Sanguine Solutions

by Jess Faraday

  I nodded. “Right. How much?”

  The number gave me pause. It wasn’t a lot, objectively speaking. I’d spend the same on a good pair of boots. At the same time, a policeman’s salary allows for few luxuries. But then again, my boots were fairly new, and I’d never been one for luxury.

  “Wrap it up, then,” I said. I paid the man and tucked the paper-wrapped package under my arm. My good deed for the day finished, I made my way to the constabulary.

  The Cornwall Constabulary resided in a gray stone building. The exterior was dour, but inside a fire burned bright and warm in the grate. The main room was alive with the activity of my colleagues, a few of whom greeted me as I walked in. I found the Chief Inspector in his office.

  “Sergeant,” he said, gesturing for me to enter. He rose from his chair, and we shook hands across a desk piled with papers and files. He was a wiry, energetic man in his forties, ill-suited to desk-work, but seemingly resigned to it. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I wish it were pleasure, sir. There was a murder last night in Penbreigh. The victim wasn’t local, and I suspect the killer wasn’t either. Are you missing anyone?”

  He frowned. “Mm. Bad luck. As a matter of fact….” He reached into the middle of a pile of papers and produced an identity sketch. “Did your victim look like either of these men?”

  They were a pair of rough characters, Samuel Brewer and Tom Wallace. According to the accompanying text, the men were wanted for a series of burglaries. My pulse started to race as I recognized the one on the left, Brewer. It stopped dead when I saw that the other man’s crimes included lewd and indecent acts. I handed the poster back.

  “You can scratch Brewer off your list. Found him in a field last night with his head bashed in.”

  Landry nodded. “You think Wallace did it?”

  “That’d make things easier,” I said. “It’d also make things easier if you could lend me a pair of constables until we found the killer, whoever it might be.”

  Landry sucked in a long breath and tugged at his thick mustache. “Wish I could, Sergeant, but we’re spread thin. Every train seems to bring a new group of dregs from London. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Speaking of.”

  He handed me a copy of last week’s London Evening News, folded open to a story on the second page: a scandalous tale of influence peddling, police corruption, and vampires. At the center of it all was the promising young police constable who’d broken the case, one Abel Fitzsimmons. Landry watched me expectantly. I think he suspected I’d worked with the Met once, but we had an unspoken agreement; I did the work of an entire station house on a sergeant’s salary, and he pretended I’d magically appeared in Bodmin, with no past, but somehow fully trained and seasoned.

  “Takes a long time to build a case like that, Sergeant. Months. You ever hear anything about it?”

  “No, sir,” I lied, handing the paper back.

  He met my eyes. It was clear he didn’t believe me, but also that he wasn’t going to press the issue. “Tell you what,” he said. “You can take Trevelyan over there. He’s still in training, but he’s able.”

  The sandy-haired trainee glanced up at the sound of his name. He was seated at a desk near Landry’s door, and had been pretending to read the constable’s handbook. He was nineteen if he was a day, and I hoped he was better at police work than he was at growing a mustache.

  “Still polishing his eavesdropping skills,” I said.

  Landry laughed. “He’ll be an extra pair of fists, if nothing else.”

  The clouds were clearing as we emerged from the constabulary building—gentle banks of grayish-white bordering a pale blue sky. I turned to the trainee walking silently beside me, looking like he was waiting for permission to speak.

  “How long have you been with the constabulary, Trevelyan?” I asked.

  “Week and a half, sir.”

  “How do you like it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a bit dull sometimes, to be honest.”

  “Reading the manual, sweeping the station?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, though they did let me out this morning to clean up after the break-in at the library.”

  I stopped. “What happened at the library?”

  “Someone let themselves in through the back door. Can’t imagine why. Seems a funny place for a burglary. Ain’t even a real library, you know.”

  “I know, I know. Mr. and Miss Penrose run it out of their home,” I said. “They’re probably still in Penbreigh. Probably over at the school with their book wagon.”

