Collectors, Cats & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  I wondered whether Gilbert’s collection ran to the type of material Teddy had, with items priced in the thousands of pounds. “Okay, based on the prices I saw in Teddy’s ledger book, that sounds quite reasonable, but I know it’s not the same as finding something from the last century.”

  “Right you are, but more importantly, my genuine interest in the book helped move the conversation along. Dave and I were being careful. We went in thinking Alastair’d been taken advantage of as Teddy had been, but we couldn’t take any chances.” Gilbert chuckled. “For all we know, he’s the frontman in a scheme to pass forged documents. Anyway, Dave and I tag-teamed.”

  The two grinned as Dave picked up the story. “As Gilbert shopped the available papers and books, he mentioned how he enjoyed seeing the variety of material housed in Teddy’s cottage, so it was easy for me to bring up the fact I’d found Teddy’s body the day I was supposed to be viewing the collection. Alastair was suitably shocked. I don’t suppose he knew anything beyond the fact Teddy had died.

  “I mentioned I’d been helping Beatrix assess what she had—like I have any idea—but he doesn’t know that. When I explained items were missing, he looked surprised and asked how we knew that. That’s when I told him about the ledger book. I explained you were friends with Beatrix, and we’d been leafing through the binders Teddy kept trying to figure out what was what.”

  Gilbert crossed his arms. “Yes, I think he was quite taken aback at that news. Not sure why. I think most collectors keep records of their acquisitions. I certainly do.”

  Looking pleased with himself, Dave continued. “He asked if I knew exactly what was missing—books or papers or heaven forbid, the typewriter. He said most Barrie collectors knew about the typewriter and quite a few were jealous Teddy had beaten them to it.

  “And then, Gilbert clapped his hand to his brow and said, ‘I say, Dave, didn’t you tell me a few of those letters came from here?’ His act was priceless. And, it was natural for me to add we were shocked to find the missing documents were forged.”

  I tilted my head. “Didn’t he wonder how you knew something was forged when you’d never laid eyes on it?”

  “Yes, that was his first question. I told him the truth. The descriptions in the ledger were detailed, we noticed some inconsistencies, and we checked some facts. I shared the example of Mark Twain seeing Peter Pan in New York City, not London.”

  They were having fun with this. “Okay, I can tell you two are ready to take your act on the road, but before you do, can you tell me what you found out?”

  I knew Dave could sense my impatience. “Right. We went back and forth, and I finally pulled out my notepad and told him what the items were. When I asked Alastair whether he’d gotten them from one person or several, he said he wasn’t sure and would have to check his records, that it sometimes happened that a person would arrive with a trunk from their great-grandfather’s attic that held a treasure trove. More often, it was a pile of worthless moldy books.”

  I frowned. “So, he was unable to give you information about their origins. They could have come directly from the forger or they could have changed hands multiple times before they got to Alastair and then to Teddy.”

  Gilbert leaned back in what I recognized as his favorite position, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his waistcoat. “Except, I have this sense Alastair knows more than he’s letting on. Call it my collector’s nose. In this business, you learn to pay attention to hunches.”

  It was my turn to share. “I also have an idea of sorts. Let’s see how my observations about Bonnie’s artwork fit with your sixth sense. I was quite taken with her landscapes, but it was her watercolors that started me thinking.”

  I unwrapped the two I’d purchased. “Aren’t they lovely? Look at the faint letters that appear beneath the colors. What do they remind you of?”

  Gilbert studied one, then the other. “Something from a manuscript . . . perhaps written with a fountain pen . . . or these days, a calligrapher’s quill dip pen.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “And, the script in each of these is different. Could be simply an artistic choice . . . “

  Dave finished my sentence. “Or it could be an indication that she’s capable of a variety of styles. Leta, are you going where I think you are with this?”

  With a gleam in his eye, Gilbert grabbed my hand. “Sherlock would say, ‘There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.’ Bonnie Porter quite likely has the talent to be a forger.”

