I’d like to say she looked disappointed that her attempt to discombobulate me had not succeeded, but she had a knack for throwing me off balance, and instead she smiled and said, “Lovely. Good night.”
It was twelve thirty before I could sit back, satisfied with the proposal. But I had enough sense to refrain from sending an e-mail off at that early an hour. No, I would wait for the morning, and with rested eyes, take one more look before I dispatched the document to Bath College—and then we would be on our way to establishing The First Edition Society as a cultural and educational hub for twentieth-century popular fiction. I hadn’t thought of that last line until I was upstairs and in bed with the light off, so I’d turned it back on and written myself a note.
The result of my late night was that morning came a bit too soon for me, and a seven o’clock two-mile walk didn’t really appeal. It had gone seven thirty by the time I rolled out of bed. But I asked myself how I would feel when it came time for a coffee and perhaps a shortbread finger at eleven o’clock if I hadn’t walked first, and that got me moving. At last, when I was out the door and the sun hit the terrace, turning it to gold, I could see a bright day ahead. I inhaled deeply—the air chill and invigorating—and set off in a different direction to see where my feet would lead.
They led me into the shopping district, just waking for the new day. I took to the lanes, walking along narrow Northumberland Place and past the Minerva—a cozy pub framed by hanging baskets and window boxes now planted with autumnal shades of pansies and tiny yellow flowers that dripped over the edges of their containers. A signboard hung above the door with a painted rendition of the gilt bronze head of the goddess Minerva, which had been uncovered in the city’s Roman baths in the eighteenth century. The goddess notwithstanding, it was a good little pub where our cleaner, Pauline, worked—it was run by her brother, I thought.
I basked in my accomplishments as I slowed down to admire the window displays of shops not yet open. I’d had enough money this month to transfer a second round to Dinah’s account—that in itself was cause for celebration. When it came to discussing my ex with my daughter, I’d taken the high ground. I’d written a thorough proposal on the literary salons of The First Edition Society.
And it was Thursday—in two days I’d be off to Liverpool for my mini-holiday with Mum. Perhaps on Sunday I would take an early train from Liverpool to London. Wyn and I could have almost the entire day together, which we desperately needed.
That thought put an extra spring in my step. I showered and took my tea and toast while dreaming of a lazy Sunday afternoon with my boyfriend. Only when I checked the time did I remember about my late start. Grabbing for my jacket, I tore out the door, intent on sending the literary salon proposal before our morning briefing so the secretary would have no room to object. Not that that would stop her.
The library door was closed. Mrs. Woolgar must’ve already searched for damage from last night’s group and, having found none, given up and gone to her office. I continued to the ground floor, paused at her doorway, and said, “Good morning.”
But instead of Mrs. Woolgar, there was Pauline with a lambswool duster on an extension pole, working the corner cornices of the twelve-foot ceiling.
“Morning, Hayley,” she replied.
“Mrs. Woolgar?” I asked.
“Haven’t seen her—just as well, really. I’m running a bit late this morning. I gave the kitchenette a once-over and washed the mugs from last evening and thought myself lucky to get in here and finish her office before she came up. I’d a shift at the pub last night, you see, and then I couldn’t find—oh well, you don’t want to hear about that, do you?”
“Well, I’d better get stuck in—I’m a bit late myself,” I told her. I walked back to my own office, but glanced down the stairs to the lower ground floor. Mrs. Woolgar late? Unheard of, as far as I knew. Was she ill? Should I check? But Pauline and I had been late—perhaps as the autumn days grew shorter, we all preferred to hibernate. I’d give her a few more minutes before I worried.
At my desk, I studied the proposal one last time, tweaking words and shifting phrases—then shifting them back again. Lastly, I filled in the e-mail address and then sat, frozen, with my finger hovering a fraction of an inch above the mouse as I began to second-guess myself. Had I taken the right tone? A collaboration to benefit both the college and the Society—should it sound as if we’d be on equal footing or would the college want more credit? Would Val Moffatt, envious of my job, sink the whole idea before it saw the light of day?
In the entry, Pauline dropped a vacuum attachment and I jumped, causing my finger to land on the mouse and click send. I gasped, and she looked in, catching me wringing my hands.
“Sorry, Hayley. All right there?”
“Mmm. Great.”
“I’ll go on up to the library, shall I?” Pauline asked. “Then I’ll finish this floor after.” She looked over her shoulder. “No sign of Mrs. Woolgar yet?”
I checked the time—ten minutes past our usual briefing—and alarm bells went off in my head. Leaping out of my chair, I hurried past Pauline.
“Yes, you go on upstairs. I’ll just nip down to her flat and make sure everything’s . . . That she isn’t . . .”
Not bothering to finish, I grabbed hold of the handrail to swing myself round and head down to the lower ground floor, but the closer I got to her door, the slower my steps became. It seemed forever until I landed at the bottom. To my left, the corridor was lined with the furniture I’d dragged out of the cellar—I had yet to return to that project—and to my right, the door to Mrs. Woolgar’s flat. A fan-shaped, art deco sconce kept the area dimly lit.
A light tap on her door brought no results. I put my ear against the solid oak and heard not a sound. My heart in my throat, I raised my hand again just as the door flew open.
