The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  I laughed in relief. What did I think—that a murdered writer would be found in the same spot each morning? That the ghost of Lady Fowling would be waiting for me to begin my instruction in the ways of detecting?

  * * *

  * * *

  A good, hot shower in my own flat brought me to my senses, and I arrived back on the ground floor in time to make myself a cup of tea before the door buzzed. I let the locksmith in.

  Mrs. Woolgar surfaced from below to oversee the work. This took most of the morning, as it involved replacement locks for both the front and back doors as well as our flats—can’t be too careful—and ended with each of us trying out the new keys to ensure everything was in working order. I took a set for Pauline, and the secretary said she would lock the other spare key in her desk as usual.

  Spare key in her desk?

  “I didn’t realize you had a spare key.” I had waited until the door closed on the locksmith before speaking. “Have you always kept it there?”

  “Two spare sets, Ms. Burke—to the outside doors only,” Mrs. Woolgar replied. “It is my policy to be prepared. And both were there yesterday morning when I checked. I explained that to the police.”

  But not to me—not until I asked.

  After we sorted out programming a new code for the door, I tugged at my jacket and said, “I’m going to ring the board members now, Mrs. Woolgar. To let them know what has happened. I’ll tell them the police are looking into Trist’s death and there is no cause for concern.”

  “I daresay they may have got wind of it by now.”

  That was as good as a confession to me.

  “Whatever they’ve heard, I need to assure them that there is nothing to worry about.”

  We retreated to our offices. First, I checked my e-mail, but there was nothing from Bath College or Val Moffatt. Perhaps no news was the best I could hope for on that front. I pulled out my list of board members, studied the five names, and put a small tick by Adele’s before dialing the first number.

  “Hello, Mrs. Arbuthnot? It’s Hayley Burke.”

  “I’ve been expecting you to ring, dear.” Jane Arbuthnot had a rather Eeyore-like tone of voice, full of doom and gloom, now topped with the heavy implication that she’d been waiting far too long for my call.

  “Yes, well . . .” I breezed through my explanation of recent events, ending with a cheery, “And although it was a dreadful thing to happen, I want to assure you that everything is under control, and that we will carry on here at the Society while the police do their job.”

  “I suppose it’s all one can expect from inviting a group of total strangers into Middlebank. I don’t know what Georgiana would say.”

  “Lady Fowling herself wrote fan fiction, as I’m sure you know. I imagine she would’ve welcomed the group with open arms.”

  “Georgiana’s little stories did not result in murder.”

  They did on the page—but was now the time to debate this?

  Next up, Maureen Frost—the daughter of a friend of Lady Fowling’s. The friend had died ages ago, and Ms. Frost herself must be near seventy.

  “And so, Ms. Frost, I didn’t want you to worry,” I said after telling her what I was sure she already knew.

  “I certainly hope this will put a stop to any other outrageous ideas,” was her reply. “The Society is just fine as it is.”

  I could hear Mrs. Woolgar’s influence in the words of both Mrs. Arbuthnot and Ms. Frost—but even if they were in the secretary’s pocket, I still held a majority of support on the board with Adele and the last two names on my list.

  “Hello, this is Hayley Burke at the Society,” I said when my last phone call was answered. “Is this Mrs. Moon or Mrs. Moon?”

  My attempt at a bit of lighthearted humor—Mrs. Sylvia Moon and Mrs. Audrey Moon—both dear friends of Lady Fowling—had married brothers. They had known each other for so long that, after their husbands died, Audrey had moved into Sylvia’s town house, which they had refurbished so that the ladies’ living quarters were on the ground floor and the first floor was let to a couple of architects.

  “It’s Hayley on the phone, Sylvia,” Mrs. Audrey Moon called out. “Oh dear, Hayley, how awful for you that poor man dying like he did—practically under your nose.”

  “That’s why I’m ringing—to let you know that the police have it all in hand. I didn’t want you to worry, as I know you’ll soon be off on your cruise.” Time to change direction. “Have you started packing?” I asked brightly.