  “But,” asked Dave, “does she have the knowledge, the literary background, to put the words together—to write a letter that sounds like Mark Twain or Arthur Conan Doyle? She’s an artist with oil, watercolor, and ink, but can she mimic the way Arthur Conan Doyle would craft a tribute to a friend?”

  At that moment, the proverbial lightbulb flashed over my head. “Dave, it’s what I said last night, only I was thinking of Fiona and Albert. It’s two people! It’s a partnership. Alastair comes up with the text, and Bonnie puts pen to paper. Or it could be their son Albert, with his Oxford education, however brief . . . maybe he feeds his mother the words. Maybe they both feed Bonnie the words.”

  Gilbert picked up the thread. “And where do they get the paper so it looks authentic? From those trunkloads of moldy old books that are worth next to nothing. I can picture them carefully cutting the blank endpapers from them and turning them into coveted rare documents.”

  Prone as I was to second-guessing myself, I had to ask. “Is my hunch reasonable? Or am I leading us astray?”

  We went back over what we knew and decided the idea was both plausible and probable. It could be a husband and wife partnership or a family affair. What we didn’t have was proof. And, as Dave pointed out, we still didn’t know who took the forgeries and smothered Teddy.

  Once we made the leap to the Porters being white-collar criminals, it was tempting to think Alastair or Albert had broken into the cottage, taken Bonnie’s forgeries, and killed Teddy. Who else would have chosen those particular documents to take?

  Why am I reluctant to see Albert involved in this? I have to admit my track record for fingering the right person is less than stellar, and I barely know him.

  No matter whether it was Albert or his father, why steal the documents? What had happened to make them want to get them back? Alastair had attended the Twain presentation and, according to Gilbert and Ellie, asked lots of questions. Did he learn something that alerted him to the inaccuracies in the forged documents? Even so, those mistakes had so far gone unnoticed. Why act now?

  Dave rubbed his chin. “It’s like we discussed with Beatrix. They somehow knew Gilbert and I had been invited to view the collection, and that worried them. But how did they know?”

  Reflecting on the events of Thursday and Friday, I thought of Teddy’s two employees. “When Fiona came over Thursday night after Peter brought him home, he probably told her about meeting us and the invitations he’d extended. Either she mentioned it to Albert or Teddy did. Regardless of whether Albert’s involved or not, he might have mentioned the information to his dad. With Albert a book scout, and Alastair a dealer in rare books and documents, it would be natural for them to have a conversation about it.”

  I could tell my idea resonated with Gilbert. “That has to be it. Two things happened. First, Alastair heard disturbing details at the Twain presentation. Second, Albert told him about Dave and me visiting. The convergence of those two events led to the break-in. It was the perfect storm.”

  And we three landed in the middle of it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Despite there being plenty more to see, none of us were inclined to stroll idly through the market after our discussion. When we’d set out to discover where Alastair had acquired the fake documents, we hadn’t anticipated that the forgeries originated with him. Nor had we foreseen getting so close to unmasking the killer. We knew it wasn’t Bonnie, but was it Alastair . . . or Albert?

  We sat and pondered our next steps, and Dave
and Gilbert wondered whether they’d said anything to Alastair that he would see as a threat to his enterprise. Or worse, did he think it was only a matter of time before they put two and two together and saw him or his son as the killer?

  Had the father or the son or both of them planned to kill Teddy or had the elderly man woken up to see someone in his bedroom, removing a frame from the wall or a binder from his bed? Had the killing been a spur-of-the-moment act? Or had it been cold-blooded and premeditated?

  By this time, the men were on their second round of cider and I’d given in and joined them. Dickens had enjoyed numerous chunks of pie crust and was snoozing quietly beneath the table.

  Surprised neither of them had suggested it yet, I said, “It’s time to involve the police, I think.”

  Though the situation wasn’t funny, the look on Gilbert’s face made me laugh. “The police? Surely you jest. Just when we’re close to solving the case on our own? What was it Ellie called it—the Chipping Camden Affair?”

  I looked meaningfully at Dave. “Well, I’ve been in some sticky situations because I failed to do so soon enough in the past.”

