by Alex Grecian
“Can I help you?” an old man said. He came down the aisle toward me, in no particular hurry, as if he’d been expecting me.
“I hope so,” I said.
“I don’t know you. You’re not of my flock,” the old man said. He was short and fat, and his knuckles were popping balls of activity that belied his gnarled fingers. Great tufts of hair sprouted from his ears. He was head to foot in black, but he wasn’t wearing his collar and I hadn’t identified him immediately as a priest.
“I’m afraid I’m not of any flock,” I said.
“It’s not too late. It’s never too late, you know. Until it is, of course.”
“What does that mean? When is it too late?”
“When you’ve passed beyond this life. By then you’ve missed your chance.”
“Ah, of course. Doesn’t that seem awfully final?”
“It does seem so,” the old priest winked. “It certainly does. But there’s much to be said for faith.”
“Not by me, I’m afraid.”
“Well, as I said, it’s never too late.”
I smiled, but the smile was automatic. That old Pringle charm at work. “I’m here with a question,” I said. “I need to know about any weddings that may have been performed here yesterday.”
“Are you an inspector?”
“No, but I’m police just the same.”
“I thought you weren’t. An inspector, that is. They don’t wear the blue, do they?”
“No, they wear ordinary suits.”
I looked down at my blue uniform. There was much to be said for a nice suit, but I’d never move up in ranks if it meant giving up that uniform.
“I’m sorry, what were you asking about?” the priest said.
“A wedding.”
“Ah, yesterday, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Which wedding do you mean?”
“There was more than one?”
“Of course. It was a Saturday.”
“Isn’t that bad luck?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Saturday. It’s bad luck to be married on a Saturday.”
I had skimmed through the slim volume that Fiona Kingsley had given me. An entire chapter had been given over to the days of the week. The chapter had begun with a popular rhyme:
Monday for wealth
Tuesday for health
Wednesday the best day of all
Thursday for losses
Friday for crosses
Saturday for no luck at all
It went on to enumerate the many other superstitions involving marriage. The groom mustn’t wear new shoes; if the bride touched something blue, her wish would come true; the groom mustn’t see his bride in her dress. There was a lot to keep track of and none of it made me want to get married.
The priest nodded. “I think I know what you’re talking about. I’ve heard the rhyme. But that’s superstition. It has no place in a house of the Lord.”
“But isn’t this house built on superstition?”
“There’s a difference between faith and superstition.”
“I don’t see it.”
“You’re the poorer for it, then.”
“Perhaps. You said there was more than one wedding?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Three. I don’t perform weddings any day but Saturday, so there are always several to get to when the weather is nice.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
“I wasn’t the groom at any of the three.”
The priest laughed, his shoulders bouncing up and down. I watched until the laughter was interrupted by a fit of coughing. Finally, he settled into a steady hiccup.
“Isn’t it funny?” the old man said. “All these weddings and yet I’ve never been married.”
“Why is that funny?”
“Just think of all the funerals I’ve officiated. It seems there’s a double standard at work.”
“So you don’t remember anything about those weddings?”
“I certainly do. I remember that I had only two breakfasts.”
“Two?”
“I look forward to wedding breakfasts.”
“And you only had two.” I was confused. I had barely eaten a single breakfast, but I wasn’t complaining.
“There were three weddings. There was no breakfast before the last of them, which disappointed me. If I’m not to be the groom, I should at least be fed.”
“So they dispensed with tradition.”
“In many ways.”
“At any of those weddings did the bride look like this?” I showed him Fiona’s sketch and he squinted at it.
“Yes, I believe so.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Very little. This is a good likeness, but I’m afraid she wasn’t terribly remarkable. Except that she was a child of Our Lord. Unremarkable, but she was happy. Beyond happy.”
The priest broke off, his face a placid tableau of memory.
“And him?” I said. “The groom?”
“Him? He was not happy.”
“How could you tell?”
“I have been watching people get married for half a century now. You can’t surprise me anymore.”
“Would it surprise you to know that this girl was found dead this morning?”
“No. Sadly, that wouldn’t surprise me at all. I don’t suppose she slipped in the bathtub.”
“It doesn’t appear so.”
“Policemen rarely investigate things like that, do they?”
“We have enough to do already, thank you.”
“Murder, then?”
“It’s a strong possibility.”
“Such a shame.”
“Do you remember her name?”
“Hers? No. As I said, she clings to my memory like a windblown rag. By tomorrow, she’ll be gone. Perhaps by this very evening. Poor thing.”
“And him?”
“I didn’t like him. Not at all. Had a bit of the Robber Bridegroom about him.”
“What about his name?”
“I want to remember his name. It’s something to do with breakfast. Or perhaps it reminded me of a place.”
“Breakfast or a place?”
“Come,” he said. “Let’s find out, shall we?”
