“There you go …” Mrs. Tribble broke off with a squeak of surprise. “That can’t be right. That’s not the original candlestick. How long has that been there?”
“Possibly since Friday. That’s when the original one disappeared.”
“Why would someone take just one? The two of them together are worth quite a bit of money as a set but one on its own doesn’t have much value. You’d think the person would have stolen both of them.”
“They weren’t stolen, Mrs. Tribble. The one that’s missing was the murder weapon. Somebody used it to hit Desmond Pinkerton over the head.”
Mrs. Tribble gaped at her. “How do you know?”
“It was found in a dumpster nearby and Dr. Dyer matched the blood on it to the victim. Now Sergeant Jones has it to check for fingerprints.”
“My fingerprints would be all over it. I’m the one who dusts it every day.”
“They might ask if you’re prepared to have your fingerprints taken so that they can exclude them.”
“I suppose that would be okay.” Mrs. Tribble picked up the substitute candlestick. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice this imposter. It looks like it comes from Ikea.”
“Yes, or Walmart. It wasn’t supposed to escape detection for long – probably just long enough for the original to be cleared away by the garbage collectors.”
“I can’t believe it. All this happened under my nose.”
“Where did the original candlesticks come from?”
“They were given to the library by an anonymous donor.”
Chapter 16
A ride on the Bluebell Island ferry never failed to make Fay feel like a child on holiday.
There was a festive atmosphere at the docks with parties of holiday-makers either coming or going. Seagulls circled above, filling the air with their plaintive cries. They were on the lookout for dropped popcorn, ice-cream cones or cotton candy discarded by children.
The ferries themselves were a cheerful sight – squat little tubs painted in bright colors and offering all the modern conveniences.
There were days when the weather was terrible, which made waiting for the ferry a wet and windy ordeal. Today wasn’t one of those days. The sky was a mild blue and the wind a frisky playmate. A few woolly clouds promised unsettled weather later in the day, but for now it was fine. Pale spring sunshine turned everything golden, including the ferry that waited to take them to the mainland. It was called Pathfinder 2, a reassuring name for the square vessel.
Fay bought her ticket and went on board. She chose a comfortable seat to the fore of the boat and on the starboard side. She liked to sit with her back to the engines and far away from the fumes. If it was going to be a choppy crossing, the smell of engine fumes would make her queasy. The sea was like glass in the port but who knew what it would be like when they got to open water. The Atlantic Ocean was always unpredictable. Fay slipped a hand into her bag and felt for the reassuring shape of her sea sickness tablets.
Within minutes she heard the roar of the engines and felt the motion of the ferry as it got underway.
A hand touched her shoulder and a voice spoke behind her.
“Is this seat taken?”
She turned to see David Dyer looming over her.
“Oh, good morning. You’re welcome to sit here. I like to claim my seat early because I’m not a good sailor.”
“What do you take for it?”
Fay showed him her over-the-counter remedy. “This seems to help a little.”
“That’s not bad at all. If you’d like something stronger, you can always come into the surgery for a prescription.”
“Thanks. Are you spending the day on the mainland?”
“I’m going to Truro. A friend of mine has asked me to be the lead surgeon in a tricky operation he has to perform this morning. He will assist me this time and then he should be able to do it himself next time. What about you?”
“I’m also on my way to Truro. I want to visit Desmond Pinkerton’s bookshop. Apparently, it’s re-opening today.”
“I hear you spent time in the village library yesterday afternoon. Did you discover anything useful?”
Six months earlier Fay would have wanted to ask how he knew that. Now she accepted it as part of village life. It was like living in a fishbowl. The jungle drums never stopped beating and one of the first people to receive information would always be the village doctor. It was the price you paid for living in a tight-knit community. In Manhattan, there were stories about people found dead in their apartments after three weeks. No one had noticed their absence.
That could never happen on Bluebell Island, even on the most isolated farms. By mid-morning, at the latest, someone would have noticed that your drapes were still closed and come knocking at your door to see if you were all right.
“Do you remember the books that were lying on the floor when we found Pinkerton in the library?”
“Of course. It looked as though they had been knocked from the shelf when he hit his head. Or perhaps he had been holding them when he was struck.”
“One of them is missing.”
“What do you mean missing? Perhaps someone checked it out of the library.”
“No. Mrs. Tribble checked her computerized catalogue. The book has been listed as missing and possibly mis-shelved since Friday afternoon.”
“How do you know exactly which books were on the floor?” He shook his head as he remembered. “Of course. Mrs. Tribble mentioned that you had taken photos of the crime scene.”
“Exactly. The missing book is called Inscriptions, Epigraphs and Epitaphs: a guide to hidden messages in Medieval culture.
“Medieval codes, in other words. My father brought me up to date on the theories about Queen Eleanor’s dowry. This sounds as though it might be related to that.”
Fay showed him her photograph of the scene.
“Look at the other titles. There’s a clear theme.”
