The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  We snorted with laughter as Adele flipped through a few more pages in hopes of learning the fate of the sleeping victim, but to no avail.

  “Did Flambeaux come to the rescue?” Val asked.

  “Did he replace those awful draperies with a more modern print?” I wondered.

  “What about Georgiana’s battle with green fly?” Adele added over her shoulder as she took our tea things into the kitchen.

  I rang in our pizza order, and Val opened a bottle of wine. He had warmed a bit while we’d read the notebooks, but now withdrew again—civil but businesslike. It would have to do, this reserved Val Moffatt. For now.

  While Adele and I washed and dried, he said, “I’ll go wait for the pizza, shall I?” We scrambled for our purses, but he waved us away. “We’ll settle up later.” And then he escaped, leaving the door of my flat ajar.

  Tea dishes cleared away, Adele and I sat at the kitchen table with wine. I asked about her foray up to London with the Suffragette Club, and she described in colorful terms what it was like to be on a two-hour coach trip with thirty twelve-year-old girls, after which she leaned back in her chair and stuck her hands in the pockets of her purple trousers.

  “So,” she said. “Val.”

  I rose and stood at the counter, my back to her, and launched into an overly enthusiastic description of our strictly working relationship and the hopes for the literary salons.

  “Lovely,” she replied. “And now—you and Val. The two of you.”

  “There is no ‘two of us.’”

  “Well, it’s clear there should be.”

  “Is it?” I whirled round, clasping my empty wineglass to my chest. “I mean, do you think? I don’t know. I’m not sure I can tell, actually—I’m rather out of practice.”

  “He can’t keep his eyes off you,” Adele replied. “What’s holding you up?”

  “Isn’t that obvious? I have a boyfriend.”

  “Do you? Hayley, whatever is between you and Wyn has never seemed to reach the status of boyfriend-girlfriend.”

  “Regardless”—righteous fervor shot through me—“I will not do to someone else what was done to me. And I don’t believe Val would want that either.” I toyed with the stem of my glass. “Has he told you about his wife?”

  “Mmm,” Adele said. “Not much. She died when his daughters were young?”

  “Yes, well, I believe there’s more to it than that. He got a funny look when I told him about Roger.” I sighed. “But at the moment, that’s beside the point. I’ve got to settle things before I will embark on a . . .”

  “A new adventure?”

  I walked out to the sitting room so she wouldn’t see my smile, and at once I was enveloped in the warm scent of garlic and cheese and crust. The aroma of the pizza had arrived before the actual food. As the door to my flat stood half open, I knew that meant Val was just outside on the landing, and probably had been for a few minutes—perhaps long enough to hear my exchange with Adele.

  I reached over and opened the door the rest of the way, and there he stood, boxes in hand.

  “Oh,” he said, his cheeks pink. “Pizza’s arrived.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The three of us sat at the kitchen table and ate pizza and regaled each other with work stories.

  Mine came from my days at the Jane Austen Centre. “There was a woman worked in the tearoom who knew Pride and Prejudice by heart. By heart! All you had to do was throw out a line and she would pick up the story, word for word.”

  “At least she didn’t claim to have written it,” Val said. “I had a student try to pass off the first chapter of A Murder Is Announced as her own. When called out, she said the ghost of Christie told her to write it.”

  “Sounds like one of the writers in my group. It wasn’t Amanda, was it?” I asked as a joke.

  “God, it was, now that you mention it,” Val replied.

  “Is that Tommy and Tuppence?” I asked. “They’re her detectives now.”

  “No, Marple. This was two years ago—she’s changed since then. And changed again, it seems.”

  “Do most of your students repeat courses?”

  Val nodded. “Adult education is a process. There isn’t necessarily an end product.”

  “Look, Hayley,” Adele said, “is it all right with you if I take a few of the notebooks down to show Glynis? She seemed a bit fragile, you know, and if I have an excuse to check on her, she won’t be so—”

  “Truculent?” I asked. “Shall I come along?”

