The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  I admit I was primed to give Roger the brunt of my bad mood—combining my growing frustration with the murder enquiry, my anger at Charles Henry Dill, and my annoyance at Wyn for not answering his phone. When I added those to my highly charged reaction to Roger’s “offer” of selling that junk heap of a car to our daughter, it put me over the edge. It’s possible he didn’t deserve such a tongue-lashing—this time. But I certainly felt the better for it, and having put shed to his car idea, I allowed him to natter on about his new girlfriend for a good long while. Eventually, I knocked at my own door and then said, “Oh, here’s the committee now—sorry, Roger, I must run. Best of luck with Leaf.”

  At least I think that’s what he said her name was.

  I enjoyed a fine dinner of fish fingers and mash and two glasses of wine. Well into my second glass, my phone rang, and my heart thumped against my chest. If it were Wyn, I must be kind, but firm. Kind, but firm.

  It was Val.

  “Just a quick call,” he said. “I’m not phoning about . . . I don’t want you to think I’m . . . Look, you’ve got the writers group tomorrow evening? I wonder if it would be all right for me to stop in beforehand so that we could have a talk. It isn’t about . . . you know.”

  It could be about the man in the moon, and I’d still welcome him. “Of course, it’s fine. If you can spare the time away from your lectures.”

  “Wednesdays are light,” Val replied. “It’s Thursday I’m booked up. That’s the day I have a class in the morning, two in the afternoon, and one in the evening.”

  “Ah yes, Thursday evening is the one with DC Pye. Well, if you have all tomorrow evening free, would you like to sit in on the group? I’ve done it only once, but they’re always inviting me. They might welcome an actual writing teacher.”

  “I would do, yeah, sure,” Val said. “If they all agree.”

  “Good.” We were quiet. There was really nothing else to say—or rather, there was far too much to say—and so I took my comfort in knowing he waited at the other end of the phone line.

  “I could bring along a light supper,” he offered. “Any requests?”

  You. “Cheese and pickle, please.”

  He laughed and I giggled, and he exhaled and said, “See you tomorrow.”

  The second we ended our call, I made another.

  Ring me, Wyn. Don’t make me say this in a voice mail.

  It was an early night.

  * * *

  * * *

  I would save my walk until after our morning briefing, because I knew I’d be crisscrossing the city. We accomplished little sitting across the desk from each other. Mrs. Woolgar seemed distracted—or perhaps I was the one who couldn’t keep her mind on a discussion about redesigning the newsletter—and so we wrapped up rather quickly.

  “I am off to talk with the writers—one by one,” I explained, shrugging on a coat and pulling my ponytail out from under the collar.

  “Are you canceling this evening?” Mrs. Woolgar asked with a hopeful note in her voice.

  “No, I don’t think that’s—it’s only, if we. . . . If I have them still meet here, I may learn something. That I can pass along to police,” I added.

  “Do you suspect one of them?”

  “I’m not sure any of them liked Trist.” Realizing Mrs. Woolgar certainly hadn’t had fond feelings for him, I hurried on. “Not that liking or disliking is a motive for murder. Each of them seemed to be annoyed by his attitude and cutting remarks, but at the same time, appreciated his feedback. It’s an odd dynamic.”

  “Do you know where to find them?”

  “I know where to begin.”

  * * *

  * * *

  My destination was Avec Fleurs, but before I even walked out the door of Middlebank, I sent Wyn a text. Yes, I broke up with him in the most unfeeling and inappropriate way imaginable. I wasn’t happy about it, but I told myself if he had only phoned me, I could have made a proper job of it. But now I’d had my fill of the entire situation. In the text, I didn’t even acknowledge his proposal—such as it was—and instead told him we were “too different” and he was a good man who “deserved more.”

  I went on my way, my heart lighter—and yet a shadow of guilt lurked in the recesses of my mind. I should’ve talked with him. No, make that I would’ve talked with him. He had to know how serious this was, but instead of facing up to it, he was choosing to ignore me and how I felt. This wasn’t my fault.

  The sign in the door of the flower shop was turned to Open, and miraculously, the door was unlocked. Even better, Harry stood behind the counter, looking at her phone.

  She glanced up and greeted me with, “I need to work every day for the next month to make up the time I took off. It’s no bother, actually. I’m rather glad to keep busy—saves me from thinking too much.” The corners of her mouth drooped. “You aren’t coming to tell me you’re turfing us out of Middlebank, are you?”

  “Not a bit of it—I’ll be ready and waiting for the group this evening. But what I do need, Harry, is to have a little chat with Peter and Mariella and Amanda. Let them know in person that we’re still on. It’s only that . . . I’m not quite sure where they live.”

  Harry happily cooperated. “Peter’ll probably be at work, but he’s only over on the Lower Bristol Road—do you know that garden machinery shop? And Mariella will be at home or in the park with the little one—here, now, I’ll write this all down. Amanda lives the other way altogether, across the Pulteney Bridge.”

  “Yes, that’s right—Grove Street. Would you write down the number? Of course, she could be at work, too.”