  “She’s right, Gilbert. Leta has a contact in the constabulary, and I think it’s time we put her in the picture.”

  Gilbert wasn’t buying it. “Her? It’s a woman? Not that it matters one way or the other, but I think we need to have the tale all ticked and tied before we involve anyone else.”

  Hmmm. Does my new friend have some male chauvinist tendencies? “How do you suggest we tick and tie, Gilbert? Do you have the real Sherlock waiting in the wings?”

  “If only. No, but I can speak with some friends in the business to see if there’s even a whiff of doubt about Alastair’s integrity. I should be able to tell pretty quickly whether we’re on the right track or have gone completely off the rails.”

  Dave looked from me to Gilbert. “Leta, what do you think? You can always contact Gemma later. How long will that take, Gilbert?”

  Gilbert spoke first. “The first bit won’t take long at all. I should get some answers before the day is done. If there’s a whiff, so to speak, I’ll ask those friends and others if they’ve purchased anything from Alastair lately and then go from there.”

  I shook my head. “I guess I should be relieved you’re not planning to sneak into Alastair’s Attic under the cover of darkness. If you’ll promise to update us tonight, I’ll wait to hear what you sniff out before I reach out to Gemma, but I need to tell her soon.”

  Looking at Dave, Gilbert asked, “Is she always this stubborn?”

  It was a long drive home in more ways than one. I was itching to call Gemma to ask her to do a background check on Alastair. I had no idea whether there’d be anything to find, but if he was the kind of person we thought he was, this might not have been the first time he’d been involved in something nefarious.

  Dave, on the other hand, seemed energized at the prospect of what Gilbert might uncover. Why I wasn’t sure. Given his feelings about my getting involved in amateur sleuthing, he was oddly excited about doing the same.

  The good news was I had Bolognese sauce in the fridge, so dinner was an easy affair. When Dave uncorked a bottle of red, I was more than ready to put my feet up and relax. It was his toast that caught me off guard.

  “Here’s to Tommy and Tuppence.”

  “So, you see yourself as Tommy now, do you? After a week engaged in staid library research, you’re eager to explore the dark side of literary forgery?”

  He was downright jolly. “Aw, come on, Tuppence. Admit it, we had fun today, piecing the clues together. I can see how you and the Little Old Ladies’ Detective Agency get caught up in the chase, but trust me, I have no intention of snooping around dark alleys. Let Gilbert check with his contacts, and then you can call Gemma. I’ll confine my sleuthing to studying those binders more closely.”

  We didn’t have a bad evening, but it was by no means as pleasant and relaxing as our time together normally was. There was an undercurrent. Dave was excited, but I was worried, and not a little put-out with him. Tommy and Tuppence, my foot.

  I had a restless night and woke before him Sunday morning. Wrapped in a fleece blanket, I took my coffee to the garden. Dickens explored as I sat deep in thought. We hadn’t heard from Gilbert last night, and when Dave tried to call him, it went to voicemail.

  Oddly enough, the person we heard from was Alastair. The reason for the call seemed to be twofold—one was to inquire about our Sunday plans. He’d gotten a lead on some Bram Stoker documents and wondered if Dave would like to join him on the outskirts of the village of Lower Slaughter to check it out. The other was to let me know Bonnie was willing to drop the price on the landscape and he could have Albert deliver it to me sometime next week if I was interested.

  I’d listened to Dave’s side of the conversation. “Sunday? We’re attending a cricket match. Yes, a friend is playing. Right, so I hear. That’s why we’re packing a picnic lunch. Really? Darn. I hate to miss an opportunity to be a book scout for a day. Maybe another time. Okay, here’s Leta.”

  I told Alastair I was interested in the landscape but wasn’t ready to make a decision yet. He was a good salesman and explained that the lower price wouldn’t be on offer beyond Friday, and I promised to let Bonnie know my answer by midweek.

  That conversation gave Dave a taste of how you could be convinced of someone’s guilt one minute and then second-guess yourself when you had an innocent conversation with them. We both wondered why, if Alastair was the guilty party, he’d be so chummy with us.

