The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  “Is he? Should I stay?”

  “No need, he won’t be here until just before lunch.”

  “Is it about Charles Henry?”

  Mrs. Woolgar nodded solemnly. “Yes, I believe it is, but he’s shared no details.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Whatever news our solicitor, Duncan Rennie, had concerning Charles Henry Dill and his underhanded efforts to destroy The First Edition Society did not—for the moment—concern me. There would be time enough for that later.

  The Minerva lay in almost a direct line on my journey to the police station—if I were to be suspected of snooping, that would be my defense. I only wanted to see for myself you were all right, I practiced as I turned off the High Street onto Northumberland Place.

  The pub door stood ajar, and the sounds that emerged of glasses rattling and chairs scraping across the floor signaled someone was about. I stuck my head in. Pauline, alone, and wearing her cleaning coveralls and bandanna, paced behind the bar, muttering to herself and rubbing her forehead, her journey to and fro punctuated by abrupt stops to shift bottles or move glasses or pick up beer mats and put them down again.

  “Hello?”

  Pauline spun round, and the bar towel she held hit the front row of small tonic bottles and dragged them off the shelf. They crashed to the floor, and she froze, staring at the mess, wringing her hands, and shaking.

  I ran to her, saying, “God, I’m sorry, Pauline. I didn’t mean to startle you. Here, you stand back and let me do this.”

  “I canceled this morning,” she said, her voice shaky.

  “Yes, I know—it’s all right. I only wanted to check on you.” I steered her to a barstool, found a broom, and swept the broken glass and fizzing liquid under the counter. It would have to do for now. I remained on the serving side, leaned over the bar, and took Pauline’s hands. They were cold, and she trembled. I looked into her red-rimmed eyes. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  It burst out of her. “She’s been nicked!”

  “Lulu?”

  Pauline pulled her hands away. “Police have her for theft. Those places that had been broken into, but not broken into, because they had—”

  “No sign of forced entry.”

  Pauline gulped. “Yeah.”

  “Were they your houses—for your cleaning business?”

  “No, not mine. I don’t know a thing about those break-ins. But Leonard does, I’m sure of it. My brother—he’s thick as a brick, God love him. What will they do to him?”

  “But the police know Lulu works for you—and you work at Middlebank.”

  Pauline panted, her eyes dark with fear. Slowly, she nodded. “They’ll think I had something to do with what happened there, won’t they?”

  “Did Lulu get the key and code for Middlebank from you?”

  “Are you asking did I hand them over?” Her voice rose, loud, shrill, and bordering on hysteria.

  I locked my eyes on her, and she didn’t look away. With as much confidence as I could muster, I said, “I am not accusing you, Pauline. But we need to sort this out.”

  She nodded, and her trembling subsided. “I’ve thought and thought,” she said. “I’m quite careful with my customers’ keys and such—it’s my business and my reputation, after all. When I’m here, I lock my bag in the safe in the office.” She pointed with her chin to the kitchen behind me. “But then there’s the little princess swanning in and out of the place, never saying what she’s up to. I caught her with the safe open. Had Leonard given her the combination, or had she stolen that, too? I thought she was after money, but now I see.” Pauline’s voice dropped to a wobbly whisper. “So, now it’s not only theft—it’s murder.”

  “Pauline, where does Lulu live?”

  She straightened up and sniffed, regaining a sense of herself. “Grove Street. I know that, you see, because I always check on new employees. I didn’t just take Leonard’s word for her, you know. She had references, and I rang every one.”

  “Where on Grove Street?”

  29

  I need to see Sergeant Hopgood.”

  The woman behind the desk at the police station might’ve thought she could put me off with her world-weary sigh, but I had well-honed antennae for such theatrics, being only a few years out of rearing a teenager.

  “I have vital evidence in the Trist Cummins murder enquiry,” I added. “And it involves the woman being questioned in the string of break-ins.”

  That got her in gear. In two minutes, DC Pye escorted me through the locked lobby door and into the nether regions of the station. When he passed Interview #1, I paused.

  “Aren’t we going in here?”

  “In use.” He nodded to a small drop-down sign beside the door that read In Use.

