Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  If anyone saw what Quoth really was, they’d haul him away to some secret lab for tests and I’d never see him again. On my shoulder, his body quivered as the truth of Lydia’s statement hit him as well. I held him against my chest, feeling his tiny bird heart patter. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you, I thought with ferocity.

  “Your expression suggests you think otherwise,” Lydia folded her arms.

  “Threatening us is a mistake,” Heathcliff growled.

  “Perhaps, but I don’t know any other way of getting what I want. When I wanted to go to Brighton as Mrs. Forster’s most special companion, all I had to do was remind Daddy of what a terror I’d be if he refused, and he folded like a deck of cards. Besides, it’s true that you have some skill at solving crimes. I trust you more than those officers downstairs, and here in this house you have a better chance of it than back at the shop.” Lydia twirled a strand of hair around her finger. “Therefore, I urge you most earnestly to get to work upon protecting my person.”

  “Very well,” Morrie gathered Heathcliff, Quoth and me into a huddle. “She’s got us over a barrel, and she knows it. I can’t believe after all the fictional characters who’ve come through the shop, it would be Lydia Bennet who’d try to destroy us.”

  “Really?” Noting the ease with which Lydia had trapped them, I found it hard to believe none of the other fictional characters had tried something similar.

  “I’m sure others have considered it. But knowing Morrie’s reputation has been enough to stop any potential plots,” Heathcliff said. “That girl is special.”

  “I guess we’re going to have to try and solve this case,” I said, the corner of my lip twitching at Morrie.

  “You don’t have to sound so glad of it,” Heathcliff growled. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

  “I know, and Lydia is trying to get us all killed. Let’s stop this guy before that happens. Where do we start?”

  Morrie glanced over at the door. A small crowd had already gathered, drawn by Lydia’s screams. One of the men was dispatched downstairs to send for the detectives. “If we don’t know to whom the message was addressed, our next course of action is to consider who might have motive for killing Professor Hathaway. It seems unlikely this message came from the jewel thief, which means it’s possible the murderer used the story of the Argleton Jewel Thief to pin the blame elsewhere.”

  “Hathaway has a long list of enemies,” I said. “I’ve barely known the man a day and already I’d happily watch him get eaten by sharks.”

  Possibly don’t say that out loud during a murder investigation, Quoth said inside my head, as Hayes and Wilson rounded the corner of the hall and saw the message. They immediately started clearing people from the area. We shuffled back with the rest of the crowd.

  “Gerald has to be our top suspect,” Heathcliff said. “That display over breakfast this morning proves he has a reason to hate Hathaway.”

  “There’s even more to it than that,” I said, relating what Gerald told me at the bar. “And he had a red stain on his jacket and a torn sleeve.”

  “It could match the fabric found on the windowsill,” Heathcliff said.

  “And I saw Gerald go outside,” Lydia explained. “After the first dance, I was… I have learned the new word. Ah, yes, I was snogging in the servants’ hallway with Mr. Jonathan Grimsby, and I happened to notice Gerald out of the corner of my eye. He came from the ballroom, down the hall and headed through the door outside.”

  My delight at hearing Lydia Bennet use the word snogging was superseded by my desire to fit this new information into our theory. “Did you see him come back in that way?” I asked her.

  “I did not. However, I didn’t think much of it at the time, and Mr. Grimsby and I were very much occupied. It’s possible Gerald slipped by without my notice.”

  “Or perhaps he didn’t climb back out the window,” Morrie said. “If he needed to go back to the ballroom as quickly as possible in order to establish his alibi, and if he knew Lydia and her paramour were in the hallway, he may have decided to simply head straight across the antechamber and into the ballroom without going around the building.”

  “That makes sense, but how did he look so clean? There were no bloody footprints on the floor around the crime scene, and apart from that one speck on Gerald’s coat, he wasn’t bloody, either. Wouldn’t the person who stabbed him have been covered with blood?”

  “He must have cleaned himself up before he went back to the room,” Morrie mused. “But where did he stash whatever he used to clean himself? Hmmmm…”

  “He’s not the only suspect to consider,” Heathcliff added. “We have Professor Carmichael, his bitter academic rival.”