  I wanted to run back to Penbreigh to warn Theo. I thought to commandeer one of the horses tied to the posts in front of the shops. Of course a horse would have to go as slowly as a man in all that mud and muck. And then there was the fact that I’d never ridden one of the damn things in my life. I scanned the high street, the traffic and the vehicles parked to either side. There was no sign of Dowrick’s cart, either.

  Clearly picking up on my distress, Trevelyan said, “Don’t worry, sir. The Chief Inspector has three of our best working on it. So what’s happening in Penbreigh, then?”

  I eyed the clearing skies and gazed out over the road ahead.

  “I’ll tell you while we walk,” I said. “And you can tell me what you saw at the library. Quickly, now.”

  The break-in had occurred yesterday afternoon, as far as anyone could figure. The neighbors had apparently been out for the day. No one noticed anything was amiss until morning, when the gathering storm had started to bang the rear door back and forth. A neighbor, knowing the librarians were away, stuck his head inside, saw the mess, and sent for the police.

  “It was the strangest thing,” Trevelyan said. “The thieves was real careful at first. Hardly any marks on the door at all, everything all professional-like. They searched the main room a little bit, went through some of the shelves, but then there was this back room…. They battered that door down like they had a grudge, and then they sacked the place.”

  “They were looking for something,” I said.

  He nodded. “And they was mad when they didn’t find it.”

  “What was in the room?”

  “Books, but they was different. Old. Real old. The paper was different, and the bindings was thick leather, and some of ‘em had real strange writing. I put ‘em back as best as I could, but….”

  “Did they take very many, would you say? Were there a lot of empty spaces on the shelves when you were done?”

  He scrunched up his freckled nose. “Not that I could see. Maybe one or two, but…. Strange, that.”

  It was strange. And it suggested the thieves had been after one thing in particular. Had they found it? I remembered Abby describing a book of riddles—the jewel of their collection, she’d called it. Had the thieves been searching for that one in particular? Or for a different volume? Why hadn’t they helped themselves to the other books?

  “Had the library held any exhibitions of rare books, recently?” I asked. “Or did they keep them on display?”

  Trevelyan shrugged. “I don’t know. I ain’t much of a reader, Sergeant, but it was a horrible mess.”

  Poor Theo. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to him. But Trevelyan and I had a bigger problem to solve.

  The weather remained clear as we made our way down the rutted, muddy road to Penbreigh. While we walked, I filled Trevelyan in on the facts of the murder. In the course of chasing down a chicken thief, I’d come across Samuel Brewer’s body in Guthrie’s field.

  Guthrie made an implausible killer. He lacked the physical power to batter to death a man so much younger and larger. On top of that, Guthrie’d had a rifle in his hand when I’d arrived—a much better murder weapon than a rock. And Brewer had definitely been killed with the rock. Moreover, Guthrie had showed no signs of having been out on the muddy path.

  It was possible someone other than Wallace had done the job, but, considering how far out from the villa
ge center the murder had occurred, it seemed unlikely. Why had he done it? Lack of honor among thieves?

  The last person to have seen Brewer alive—aside from his killer, of course—was Cora Stark, whom Brewer had attacked. Cora had said the attack had been interrupted by the arrival of someone she hadn’t seen. The turn of events might have seemed suspiciously convenient, had I believed Cora killed Brewer. However, I didn’t think she possessed the necessary size or strength. But it gave me a good reason to call on her and hopefully deliver my package without giving people reason to gossip—at least not about me.

  We arrived back in Penbreigh in the late afternoon. I sent Trevelyan on ahead to Dowrick’s tavern with a copy of the identity sketch. From there, he was to canvass the high street to see if anyone had seen either Wallace or Brewer, and to warn them away from Wallace. I also asked him to gather volunteers to warn the people living on the edges of the village.

  As for me, I set out to call on Cora Stark.