He turned and walked down the long aisle to the altar without looking back to see if I was following. I considered leaving, but finally went after him. He briefly genuflected at the altar, then led the way through a low door to the vestry. I had no idea how to genuflect without affecting the crease in my trousers, so I nodded respectfully at the cross on my way past.
The vestry was a small room, even cozy, with high timbered ceilings and dark wood paneling. There was a booth in the far corner with heavy burgundy curtains. A big table stood in front of a cold fireplace. There was only one chair. The most notable feature of the room was the bookcase that covered one entire wall. It was filled to bursting with books and, to my untrained eye, they didn’t all look like religious texts.
“Have a look,” the priest said. “If I were you, though, I’d avoid those old volumes with the marbled paper covers. The stories inside them are quite lurid. Erotic romance. Meant to appeal to the baser sort.”
Two of the long shelves were given over entirely to the marbled tomes he professed to dislike.
“Why do you keep them here?”
“They remind me of what goes on out there.” He poked a finger randomly in the air. “People are lonely.”
“I suppose they are.”
“And I like to read. Do you?”
“Not particularly,” I said.
“Pity.”
The priest stepped around the table and opened a big black book that was propped on a stand in the corner of the room. “The registry,” he said, “ought to tell us their names.” He flipped through a number of pages that were filled with line after line of names and dates, some of the handwriting small and cramped, so
me confident with swooping flourishes. I wondered whether we might be able to tell who had ended up in happy marriages, based strictly on their signatures. The priest stopped at a blank page and turned back to the last side with writing on it.
“Here they are,” he said. “I was right.”
“You were?”
“They reminded me of breakfast. Mr and Mrs Cream. I always have cream with my morning meal.”
“No other names? Just Cream?”
“None.”
“Is that unusual that they didn’t list their given names?”
“Somewhat, but not entirely. The registry is signed after the ceremony. By then, they were Mr and Mrs Cream, weren’t they?”
“I suppose so. Is there anything else there? An address, perhaps?”
“Oh, that would make your job easier, wouldn’t it? No, I’m sorry. Just the names here.”
“What’s the other thing you mentioned? The robber fellow?”
“The Robber Bridegroom? You’ve heard of it, of course.”
“I haven’t.”
“From the old story. It’s quite sordid, full of intrigue and taboo.”
“One of your marbled editions there?”
“Not at all. Borrowed from the library. I’ve only just read it, which is why it sprang into my mind, I suppose.”
“Did you think the groom, Mr Cream, did you think he was a thief?”
“I thought he wasn’t in love with the girl.”
“What does that have to do with a thief?”
“Not a thief, sir. A Robber Bridegroom. You really should be better read.”
He saw the look on my face and smiled. “But I mean no insult,” he said. “Lord knows I have more time to read than anybody, I’m sure. No wife to keep me from it, I suppose. In the story I’m speaking of, the innocent girl is lured to a house in the forest where her groom intends to eat her.” The priest shuddered. “He doesn’t love her, you see. But she gets away from the monster and she takes with her the wedding ring of another victim, and he’s caught in the end. That’s quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”
“How so?”
“I mean a coincidence about the name. I have that book from the library on the very day that a Mr and Mrs Cream are getting married here. I would say that’s quite likely, unless you believe in coincidences.”
“I do. But how is that a coincidence?”
He hurried over to the bookcase and searched the shelves, turned back with a slim volume in his hand. “Here it is,” he said. “The Robber Bridegroom. Borrowed from the Cream Lending Library.”
“The Cream Library?”
“I’ve finished it, if you’d care to return it for me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. I felt like he was leading me along, but he didn’t seem clever enough. Or perhaps I wasn’t clever enough to figure out his game. I took the book.
“I hope you catch whoever killed her.”
“I’ll do what I can.” I folded the portrait of the blue girl and put it back in my pocket. “Where might I find this library?”
“It’s around the corner to the east and down four blocks. You’d do well to avoid all those volumes with the marbled paper covers. I haven’t found one yet that didn’t shock me to my core.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t help glancing at his bookshelves again. “I may return if I have further questions.”
“I’ll be here. I’ll be praying for your success.”
• • •
I went home, napped, and changed my clothes. My shift had been over for hours and my uniform hung limp on my body. I looked good in it, but the old priest had made me think of my suit. The uniform is good for many things, but when my shift’s over, I’d rather be in a suit.
I feel confident that I’m the only policeman in London who owns a bespoke suit. I saved for months to get it, drinking used tea and eating penny pies. The suit is beautiful, dark blue with a subtle pinstripe. It’s my proudest possession and if my flat ever catches fire, that’s the thing I’ll run into the inferno to save.
Fortified with a bit of sleep and tea, I headed back out. I still had some time before my date with Maggie, an adorable shopgirl I’d met on my rounds the previous Tuesday.
I did not question why I still pursued a murderer when I didn’t have to. To my knowledge, I was the only one pursuing him.