  “No, stay.” Her eyes barely flickered to Val. “You know how she can be—it’ll be better on my own.”

  Adele collected several notebooks and left. Val and I remained on the sofa, both of us quiet. I felt a nervous tension in the air, broken at last when he took several quick breaths and said, “We were young when we married—Jill and I.” He shook his head. “Too young—but when you’re twenty, you don’t listen to anyone, do you?”

  So this was it—the story of his marriage. He looked at me. I thought he might be waiting for permission to continue, and so I answered with a small smile.

  “The twins were born a year later,” he went on. “It was a busy time, but we were happy. It seemed. Then, just after the girls turned five, Jill came to me and said she felt as if she were suffocating, losing herself in being mother and wife. She needed time off.” Val looked away from me now. “I asked was there someone else and she said no, that she loved me and the girls and this wouldn’t be forever. So I agreed, because what else was there?”

  “She left you?”

  “Not exactly. Not at first. She began going out with friends—weekends, then weeknights, too. We missed her—our daughters couldn’t quite understand why their mum wasn’t much at home. I took on extra work and my folks helped with the girls, and one afternoon, when I should’ve been at a teachers’ meeting, I came home unexpectedly. At least, Jill hadn’t expected me. Neither had the fellow she’d been having an affair with.”

  Ah, now the story sounded familiar.

  “That was it. Without much discussion, she moved out, promising she’d keep in touch with the girls. She and the bloke moved to Norwich, and one day about four months later, the divorce papers came in the mail. Do you know”—a note of incredulity crept into his voice—“until they arrived, I half thought she’d come back. Did you ever think that?” he asked me.

  “I did . . . God help me.”

  He nodded at my confirmation. “I let them lie for a week, and then I had a phone call from him . . . He told me Jill had contracted bacterial meningitis. There were complications and it was serious.”

  “Oh no.”

  “The doctors couldn’t say how she caught it, but that it’s rarely contagious. Her . . . he asked did I want to come up to see her.” Val’s faced flushed. “Was he mad? I don’t care how small the possibility of catching or carrying it, there was no way I would put my daughters at risk. I thought she would pull through it, but she died three days later.”

  No matter how much I disliked Roger, I didn’t want him to die. At least, not often.

  Val rubbed his hands on his legs, his face drawn up into a puzzle of anger and guilt. “By not going to Norwich,” he asked, “was I punishing her for leaving?”

  “You were right to consider your daughters first,” I said, probably the same thing he had told himself over and over for almost twenty years. “And have they done all right?”

  At this, he smiled with relief. “They have—they’re fine young women. What about your Dinah—how did she manage after the divorce?”

  Happy to shift the attention away from his pain, I said, “Wonderfully—along with the tears and rebellion, of course. My mum helped.” I went over to the side table and retrieved my phone. “Dinah sent a photo of them from their visit on Wednesday. Here you are.” Val came to my side and
studied the photo of my daughter and my mum, cheek to cheek. Dinah had my hair color—brown with a gold tint, although my gold had faded a bit. Mum’s had been the same, but now it was brown with silver highlights. “They’re lovely,” I said with a sigh, “both of them.”

  Val brushed a lock of my hair away from my face, tracing a line from my forehead to my chin. He looked from the image on the phone to me. “That’s three of a kind, I’d say.”

  Neither of us moved. Time slowed, and I thought I could stand there forever with his hand cupping my cheek, before I needed anything else in the world.

  “Right,” I said, taking a quick breath to bring me to my senses. “I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours.”

  Val grinned and dug in his pocket, pulling out his phone. He made a great show of flipping through photos until he said, “Here we are—last Christmas.”

  Dad standing between his two identical daughters—young women a bit older than Dinah. They had dark hair—perhaps that had been Jill’s—but eyes that crinkled at the corners when they smiled.

  “Now there’s a happy family,” I said. “What are their names?”

  “Elizabeth and Rebecca.”