“Ah!” I cried, reeling and my heart pounding.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Woolgar demanded.
“I thought I’d better see that you were all right . . . I didn’t know if . . .” I’d done nothing and yet here I was wrong-footed. I drew myself up. “It’s only that . . . it’s past your usual time.”
Mrs. Woolgar studied her watch, shook her wrist, and peered at it again. “Dear me,” she muttered. “I don’t know how that happened. Well, Ms. Burke, you can be assured that I will—”
Her excuse was cut off by a shriek from above.
“Pauline?” I turned and ran up the stairs at a clip. Over my shoulder, I explained, “She went to start on the library.”
“You don’t think”—Mrs. Woolgar followed at my heels—“that a shelf of books fell on her?”
A shelf of books? Short of an earthquake, I couldn’t see how that could happen. But as we got to the ground floor, made a hundred-eighty-degree turn, and ran to the next flight of stairs, I heard a heavy thunk.
“Pauline!” I shouted.
We found her on the landing between Lady Fowling’s portrait and the overturned Chippendale side chair. She had flattened herself against the wall and held the duster in front of her as if warding off a vampire.
“He’s in there! I didn’t know,” she stammered, pointing a shaky finger at the open library door and waving the duster in my face. “I thought you might’ve had someone in . . . for a meeting and he . . .”
I grabbed hold of her hands—they were icy. Had someone broken in and attacked her? The library appeared empty, but best to be on one’s guard. “Mrs. Woolgar, shut the library door, put that chair in front of it, and ring for the police. Pauline, look at me. Are you all right? What did he do to you? Is he still in there? Did you fight back?”
The secretary went for the door, but Pauline cried out, “An ambulance—ring for an ambulance!”
“It’s all right, Pauline,” I said. “You’ve every right to defend yourself.”
“No, you don’t understand. I didn’
t do that to him—I found him like that.”
Mrs. Woolgar and I exchanged looks. “Stay with her,” I said. “I’ll go in.”
I edged my way over to the open door, my back to the wall. Silence from within the library. When close enough, I craned my neck round and peered in. On the far side of the table, the chairs were askew, and I could see the still form of a man on the floor. But I couldn’t see well enough, and so I crept forward until I could take in the full scene.
He lay on his side, his face turned toward the wall with arms stretched above his head as if he’d been reaching up for something and had collapsed. I could see a wide round red mark on the back of his head and blood matted into his thin hair. Did I know him?
“Hello?” My voice trembled. “Are you all right? Sir?”
I leaned over and gave him a light shake. His entire body shifted, as if frozen. I pulled my hand back, but then took a deep breath and felt his cheek—a second’s touch was enough to tell me he was stone cold. Only then did I roll the body over and see the scar that cut through his right eyebrow, giving him a perpetual look of scorn.
It was Trist.
5
Is he . . . ?” Mrs. Woolgar asked when I stumbled out of the library and closed the door.
“Dead. It’s Trist,” I said, my voice more air than sound. It was difficult to swallow.
“That writer?” Mrs. Woolgar put her hand to her chest.
“Then you know him?” Pauline asked.
The secretary frowned. “And he’s been there all night?”
“No—they left,” I said firmly. “I saw them all leave.” And yet here he was.
The three of us stood in a tight group on the landing as a creeping dread came over me. Could someone else be in the house with us? When I noticed Mrs. Woolgar glance down the stairs, I knew the same thought had occurred to her. My eyes darted up toward my flat and the attic above it.
I tugged on my jacket, coughed, and said, “We need to phone the police.” My voice was loud and reverberated in the space.
“An ambulance!” Pauline protested.
“That won’t help now,” I told her, using my mum voice and trying to keep my mind on autopilot. “It’s the police we need.” I took Pauline’s arm as if to reassure her—but I didn’t mind the extra support myself. “Mrs. Woolgar?”
“Yes, coming.”
We turned our backs on the library and the three of us made our way carefully down the stairs, Pauline still clinging to her duster. At the bottom, we paused.
“Why don’t we all go into my office?” I suggested. A part of me knew how ridiculous this was—surely we didn’t need to hide. Hadn’t Pauline and I walked all round the ground floor earlier? Hadn’t Mrs. Woolgar and I both been in our flats? It wasn’t possible for anyone to elude us.
Still, as we made our way, we paused at the secretary’s office—empty—and the kitchenette—also empty. I closed us in my office. Pauline crossed the room and stood by the fireplace. Mrs. Woolgar took up a post behind the wingback chair. I rang 999.
* * *
* * *
Once I’d reported the death, we had only to wait, but that wasn’t as easy as it might seem, because when I sat at my desk, it was as if I could feel the weight of Trist’s body above our heads in the library. I couldn’t bear it and immediately sprang up.
“I’ll go stand on the pavement—how will they find us otherwise?” It was an excuse that you could knock over with a feather, but they took no notice.
I flung open my office door to find an indignant tortoiseshell cat on the other side.
“Bunter!” I swept him up in my arms. “I’m sorry. Mrs. Woolgar—”
I turned, and she took him from me, saying, “Come here to me, boy.”