  “Is that where Lulu is?”

  Kenny Pye’s black eyebrows didn’t have quite the same communication skills as Hopgood’s, but when they knit together, I got the message and took a seat in Interview #2 next door.

  He left, and I stared at the walls. They’d better be quick about it—adrenaline would keep me awake for only so long, rock-hard chair or no. But both officers appeared almost immediately and sat across from me.

  Hopgood looked tired, alert, and annoyed, and I knew I’d better get to it.

  “Lulu Ingleby is flatmates with Amanda Seabrook.”

  The sergeant scrutinized me as Pye opened a file folder he’d brought in.

  “How do you know Lulu Ingleby?” Hopgood asked.

  I explained, strongly emphasizing my belief that Pauline knew nothing about what was going on.

  “Amanda Seabrook lives on Grove Street,” the DS replied, “and Lulu Ingleby has given an address off the Old Fosse Road.”

  “No, not true. But she could’ve given Leonard’s address.”

  “Ms. Lunn’s brother—we’re looking for him now.”

  “Here’s what I think. Maybe when Amanda found out Lulu had broken into those other houses, she told Lulu about Middlebank. Maybe she told her there were valuables there in order to get Lulu’s help breaking in.”

  I heard all the maybes coming out of my mouth and despaired. Would he think I’d gone round the bend?

  “Why would Ms. Seabrook want to return to Middlebank on her own?” Pye asked.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “But look at this.” I took the exercise book out of my bag and laid it on the table.

  “Lady Fowling kept notes on everything in her life,” I explained. “Detective stories, recipes, diary entries from when Sir John was alive. I’ve only recently come across them—they were all packed away in a carton in the cellar. Except this one must’ve been left elsewhere—maybe in the library. And I believe Amanda found it. Someone’s written over her ladyship’s work all the way through—take a look.”

  Hopgood took a ballpoint pen out of his pocket and—pen nib sheathed—flipped open a page. Fingerprints. Why hadn’t I thought of fingerprints?

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve touched it. It never occurred to me it was evidence until after I’d seen what was inside.”

  “Not to worry, Ms. Burke,” Hopgood murmured, turning another page or two. “It looks as if someone has done the fingerprinting work for us.”

  In the corner of one page, in what looked like the same black ink as the scrawls, was a perfect fingerprint. And that reminded me of something.

  “Sergeant Hopgood, can you lift fingerprints with Sellotape and reapply them elsewhere?”

  The eyebrows quivered. “Did you read that in a detective story?”

  “Sort of—Amanda wrote about it for one of Val Moffatt’s classes. One character was blackmailing another, who threatened to do that.”

  “How very imaginative. Just where did you come across this notebook, Ms. Burke?”

  “It was on the floor of the library on
a Thursday—the morning after the group met. The night before, I’d checked they’d put the room in order after they left, but we always have another look the next morning. That’s when Mrs. Woolgar noticed the library ladder out of place and I saw this.”

  “Which Thursday morning?”

  “The week before Trist was killed,” I replied. Hopgood drummed his fingertips on the table, and I took advantage of the pause. “Amanda is strong. And quite possessive. I saw her push Peter almost to the ground when she thought he’d taken her satchel. And he’s a sturdy fellow. Trist was tall, but as you said, weak. She could’ve carried him into Middlebank and up to the library.”

  Hopgood and Pye looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes.

  “Since Trist died,” I persisted, “she’s changed a great deal. Without any discussion, she took over leadership of the group, and her writing has become more aggressive, more violent.”

  Still no reaction, and I faltered. It had made so much sense to me in the middle of the night.

  “Am I joining up dots that don’t even exist?” I asked.

  “You’ve certainly given us reason to have another chat with Amanda Seabrook,” Hopgood said. “Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

  “Lulu! Hang on, I have photos. That is, had.” I dug in my bag for my phone. “I took photos that show Lulu and Amanda talking. Amanda told me she didn’t recognize Lulu, but she lied.”

  “How is it you have these photos?” Hopgood asked.

  “I . . . happened to see her when I . . . well, how else was I going to prove it to you?”

  “It is not for you to prove or disprove—your suspicions would be enough for us.”

