Murder in the Locked Library

by Ellery Adams

  Taken aback, Bart held out a pair of purple exam gloves. “I didn’t mean to presume. I brought them to demonstrate—” He shook his head, exasperated. “It’s too difficult to explain here. Can it wait until we’re inside the library?”

  Relaxing a little, Jane said that it could.

  She relaxed even more when she saw not only Sinclair standing by the Henry James Library doors, but Butterworth as well.

  “Good evening, Mr. Baylor,” the head butler formally greeted their guest.

  Bart managed a brief smile, though it was obvious that he was too impatient to share what he’d learned to bother with pleasantries.

  Sinclair unlocked the doors and everyone entered the library except for Butterworth, who signaled to Jane that he’d take up a sentry position outside.

  Bart pointed at the doors in appeal. “Please lock them again. What I have to say is quite serious.”

  Sinclair complied, and only after Bart heard the click of the lock turning did he act less agitated. “I can explain everything without your cookbook present, but it will be easier to show you if it’s sitting in the middle of us. Will you trust me?”

  Sinclair looked to Jane for direction. She studied Bart for a long, drawn-out moment before she finally responded. “Yes, Mr. Baylor. We will.”

  The rubber bin was brought out from Sinclair’s office and placed on a reading table. Bart took out his cell phone from his jacket pocket.

  “When I first saw the embossed wheat sheaf, I thought it looked familiar,” he began. “That’s no surprise. I’ve seen thousands of book covers over the course of my career and have repaired a dozen books with a variation of a wheat decoration on the cover or spine. Still, I felt like I’d seen this sheaf before. Not on a cover I’d handled, but mentioned in the text of a book I’d repaired. It wasn’t a recent repair. This was a long time ago, back when I was first learning the trade. I had to sit in my room and go to a quiet place in my mind so I could remember, but right before I came down to dinner, I was able to recall the instance.”

  Bart took out a pair of his purple gloves from his coat pocket and pulled them on. He then put his cell phone on the table and asked Sinclair to remove the box lid.

  Bart gave Jane and Sinclair a minute to compare the image of the book cover on his phone screen with the tattered remains in the rubber bin.

  “Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts.” Jane read the title aloud.

  The book looked unremarkable. Other than matching sheaves of wheat, the green cover was embossed with gold decorated dishes. There was a platter with a roasted chicken or duck, what looked like a plate of cookies or rolls, a fancy jellied dessert, and some sort of rolled food Jane couldn’t identify.

  “I did a few calculations and, based on this photograph, the middle stalk of wheat should be exactly four centimeters from the top edge.” Bart produced a ruler from his breast pocket. “May I?”

  “Go ahead,” Jane said, feeling more than a little anxious.

  Bart performed the measurement. “Exactly four centimeters. A good number. Four.”

  He put the ruler on the table and, staring down at it, frowned at it in distaste.

  Jane moved to Sinclair’s desk, plucked the ruler from his top drawer, and laid it next to Bart’s ruler. He nodded in gratitude and released what sounded like a pent-up breath.

  “Ms. Steward. What you have before you is an extremely rare book. I do not think it is missing any words. I believe they’re all still there. On every page. They’ve been hidden, but can be revealed by means of a simple chemical process.”

  “Why were they hidden?” Sinclair asked. “Didn’t you identify our artifact as a Victorian cookbook?”

  Bart kept his gaze on Jane. “Yes, but it was known by another title.”

  Involuntarily, Jane’s eyes strayed to the book in the bin. She sensed that she’d been right to feel repulsed when she’d first read its only legible line. “What was it called?”

  “It was originally published as Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts,” Bart said. With an unsettling lack of emotion, he continued, “But later, it was known as The Devil’s Receipts.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sinclair made a noise.

  It was almost inaudible. It wasn’t even a grunt—just a hitch of breath—but Bart looked at Storyton Hall’s head librarian and said, “You know the title.”

