The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  I hurried—propelled by an image of the secretary locked up in a cell, her hands gripping the bars as tightly as she had gripped her umbrella. No, surely not. Of course, as it was well after five o’clock, if they had let her go and she’d returned to Middlebank, she’d be in her flat. Would I dare knock on the door and ask her what the hell was going on? I doubted it.

  But I needn’t dare, because Mrs. Woolgar’s office light was on and her door open. When I looked in, I saw that she sat bolt upright in her chair staring at a dark computer screen. I knocked lightly and broke her trance. She rose and smoothed the front of her dress.

  “Ms. Burke, I owe you an explanation.”

  She didn’t look good—her face was drained, and I could see her hands shaking.

  “Shall I pop the kettle on first?”

  I received a nod of agreement. The effort seemed to exhaust her, and she sank back into her chair. I retreated to the kitchenette, trying to keep my mind a blank as I dropped a bag of her Assam Superb in one mug and a bag of everyday builder’s tea in another, and then waited for the kettle to boil. A few minutes later, I returned to her office, set her mug down, and perched on the edge of a chair with my tea in hand.

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. She shifted the mug a few inches to the right and then brought it to her mouth and paused as steam, curling like ribbons, drifted up and away. She took a sip, set it down, and put her hands in her lap.

  “I knew who he was, you see—Trist Cummins. I knew of him before your group came here to Middlebank.”

  As that statement sank in, I searched for a reply or question or anything to cover my shock while Mrs. Woolgar calmly took another sip of tea and said, “Five years ago, I watched him every day during his trial. He stood in the dock accused of a violent attack against an elderly woman, a person who had no means to defend herself.”

  “He attacked you?”

  “Not me,” Mrs. Woolgar said with heat, and then regained her composure. “It happened to a friend. She was knocked down in her own home, and while she lay there injured, he helped himself to anything he could grab—silver, jewelry, a gold snuffbox that had belonged to her grandfather. Greedy, insolent, violent—”

  “He went to prison for it?”

  Mrs. Woolgar raised an eyebrow. “He was found not guilty on insufficient evidence—they questioned her ability to identify him. That’s what a barrister with no morals can do for you.”

  “How dreadful for your friend.” Now I counted three of us who had kept something back from the police—Harry’s unmentioned relationship with Trist, my own encounter with him, and now Mrs. Woolgar’s memory. “I can see how you could’ve forgotten to tell DS Hopgood last week. But I’m sure he understood, and was grateful that you rang him as soon as you remembered.”

  “It was the sergeant who contacted me. It was brought to his attention that there had been an incident outside the court the day that man was released. I was standing with my friend, and we watched him go by.”

  “And he attacked again?”

  “No—I hit him with my handbag.”

  I sputtered into my tea, but Mrs. Woolgar took no notice and continued.

  “He actually tried to bring charges against me, but Lady Fowling rang Mr. Rennie, and he took care of things. And so, you can understand how shocked I was when I saw him here that first time. Not that he took any notice of me—I spent the entire evening in the library with the group, and he acted as if I were a stranger. Too full of himself. I’m sorry, Ms. Burke. I realize I should’ve mentioned it to you from the moment I knew, but I never thought they would last this long . . .” She looked into her tea.

  And that’s the real reason you take yourself off the premises each Wednesday evening. I had thought she didn’t like my idea of a fan-fiction writers group meeting at Middlebank, but really, it was because she had feared for her safety. Another thought occurred to me—at the end of a writers group evening and with impeccable timing, Mrs. Woolgar appeared. I had thought she might’ve been spying, waiting for the group—or me—to misbehave, but now I realized she had kept an eye on Middlebank in case there had been an incident involving Trist.

  “The writers describe Trist as argumentative,” I said, “but no one has mentioned to me that he was violent. I don’t want you to think you did anything amiss.”