“I see what you mean. It’s still possible that the book has merely been mis-shelved. Or that the person who did the shelving took it.”
“That’s Mrs. Tribble’s assistant, Paul Leblanc. You don’t happen to know anything about him, do you?”
“Just that he’s a man of about my own age. I only became aware of him when I moved back to Bluebell Island. That means he wasn’t born and brought up here. He must be an import from the mainland. He was kind to Mrs. Tribble after the murder. He seemed to take good care of her.”
“I noticed that too. He was also at the seminar I attended on Saturday, more to accompany Mrs. Tribble rather than on his own account, I think.”
David looked out to sea as he turned things over in his mind. “I keep wondering where the murderer got that candlestick from. It’s a strange thing for anyone to carry around with them.”
“That’s something else I discovered yesterday. The candlestick was part of a pair that stood at the entrance to the library. The other one is still there, standing next to a store-bought imitation that someone bought to replace the missing one.”
“Interesting. That means it was a weapon of opportunity, not of forethought.”
“It looks that way. The person might have gone into the library not intending to kill anyone. They might have seen Pinkerton browsing through a book that contained the secret to Eleanor’s dowry, seized the candlestick from its side table, and hit him over the head with it.”
“And stolen the book?”
Fay shook her head. “Not at that stage. The book was there when I photographed the crime scene. The person might have found the opportunity to come back later and take the book at their leisure. Access control to the library is non-existent. Anyone can walk in.”
“Do the candlesticks belong to Mrs. Tribble?”
“They belong to the library. They were donated by an anonymous benefactor.”
“And they date from the same era as Eleanor of Castile?”
“From the same region too,” said Fay. “I showed a photograp
h to Henry and Marigold Bessinger from the RARE society and they recognized them at once.”
“I know who you mean. My father knows them quite well. They’re a strange couple – although I suppose couple isn’t the right word anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re splitting up – getting a divorce. It would have been finalized by now except for the fact that they can’t agree on how to divide up their property. My father says it’s becoming quite heated.”
“Interesting.”
All this time Fay had been thinking of the Bessingers as a unit when they were actually opposing factions. That changed everything.
When they got to Truro, David and Fay went their separate ways. He headed to the hospital where his friend worked, and Fay went to Pinkerton’s Rare and Collectible Books in Tabernacle Street. She was relieved to see that it was open as promised. She hadn’t noticed Cecil Travis on the ferry and had wondered if he had decided to stay on Bluebell Island another day.
Stuck between a pharmacy and an apartment block, Pinkertons was a real blink-and-you’ll-miss-it place. Its shop front was tiny and its signage small. It seemed to be trying to make itself as unobtrusive as possible. The windows had a one-way tint so that passers-by couldn’t see into the bookshop unless they pressed their noses up against the glass. The effect was anything but inviting. Even the front door was shut, although a tiny sign declared it to be open.
Fay pushed the door and heard a chime sound throughout the shop. It was dark and empty. Then movement erupted from a back room making Fay jump.
It was Cecil Travis emerging at top speed as though to stop her from shoplifting.
“Yes? Can I help you?” His tone was clipped.
“It’s me, Mr. Travis. Fay Penrose. I spoke to you at the seminar on Saturday night.”
He squinted at her. “Oh, right. I couldn’t make out your face silhouetted against the doorway. Please come in.”
His tone was several degrees warmer.
“I said you should pop in and see the shop sometime, didn’t I? Can I make you some tea?
“I don’t want to distract you if any paying customers come in.”
He chuckled. He seemed to find the possibility amusing.
“I can think of more likely eventualities.”
“Does no one come in here? Not ever?”
“Only by appointment. A couple of times a week you’ll get people walking in because they saw the sign, but they usually back out quickly when they see how dark it is.”
“How do you stay open? How do you afford the rent?” Fay’s practical American soul rebelled against this terrible marketing.
“I didn’t say no one came in here. I just said we don’t get many walk-ins. When people come here by appointment they are usually serious collectors looking for serious items. We might not make a sale often but when we do it counts. One sale could keep us going for months.”
“Can you give me the grand tour? I’d like to see what kind of merchandise fetches those prices.”
“Of course. You understand why I can’t turn on the lights?”
“Because of the risk of damaging the paper and fading the ink?”
“That’s it. Unfortunately, people only began to understand the link between exposure to light and damage to documents quite recently. These manuscripts were exposed to every kind of harsh condition for centuries before we made an effort to preserve them.”
“Where did all this stock come from?” asked Fay. “Did Desmond buy it himself?”
“Not at all. He inherited it. His grandparents were avid collectors. He was the only grandchild who showed an interest in medieval culture, so they left the whole lot to him. He used to say his inheritance was the greatest joy of his life. He added to it considerably over the years. He was always going to auctions of deceased and insolvent estates. He was especially interested if the estate was a historic house in the country. He picked up some treasures quite cheaply that way.”
