The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  A second after it rang, the door flew open. “You!” he exclaimed, pulling me inside and kissing me. I felt like scum. He was such a cheerful fellow, and what was I about to do to him?

  I stalled by looking round his corner flat, which had a view of the Gherkin, the Shard, the Cheesegrater—all the bizarre buildings that had gone up in London over the last couple of decades—now twinkling against the twilight sky. He’d bought the place with a modest inheritance, which he still lived off. The flat had been chosen not for its view, but because of the fantastic light that came in both sides. He was an artist in tinkering, and he had created a workshop in the sitting room where his creation, Myrtle, took pride of place.

  “God, Hayley, I wish you’d told me you were coming. We’re just off to Brussels. Remember the chap I told you about—the one with the software program that will let Myrtle make independent decisions about deliveries? Tommy and I and one of our local investors are heading over to spend a couple of days with him. You won’t believe how far he’s gone with the latest version. He thinks he can—”

  “Wyn, I need to talk with you.”

  I moved my head back and forth in front of him like an owl, trying to get him to focus on my face.

  “Of course, we’ll talk”—he pulled me close, and his hand wandered down to my bottom—“but I’m damned sorry we won’t have time for anything else.”

  “It’s only that—Wyn?”

  He’d gone over to his laptop, which was hooked up to Myrtle by a cable, and began tapping away. “Yes—listening. I only need to download our current program to show Philippe. He’s got an idea about installing a weather station, because the outside temperature can so easily change the interior environment of Myrtle’s box. We wouldn’t want anyone’s bouillabaisse to go off, now, would we?”

  There was nothing for it but to stay the course. I followed him over. “Wyn, I’ve been thinking. About how we have such separate lives, you know? And, although the time we’ve had together has meant so much to me, and you are such a kind man, I’m not sure if this is really the way either of us wants to live.”

  He closed the laptop, disengaged the cord, and shoved both in the pocket of his computer bag, which he slung across his shoulder.

  “Wyn—were you listening? Did you hear what I said?”

  He straightened up and snapped his fingers.

  “You’re right, Hayley—of course, you’re right. And I know what needs to happen.”

  “Oh, Wyn, I knew you would see—”

  “Let’s get married!”

  22

  What?”

  “Let’s get married!” Wyn said, full of glee. “You can leave Bath and move up here to London—no more of this Golden Age of whatever and your irritating housemate and those undesirables and people dropping dead. We’ll be together all the time!”

  I felt as if I’d been run over by a train. “No, Wyn, you see, that isn’t what I meant, actually. I wanted to tell you—”

  “It’s perfect, isn’t it?” He took me by the arms and kissed me again.

  “Not perfect—”

  “Oh, I know, but you’ll learn to love London, you really will.”

  “Please, you aren’t listening.”

  The door burst open and in walked Tommy, Wyn’s business partner, and another man.

  “Hayley!” Tommy greeted me. “It’s been donkey’s years! Don’t tell me Wyn’s got you minding Myrtle while we’re away?”

  Wyn flung his arms out. “We’re getting married!”

  “As much as you may like to,” the other man said, “I don’t think you can marry Myrtle.”

  “Good one, Bartie,” Wyn said with a laugh. “No, Hayley and I are getting married.”

  “Wyn!” I shouted above their snappy repartee. “We need to talk.”

  “I know, I know,” he said, “all the plans. After we’re back from Brussels, we’ll start the whole ball rolling. Gotta run, Hayley, our flight’s from London City. Throw the latch on the door when you leave. Love you!”

  And just like that, we were alone—Myrtle and me. I had no feeling in my fingertips or my toes, and the room was spinning. I sank onto the sofa with my head between my knees.

