The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  Dinah laughed. “Oh, Mum, really. I tell you what, I’ll ask him to send you his CV. Cheers now—bye.”

  She was joking, but that would be no bad thing.

  The few boxes of possessions I’d stored in the attic when I’d first arrived just over three months ago appeared to have multiplied fourfold—or possibly I’d forgotten how many I had. Beyond my stacks of cartons were chairs with broken legs, a sofa with horsehair stuffing spilling out of disintegrating chintz, tables with no tops, and a massive kitchen dresser that would never have fit in my flat or Mrs. Woolgar’s. The attic was home to furniture not even fit for the cellar, apparently. I’d grouped my boxes in the middle of the floor, hoping whatever had gnawed at the upholstery and chair legs could see I had nothing to offer. I padded over to begin my search, and looked at my feet. The dust sifted down like snow here in the attic—a thick coat had accumulated on the bare wood floor, almost extinguishing the police footprints made during their search the morning we’d found Trist’s body. I’d need to clean my shoes when I finished.

  My own scribbled labels—so unlike Lady Fowling’s careful writing—made vague references to places in the house or eras of my life. KIT—kitchen. BED—not the entire bed, but extra blankets and such. SPORT. This was a tall box and closed only by folded flaps, and so I took a peek. Oh yes, cricket paraphernalia from Dinah’s short-lived and yet outrageously expensive schoolgirl passion. She’d been kitted out well, plus we bought her a good-quality girl’s willow bat. I should donate the lot to a club.

  Diorama—now where might that be? I spotted a box marked BABY. Dinah as a baby—no, certainly not there. That carton was filled with shiny black shoes that were never walked in and tiny dresses appliquéd with bunnies. And then I remembered something else the carton contained—a lovely china figurine Mum had given us when Dinah was born. It played “Edelweiss” as a dancer slowly twirled. For a while, it was the only thing that would put Dinah to sleep. Even now, I could see her liquid blue eyes watching in wonder as it played and turned, until her lids grew heavy and she drifted off. Tears filled my own eyes as I wondered where my baby girl had gone. I decided to unpack the carton and bring the china figurine back into the light of day, and had shifted two boxes when, in the distance, I heard the front-door buzzer.

  I flew down three flights of stairs, shouting, “I’ll get it, Mrs. Woolgar,” and when I reached the ground floor, I had to put one hand against the door to catch my breath before I opened it.

  Val held up an enormous shopping bag from Waitrose. “I’m working for their delivery service now.”

  “And have you moved your bed into the beer aisle?” I held the door open.

  “Yet to be sorted.”

  In the kitchenette, he spread the food out on the table, and I admired his choices while I put the kettle on. “You’ve outdone yourself, chef. I’m sure any one of the salads would’ve been enough.” He opened a bakery box, and I exclaimed, “Ooh, mini sausage rolls.”

  “How’s the enquiry? Anything on the nephew?”

  He seized that topic with great enthusiasm, and I thought it was to stay off the subject of Wyn.

  “It’s looking as if Charles Henry might be innocent—more’s the pity. But . . . well, I might have found something out.” I paused for dramatic effect.

  Val waited and then said, “Right then, c’mon, don’t hold back.”

  I retrieved my phone from my office and explained about Lulu. “She works for Pauline, but I don’t think Pauline is involved—although, I know I shouldn’t play favorites. I had hoped Lulu and Charles Henry were in it together, but that seems unlikely now. Still, she’s a dodgy character.”

  Val hadn’t responded. Instead, he was studying one of the photos of Lulu. “We saw her at the Minerva—after we presented to the committee about the salons.”

  “Yes, we did. Do you know her?”

  “I’ve seen her around college,” he said. “In the evenings. She must be a student. Do you want me to find out?”

  “Yes, please—because the more we know, the more definite we become.” I liked that phrase. “That sounds like something Miss Marple might say, doesn’t it?”

