“Er … good morning. Which of you is first?”
“Kristin and Liam,” said Fay. “I’m not here as a patient. I want to invite your father to join me for coffee. I’d like to talk to him about antiquities.”
“Hmm. Nothing to do with a certain unfortunate incident at the public library, I trust?”
Fay’s smile was angelic. “Your trust is entirely misplaced, Doctor. Is your father home?”
“He is, but I’m not sure he’s available.”
Footsteps sounded behind him.
“Nonsense, lad.” Doc Dyer grabbed a jacket from the coat stand and bustled out the door. “I’d be delighted to join Fay for coffee. Where are we going, love?”
“To the Cracked Spine.”
“Perfect. I can see my old friend, Nella. Do you know she used to babysit me? About six months ago, that was.” He laughed uproariously. “Just kidding. It was more than half a century ago. Bye now, David. I’ll see you at lunch.”
David turned back to Kristin and Liam who had been watching this interchange with great interest.
“Please, come this way.”
They disappeared into the surgery.
“He’s a good boy but he worries too much,” said Doc Dyer as he and Fay set off down the hill.
“He doesn’t approve of my meddling in Desmond Pinkerton’s death.”
“It’s over-protectiveness. When he cares about someone, he doesn’t want them anywhere near a dangerous situation.”
“I can see how that would apply to you – you’re his father. But he hardly knows me.”
“He might not have known you long, but he cares about you.” Doc Dyer lengthened his stride as the road levelled out. “Believe me, a father knows these things.”
Fay wanted him to expand on this theme but reminded herself that David had a girlfriend.
“I haven’t been to the Cracked Spine in ages,” she said instead. “It’s an interesting place.”
“Oh, it’s fascinating, and the food is good too. The bookshop is of particular interest to the collector. By the way, I must thank you for sending me that candlestick. A most intriguing object. David handed it over to the police, but I was pleased to have the opportunity to study it.”
“There’s no chance it was hugely valuable, is there?”
“No chance at all. As I said before, it would be worth more with its twin, but even the two of them together would fetch no more than a couple of thousand pounds. I know that sounds like a lot of money, but in the world of international antique trading it’s really not.”
“What do you know about Eleanor of Castile, Doc?”
He turned to look at her. “Is that what this is about? The legend of the dowry?”
“I don’t know. It might be.”
He shook his head. “If that’s true, it’s even sadder than I thought. For a man to die over a historical rumor is a great shame.”
They turned off the high street and walked one block up to join Webber Road. The Cracked Spine was just ahead on their left.
It had always struck Fay as a fanciful place. Built at a time when most of the land here was open farmland belonging to the Barons of Chadwick, it had originally been constructed as a folly by one of the younger Chadwick sons. This was during a time when Gothic revival was all the rage in architecture. The folly bristled with towers and turrets. Every doorway and window had a pointed arch over it and there were two flying buttresses, one on either side of the building.
The owner had played up the eccentricities of the place by painting it in candy stripe colors. It looked like an elaborate gingerbread house.
“Here we are,” said Doc Dyer. “Let’s see what Nella has to say for herself.”
Chapter 13
The interior of the Cracked Spine was charming.
Instead of reproducing the Gothic look, Nella had gone for a cozy English feel. There were gingham drapes at the windows and sprigged muslin cloths on the tables. The smell of hot English scones permeated the coffee shop.
A waitress led them to a table for two near the fire. They didn’t need to ask whether Nella was in today. Her bright blue turban could be seen bobbing about in the bookstore that was adjacent to the coffeeshop.
“I don’t know about you, but this smell is making me hungry,” said Doc Dyer. “I’m going to order a freshly baked scone with strawberry jam and clotted cream. I know they’re supposed to be for the tourists, but I love them too.”
“So do I. There’s nothing in the world as delicious as a Cornish cream tea. I don’t know what they feed the cows around here, but the cream is outstanding.”
Soon Fay was sinking her teeth into a hot scone. The combined flavors of farm butter, homemade strawberry preserves, and clotted cream exploded on her tongue.
“I’ll tell you something,” she said when she had finished half of her scone. “Ever since I came to the west country, I’ve been rating the cream teas that I’ve eaten. This one is the best.”
Doc Dyer laughed. “You’d better not let Morwen hear you say that. The Cat’s Paw cream teas are legendary.”
Fay took another bite, trying to separate the flavors in her mind. “It’s the cream that makes the difference. Our scones are just as fluffy. Our butter and preserves are just as tasty. But this cream is exceptional. I must find out who Nella’s supplier is.”
“Good luck with that. It’s a closely guarded secret.”
“I’ll just ask her. I’m sure she’ll tell me.” Fay’s American brain couldn’t imagine someone refusing to answer a simple question like that.
Doc Dyer shook his head. “Like I say – good luck with that.”
“If it isn’t my old friend, Bartemius.” Nella appeared behind Fay. “I haven’t laid eyes on you in weeks, Barty. You’ve been working too hard.”
“Nella! My first and oldest love.” Doc Dyer stood up to kiss her cheek.