  “You didn’t go in for the twin alliteration?” I asked, and then it dawned on me. “Oh, wait, perhaps you did. It’s Becky and—”

  “Bess,” Val replied. He gave his girls one more look, stuck his phone back in his pocket, and slid his arm round my waist. He hadn’t let his beard grow back, and it was all I could do not to reach up and run my finger down his smooth jawline. It was that most delicious moment of anticipation.

  I swallowed hard. “Where is Adele?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I think we need that gooseberry after all.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “So, I’m not imagining this, am I? Because, I have to admit, it’s been a while.”

  “Imagining it? No, I don’t suppose we are. It’s only that . . . I have a few things to clear up before I can . . . er . . . move on.”

  “Yeah.” He dropped his arm and caught my hand, and his fingertips stroked my palm so lightly it felt like butterfly wings.

  “You do understand?” I whispered.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Good, that’s good.” Still, he didn’t pull away and neither did I—until heavy footsteps on the landing and a loud cough heralded the arrival of our gooseberry.

  * * *

  * * *

  How is Mrs. Woolgar?” I asked Adele, who had taken so long to get to the door that I could’ve completely dressed before she walked in. Not that I had undressed, but . . . well, she took her time.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Charles Henry turning up on your doorstep?” was her reply.

  It was as if I was incapable of holding two things in my head at the same time. “Did she tell you everything?” I asked now, breathless for an entirely different reason than a few minutes earlier. I called to Val, who had gone into the kitchen to open another bottle of wine. “I think we’ve got him—the murderer. Do you remember I told you about Lady Fowling’s nephew?”

  With our glasses refilled, I began a rundown of my day.

  “A tail!” Adele exclaimed. “Nice work, Hayley.”

  “You followed him?” Val asked. “A murderer?”

  “I had to know,” I explained. “I’d had a poor reception from Sergeant Hopgood, but now, with this latest, he can’t deny Dill is involved.”

  “But from now on, you will let the police take care of it?” Val’s question edged toward entreaty.

  “Didn’t Miss Marple ever tail anyone?” I answered, pleased with his concern. “I was in no danger—broad daylight and a normal road with normal people. I saw Amanda—she lives nearby. And look, now, I even know how he got in, because I ran into Lulu Ingleby. She must be his accomplice. Her boyfriend is Leonard—he manages the Minerva—and he’s Pauline’s brother. Remember you met Pauline,” I said to Val. “She cleans for us, and so she has a key and the code for Middlebank.”

  I regretted the words as soon as they left my lips.

  “Oh.” Adele blinked at this. “Does that mean Pauline is a suspect?”

  “Not necessarily,” I rushed on. The police phrase, no sign of forced entry, echoed in my mind. “It could be that Lulu stole the key and code without Pauline knowing it and gave them to Charles Henry.”

  “Would Dill have his own copy of the key?” Val asked.

  “Yes—yes, he could very well. Somehow. He’s a sneak, and also quite good at research, apparently. He may have been planning this for ages.”

  Upon learning that Pauline could be involved, Adele had lost her spark. But there was nothing I could do about that—she would have to wait it out. Instead, I drew her attention elsewhere.

  “Did Mrs. Woolgar say anything about her talk with Mrs. Arbuthnot and Ms. Frost?”

  Adele shook her head. “But she said there would be more to tell the police next week, and implied she needed to talk with you first. Have you and Glynis become friends?”

  “Friends?” I tried to imagine the two of us going shopping together or for a drink at the Minerva or sitting over coffee at the Waitrose café. I laughed. “I think it’s only that at the moment, we have a common enemy.”

  * * *

  * * *

  As they readied to leave, Adele stood at my front window.

  “I love this view of the city,” she said.

  I joined her. South, beyond the sparkling lights of Bath, a dark ridge of countryside rose. “I do, too. I can see Alexandra Park in the day.” Brought back as I was to the reality of my situation, a wave of melancholy rippled over me. “I suppose I’d better enjoy it while I can.”

