Murder in the Locked Library

by Ellery Adams

  Jane pointed at the shoulder. “Watch for the deer.”

  Sterling eased up on the gas.

  Suddenly, there was a disturbance in the underbrush bordering the road and a massive buck leapt in front of the truck. Sterling hit the brakes and the truck came to a rough stop.

  The buck, unperturbed, turned to stare at them. At that moment, the moon emerged from behind the clouds and the magnificent animal was bathed in a radiant white light.

  Jane’s breath caught in her throat. To her, the deer had transformed into the mystical stag as described in the Harry Potter novels, The Chronicles of Narnia, or The Hobbit. It stood completely still, its proud head held high, as if its massive antlers were made of air.

  And then, it bounded across the road and sailed over the split-rail fence, vanishing as abruptly as it had appeared.

  “That’s the biggest buck I’ve ever seen,” Lachlan murmured in awe.

  Sterling hadn’t tracked the deer’s departure. His gaze remained fixed on the place where it had burst from the cover of the underbrush and surrounding trees.

  Jane now saw what Sterling saw. There was a shadow that seemed darker than the others near the roadside. It was as if the night had congealed into a man-sized lump.

  Man-sized, Jane thought with a start. She was on the verge of telling Sterling to turn off the ignition when he pulled the truck to the side of the road.

  “Stay here,” he told Jane. He then asked Lachlan, “You good?”

  “I’m good,” Lachlan said, peering straight ahead.

  The two men jumped from the truck with the quiet grace of big cats. They crept forward, their shoulders nearly touching. The moment they reached the dark shape, their postures changed and they visibly relaxed. Seeing this, Jane knew that there was no immediate danger. She grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and walked toward the men.

  Sterling immediately turned and called out, “Wait there, Miss Jane. You might not want to see this.”

  Jane’s feet continued to carry her forward. As she closed the distance between herself and the Fins, the lump on the ground became more defined. She recognized a booted foot. Next, she identified a hand with the fingers partially curled.

  “A body,” she whispered. “Is it ... ?” Her voice seemed out of place among the insect sawing and other night noises. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. It was a lonely, plaintive sound.

  “It’s Mr. Stuyvesant,” Sterling said in a hushed tone.

  Jane glanced to where Lachlan knelt on the ground next to Kyle’s body. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Imagine what one of those deer would have looked like had I hit it with the truck,” Sterling said. “It appears that Mr. Stuyvesant met such a fate.”

  Jane took another step forward. “A hit and run? That’s so cruel. What if he was alive after it happened? Alive and suffering. What if it wasn’t accidental?” After a long moment of silence, she asked, “Did you search his pockets?”

  “Mr. Lachlan?” Sterling turned to his colleague.

  “If he left the bar with anything in his pocket, it’s gone now,” Lachlan said. “All he had on him was his wallet and cell phone. I’m checking out his phone now. The screen is cracked, but it’s still operational.”

  Jane touched Sterling’s arm to reclaim his attention. “If this man is dead because of what he took from the construction site, then his death is tied to Storyton Hall. And to me. I’m not going to shy away from his body because it could upset me. He might have taken something that didn’t belong to him, but he shouldn’t have been mowed down and left on the side of the road like an animal. For all we know, he was headed our way to return what he’d taken.”

  “I suppose we can give Mr. Stuyvesant the benefit of the doubt,” Sterling said. “If you insist on seeing him, let’s get it over with.”

  Jane gripped her flashlight tightly and moved with a confidence she didn’t feel.

  She trained her gaze on Lachlan’s face. He was preoccupied with Kyle’s phone and the illuminated screen cast an eerie glow over his features. Despite his spectral appearance, Jane stared at him until she was ready to look down at the dead man.

  Sterling was right. In the seconds it took for Jane’s mind to comprehend that the bloodied, twisted, and misshapen thing on the ground had once been a man, her body was already reacting.

  Pushing past Lachlan, Jane ran toward the forest and tried to draw in deep breaths. It was no use. Bending over, she was violently sick to her stomach.

  When her retching finally ceased, Sterling offered her a tissue.

