The Silence of the Library

by Miranda James

  She rose from the sofa and extended a hand to her mother. “Come along now, Mother. I want to go home and get out of this dress. It reeks of whiskey.”

  “Well, if you must.” Eagleton’s protest sounded pretty weak to me.

  “Evidently we must.” Mrs. Cartwright let her daughter pull her to a standing position. “Don’t forget my bag, Marcella.”

  “Of course not, Mother.” Marcella grabbed the purse from the sofa and stuck the strap over her arm.

  “Let me show you out.” Eagleton preceded the women to the door. “Perhaps you will allow me to visit you again tomorrow and continue our discussions from earlier today?”

  “I’ll call you,” Marcella said, her tone not in the least bit friendly. “Do you think you can find your way again?”

  “Most assuredly.” Eagleton opened the door. “I do hope your agent will be able to join us.”

  Mrs. Cartwright paused to turn and look back at the man. “If she ever turns up. I’m beginning to think I need to change agents if the girl can’t even find my house with clear directions.”

  Eagleton frowned. “That is most unfortunate. I wonder where she might be.”

  “She’ll show up,” Marcella said, clearly impatient. “She’s probably at the house with Eugene right now. Come on, Mother, I want to go home. I can’t stand being in this smelly dress any longer than I have to.”

  “Very well, my dear. Good night, everyone.” Mrs. Cartwright went along with Marcella, and Eagleton closed the door after them.

  Teresa and I approached, ready to say our own good-byes.

  “Might I have a word with you, old chap?” Eagleton smiled at Teresa. “Would you excuse us just a tick, my dear? Shan’t be long.”

  What could he want? I wondered. I was more than ready to get out of this room and on the way home.

  “Sure,” Teresa said. She moved a few feet away and stared at a picture on the wall.

  Eagleton stepped closer to me and spoke in a low tone. “I wondered if you might do me a favor.” His eyes flicked away for a moment across the room. I followed his gaze to where Gordon Betts leaned against the bar, his head down on his arms. “Do you think you could possibly see Gordon to his room? I’m afraid I can’t manage it myself. Bad back and all that, you know.”

  I suppressed a sigh of irritation. Why didn’t he simply pour water over Betts’s head and send him on his way? That’s what I was tempted to do. Innate good manners kicked in, unfortunately, and I found myself agreeing to help.

  Eagleton beamed with gratitude. “Thanks ever so, old chap. You are truly most kind.”

  “Think nothing of it.” My wry tone seemed to escape him as he bustled away, headed for Della Duffy still grazing at the dinner table. The woman certainly was putting the food away.

  Teresa joined me. “Need any assistance? I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  “No, I think I can manage,” I said. “Why don’t you go on? I’m sure you’re as ready to get away from here as I am.”

  “Definitely.” Teresa grinned. “This evening was like something out of a really bad play.” She paused. “If you’re sure you don’t need me?”

  “I’m sure. Go on.” I patted her arm before she headed quickly for the door and let herself out.

  I turned toward the bar and stared at Betts for a moment. He didn’t appear to have moved.

  I frowned. Was he still breathing? I couldn’t detect any signs of life, and suddenly my heart started pounding. Surely he hadn’t died? I started toward him.

  A loud snore reassured me. When I reached him and put a hand on his shoulder to shake him awake, he stood and blinked at me. Then he frowned. “What happened?”

  “You passed out,” I told him curtly. “Why don’t you let me help you to your room. The party’s over.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t need help.” He took a couple of steps, almost tripped over his own feet, but managed to steady himself. “Maybe you’d better,” he said with a weak grin.

  I took hold of his left arm and steadied him. “What room are you in?”

  He stared at me. “Room?” He paused. “Oh, right, hotel. Room. Um, seven-oh-three?” He nodded after a moment. “Yeah, seven-oh-three, that’s it.”

  “Do you have the key?”

  He thrust his right hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a card. I took it from him.