  * * *

  * * *

  Bunter made a point of ignoring me when I walked in. I was several hours past my usual arrival time on a Sunday evening, and he wanted to make sure I knew that he knew—although he was reluctant to disappear altogether, and instead kept to the other side of the hall stand, his tail flicking as he waited. I drew his newest catnip mouse out of my bag and dangled it above his nose. He accepted as if doing me a favor, and trotted up the stairs. I followed. My body was weary and my mind was numb—I had worn my spirit ragged on the train from London to Bath, replaying the scene in Wyn’s flat, wondering what I should’ve done differently. Now it was all I could do to get myself to bed.

  Where I didn’t sleep. Instead, I stared at my blank phone, imagining Val staring at his, waiting for a text from me that would say All clear! Not all clear. Not by a long shot.

  * * *

  * * *

  I trust you had a restful weekend and your mother is well?” Mrs. Woolgar asked.

  I needn’t go into detail about my sleepless night. I hadn’t gone on my usual walk, instead choosing to fret in my flat until past eight o’clock, when I rang Wyn and got his voice mail. The only message I’d left had been Please call me, we need to talk.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Woolgar, yes, it was fine. And yours?”

  “I spent the weekend on the case,” the secretary replied. “There was a great deal of research—times, dates, witness accounts.”

  “About Charles Henry? Why didn’t you tell me—I would’ve stayed to help.” Was she trying to out-Miss-Marple me?

  “It was nothing you could attend to, Ms. Burke. Stories of the past, for the most part. But I’ve discovered how Charles Henry Dill hopes to undermine the Society . . . Blackmail.”

  “Blackmail,” I echoed in a whisper. “You?”

  “Certainly not. About eighteen years ago, Charles Henry had the wild notion of producing one of her ladyship’s detective stories on the stage. He told her it would secure her name as a latter-day Golden Age of Mystery author, that her popularity would broaden the same as Christie’s had with The Mousetrap—a load of his usual blag. He had already entangled a local actress in his dodgy scheme—and she was old enough to know better. Lady Fowling entertained his idea, but only briefly, before her common sense took over. She knew once she opened a tap of money for Charles Henry, it wouldn’t be easy to shut off. Fortunately, the actress saw the error of her ways, too.”

  “She called the scam off?”

  “Firstly, she hadn’t looked at it as a scam—she looked at it as a chance at a leading role, something that doesn’t come round that often for a woman of fifty. And secondly, no, not the theatrical production—what she called off was their . . .”

  Mrs. Woolgar might have been reluctant to name it, but I leapt in. “She was having an affair with Charles Henry? Who was this actress? Is she local? What does this have to do with the Society?”

  The secretary’s lips were pressed together so tightly they looked as if they’d been glued. And then it came to me. At the emergency board meeting, Val and I had called to get approval for the literary salons, one of the Society’s board members had boasted of her acting career in local theater. And only Friday, Val had asked if this board member might like to take part in a reading of Meet Jane Marple.

  My jaw dropped. “Charles Henry Dill and Maureen Frost had an affair?”

  “I’d rather not give details.” Mrs. Woolgar put her nose in the air. “Our past indiscretions, once atoned for, should remain in the past.”

  That nonanswer screamed YES. “But, isn’t she a widow?” I asked.

  “She wasn’t then.”

  �
��So, this is his blackmail—she sides with him in his fight to get hold of everything or he’ll squeal?”

  Mrs. Woolgar winced at my language—and really, where had I got that from?—but acknowledged my supposition with a nod. “This is not the sort of thing Maureen wants dragged into the light of day—she’s quite proud and would be mortified if her actions reflected badly on her late husband. I believe Charles Henry is using that threat to coerce her. And where Maureen goes, Jane Arbuthnot is likely to follow. She’s always been easily led.”

  But as unpleasant as the thought of this long-ago affair was, even I saw the problem. “It may be part of Dill’s takeover plan, but it isn’t about the murder, is it?” I asked. I dragged myself out of the chair. “Still, I need to see Detective Hopgood.”

  “Not about this.” Mrs. Woolgar popped up. “Surely that isn’t necessary.”

  “If Maureen Frost would file a complaint about harassment, that could help stop Charles Henry.”