• • •
I was expecting a bookstall, something tucked into an alley or a train depot, so the district library surprised me. It was housed in a small two-story building with a high pointed roof and a cheery porch off to the side. A bell tinkled over the door as I entered and there was an immediate hush, as if the insides of the place existed underwater. The entrance hall was dark and empty, but light spilled from an open door to my right and I stepped through it into a visual paean to literature. A bright green carpet was dotted all round with knee-high tables, each stacked with books. Elegant but comfortable-looking chairs ringed the tables and more chairs were set out under the tall windows in a reading nook. The rest of the walls were windowless and bookcases stretched up to the two-story-high ceiling. A brass railing enclosed the gallery that circled the room. I had never seen so many books in my life. I studied the shelves carefully, looking for those lurid books bound in marbled paper that the priest had collected.
“It was a private library at one time.”
I jumped and smiled in the direction of the voice. A young woman was standing behind an escritoire at the back of the room. She was holding a pen with an extravagant plume and I wondered whether she might want to tickle me with it. The writing desk was littered with papers and note cards and the woman had an ink smudge on her forehead that somehow accentuated her beauty.
“I’m sorry?” I said.
“A writer,” the woman said. “He donated this library upon his death.”
“I see.”
“You looked overwhelmed and I thought you might like to know a bit of the history of this place. I haven’t seen you in here before, have I?”
“No. And I certainly haven’t seen you or I’d remember.”
The woman blushed and sat back down, using the plume to hide her face. She had her auburn hair done up in a chignon and she wore glasses on a chain around her neck. Even with those standard accoutrements, she didn’t fit my notion of a librarian.
“I’m Pringle.”
“And I’m Veronica. Are you new to the neighborhood?”
“I was thinking of moving to the neighborhood and now I’ve made up my mind.”
“What’s decided you?”
“I’ve met you.”
“You may want to look at the rest of the neighborhood first. Or perhaps another neighborhood entirely.”
“I’m quite decisive.”
“As am I. That’s why you may want to look elsewhere.”
Ah. But I am resolute in the face of rejection. A woman’s mind is easily changed. So the saying goes, and I believe it.
“I’m returning something for a friend,” I said. I held up the book the old priest had given me.
“Leave it on that table.” She waved her feather in the general direction of the entrance.
I set the book down. I had skimmed through it, but it wasn’t the sort of story I like. All the girls in it are ill-used, poisoned, even dismembered. I prefer women who are whole and happy, and who enjoy my company. Veronica the librarian didn’t qualify. Not yet. But adjusting one’s tactics often helps. As does the occasional outright lie.
“I haven’t been honest with you,” I said.
“Men rarely are.”
“I’m Inspector Pringle of the Yard.” I was glad I’d changed my clothes. My suit was not the sort that a detective would wear every day on the job. It was much too nice, but I didn’t expect her to notice that. She was a librarian, after all.
“Is that so?” she said.
“It is. And I’m on the trail of a dangerous killer.”
“And it’s led you to my library? Goodness.” But Veron
ica didn’t appear the least bit concerned. She turned her attention to the pile of cards on the desk and the white plume of her pen bobbed and weaved as she scribbled. She wore a diamond ring on the third finger of her right hand and it clicked against the shaft of the pen. I saw no ring on her other hand and my hopes rose.
“I wonder if you’d mind answering some questions?”
Veronica didn’t look up. “Are you still here?”
“There’s no need to be rude, is there?”
She set her pen back down on the desk and looked up at me. “Are you really a police inspector?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“You lied to me when you said you were moving to the neighborhood.”
“But that was only meant as a conversation starter.”
“Well, it didn’t work. Anyway, your killer isn’t here. There’s nobody here except you and me, and I’m not sure why you’re here.”
“You’re still being rude.”
She sighed. “What can I help you with, Inspector?”
“Thank you. I’m looking for a Mr Cream.”
There was a clear shift in Veronica’s attitude as her attention was engaged. Even her hair seemed to shimmer and I was tempted to reach out and set it free of the chignon.
“Which Mr Cream?”
“This is the Cream Library, no?”
“It is. But, I believe I mentioned that Robert Cream donated this library upon his death. You’ll have some trouble speaking with him now.”
“Did you say Robert Cream?”
“Yes.”
“Surely not the same Robert Cream who wrote Marriage, Custom and Practise?”
“You know it?”
“I’ve read it.”
“You surprise me. You hardly seem like the marrying kind. Or even the kind that reads.”
“We are all full of surprises. Do you have that book here?” I gestured at the multitude of books around me.
“Of course I do.”
“I’m wondering whether a young woman might have checked it out recently.” And learned from it to put a sixpence in her shoe. “Is that something you can tell me?”
I expected her to look at the cards or go to a shelf, but she shook her head. “No. We have three copies of that book and they’re all right here on the shelves, where they belong.”
“You’re certain about that?”
“I know everything about everything in this room.”