  “I can’t believe her capable of killing anyone,” I said. “Besides, she was sitting at our table all night.”

  “Was she?” Morrie inquired. “We spent a great deal of the evening dancing, and Heathcliff was hiding from his future wives. Can you honestly say you watched that table through the entire evening?”

  “No.” I frowned. “That means Alice Yo must be a suspect, too. She was writing that article about Hathaway that would expose his secrets. Perhaps he confronted her about it and she lost it. Jo said she was desperate for something to sell, and she said something odd to me before. She asked me not to tell the police she was investigating him. ‘Someone else’s life is on the line’, she said.”

  “It’s possible, but unlikely,” Morrie said. “I think we need to look into this Gerald more carefully. And this goes without saying, but no one mention to the police that would make them suspect we’re doing their work for them. We can’t have them investigating Lydia too closely. I’ll get some records made up for her as quickly as I can. She’s your French cousin, yes? Can I make her a milkmaid—”

  “Mina Wilde,” Inspector Hayes interrupted, flipping his pad open again and darting his inquisitive eyes around the members of our group. “I guess you and I aren’t done talking. If you and your suitemate could follow me.”

  I grabbed Lydia’s arm and dragged her with me.

  * * *

  By the time Lydia and I had finished talking with Inspector Hayes and Lydia had given me seven heart attacks with all the embellishments she made to our cousin-visiting-from-France cover story (which checked out in their records, thanks to some fast hacking by Morrie), the crime scene team had photographed the door, scoured the area for fingerprints and forensic evidence, and Cynthia had her staff attempt to remove the paint with a stripper, taking half the door with it. It was now past two in the morning, and I was too tired to take a cab back to the shop, even if Lydia hadn’t refused to leave. I crawled into the bed in the guys’ room, nestling into Heathcliff’s shoulder. Behind him, Quoth lay down and touched my arm, his fingers featherlight as they moved over my skin. Morrie lay down on the opposite side of me, kissing my neck. Immediately, my body reacted, sizzling with heat. I thought about telling him to stop, that he hadn’t yet responded to my ultimatum, but I hadn’t the strength to deny him. I longed to drive out the horror I’d witnessed tonight with kisses and caresses. Morrie’s lips found mine, tipping my head back, exposing my neck to Heathcliff’s lips. Quoth’s hand trailed across my chest and brushed my erect nipple—

  Lydia bounded through the connecting door and leaped on the bed. “Move over. You need to make room.”

  “Ow!” Morrie leaped up, clutching his jaw. “Ah bit mah tongue!”

  “What are you doing?” I murmured. Searing pain arced behind my eyes, even though I’d already taken two of Dr. Clements’ painkillers. “You’re the one who insisted on staying at the Hall. Now get back to the murder bed.”

  “I cannot possibly sleep alone in there tonight, especially when you insist upon calling it ‘the murder bed’. You shall have to accommodate me in here.”

  I glared at Morrie, who was too busy rubbing his tongue with ice from the Champagne bucket. You’re no bloody use. “Fine,” I sighed.

  Lydia settled herse
lf in the middle of the bed, spreading out her petticoats around her. “I feel so much better to know I have all these big, strong men around to protect me. Mina, you sleep on that edge. That way, any killer will have to stab you first in order to reach me.”

  “It’s nice to know you care.” I crawled under the blanket on the other side of Quoth and pressed a pillow over my head to block out the sound of Lydia giggling.

  Cock-blocked by Lydia Bennet. I cannot believe my life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I stood in the middle of an empty ballroom. Fairy lights twinkled, pinpricks of light piercing the gloom. From somewhere in front of me, a band struck up the first notes of a jaunty Regency dance tune. It took me a moment to recognize the riff from The Clash’s ‘Guns of Brixton’.

  I knew I was supposed to be dancing, but if I took a step in any direction, I’d be flailing blindly. I glanced around, hoping someone would bring the lights up. My hands grabbed at thin air.