  “I’m not sure she looks on his recent attention as harassment.”

  “You don’t mean—” How would I ever get that notion out of my head? I changed the subject. “Mrs. Woolgar—Lady Fowling’s notebooks.”

  The secretary smiled—a rare occurrence. I sat down again.

  “What a delight when Ms. Babbage brought them down for me to see. And how lovely a surprise for you to come across that particular carton. I’ve not seen one of her ladyship’s notebooks for so long, I’d almost forgotten they existed. I recall now she packed them away a year or so before she died. It was as if she were wrapping up her life, putting it safely in the cellar for others to find.”

  Lady Fowling had lived to a grand old age—ninety-four—and still the poignancy of that act brought tears to my eyes.

  “The thing is,” I said, sniffing, “are you sure there aren’t a few notebooks lying about? It’s only that I have the strangest feeling I’ve seen one before.”

  Mrs. Woolgar shook her head. “Not that I recall.”

  “She was quite prolific, wasn’t she?” I commented. “Writing about everything from detectives to washing-up liquid?”

  “Lady Fowling knew that in the everyday is hidden the seed of a good story.”

  I rather liked that phrase and wondered if Mrs. Woolgar would give me permission to use it—with proper attribution, of course. I would bring that up later.

  “I may be out for most of the day—you don’t mind?” I asked.

  “That is fine, Ms. Burke. I plan to ring Mrs. Arbuthnot later this morning. She needs to be reminded of a few things.”

  “If Charles Henry drops in while I’m away—”

  “Let him just try.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Our battle plans set, I gathered my handbag, donned my jacket, and took up an umbrella—my armor against the mizzling rain. I strode down Manvers Street to the police station, where, across the road, no Harry kept watch. Given up or unwilling to spend the day sitting on a wet stone wall?

  I faced the police station. I wanted to know what Sergeant Hopgood had learned about Charles Henry’s arrival in Bath, but I hesitated, afraid the DS had begun to consider me as much a pest as the writers. Perhaps I would save my visit for later—give them time to arrest Dill. First, I would find out if Harry had returned to work.

  Avec Fleurs—a floral extravaganza crammed into a shopfront no more than ten feet wide—sat across the road from the entrance to the rail station just at the end of Manvers. Stacked on risers in front of the window were buckets brimming with rusty-red mums, speckled alstroemeria, and lilies still in bud, sitting cheek by jowl with pots of star jasmine and blue hydrangeas. Raindrops beaded on each leaf and petal and sprinkled my feet as I brushed by. The sign was turned to Open, but the door itself was locked. I rattled it, then peered through the window, where the floral jungle had colonized not only the walls, but also most of the floor space up to the counter. I saw no one, but a movement behind a beaded curtain caught my eye. I knocked to no avail.

  Stepping back, I closed my umbrella and looked round. To the left was a pass-through, which should lead to the rear of the shop, and so I took it and found the back door to Avec Fleurs propped open by more buckets—empty or half filled with water, and a few carrying forlorn stems of unwanted daisies and airy fillers I couldn’t identify.

  I followed the bucket trail indoors. Harry had her back to me. She stood at a worktable lined with short, fat glass vases that held domes of roses in shades of coral and antique yellow. No wonder she hadn’t heard me, she had earbuds in—I could see her gently rocking to an inaudible rhythm while she trimmed the roses to fit.

  “Harry!” I called. “Harry!” I tapped her shoulder.

  She spun round, and I saw the scissors in her hand heading straight for my face. I staggered back, collided with buckets, and lost my balance. My arms flapped, and I twisted and lurched and grabbed the edge of the door, which slowed my speed, thereby dropping me gently to the floor.

  “Hayley! My God, I’ve killed you! Hayley—please, I’m sorry!”

  Harry flung the scissors away, yanked out her earbuds, and dropped to her knees next to me, patting my head and my arms and then clasping her hands and rocking back and forth.