  As this was clearly a statement, not a question, Sinclair nodded. “I’ve heard of a cookbook called The Devil’s Receipts. If the tales are true, the book was printed, but never distributed. The warehouse where the cookbooks were stored was deliberately set ablaze, leaving no surviving copies. I don’t know why.”

  Bart smiled with delight. “Very few people could have said that much. Bravo, sir. However, there’s even more to the book’s colorful history. Rumors, mostly. All of what I’m about to tell you is hearsay.” Glancing down at his hands, he began peeling off his gloves. “Purportedly, half a dozen copies of The Devil’s Receipts survived the warehouse because they were given away as gifts days before the fire was set. The author received six copies. Five of these were recovered and also destroyed. Somehow, a single copy made it out of London and was never tracked down.”

  Jane waved a hand. “Excuse me. Before you go any farther, I’d like to know the meaning behind the title? Why were those books burned?”

  Sinclair, seeing that Bart was unsure what to do with his gloves, grabbed a trash can from under the reading table and held it out to him. After depositing his gloves in the can, Bart returned his attention to Jane.

  “The recipes were supposedly hazardous to the public’s health,” he said. “Some of the ingredients were actually toxic and if ingested in large enough quantities, could be poisonous to the very young, very old, or infirm.”

  “That’s horrible,” Jane said. “Why was such a reprehensible book published in the first place? And under such a benign title?”

  Sinclair moved next to the rubber bin. He replaced the lid and covered it with his hand in what looked, to Jane, like a protective gesture. “I believe the book was given its nefarious title long after the fire,” he said to Jane. “I must defer to Mr. Baylor’s expertise on this matter.”

  Bart’s gaze grew distant and he absently tapped his index finger against his lip. This was a physical tic Jane had witnessed on multiple occasions since Bart’s arrival at Storyton Hall, but it was the first time he looked like he’d kissed something covered in baby powder.

  Though Jane wasn’t about to interrupt Bart to tell him that the cornstarch from his gloves had been transferred to his mouth, she didn’t want to stare at the white smudge, so she glanced out the window instead. For a brief moment, she wondered if the Word Search participants were still working on their answer sheets or if they were milling about, impatiently waiting to find out who’d won the game.

  “There was a scientist. A chemist,” Bart said, breaking the silence. Jane turned to look at him and saw that the powder on his lips was gone. “He wasn’t British—I’m not sure where he was originally from—but he moved to London to work and to study.” Bart paused and a funny expression came over his features. “He began writing a series of articles for the London Times called . . .”

  Suddenly, Bart spread his fingers and turned his palms to the ceiling. His eyes bulged and Jane saw terror reflected in the enlarged orbs.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, instantly concerned.

  “The gloves!” Bart’s shout was shrill with fear. “I don’t think they’re latex free! I don’t feel right! I can’t . . . I can’t breathe.”

  At first, his words burst out like water pouring from a broken pipe, but his final phrase sounded choked.

  Jane tried to control her own feelings of panic.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she assured her guest. “Do you have an EpiPen?”

  Bart fixed his bug-eyed gaze on her. “Ye-es,” he gasped. “My. Room.”

  Uttering those words used more oxygen than Bart could afford t
o give. He seemed to deflate. His shoulders sagged and he grabbed his throat in panic.

  “The EpiPen’s coming,” Sinclair told Jane. His phone was pressed to his ear.

  Jane was grateful that her friend and mentor didn’t fetch the EpiPen himself. She needed him with her. He kept her calm.

  “Bart, help is seconds away,” Jane murmured soothingly.

  She pulled out a chair. Bart dropped into it with a moan, followed by a noticeable increase in breaths. Jane didn’t know if he was having a panic attack or if his body was already going into shock because of the latex exposure.

  Why didn’t this reaction happen right away? Jane thought as someone banged on the library door.

  Sinclair unlocked the door and Sterling rushed into the room, clutching the EpiPen in his fist. He removed the safety cap as he ran, dropped to his knees next to Bart, and pressed the EpiPen into his thigh. There was an audible click, signaling the release of the medicine.

