Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1)

by Sigrid Vansandt

  Chapter 8

  Harvard University, USA

  1928

  DR. COOLIDGE, THE HEAD LIBRARIAN for the Harvard Library, went through the new manuscripts and personal papers donated from the recently deceased socialite and poet, Amy Lowell. Miss Lowell had generously left the library her highly sought-after collection of Keatsiana and other notable nineteenth-century authors. As he unwrapped each item, he jotted down its title, author, published date and its condition.

  Being an historian first, Dr. Coolidge loved this part of his job. It was a privilege to touch and study up close such rare, priceless things. He compared it to an archaeologist’s excitement when a rock slab rolls back from an ancient tomb. All your senses came alive and you breathed in the air of the past. For one extraordinary moment your consciousness knew only the wonder of what you beheld. It was pure magic.

  The last items he pulled from the bottom of the enormous crate were enclosed in a small box, separated from the other manuscripts and papers. He pulled out the box and placed it on his work table. It opened easily and he removed an extremely small and exquisitely hand-bound book.

  He recognized it immediately as one of the tiny books the Brontes had co-written as children. Few of these rare jewels existed in the world and he was astonished to be holding one in his own hands.

  With a sense of delighted anticipation, he reached in and felt for the last item in the chest. A leather box appeared. The leather was tooled in different Gothic Revival designs with a gold-embossed, quatrefoil center. Small brass hinges and an ornate latch made up its hardware. The box was rosewood with the leather glued over and the hardware delicately mounted. It was either for holding stationary or family papers.

  He lifted the lid and there was a manuscript without a cover of any kind. It was handwritten in a woman’s hand. He quickly scanned the manuscript up to the last page where he noticed the penmanship became more awkward. Coolidge wondered, as he read the first chapter, if this manuscript might be an unfinished novel by one of the Brontes. There was a small poem written in a margin he would need to look into. He made a quick notation in his notebook, “hand-written manuscript, author unknown, date unknown but likely 1825 to 1850’s, Amy Lowell collection, donated 1925.”

  Dr. Coolidge also accessioned the chest into his register. He did not return the manuscript or the tiny Bronte book to the chest but instead laid them both on clean cotton sheets on his work table. Feeling tired, he left his notebook open for Mildred, his assistant, to find in the morning. She would put the finishing touches on accessioning the Lowell collection.

  When Mildred came in the next morning she went about her work and neatly typed all Dr. Coolidge’s notes. She gingerly gathered each item of the collection, labeled them according to his notes, wrapped them in strips of cotton and put each in its own marked box.

  The Bronte and the untitled manuscript were placed in separate boxes and delivered with the rest of Amy Lowell’s collection to Harvard’s special holding area for rare books and artifacts known as The Treasure Room. A more appropriate name could not have been coined for such a place.

  Dr. Coolidge passed away early that morning. The untitled manuscript he had found among Amy Lowell’s collection would sleep another seventy-five years until someone clever enough to recognize its worth would come along.

  Chapter 9

  Marsden-Lacey, England

  Present Day

  MARY REVIVED FAST. YOUTH ALWAYS does Martha thought. They called Constable Cross to the door and asked if he could please take their statements soon. He was a nice-looking, dark-haired young man and with one look at Mary’s pretty but ashen face, he agreed to start.

  After all three women finished their statements and Mary had permission from Piers Cousins, The Grange’s Board President, to lock up early, Helen and Martha offered to walk Mary back to her flat but Constable Cross had already offered to drive the doe-eyed girl home.

  Both women smiled understandingly at the two young people. The car pulled out of the car park leaving them standing alone together in the small entrance garden. The sun was setting over the Yorkshire countryside bringing that exquisite mixture of drowsiness and peacefulness to the summer landscape.

  “How bout that drink?” Martha offered.

  “Let’s go. I know a great place,” Helen said.

  “Um, let’s not go to The Kings Way, the place you’re staying. I’m sorry, but that place is a dive. It doesn’t really fit your style, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Martha said.

