I winced at my clunky segue, but Pauline—in the midst of a barrage of orders—didn’t seem to mind.
“No, I live alone. Right, lads, I’m coming.”
19
Four o’clock Friday morning, my eyes popped open, and I stared into the darkness with a sudden revelation—I knew who had killed Trist Cummins. During the night while I slept, my mind had put the pieces together, and when the last clue had dropped into place, an alarm went off in my head louder than any windup clock.
Charles Henry Dill was the murderer.
It was as clear as day—a day that would not come for another three hours. Mrs. Woolgar and I had thought Dill was using Trist’s murder to stir up discontent in hopes he could gain leverage and somehow get hold of Middlebank—but no. He wasn’t using an incident he heard had taken place—he himself was the perpetrator.
I paced my flat until six, going over every detail we knew of the enquiry, and then I headed out in the early-morning darkness for my walk, pausing in Victoria Park to stare across the grassy expanse to the Royal Crescent Hotel. Sleep peacefully, Mr. Dill—while you can.
On my return to Middlebank, I did not avoid the spot where Trist died, as I had been doing. Instead, I came along Gravel Walk and stopped a few feet from the fatal wrought-iron post and considered the events leading up to the night of the murder. Charles Henry had studied us at Middlebank, searching for our weaknesses. He had uncovered information about Mrs. Woolgar’s animosity toward Trist, and so decided to sacrifice the writer to his greedy desires—after which, he would lead police astray by pointing them in Mrs. Woolgar’s direction.
The killing. Having learned Trist was physically weak, Dill trailed—or lured—him to this spot. It had taken little effort to shove his victim hard enough to crack his head against the cannonball-sized railing topper. Knowing Trist was dead, Dill slung the body across his shoulders. How smug and clever he must feel, staging the scene in the library at Middlebank in his quest to put us in the worst possible light.
And now I held the vital clue to prove his guilt. It was the sort of thing Miss Marple would’ve picked up on—the one piece of information that would crack the case. As I finished my morning routine—shower, tea, toast—I couldn’t help giving myself a tiny pat on the back. Well done, you.
At nine o’clock, I hurried down the stairs and into Mrs. Woolgar’s office for our morning briefing.
Without looking up, she began. “I’ve had a think about this latest turn of events, and believe that you are—” A glance at me stopped her. “Ms. Burke, are you all right?”
She probably had noticed my glow of excitement. I sat in the chair across from her, but immediately popped up again to make my announcement.
“I know who did it—I know who murdered Trist.”
After an appropriately significant pause, Mrs. Woolgar asked, “Who?”
“Charles Henry Dill.”
“Dear God,” she breathed, putting a hand to her chest. Then she frowned. “But didn’t he just arrive on Wednesday of this week?”
“So he says,” I replied with great import, and dropped into my chair. “But during the night I remembered something. Linda Carlisle at the hotel told me when Charles Henry showed up on Wednesday— two days ago—he ordered the hotel’s car to bring his bags over.” I tapped Mrs. Woolgar’s desk for emphasis.
“But, from the rail station?” she asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “You’d bring them up from the station, not over. Over means he was already in Bath but staying somewhere else.”
The secretary’s eyes widened, causing her glasses to slip down the bridge of her nose. “Already here. Of course—and for how long?”
“Long enough. And I’m afraid there’s more. I’m almost certain he is the one who rang the police with the tale of you and Trist and your handbag. He’s lied to us. It was all a setup—part of his takeover plan. And I’m going to prove it.”
“That his greed would cause him to take a life—I can only be relieved Lady Fowling didn’t live to see this day. And I suspect he’s been busy elsewhere, too, in his diabolical effort to erode support for you and the Society.” The secretary leaned over her desk as if Bunter—asleep in his bed in the corner—might overhear. “I believe he’s approached some of the board members.”
I took stock of The First Edition Society’s board of trustees—all five of them. Two were aboard a cruise ship bound for the Caribbean, and one—Adele—would brook no shady threats from Dill. That left the other two.
