I obliged and watched as Belle removed the lid from the box. “Well I never,” she said. “I can tell right off that someone’s been in my letters. Just look at how the lace ribbon is tied.”
Wendy and I glanced up as Belle continued in a low voice. “And they’re out of order and not folded properly.”
We weren’t ready to tell her yet that we’d found one of her letters at the inn. We asked whether she needed our help, and she told us, a bit peevishly, to carry on straightening. We carefully replaced the books and then looked at each other. It seemed we had the same idea because when I whispered, “Let’s look in the toybox,” Wendy started towards the stairs.
In Peter’s old room, the bed was made and his bag was on the single chair by the window. Stretched out on top of the toybox was Tigger, who was none too pleased when we moved him. Wendy carefully lifted the lid, and we peered inside. We couldn’t help but smile at the array of toys that had to be at least eighty years old. Nestled in the midst of the stuffed animals lay a tissue-wrapped rectangular parcel.
“Oh my,” whispered Wendy. “Can it really be . . . ?” She sat on the bed and unwrapped the yellowed tissue paper. Inside was a thin beige book titled The Family at Sunshine Cottage. The faded cover illustration depicted a Cotswolds cottage of golden stone with a huge sun beaming down on it. Barely visible in the doorway was a little dog.
She gasped when she saw the inscription on the title page, “For my Beautiful Belle, May this book bring you as much joy as you’ve brought me. Love, Uncle Jim.”
With tears in her eyes, she slowly turned the pages. The illustrations inside were reminiscent of the Pooh books. Belle and her dog Tinker were the constants with occasional pictures of her mother. We looked in awe at drawings of a garden and stuffed animals drinking tea and were speechless with wonder.
“I remember it now,” said Wendy. “I’m not sure whether Peter and I realized the book was about Mum and Gran and Mum’s little dog Tinker. That it was by a famous author would never have registered with us at that age. I mean, we’d heard the stories about Uncle Jim, but I know I never put all that together with this book. And I’m pretty sure Peter didn’t either.”
“Wendy, could the break-in have been about this book, not just Peter and Wendy?”
“Yes . . . maybe . . . I don’t know. Who would even know about it besides me and Peter and Mum? I’m sorry, Leta, there’s just too much going on right now for me to begin to figure this out.” She thrust the book at me. “Mum and I are leaving to go to the hospital. If this is anything to do with Alice and Peter and the break-in, we can’t leave it here. Can you take it? For now?”
I was very much afraid it did have something to do with the happenings of the past week, and I was hesitant to have it my possession, but I already had the Peter and Wendy book, and I couldn’t turn Wendy down. “Yes,” I said, “I’ll take it and find somewhere safe to put it until we can sort everything.” I found a bag in the kitchen for the book and joined Wendy in the sitting room to see how Belle was coming along.
“I’ve got the letters back in order,” said Belle, “and I think several are missing. It’s not as though I have them memorized, so I’ll need to study them more carefully before I can be sure. I just have a vague feeling that things aren’t right. And, of course, it’s hard to focus today.”
Wendy looked at me, and I could tell she didn’t want to leave the letters at Sunshine Cottage either. I sighed and asked Belle whether she’d feel comfortable with me taking them away for safekeeping. I pulled Wendy aside and asked if she thought I should also take the signed Winnie-the-Pooh books. She agreed that was a good plan and helped me gather everything together and place it all on the floorboard of my car. I gave her a hug and made her promise to text or call me with any updates on Peter.
Now what? I thought as I pulled into my driveway. I carried everything inside and upstairs to my bedroom, where I put it all in my cedar chest, another thing I’d brought with me from the States. It had been my mother’s hope chest.
Then I let Dickens out and watched him as he explored the garden and rolled in the grass. I was weary, I was worried, and I was exhausted.
Dickens and Christie peppered me with questions. “How’s Peter? How’re Wendy and Belle? What’s all that stuff you brought in?”
Dickens wanted to go for a walk, and Christie wanted to show me what she’d discovered on the computer. “Not now,” I said. “I’m going upstairs to lie down. We’ll talk later.”
