Snuffed It in the Library

by Kate Hamilton

  ‘Oh, dear no! Read Enid Blyton as a child of course. Angela Brazil. That sort of thing. Nowadays it’s just The Readers Digest! Far too busy for anything else.’ She took in a deep breath. ‘Well, I don’t suppose you’ve settled yet, on a final figure? Must run into several thousands, I’d have thought.’

  He made no reply.

  She took everything in. The separate piles that he had laid out on the desk and table. Their titles.

  ‘Is Daddy selling?’

  ‘That would not be for me to say.’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, well, we’ll find out sooner or later.’ And as she advanced to the door murmured, ‘hopefully sooner.’

  Edie met her in the doorway. ‘Caro! I thought you said you weren’t coming back for a week.’

  They made to touch cheeks. ‘Oh, well, you know what it’s like.’

  ‘Pops said he was sick and tired of you turning up all the time with your problems. You should discuss everything with that husband of yours.’

  ‘Rupert, as we all know, is an exceptionally busy man. Being Colonel of the Regiment is a heavy responsibility. Anyway,’ she paused, ‘when did he say that?’

  ‘Oh,’ she shook her head dismissively, ‘sometime.’

  ‘There’s a man in the library. Know anything about him?’

  ‘Marriage material!’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Caro said with a laugh. ‘I almost took him for Daddy. What’s this about you going to Constance Spry?’

  ‘Flower arranging.’

  ‘You’ll not find anyone there.’

  ‘Well. I don’t see you doing anything about it.’

  ‘Hunt Ball. Coming up next month. I’ll get you an invite.’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. That is if you are still here.’

  ‘You’ll need to ask Aunt Fenella about that.’

  They went through the dining room and out to the conservatory.

  ‘Daddy, there you are!’

  ‘Caroline.’ Sir Tempest half rose from his rattan chair, holding the copy of The Times. ‘Just doing the crossword. Rupert well?’

  She flung herself down on the sofa opposite. ‘Oh, you know. The usual. What I came to speak to you about was these gypos down Blackberry Lane.’

  Sir Tempest sighed. Caroline was the only daughter of his marriage to his first wife, Mildred. She had been a much wanted and much indulged child, who took almost entirely after Mildred. That she was happily ensconced at Hamden House, an exclusive girls’ boarding school in Dorset, had been something of a mercy when her mother had died. The thirteen year-old was more bereft when her pony Snowball copped it. But Caroline had never forgiven her father for remarrying. She had loathed Prudence from the start. The former ballerina, so petite and dark, was the polar opposite to the overweight teenager, who had, frankly, made their life hell. That she had celebrated when Prudence died, so unexpectedly, and in somewhat mysterious circumstances, was pitiable. Sir Tempest privately thought, from time to time, that it was a great shame she and her odious husband, Rupert, were not posted abroad more often.

  ‘So, what’s the guy doing in the library?’

  ‘Assessing books.’

  ‘Really? Do I need to know anything about this?’

  Sir Tempest looked at her evenly. He wondered for the enth time how he could have produced such a brood of ungrateful children.

  ‘Not particularly.’ He glanced down at a newspaper column, before turning the page. ‘I don’t recall you having any interest in books.’

  ‘But didn’t Mummy bring a whole lot when she married you?’

  He paused, perusing the paper, ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘Well, I think - ’

  ‘Caroline, my dear,’ he looked directly at her over the top of the paper, ‘can I remind you, as I have done many times before, that I will settle on each of you, your fair share of the estate.’

  ‘Well,’ she replied, petulantly. ‘I am the only child of your first marriage.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, returning to scan the newspaper, ‘you don’t need to remind me of that.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Edie chipped in, ‘you’ve just seen the lawyer, about your will, haven’t you, Pops.’

  Caroline immediately sat up. ‘What’s this?’

  It was an old familiar wrangle. Edie had heard it a dozen times before. After a few minutes she cut into the conversation. ‘I really think it would have been better of the chap not to have arrived if it’s causing such a flaming fuss, Caroline.’

  Simon, who had just come in from the garden, said, ‘This you all discussing Father’s will?’