  •••

  “My mam ain’t home,” the girl said when I knocked on the door. She didn’t open it more than an inch or two, and she was resting her foot against it, in case I tried to push my way in. Good instincts, or perhaps a bad experience.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I came to see you.”

  “Did you?” Her eyes went from my face to the package in my arms. Caution apparently forgotten, she let the door swing open. That dress of hers was really…no longer properly fitting. Clearing my throat, I focused my attention over her left shoulder. In the muted light from a back window, I could make out a tidy home with meagre possessions—a table with a single chair, a small wardrobe, a cradle with a sleeping infant.

  “This is for you,” I said as I thrust the package at her. “It’s a dress. To wear to school.”

  “What do you want for it?”

  “Nothing.”

  Her expression grew knowing. “You want me to wear it for you.”

  “No!” I cried. “Absolutely not! It’s not that kind of dress. It’s…it’s for school.” The edges of her mouth tightened in a small smile as I stumbled over my words. “One…one day you'll be a…a mother, and you’ll need to teach your children…and….”

  She thankfully, at that point, turned her attention from me to the package. She ripped the paper away, unfolded the dress, and held it against herself. As she ran her fingers over the new fabric, I realized that I’d been right. This was probably the first absolutely new thing she’d had in her life.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her tone was suddenly very grown-up. She was looking at me with what appeared to be admiration, now, and her cheeks were, well, glowing. “It’s beautiful. Won’t you come inside, Constable?”

  “Er….” Something told me that was absolutely the worst thing I could do. “Actually, I need to ask you a few questions about the other night.”

  I brought out my copy of the identity sketch and showed it to her. She peered at it, eyes going wide when she—I assume—recognized Brewer.

  “That were him. The man what attacked me.”

  “Which one?” She pointed to Brewer. “And the other man? Do you recognize him?”

  “That were the man what attacked him.”

  It was exactly as I’d reckoned from what she’d said the night before. But the night before, I’d assumed she was, aside from thieving, an innocent. However, her response when I’d offered her the dress, her assumptions about why I’d done it, revealed otherwise. And this raised other suspicions—suspicions that made Miss Stark not just a thief, but possibly an accessory to murder.

  “Miss Stark, do you know either of these men?”

  “No, Constable.”

  “Never met them before?” She shook her head. “Wallace never came by the house, never….” She shook her head even more violently. “Miss Stark, I’m giving you the chance to tell the truth right now, because if it comes out later—”

  “I am telling the truth, I swear!”

  Her denial certainly had the ring of authenticity. If it later proved a lie, things would go much worse for her.

  “Very well,” I said. “Keep your doors locked, and if you see Mr. Wallace, let me know. He’s a very dangerous man.”

  “I will. But…” She clutched the dress to her chest and simpered. “It’s awfully cold and wet outside. Won’t you come in for a cup of tea?”

  •••

  “Simon, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Elizabeth said, when I arrived at Treagove.

  “Not precisely,” I said. More like the possible death of my career at the hands of a teenage girl. “But speaking of ghosts, how’s our guest?”

  “Cold and stiff, but he’s not complaining. What?”

  I shook my head. “For such a refined person, you have a morbid sense of humor.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You really shouldn’t.” I took out Landry’s sketch and handed it to her. “Recognize anyone?”

  Her jaw dropped, then she smiled. “Nice work, Detective Sergeant. But what was he doing in Guthrie’s field?”

  I said, “Waiting to steal a chicken off a chicken thief? Hardly merits a death sentence, though. I wonder what actually happened.”

  “Well, come on in, we can discuss it over a cup of tea. You might recognize my other visitor.”

  Theo was sitting at the same table where we’d had supper the night before. The table was clear, now, save for a plate with biscuits, two teacups, and a steaming pot on a large lace mat. A fire crackled in the outsized fireplace. Treagove had been a smithy once, and that fireplace had housed the forge. A pair of fearsome-looking iron shears hung from a nail in the doorway that led to the kitchen.