  And now, I was sitting here thinking something had to be done, but what? I was pretty sure Dave still wanted me to wait to hear from Gilbert before contacting Gemma, but the longer I waited, the more likely she’d be furious with me for not involving her sooner—despite the fact that she’d ridiculed my idea the crime had to do with rare documents.

  As I was sipping a second cup of coffee, my phone pinged with a text from Wendy. “Tell me you can talk. I may do myself bodily harm if I can’t speak with you soon.” Oh my. This has to be about Brian.

  I called her. “Dave’s still asleep. What’s going on?”

  Wendy didn’t miss a beat before launching into a ten-minute tirade about Brian Burton. The adjectives she spat out included sexist, condescending, arrogant, and controlling, and the list went on. She concluded with, “Can you believe when I told him it was over between us, he wouldn’t accept it? He said something about liking how fierce I was. Said he knew I was angry with him, but that all relationships had moments like this. How can he be a successful DCI and be so obtuse?”

  “Whoa. It must have been an awful week. When did you deliver the message? Not on the drive home, I hope.”

  “No, I knew better than that. I waited until last night and called him. Can you believe he chuckled? That’s when he delivered the line about loving me for my independent spirit and my feistiness. It beggars the imagination!”

  I listened to her vent for a few more minutes. When she ran out of steam, I said, “It’s not the same situation, but I also have a boyfriend who’s having a hearing problem. It’s a new phenomenon with him.”

  “Oh no. Don’t tell me that. Are you two on the outs? Say it isn’t so.”

  I explained it was nothing we couldn’t work out, but I was at a loss as to what to do. “Maybe I’ll tell him you have a Brian situation and I need to hold your hand. What do you think?”

  “It that works, go for it. I’m here.”

  When I found Dave in the kitchen, he was feeding Christie. “She told me you were ignoring her and she was starving.”

  “Uh-huh, and you fell for it. Well, she may be starving, but she doesn’t have the boyfriend problem Wendy has. I just got an earful. Are you okay if I leave you on your own for a bit and head to her cottage?”

  My boyfriend was nothing if not the soul of patience. “Sure, leave Dickens with me, and we’ll take a walk to see the donkeys.”

  “Me too, me too,” meowed Chri
stie as I ran upstairs to change. I was on the road in a flash.

  Wendy and Belle were sipping coffee in the kitchen when I arrived at Sunshine Cottage. Surprisingly, talking through the events that had led to our Saturday visit to Manchester took very little time. Though Ellie had already given Belle an update on our dinner with Gilbert, she sat patiently through the summary.

  Wendy had no problem following. “Okay, I’m with you so far. Who would have thought this was about forgeries? It sounds like you and Mum and Ellie did some fine work with a little help from Dave and Gilbert. So, what does Gemma have to say about this new angle?”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “I haven’t told Gemma.”

  She gave me a surprised look. “You haven’t? Well, I guess it wouldn’t it be the first time we didn’t go to her right away, like when we felt we had to have more facts to give her . . . she does tend to brush off our ideas. Still, I predict she’s going to be irritated with you because you didn’t give her a chance to reject your idea.“

  “That is so well put. I’m sure she will be, even though she’s already pooh-poohed my theory about rare documents. Maybe that’s why I didn’t share what we’d concluded about forgeries. But that’s only the tip of the iceberg. Wait until I tell you about our visit to Alastair’s Attic.”

  As I described the interactions with Bonnie and Alastair and the purchases we’d made, both mother and daughter nodded and commented that the visit sounded harmless enough. It wasn’t until I got to our lunchtime breakthrough that they reacted strongly.

  My sleuthing partners looked at each other and Wendy spoke first.“Wow! That’s quite a leap, but it seems plausible when you lay it all out.”

  Belle nodded thoughtfully. “It makes sense that someone with an artistic background would be involved.”

  Bringing the coffee carafe to the table, Wendy paused. “You’ve had two major ah-has, and you still haven’t called Gemma? What’s going on with you?”