  ‘Pops and Caro going at it again. As per usual. I do wish you’d let up, Caroline.’ ‘Shouldn’t look so desperate, Caro,’ Said Simon. ‘You know he’s cut you out, don’t you!’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Just joking! Oh, Aunt Fenella says just to go on with tea without her. She’s busy with her triffids.’

  Chapter Two

  Miss Lavender pulled round the wobbling cyclist, changed gear on the Hillman Minx and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Albert Seddon, sat quietly in the passenger seat, a hot water bottle pressed between his thin knees. Gaining the top of the hill they had a splendid view westward across Salisbury Plain.

  ‘Now, you were telling me the entire family were at The Court.’

  ‘That is correct. Miss Caroline turned up at three. She had some problem she wished to talk over with Sir Tempest. The usual sort of thing. Nothing that her husband could not attend to.’

  ‘And no one left?’

  ‘I served the tea at half past three as usual.’

  ‘And this Mr Shapley - was he included?’

  ‘Not in the conservatory, no. He had had a good long lunch break. Said he wanted to continue his work in the library. Nice enough chap. Down from London. Bookish. But then, he would be. Being an Antiquarian. Seems a bit of a waste.’

  ‘And they are absolutely sure it wasn’t a simple matter of a heart attack?’

  ‘Poison. That was what they came up with at the autopsy.’

  ‘Well, Albert. Everyone must be very upset indeed.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. That’s why Sir Tempest thinks you should come and have a look yourself, Miss Lavender. Seeing as it’s in your line of business.’

  Miss Lavender laughed somewhat dryly. ‘If you mean, writing commercial thrillers to keep the wolf from the door is any qualification, Albert, that is very flattering, but stretching it a bit, don’t you think?’

  ‘Not at all. That last one - what was it called?’

  ‘The Loner’.

  ‘That’s the one. Well, I couldn’t put it down. Never have guessed the finale. Very clever.’

  ‘Mmmh. My publisher made me change the ending!’

  II

  A certain gloom hung over The Court, Lower Wallop. When Inspector MacIntosh had said they were all under suspicion the entire family had gone into a sort of permafreeze. Like rabbits, about to be skinned.

  Sir Tempest rushed out to meet them, taking Miss Lavender’s hands in his own, cold ones. ‘Dashed glad to see you, Rosamunde. Devil of a job. Hoped you’d manage to get away, come over to help us out.’

  Her friend was visibly shaken. He had aged ten years.

  ‘Tempest, whatever I can do.’ She gazed meaningfully into his eyes for a moment, hoping to give him some reassurance.

  He smiled ruefully, and nodded.

  They went in. There was a heavy atmosphere. The hall clock struck eight. Dinner time. The family were waiting. There was little talk. Not until they had eaten their soup, and drunk some wine. Then they all talked at once.

  ‘So, I expect you’ve come, Miss Lavender, to get some material for your new book.’

  ‘Simon, don’t be ass,’ hissed Edie. ‘You know Pops needs shoring up. No one in the family will do. Evidently.’

  ‘Well, I certainly wouldn’t dream of being an imposition.’

  ‘No, Miss Lavender,’ said Fenella, gently. ‘Yo
u really must not listen to these two. Manners appear to have forsaken them.’

  She smiled sweetly across the table at Miss Lavender. Her dark hair, parted in the middle and held in a low bun, framed her perfect oval face. The face of a madonna. Fenella Harrington always reminded Miss Lavender of a Raphael painting she had seen years ago in the Uffizi.

  ‘Miss Lavender - Rosamunde - has given up of her valuable time, to lend support,’ said Sir Tempest. ‘I’ll thank you to retain a civil tongue in your head, Simon. That is, if you wish to remain at the dinner table.’

  ‘Yes, well I expect it is all rather dreary for you young folk,’ said Miss Lavender.

  ‘Dreary. Mmmh. Hardly the word for it,’ said Simon in his usual languid tone. ‘More like . . .’

  ‘Bloody awful!’

  ‘Edie!’

  ‘Well, Aunt, I was the one who found the body.’

  ‘Oh, so it wasn’t Seddon?’

