The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  She swiped her cheek. “I know what you’re asking. He never hit me. And although he could be sharp with his criticism, it’s the way he was with everyone, not only me.” She shrugged. “Sometimes you just have to accept a person for who he is, and make sure you’re safe in yourself. You know what I mean?”

  * * *

  * * *

  I congratulated myself on carrying out a successful interview. I’d learned more about each writer, and now I could begin to form a better picture of them and weigh the possibility of guilt. Still, where were those clues, the kind Jane Marple found—the fingernail clippings, the dress? I needed something concrete. Also, I needed to talk with Pauline.

  But a man was pulling pints for the lunch crowd at the Minerva when I walked in. Was this her brother, the owner? I didn’t think she’d ever mentioned his name.

  Snaking between and around customers, I made my way to the bar and said, “Hello, I’m Hayley Burke, a friend of Pauline’s. Is she working today?”

  The fellow set an overflowing pint of bitter on the beer mat as he said, “No, she’s scrubbing floors somewhere.”

  I had an instant and unpleasant reaction to his disparaging comment about Pauline’s cleaning business, but I told myself that Miss Marple would remain calm and nonjudgmental.

  “Are you her brother?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” He paused for a moment to take a good look at me. I could just see a resemblance to his sister, although his hair wasn’t as blond, and his face not quite as open and friendly.

  “That’s right, I remember—you’re Hayley. She’s not on until this evening. Do you have her mobile?”

  “Yes, thanks. But it’s not important—I’ll catch her up later.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  Be a customer, Hayley, ingratiate yourself with the barman. “Yes, I’ll have a packet of crisps, please—lightly salted. And an orange squash.”

  “Soda water or plain?”

  “Soda water, please.”

  I watched as he added the fizz to my drink, aware that this was a bad time to strike up a conversation. So I moved to stand near the door, and set my glass on a narrow window ledge while I tore open my crisps and observed the crowd as any competent detective should. I spied a good-looking burger on the far table and wished I’d ordered one.

  There was no returning to the bar when I finished—I’d never make it through the wall of bodies—so I left my glass on the ledge and walked out of the pub as my phone rang.

  “Dinah, sweetie, how lovely to hear from you.”

  “Well, Mum, I thought I’d better check up on you and your murder enquiry. Is everything all right? Have the police caught the perp?”

  Perp? Did my daughter spend her free time watching American television programs?

  “No, sweetie, but I have no doubt they will. And how are you?”

  “Mum, I’ve found a job.”

  “Dinah! That’s fantastic.”

  “It’s at the Sheffield Manor Lodge—working in the 1940s cottages.”

  “Well done, you.”

  “It doesn’t actually pay anything—it’s more volunteer work, plus lunch. And it’s only one Sunday a month—but still, it fits with my course work in the history of everyday living. Don’t you think?”

  “And the contacts you’ll make,” said the mum inside me, always looking for the silver lining.

  “Mum, did you keep that diorama I did when I was a little girl—the one we made in the shoe box?”

  She had been eight years old, and we’d spent every evening for a week with nail scissors and paper, colored markers, and the wooden sticks left over from iced lollies as we built the model of a house—kitchen, sitting room, bath, and two bedrooms, replete with figures of mum, dad, and a little girl.

  “Of course I did—it’s in the attic.” As I stood on Northumberland Place outside the Minerva, my mind wandered back in time to fond memories of Dinah as a little girl. “Do you remember you soaked cotton balls in cold tea to make Dougal the cat?”

  “And we put me asleep in my bed and you in the kitchen, and we almost forgot to make the dad figure.”

  Roger never saw the diorama—he’d traveled a good bit for work at the time. At least, that was what he’d said, although revisionist history might tell a different tale. When Dinah and I had left Swindon for Bath, and I’d packed up the diorama, it was all I could do not to rip the father figure out of his easy chair.

  “Could you get it out for me? We’ve got a This Is My History project in one of my courses, and I thought it would be fun to show them an antique.”

  Antique?