  “Okay, then, let’s go.” I started leading him to the door. When I paused to open it, I glanced over to Eagleton and Della Duffy, both steadily clearing the table by eating every scrap of food.

  I got Betts out the door and down the hall without much trouble. In the elevator I propped him in the corner before I pressed the button for the seventh floor. He had closed his eyes and appeared to fall asleep again. I roused him after the brief ride up two floors and tugged him out and toward room 703. He stumbled alongside me.

  I had to lean him against the wall while I inserted the key card in the lock. He managed to lurch in on his own, and I followed him to make sure he didn’t fall and bang his head against something, such as the sharp corner of a desk.

  His suite was more lavish than Eagleton’s, I thought, but I didn’t have much time to examine the furnishings. Betts tripped near the sofa and fell headlong onto it. I rushed forward to catch him, but he hit the cushions before I could reach him.

  His face, fortunately for him, hit one of the cushions, but his arm flopped over the end table and knocked the lamp to the floor with a muffled thud. The luxurious carpet softened the blow, and the lamp remained intact.

  “What was that?” Betts raised his head for a moment, then it dropped back down before I could answer.

  I couldn’t leave him prone on the sofa. He might suffocate like that. I managed to turn his body so that he was on his back, head on a cushion, and legs stretched out. He started snoring, and I figured the best thing now was to let him sleep it off.

  I restored the lamp to the end table and was about to leave when I noticed how cold it was in the room. I had better find a blanket for Betts; otherwise he might take a chill if he didn’t wake up soon to find one for himself. I found the bedroom and rummaged in the closet. As I expected, there was a spare blanket on the shelf.

  Back in the living room, I unfolded the blanket and covered Betts with it. I turned, ready to go, when I spotted the dining table on the other side of the room.

  There were seven or eight stacks of books atop the table, and I simply couldn’t resist going over to see what they were. Typical of bibliophiles like me, even though Betts might consider it snooping. He owed me this much, I figured.

  The piles consisted of Veronica Thane books, as I’d expected. Beautiful copies, too. Pristine-looking jackets protected by Mylar covers. I bent to read the spines of the first stack.

  Several of the titles were in languages other than English. I recognized French and German. Was that one Swedish? I wondered.

  I moved on to the next stack, turning it sideways so I could again read the spines. Midway down I spotted a copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion.

  I walked back over to the sofa, and a quick glance assured me that Betts was still asleep. I went back to the table and carefully pulled the copy of Spellwood Mansion from the stack.

  My hands trembled slightly as I opened it from the back and found the page where the identifying error would be.

  There it was. Clarevoyant’s Clew. A true, rare first printing of the book.

  Was this really his copy? Or was it Carrie Taylor’s?

  TWENTY-SIX

  I examined the book more carefully. There were no labels, no marks of any kind that I found. The book looked like it had seldom been opened, the binding tight, the colors of the jacket fresh and unfaded. A rare copy indeed, to have survived eighty years in this condition.

  Nothing to answer my question about its provenance, of course. Betts could h
ave possessed this copy for years. Or he could have stolen it from Carrie Taylor after he killed her.

  Then I realized how stupid I had been to pick up the book in the first place. Fingerprints. I had added mine to whatever prints the Mylar cover might hold. I might even have smudged those of another person. Hastily I put the book down on top of the pile from which I had pulled it.

  I dreaded the inevitable glare of irritation and disapproval I’d get when I told Kanesha about this. But I had to tell her, in case this copy of the book had anything to do with the murder.

  I turned to go, but a question popped into my head. Did Betts have another copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion?

  Without touching any of the books on the table, I examined the piles, looking for a second copy of the first Veronica Thane book.

  I didn’t find one. What did that tell me?

  I really wasn’t certain. Betts had boasted that he had over five hundred Veronica Thane books in various formats, and there couldn’t be more than sixty or seventy books on the table. The others were probably somewhere in the suite, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to try to find them and go through them all.