  “Oh my, we’ve been packed for weeks—I’ve completely forgotten what I’ve put in my cases. Sylvia? Did you want to speak with Hayley?”

  I heard a faint voice in the background. “Tell her bon voyage! Oh, wait, she’s supposed to say that to us, isn’t she?”

  “Bon voyage!” I called.

  “Hayley, dear,” Mrs. Audrey Moon added with a note of high spirits in her voice, “while we’re away—you won’t get up to any more mischief, will you?”

  8

  That went quite well,” I said to Bunter after I’d finished my calls to the board. “All things considered. My plan for the literary salons—they could never think that ‘mischief,’ could they? And it isn’t as if I’ll need the board’s approval for the idea. I have powers as curator, and I can do these things.” Bunter yawned.

  The front-door buzzer went off, and I heard Mrs. Woolgar answer. After a brief exchange, she brought Amanda to my door and left without a word.

  “Hi, Hayley.” Amanda twisted the belt of her shapeless jacket round one finger. “I was hoping you had a minute.”

  “Yes, of course.” I gestured to the wingback. “Bunter—could you . . .”

  The cat hopped off and strolled over to the fireplace rug. Amanda took the vacated chair, perched on the edge of the seat, and looked at the floor. “I don’t know what we’re going to do without him.”

  “You mean about meeting here next Wednesday? I don’t know yet if we can carry on the way we have.”

  “No, not that. Well, in a way, I did come about the group. It occurred to me that you don’t know us well, and you may not be aware that some of us have . . . history with each other.”

  I had known next to nothing about the group before I had let them in the door—my mistake.

  “Have you been meeting long?”

  “About six months. Trist had posted a notice online about forming the group, so you’d think we’d’ve all been strangers coming together that way, but it wasn’t the case. Turns out Trist and Harry had been previously . . . involved.”

  “Involved?”

  “It’s long over—two, three years ago, I think—and they had become friends, I suppose. But, I believe Harry still harbored a great deal of hurt. And you saw how Trist could be with people. Still, that’s no excuse for—” A brief pause and then she hurried on. “It isn’t that I suspect Harry of anything, it’s only that the police should have every detail in an enquiry, but I’m not entirely sure she mentioned this to them. And so I thought you could let them know.”

  “But why don’t you tell the police?”

  “How would that look—a fellow writer grassing her up? And really, it would be better coming from a third party. I can’t tell you the number of times Tommy and Tuppence were the ones to take evidence to police. Not that this is evidence, of course.”

  “And won’t police want to know how this ‘third party’ got hold of the information?”

  Amanda wrinkled her nose as she considered the problem. “Well, you’ve made friends with us in the group”—Untrue—“and so, of course you’d know a bit about our personal lives.” Also untrue. “And maybe you could assume that the police are already aware of their past, and so you could mention it casually. Because, perhaps they do know. They would’ve searched Trist’s flat and found his journal and read it.”

  “Would Trist
have kept notes on a relationship from three years ago?”

  “He’s a writer—we keep notes on everything.” Amanda popped up and flipped her blond braid over her shoulder. “Sorry, Hayley—I’ve got to dash.”

  She scooted out the door, leaving me trying to imagine a man pouring out his heart about a former relationship. Would he put his thoughts in a leather-bound diary with a tiny heart-shaped lock? No, I couldn’t quite see it.

  I sat back in my chair and considered the assignment Amanda had dropped in my lap. I didn’t fancy the role of clearinghouse in this enquiry, but eventually, I dug out DS Hopgood’s card and reached for my phone. Once again the buzzer went off, and Mrs. Woolgar answered. This time, she came to my door alone.

  “It’s two more of them.”

  I found Peter and Mariella on the doorstep—and the baby, wearing a blue Bath Rugby jersey, in his pushchair.