  I smiled, and Val, watching me, smiled back. He held out my phone. “Why don’t you send that photo to me, and I’ll ask the other evening lecturers if they know her?”

  “Will do. I meant to take only a couple, but instead got two of those ‘bursts.’ I don’t know how to pull just one photo out, so you’ll get about a million of them.” I looked up when I finished. “Also, there’s a chance that someone—the murderer—might’ve come into Middlebank even before that night.”

  I explained what I’d told the police and Val didn’t take it well.

  “You shouldn’t stay here.”

  “It’s been a fortnight since Trist was murdered—and we haven’t noticed anything disturbed since then.”

  “Surely the police found something during the original search? Fingerprints?”

  I shook my head. “Either they found our fingerprints or the writers’—all in the usual places—or they found nothing. Except, Trist’s leather case was missing.”

  Val frowned and drummed his fingers on the table. “Still—how can it be safe for you?”

  “Now, don’t spoil our lovely meal with worry. Let’s talk about something else. Notebooks—I have an idea about Lady Fowling’s. A series of articles for the newsletter—we could call it The Real Georgiana Fowling or The Mystery of the Woman Behind the Collection. We could use photos of her handwritten pages. What do you think?”

  “That’s brilliant, that is.”

  I went as red as a beetroot.

  “Every writer has his or her own way of keeping track of ideas,” he said. “You could put out a call for guest pieces about other writers’ methods. I’m sure your group would love to talk about theirs.”

  After that, we got stuck in to our meal, and exchanged stories about our daughters. That led me to Dinah’s news that she wanted a car and of my ex hoping to unload his wreck onto her.

  “What work does Roger do?” Val asked.

  “Bridges,” I said, and popped a mini sausage roll in my mouth.

  “He builds bridges?”

  My mouth full, I shook my head.

  “He designs bridges?”

  Another shake.

  Val’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he asked, “Are they dental bridges?”

  I snorted into my napkin.

  “Palladian bridges,” I replied at last. “He’s made a specialty for himself—the decorative elements of architecture, particularly bridges, and he consults on the conservation of all those pediments and scallop shells.” I took another sausage roll, and added grimly, “It’s spotty work.”

  “Isn’t that a Palladian bridge at Prior Park?”

  I nodded. Only a brief but exhaustingly uphill walk south of the rail station in Bath sat Prior Park with exquisite views and its own magnificent eighteenth-century bridge. “It was restored in the nineties and is currently in fine fettle. No consultation required.”

  “How are the writers taking Trist’s murder?” Val asked.

  We were back to murder, but away from my ex, and that suited me. “I don’t know any of them well, but how could it not affect them? Harry and Trist had a relationship a couple of years ago, and that’s probably made this harder on her than the others. Peter and Mariella seem all right. Amanda keeps moaning that she doesn’t know what they’ll do without Trist, yet she’s the one who has taken charge.”

  “It’s Amanda I wanted to talk about. These last two class meetings after the murder, her writing has veered away from traditional mystery into—well, I can’t quite describe it. Her words are sharp, her characters have hardened, nothing quite makes sense in her stories, and her responses to comments are combative.”

  “I heard you reading a piece to your students on
Monday—only a snatch, but it sounded as if the detective was the killer.”

  Val nodded. “That was Amanda’s—you see what I mean.”

  “A far cry from Tommy and Tuppence. But Sergeant Hopgood says that murder changes people. Perhaps this evening, we’ll get a better idea of how they are coping.”

  Val sat back in his chair. I rearranged the empty food containers and toyed with my fork, spilling a few grains of couscous onto the table. All at once I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “I sent Wyn a text this morning.”

  Oh, look, I did have something to say after all.

  I gulped. “I broke it off with him in a text. That’s awful, isn’t it?” I covered my face with my hands, the reality of my actions hitting me full force. “I’m a terrible person.”