  “You can say so. It is a dive but there were so many tourists this time of year, I couldn’t find anywhere else. I’ve got to be here for at least three more days, so it has to be The Kings Way or nothing.”

  The two tired women made their way down the hill into the charming village of Marsden-Lacey. At the peak of the tourist season, Marsden-Lacey attracted a variety of holiday-makers. Families, hikers, and motorcyclists all came to enjoy the Yorkshire Dales National Park while others such as the boaters meandered in their motor crafts of choice through the canal.

  It was a village of 12,000 souls during the off-season but in the later part of July, it swelled to over 15,000 on the weekends. The girls found their way down to one of the village’s favorite watering holes, The Traveller’s Inn.

  “Let’s go in here,” Helen said.

  They pushed though the door into the old fashioned but highly-sought-out local pub. Dark beams, small windows with chintz curtains, cozy booths and two working fireplaces made The Traveller’s Inn the quintessential English hostelry. Tonight there was a dart tournament going on so every so often there was an explosion of merry making and shouting from the back of the pub where the dart boards hung in a row.

  Martha picked out a cushioned bench with a table near an open window overlooking the back garden. The air coming in smelled fresh with the scent from the lavender bushes planted below the window. They sat down with sighs and ordered two glasses of the house wine from the waitress.

  “What a day,” Martha said more to herself than to Helen.

  “I guess so. You’ve been through it. Mugged in the market and a witness to a possible murder at The Grange.”

  Martha chuckled. “I must have brought some kind of weird mojo along with me when I entered The Grange. What do you suppose the whole thing was about?”

  “Well, if you want my guess, I’d say it has something to do with what Mary said about the board and Sir Carstons being into it.”

  Martha looked thoughtful. “Had you ever met Sir Carstons or heard about him when they asked you to assess the collection?”

  “No. I’ve only talked with Louis Devry, the curator, who seems stuffy but nice. Why does your firm need a statement from him?” Helen asked.

  “I think it’s going to make the news tomorrow anyway, so I might as well tell you. Sir Carstons is in the process of suing The Grange’s governing board. The board basically was a group of private individuals who entered into a financial arrangement with Sir Carstons to purchase The Grange based on a valuation that was compiled by an outside company. Sir Carstons is claiming the valuation was mismanaged because the firm that produced it turned out to be owned by a board member’s nephew.”

  “Oh, boy. Messy, and I’m beginning to see why Louis Devry has been so insistent about the collection being assessed quickly,” Helen said.

  They sat quietly for a few seconds. An attractive man threaded his way through the customers and approached their table.

  “Mrs. Littleword and Mrs. Ryes?” he asked once he reached their table. “I’m Piers Cousins, The Grange’s board president. May I sit down with you for a moment?”

  Helen and Martha exchanged glances.

  “Of course, Mr. Cousins, have a seat.” Martha motioned for him to sit.

  Piers Cousins stood close to six feet tall with a slim, athletic build. He was near fifty years old but his dark hair was only slightly greying at the temples. He had deep blue eyes.

  With a quick glance to his
left hand, Helen noted he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. There were other signs of his single state such as he wasn’t wearing clothes wives typically picked for their husbands. The lack of tassels on his shoes was a clear indicator of no wife. He pulled up a chair from another table and sat down between the two women.

  “I’m so sorry about what you both have been through today. It must have been a terrible shock,” Cousins said in his lovely, aristocratic accent. “I’ve been over to check on The Grange and something is troubling me.”

  “Assaults are often troubling,” Martha said impertinently.

  Cousins, checked for an instant by Martha’s sarcasm, gave her an amused look.

  Helen took up the thread of the momentarily derailed conversation and asked with a touch more concern than sounded natural, “What is troubling you?”

  The girls exchanged somewhat annoyed looks.

  “I walked through the entire building because I wanted to make certain nothing was amiss but also to be certain no one had hidden themselves inside. We do this every night because it’s a public building and we worry about theft and vandalism,” Cousins said.