  “You heard the click, Bart.” Knowing that he didn’t like to be touched, Jane tried to comfort Bart with her voice instead. “The medicine is pumping through your body right now. Mr. Sterling will hold the EpiPen in place for a count of ten. Ten’s an even number. Let’s count together by twos.”

  Jane began with “two,” but Bart’s breathing continued to accelerate until he sounded like a panting dog.

  “Try to calm down,” Jane pleaded.

  Behind her, she could hear Sinclair speaking into his phone. He was calling for an ambulance. In between Bart’s frantic breaths, she heard Sinclair say “rapid pulse” and “beet-red skin.” Jane suddenly realized that Bart’s face looked sunburned. This was scary, seeing as he’d been his pale and freckled self a few minutes ago.

  And then, without warning, he keeled over in his chair.

  Jane stretched out her arms, but it was Sterling who caught Bart before he could hit the floor.

  Sterling was still holding Bart when his body began to twitch and twist as if he were being electrocuted.

  “He’s seizing!” Sterling shouted.

  Sinclair hastened to move the chair Bart had been sitting in away from his flailing limbs.

  The seizure seemed to end as abruptly as it had started. And just as quietly.

  That was what terrified Jane now. The silence. The lack of Bart’s panicked breathing. The complete lack of sound.

  Sterling, who’d managed to keep Bart’s head on his lap despite the violence of the seizure, used his index and middle finger to check for Bart’s carotid pulse.

  He held this position for a long minute before looking up and meeting Jane’s stare. Withdrawing his fingers from Bart’s neck, he shook his head.

  “He’s gone?” Jane whispered in disbelief.

  “Miss Jane—” Sinclair began. But Storyton Hall’s head librarian was clearly at a loss for words. For the first time since Jane had known him, Sinclair’s composure was shaken. He was completely unnerved by Bart’s death.

  Jane could see why. After all, this was Sinclair’s sanctuary. His haven. And a fellow book lover had just expired on the floor at his feet.

  “He always used his own gloves,” Jane murmured, glancing between Sinclair and Sterling. “He said as much, remember? He carries them wherever he goes because of the severity of his latex allergy. So why would he have accidentally worn the wrong pair? He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t make such a thoughtless mistake. He was far too careful.” As she listened to her own speech, she realized what alternative remained. “No, no, no. Not again.”

  Sterling grabbed a pillow from a reading chair and placed it under Bart’s head. The gesture was tender and reminded Jane of a parent tucking a child in for the night.

  “Mr. Baylor’s gloves must be tested.” Sinclair spoke to Sterling in a hushed voice. He then retrieved the gloves from the garbage bin using the tip of his pen and dropped them on the reading table.

  Because of the white powder on Bart’s lips, Jane thought. That’s what we need to test.

  The exam gloves Sterling used in his lab were powder free, and the only gloves Sinclair owned were made of white cotton. He’d never allow cornstarch within a mile of his beloved books.

  “Why didn’t we realize something was wrong?” she asked the men in the room. Her voice held both anger and accusation.

  When they didn’t reply, she moved closer to Bart and took his hand in hers. It was too late to comfort him, but the touch wouldn’t unsettle him now either. And in a strange, illogical way, holding Bart’s hand gave Jane comfort. Very little, but it was better than nothing.

  “I should have known that you wouldn’t wear powdered gloves. No book person would.” Jane’s eyes filled with tears and she glanced up at Sinclair. “I didn’t want to embarrass him by mentioning the white smudge on his lips. And I was so caught up in the story of this stupid book. Yes, I said stupid book! Because we were distracted by bits of paper and cloth, a man was poisoned right in front of us.”

  Jane squeezed Bart’s hand as if begging forgiveness. His long, elegant fingers were cold. Any life that had allowed those digits to repair wounded books from the past had gone. Five fingers. Bart wouldn’t like that she was only holding five, but she couldn’t touch his other hand. Those fingers had met his lips. Those fingers had delivered his death. Jane was sure of this fact without knowing exactly how or why.

  In the distance, she heard the whine of an ambulance. The noise reminded her that there were more important things to consider than her emotions. The safety of her family, her guests, and the secret library was paramount, so Jane placed her forehead against the back of Bart’s hand in a final, apologetic gesture and got to her feet.