  But, if only she had said something, I would’ve had more reason to ask the group to move elsewhere, and we could’ve avoided this entire predicament. There would be no body in the library, no murder at Middlebank. Although, it would be no use for me to mention that now.

  “And how is your friend?”

  “She died a year later, and I can say unequivocally that man’s actions precipitated her decline.” Mrs. Woolgar took up her tea. “But regardless of his sordid history, I can assure you as I assured Detective Sergeant Hopgood, I had nothing to do with Trist Cummins’s death.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Yet now that thought had lodged in my brain.

  “Well, it has been an exhausting day, and if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll retire.”

  “Just one more thing, Mrs. Woolgar”—this would either be an easy sell or put her over the edge—“I need to tell you that the board will be here tomorrow afternoon for a special meeting.” I gave her a clear and concise description of the event and the approval necessary to get our literary salons off the ground.

  The secretary sniffed. “It could be seen as a bad time to embark on such a venture. We wouldn’t want to call even more negative attention to Lady Fowling’s memory.”

  I had to admire the woman’s resilience—finished with her confession, she’d regained control of not only herself but also Middlebank and her precious ladyship’s memory.

  “I believe the literary salons will bring The First Edition Society back into people’s minds in a good way,” I insisted. “The way it was when Lady Fowling was alive and people actually came to view the collection. But you knew her, Mrs. Woolgar—tell me what you think. Would her ladyship have approved?”

  Why hadn’t it occurred to me before to put her on the spot like this? A bit of color returned to the secretary’s face, and after a moment, she gave a single nod.

  “I must admit her ladyship did have a bit of the risk taker about her.”

  * * *

  * * *

  On my way upstairs, I paused at Lady Fowling’s portrait. “They will like it, won’t they?” I asked. “You do think it’s a good idea?”

  I told myself I saw approval in that enigmatic gaze of hers. I gave her a nod of thanks and continued to my flat.

  * * *

  * * *

  Thank God the silver didn’t need polishing again. I spent half of Tuesday perfecting the one-paragraph letter of approval the board members would sign. We agree to cosponsor the events with Bath College and look forward to the series of literary salons. We know that in committing to this partnership, we will be fulfilling our founder’s wish to . . .

  Several cups of tea and a few shortbread fingers later, I printed out the final version and went up to my flat with two hours to spare—plenty of time to worry. Then I remembered I still hadn’t set out the silver tea service. I dashed off, stopping in the library to switch on the lamps, giving the room a warm, inviting glow. I moved the sherry decanter and glasses off the drinks trolley and onto the large table.

  Downstairs in the kitchenette, I stood on tiptoe to reach the teapot, cream pitcher, and sugar bowl. I had just grabbed a large oval platter when the buzzer sounded, and so I tucked it under my arm, went out, and opened the front door to Val Moffatt in a suit and no beard.

  He had shaved. And now it was quite evident he had cheekbones. And a chin—who knew he had a chin?

  “I thought I’d try to look my best,” he said sheepishly.

  Only then did I realize I’d been staring.

  “Yes. Of course—tha
t is, I mean . . .” My hand stretched out to smooth the lapel of his dark blue suit, but common sense saved me, and instead I made a decisive grab for the two bakery boxes he held. “They can’t resist a well-laid tea.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Four board members in the flesh and one on a video conference call—Adele’s massive red locks filled the screen. The Moons were delighted with her electronic presence and, every once in a while, leaned over the table to wave at the computer, and then giggled when Adele waved back.

  As expected, two board members dug their heels in. Mrs. Arbuthnot couldn’t for the life of her see what good literary salons would do. And the very mention of someone dressing up as a fictional detective riled Ms. Frost, who said it sounded more panto than literature.

  “Hang on, Maureen,” Adele said with an exaggerated offhand air, “have you forgotten the years Georgiana held the Middlebank fancy dress ball? I seem to recall hearing that you once came as Rebecca de Winter and gave everyone an exceptionally dramatic reading from the book.”