  As I entered, a grin spread over Theo’s face, and I forgot all about the ill tidings I’d brought. God, he was beautiful. Well-rested, impeccably dressed, dark curls flopping down into his twinkling bedroom eyes. Only one other person had ever smiled at me that way, and for a moment I couldn’t even remember his name.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi yourself.”

  It took a moment for me to wipe the grin off my own mug and find my senses, and my tongue.

  “Theo, I….”

  His smile widened. “Yes?”

  “There was a break-in at the library yesterday.”

  “What?” His smile fell away, and he scrambled to his feet.

  Behind me Elizabeth tutted. “We really need to work on your timing, Sergeant.”

  “I’ve just come from Bodmin with Constable Trevelyan. He was actually at the scene this morning. When we find him, he can tell you more.”

  He swept past me toward the door. “I have to go. I have to go right now.”

  “The police have the situation under control,” I said as he jammed his long arms into the sleeves of his overcoat. “If we just find Trevelyan—”

  “I have to warn Abby. God, this is all my fault,” he muttered. He swung his scarf around his neck. He was so flustered, his fingers were having trouble with the buttons. I stepped over to help. He stopped flailing for a moment, seeming to enjoy watching me button his coat. “Thank you,” he said.

  “What do you mean it was your fault?” I asked.

  Theo deflected. “Did they say what was taken?”

  “Only you and Abby would know that. He said the burglars had let themselves in through the back door. They left the main part of the library alone, but—”

  “The rare books room.”

  I nodded. What was he was so afraid of? Had he been hiding contraband? I’d seen plenty of that in London but in Bodmin a hidden stash of pornography would be ruinous to the library’s reputation.

  “They were looking for St. Aldhelm’s riddles,” he said. “God, I’m so stupid! Oh, Simon, our parents left us that collection!”

  I frowned. Riddles? He couldn’t be serious…could he?

  “Why do you think it was that book in particular?” I asked. “Trevelyan said there were lots of antique volumes.”

/>   “There were, but….”

  “But what? Who knew about that one? Had you ever displayed it? A special rare books exhibit?”

  He shook his head. “No, though that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Then—”

  His expression turned miserable “Simon, I’ve been such a fool.”

  Behind us, Elizabeth cleared her throat.

  “Now that we know the identity of our friend in the shed, shall I notify the parson and make arrangements?”

  “You have a man in your shed? “Theo asked. “Does Alice know?” The joke seemed a reflex, like his flirtation, like breathing. Nobody laughed.

  “Do that,” I said. “And I’ll notify the Chief Inspector.”

  Elizabeth nodded. As she went for her own coat, Theo caught a glimpse of the sketch in her hand. “Eliza, may I?” She handed him the sketch. As he looked it over, color drained from his face. “Good God, Samuel Brewer and…and Tom, of course it is.”

  I said, “You know these men?”

  Theo nodded slowly. “Sam was the one I told you about last night. The snake in the grass who almost got his hooks into Abby.”

  “What about the other one? Wallace?” I asked. Wallace, whom Theo had called by name.

  He pursed his lips, his expression that of a man giving himself a sound kick. “Tom Wallace was the one who almost had his hooks in me.” He sighed. “And they’re the ones who broke into the library. I’m certain of it.”

  •••

  “They don’t look like antiques thieves,” I said as the three of us marched across the field toward the high street—Elizabeth to find the parson, and Theo and I to find Trevelyan. Evening was coming fast, and the disappearing sun was turning the already steely skies black. Shadows were rolling in from the fields, and lights were winking on in the windows of the village. “And if you don’t mind my saying, they don’t look like the type who keep company with librarians.”

  “They were very convincing,” Theo said. He was stalking through the dead grass with his head down and his hands jammed into his coat pockets, not looking at either of us. “Tom came off as refined, but with a dangerous streak that was rather exciting. I didn’t like Sam at all. He came first, by the way. Swept Abby off her feet. A lot of men won’t give a second look to a woman if they think she’s cleverer than them, so you can imagine how the attention turned her head.”