  Jane leaned against a tree until the nausea receded. “We can’t leave him like this,” she whispered. Her throat was raw and there was a foul taste in her mouth. She wanted nothing more than to get home, clean up, and crawl into bed. None of these options were acceptable, however, so Sterling fetched her a water bottle from the truck.

  “How will we explain our presence if you call the sheriff?” he asked, handing her the water. “I’m assuming that’s what you intend to do.”

  “I’ll stick as close to the truth as I can, but I couldn’t live with myself if we drove away and left him here like a piece of trash.” Jane pulled out her phone. “There’s also a driver on the loose who committed vehicular manslaughter tonight. Sheriff Evans needs to be made aware of that.”

  Sterling put his hand over Jane’s, preventing her from dialing. “There’s vehicular manslaughter, which could be accidental, and there’s murder. Seeing as Mr. Stuyvesant’s pockets are empty, I’d say the latter is true.”

  “I think I know what he had in his pocket.” Lachlan held up Kyle Stuyvesant’s damaged phone. “Let me show you.”

  Still feeling unbalanced, Jane suggested they move away from Kyle’s body.

  Back at the truck, Lachlan cradled the phone in his gloved hands. At first glance, it was difficult to make sense of the image because the cracks in the screen created distortions, but Jane soon realized that it was a photograph of a ring.

  “It’s a signet ring,” she said. “Gold, maybe? With a coat of arms. I’ll take a picture and we can research it later. I don’t know if it means anything, but it looks old.” Using her phone, Jane captured an image of the ring and then called the emergency operator to report Kyle Stuyvesant’s death.

  Sheriff Evans arrived with Doc Lydgate and a middle-aged deputy whom Jane had never met. The lawmen focused on Jane, Sterling, and Lachlan while Doc Lydgate examined the body.

  “Did you see any other vehicles on the road?” Evans asked.

  “No,” Jane said. She’d already explained how she and her two staff members had found Kyle, and she expected the question about other cars to be the sheriff’s last. It wasn’t.

  The sheriff closed his notebook and frowned. “Why didn’t you mention what your sons saw at the construction site earlier?”

  The censure in his tone wasn’t lost on Jane. “If they’d been sure, I would have. But they weren’t, and I didn’t want to falsely accuse this man of stealing from what became an archaeological site. Mr. Stuyvesant could have been picking up a penny, for all the twins knew.”

  “I don’t think he was hit by a car over a penny,” the sheriff said tersely. He turned away from Jane. “Doc? What have we got?”

  “Death by blunt force injury,” was the reply. “Multiple broken bones. Both legs. Pelvis. The skull is also fractured. A brain hemorrhage is likely the cause of death. There’s a great deal of blood loss from the head wound. Some from the deep lacerations on his lower legs as well.” His eyes met Jane’s. “Did you know this man?”

  Jane shook her head. “Not personally. He was involved in the spa construction project. He operated the earthmover.”

  Doc Lydgate got to his feet and addressed the sheriff. “It won’t be much comfort to his family or friends, but the end came quickly. He may not have been aware of what happened at all. With the severity of his head injury, it was lights out the moment he struck the ground. He didn’t suffer. That’s my belief.
The ME will tell you more.”

  Sheriff Evans offered his thanks and then fell silent, watching a pair of headlights approaching along the dark road.

  “It’s the ambulance,” said the deputy, and waved at the oncoming vehicle.

  The driver pulled over at a safe distance from Kyle’s body. Though he turned the engine off, he left the headlamps on, and the dual beams illuminated the woods on the opposite side of the road.

  Jane thought of the magnificent deer. If only Kyle had possessed a wild animal’s sense of danger or the ability to leap into the tree cover when threatened by the approach of a speeding car.

  As she searched the woods for signs of life, it began to rain.

  “Damn it all,” the sheriff grumbled. “Just what I need when I’m trying to find and photograph tire tracks.”