I must have dozed off, and when I awoke, Christie was tucked by my side purring and Dickens was on his bed in the corner. “Guys,” I said, “I’m starving. Let’s see what I can find in the kitchen.”
I decided a late afternoon snack of grapes, hummus, and pita chips would do fine. Even after that, I felt as though I was in a fog. Duh, I thought. Could the events of the last twenty-four hours have something to do with that? I knew I needed to outline everything I’d discovered—Belle’s book, the letter, the information on Alice’s notepad—so I could share it all with Gemma the next day. I also wanted to read through the letters, but I couldn’t find the energy.
I texted Wendy for an update on Peter and got a reply that indicated there was no change. “What I need is a walk,” I said. “Who wants to go?”
“Me, me!” barked Dickens. “Where to?”
“Let’s head to town. We’ll get in a good walk and then have a proper cup of tea at Toby’s.”
It was threatening rain, so I dressed accordingly in my black rain jacket with the hood. Dickens loved the rain and wouldn’t mind getting soaked if it came to that. Christie was slightly miffed, and she reminded me I still hadn’t looked at the computer with her. I promised that would be the first thing I did upon my return.
The bottom didn’t fall out until we were inside Toby’s Tearoom. “Phew,” I said as I shrugged off my jacket and put my gloves in my pockets. The aroma of fresh-baked cookies drew me to the counter, where I ordered a pot of tea and two cookies—one chocolate chip and one sugar. The young girl behind the counter gave Dickens a dog biscuit as I paid for my order.
I sat and stared out the window at the pouring rain and was surprised when Toby brought my order to the table. “May I join you?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied, “though I doubt I’m very good company at the moment. I can’t think straight, much less speak intelligently.”
“No need to speak,” he said. “I’ve been calling the hospital, so I’m up to date on Peter’s condition, and the fact that Gemma stopped by around lunchtime to ask about my whereabouts this morning tells me she isn’t treating this as an accident. Thankfully, I’m in the clear, since I was here at the usual crack of dawn baking scones and muffins. Several villagers can attest to that.”
“That’s good,” I said. “I don’t think she seriously suspected you, but she has to go by the book. Between Alice and Peter, no one knows what to think.” I saw no need to share the news about the break-in at Sunshine Cottage. That would come out in good time. I sat quietly sipping my tea. Toby squeezed my shoulder and left me to my thoughts.
The rain turned to a light mist as I was finishing my tea, just in time for me to put my jacket back on and set out for home.
Dickens held his head high and pranced all the way home. “This is my kind of weather,” he barked.
The walk had done me good, so after I toweled Dickens dry, I sat in front of the fire with a notepad and pen. Christie came and sat beside me and patted my pen with her paw.
“Ready to look at the computer yet?” she meowed.
“Yes. Sorry I’ve been neglecting you, little girl. Let’s see what you’ve found.” I hoisted myself off the couch and walked to my office. Once again, I started the slideshow and waited for Christie to point to the screen.
“There,” she said. “See the book?”
I saw the book but couldn’t make out the title. I zoomed in and discovered it was Rare Books Uncovered: True Stories of Fantastic Finds. Why did that ring a bell?
“Oh my goodness,” I exclaimed. “Dave Prentiss has the same book in his room at the inn.”
“You mentioned that to Wendy, didn’t you? Does that mean something?” asked Christie.
“I’m not sure. It seems an odd coincidence. I can understand Dave having a copy after our conversation the other night, and I can see Alice having a copy because she sold books at her flea market stall . . . but it strikes me as strange. I for sure need to put this on my outline to discuss with Gemma.”
I returned to the couch in the sitting room, tucked my comfy throw around my legs, and picked up pen and paper. I treasured my fleece throw not only because it was warm, but also because my aunt had made it for me. This one had cats on it, and she’d made me a second one with dog images. Appropriately, Christie snuggled in my lap with the cats as if to help me think.
What if The Family at Sunshine Cottage had been published and sold to the masses? Wendy and I had assumed Belle’s was the only copy based on what Belle had told us. Yes, the inscribed copy could have been a special gift for her, but that didn’t mean it had never been published. I grabbed the Barrie biography I’d purchased, knowing there’d be a list of his works in the back.