“Are you talking about Mrs. Arbuthnot or Ms. Frost? Do you believe either one of them would give Charles Henry the time of day?”
Mrs. Woolgar sighed. “I can say no more at the moment. I will speak with them this afternoon—separately. Leave this to me, Ms. Burke.”
Until only recently, I would assume Mrs. Woolgar had scheduled a meeting with her moles to discuss my overthrow—but as she was now faced with the fear of Charles Henry Dill taking everything, I was the least of her worries.
“Did you speak to Mr. Rennie?” I asked, only that moment remembering we might need our solicitor.
“I did,” Mrs. Woolgar replied grimly. “That was my other news. Charles Henry has requested to see the governing documents for the Society. Mr. Rennie believes he may try to question our status as a charitable trust.”
“How can one person be so evil?”
* * *
* * *
I entered the Royal Crescent from the far end, coming up behind a guided tour of the city and using it as a cover. The hotel sat mid-Crescent, and I didn’t want to be seen by Charles Henry Dill before I could get into the lobby and talk with Linda Carlisle, with whom I could confirm my suspicions before going to the police.
As she walked backward, the tour leader—an out-of-work actor, no doubt—gave a dramatic reading of a scene from Northanger Abbey that takes place on the Crescent. I crept along at a respectable distance and kept an eye on the door of the hotel up ahead.
When at last we reached my goal, I broke away, plunged into the lobby, and stepped to the side, giving the place a quick scan. No Charles Henry in sight, but I must be cautious, and so I made straight for the large Chinese palm against the wall on the other side of the reception desk, taking refuge behind its tall, lush foliage.
“Hello, good morning.” The young woman from my first visit leaned over the desk and called to me. “Oh, it’s Ms. Burke, isn’t it?” Good to be recognized—I hoped. “Are you looking for Mr. Dill? Shall I ring his room?”
“Good morning.” My stage whisper carried across the quiet lobby. “No need to bother Mr. Dill. I’m here to see Ms. Carlisle—is she available?”
“She’s just popped in to see the general manager. Could I get you a coffee? Would you like to wait in the drawing room for her?”
Too exposed. “I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.”
She went back to her business, but I saw her eyes dart toward me occasionally. When Linda Carlisle appeared, the young woman spoke quietly to her, nodding in my direction. The manager showed no signs of alarm—well practiced, I was sure, after decades of dealing with slightly daft hotel patrons. Instead, she came straight for me with a smile.
“Good morning, Hayley, it’s good to see you again. Shall we go into my office? It’s just here.”
Thank God she had an office. I followed her through the door behind reception, and when we were safely closed off from anyone strolling through the lobby, Linda gestured to chairs and we sat.
Now, to prove I wasn’t mental. “You must think me quite odd—hiding behind the palm.”
“Not at all,” Linda said. “You seem . . . mysterious. I rather feel as if I’m in the middle of one of Lady Fowling’s own detective novels.”
“You’ve read them?”
“Only a few—I’ve heard she wrote many.”
“We have the co
mplete set, of course—you’re welcome to borrow them anytime.” Now, to business. “I’ve stopped by this morning because I wanted to ask you about something you said yesterday concerning Charles Henry Dill. You mentioned that upon his arrival at the hotel, he asked to have his bags brought over.”
“Yes—although ‘ask’ is too weak a word, as it implies some level of courtesy on his part.”
“Did you mean his bags were brought up from the rail station?”
I held my breath.
Linda looked off into the middle distance as if listening to Dill’s request. “No,” she said slowly. “He had not arrived by train. He walked in with nothing and sent the car off to an address where his bags, he said, were waiting.”
“Do you know where?”
The manager sat back for a moment and studied me. Then, as if she’d come to a decision, she rose. “I don’t, but I can easily find out.” She went to the phone on her desk and made a call. “Davey, on Wednesday, you fetched bags for Mr. Dill . . . Yes, he’s the one. Where did he send you? . . . Mmm, yes . . . Right, thanks.” She turned to me. “A flat in Grove Street—at number forty-two.”