  While he was talking, Helen saw how well his hands were formed. Long fingers, bony but strong with nice nails told her he wasn’t a fussy type but probably liked to work outside. The rest of his clothes said money but weren’t pretentious in any way. As she studied him surreptitiously, she realized how nervous he was.

  “Mr. Cousins, I can assure you the police and Mary did an excellent job of going over the entire property before we left,” she said.

  “I’m sure they did, but I thought that whilst you were going through the rooms you might have noticed something?”

  “Like what?”

  He hesitated then said, “The upstairs rooms look like a scuffle must have taken place. Fragile books displayed on top of counters inside glass cases were askew. I wondered if you might have heard anything or seen anyone?”

  “No. Just a man bashed over the head lying in a pool of blood,” Martha said with an impish smile.

  Cousins, this time, gave her a slightly confused look. Martha shrugged.

  “Oh. Mrs. Littleword, I’m being completely thoughtless,” he said with a slight blush. “It’s that I’m confused by this whole affair and wondered if you might have seen something. Especially you, Mrs. Ryes, with your detailed eye, might have noted an oddity or something misplaced.” He turned towards the more empathetic one, Helen.

  “Mr. Cousins, we understand this has been an upsetting experience for everyone,” Helen said soothingly. She patted his hand lightly and shot a stern look towards Martha who rolled her eyes in response. “We’ve been through so much excitement today. Everyone’s nerves are on edge.”

  “I apologize again, ladies. Let me make this up to you,” he said penitently while casting an unsure look at Martha. “Tomorrow, The Grange Society will be having their annual fundraiser at my home, Healy House. It’s a tennis tournament which we’re proud to say is in its twelfth year. The matches start at nine a.m. and you are welcome to come as my guests. Please stay on afterward and have dinner, too, around seven. It’s a casual affair and if you enjoy tennis, you will see some of the best players we English can boast of.” The last bit was said with the true tennis enthusiast’s excitement.

  Helen and Martha said they would like to attend and exchanged phone numbers with Piers. As he left The Traveller’s Inn, both women watched his retreating figure until it was lost among the throng of happy patrons.

  “Why were you being so snippy with him?” Helen, slightly annoyed, turned to Martha.

  “I just wanted to see what he would do. He might be the killer, Helen.”

  Helen stiffened.

  Martha continued in a mock high-society voice. “Besides, we’ve been invited to the castle, my dear. Count your blessings. Sounds like we are going to have a lovely time.”

  Martha started laughing at her own silliness which infected Helen, too. Holding up her glass for Helen to toast along with her, Martha said, “To Healy House we go!”

  As they clanked the glasses together, they couldn’t help a giggle or two.

  Chapter 10

  THE NEXT DAY WAS SATURDAY and Helen woke up to yelling and pots banging in the kitchen below her room. She winced and pulled the blankets over her head, wishing she could find anywhere, absolutely anywhere else to stay. She couldn’t wait to be done with the job at The Grange. The hotel was a mess, her life was even messier, and now she was a witness (maybe even a suspect) in an attempted murder investigation.

  There had been one highlight to the whole affair. Well, maybe two, once she thought about it. She had enjoyed meeting Martha. Martha was definitely a quirky person but fun and not a push-over. And the other nice highlight was Piers Cousins.

  Since rotten old George, her ex-husband, had chosen to regain his youth by running off with her assistant, Fiona, her only focus had been on work. The last year had been about holding on to her half of the business and trying to not spend every waking moment wondering how life could go from wonderful one minute and then into the toilet in less than two months, which was how long Fiona had been working for their business before George went feral.

  It was all in the past, but she had to make a decision about his wedding. Why in the world had Fiona and George invited her to the wedding? It wasn’t like George to rub salt in someone’s wounds, but then if someone had asked her a year and a half ago if she thought her loving George would pop off with a girl younger than their daughter, Helen would have laughed. She and George were best friends or so she had thought.

  With a heave and a flip of the blankets, Helen moved towards the shower. Today was a fresh start. With a quick choice of a white cardigan, pearls and a lavender, pleated, mid-length skirt, Helen breezed into the bath. Feeling a lightness to her spirit she hadn’t felt in ages, she decided to look her best for her visit to Healy House.