  Harry wrinkled her nose in thought. “I don’t believe she’s working at the moment. Hang on, I’ve got the number of the building.” She flipped through screens on her phone, adding, “When the group first started, we had the idea to take turns meeting in our own homes or flats, but Amanda didn’t like that idea.”

  “Thanks so much for this, Harry. And also, can you tell me something?” I switched to photos on my phone as a customer walked in.

  “My order ready?” he asked.

  Two women followed on his heels.

  “I’ll be right with you,” Harry called to the women. She turned to the man and said, “I’ll just nip into the back for your order. Won’t take me two ticks.”

  I followed her through the curtain of beads into the workroom and heard her curse under her breath. “He said an afternoon pickup—good thing I’m just about finished.”

  I gave the magnificent arrangement of late roses mixed with rose hips and berries barely a glance—“Lovely”—and put the phone in front of Harry. “Look, have you ever seen this woman?”

  Harry took my phone and studied the photo of Lulu, squinting.

  “I know it isn’t the best shot, but do you recognize her? There are loads more photos—go on and flip through.”

  “Hello?” the man at the counter called. “Could I go ahead and write on this little card?”

  “I’ll take care of him,” I whispered, and dashed out. “Yes, sir, of course—oh, I see you’ve chosen that lovely enclosure with the antique illustration. Gorgeous. Now, you go ahead and write your message—do you need a pen?”

  I stood behind the counter as if I worked there every day and watched as the customer, pen in hand, seemed to be stuck for the right words. The women looked over at me and I smiled.

  “Can you help us here?” one of them asked, holding up a pot of shockingly orange daisies. “Do you have these Gerberas in more of a coppery shade?”

  “Oh, I . . . let me just check with—”

  Harry arrived at the counter to save the day. She set down the vase of flowers and pulled my phone out of the pocket of her smock, handing it over. “I don’t know her, Hayley. But—”

  The woman gave the pot of daisies a shake at us and asked, “Or in blue?” />
  “They don’t come in blue,” Harry said. “But I’ve a fiery red that’s perfect for autumn. It’s in the back, let me fetch it. Sorry, Hayley,” she added to me quietly. “Can we talk later?”

  * * *

  * * *

  I found Peter in the back of the garden machinery workshop, wearing protective goggles and dismantling the engine on an enormous riding lawn mower. When he saw me, he turned off the noisy machine in front of him and stood.

  “Hayley—is there something wrong?”

  “No, not at all. I just happened to be coming out this direction”—a twenty-five-minute walk—“and Harry had mentioned where it was you worked.”

  “Any word on the enquiry?” Peter asked.

  “I’ve heard nothing.” Although, it wasn’t for want of asking.

  “They’re wasting their time, coming to me again and again, asking me about the punch-up Trist and I had.” Peter tapped the wrench he was holding against the edge of a bench. “I admit I wasn’t best pleased when he tried to nick my ideas for his own work, but we got over it. It’s ancient history.” He gave the bench a heavy whack.

  “The police have asked all of you your whereabouts that night, haven’t they—after you left the pub? And, if you happened to see Trist again. Harry told me she went for a long walk, just to clear her head. And, I’m sure, think about her writing.”

  “Oh yes, the police have asked. And now you want to know, too.”

  How did Miss Marple question suspects without sounding as if she were interrogating them? I failed at coming up with an appropriately vague response for Peter.

  He shrugged it off. “It doesn’t matter,” he said as he used the wrench like a drumstick. “It’s the same every Wednesday after group and after the pub—Mariella takes a curry home to her husband from that Indian place near the Abbey. It’s a bit out of the way, so it may look to someone who’s tracking us on CCTV that we go off in the wrong direction.”

  Right, let’s move along. “And speaking of Wednesdays, I wanted to remind you that the group’s still welcome at Middlebank this evening. Oh, and also”—I took great care to sound as casual as possible—“I wonder, have you ever seen this woman?”

  He pulled the goggles off but didn’t look at my phone. “They’re using you now? When we’ve volunteered to assist with the enquiry? That’s not to say you aren’t a great help to them, Hayley, but it’s the four of us who understand the criminal mind.”

  Another worker had started up a drill, and its high-pitched whine pierced my eardrums. I winced and raised my voice. “I’m not sure they would consider what I’m doing ‘help.’” I held up the photo. “So, have you seen her?”

  Peter took his time studying the snap of Lulu, but I saw no recognition in his eyes. He shook his head. “Sorry. You don’t want to tell me who she is?”

  “I’m not sure myself, it’s only that—say, doesn’t Mariella’s husband work here?”

  Peter nodded to a tall young man wearing headphones on the far side of the workshop. “Look, if you talk with him, you won’t ask him about Trist or mention the murder, will you? It’s only that he’s nervous enough about Mariella being a writer, and so she hasn’t told him what’s gone on.”

  “But it’s been in the news.”

  “He isn’t the sort to follow the news.”

  “Right, then—not a word.”

  Mariella’s husband looked like an affable fellow. He told me his wife had taken the wee lad to his playgroup today and then to lunch and wouldn’t be home until just before she left for the writers group.

