“I hear you spent time in the village library yesterday afternoon. Did you discover anything useful?”
Six months earlier Fay would have wanted to ask how he knew that. Now she accepted it as part of village life. It was like living in a fishbowl. The jungle drums never stopped beating and one of the first people to receive information would always be the village doctor. It was the price you paid for living in a tight-knit community. In Manhattan, there were stories about people found dead in their apartments after three weeks. No one had noticed their absence.
That could never happen on Bluebell Island, even on the most isolated farms. By mid-morning, at the latest, someone would have noticed that your drapes were still closed and come knocking at your door to see if you were all right.
“Do you remember the books that were lying on the floor when we found Pinkerton in the library?”
“Of course. It looked as though they had been knocked from the shelf when he hit his head. Or perhaps he had been holding them when he was struck.”
“One of them is missing.”
“What do you mean missing? Perhaps someone checked it out of the library.”
“No. Mrs. Tribble checked her computerized catalogue. The book has been listed as missing and possibly mis-shelved since Friday afternoon.”
“How do you know exactly which books were on the floor?” He shook his head as he remembered. “Of course. Mrs. Tribble mentioned that you had taken photos of the crime scene.”
“Exactly. The missing book is called Inscriptions, Epigraphs and Epitaphs: a guide to hidden messages in Medieval culture.”
“Medieval codes, in other words. My father brought me up to date on the theories about Queen Eleanor’s dowry. This sounds as though it might be related to that.”
Fay showed him her photograph of the scene.
“Look at the other titles. There’s a clear theme.”
“I see what you mean. It’s still possible that the book has merely been mis-shelved. Or that the person who did the shelving took it.”
“That’s Mrs. Tribble’s assistant, Paul Leblanc. You don’t happen to know anything about him, do you?”
“Just that he’s a man of about my own age. I only became aware of him when I moved back to Bluebell Island. That means he wasn’t born and brought up here. He must be an import from the mainland. He was kind to Mrs. Tribble after the murder. He seemed to take good care of her.”
“I noticed that too. He was also at the seminar I attended on Saturday, more to accompany Mrs. Tribble rather than on his own account, I think.”
David looked out to sea as he turned things over in his mind. “I keep wondering where the murderer got that candlestick from. It’s a strange thing for anyone to carry around with them.”
“That’s something else I discovered yesterday. The candlestick was part of a pair that stood at the entrance to the library. The other one is still there, standing next to a store-bought imitation that someone bought to replace the missing one.”
“Interesting. That means it was a weapon of opportunity, not of forethought.”
“It looks that way. The person might have gone into the library not intending to kill anyone. They might have seen Pinkerton browsing through a book that contained the secret to Eleanor’s dowry, seized the candlestick from its side table, and hit him over the head with it.”
“And stolen the book?”
Fay shook her head. “Not at that stage. The book was there when I photographed the crime scene. The person might have found the opportunity to come back later and take the book at their leisure. Access control to the library is non-existent. Anyone can walk in.”
“Do the candlesticks belong to Mrs. Tribble?”
“They belong to the library. They were donated by an anonymous benefactor.”
“And they date from the same era as Eleanor of Castile?”
“From the same region too,” said Fay. “I showed a photograph to Henry and Marigold Bessinger from the RARE society and they recognized them at once.”
“I know who you mean. My father knows them quite well. They’re a strange couple – although I suppose couple isn’t the right word anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re splitting up – getting a divorce. It would have been finalized by now except for the fact that they can’t agree on how to divide up their property. My father says it’s becoming quite heated.”
“Interesting.”
All this time Fay had been thinking of the Bessingers as a unit when they were actually opposing factions. That changed everything.
When they got to Truro, David and Fay went their separate ways. He headed to the hospital where his friend worked, and Fay went to Pinkerton’s Rare and Collectible Books in Tabernacle Street. She was relieved to see that it was open as promised. She hadn’t noticed Cecil Travis on the ferry and had wondered if he had decided to stay on Bluebell Island another day.
Stuck between a pharmacy and an apartment block, Pinkertons was a real blink-and-you’ll-miss-it place. Its shop front was tiny and its signage small. It seemed to be trying to make itself as unobtrusive as possible. The windows had a one-way tint so that passers-by couldn’t see into the bookshop unless they pressed their noses up against the glass. The effect was anything but inviting. Even the front door was shut, although a tiny sign declared it to be open.
Fay pushed the door and heard a chime sound throughout the shop. It was dark and empty. Then movement erupted from a back room making Fay jump.
It was Cecil Travis emerging at top speed as though to stop her from shoplifting.
“Yes? Can I help you?” His tone was clipped.
“It’s me, Mr. Travis. Fay Penrose. I spoke to you at the seminar on Saturday night.”
He squinted at her. “Oh, right. I couldn’t make out your face silhouetted against the doorway. Please come in.”
His tone was several degrees warmer.
“I said you should pop in and see the shop sometime, didn’t I? Can I make you some tea?
“I don’t want to distract you if any paying customers come in.”