Right, at least the cat was safe. I went outdoors. The sun shone, but the chilly air cut through my suit jacket, and I shivered. I felt odd and empty and wrapped my arms round myself, wishing for a cup of tea and then feeling guilty for wanting it.
The terrace had seen nothing like this before. When two police cars with their checkerboard blue-and-yellow side panels pulled up in front of Middlebank, and four uniformed officers—two men, two women—emerged, heads popped out of doors up and down the road. I led the police inside and up the stairs, talking over my shoulder along the way.
“I’m Hayley Burke, curator here at The First Edition Society. I know the man who died—he was part of a writers group that meets here on Wednesday evenings. But he left last evening when they finished—I saw all of them leave.” We arrived at the library door, and I kept talking. “I don’t know how he got back in—it’s all quite confusing and—”
“Thank you, ma’am.” A female police constable stopped me with a light touch on my shoulder. She looked about Dinah’s age, and it made me feel so old. “Would you wait downstairs, please? Other officers will be on their way.”
Behind her, in the library, the uniforms bent over the body while one spoke into a radio attached to her shoulder. I followed orders—gentle though they were—and went back to my office. Pauline and Mrs. Woolgar remained in place and Bunter had hopped up to the mantel, where he impersonated a ceramic cat figurine.
“We’re to wait,” I explained.
And we did—another fifteen minutes of silence that felt like hours until the front-door buzzer went off and we all jumped. I hurried out and let in several more people wearing plain clothes. “Hello,” I said, not sure of which one to address, “I’m Hayley Burke, curator here at The First Edition Society. I—we—found the body. Upstairs—the other officers are there. I know the man, and I don’t understand how he could’ve—”
“SOCO,” a man replied, holding out his identification. “Scene-of-crime officers, ma’am. And the ME—medical examiner,” he added, nodding to a woman as they all suited up in paper coveralls and slipped on paper booties over their shoes. “We’ll take it from here, thanks.”
They spread out, two going back toward the kitchenette, another looking in Mrs. Woolgar’s office, several heading upstairs.
“Don’t you want to know—”
“Police,” a voice behind me said.
I turned back to the front door to find two more men. One looked about fifty, with mostly gray hair and a thick, bushy mustache like a push broom. His raised eyebrows seemed to question everything. The other, younger, had dark skin and shiny black hair—he had a notebook and pencil in hand. They both wore dark suits—I suppose they could be mistaken for door-to-door missionaries, if it weren’t for the fact that there was a dead body upstairs.
The older man introduced himself as he held out a warrant card. I dutifully leaned in to read what I could. Detective Sergeant Ronald Hopgood.
“. . . and this is Detective Constable Kenny Pye,” he continued. “I see the uniforms arrived and SOCO. And you are?”
“I’m Hayley Burke—I’m curator here. I knew the deceased, but I don’t understand how he came to be in the library.” I rushed through my explanation, afraid he, too, would cut me off. “I saw him only last evening, but he and the rest of the group had left by half-past ten.”
“And you found the body this morning?”
For a moment I couldn’t go on, too overcome with emotion that at last someone was listening to me. I nodded and inhaled deeply. “I don’t know how he died, and I don’t know how he could’ve come back in. We’ve a security system, and the doors were locked—it really doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“And you are curator of . . . ?” Hopgood asked.
“Boss.” DC Pye tapped his pencil against the brass plate beside the door, directing the sergeant’s gaze to read The First Edition Society.
“We specialize in the Golden Age of Mystery authors,” I added.
Hopgood’s brows rose. “And where did you say the deceased was found?”
“In the library,” I replied.
* * *
* * *
Mrs. Woolgar and Pauline had their heads stuck out the door of my office, and so I managed quick introductions before DS Hopgood and DC Pye went to the library. I started up after them, but the sergeant held up and suggested I wait on the ground floor with “the others.” And so, I returned to my office. Pauline had gone back to the fireplace and was absentmindedly dusting the screen when I walked in.
“We’re to wait,” I explained, dropping into my desk chair.
“Again,” Mrs. Woolgar added. She took the wingback.
“Yes—but I’m sure the detective sergeant will want to talk with us. Why don’t you sit down, Pauline?”
She sank into a corner chair and twirled the lambswool duster in her own face.
“I’m sorry—are you meant to be somewhere else by now?” I asked.
Pauline shook her head. “This is my only house today—the other three each have two cleanings. Thursdays are popular—getting ready for the weekend, you know. And I don’t have a shift at the pub until tomorrow.”
“We’ll need to inform the board members,” Mrs. Woolgar said.
“No!” Panic rose in me and caught in my throat. “That is, I mean, perhaps we should wait until the police have finished here. What could we tell the board members now?”
“That a dead man was found in the library—a man who was part of the writers group you invited to meet here at Middlebank.”
True, all of it—although I didn’t care for her accusatory tone. “Yes, Mrs. Woolgar—those are the facts, but other than that, we know nothing, and I feel it would be better to have answers to their inevitable questions. How did Trist get back into the house? Why was he here? He may’ve had an accident, perhaps he was ill, and fainted and hit his head in a fall.”
The Bodies in the Library Page 5