“And now it’s all yours.”
Cecil pulled a face. “That’s what I thought but apparently the lawyers are raising questions about that. They say there might be a later will to the one I knew about.”
“In whose favor?”
Some long-lost relative. Desmond always told me he had no family. This is all quite unexpected. It might all have been for nothing.” He said the last sentence softly, as if he were speaking to himself.
“Did Desmond ever come across anything relating to Eleanor’s dowry?”
“Not that he told me. But he might have kept it secret. Now I’ll finally have the chance to look through his stuff properly. Even if someone else comes along and claims the inheritance, I’m the one who’s here now with all the time in the world to search.”
“What kind of security does this place have?”
Cecil laughed. “The best kind. The fact that nobody knows there’s anything worth stealing here.”
Chapter 17
Tabernacle Street at midnight was an eerie place.
The lone restaurant on the corner was shut. There were only two cars parked on the street and the bicycle racks were empty. The street lights bathed everything in an anemic glow. The pharmacy was quiet, the light above the door flickering fitfully.
Pinkerton’s Rare & Collectible Books was dark – a black hole between the apartment building and the pharmacy. There was not even a security light above the door.
The only sign of life on Tabernacle Street was a figure in a dark overcoat with the collar pulled up high and a knitted cap pulled down low. The figure walked in a hunched posture with its chin tucked in. When the police reviewed the CCTV security footage later they would be able to make out no distinguishing features of the figure in the overcoat – not age, race, gender, or anything.
The figure stopped in front of Pinkertons and extracted a long, thin tool from the pocket of its overcoat. Moving smoothly but without haste, the figure inserted the tool into the fragile and aged lock of the door. It popped open in seconds. The figure turned its shoulders to look up and down the short length of Tabernacle Street before pulling the door open and easing its way into the bookstore.
The street security cameras were unable to follow the figure into the bookstore, but they recorded a light coming on and bobbing around inside the shop. The police would conclude that the figure chose not to switch on the shop’s own lighting but rather to make use of a handheld flashlight, possibly from a cellphone.
Inside the shop, the figure pulled its hands out of its overcoat to reveal two gloves carefully pulled into place. Gripping a flashlight between its teeth, the figure moved systematically through the bookshop, rifling through the merchandise. It was as though the figure had been there before and knew its way around.
Rather than wasting time on different eras the figure homed in on the late Middle Ages. Every now and then the busy gloved fingers would stop and extract a book or manuscript. The flashlight would be trained on the pages of this tome and the intruder’s eyes would scan it eagerly, paying particular attention to the margins. Then the figure would slump in disappointment. The book would be closed and replaced in the exact spot that it had been taken from.
Once or twice, the figure took out its cellphone and took a photograph of a particular page of a manuscript. But still it wasn’t satisfied. The search continued until every medieval relic had been combed through. When the figure finished in the main part of the shop it moved to the back room. Here, various items lay open on a long work table. It seemed as though someone had been busy with restoration work. The figure’s movements were less assured now. The gloved hands trembled. It was as though this back room had been the goal all along. The care that the figure had displayed in the main part of the shop was gone now. The manuscripts were pulled about roughly and scanned for information. The pages were turned with a lack of respect that would have caused distress to any antiquarian.
Faster and faster went the search. The figure seemed to become frustrated as whate
ver it was looking for remained unfound. It started pulling open drawers and cupboards, making no attempt to return things to the way they were. Within minutes this had escalated into a full-blown tantrum. And still the desired object remained hidden.
It was 12:03 when the security cameras recorded the figure entering Pinkertons. At 01:36 the cameras showed the figure leaving the store. The figure seemed more agitated going out than it had coming in. Its movements were jerky and uncontrolled. It closed the door of the shop with a slam. The door failed to close properly. This time the police would note that the sheen of latex gloves was clearly visible on the figure’s hands. It appeared to be carrying nothing. The police would conclude that the lockpick and whatever flashlight or cellphone the figure had used were in its overcoat pockets.
The figure walked quickly down the road, heading south-east. Its movements were uneven and suggestive of frustration. It was somewhere close to the train station that the figure disappeared from the town’s security feeds and failed to reappear – at least not in a form that the police could recognize.
Fay got back from her morning run along the beach to be confronted by the unexpected sight of three uniformed police officers clustered around her kitchen door.
One of them was Sergeant Jones but she didn’t recognize the other two. Unless the Bluebell Island police department had suddenly acquired two new members that she was unaware of, these were mainlanders.
Fay stopped at the top of the cliff steps to stretch out her leg muscles and get her breath back. She didn’t want to confront them while out of breath from her run. They turned and watched as she approached.
“Good morning, officers. Can I help you with something?”
Sergeant Jones launched into an apology.
“So sorry to intrude like this, Fay love. Especially at this hour of the morning. I wanted to wait until a more reasonable time, but these officers insisted.”
The Cat That Got Your Tongue Page 10