Flushed with success, I explained. “He told us he’d only just arrived in Bath on Wednesday. That’s obviously not the case. Why else would his bags be at someone’s flat?”
“I understand if you can’t answer,” Linda said, “but does this have anything to do with your recent difficulties at Middlebank?”
“The body in the library?” I asked. “Charles Henry Dill’s convenient appearance on the scene?” I sighed. “I can’t quite say yet—I hope you understand.”
“Of course. And if I can do more, please ask. I wish you all the best. And I hope you don’t mind me saying that I rather feel Lady Fowling’s hand in your selection as curator of The First Edition Society.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, but in truth, I was the board’s only choice at a critical time.”
“Still—” Linda opened her office door wide but threw an arm up to prevent me from leaving. “Wait,” she whispered, pulling the door almost closed. “He’s just there.”
I squinted through a crack and watched as Charles Henry strode through the lobby and out onto the Crescent. I noticed he had a great fondness for brown plaid suits—or perhaps he had only one set of clothes to his name. On the pavement, he looked about him as if sniffing the air, and then turned left and walked off.
“Right, that’s me away,” I said. “Thanks ever so much.”
Outside, I peered up the Crescent and spotted Dill almost to the corner. I followed, dodging behind one pedestrian then another, keeping my distance. I wasn’t sure Miss Marple ever carried out her own investigation this way—as much as I had read, she seemed more likely to hear something over a cup of tea or send someone else off to Somerset House to look up records. But, I told myself, needs must, and if I have to sneak along after Charles Henry, then so be it.
He crossed the Pulteney Bridge, and I boldly followed. The bridge over the river Avon—Bath’s own Ponte Vecchio—had shops lining both sides. These blocked views of the river and the weir but provided me with handy doorways in which to duck. When Dill turned up Grove Street, I knew I had him—he was going to the same address where he’d stayed.
He paused to answer his phone, and I leapt behind the corner of a building before he saw me. I waited until I hoped it was safe, and then, keeping my back to the wall, I slithered round the corner and parted the branches of a rangy rhododendron that hung over the pavement, only to be met by a postman pushing his red delivery trolley. I froze when he saw me.
“Hello,” I said brightly. “I’ve . . . lost my cat. Have you seen him?”
“What does he look like?”
“He’s . . . er . . . black and white.”
The postman’s eyes narrowed. “No, I haven’t. And my name isn’t Pat.”
The lesson here was Don’t give the first excuse that comes into your mind. Naturally, I had landed on Postman Pat and his black-and-white cat—Dinah had loved that old television program when she was a little girl. The postal carriers of Britain had probably tired of the joke long ago.
The postman went on his way, and I was met with an empty pavement. Charles Henry must’ve gone inside number forty-two— it was a new, purpose-built complex of flats, but at least it had only one door. I made my way to the entrance, walking as close to the shrubbery as I could. I needed to reach the door and read the residents’ names next to the buzzers. I had only just begun to run my finger down the list when I saw movement inside the lobby and lost my nerve.
I quickly retreated down the road, continually glancing over my shoulder. I crossed and came back along, but stopped short of Charles Henry’s building and did my best to stay out of the line of sight from its windows. Instead, I loitered near the corner of a former girls’ school that had been refurbished into a block of flats—not nearly as posh as number forty-two. There were few cars at this time of day, and no one passing by took any notice of me.
After fifteen minutes, I came to the conclusion that this surveillance business could be quite boring. How do police do it? Charles Henry Dill was becoming less important by the minute as the need to dash off to the public toilets in Henrietta Park grew. And after that, I would really like a cup of tea and a sandwich.
I was in the middle of an enormous yawn when the door of number forty-two opened. I jumped back, plastering myself against the side of the building and then carefully putting one eye round the corner.