  “When do you—”

  I lost my train of thought as a young woman passed in front of me and headed into the pub. I’d seen her before—she was the one who’d been arguing with Pauline on Monday when Val and I had been here. What had that been about? Perhaps I should introduce myself under the pretense of . . . I’d think of something. I followed her in.

  “Also, Mum,” Dinah continued, “I thought I’d pop over and visit Gran tomorrow.”

  “Oh, sweetie, how lovely.” I stepped from daylight into the darkened pub and kept near the door as I peered over shoulders, searching for the woman. “Gran will be thrilled—but give her a ring first to make sure it isn’t her day with Working with Women Veterans or Cats Rescue People.”

  “Will do.”

  “Dinah, look, I must—”

  “It’s the rail fare, you know—a return to Liverpool and probably at peak time.”

  “Sweetie, let me get that for you—my treat. I’ll do it this afternoon, all right? And e-mail the ticket to you.”

  My response was automatic, so accustomed was I to this. But a girl and her granny deserve to spend the day together.

  “Thanks, Mum. You’re the best.”

  The best at spoiling my daughter.

  I located the woman at last—behind the bar talking with Pauline’s brother, who towered over her, his face red, hers sullen. The noise level masked what they were saying, but perhaps if I crept closer, I could . . .

  I began to push my way through the bodies. The barman’s gaze darted between the woman and his customers, and for one second, his eyes fell on me. Then he turned back to her, said something, and jerked his head toward the kitchen. She disappeared within.

  Had Pauline’s brother warned the young woman off me? I ducked behind the throng to keep out of his line of sight and backed out of the pub—knocking into several people who were trying to get in—until I stumbled into the lane full of pedestrians. What would Jane Marple make of what I’d just seen?

  Was Pauline the murderer? Had I missed a clue in her manner or words when she arrived at Middlebank the morning we found Trist? Was this a plot involving her brother and that other woman? Had they conspired to kill Trist, because . . .

  I hit the irritatingly solid brick wall of motive. I tried wild speculation, but all I could come up with was that they were zombies and didn’t like the way Trist had portrayed them.

  Temporarily giving up on my enquiry, I stopped back by Waitrose and bought a roast chicken, a couple of prepared salads, and a loaf of granary bread. I’d just gone through the basket till, when a text came in from Mrs. Woolgar.

  Will you return soon?

  Was this a reprimand for staying away so long? No, it couldn’t be that—she relished any time she had alone at Middlebank, able to pretend it was the way it had been before I arrived. I walked out of the shop with my bag, still staring at my phone. How odd. Her words carried no emotion, but the fact that she had sent them seemed a cry for help.

  On my way.

  My steps quickened the closer I came to my destination, puffing up the terrace until I reached our door at a trot and stopped, wheezing, to catch my breath.

  Once composed, I located my key, walked into the entry, and close
d the door behind me. Approaching her office, I said, “Mrs. Woolgar. Sorry I’ve been out the entire morning, it’s only that—” I stopped in the doorway.

  The secretary stood behind her desk with her back against the wall. Facing her across the desk was a man wearing a brown plaid suit with leather elbow patches. He had one hand on the back of the chair and one in his jacket pocket. He turned his attention to me, and his lips slowly folded back into what might’ve been a grin.

  He was short of stature but wide of girth, and the leer accentuated his toadlike appearance. He had black hair streaked with gray at the temples and pulled into a thick ponytail that shot straight out from the back of his head. I’d seen him only in photos, but I knew him in an instant.

  “Ms. Burke,” Mrs. Woolgar said, sounding as if there were a hand round her throat, “may I present Mr. Dill.”

  Yes, Charles Henry Dill . . . Lady Fowling’s lout of a nephew.

  15

  Here he was—Charles Henry Dill, the man who hounded solicitor Duncan Rennie, Mrs. Woolgar, and indeed, even the memory of Lady Fowling. He’d broken the spirit of the original curator of The First Edition Society and sent her running—providing me with a job, I reminded myself. But it wouldn’t be for long if he got his way. He was the man who wanted nothing more than to shut down the Society, sell off anything of worth, and claim Middlebank for his own.