  FLOWER POT COTTAGE WAS NICELY situated along Canal Street. It had a happy location across from the Huddleston Narrow Canal with a nice rock wall embankment and perfectly-manicured hedges protecting it from any gawking hikers. There was no doubt in Martha’s mind that it was worth every pound she had paid for it.

  After Kate, her only child, moved out, the cottage felt lonely. She and Gus, the cat, and Amos, the dog, wandered around the cottage for at least a month searching for something that wasn’t coming back.

  In time, they took themselves in hand and started fresh activities. Amos began a new project of watching “Dogs Who Work” episodes and barking at dogs on canal boats floating past the cottage. Meanwhile, Gus had her neighbor’s pigeon coop under tight surveillance and Martha took self-defense and karate classes at the Village Community Centre.

  A clanking sound told Martha that a fresh group of narrow boats were readying themselves to lower the water in the section of the canal outside her cottage. She had lain in bed long enough this morning and she gently lifted herself from between the cat and dog so she didn’t disturb their comfort. Tugging furiously on her nightgown which had somehow entangled itself in the sheets, she finally extricated herself from her pack’s nest.

  Sleep had come late and had not been extremely beneficial. If anything, her sleep had been downright fitful and agitated. Mr. Cuthbirt, her boss, would be a sourpuss over Devry’s statement not being taken and her work load had become so intense in the last six months that she already wasn’t sleeping well lately.

  The bright spot in the day would be the fundraiser at Healy House. What a treat. Tennis and food and of course mixing with the posh tennis people would be so much fun. Whatever she wore today, it had to be light and pretty. As she dug through the closet, she found a summery dress with a crimson floral pattern throughout.

  Gus and Amos blinked sleepily from the bed while watching Martha fling things and rifle through drawers. Finally, she laid the chosen outfit on the bed and hurried into the bath.

  Amos watched the bathroom door close and got up and stretched her g
impy hind legs and yawned. She then ceremoniously circled three times and plopped back down on top of Martha’s lovely white and crimson dress, falling happily asleep.

  Chapter 11

  THE SUMMER HAD BEEN PERFECT. Warm days with gentle, playful breezes and the right amount of rain had given West Yorkshire a summer so exquisite that few old folks could remember a better one.

  If any place epitomized an English country house in its summer finery, it was Healy House. Originally built by a wealthy wool merchant in 1569, it exhibited all the best of Elizabethan architecture. It was a rambling, timber-framed house of twenty-three rooms and four clustered chimneys.

  Flower boxes filled with ivies, fuchsias and petunias of every color festooned its front mullioned windows. Healy had a picture-postcard location with pine-covered hills behind and a lovely section of the river Calder meandering placidly through its foreground. The house and its environs either made visitors feel like the luckiest of souls to behold its charms or made them desperate to own it. Fortunately for Piers Cousins, its owner, the majority of his guests that day were of the former disposition.

  It was Cousins’ father, John Cousins, who was responsible for his son’s immense wealth. He invented Manly, an aftershave made popular in the sixties but still in demand today. The senior Cousins had a brilliant business mind and landed on the idea of gifting his products to famous sports stars. By doing so, he became the father of the celebrity endorsement idea and it had paid off nicely.

  Cousins Senior bought Healy House and built four grass tennis courts with which he intended to host tournaments with world-renowned tennis pros benefiting both his pocket book and his business’ brand name. Unfortunately for John Cousins, he died too young, leaving his estate to his seven-year-old son, Piers. Once he came of age, Piers reinstated the yearly invitation-only, private tennis tournament as a legacy to his father.

  When Piers was invited to be on The Grange’s board of directors, he graciously offered the tennis tournament as a fundraiser. The usually private tennis tournament was opened to well-healed, paying guests who could afford to mingle with tennis stars and other celebrities. The money generated from the event allowed The Grange’s collection acquisition committee to focus on purchasing only the best works currently available in the world to buy. Needless to say, The Grange was creating quite a name for itself in the museum world community.