There he was, Charles Henry, pausing to tug on the cuffs of his shirt and stretch his neck as if his collar was too tight. He strolled off down the pavement, back toward Pulteney Bridge. When the road took a bend, he disappeared from sight, and I scampered across the street to stand in front of his building and stare after him.
What had he been up to in there—meeting with his accomplice, his partner in crime? Too bad I didn’t catch which flat he went in. Still, I would take a snapshot of the residents’ names.
I turned back toward the building entrance and stopped. Not ten feet ahead of me on the pavement, Lulu Ingleby approached.
20
I had seen Lulu Ingleby only twice and both times at the Minerva—once when Pauline was giving her a talking-to and once when Leonard appeared to warn her off me. Even so, there was no mistaking her—short, black hair with curls sticking out from around the Cleaned by Pauline bandanna she wore.
“Hello,” I said.
She gave me a quick look and flinched. She mumbled something and hurried past me, but I pivoted on the spot and said, “I know who you are.”
Lulu stopped dead, and having obtained her attention, I continued. “We haven’t actually met, but I’ve seen you at the Minerva. I know Pauline, and you work for her.” I stuck my hand out. “I’m Hayley Burke. How do you do?”
Few people can refuse a proffered hand. She put hers—limp and dry—in mine, and I did the shaking. I waited with a smile and an expectant look until she coughed up the minimum amount of civility.
“Hello. I’m Lulu.” Her eyes shot over my shoulder back toward number forty-two, and with a jolt it came to me that she was looking for Charles Henry.
“Am I in your way? Were you trying to catch someone up?” I nodded over her shoulder. “He’s gone down that way—did you need to speak with him?”
Her gaze darted round like a dragonfly until it landed on salvation.
“There’s my bus—sorry!” She flew across the road, waving to the driver, who pulled up and waited for her to jump aboard.
I didn’t watch her leave, but instead kept my gaze in the direction Charles Henry had gone as I tried to make the connections among him, Trist, and Lulu. Someone had to be guilty of something. But, no matter what Sergeant Hopgood said about the fireman’s lift, surely Lulu couldn’t’ve carried Trist’s body up the stairs at Middlebank. That had to have been Dill.
But Lulu was involved. She could’ve acquired the key and code from Pauline. But had Pauline handed them over, or had Lulu stolen them?
Heaving a great sigh, I set off on his trail, but heard a voice behind me.
“Hayley!”
Amanda. She must’ve come off the bus Lulu got on. She wore her tight running gear and hitched a gym holdall high on her shoulder.
“Who was that I saw you with?” she demanded.
“Mmm?” I was loath to tip my hand here—revealing I knew someone who might be a suspect. It had come to my attention that Amanda liked to talk.
“No one,” I said. “No one I know—I was only asking did that bus run by the Waitrose. I need to do a bit of shopping.”
She watched me, and I found I couldn’t hold her gaze.
“Or maybe you were looking for me?” she asked. “Is there a problem with the group? Wait now.” She frowned. “How did you know what street I lived on? Did someone tell you? Was it Harry?”
I had only that moment remembered DS Hopgood’s map and Amanda’s green spot here in Grove Street—but I didn’t want her to think I had been spying, because I hadn’t. At least, not on her.
“I don’t remember,” I replied. “Might’ve been—or didn’t you mention it yourself?”
“Not me—no, it was probably Harry. She has a bit of the snitch about her, don’t you think? Although, it’s probably because she’s feeling guilty after how she treated Trist. No telling what that led to. But then, you have to expect her to act out, don’t you? You have to give her enough rope to”—she laughed—“no, that isn’t what I meant. Give her some allowance, that’s it.”
I waited, but apparently Amanda’s motor had finally run down. She looked at her nails and picked at a cuticle.
“Well,” I said, “I’d best be off. Just out for a stroll on my lunch break. See you next Wednesday, right?”
The Bodies in the Library Page 18