  ‘No, Miss Lavender. It wasn’t,’ said Simon, putting his elbows on the table and playing with his fork. ‘It was Edie. Which makes her the Prime Suspect.’

  ‘Don’t say that. Don’t say that. You are just as much suspected. We all are,’ cried Edie.

  ‘Well, not Aunt Fenella,’ said Simon. ‘She has an alibi.’

  ‘But not the rest of you?’

  ‘We were all of us close by,’ said Sir Tempest, helping himself to the vegetables that Seddon was handing round. ‘Even you, Seddon.’

  ‘That’s right, sir,’ said Seddon, quietly. ‘We were all within striking distance of the library.’

  ‘That’s where I found him. It was horrible. Perfectly horrible. The look on his face . . .’ Edie shuddered.

  ‘They say it was poison,’ added Simon. ‘Better watch out, Miss L. You never know what might be in those sprouts!’

  III

  The library had been tidied. After all it was a couple of days since the thing had happened. The light from the standard lamp cast an eerie glow, hardly enough to light the whole room.

  ‘They’ve done all the finger printing,’ said Sir Tempest, his voice subdued. Like someone in church.

  ‘And they’re sure it was poison?’

  He shook his head perplexedly. ‘Damned peculiar. He’d just come down from London. For the day. He was here to value the books.’

  ‘The books?’

  ‘I am making out my will again. Just seeing everything is in order, don’t you know.’

  ‘A wise thing to do.’

  ‘Well, one never knows at my age. Got to keep everyone in the family happy,’ he added with a something of a frown. ‘Anyway, he was here to see a particular set of volumes that I know have interested booksellers for years. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone, and get a valuation of the library, as a whole.’

  Miss Lavender looked at him intently, for a second or two. An unfortunate Freudian slip, perhaps?

  ‘But he didn’t get as far as that.’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. I had suggested he stay for a couple of days. He’d only begun, really. Hadn’t got as far as making notes, even.’

  The desk was tidy. The desk set held plain sheets of paper, and matching envelopes. A fountain pen lay in the tray, beside two heavy, silver inkwells, and a blotter. A leather covered desk diary was set at a perfect right angle.

  ‘May I?’

  ‘Fire ahead.’

  She opened it, and went through the pages, coming to the present day’s date. A note had been scrawled for the 12th. Mr Bidcombe. Shapley’s 11 am.

  ‘Bidcombe? I thought his name was Shapley?’

  ‘Er, yes. That’s right. His colleague was indisposed. Appendicitis, I think he said. So he came instead. Short notice.’

  ‘Oh. So, no one was expecting him.’

  ‘Good point. No. We were expecting Bidcombe.’

  Miss Lavender moved to the bay window. A wide window seat ran round the extent of this. There was a door to the garden in the corner. She tried it.

  ‘I think you’ll find it locked,’ said Sir Tempest. ‘We tend to keep it locked.’

  ‘Could someone come in from the house front?’

  ‘Well, yes. I suppose that they could. There’s a high hedge, and a gate, but the path runs round the side of the house to the front door.’

  ‘And these most valuable volumes?’

  ‘Ah, right behind you. Look, I’ll show you, if you like.’

  The volumes, as big as old church Bibles, were very fragile. Bound in dark red calf skin. There were three of them.

  ‘To be honest, I never took much interest. Some monastic thing, or other. In Latin.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She took a little time. ‘Yes. Magnacopius. Yes.’

  ‘You’ve heard of it?’

  ‘Yes. Very fine. Very fine indeed. Of course, one can never finally accept the authenticity . . .’

  ‘They’re the real thing, I can guarantee it!’ expostulated her friend.

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Without a doubt. No. I meant his prophecies. Whether they are at all intelligible. Or correct. One reads so much into such things. Don’t you agree? Quite.’

  She took a moment, just a final survey of the room. Her small, neat figure, alert.

  ‘Would you say, Sir Tempest, that all the books are still here?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, somewhat dismissively, ‘I don’t have a catalogue. Perhaps I should have done one. So much else to do. No, I shouldn’t have thought anyone would have pinched anything. As it happens, the only really valuable items are the three volumes. The rest is run of the mill.’

  ‘Yet, Mr Shapley had come to have a look.’