  “I’m all right, Harry, I am.” I had to keep repeating that, finally taking her hands in mine and giving them a shake. “Look at me—no harm done. I’m sorry I surprised you.”

  “But you’re hurt,” she wailed. “What have I done?”

  “I’m not hurt,” I said, moving my arms and legs to demonstrate. “But I wouldn’t mind a hand.”

  I could’ve pulled her down easier than she pulled me up—I finally scrambled to my feet and caught a glimpse of both of us in a small round mirror mounted beside the beaded curtain. My ponytail had come loose, and I looked as if I’d been caught in a windstorm. Harry’s frizzy blond hair formed a halo round her pale face, and her eyes were large and dark, reminding me of Bunter.

  “Sorry.” Her voice wobbled. “It’s just I’m a bit on edge.”

  “Yes, I can tell.”

  That brought out a little smile. She rescued my hair band from the puddle and it dripped as she held it out to me.

  A shadow appeared in the doorway.

  “Gainsborough Hotel?” a man asked.

  Harry jumped. “Oh yeah—half a mo.” Wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve, she began loading the vases into two shallow boxes. The man tucked a clipboard under his arm, leaned against the doorpost, and watched. I went over and helped Harry.

  “Thanks, Hayley—we do the table flowers for a couple of local hotels. I should’ve had these finished by now, but I got a bit of a late start after stopping to ask the police how the enquiry was progressing.”

  “How did that go over?” I asked.

  Harry cut her eyes at me but said nothing—that was answer enough. We loaded the boxes into the man’s delivery van and tidied the array of buckets. I combed my fingers through my hair and said, “There now, all better. I could just do with a coffee. How about you? I’ll bring them over from next door if you’re not too busy.”

  She brightened considerably. “Could I have a latte with chocolate and coconut and almond flavorings? I love that—tastes like a Bounty Bar.”

  “Done.”

  23

  I hesitated outside the coffee shop for another call to Wyn and another message. Please ring when you get this. I need to clear a few things up. When I returned, Harry and I sat on high stools at the front counter with our drinks and buttery croissants, chatting between sales of mixed bouquets.

  She held her coffee with both hands as if seeking comfort from its warmth. “Sergeant Hopgood says they can see me walking away from the pub with Trist, but there’s no other CCTV of him and none of me for another two hours—until they catch me in the road here.”

  “Catch you?”

 
; “My flat’s just above.”

  I stuffed a wad of croissant in my mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I know I surprised you, Harry, but your reaction seemed a bit . . . extreme. Also, why was the front door of the shop locked?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but instead kept her dark eyes on me. Then, a sip of coffee to fortify her, she said, “You’re going to think I’m mad, but I’ve had the feeling someone has been watching me.”

  “Do you know who?”

  Harry shrugged as she swept errant flakes of pastry along with shreds of leaves and stray petals into a pile on the countertop. “I never see anyone, that’s the thing. And so, I’ve thought—what if it isn’t a real person? What if it’s Trist?”

  Oh dear. Is this guilt or loss or grief or—is it Trist? More than once I have felt Lady Fowling’s presence at Middlebank, so if believing Trist is watching her makes Harry mad, then so am I.

  I covered her hand. “I don’t think that at all. It’s difficult to let go of someone we’ve lost. But, Harry, the thing is—did you think that locking the door would keep Trist out?”

  Her eyes widened. “I hadn’t thought of that.” She snickered and covered her mouth as she broke out in a fit of giggles. “I guess I am a bit barmy.”

  “So, you and Trist left the pub together that night.” I squirmed on my high stool, both from guilt—I had learned this piece of information from the police—and because I’d landed in a puddle in the back room, and now my wool trousers were soaked through. But would Jane Marple be deterred by a wet bottom? I didn’t think so.

  Harry nodded. “Trist wanted to talk with me about the group. He’d decided the chemistry wasn’t right and he wanted to leave, maybe start a new one.”

  “He was planning to leave the group behind—even you?”