  She accepted the tissue Sinclair proffered. Once her eyes and cheeks were dry, she said, “Sterling, we need a sample of whatever’s inside those gloves, but we should also test a tiny piece of the actual gloves. Those things tear all the time, so hopefully, the medical examiner won’t make anything of a missing sliver.”

  “Mr. Butterworth has spoken with the sheriff,” Sinclair said as he studied his cell phone screen. “He’ll meet Evans and the ambulance crew at the loading dock.”

  Jane wondered how many guests would gather to see which of their fellow conference-goers the ambulance had come to collect. She’d learned long ago that it was human nature to be curious about such things. However, when she realized that most of the guests were still in Milton’s Gardens, she also remembered why they were outside.

  “The Word Search game!” Jane cried, pulling the answer sheet from her clutch. “Sterling, can you get this to Eloise? Ask her to use the Cover Girls to help identify the winning entries as quickly as possible. Once that’s done, Mabel should draw a name from the box on the back terrace. The Sullivan brothers have the prize.”

  Sterling hurried off, passing Lachlan on his way out.

  Before surveying the rest of the scene, Lachlan scanned Jane from head to toe to ascertain whether she’d sustained any injuries. He then knelt next to Bart’s body. He didn’t touch the Book Doctor, but stared intently at his flaccid face. Jane saw pain in Lachlan’s eyes. And sadness.

  “Was it murder?” Lachlan asked quietly.

  It was the first time anyone had spoken the word out loud, and Jane wished Lachlan hadn’t uttered it here. Not so close to Bart. Or in this library. This was a place where Jane and the twins had spent countless hours reading, working on projects, looking up exotic cities on one of the spinning globes, and snuggling on chairs close to a blazing fire.

  Stow your emotions until later, Jane reminded herself.

  “Bart has a severe latex allergy, but Sterling used an EpiPen, so he should have been okay,” Jane said, not realizing that she’d referred to Bart in the present tense. “Something else must have killed him.”

  Lachlan pointed at Bart’s thigh. “Here? And you heard a click?”

  “Yes.” Jane’s reply was curt. She didn’t want to be interrogated right now. There’d be enough questions when Sheriff Evans arrived. “Unless the device
was tampered with, the medicine should have been delivered.”

  “There was white powder on his lips, which was most likely transferred from the inside of Mr. Baylor’s gloves,” Sinclair said. “We could be looking at cyanide poisoning.”

  Lachlan turned back at Jane. “Did it happen fast?” When she nodded, he said, “That must have been horrible to watch. Are you okay?”

  “No,” she said, hating how weak and thin her voice sounded. “But we have a duty to find out what happened to Bartholomew Baylor and to protect Storyton Hall and the people and treasures housed within its walls. Speaking of which—”

  “I’ll check on your family,” Lachlan said, and darted through the open doorway.

  Immediately following his departure, the Henry James Library erupted in noise and activity. First, Butterworth escorted three EMTs into the room. The paramedic in charge had barely started his assessment when Sheriff Evans and Deputy Phelps arrived.

  The sheriff usually tipped his hat to show his respect for Jane, but when he saw Bart’s immobile body and his slack but ruddy face, he removed his hat and pressed it against his chest. Phelps followed suit, and the two men paused for a moment to recognize that a fellow human being had passed from this world to the next before they both donned their hats again and approached the emergency medical crew.

  Evans exchanged words with the paramedic kneeling by Bart’s right shoulder, and from her position near the door, all Jane caught was, “We’ll take him whenever you’re ready.”

  Sheriff Evans then turned to Jane. “Mr. Butterworth told me about Mr. Baylor’s EpiPen. Where is that device?”

  Moving deeper into the room, Jane showed the sheriff the EpiPen, which had rolled under the reading table. Sheriff Evans signaled for his deputy to bag the item.

  “Could you walk me through what happened?” the sheriff asked, taking a notebook and pencil from the pocket of his uniform shirt.