  I slapped a polite smile on my face and put my hand out. “Mr. Dill, pleased to meet you.”

  He took my hand, but instead of a shake, gave it a fleshy squeeze.

  “Ms. Burke,” he said in an oily bass voice, “a delight to meet you at last. So, you are the chosen one—the next chosen one, that is. Curator to Aunt Georgiana’s vast and musty collection of has-been authors from a bygone era.”

  “I didn’t realize you were in Bath,” I said, not taking his bait.

  “I’ve only just arrived this morning—I came at once when I heard the dreadful news.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue. “I am here to offer my condolences.” He glanced at his surroundings with a possessive gleam in his eye, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled like a beach ball losing air. “How marvelous to be back at Middlebank again. Like a homecoming, really. I say, Ms. Burke, Woolley and I”—he threw a sly look at Mrs. Woolgar, and she cringed—“were just about to sit down for a cup of tea and have a right old chin-wag. Won’t you join us?”

  “How kind of you to invite me,” I said. “And how unfortunate you’ve arrived at such an inconvenient time. You see, Mrs. Woolgar and I are extremely busy this afternoon. We’ll have to postpone that tea to a later date.” Such as, when hell freezes over.

  I stepped aside to clear the doorway for him, and then I waited—as obvious a dismissal as I could give without the addition of a swift kick to his bum, which I had not completely ruled out. I saw a flicker of disappointment cross his face, followed by the return of the leer.

  Clasping his hands across his stomach, he said, “No matter. But I did think it best to come to you immediately and offer my help in settling matters. I can’t imagine the board of trustees is best pleased with how things are turning out. But I tell you what, you and Woolley get on with your work. I can fend for myself—perhaps I’ll have a nose round the library.”

  “I’m sure you realize that isn’t possible.” Mrs. Woolgar had found her voice, and it held a threatening note. “Unless you would like to have a word with Mr. Rennie first?”

  Charles Henry Dill paled, and I could see sweat break out on his upper lip.

  “No need to bring Duncan into this, Woolley. Well then, I’ll leave you ladies for now, but please do remember I’m at your disposal. You can reach me at the Royal Crescent.”

  I saw him out, closed the door, and leaned against it.

  “What an odious man,” I said. “I didn’t think he could be as bad as you and Adele painted him, but he’s worse. Why did the solicitor’s name make him so nervous?”

  Mrs. Woolgar stared at the closed door for a moment. “After her ladyship’s funeral reception, a set of eighteenth-century silver basting spoons turned up missing. There was little doubt where they’d gone—into Charles Henry’s pockets and out the door.”

  “He nicked his own aunt’s silver?”

  “Her ladyship knew Charles Henry for what he is—an opportunist—but she always retained a bit of family guilt. She’d given him a set of silver teaspoons for his birthday the year before, and he tried to say that she had also promised him the basting spoons.”

  “But how could he get off scot-free?”

  “Mr. Rennie thought it easier to go along with the lie but left it quite clear there would be consequences if it happened again. After that, Charles Henry moved on to attempting to break her ladyship’s will. I doubt we’ve seen the last of him—he’ll certainly try to use this murder to his own advantage.” Mrs. Woolgar sighed. “Thank you for returning so quickly, Ms. Burke—I didn’t know if I could face him alone. And now, if you don’t mind, I believe I’ll rest in my flat before I go out for the evening.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I stowed my shopping in the kitchenette fridge, made myself a cup of tea, and went about my business—at least for an hour, then I ran up to my flat and took the band out of my hair, releasing my ponytail. I gave my hair a good brush before pulling it into the semblance of a French twist and securing it with every hairpin I could find—all three of them. I tucked a bottle of wine under my arm and had made it to the door when I held up, dithering. I dashed back to the mirror and took a good look at myself. Why, Hayley? I returned my hair to its normal ponytail and calmly walked down two sets of stairs to my office, where I first set the wine on the mantel, then on the small tea table, and finally stashed it in the kitchenette.