  Sir Tempest frowned, looking for the first time irritated. ‘As I explained, I am reorganising my will. Need to have everything in order, don’t you know.’

  ‘Quite. Would you have the garden door key?’

  They made their way outside. Miss Lavender noticed how neatly kept it was. The gravel of the path running up the side to the front, hedged in by a tall privet, and on down to the gardens on the right was raked to perfection. Not a weed in sight.

  ‘My, what a beautifully kept property, Tempest,’ she said in admiring tones.

  ‘Yes,’ he bristled with pride. ‘Not that I have any say in it. Fenella sees to the gardens. Her pride and joy.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Got her over a particularly bad time. Years ago now, of course. Went rather squiffy in the head, don’t you know.’

  ‘Oh, dear,’ murmured Miss Lavender, ‘I am very sorry to hear it.’

  She took her time, taking in the broad sweep of perfectly mowed lawn, the herbaceous borders, the cherry trees, now in blossom. And to the left, at a little distance, partly obscured by bushes, the glass houses, potting shed, compost heap.

  ‘Of course, she couldn’t possibly manage the heavy work. Travers and his assistant come in three days a week.’

  ‘And that would be since the . . .’

  ‘Ah, yes, yes. As a matter of fact they were here yesterday.’

  They ambled on down in the direction of the glass house. In fact it was a series of three, adjoining one another. They found Fenella, busy with trowel and plant pots.

  ‘Oh, the Auriculas!’ cried Miss Lavender, ‘how simply delightful. And such an array!’

  Fenella straightened, looking pink with pleasure.

  ‘All from seed, of course.’

  ‘This is my sister’s little nursery,’ said Sir Tempest.

  A look passed swiftly between them, that was not lost on Miss Lavender. She moved on along the bench. ‘My goodness. What a labour of love, to be sure.’

  ‘Hardly ever see you, isn’t that right, Ella. In here from dawn to dusk.’

  Fenella smiled. ‘There is so much to do. You can’t take your hands off a garden.’

  ‘Well, certainly not one this size. I do not know how you manage. But then, you have help, isn’t that right?’

  ‘With the heavy work. I’m more on the nursery side, as Tempest here says. Life, Miss Lavender, lif
e. That is what is so important. Growing things keep you - well, sane.’

  Sir Tempest coughed, saying they really had be getting on.

  ‘And - did you see anything of Wittering Shapley, then, Miss Harrington?’

  ‘Not a blind thing. No. I was busy with my Amaryllis on Tuesday. It was Tuesday, I think? I have a very regular routine, you see.’ She smiled in a sweet, distant sort of way.

  As they left the greenhouse, Miss Lavender caught sight of her, moving peacefully, in her gardening smock among her beloved plants, as through a garden in Paradise. The garden, which was bounded on all sides by a six foot high wall of faded red brick, was extensive. They took a turn round it, coming at the foot to an aged wooden door in the wall. Miss Lavender hesitated, turning to her companion, with a quizzical look.

  ‘Oh, yes. No. Locked. As a matter of fact it goes out onto a small lane, by the stream.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Miss Lavender, noting the sound of fast running water.

  ‘Prudence was found down here, wasn’t she. How many years ago now?’

  Harrington scratched his head, ‘Well now, let’s see. I tend to blank it out of my mind. Truth to tell. Four, five, six years ago. You know the details, of course? That she was found frozen? A case of hypothermia. We’d been searching for several days. Through the village, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes,’ Miss Lavender sighed. ‘Yes, I do remember.’

  ‘The coldest winter since records began. That’s right. It must be six years now, last January, that is.’

  ‘Something to do with a fall.’

  ‘Mmmm? Yes, that’s right. Pru had trouble sleeping. Evidently came out late for a walk round the garden. Slipped on the steps there, behind you, and evidently hit her head.’

  ‘It must be very difficult for you. Staying on in the same house. After . . .’

  ‘Well, the thing is, Rosamunde,’ said Sir Tempest, pulling his pipe from his jacket, and taking his time to fill it, ‘The Court has been in the family for a couple of generations. Like to think that will continue.’

  ‘To Simon?’