“Less of the oldest, thank you, Barty. You know perfectly well you were devoted to your darling Emma. However, I will acknowledge that I was your first crush when you were six years old and I was sixteen and trying to keep you out of mischief.” She turned to Fay with her hand outstretched. “You’re the Penrose child, aren’t you? We have met once or twice. I miss your grandmother dreadfully.”
“Me too.”
“I’m glad you are keeping her dream alive of turning Penrose House into a self-supporting concern.”
“Thanks, Miss Harcourt. It’s going well so far. I believe you and Lady Chadwick and Morwen are hard at work on the spring fair. I keep asking Morwen if she needs me to do anything, but she says it’s all under control.”
“And so it is. You will run the tombola stand and announce the winners of the raffle just as the Penroses have done for centuries. But leave the organization to us. We know what we are doing. And please call me Nella.”
“Thanks. While I’ve got your attention, I wanted to ask where you source your clotted cream from. It’s absolutely delicious. I’d be interested in changing suppliers.”
Nella threw back her head and laughed. She patted Fay’s hand. “Darling child. So sweet, so American.”
Then she wandered off to help a customer look for a book.
“I told you so,” said Doc Dyer.
“Humph. American, am I? Well, Nella Harcourt is about to discover what a little Yankee ingenuity can accomplish. I’ll have that secret out of her by the end of the week.”
As they poured themselves a second cup of tea, Fay remembered why she had asked Doc Dyer to join her in the first place.
“I want to ask Nella about the RARE society and their obsession with Eleanor’s dowry. I’m hoping she’ll be more forthcoming about that than about her clotted cream. Can you tell me what questions to ask so that I sound like I know what I’m talking about?”
“There have been rumors over the last year or so that someone is getting closer to cracking the codes hidden in the manuscripts, and also that they have almost found the complete set of manuscripts. The fear of cou
rse is that there aren’t any more manuscripts to be found - that they have been destroyed by time. But the enthusiasts keep on hoping. If anyone would have the latest information on that it would be Nella. Those dowry hunters are obsessed.”
“Would they kill for their obsession?”
“If they believed that Desmond Pinkerton had found something and was holding out on them, I can see one of them bashing him over the head with a candlestick. Whether that person intended to kill him or not is another matter.”
“And the code? Is it a regular substitution of letters and numbers, or is it more complicated than that?”
“It’s more complicated. The code was written at a time when the mathematical works of the great Greek thinkers were being rediscovered – Pythagoras, Archimedes, Euclid. People were falling in love with math all over again. We think there were elements of geometry and maybe even trigonometry in the code.”
“I’ll see how much Nella knows. Thanks, Doc.”
Doc Dyer left the coffee shop to do some shopping in the high street before heading home.
It might have been a Sunday but almost every shop was open. The only businesses that closed over weekends were banks, building societies, agencies, and other nine to five offices. Every place that offered food or drink or any kind of retail product stayed open as long as their extended-trading licenses allowed. Friday to Sunday was the busiest time on the island. On a day like today when there was a clear hint of spring in the air you would have to be crazy to shut up shop. The tourists milled around outside just looking for somewhere to spend their money.
Fay finished paying the bill and looked about, hoping to spot Nella.
She wasn’t in the coffeeshop or the bookshop. On the other side of the bookshop was the reception area for the B&B. It was there that Fay spotted Nella, helping a family settle their bill and check out for the weekend. Fay waited behind the family until they left.
“Miss Penrose,” said Nella. “What can I do for you?”
“Do you have a moment to talk? We can make it another time if you’re busy.”
“No, no. Now is fine. Let’s see if we can grab a couple of armchairs in the bookstore.”
They found a quiet corner of the shop where Fay was fairly sure that their conversation wouldn’t be overheard.
“That’s better.” Nella sank into a chair and sighed. “These bones aren’t as young as they were. It’s lovely to sit for a while.”
“You might have heard that I was in the library when Desmond Pinkerton was killed. I was the one to discover his body – apart from Mrs. Tribble’s cat, of course. I’m interested in what happened to him, especially since Sergeant Jones seems to have decided that I’m a suspect.”
“Oh, don’t pay attention to him. The last time he closed a case was when he caught Farmer Dimmock’s dog pulling Mrs. Dimmock’s laundry off the line. And even then, he nearly lost the evidence on his way to report the matter to Farmer Dimmock. What is it you want to know?”
“I attended a RARE seminar last night that dealt with Queen Eleanor’s dowry. Someone told me that Desmond Pinkerton might have made a significant discovery shortly before his death. Have you heard anything like that?”
“Not exactly. I think we all know that the full set of manuscripts is closer to being found now than ever before in history. And once they have been found it should be a simple task for a modern cryptologist to decipher the code. Then they would begin the task of looking in the various hiding places indicated by the queen. That is the part of the process that I don’t hold out much hope for. If you think of where Edward and Eleanor lived when they were in England, you would realize how unlikely it is that anything remains hidden there.”
“Places like Windsor Castle and the Palace of Westminster?”
“Exactly. Those ancient buildings have been in continuous use since the twelve-hundreds. They have been extensively renovated over the years. What are the chances that there is some hidey-hole full of precious artefacts that no one has ever discovered? That’s the part I find unlikely.”