  I decided I had better get going and not yield to temptation to see what else he had. I glanced at the sleeping man on my way to the door, and he seemed fine.

  Before I could open the door, however, I heard a groan emanating from the area of the sofa. I hesitated, but the groaning continued, then intensified. I turned back to see what was wrong. Betts was struggling to get the blanket off and rise from the sofa.

  “Going to be sick.” He managed to get the words out before his body convulsed.

  I spotted a small, decorative garbage can at the end of sofa and scooped it up. Barely in time, I managed to stick it in front of him, and he vomited into it. He clutched at the can and pulled it to his chest, letting his head hang over it.

  He threw up again. I watched, alert for any sign that he was about to drop the can or to collapse. He seemed steady enough. I waited, and though he made a few retching sounds, nothing else issued forth. His grasp on the can loosened, and I took it from him and set it aside, trying not to look at or smell the contents.

  Betts stared up at me, bleary-eyed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Could you get me a wet towel?”

  “Sure. Be right back.” I hadn’t expected to play nursemaid to a drunken man tonight, but I couldn’t in all good conscience abandon him at this point, no matter how tempted I was to walk right out.

  I found a washcloth, luxuriously thick, in the bathroom and soaked it in cold water. After I’d wrung out most of the water, I carried it back to the ailing Betts.

  He mumbled his thanks and wiped his face several times, then folded the cloth and pressed it to his forehead.

  Figuring he would be okay on his own now for a few minutes, I took the garbage can, thankfully metal, and carried it into the bathroom. I dumped the contents into the toilet and flushed them, then I stuck the can under the faucet in the bathtub and ran water into it. I sloshed that around a bit, then dumped it again in the toilet.

  I did that a couple more times before I was satisfied that the garbage can was as clean as I was going to get it. Back in the living room, I set the can on the floor near Betts, just in case. He raised his head and focused on me as I was about to sit down. “Sorry to trouble you,” he said, sounding actually humble, “but would you mind getting me some soda from the bar fridge? And some crackers if you can find some? I think that would help settle my stomach a bit.”

  “Sure.” I found a can of soda along with some peanut butter crackers and brought them back to him. He fumbled with the tab on the aluminum can, so I opened it for him. Then I opened the crackers, too. Once again he thanked me.

  He sipped at the cola and ate a couple of crackers, avoiding my gaze for the moment. His color appeared normal again, and his eyes seemed clearer when he did at last look directly at me. He drained the can and set it aside.

  “Feeling better?” I asked.

  “Much,” he said with a faint smile. “Look, I really owe you one for helping me like this. Didn’t realize how lit I was getting. I don’t often drink like that.”

  “It can hit you pretty quickly if you’re not used to it.” I kept my tone mild, though I was pretty irritated with him. Still, I reckoned, he had suffered from his overindulgence, and he was acting much nicer than I had seen him do so far in our brief acquaintance.

  “I’m not used to it, despite what you probably think of me.” Betts managed a wry grin. “I know I come on way too strong sometimes.”

  “Yes, you most certainly do.” I softened my words with a brief smile.

  He leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes. “I really feel wonky, but the soda and the crackers helped.”

  “Best thing you can do now is go to bed and sleep.” I stood. “Would you like some help? I should probably be going now.”

  “No, I’ll be okay, I think.” Betts pushed himself up from the sofa. He didn’t wobble on his feet, and I took that as a positive sign. “Thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. I decided to ask him something before I left, though, and take advantage of his pliant, repentant mood. “Did you get Mrs. Cartwright to sign your books yet?”

  Betts shook his head. “No, not yet. I still have to work out the arrangements with her daughter.” He paused. “To be honest, the daughter is insisting on one thing that I’m not happy about.”

  “Really? What is that?”