  “Hello?” I called. “I need a partner. I can’t see a thing, and I don’t know the moves.”

  DRIP.

  Something splashed on my shoulder. Raindrops? But I was inside. How could it be raining? I lifted my hand to wipe away the water.

  DRIP DRIP DRIP.

  More raindrops fell on my bare skin. I held my fingers up to my face. In the dim light, I could just discern the reddish liquid on their tips. A harsh, metallic smell hit my nostrils. Not water.

  Blood.

  Panic rose in my chest. The room spun, the band playing faster and faster until the notes blurred into one continuous cacophony. I looked up, my heart leaping in my throat. Instead of fairy lights, bloody swords hovered in the air above me, their blades hanging over my head. With each thump of the bass, they dropped closer, closer…

  “Mina… Mina?”

  I woke with a start. Bright sunlight pierced the curtains. A soft hand touched my shoulder. Quoth’s anxious face hovered in front of me. There were no swords, no sinister music, no droplets of blood.

  “You were shaking,” he whispered. “I was so worried.”

  “I’m fine.” I rubbed my eyes. “It was just a nightmare.”

  I sat up. A neon-green light flashed in my eyes. As it faded and I could make out the room, I realized I was in the guys’ room at Baddesley Hall, but no longer in the bed. Instead, I lay on the chaise lounge under the window, my back pressed against Quoth’s chest. Lydia sprawled across the bed like a starfish between Heathcliff and Morrie. Even in slumber, a self-satisfied smile played across her face.

  “Lydia rolled over in the night and pushed you off the bed,” Quoth explained. “I believe it was on purpose, but of course I could not confirm. I carried you here. You’ve been whimpering and tossing and turning all night.”

  I squeezed his hand. “Thank you for staying with me.”

  “Always.” Quoth’s lips brushed mine, his kiss sweet and searching. I pulled him on top of me, my hands exploring his body, searching for comfort in his embrace.

  “Do you want to talk about the dream? Edgar Allan Poe placed a lot of emphasis on the prophetic nature of dreams, and so must I.”

  “I’m afraid this one is needlessly simple. I was alone in a dark ballroom. I wanted to dance, but if I moved from the spot, it would be too dark and I couldn’t see. There was blood dripping from the ceiling all over me.”

  “I think that means you’re afraid of stepping into the unknown, but you know you can’t stay where you are,” Quoth said, his face serious. “It means you should talk to your mother. And look at those pamphlets Dr. Clements gave you. And tell the guys about the fireworks.”

  “I think it’s about the fact I saw a man stabbed through the heart with a sword,” I declared.

  “Well, I think it’s about you running around solving murders so you don’t have to think about your eyesight,” Quoth observed.

  I bristled. “That’s not it. What I think is that I want to stop talking about it. And it’s my dream, so I make the rules. What are our plans today?”

  “I’m going back to open the shop so we can still pay the mortgage this month. You’re going to stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Yes, I know that, but in order to do that to the best of my ability, I need to continue to pretend to be interested in the Jane Austen Experience.”

  Quoth picked up the brochure. “As Cynthia said, most of the morning’s events have been canceled. But there’s a pre-breakfast poetry reading organized by some of Professor Hathaway’s graduate students. I thought you might like to attend with me before I head back.”

  “I’d love to.” I’d never much been into poetry, but after Morrie had read aloud the erotic work of John Donne the first time we slept together, I discovered a hidden affinity for it. “Should I wake the others and ask them to join us?”

  “I told Heathcliff last night and he said, ‘poetry is tough to stomach at any time of day, let alone before I’ve had my kippers’.” Quoth ran a hand through his sleek black hair. “Plus, I thought maybe this was something you and I could enjoy together.”

  I smiled. I hated that Quoth had been left out of the weekend’s events, again. It made me think of my dream, how much I’d wanted to dance but wasn’t able to because of my disability. Quoth’s disability always stopped him from doing things he enjoyed, and it wasn’t fair.

  Not this morning. Not with me.