  Maureen Frost’s face flushed scarlet, actually a rather becoming contrast to her steel-gray pageboy. “Adele, I don’t think it’s necessary to dredge up old tales.”

  “I’m only pointing out that you all know, deep in your hearts, that Georgiana would love this idea. And regardless of what’s happened—or perhaps because of it—we need to seize the opportunity that Hayley and Val have dropped in our laps.”

  Val leaned forward and smiled at Maureen, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. “I’m sorry I missed you as Rebecca de Winter. You know, in my courses, we occasionally do readings of mystery and suspense classics—it really brings them to life for the students. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take part?”

  The deep shade of red on her face faded to a cherry-blossom pink. Maureen Frost smiled back at him. “Oh well, an educational setting makes all the difference, doesn’t it? Have I mentioned I was quite active in the local theater for many years?”

  * * *

  * * *

  We had four signatures—I would keep the letter until Adele had a chance to sign, and then we would present it to Bath College. The board members had departed happy, full of sweet and savory delicacies, tea, and, of course, sherry. Now Val and I were left alone, sitting across the library table from each other. We idly discussed the salons as we worked on the remaining treats. I took a bite-sized flaky pinwheel pastry while eyeing two small meringues filled with lemon curd.

  “You chose well,” I said, “although I doubt they would’ve noticed if we’d served them packets of custard cream biscuits, so charmed were they by your very presence.”

  Val acknowledged this with a dismissive nod. “Yes, I’m a big hit with women over seventy.”

  I laughed at him. “You shortchange yourself.”

  We fell silent. I ran my finger along the rim of the silver tray, and as I did so, Val reached his hand out, drawing nearer and nearer until it hovered only an inch away from mine. He hesitated, and then picked up the last little flaky bite.

  A scrabbling sound drew our attention away—Bunter had a paw in the coal bucket, toying with his collection of catnip mice. I checked the time.

  “Gone seven,” I said with incredulity. “I don’t know how that happened.”

  “Right, I’d best be on my way,” Val said.

  “No, don’t—that is, I mean . . . look, would you like to stay to dinner? I could cook. In my flat.”

  “Oh well, I wouldn’t want to put you out.” It was a weak protest.

  “No trouble—you can save your Waitrose ready meal for another evening.” My mind frantically took stock of the cupboards and fridge in my flat. What did I have to offer apart from fish fingers?

  “I could nip out to the shops for a bottle of wine,” he offered.

  “No need—I’ve wine and all.” I nodded to the table. “We’d better clear these things away first.”

  I took the silver tray with cups and saucers, and Val the tea service and platter. At the top of the landing, as we were about to descend, I murmured, “Well done, Lady Fowling.”

  Val cut his eyes at the portrait and then at me, but didn’t comment.

  In the kitchenette, we fell into washing and drying with ease while we talked murder.

  “Poirot sometimes had a personal reporter, you see,” Val said. “Hastings. It was a handy way to see the Belgian as others saw him.”

  “Should I read all the Marples first or mix the two detectives in?”

  Val leaned against the sink with the tea towel thrown over a shoulder. “If you want to keep with Jane Marple, you could go back to the first one—The Murder at the Vicarage.”

  “The group’s fan fiction consists of two Poirots, two Marples, and a Tommy and Tuppence. Perhaps I could ask them their favorites.”

  “You’re letting them back in?” Val asked.

  “Yes, at least for this week.”

  “I’ll come round tomorrow evening, if that’s all right,” he said. “So you have some company.”

  “Will you?” Perhaps one more week of the writers wouldn’t be so bad after all. “Thanks. You see, I want to get another look at each of them—examine their reactions to Trist’s murder. Harry’s quite affected. Why does Peter have such a combative attitude? Mariella—I don’t really have a read on her yet.”

  “You aren’t letting Miss Marple go to your head, are you?” he asked.