  “She wants me to bring all of the books to their house and leave them there for as long as it takes Mrs. Cartwright to sign them all. I know she’s an old lady, but Mrs. Marter said it could take her three or four weeks. I’m not sure I want to leave my books with them that long. They could get damaged, and there wouldn’t be much I could do about it.”

  “That is rather odd,” I said, though I could understand that Mrs. Cartwright might not be up to signing several hundred books in a couple of days’ time. “But what if that’s the only way you can get them all signed?”

  Betts shrugged. “I don’t have much choice, do I? I gave them the money before Mrs. Marter informed me of that particular condition.”

  “It sounds like you have a truly impressive collection.” I hoped he might volunteer to show me at least part of it.

  “Yeah, I do.” Betts yawned. “Look, I need to get to bed. You can show yourself out, right?” He glanced pointedly toward the door.

  “Sure. I hope you feel better after a good night’s sleep.” I headed for the door, wondering why he suddenly seemed so ready to get me out of his suite. Was it because he didn’t want me to look through his books?

  I pondered the question on the drive home. Betts had more facets to his personality than I’d anticipated, given his rude behavior at our first meeting. I had no doubt he could be ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted, but would he go as far as murder?

  Diesel greeted me in the kitchen with a chorus of plaintive meows, I supposed to let me know how lonely he had been without me. Naturally I had to take a couple of minutes to reassure him how wonderful he was and that I was abjectly sorry for abandoning him, although I knew Stewart had given him every attention while I was out.

  With the cat pacified—for a few minutes, at least—I decided it was my stomach’s turn for attention. Winston Eagleton’s offerings hadn’t lasted long. I made myself a couple of ham sandwiches and sat at the table to eat. Diesel, from his vantage point right beside my chair, took great interest in my food. Before the impersonation of cat-starving-to-death got under way, I offered him several small bites of ham.

  After I polished off the sandwiches, I decided I should let Kanesha know about the copy of Spellwood Mansion I’d found in Gordon Betts’s suite. A brief text message asking her to call me ought to suffice. I didn’t feel like getting out the laptop to do e-mail, nor di
d I want to attempt it via the phone. I hated typing longer messages on those tiny letters. My fingers were big enough to hit two or three at a time.

  The house was quiet as Diesel and I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I wondered idly whether Stewart had allowed Dante out of his crate yet and whether Laura and Frank had ever come to baby-sit Diesel. With Stewart available, they probably decided they weren’t needed.

  I changed into pajamas, despite the fact that it wasn’t quite nine. I felt tired after the events of the evening, but I didn’t want to go to sleep just yet in case Kanesha called me back.

  Diesel stretched out on his side of the bed and warbled to let me know he needed more attention. After rubbing his head and along his spine for a bit, I made myself comfortable and picked up Spellwood Mansion. I was in the mood to read more Veronica Thane, and it would pass the time while I waited for a response from Kanesha.

  Veronica was being ministered to by her best friend Lucy, I recalled, when I last put the book aside. I found my place once again.

  “What happened, Lucy?” Veronica reclined against the pillows. “What time is it?”

  “It will soon be eleven. You’ve been asleep all day.” Lucy patted Veronica’s hand. “We don’t really know what happened. When you didn’t return home last night, your guardian became worried. She asked Artie and me if we had heard from you, and when we told her we had not, she became even more agitated.”

  “Dear Aunt Araminta,” Veronica murmured. “I regret so deeply that she was worried about me. And dear Artie, too.”

  Arthur Marsh, known to his intimates as “Artie,” was a classmate of Veronica Thane and Lucy Carlton. Tall, handsome, and athletic, he was the son of Mrs. Buff-Orpington’s lawyer and chief advisor, Horatio Marsh. He was devoted to Veronica and often escorted her to dances and social affairs. His best friend, Anthony Rutherford, was Lucy Carlton’s frequent escort.

  “She knew you would not do such a thing on purpose,” Lucy assured her. “She suspected that you might be in the midst of another adventure, and she asked Artie if he would search for you.”