“Lovely,” I said, taking one, “thanks.”
“Well, Ms. Powell”—the constable stood, flipping his notebook closed—“you’ll be into the station this afternoon, won’t you, to sign your statement?”
“I will, Detective Constable.” She followed him and the PC to the door and held it open. “I’m sorry not to be of more help. I’m afraid I’m one of those people who never looks at her surroundings. My nana says that I could walk by her on the pavement and wouldn’t even notice.”
Once the door had closed, Clara returned to the sofa, poured out our tea, and set the milk and sugar closer to me.
“Clara, why did you come back here—couldn’t the police have talked to you at your nana’s?”
“I need to go through Oona’s things,” she replied, stirring her tea. “She has no family to speak of.”
“What will you do with it all?”
But, in truth, I couldn’t see much to worry about—the place looked more like a hotel room than a dwelling. Didn’t Oona have a real home? Exhibition managers didn’t earn rock star wages, but she must’ve made at least a “comfortable” living at what she did and could afford a little cottage in the Cotswolds. No, on second thought, that wouldn’t suit her—a flat on Hampstead Heath, perhaps. But I couldn’t recall if she’d listed a permanent address on her CV.
“Clara, about Oona—”
“I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind, Hayley.” Clara took off her glasses and began cleaning them with the hem of her sweater. “You see, it’s rather difficult for me to think about. That anyone would do such a thing—why, it beggars belief.” She put the glasses back on and straightened up. “Hayley, could I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“May I stay on—as personal assistant?” When I didn’t answer, Clara rushed on. “It’s only that I’m sure you won’t want to give up on the exhibition—it’s such a terribly worthy cause to bring Lady Fowling’s life to people today who are clamoring for—and . . . and . . . I would carry on with whatever jobs you give me. I know it’s a temporary position, and I wouldn’t want to be in the way, but you see, I’ve told my nana I had this terribly lucky break, and how it would help me find real work and she would be proud of me and I told you that she remembered Lady Fowling and . . .”
At last, Clara had to pause to breathe. I put my hand over hers and found it icy cold. Poor sausage—set adrift in such an awful way.
“Yes, you can stay on. We are determined to continue with the exhibition, and so of course we will need help no matter who is in the lead as manager.”
“Oh.” Clara’s face flushed a rose red. “Oh, thank you so much. Does that mean you’ve hired someone already?”
“I’m working on it. So, why don’t we schedule you for two days a week—I wouldn’t want you to spend every day traveling to and from Shepton Mallet.”
“I won’t need to—I’ll be staying here. Oona got this flat on a five-month let, and it’s all paid up.”
“Five months?” Maybe Oona didn’t have a real home at all—perhaps she was one of those people who constantly hopped round the country. It would suit her work.
“Are you settled in?” My gaze went to the single bedroom, and Clara’s followed.
“I’m not sleeping in Oona’s bed,” she said, as if Oona still laid claim to the space. “No, there’s plenty of room—my bed is just there.” She nodded to an alcove in the pass-through between the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen.
“Is that a camp bed?”
“It’s quite cozy,” she said.
The sofa looked more comfortable. “Well, if you’re certain you’re all right here, then, that’s sorted, isn’t it?” I asked. “But you’ll go home to your nana for the weekends, won’t you? I’d hate to think of you knocking round this place just waiting for work to begin on Monday.” And it would save me worrying about her.
* * *
* * *
Before I left, Clara gave me her new mobile number, and I promised to update her on our schedule. Then I marched off to find Zeno Berryfield, fretting along the way. Would he think a ready-made PA a benefit to accepting the job as manager, or would he be unwilling to take someone else’s leftovers? And if so, what would I do with her? The First Edition Society didn’t need a full-time PA.
I paused in the middle of the Parade grounds to ring Zeno, and he picked up in one.
“Ms. Burke”—he sounded breathless, and I could hear traffic behind him—“what a surprise. How may I be of service?”
“Mr. Berryfield, I’d like to have a word. Are you at your desk today?”
“I am, for my sins.” He chuckled. “I’m catching up on several proposals that have come to me recently. The director of”—on his end, the sound of a bus rumbled over his next words—“is particularly waiting for me to respond.”
“Oh, well then—I wouldn’t want to take up your valuable time.”
“Not at all, it will be a delight to see you again. Shall we say, fifteen minutes?”
That’s the time it would take me to reach James Street West— I looked at the people around me just to make sure he wasn’t among them. Over the phone connection, I heard a horn. At his desk? I didn’t think so.
“Yes, perfect.” Next, I rang Val. “Zeno in fifteen—can you make it?”
“I can’t. It’s what I get for showing my face on campus. I’ve been asked—seeing as I’m not out of town—if I could take a meeting on student numbers this afternoon. The implication being if I want the college to stay firm with the exhibition, I need to give something back. Can we wait until Monday for Berryfield?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
I rang off before he could detect the gaping holes in my confidence.
10
Zeno Berryfield came out on the first-floor landing to meet me. He wore his teal suit—the uniform of Make an Exhibition of Yourself!—and looked unruffled, as if he’d been beavering away at his desk all morning and not wandering the city. He took me to a dark corner of the vast room of hot-deskers and, once again, left me standing while he scared up a chair.
“Well, now, Ms. Burke.” He took his black satchel and dropped it on the floor, then placed forearms on the desk. Leaning forward, hands clasped, with what looked like a smug smile on his face, he continued. “How are all the preparations for your First Edition library event proceeding? Had enough of Oona yet?”