  I ignored the comment. “Amanda has been appointed—or appointed herself—spokesperson for the group. She seems a bit jumpy.”

  Val nodded. “I can see what you mean there. At class yesterday evening, she was either unresponsive or interrupting. Grief works on us in different ways.”

  That reminded me of his wife. Did I have the nerve to ask him more?

  Our eyes met, and I wondered if he could read my mind.

  Glancing out the door that led to the back garden, he asked, “It happened out there? The Chronicle didn’t give details, apart from his name. Adele told me a bit more.”

  So, he wanted to change the subject. I had done my best to avoid the news, which had reported the death briefly as “unexplained.” I was caught between relief that the media ignored us and depression because The First Edition Society hadn’t warranted more attention.

  “The police say he hit his head on a post along Gravel Walk and someone carried him in here and up to the library.” I leaned over the counter toward the window, peering out into the darkness. “Our library—there must be a reason for that.”

  Val put a hand on my arm, rubbing it lightly with his thumb. “And you’re sure you feel safe here?”

  I turned to look up at him and found myself closer than I’d realized. I didn’t move except, perhaps, a wee bit closer.

  The front-door buzzer went off, and we both froze, as if we expected a raid. He dropped his hand and I ran out to answer, but paused, a heaviness in my heart. Please don’t let it be DS Hopgood or one of the writers to spoil our evening.

  I pulled open the door and stared speechless at the person in front of me, his sandy-colored hair curling around his forehead and a boyish grin on his face.

  “You!” I said to Wyn.

  He pointed to himself. “Me.”

  13

  I’d lost all sense of proper behavior, and for a moment, could only stare at Wyn, still standing on the doorstep.

  “How did you . . . You never said you would . . .” Reality struck. “Come in.”

  He stepped in, and I was in his arms. It was the oddest sensation, almost unfamiliar. Of course it had been weeks and weeks since we’d seen each other and—

  He kissed me long and hard, and I didn’t mind that. Yes, now I knew where I was. My boyfriend had come to see me—to comfort me in this unstable, disconcerting time when a murder had taken place and I was desperately holding on to a job a
nd . . .

  I heard a throat being cleared.

  I pulled myself away from Wyn, who pulled me back playfully, keeping one arm round my waist. Val had come out of the kitchenette, but stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Oh . . . um—” I couldn’t catch my breath or my thoughts. “This is Wyn. Wyn, this is Val Moffatt—we’re putting together the literary salons. I told you about them.”

  As the two men shook hands, I took a step away, crossing my arms tightly and looking at the floor.

  Val circled round us, heading for the door. “Well-I’ll-be-on-my-way-Hayley-I’ll-let-you-know-if-there-are-any-other-concerns-from-the-college-Wyn-it-was-good-to-meet-you-Evening.” And with that one run-on sentence, he vanished, and I could only stare at the closed door.

  “My God, Hayley, look at this place.” Wyn studied the ceiling and ran his hand over the mahogany hall stand. “Do I get a tour?”

  “Yes, yes, of course you do,” I gushed, grabbed his hand, and dragged him off, flinging my arm around as I described the layout. “Mrs. Woolgar’s office is here, in the back is the kitchenette, and this is my office. Come in.”

  Wyn admired my desk, the paneling, and then he strolled over to the mantel, where Bunter had taken up his post as feline ceramic figurine. When the cat yawned, Wyn jumped back.

  “Oh my God, it’s real.”

  I laughed. “Of course he’s real. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a moggy.”

  He scooted closer to me. “I don’t like the way they look at me.”

  “Silly,” I said. “Come on—I’ll introduce you to Lady Fowling.”

  I pulled him up the stairs, and on the landing, presented our founder’s portrait. But Wyn barely glanced at her when he saw the library door standing open.

  “Is that where it happened?” he whispered, creeping up and looking in. I followed and he turned on me suddenly. “Fascinating.”

  “Horrible,” I corrected him.