There was no mention of Belle’s book, and more random thoughts swirled through my brain. What might Barrie’s letters to Gran tell us? And did the books and letters have something to do with Alice’s murder and Peter’s accident? Was I leaping to the wrong conclusion? It’s awfully hard to brainstorm by myself, I thought.
I realized I hadn’t heard from Thom about his conversation with his professor and wondered whether he’d left a message for Wendy. He may have decided not to bother us in the aftermath of Peter’s accident, I thought, but he’d be a good person to talk to. I called Beatrix for his number.
“Oh Leta,” said Beatrix when she answered, “How are you? You and Wendy and Belle have been in my thoughts.”
“I don’t know much more,” I said. “I’m doing okay, and Wendy and Belle are hanging in there. To keep from obsessing over Peter,” I fudged, “I thought I’d try to catch up with Thom to see what he’s found out about Belle’s book. Can you give me his number, please?”
When I got Thom, he inquired about Peter and asked how Wendy and Belle were holding up. I gave him an update and then asked what he’d discovered about the book.
“Professor Bartholomew tells me that a pristine signed copy was recently sold by an Australian bookseller for $7800 AUD. That’s similar to what Beatrix found about a copy sold in the States. He thinks since Belle’s copy is fairly worn, it might go for more in the neighborhood of £5,000. We’re still trying to see if there’s any noise about a recently found copy.”
“Well, that’s nothing to sneeze at. Thanks for the info, Thom,” I said. “I’m wondering about something else too. We discovered there was a letter from J. M. Barrie tucked in the book. It was to Mary, Wendy’s gran. Based on what you told us at book club, I’m thinking there’d be interest in it among collectors too. Am I right?”
“Wow!” he replied. “Absolutely. Would you like me to make inquiries about that too? Do you have it there with you? You could take a picture of it and text it to me. That would be helpful.”
“Yes, please see what you can find out, but remember that the family has no interest in selling at the moment. This is for informational purposes only. By the way, I’ve heard of a book, Rare Books Uncovered: True Stories of Fantastic Finds. Is that something I should get Beatrix to order for Wendy, for later when she has time for all this?”
“Yes, she’d probably find it entertaining. It’s not a how-to, but it’s an inspiring read. If she eventually gets into collecting, I’m sure Beatrix and I can both recommend some others.”
“Thanks, Thom. I’ll look forward to hearing from you about the letter, and I may pick up that book to help Wendy pass her time at the hospital.”
Why didn’t I tell Thom about the other book, The Family at Sunshine Cottage? Was the fact that Wendy felt uncomfortable keeping the books and letters at her cottage making me uncharacteristically nervous? Well, maybe with good reason. Gemma had warned me this was serious business.
I spent an hour jotting down my thoughts before my late night in Oxford and the stressful events of the day caught up with me. Though I wasn’t sure my brain would slow down enough for me to sleep, I let Dickens out one last time, locked up, and went to bed.
Hopefully, when Gemma and I got around to comparing notes, we’d have a breakthrough.
Chapter Twelve
I woke bright and early, rested, but with my brain in turmoil. I reflected on what I’d written the night before and realized it wasn’t as much fact as it was instinct that was making me think this series of events was driven by book collecting. Of course, master sleuth Hercule Poirot had said, “Instinct is a marvelous thing. It can neither be explained nor ignored.” If it was good enough for Poirot, it was good enough for me.
What an awful thought—that someone would kill over a rare book or manuscript. Maybe I was correct about the motive, but I was still clueless as to the who. Who could it be? Was it someone I knew from the village or a local I didn’t know? Or a complete stranger?
Christie was sitting by the kitchen door. I poured her milk, and she looked at me and said, “Forget the milk, I want out. I need some fresh air before you take off for days again.”
“Oh, really,” I said. “You do exaggerate. I don’t have any big plans for today.”
“Sure,” she meowed skeptically. “You’ll end up going somewhere, and Dickens will get to go, and before you know it, you’ll be off on another adventure without me.”