  Val came up, and the three of us stood looking out. “You aren’t thinking of leaving?” he asked. “Your work here has just begun.”

  “Has it? Or is it about to end—courtesy of Charles Henry Dill?”

  “We will not allow that to happen,” Adele said. “Right, you off to see your mum tomorrow? Give her my love.”

  “Yes, Liverpool. And on Sunday, I think I’ll return by way of London.”

  I said it as casually as I could and kept my eyes on the skyline, but I knew my words had the ring of a Big Announcement.

  “Sounds like a good plan,” Adele replied as she gathered her bag.

  I walked my guests to the front door of Middlebank. Adele made short work of leaving. “Night. Give me a ring Monday.” We planted a quick kiss on each other’s cheek, and off she dashed.

  “Hold up, Adele,” Val called. “I’ll give you a lift.”

  He turned back to me, and I knew we’d better say a speedy good night or I’d end up in his arms.

  “Thanks again for my rescue.”

  “Some rescue—but you’re very welcome.” He inched closer, and I leaned in and primly offered my cheek. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him grin. He gave me a kiss, his lips lingering, and I could still feel them on my skin after he’d at last drawn away. “For the hostess,” he murmured.

  I closed the door, set the alarm, and danced up the stairs.

  * * *

  * * *

  A day with my mum is like a tonic—and like a tonic, it is both invigorating and sometimes hard to swallow.

  “You don’t suspect Charles Henry Dill only because he’s an unpleasant person, do you?” she asked over tea and scones on Saturday afternoon.

  “He wants Middlebank—that gives him motive,” I insisted, my fervor for Dill as murderer still at its zenith.

  “Don’t lose sight of your other suspects—don’t be blinded to what could be right in front of you.”

  I relented, but only a bit. “Sergeant Hopgood is looking at the movements of the writers group that night, trying to locate Trist as he approached Gravel Walk—and see who followed him.”

  Mum tsk
ed. “Killed and then dragged away and practically put on display like a prize turkey. Someone was showing off.”

  In the evening, we watched a television production of Nemesis—Miss Marple’s stately-home-tour mystery, which Dill had made reference to. I moved the book to the top of my mental reading list. Before she went to bed, Mum commented that it would be lovely to go on such a holiday. Sans murder, of course.

  I caught a late-afternoon train to London on Sunday and spent the first half of my journey on my phone researching deluxe, four-star coach tours of stately homes—after all, my mum deserved the best. I choked at the prices.

  Next, heeding my mum’s advice, I listed every single person I thought might have to do with Trist’s murder case—not just Charles Henry Dill, but the writers, too. What sort of a run-in did Peter and Trist have? What did Amanda mean by referring to what Harry had done to Trist? I thought it had been the other way round. And where was Harry—back at work at the flower shop or returned to keep vigil outside the police station? That last question worried me, because, of all the writers, Harry seemed the most fragile. I would find out Monday.

  Not until I was on the Tube from Euston Station to the Barbican and Wyn’s flat did I finally force myself to consider what I was about to do. I had avoided the subject entirely at Mum’s until she’d brought it up that morning.

  “Are you breaking it off with Wyn today?” she had asked.

  “And why do you say that, Jane Marple?”

  “You are transparent to your mother,” she had replied, “just as Dinah is transparent to you. You spent half of yesterday talking about Val Moffatt and then last night, right before bed, casually mentioned you might go home by way of London.”

  And here I was. I climbed the steps from the Barbican Tube station and, once on the pavement, took a deep breath, gathering my courage, before taking the short walk—too short—to Wyn’s building on Britton Street. This shouldn’t take long—Wyn wasn’t one for lengthy conversations—and soon I’d be on my way home to Bath. In the lobby, I went past the lift and took the stairs up to the second floor—it helped to work off my nerves. Still, when I’d arrived at his door, I stood there, not pressing the bell. Go on, Hayley.