  “There are no skid marks,” Lachlan said. “I checked. I wanted to know if the driver attempted to slow down. There’s no indication that someone applied the brakes. If anything, the driver swerved across the lane and struck Mr. Stuyvesant full force. The car must have sustained noticeable damage. Mr. Stuyvesant wasn’t a small man.”

  Sheriff Evans eyed Lachlan warily. “How do you know these things?”

  “From my time in the army, sir.” Lachlan met the sheriff’s gaze without flinching.

  For a moment, it seemed like Evans would ask more questions. However, the rain began falling harder and faster and he muttered more expletives before waving at Jane, Sterling, and Lachlan. “You can go now. I’ll see you in the morning.” To his deputy, he said, “We’ll do what we can to capture the scene. After this, we’re off to the Cheshire Cat.”

  The deputy, who wasn’t one of the department’s sharper minds, asked, “For a drink, sir?”

  “That would be nice, but no,” the sheriff said, and signaled to the ambulance crew to unload their gurney.

  Jane, Sterling, and Lachlan climbed into the pickup truck. They didn’t speak on the return trip to Storyton Hall. The sound of the raindrops battering the roof and windshield lulled them into a gloomy silence.

  Jane kept her gaze on the passing farmland. She’d love to see the herd of deer once more—to watch the buck racing through the field of tall grass. She knew the sight of such beauty would help restore her flagging spirit. However, the field was empty of deer or any other sign of life.

  There was only the rain, sliding sideways down the truck windows like a flow of tears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning, the conference goers attended either a presentation on state-of-the-art archival storage methods or a lecture called The Evolution of Ink. After lunch, they had the afternoon to themselves. Many had booked archery lessons, tours of Storyton Mews, fishing excursions with Storyton Outfitters, or had rented bicycles through Spokes. The rest, Jane suspected, would seek a comfortable chair in one of the reading rooms and while away several blissful hours lost in a good book.

  Jane was on her second cup of coffee when Sinclair asked to see her in his office. To say that she hadn’t slept well the previous night was an understatement. When she’d first seen her face in her bathroom mirror, she decided she looked like one of George R. R. Martin’s White Walkers.

  She’d tried to brighten her washed-out appearance with makeup, but it was difficult to conceal a glassy-eyed gaze, and Sinclair noticed it at once.

  “Jane, my dear.” He ushered her into his office and pulled out his chair for her. “Can I get you anything?”

  “It’s a bit early for whiskey, so how about a murder suspect?”

  Adopting a hangdog expression, Sinclair asked, “Will information on the image from Mr. Stuyvesant’s phone do for now?”

  Jane said that it would and Sinclair took a seat next to her. He directed her attention to his computer screen where he called up an enlarged image of the ring.

  “As you inferred, this is a signet ring. When compared to rings of similar style, shape, and ornamentation, my guess is that it belongs to the neoclassical era. This era occurred between 1760 and 1830 and featured classical motifs borrowed from architecture. Greek columns, for example.”

  “The design looks very medieval to me,” Jane said. She wasn’t trying to be argumentative, but she recalled no references to a coat of arms in her Greek or Roman history classes.

  “Be that as it may, this type of ring, called an intaglio armorial seal ring, was not purely ornamental. It was pressed into warm wax to create a signature. The seal on this ring bears the owner’s family crest.”

  Jane glanced at Sinclair with interest. “It’s definitely a man’s ring?”

  “Yes. A woman’s ring could certainly have been made of carnelian, but based on my research, a ladies ring from this period would more likely feature a cameo or an ivory miniature than a crest.”

  Jane scooted her chair a little closer and peered intently at the screen. “Even with the cracks disrupting the image, I can see a helmeted knight at the top of the shield. What are those things on either side of the shield? Plumes coming out of the helmet?”

  Sinclair nodded. “That’s my assumption. In the center, we have an armored hand pointing to a column. The hand represents leadership and the column symbolizes fortitude and constancy.”

  “Sinclair, I don’t mean to be rude, but all I care about is whom this ring belonged to,” Jane said impatiently. “Were you able to find that answer?”