He chuckled. He seemed to find the possibility amusing.
“I can think of more likely eventualities.”
“Does no one come in here? Not ever?”
“Only by appointment. A couple of times a week you’ll get people walking in because they saw the sign, but they usually back out quickly when they see how dark it is.”
“How do you stay open? How do you afford the rent?” Fay’s practical American soul rebelled against this terrible marketing.
“I didn’t say no one came in here. I just said we don’t get many walk-ins. When people come here by appointment they are usually serious collectors looking for serious items. We might not make a sale often but when we do it counts. One sale could keep us going for months.”
“Can you give me the grand tour? I’d like to see what kind of merchandise fetches those prices.”
“Of course. You understand why I can’t turn on the lights?”
“Because of the risk of damaging the paper and fading the ink?”
“That’s it. Unfortunately, people only began to understand the link between exposure to light and damage to documents quite recently. These manuscripts were exposed to every kind of harsh condition for centuries before we made an effort to preserve them.”
“Where did all this stock come from?” asked Fay. “Did Desmond buy it himself?”
“Not at all. He inherited it. His grandparents were avid collectors. He was the only grandchild who showed an interest in medieval culture, so they left the whole lot to him. He used to say his inheritance was the greatest joy of his life. He added to it considerably over the years. He was always going to auctions of deceased and insolvent estates. He was especially interested if the estate was a historic house in the country. He picked up some treasures quite cheaply that way.”
“And now it’s all yours.”
Cecil pulled a face. “That’s
what I thought but apparently the lawyers are raising questions about that. They say there might be a later will to the one I knew about.”
“In whose favor?”
“Some long-lost relative. Desmond always told me he had no family. This is all quite unexpected. It might all have been for nothing.” He said the last sentence softly, as if he were speaking to himself.
“Did Desmond ever come across anything relating to Eleanor’s dowry?”
“Not that he told me. But he might have kept it secret. Now I’ll finally have the chance to look through his stuff properly. Even if someone else comes along and claims the inheritance, I’m the one who’s here now with all the time in the world to search.”
“What kind of security does this place have?”
Cecil laughed. “The best kind. The fact that nobody knows there’s anything worth stealing here.”
Chapter 17
Tabernacle Street at midnight was an eerie place.
The lone restaurant on the corner was shut. There were only two cars parked on the street and the bicycle racks were empty. The street lights bathed everything in an anemic glow. The pharmacy was quiet, the light above the door flickering fitfully.
Pinkerton’s Rare & Collectible Books was dark – a black hole between the apartment building and the pharmacy. There was not even a security light above the door.
The only sign of life on Tabernacle Street was a figure in a dark overcoat with the collar pulled up high and a knitted cap pulled down low. The figure walked in a hunched posture with its chin tucked in. When the police reviewed the CCTV security footage later they would be able to make out no distinguishing features of the figure in the overcoat – not age, race, gender, or anything.
The figure stopped in front of Pinkertons and extracted a long, thin tool from the pocket of its overcoat. Moving smoothly but without haste, the figure inserted the tool into the fragile and aged lock of the door. It popped open in seconds. The figure turned its shoulders to look up and down the short length of Tabernacle Street before pulling the door open and easing its way into the bookstore.
The street security cameras were unable to follow the figure into the bookstore, but they recorded a light coming on and bobbing around inside the shop. The police would conclude that the figure chose not to switch on the shop’s own lighting but rather to make use of a handheld flashlight, possibly from a cellphone.
Inside the shop, the figure pulled its hands out of its overcoat to reveal two gloves carefully pulled into place. Gripping a flashlight between its teeth, the figure moved systematically through the bookshop, rifling through the merchandise. It was as though the figure had been there before and knew its way around.
Rather than wasting time on different eras the figure homed in on the late Middle Ages. Every now and then the busy gloved fingers would stop and extract a book or manuscript. The flashlight would be trained on the pages of this tome and the intruder’s eyes would scan it eagerly, paying particular attention to the margins. Then the figure would slump in disappointment. The book would be closed and replaced in the exact spot that it had been taken from.
Once or twice, the figure took out its cellphone and took a photograph of a particular page of a manuscript. But still it wasn’t satisfied. The search continued until every medieval relic had been combed through. When the figure finished in the main part of the shop it moved to the back room. Here, various items lay open on a long work table. It seemed as though someone had been busy with restoration work. The figure’s movements were less assured now. The gloved hands trembled. It was as though this back room had been the goal all along. The care that the figure had displayed in the main part of the shop was gone now. The manuscripts were pulled about roughly and scanned for information. The pages were turned with a lack of respect that would have caused distress to any antiquarian.
Faster and faster went the search. The figure seemed to become frustrated as whatever it was looking for remained unfound. It started pulling open drawers and cupboards, making no attempt to return things to the way they were. Within minutes this had escalated into a full-blown tantrum. And still the desired object remained hidden.