  I threw on my now-very wrinkled muslin dress, Docs, and a pair of socks featuring titles of banned books (in honor of Mrs. Scarlett, may she rest in peace). Quoth pulled on Morrie’s tights, breeches, and topcoat, and hung his lanyard around his neck. As I predicted, he looked stunning. His black hair spilled down his back like a silken waterfall, and the shiny buttons reflected the flecks of orange fire in his eyes. He held out my arm and I took it.

  “To Mansfield Park!” I exclaimed.

  Quoth and I descended the staircase together. Our footsteps echoed around the silent Hall. Hardly anyone else was awake yet, although Cynthia’s staff darted across the entrance hall, carrying dishes and trays of food into the breakfast area. If not for the police tape roped across the entrance to the antechamber, there was no sign that anything terrible had happened last night.

  Unless you counted the horrible image of Professor Hathaway’s slain body that had etched itself permanently into my brain, that is.

  When we arrived at Mansfield Park – a pretty yellow drawing room opposite the marketplace – we found a few other morning birds flittering around. David shuffled back and forth from the front of the room, stopping every few moments to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. Alice sat in the front row. Her notebook rested open on her knees, and she snapped candid pictures around the room, her right index finger mashing the shutter.

  To my surprise, Christina Hathaway sat primly in a chair by herself in the far corner of the room, her eyes fixed on the lectern. I nudged Quoth, and we shuffled down the aisle to sit next to her.

  “Hi, Christina. I’m Mina Wilde. We met on Friday. I’m so sorry about your father,” I whispered.

  She blinked. It took her a few moments to turn her head. “I just can’t believe it,” she breathed, her voice hoarse from crying. “What monster would do such a thing? Daddy was so beloved, so popular in the community.”

  “Do you need anything? Can we get you a glass of water or… or…” I stumbled, not sure what to say to someone when their parent had been brutally murdered.

  “I’m afraid all food and drink taste like cardboard to me now.” Her fingers gripped the edge of her chair. “I’m only staying on at Baddesley because the police want me to remain nearby while they hunt for Daddy’s killer. Plus, Daddy would want me to attend the memorial service today.”

  “If you need anything, please let us know.” I slid away to leave her in peace, but she reached out with a cold hand to grip my arm.

  “You were the one who found his body,” she replied in her soft voice.

  “That’s right.” At that moment, I was gla
d I’d found him first and Christina might be spared seeing her beloved father with that horrid expression.

  “And you had those ugly words scrawled across your door?”

  “Yes, but I believe they were meant for my roommate, not me. She was…” draping herself all over your father like a common strumpet, in the Jane Austen vernacular, and he lapped it up like the creep he was. But that wasn’t something I should say to his grieving daughter, so I settled for, “…friendlier with your father than I was.”

  “And she is okay?” Christina dabbed at her eyes. “I’d hate to think this foul person is threatening others.”

  “She’s fine. Cynthia had one of her security team guarding the bedroom door all night. No one else will get hurt, and the police are doing everything they can to bring the killer to justice.”

  “I don’t know what I shall do now,” Christina said, her eyes glazing over. “I know Daddy would want me to continue his legacy in Austen scholarship, but I don’t know how I should manage when every bonnet and book reminds me of him. If only I had someone to help me, but I’m all alone.”

  I thought of Christina and Alice kissing in the darkened courtyard. “I hope you have friends who can support you. Someone you love who maybe you haven’t been able to spend time with.”

  Her face blanked. “I don’t know what—”

  “Christine, are these two bothering you?” David dropped into the seat next to her. He collected her hands in his and shot me a frown. “Please don’t speak about the incident. Christina has had enough trauma to last a lifetime. She doesn’t need to keep reliving it.”

  “I swear I didn’t say anything—” I protested, not wanting him to think I was delighting in recounting the gory details.

  “I’m fine, David. Really.”

  “Come with me. I’ve saved you a comfortable seat at the front of the room.” Christina’s eyes flicked to Alice, but she allowed David to help her to her feet. I hoped that in time, she’d be able to fully embrace who she was and be open about her relationship, but I guessed the day after her father’s murder was not the day.