  “I’ve been by the station and had my fingerprints taken,” Mariella said in a pained voice. “The detective sergeant was quite short with me when I asked how the enquiry was going and if they’d found any untoward fibers on the rug in the library.” She accompanied her complaint with jiggling the handle of the pushchair so that it bobbed up and down.

  “I had been in just before Mariella and asked if the ME had finished the autopsy yet and received the same sort of response,” Peter said. “We’ve a right to ask, but instead of answering, the sergeant only asked us more questions, and then referred us to you. Why?”

  Because he’s appointed me your minder, that’s why.

  I didn’t invite them in. “I’m sorry, but no one’s told me anything. I’d say we should let the police do their job, don’t you think?”

  “Early days yet, I suppose,” Peter said.

  “Did you two know Trist?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “Is that how you joined the group?”

  They exchanged looks. Then Mariella said, “Trist fancied himself a book doctor. I had contacted him a couple of years ago about the format for my version of Murder in Mesopotamia.”

  At this comment, Peter sighed and dug his hands in his pockets. Mariella continued. “My Hercule Poirot’s superpower is that he sees a suspect’s thoughts as the person is speaking. The thoughts appear in a dialogue balloon like you see in old comics.” She waved her arms in the air above our heads. “All the suspects’ balloons are in green, except for the murderer—he sees that one in red. I’m considering publishing it as a graphic novel.”

  With a self-satisfied smile, she dropped her arms.

  “That’s quite . . . clever,” I replied. “But then, wouldn’t he—and the reader—know who the murderer was immediately and wouldn’t that bring the end of the book rather too soon?”

  Mariella’s smile vanished. “I’m sorting out the problems—despite Trist’s scathing comments.”

  “He didn’t care for innovation,” Peter said. “I’m rewriting The Murder of Roger Ackroyd and replacing all the characters with present-day celebrities. He told me I was mad as a box of frogs. And this from a man who wrote about zombies.”

  “But if he was in charge of the group and you didn’t like his feedback, why did you stay in?” I asked.

  Mariella shrugged. “He could come up with the occasional sharp insight into character.”

  “He understood pacing quite well,” Peter added.

  “And so, really,” I continued, trying to get this straight, “you were all friends.”

  Peter snorted. “Yeah, right, best mates. Well, see you on Wednesday.”

  “What? No—that is, perhaps. I’m not sure. You’ll hear from me about that.”

  * * *

  * * *

  After I offered the empty promise—to pass along anything I heard from the police—they left and I headed back to my office, pausing in Mrs. Woolgar’s doorway.

  “I don’t know how they think I could know anything,” I said.

  “Perhaps they believe you’ve mounted your own enquiry,” she replied.

  When I was back sitting at my desk, I thought about what she had said and only then decided she’d meant it as an insult—suspecting, quite correctly, that I knew nothing about mysteries, murders, and detecting. I harrumphed loud enough to wake Bunter from his nap.

  “Perhaps I should carry out my own investigation—that would show her,” I whispered to him, knowing that I would do nothing of the kind.

  When the buzzer sounded once more, I leapt to my feet and hurried to the door, calling, “I’ll take care of it, Mrs. Woolgar.”

  I was not surprised to find Harry on the doorstep, laptop clutched to her chest.

  “I’ve had my fingerprints taken,” she stated.

  “You took your computer along?”

  She looked down at it. “I thought they might want to see my work in progress. Sort of prime the pump of their enquiry.”

  I sighed. “Come in, Harry.” I led her to my office and the chairs by the fireplace. Bunter remained on the rug, and we were a threesome.

  “Did they tell you anything?” I asked.

  “I didn’t see them—both DS Hopgood and DC Pye were otherwise engaged.”

  Or hiding. “Harry, did you know any of the other writers before you joined the group?”

  It was an innocent-sounding question—at least I hoped that’s how it came across. Harry didn’t speak for a moment, but her eyes grew wide and filled with tears that threatened to overflow their banks.