It was 12:03 when the security cameras recorded the figure entering Pinkertons. At 01:36 the cameras showed the figure leaving the store. The figure seemed more agitated going out than it had coming in. Its movements were jerky and uncontrolled. It closed the door of the shop with a slam. The door failed to close properly. This time the police would note that the sheen of latex gloves was clearly visible on the figure’s hands. It appeared to be carrying nothing. The police would conclude that the lockpick and whatever flashlight or cellphone the figure had used were in its overcoat pockets.
The figure walked quickly down the road, heading south-east. Its movements were uneven and suggestive of frustration. It was somewhere close to the train station that the figure disappeared from the town’s security feeds and failed to reappear – at least not in a form that the police could recognize.
Fay got back from her morning run along the beach to be confronted by the unexpected sight of three uniformed police officers clustered around her kitchen door.
One of them was Sergeant Jones but she didn’t recognize the other two. Unless the Bluebell Island police department had suddenly acquired two new members that she was unaware of, these were mainlanders.
Fay stopped at the top of the cliff steps to stretch out her leg muscles and get her breath back. She didn’t want to confront them while out of breath from her run. They turned and watched as she approached.
“Good morning, officers. Can I help you with something?”
Sergeant Jones launched into an apology.
“So sorry to intrude like this, Fay love. Especially at this hour of the morning. I wanted to wait until a more reasonable time, but these officers insisted.”
Fay glanced at her watch. It wasn’t quite six o’clock yet. Ordinarily she would be heading upstairs to shower and get ready for the day, joining Morwen in the kitchen for breakfast preparation at around six-thirty. Apparently, she would be delayed this morning.
She thought for a moment and decided it would be okay. The muffin batter was already mixed. All Morwen had to do was bake it for the required amount of time. There was half a key lime pie in the fridge that could be cut up and served for breakfast. And there were white chocolate-chip cookies in the pantry. As long as they had some baked goods to offer the guests for breakfast it would be fine. Morwen could handle the rest of the set-up alone.
“This is Detective Sergeant Bowden of the Metropolitan Police Service in London,” Sergeant Jones said, indicating a man of about Fay’s age. “And this is Detective Constable Shufi.” He indicated a woman in her mid-twenties.
Fay shook hands and led the way to the kitchen.
“Coffee or tea, officers?”
“Coffee would be smashing, thanks Fay.” Sergeant Jones had dark circles under his eyes. “These two phoned me awake at three-thirty this morning. I’ve been on the go ever since.”
DS Bowden indicated that he would have coffee, while DC Shufi asked for tea. Fay took the tray upstairs to the residents’ lounge. Morwen would be coming into the kitchen at any moment. Fay didn’t want her to find her workspace cluttered with cops.
Something had happened. She was sure of it. She just hoped it wasn’t another murder. Police officers didn’t commonly knock on civilians’ doors before six o’clock in the morning. They also didn’t get their colleagues out of bed at three-thirty. Only murder or a matter of national security provoked that kind of response. It was clear to Fay that she had somehow become a person of interest in a police investigation. She would do well to watch her step.
She handed around the coffee and tea and sat opposite the three police officers, relaxed but watchful.
“What has happened?”
“Last night at around midnight an unknown person broke into the premises of Pinkerton’s Rare & Collectible Books in Tabernacle Street, Truro. This pe
rson conducted an intensive search of the shop. At this stage, it is not clear if anything is missing.”
“What does the CCTV show?”
“My colleagues have watched it once. The person was wearing an overcoat and a knitted hat. It is not possible to tell if it is a man or a woman.” As he said the word “woman” he looked directly at Fay.
She began to get an idea of what was going on.
“You were in Truro yesterday morning, weren’t you, Ms. Penrose?” said DC Shufi. “Our records show you boarding the eight-thirty ferry from Bluebell Island to Falmouth.”
“Then they should also show me boarding the eleven-thirty ferry back to Bluebell Island. I was home in time for lunch.”
Neither officer indicated by so much as a blink whether they already knew this.
“You visited Pinkertons’ Bookshop,” said DS Bowden.
“I did.”
“Would you mind telling us why?”
“I had been invited by Cecil Travis who works there to take a look around the shop. I recently attended a seminar on medieval manuscripts and he thought I might find it interesting. He gave me the grand tour. We had some tea and a chat, and then I left. Any number of people saw me here at lunchtime and throughout the rest of the day.”
“The last ferry to the mainland leaves at ten pm,” said Bowden.
“And then the service stops until the first ferry gets to Bluebell Island at six in the morning.” Fay looked at her watch. “It must have arrived about ten minutes ago. So, if I was skulking around Truro in an overcoat at midnight last night, how did I get back for my morning run before six? Did I swim here?”
“There are numerous charter boat services operating between here and Falmouth. I believe your friend Kathleen O’Grady owns one of them.”
Fay kept her expression neutral. They were trying to goad her into becoming angry or defensive. Witnesses were more likely to make unguarded statements when they lost their tempers. She wouldn’t play their game. Instead she would see how much she could get out of them.
The Cat's Paw Cozy Mysteries Page 26