  They wouldn’t be enough for Jane Marple—if she’d had the opportunity and an iPhone, she would’ve done the same thing.

  “Will you show us?” DC Pye asked.

  “I can’t—Amanda deleted them.” I could see a sharp gleam in Hopgood’s eye, and so drove my point home. “Yes, destroying evidence.” I related what happened and offered up my phone, adding, “Could you find them again, do you think?”

  Hopgood deferred to Pye, who shrugged. “I can ask IT.”

  “No—wait!” I practically levitated when the thought hit me. “Val has them—he recognized Lulu because he’d seen her around Bath College during evening classes. I sent them to him, and he was going to find out if she was a student. Shall I ring him and ask?”

  “No need,” the sergeant replied. “Pye—don’t we have Mr. Moffatt’s number?”

  I didn’t see why they wouldn’t let me phone him. It would give me a reason to enquire about our dinner date.

  Kenny Pye stepped away from the table, and the DS and I sat quietly as I attempted to listen in on the phone conversation. “Mr. Moffatt? This is Detective Constable Pye, Avon and Somerset Police.”

  I hid a smile, thinking he could’ve identified himself another way—Mr. Moffatt? It’s your writing student Kenny Pye. I’m here with Detective Alehouse . . .

  I cut my eyes at Hopgood, who had his head bent as he studied details in the folder.

  And in that moment, I saw what happened. What an odd feeling, the way thoughts—the clues and evidence—seemed to weave themselves together as of their own accord.

  As Pye talked with Val, I said, “Sergeant, I think Amanda believed Trist had stolen that notebook from her.”

  Hopgood’s head shot up.

  “I think he knew she was getting back into Middlebank,” I continued with confidence. “He might’ve followed her that night. I remember he said to me once that no one in the group should have an advantage over the others. He might’ve been talking about Amanda and the notebook and going back into the library. And so he confronted her and they argued out on Gravel Walk.”

  “That was quite an argument if she threw him against the railing post,” Hopgood said, but in a thoughtful way, as if he, too, could see it.

  Kenny Pye had ended his call and said, “All right, boss—he’ll bring over his phone after his morning class ends, about twelve.”

  Hopgood stood with a smile. “Thank you, Ms. Burke. Now, I suggest you carry on with your own job, and let us do ours.”

  “But didn’t I just—”

  Didn’t I just what—solve their murder for them? What did you expect, Hayley—a medal?

  DC Pye escorted me to the lobby and watched me walk out. I contemplated sitting on Harry’s low stone wall across from the station until Val arrived, but it was only ten now, and I’d had enough of wet bottoms for one week.

  Instead, I took myself to Waitrose and had a Bath bun and a coffee and a morose stroll down the ready-meal aisle, remembering when Val and I had met here. I bought a sandwich for my lunch later and left.

  But my feet dragged on the way back to Middlebank until they stopped moving altogether when I arrived in Queen Square. I took a bench and admired the cherry trees at the south entrance, putting on their brief autumn display, leaves catching fire in shades of orange and red. The square was a peaceful place known mostly for the tall obelisk in its center, which had been set there in 1738 by dandy and eighteenth-century fashionista Beau Nash. My former place of employment, the Jane Austen Centre, was only steps away. I had often come out to the square for my lunch and heard countless tour guides relate the history of the place. Perhaps it wouldn’t be long before I’d be having my lunch here again after I got turfed out of The First Edition Society and Middlebank. Would the Centre take me back as assistant to the assistant curator?

  With such depressing thoughts filling my head, I nonetheless put on a brave face for Mrs. Woolgar and Duncan Rennie when I arrived at Middlebank. I heard their voices in the secretary’s office and found her behind the desk and Mr. Rennie sitting across from her. He rose when he saw me.

  Our solicitor must be in the general vicinity of sixty years old. I had only ever seen him dressed as he was today—that is to say, impeccably. He wore a gray, pinstriped, three-piece suit with a smoky-blue handkerchief peeking out of a breast pocket. He had a shiny face and slicked-back brown to silver hair. His normal countenance—at least what I was accustomed to seeing—was a fretful look, as if business matters ate away at him constantly. Perhaps it was a hazard of his profession. But when he did offer a rare smile, all that worry fell away, and he gave off the air of a man who quite enjoyed the world.