  “I wasn’t, but a friend of mine is a heraldry expert and he recognized the family represented by the crest. The family is of Nordic origin and has British and Germanic crests. The armorial seal ring on Mr. Stuyvesant’s phone bears the German crest of the Frank family.”

  Jane slowly exhaled. “Otto Frank. He was born in Germany. It was only later in life that he went to London to work and study. That explains the mixed coinage found with his remains. I bet he kept the German coin for sentimental reasons. Or for luck. It was a tie to his homeland—something he could touch or look at when he felt lonely.”

  A hush fell on the office as Jane and Sinclair became lost in thoughts of a man they’d never known. A man whose body had likely been buried in secret in what had once been Storyton Hall’s rose garden.

  “The ring was probably given to him by his father,” Sinclair said, finally breaking the silence. “If any of Doctor Frank’s personal correspondence or the articles written for the Times remain, we have a chance of matching his seal to those documents.”

  “But how to prove the ring came from the same grave as the bones? That is if we can successfully retrieve it from the person who used a car as a murder weapon.”

  “Celia will find soil remnants in the crevices; I have no doubt of that.” Sinclair’s gaze turned cold. “However, it’s up to us to hunt down the assailant.”

  Feeling a renewed sense of frustration, Jane excused herself and walked into the Henry James Library. She ran her fingertips along the book spines. The feel of the supple leather brought her immediate comfort.

  Jane moved past row upon row of books until she reached a section on the library’s eastern wall. Suddenly, she was standing at eye level with another Frank. Not Otto, but Anne. She didn’t have Sinclair’s memory for quotes, but as she looked at the poppy-red spine of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, Jane could hear the words of one of history’s most courageous heroines flow from her lips, “‘People are just people, and all people have faults and shortcomings, but all of us are born with a basic goodness.’”

  Sensing Sinclair behind her, Jane turned to him. “Maybe Kyle took a photo of that ring because he planned to sell it. He may have posted it online and the killer saw the photo and contacted Kyle to request more details.” Jane gazed across the room, addressing the faceless, nameless murderer. “But why? Why do you need Otto Frank to remain unidentified?”

  “There is another, more disturbing possibility to consider,” Sinclair said.

  Jane absently laid her hand over a group of books before asking, “Which is?”

  “That we’re dealing wit
h two killers and two separate crimes.” With a frown, Sinclair went on, “The discovery of a decrepit book shouldn’t have precipitated a murder. If the crime was committed in the name of possessing the book, we’ll catch the killer tonight by using it as bait. If one subscribes to Miss Frank’s belief that all people are born with a basic goodness and are led astray by their faults and shortcomings, then Mr. Baylor’s killer has been led astray by greed or pride.”

  Jane reflected for a moment. “What you’re saying is that it doesn’t make sense for Bart’s killer to target Kyle. Who cares about the identity of those old bones? Unless—!” Jane grabbed Sinclair’s hand. “Unless this crime isn’t about greed or pride at all. Sheriff Evans said it himself. The repeating theme is food adulteration. I know we’re talking about different centuries, but a big corporation is a big corporation. Money and power can corrupt. That hasn’t changed over time.”

  Sinclair pointed at a biography of Charles Dickens by G. K. Chesterton. “Indeed.”

  “We’re obviously missing key pieces of evidence,” Jane said. Her lack of sleep and fear over being outsmarted by Bart’s killer were filling her with a tension that no book could ease.

  “If there’s a clue on Mr. Stuyvesant’s phone, the sheriff will have it by morning’s end.” Sinclair squeezed Jane’s hand.

  Knowing he was trying to instill her with hope, she rewarded him with a smile and left the library.

  Despite Bart’s death and the discovery of a body in the garden, Storyton Hall was still a working resort, which meant Jane had to attend to her duties. After pouring her third cup of coffee from the urn in the lobby, she greeted the front desk clerks and was about to head to her office when one of the clerks cleared her throat.

  “Ms. Steward,” said Sue, one of Storyton’s most amiable clerks. “The postmistress is here. She made it clear that this is a quick visit, but that she had to see you in person.” Sue shrugged. “That’s all I could get out of her. She wouldn’t even accept coffee or tea.”