  Val leaned forward and pried my hands away. He kept hold of them, resting his elbows on the table. “You’re not. It’s normal to feel a bit guilty, isn’t it? But how long were you supposed to wait for him to ring you? You did everything you could.” I couldn’t lift my head but looked up through my lashes and saw him blush. “It’s just possible I’m biased, of course.”

  I smiled.

  “Ms. Burke.”

  Mrs. Woolgar stood in the doorway. Val and I popped out of our chairs, as if we were teenagers caught snogging on the sitting room sofa.

  “Hello, Mr. Moffatt,” she continued, giving me a moment to compose myself. “Lovely to see you again.”

  “Mrs. Woolgar. How are you? I’ve come to keep Hayley company, as it’s the evening for the writers group.”

  She smiled and nodded. “That’s very good of you. I only wanted to say I’m off now. Good evening.”

  I followed her to the door, and Val stayed behind in the kitchenette. Mrs. Woolgar had excellent timing—as she walked away, Peter and Mariella came up from the other direction.

  “Hello, good evening.” I held the door for them. “I’ve a visitor this evening—Val Moffatt. He teaches writing at Bath College, and Amanda’s taking a course from him. I wonder if you’d mind if we both sat in on the session?”

  “Oh yeah,” Mariella said, “I’d like that. It’s difficult to be only four all of a sudden.”

  “Dynamics have changed,” Peter agreed. “I’d welcome a new face.”

  “Right, well, I’ll make sure it’s all right with Harry and Amanda when they arrive. Before you go up, Mariella, I want to show you a photo.”

  I nipped back for my phone, and brought Val out with me, introducing him to Peter and Mariella plus Harry, who had arrived with her, laptop clutched to her chest.

  “Are you coming up for the group, Mr. Moffatt?” she asked. “Amanda’s said lovely things about your course.”

  Val said he would be there. We remained in the entry, and Harry took a keen interest when I showed Lulu’s photo to Mariella.

  “No, sorry, don’t know her.”

  Harry asked me, “Can I have a word before we go up?”

  “No time for idle talk,” Amanda announced on the doorstep. “Up to the library with you, chop-chop.”

  “Val and Hayley are coming up this evening,” Peter said, shooting a quick look at Mariella and Harry. “We think it’s fine—all right with you?”

  Amanda’s left eyebrow jumped. She scanned the group, and then said, “Lovely—the more the merrier.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Before you begin,” I said when they were seated round the library table, “I want to say thanks for letting us sit in.”

  “You’re always welcome, Hayley,” Mariella said.

  They’d always invited me, but once had been enough until now.

  “Well, yes, I know that, but I don’t want to be a bother—except I do want to tell you about an interesting find I’ve made here at Middlebank. Lady Fowling kept notebooks—I’ve come across an entire carton of them in storage. She wrote about everything, from detectives to cooking. And it got me to wondering, do all writers do that? I’ve noticed you have your works in progress on your computers and that you print pieces out—but do you have a place to jot down ideas and that sort of thing?”

  Harry plunged her hand into her bag and brought out a small black notebook that had swelled with extra bits of paper folded up and inserted between pages. It might once have had an elastic band to keep it closed, but now it was wrapped several times over with a thick rubber band. She held it up proudly.

  Peter looked deep into his canvas bag, rummaged round, and came up with a spiral-bound notepad, the metal pulled out of shape. “I go through about one a month,” he said. “I’ve got them in order taking up an entire set of shelves.”

  “Well, that’s grand,” Amanda said. “Now, I suppose we’d better get started.”

  “Yes, sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to—”

  “Not at all, Hayley,” she replied briskly. “Lovely to have you here. Right, who’s first?”

  We were observers only. At least, I was—the proverbial bump on the log. But the writers sought out Val’s opinion and I enjoyed watching him in action. He had the most amazing knack of offering both praise and criticism. No, make that critique. Val didn’t voice disapproval over the writing but offered a balanced evaluation. He told Harry that her representation of Miss Marple as a single mother who had given up her child imbued the amateur detective with a humanity seldom seen. Harry’s eyes had filled with tears. Peter hadn’t cried, but he did look rather chuffed when Val commented that using current celebrities as the characters in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd brought to light the shallowness of their lives.