  “It’s her evening out, you know, and she really enjoys herself, so I don’t mind staying with the boy.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I would catch Mariella before the group started up that evening. In the meantime, I now traipsed back across the city to Grove Street. As it turned out, Amanda lived in the building that had been converted from a girls’ school—only across the road from what I assumed was Maureen Frost’s flat. That meant I could ask her if she’d ever seen Charles Henry Dill—although my real goal, I reminded myself, was to show her Lulu’s photo. I found Amanda’s name on the residents’ list and buzzed her flat, but got no answer.

  My morning had been for naught. I retraced my steps across the Pulteney Bridge but took a slight detour on my walk back to Middlebank and looped around to the Minerva in a last-ditch effort to find the tiniest useful clue. Instead, I found Leonard behind the bar and a lunch crowd blocking my path. I wriggled my way through and was greeted with a “What’ll it be?”

  “Orange squash, please.”

  He glowered at me and, without asking, topped up the mixer with fizzy water.

  “And crisps.”

  He tossed a packet of lightly salted on the bar. He had a good memory for a customer’s preferences, I’ll say that for him.

  “Will Lulu be stopping by soon?” I asked, handing over my coins.

  He pulled a pint for another customer while over his shoulder he said to me, “She’s got a cleaning job.”

  “Not for Pauline, though.”

  He leaned over the bar. “You leave my sister out of this.”

  My pulse raced. I could not identify the topic of our conversation—was it murder?

  “Leave her out of what?” I asked, innocent and polite, my heart in my throat.

  Leonard continued to serve his customers, setting two pints on the bar mat and then wiping his forehead on his shoulder. He smiled at me in a friendly and yet creepy way.

  “It’s only that Lulu and I have been having a few problems—you know the sort. Pauline’s trying to help, but I blame Lulu’s flatmate. She loves stirring up trouble.”

  “Who is her flatmate? Where does Lulu live?”

  His face went blank, and his eyes looked dead. He turned away and didn’t look at me again.

  26

  Who is her flatmate? Where does Lulu live? Those were important questions—that much was obvious from Leonard’s reaction. I might not have an answer, but I could at least ask the questions again—and this time to the police. I hadn’t finished my orange squash but had taken my packet of crisps and eaten as I walked. Tipping the last bits into my mouth as I reached the station door, I inhaled a crumb and spent the first five minutes at the desk in a coughing fit. A PC brought me a cup of water, and I sat down in the lobby until my eyes stopped watering and I could breathe without wheezing.

  “I’m here to see Detective Sergeant Hopgood,” I announced, the reediness of my voice belying the vital need of my request.

  “Sergeant Hopgood is out.”

  “Detective Constable Pye?”

  “Gone as well—just this minute.”

  “While I was coughing?”

  “Well, I don’t think they did it on purpose—they had a callout. Would you like to leave a message for either one?”

  My appearance didn’t even warrant an offer to wait in Interview #1—I got the idea the woman at the desk had me pegged as a pest. I would leave a message, but I had no words for my suspicions. First, I needed to introduce the DS to Lulu Ingleby—by way of my photos. Nothing would make any sense otherwise. Foiled in my latest attempt at being a detective, I left the station and retreated to Middlebank. I ate an omelet for my lunch and then sat at my desk the rest of the afternoon thinking about the literary salons and dreaming about the many planning sessions Val and I would need.

  Bunter kept an eye on me from the wingback chair near the door, and when I opened my bottom desk drawer—looking for one of the many draft proposals for the salons—he hopped in and nearly sat on a half-empty packet of custard cream biscuits, which I snatched away just in time.

  I bit into one as I studied the cat. “Bunter, it’s just occurred to me that you might’ve seen everything that happened that night. If you could talk, you would tell us, wouldn’t you? Who brough
t Trist’s body back inside and up to the library?”

  He gazed at me with golden eyes—as enigmatic as Lady Fowling’s portrait.

  * * *

  * * *

  Nearly five o’clock—Val would arrive any minute. I burst into top speed, rushing upstairs, brushing my hair and my teeth, and adding a bit of lipstick. Should I change clothes? No, I was meant to be working—dark wool trousers and jacket would have to do. This wasn’t a social occasion, after all. Was it?

  I heard my phone ringing as I descended the last set of stairs and dashed the rest of the way into my office. When I saw the caller, I started up the stairs again as I answered.

  “Dinah, sweetie, are you phoning about your diorama? Because I’m just this minute going up into the attic.” I don’t usually do two sets of stairs down and immediately do them back up again. I arrived at my flat panting.

  “Are you sure, Mum? Because I don’t have to have it for my project.”

  “Of course you must have it.” Inside my flat, I retrieved the attic key from the drawer of an occasional table covered in unwanted post—flyers and adverts—and set off up yet another flight of stairs, these narrower and steeper. “I know exactly where it is, and it won’t take me two ticks to put my hands on it. I’ll ring you back and let you know I’ve got it, all right?”

  “Just a text, Mum, that’ll do. Or phone me tomorrow. I’m about to pop out to the pub to meet this fellow.”

  “Fellow?” I wheezed as I reached the landing and made for the attic door. I attempted to mask my interest with an offhand manner. “That’s lovely, sweetie. Who is he? What’s his name? Is he a student?”