the best Cluedo player I’ve ever seen.” We ended with a gentle laugh.

  “Before I go,” Oona said, “may I paint a picture for you—a picture of what a visitor might see when she takes that first step into the exhibition? Tell me, Mrs. Woolgar—did Georgiana have a desk?”

  “Queen Anne. A lovely burled walnut, highly polished with cabriolet legs.”

  “Yes,” I piped up. “I’ve seen it—it’s in the cellar.” I’d spent a fair bit of time poking round there a few months previous.

  Oona nodded. “In your minds, walk into the exhibition with me,” she said in a gentle, low voice. “A trifold panel covered in a dark green fabric blocks the view of the rest of the room and forms a small study. An antique floral rug covers the floor, and against one wall is a low bookcase filled to overflowing. In the middle sits Georgiana’s Queen Anne desk. On the desk, we see more books—Whose Body? by Sayers, The Daughter of Time by Tey, My Cousin Rachel by du Maurier—along with loose sheets of paper and a fountain pen left uncapped, as if she had only that moment stepped away to make a cup of tea. And without realizing, we pause, waiting for her to come back. That’s the Georgiana Fowling I see.”

  In the stunned silence that followed, Oona gathered her things, stood, and said, “Thank you for this opportunity. Good day.”

  I saw her out, and at the front door, clearing the emotion from my voice, I said, “Thanks so much for stopping by. I’ll let you know what they decide as soon as possible.”

  “Great, Hayley,” she replied in a breezy manner. “I look forward to it.”

  When I returned to the library, it was to see Mrs. Woolgar dabbing the corner of an eye with a lace handkerchief and Sylvia Moon clasping her teacup and staring out into space.

  Jane Arbuthnot looked up at me and said, “When can she start?”

  5

  Before the meeting wrapped up, the board members made it clear that in hiring Oona Atherton as exhibition manager, money was no object and, to prove the point, earmarked a 10 percent increase to the offer if need be. They were caught up in the emotion of the moment—Oona was that good—but I knew to keep an eye on expenses, and as the group descended the stairs and gathered coats and bags, I promised I would not go over the budget.

  “You do whatever it takes,” Maureen Frost said, turning up the collar of her coat and heading for the door with the rest of the board.

  “Adele,” I said, “hang on.”

  She had been slipping out just ahead of the Moons, but I tugged on her coat sleeve, and she came back into the entry. I closed the door and we were alone for the moment—Val had carried the tea tray into the kitchenette, and Mrs. Woolgar had retreated to her office and closed the door.

  “I didn’t realize you knew Oona,” I said, and watched Adele’s face redden.

  She shrugged. “Oh yeah—don’t you remember I brought a group of girls through the exhibition? That was my first year teaching.”

  “That part I remember. And what else happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  But I waited, and at last Adele wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I recall Oona and I met for a drink one evening.”

  “Recall anything else?” I asked.

  “Ms. Burke?” Mrs. Woolgar emerged from her office.

  “See ya,” Adele said, making her escape. “Bye, Glynis.”

  I watched Adele’s mass of red curls disappear. I sensed the cover-up of a good story, but I could wait. Now, I turned to face the secretary, ready for whatever might come.

  “Perhaps I was too hasty in dismissing the idea of an exhibition,” she said, her hands clasped in front of her. “I see now that what you want to do is commemorate her ladyship’s contribution to Bath as well as the worldwide literary community. I will assist you and Ms. Atherton however I can.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Woolgar,” I said, touched at her confidence in my decision. Due, of course, to Oona. “But first, I must contact her and see if she will accept our pay package—”

  “But the board did approve an increase if need be. Please keep that in mind.”

  “Will do,” I replied.

  “Well, have a good evening, and I’ll see you at our morning briefing.”

  Off she went, downstairs to her flat—never-never land. Known thusly to me, because I never went in and never knew what she did after her workday finished. Danced the night away with the Society’s solicitor, Duncan Rennie? Fell asleep in front of her telly watching old Coronation Street reruns? Mrs. Woolgar’s personality was conservative—the only excessive trait as far as I could tell was her need for privacy.

  Val came out of the kitc
henette. He took my hands and our fingers entwined.

  “What did you think of Oona?” I asked.

  “She knows how to work a room.”

  “Mmm. After the meeting broke up, did you hear the Moons and Jane and Maureen telling each other stories about Lady Fowling? I think we should record them—set up proper equipment in the library and make sure the sherry decanter is full and let them go at it. We can use their memories somewhere in the exhibition. Maybe you could go through the old photos we have and make a video. We could run the audio over it.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” he said, pulling me closer.

  We kissed, and with his lips on mine, the idea of an exhibition slipped from my mind—and from his, too, if I read the signs correctly. We came up for air only when I felt a pressure against my ankles.

  “Bunter,” I said. “Is it time for your dinner?”

  Bunter gave a throaty reply and Val said, “I should go.”

  “No, don’t. You should be here when I phone Oona and make the offer.” And speaking of offers. “Then after that, would you . . . do you want to stay to dinner? I could cook something. Upstairs. In my flat.”

  Because it had just occurred to me our romantic getaway next weekend was eight days off, which seemed like forever.

  He nuzzled my neck and murmured in my ear, “Dinner. But don’t cook—why don’t we phone out for pizza. Later.”

  We followed Bunter into the kitchenette, where I opened a tin and gave the cat his meal. I found it difficult to concentrate on business, and had to take a quick, sharp breath—the air heavy with the aroma of fish-in-gravy—to bring me back to the duty at hand. I took a notepad, and Val and I settled at the table. I made the call with my phone on speaker, and when Oona answered, I presented the offer and we waited.

  “This is quite an undertaking, as I’m sure you both realize,” she replied. Right—now for negotiations. “But as manager, I would not impinge on your or Val’s normal work schedule for all the little things that need to be done. I would prefer to have my own PA with me.”