  Mariella would read her piece next after the short break. Harry asked Val a question about point of view, and I took the opportunity to show Amanda the photo of Lulu. “It’s nothing, really—she works for a friend. Have you ever seen her?”

  “All right if I go downstairs to make the tea, Hayley?” Mariella asked.

  “Oh, tea, that’s right. No, I’ll do it.” I turned back to Amanda. “Take your time with the photos. There are loads of them—my fault—but you need to look at only the first few. Everyone else has seen them.”

  “Would you like help?” Val asked as I passed him.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” I murmured. “You’re too much of a hit here.”

  In the kitchenette, I had filled the kettle, set it on the hob, and took out the large teapot. When the front door buzzed I paused, wondering if the woman at the desk in the police station had told Sergeant Hopgood of my earlier visit. Had he stopped by to find out what I had wanted? I would need to get my phone back from Amanda to show him the photos of Lulu.

  Those were my thoughts as I opened the door, and so I wasn’t prepared for what waited on the other side.

  Wyn.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  His computer bag was slung across his shoulder—the strap had caught the lapel of his jacket, turning it up, while his tie looped under and over, the end sticking straight out. His usually boyish face was pale, with the shadow of a frown across his brow.

  “I mean”—I was already on the wrong foot—“come in. I didn’t realize you were back from Brussels.”

  “When I saw your text, I changed my flight and came into Bristol, and got the train.” He stepped in, but didn’t move far.

  The guilt that had flitted around in the corners of my mind throughout the day grew large and dark and difficult to see through. But then a tiny thought pierced the blackness—my text had been sent more than twelve hours ago and there must be dozens of flights from Brussels. The entire journey to Bath couldn’t be much more than two hours.

  “I’m sorry, Wyn, but you wouldn’t answer your phone. It’s what I tried to explain on Sunday.”

  “You caught me at a bad time on Sunday.”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry about that, too, but if we’d only had a chanc
e to talk—”

  “It’s him, isn’t it?”

  My blood ran cold. “Who?”

  Wyn’s gaze darted round the entry. “That bloke I met last time I was here.”

  I threw back my shoulders and reminded myself I had nothing to feel guilty about. It helped, but not much.

  “I introduced you to Val Moffatt from Bath College. As I’ve told you, the Society and the college are coordinating a series of literary salons beginning in January, and Val was kind enough to come here to Middlebank for a planning session.”

  “To your bedroom?”

  “Don’t be—” I took a calming breath. “To my office here on the ground floor. As I’ve mentioned before, the entirety of Middlebank is not my home.”

  The frown was no longer a shadow. Wyn stuck out his lower lip. “Hayley, I proposed to you.”

  “Proposed?” I choked out. “‘Let’s get married!’ You call that a proposal? You could’ve been asking me out for fish and chips, for all I could tell.” I heard voices from upstairs and remembered the library door stood wide open. A movement on the landing caught my eye, and I glanced up, trying to see who it was. When I turned back, the most awful sight met my eyes.

  Wyn was down on one knee. He grabbed my hand, held it tight, and looked up at me.

  “Hayley Burke, I love you. Will you marry me?”

  27

  I heard the library door click closed, shutting off the voices, and I knew, I was certain, that Val had been standing on the landing and had heard and seen everything.

  “Get up!” I yanked on the strap of Wyn’s computer bag and dragged him to his feet. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? A marriage proposal will not fix this—we are too different. I will not move to London. Your business is your life, but it’s not the sort of life I can share—there’s no room for me in it. But it’s what makes you happy, and I will not try to change that. So it’s over, Wyn—you must see that.”

  He straightened his lapel and tie and adjusted the strap. “I thought that was what you wanted,” he complained. “To be married. I thought I was giving you your heart’s desire.”