“I agree with you, but it doesn’t matter what we think. What matters is that someone might have believed in the existence of the dowry strongly enough to kill Pinkerton over it. The only people I know who care that deeply about the dowry are members of RARE. And most of them seem to be staying right here.”
“I’m afraid that’s true. Do you really think I have a murderer under my roof?”
“It’s possible. I’d be interested to know where certain people were at ten o’clock in the morning on Friday. They all claim to have been here.”
Nella looked thoughtful. “Who were you thinking of in particular?”
“Henry and Marigold Bessinger, and Cecil Travis. I don’t suppose you remember whether you saw them here on Friday morning?”
“I remember Friday quite clearly. We had closed the bookshop for stocktaking and it was causing some disruption. I remember that Marigold was fussing about getting fresh flowers for the stall on Saturday. I told her she shouldn’t buy them too far in advance or they would wilt, but she was very determined. She said she would go and order the flowers to be ready on Saturday morning. It struck me as not particularly necessary. Laurie always keeps a good supply of flowers in the shop. The only time you need to order in advance is for a big event like a wedding.”
“Did Henry go with her?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Nella. “The two of them had been arguing. She was trying to persuade him to do something and he kept refusing. Eventually she said she would do it herself. That’s when she announced that she was going to get the flowers. But somehow I don’t think the flowers were the subject of their argument.”
“Did he stay here while she was out?”
“No, he went off somewhere on his own account. Said it had to do with the exhibition on Saturday. He said something about how all his previous visits to Bluebell Island had been a failure, but he was determined that this one wouldn’t be. He had said that to Marigold as well, or shouted it, rather. They were fighting a lot. I assumed he was talking about sales of his wares.”
“And Cecil Travis?”
“He wasn’t here either. I seem to remember that he skipped breakfast. He left the Cracked Spine early that morning and only got back around midday. I assumed he had been sightseeing – maybe taking a boat trip around the island, or perhaps one of Kathleen O’Grady’s hikes. When I asked him about it he said it was nothing like that. He was angry with me for asking. All but told me to mind my own business.”
“Three suspects, three lies,” said Fay.
“Is that so?”
“They all told me that they were right here on Friday morning. In fact, they used you as an alibi.”
“I daresay they had their reasons for lying. They couldn’t all have killed him, after all.”
Fay pictured the tiny library with its narrow gaps between the stacks. “No, they couldn’t. There wasn’t room. If I can ask you another question – how would you recognize one of the hidden manuscripts if you saw it?”
“An interesting question, my dear. You would look for the sign of the queen.”
Chapter 14
“The sign of the queen?” said Fay. “What does that mean?”
“Queen Eleanor had several signs,” explained Nella. “She had a fondness for mythical creatures and was well educated in the legends of the day. She had the whimsical idea of using these creatures to signpost the code wherever it was embedded in a manuscript. She instructed her illustrators to draw the creatures in the margins so that her children would recognize them one day. As far as we know, she used unicorns, gryphons, dragons, phoenixes, and rocs.”
“A roc was a giant bird, as I recall?”
“That’s right. Sinbad the Sailor had to steal a roc’s egg as one of his tasks. Those are the creatures we know about, but there might have been more.”
“You’d think that would make it simple to spot,” said Fay. “But from what I’ve heard it was common to dr
aw all kinds of creatures in the margins of manuscripts in those days. It seemed to be how the scribes amused themselves.”
“Correct, but Eleanor’s favorite scribe and illustrator had a distinctive style. His creatures were quite naively drawn and playful looking. Even I can recognize them at a glance and I am not a serious medievalist.”
“If some of the manuscripts have already been found, have any of the artefacts been located?”
“Not as far as I know. There are objects in museums that are believed to have been part of the dowry, but they are out of reach for small-time collectors like the members of RARE.”
Nella got up and walked towards a bookshelf labelled non-fiction. “I can show you what the illustrations look like. These are obviously copies, not the originals.” She took down a book called Medieval Curiosities. Then she paged through it until she found what she was looking for.
“Look.” She brought the book to the table. “You can see the style that the illustrator favored.”
Fay paged through the book. It was devoted to what it called marginalia – the doodles, scribblings, and graffiti that medieval scribes put in the margins of manuscripts. Nella was right. The style of Eleanor’s illustrator was unmistakable. He used solid blocks of color and gave his animals large, cartoon-like eyes. They were drawn with a great deal of care and affection.
“Who has the originals of these?” she asked.
“This phoenix and this dragon,” said Nella, pointing at the book, “are in a manuscript that is held by a museum in London. Anyone can go and look at it, although it is kept in a room with very dim light so as not to fade the ink. The unicorn, gryphon, and dragon appear in a manuscript owned by the Bessingers. They have been very generous with it – allowing the other members of RARE to study it at length. And the rest I believe were held by Desmond Pinkerton. He also made them available to the other members, but they were kept at his shop in Truro.”
“And now they belong to Cecil Travis.”
“So, it’s true then? I heard that Desmond made Cecil his heir, but I wasn’t sure whether to believe it.”
The Cat That Got Your Tongue Page 8