  When Val Moffatt arrived, I was the picture of nonchalance. “Oh, hello. Come in.”

  “I’m not too early?” he asked, hesitating near the hall stand and glancing up the stairs.

  He was here an hour before the group’s time, but I followed his gaze, and thought he might not be looking for the writers. “Not too early. We have plenty of work to do—I have a few ideas about the salons.”

  We walked into my office just as my phone rang. I saw the caller and muttered, “Oh dear—I’m a bad mum. Sorry,” I said to Val, and then answered. “Dinah, sweetie. I’m just getting your ticket now. You all set for tomorrow? That’s grand—have a lovely day.”

  “She’s going to see my mum tomorrow,” I explained to Val. “This afternoon I told her I’d get her train ticket, but then it went clean out of my head. Do you mind?”

  “No”—he nodded to my phone—“you go on.”

  Out of the corner of my eye as I bought and e-mailed the ticket, I saw Val lean over Bunter, who was curled up in the wingback, and give his head a scratch. The cat sat up and rubbed his face against Val’s chin.

  When finished, I set my phone down. “Right—done and done,” I said, and added, “Starving student, you know.”

  “Oh, I do know,” he said. “Times two. I’m happy those days are finished. How old did you say your daughter was?”

  “Twenty-two. She took a gap year.” I looked up, chagrined. “She took two, actually.”

  “It’s difficult to say no to them, isn’t it?” Val asked.

  The tension in my shoulders eased as our lines of communication opened once again. I looked back on the apprehension that had been building inside me throughout the afternoon and thought how silly I’d been—we have a good working relationship, Val and I. We’re colleagues. I glanced at Bunter and then gestured to the fireplace chairs. “I suppose we’d better sit over here.”

  We worked through the details of the literary salons. “I’ve classes Monday and Thursday evenings,” Val said, “but I’m free Tuesdays. Although, I don’t suppose it would be necessary for me to attend.”

  “Of course it’s necessary,”
I said. “I’m not doing this without you.” The words by my side tried to push their way out of my mouth, but I clamped my lips together until they retreated. “Should we come up with topics first or brainstorm a list of possible lecturers? I could contact the Christie people about a recommendation—they might give us a bit of publicity.”

  “Also, there’s an author who’s writing Dorothy L. Sayers’s characters.”

  “You mean fan fiction?”

  “I believe she got the nod from the estate. I’ll tell you what,” Val said. He leaned forward and I caught a twinkle in his green eyes. “If we want an expert on Lord Peter Wimsey, we could do no better than to ask his valet, Bunter. Or perhaps, his namesake.” He turned to the cat. “What do you think, Bunter—will you give us a lecture about your life of mystery?” In the wingback, Bunter stretched out his front and back legs, becoming twice as long as normal, and then turned over onto his back and gazed at us upside down.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” I announced in a smooth voice, “welcome to The First Edition Society’s inaugural literary salon. This evening, in conversation with Bath College’s own Val Moffatt, we have none other than Bunter the cat.”

  The buzzer interrupted, and I dragged myself off to answer. Val rose, too, but hung back while I greeted the group, clustered on the doorstep.

  Peter had lost a bit of his normal arrogance, and now his slouch gave him a defeated look. Mariella, on the other hand, appeared perkier than usual—perhaps the baby was sleeping through the night—and greeted me with, “Thanks, Hayley. You’re ace for letting us back in.” Harry’s brave smile set against her ashen face looked pitiful. And—who was that in the back?

  Amanda—although I had needed a second look to identify her. She had cut off her braid, and now her thick blond hair was styled in a shingle, angled from just below her ear and to a point at her chin. It was a bit retro and suited her perfectly.

  She blushed when I mentioned it, putting her hand up to run through her new ’do. “It had started getting in my way—time for a change. Hiya, Mr. Moffatt,” she called, and then turned to the other three writers. “Come on, you lot, let’s get to work.”