  He broke into a smile now, an impish grin. “Ms. Burke—we’ve got him.”

  My hand flew to my throat. “Charles Henry? Not—not for the murder, I suppose?”

  Rennie’s good spirits flagged slightly. “No, I’m terribly sorry about that, but still, we can put a stop to this latest trickery. He thought to break the Society’s status as a charitable trust by saying that detective fiction shouldn’t be considered a contribution to the arts. Well, as is his wont, he went about it in the most cack-handed way.” The solicitor’s face colored slightly. “Please forgive me.”

  It’s a proper gentleman who apologizes for using a word that was more slang than offensive. “It’s all right, Mr. Rennie, we all know what he’s like.”

  “We do indeed,” Mrs. Woolgar added.

  “Suffice it to say,” Rennie continued, “Lady Fowling had instructed that the governing documents be written in accordance with the law, and try as he might, Dill could find nothing untoward. The Society is solid, as he probably well knew. I believe he does these things only to make as much trouble as he can.”

  I nodded. “He’s all mouth and no trousers.”

  The solicitor sputtered, and Mrs. Woolgar pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose.

  “Sergeant Hopgood said that,” I offered, by way of excuse.

  “Well, he was able to put the wind up the first curator, Ms. Merton, and so I’m delighted that you were not frightened off.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Rennie.” My eyes pricked with tears. “Of course, without Mrs. Wo
olgar, I wouldn’t’ve been able to hold up.”

  Mrs. Woolgar blushed, took off her glasses, and put them back on again. “We cannot see Lady Fowling’s vision dimmed.”

  I scratched my nose so she wouldn’t catch my smile—good on her, we weren’t about to wallow in sentiment, were we?

  “And so”—I wanted to be quite clear about this—“Charles Henry has told you he’s backing off?”

  “Not in so many words,” Rennie said carefully, casting his eyes toward Mrs. Woolgar.

  “It has to do with that other matter,” the secretary said to me, her voice heavy with import.

  This was no time for euphemisms. “You mean his affair with Maureen Frost?”

  Before Mrs. Woolgar could object to such language, the buzzer sounded.

  “Oh.” The secretary stood. “That could be—”

  “Don’t bother, I’ll go.”

  Maureen Frost stood on the front step with a commanding presence that had been missing from our other encounters—board meetings in the library. Now I could see her on the stage—how had I overlooked this? She had a deep burgundy scarf swept to one side, tied at the shoulder and tucked just under her steel-gray pageboy, and wore a black dress with a cinched waist and lipstick of a shade that perfectly matched the scarf. Behind her, wearing an oleaginous smile and his brown plaid suit, stood Charles Henry.

  “Hello,” I said warmly. “Do come in—both of you. I was just this minute having a chat with Mrs. Woolgar and Mr. Rennie.”

  “Thank you, Hayley,” Ms. Frost said. As she walked by me, I half expected her to give the command “Come along” to her companion, but he followed without direction.

  Mrs. Woolgar and Mr. Rennie emerged from the secretary’s office, and we all stood in the entry. I felt unexpectedly lighthearted. “Shall I pop the kettle on?” I asked.

  “No need, but thank you,” Maureen replied. “We are on our way to lunch at the Gainsborough and only wanted to stop and tell the two of you—and you, too, Duncan, as you are here—that . . . well, Charles Henry?”

  Dill gave Maureen a glance and she returned a warm look of encouragement. He nodded in reply, stepped forward, and put his hands behind his back as if about to recite a poem for a school award. “Mrs. Woolgar and Ms. Burke, I’m quite sorry if my actions have caused any concern on your part as to the stability of the Society. Old wounds, you know. Our pasts shape us more than we know or would like to admit, and I see now that events in my childhood may have colored the way I see what my aunt considered her greatest accomplishment. I do apologize and I withdraw any statements I made that could have in any way been interpreted as an accusation or a”—the word caught in his throat, until Maureen touched his arm and he coughed out—“threat.”