I gave in and let both her and Dickens out, then poured a cup of coffee and joined them in the garden. It was sunny and the air was crisp. Christie jumped to the garden wall and sat staring at the birds and making squeaky chirping noises. I always thought of her chirps as her special language for the birds, though she’d always been strangely secretive as to what the sounds meant. To her credit, she never chased the birds, only chirped at them.
Dickens looked up but continued checking out the corners of the garden. Corner checking had become his morning routine. One never knew what dangers could be lurking, I thought with a chuckle.
“Okay,” I called as I finished my coffee, “Let’s have a quick bite to eat before we attack the day.”
Just then my cell phone rang, and I saw it was Wendy. “Peter’s still a bit confused and doesn’t remember anything after walking Dickens, but he’s getting more coherent.”
“Oh, thank goodness,” I said. “Can I do anything? Come sit with your mum so you can go home and rest? Or come take her to Sunshine Cottage so she can sleep? Except neither of you may want to stay at the cottage. You can stay here. Just say the word,” I babbled.
“We’re good for now, Leta. And Gemma’s on her way to speak with Peter, so we don’t want to leave.”
That told me Gemma was continuing to see all three incidents as connected and hadn’t yet changed her mind. I left my two companions eating breakfast in the kitchen while I dressed for a morning walk.
“Dickens,” I called as I came down the stairs, “Let’s go to the Cotswolds Way by the cricket pavilion. We never did get to walk there.”
“Leta,” asked Dickens. “I’d like to go back and see more sheep, but are you sure you want to go back where we found Alice?”
“No, in fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go back, but we’ve got to face it someday— the sooner the better. Let me get my backpack, a water bottle, and your collapsible bowl, and we should be good to go.”
Dickens barked. “I love it when you mention my special bowl. That tells me we’re going on an extra-long walk. Woo hoo!”
“We’ll see how ready we both are,” I said as I latched his harness in the car. “Neither of us have been on many long walks lately. Hmmm, could be that Bev took you on some really long ones when you stayed with her, but I sure haven’t done much more than the two miles to the Inn.”
; Dickens barked, “Bev liked to walk for an hour or two, but we made lots of stops. As she’d say, unless it was during one of the miserable Atlanta heat waves, we hardly broke a sweat. We’d stop for questions like, ‘What kind of dog is that? Does he bite? Can I pet him?’ And, of course, we’d stop for the tiny humans to hug me and rub my belly.”
“Let’s hope you have as many admirers here,” I said, “so we get plenty of rest stops along the way.”
When I parked, I kept glancing at the pavilion as I unlatched Dickens and let him do his preliminary sniffing at the entrance to the Cotswolds Way. Should we go right to the building and get it over with, or should we walk first? Do we even need to go over there? Or want to? I could see the crime scene tape fluttering in the breeze. I’d thought that after a week, it’d be gone.
I knelt to ruffle Dickens fur. “Aw heck, let’s just do it, as they say in the shoe commercial.” I went up to the tape and wondered about ducking beneath it to get closer, and while I was wondering, Dickens beat me to it.
“Not much has changed,” he said. “Except I don’t smell Alice anymore.”
“Probably not,” I mumbled, “But I still see her lying there. What an awful sight that was. I guess I should be thankful I’m not dreaming about it the way I dream about Henry’s accident. That’s enough, Dickens. I’ve faced my fears and we can take our walk now. The real test will come when Peter next has a cricket match. Will I be able to sit through that?” I teared up as I wondered whether there’d be any cricket in Peter’s future.
It was a beautiful fall morning. The air was crisp and cool but not too cold, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. We met lots of walkers and ramblers, as long-distance walkers are called in the UK. Dickens finally got to see some sheep up close, and he could easily have gotten lost in their midst.
“Dickens,” I said, “I bet you didn’t know that in the Pyrenees mountains, Pyr puppies are raised with herds of sheep and blend right in with their new families. From the time they’re pups, they protect their herds. All it takes is that deep, throaty bark to scare away wolves or anything else. Are you my protector?”
Bells, Tails, & Murder Page 15