  “Trist and I . . . for about a year . . .” Her voice drifted off, weak and watery. “But it was ages ago. I ended it—I didn’t feel it was a healthy relationship for me.” She sniffed, blinked rapidly, and, miraculously, no tears fell.

  “Still, his death must’ve come as quite a shock. You did tell the police about knowing him, didn’t you?”

  Harry cocked her head, as if listening to an echo of the question. After a moment, she said, “No, I didn’t. There was no reason, really—it was over so long ago. And we remained friends, and so it was no bother to either of us to be in the group together.”

  “Isn’t it the sort of thing police would prefer to know than not know? Even if it has no bearing on the enquiry?”

  Harry stared at the cold fireplace for several seconds and then jumped up.

  “Right, I’ll go straight back to the station and tell them the entire story.”

  “And won’t you feel better for it?” I asked, following her out.

  Pausing at the open front door, Harry became wistful. “He had a keen ear for dialogue, did Trist—although we tried to joke with him that his Miss Marple could be switched out for Miss Silver and no one would ever know it.”

  I certainly wouldn’t have—who was Miss Silver?

  As I returned to my office, I recalled Harry and Trist’s squabble on the last night of the group—something Trist had said edged too close to criticism for her. That must’ve been an old issue for them. But I hadn’t long to think about it—I’d been back at my desk two minutes when the front door buzzed. For one second, I considered tearing it off the wall, but instead, I hurried out, noticing Mrs. Woolgar hadn’t moved an inch from her desk, and flung open the door to Detective Sergeant Hopgood.

  “Hello, good morning, Sergeant.” I stepped aside to let him in.

  “The end of a morning, Ms. Burke, which I have spent fielding questions from those writers.”

  I believe that avoiding those writers would be more correct, but it wasn’t for me to say.

  “Please come through.”

  As we passed her door, Mrs. Woolgar looked up and Hopgood nodded, and then stepped out of Bunter’s way as the cat trotted up the stairs. He had several hiding places in Middlebank, and at that moment, I longed to follow him to one.

  “I don’t suppose you saw Harry Tanner outside?” I asked.

  Hopgood stood in the doorway to my office, his eyes darting ro
und as if expecting an ambush. “Ms. Tanner—was she here?”

  “She dropped in. I believe she has something else to add to what she told you yesterday. We were all under a great deal of stress,” I explained, not really sure why I felt the need to excuse Harry. “And that can make it difficult to remember everything one should say. Haven’t you found that the case? Please, sit down, Sergeant. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Hopgood settled in one of the fireplace chairs and I in the other. He pulled a small notebook and pencil out of his breast pocket. “Ms. Burke, who has access to your keys and the security code for your alarm system?”

  I felt sure we’d been over this the day before. “No one—apart from me and Mrs. Woolgar. I don’t think even the solicitor has a key. Oh, Pauline, our cleaner, has a key and the code.”

  “Ah, Ms. Lunn.”

  “But she’s worked here since just after Lady Fowling died three years ago. She’s completely trustworthy. Plus, I’m sure she knows the books in the library are not all that valuable. Did you ask her about the key yesterday?”

  “And will continue to do so—police work is nothing if not repetitive. You can be sure Mrs. Woolgar will get the same question again before I leave.” His mustache twitched. “Does Ms. Lunn have keys to your living quarters?”

  “No, there didn’t seem to be a need, as we were always here. We leave our flats unlocked for her on Thursdays. It’s different getting her in the front door—I’m often out early in the morning, and Mrs. Woolgar hasn’t come up from her flat yet when Pauline arrives.”

  “As you are in the same house, why do your flats have their own locks and keys?”

  “Our flats are our homes,” I explained, “and the rest of Middlebank is The First Edition Society. We didn’t want to confuse Society members—or potential members—who come here to see the library and learn about Lady Fowling, as to which part of the house they had access to.”

  “And do you have many of these visitors?”

  Just a routine question, I told myself, but still my face burned. “Not at present, but we have great plans.”