“I didn’t realize you knew Oona had taken the job.”
“Come now,” he said. “Do you think she would pass up the opportunity to crow through her social-media outlets? Exhibition management is a small field populated by a group of people who all know each other and keep an eagle eye on the pulse of the profession.”
I ignored his mixed metaphor, because it occurred to me at that moment I’d have to give him the news of Oona’s death before I offered him the position. My mind had deftly leapt over that necessity, and it caused me to stumble.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, but—” I glanced round the vast room. Even though the desks near us sat empty, I lowered my voice. “Oona is dead.”
Zeno stared at me blankly for a moment. “What—what do you mean, dead?”
“Dead, Mr. Berryfield. Oona died yesterday afternoon, quite suddenly and under suspicious circumstances.” What a useful phrase—helping me to avoid repeating the word murder ad nauseam.
He frowned and cocked his head as if trying to get the words straight. “She . . . are you certain this isn’t a publicity stunt, Ms. Burke? Because I can tell you firsthand that if you think my schemes for immersive events are out there, they are nothing compared with what Oona can conjure up.”
“This is not a publicity stunt! I saw her myself. It looks as if she were pushed down a set of stairs and . . . and I can tell you the police are involved and an enquiry has begun.”
“We
ll, blow me down.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “it’s an awful thing. Oona had already begun planning the exhibition—well, of course, if you knew her, you would know what a dedicated worker she was.”
I remembered Oona and Clara sharing a laugh over Zeno, and so thought I might be on thin ice trying to imagine a friendship of any sort.
“The thing is, Mr. Berryfield, as dreadful as Oona’s death is—and let me say again, the police are working diligently and I’m sure are close to finding the responsible party—we at the First Edition Society plan for the event to go on as scheduled. And, to that end”— I cleared my throat of nothing—“I am here to ask if you would be interested in stepping in as manager.”
There was a pause—a silence as thick as treacle—before Berryfield said, “Are . . . you . . . mad? Do you actually believe I’d want to step into that dog’s breakfast? How many people has Oona riled already? How many has she treated as if they were serfs and she their feudal lord? Take over from Oona? I have my reputation to consider, Ms. Burke. I’m sorry for you, but not so sorry that I’d try to clean up the mess you’ve got yourself into.” He ended with a snort. “Do me a favor.”
* * *
* * *
Thusly turfed out, I stood on the pavement in shock at both Zeno Berryfield’s reaction to Oona’s death and to my offer. I had doubted his bravado about other work coming in, but it seems I had been wrong—he didn’t need the job as the First Edition Society’s exhibition manager. Now what were we to do?
My mind felt as ransacked as Oona’s office, and without a single coherent thought to be had, I retreated to my only refuge—the café at Waitrose. I trudged up the stairs with heavy feet, joined the queue, and when I reached the till, ordered the first thing I saw on the menu board and took a seat. When the server brought a plate of poached salmon and broad-bean salad to my table, I asked, “Is this mine?”
Apparently it was.
While I ate, I moved to the next item on my list and sent Adele a text.
Let’s meet when you’re through with your day.
Five minutes later, a reply came.
Aren’t you in Woolacombe?
Oops.
No. Will explain later.
Her next text came swiftly.
Raven at five. You’d better have a good excuse.
Yes, I had a fine excuse.
When I had chased the last few broad beans across my plate, I left.
* * *
* * *
Mrs. Woolgar had returned to Middlebank. I could hear voices coming from her office as I stood in the entry—the Society’s solicitor, Duncan Rennie, was with her. As my hands were full of shopping bags—before leaving Waitrose, I’d remembered I was short on everything—I pushed the front door closed with my bottom. Time to face the music.
When they saw me, the solicitor stood, but the secretary remained seated behind her desk.
“Hello,” I said, standing in the office doorway. “Mrs. Woolgar, I’m sorry you’ve returned to such news.”
She nodded, her mouth a thin line. “Do you have further details?”
“Please, Ms. Burke,” Duncan said, gesturing to the chair, “do sit down.”
“No, thank you, Mr. Rennie, I only wanted to explain further to Mrs. Woolgar.”
I tried, but my explanation sounded like a load of nothing even in my own ears. I ended with, “It’s . . . it’s dreadful what happened to Oona, and it isn’t that I believe we can be all ‘business as usual,’ but I do feel we must carry on and so I’ve revived my search for a manager. We should not let go of the dates at the Charlotte. I feel sure we can find someone to fill the role. Clara Powell, Oona’s personal assistant, has offered to stay on.”
Mrs. Woolgar gave a faint nod. “Perhaps she has insight into what Ms. Atherton expected to create for the exhibition.”
A thin glimmer of hope shone in the distance. “So, you agree that we should continue?”
“I do,” Mrs. Woolgar said. “I’m sure the board will feel the same. Even though we had only a glimpse of Ms. Atherton’s vision, I believe we could see what was possible.”
I had expected more of a fight, yet here was Mrs. Woolgar agreeing with me. Then the penny dropped. The secretary was not putting her trust in me, but in our deceased exhibition manager’s incredible ability to capture people’s imagination. The Oona Effect continued beyond death.
“Good, that’s good. Thank you.” How petty of me to be upset at the very outcome I had wanted. “Have you spoken to the board members?” I asked.
“Mrs. Arbuthnot has been informed.”
Yes, of course she has.
“And Ms. Frost—just before she left for a short holiday.”
All right for some.
“The Moons?” I asked.
“I’m sure Mrs. Sylvia and Mrs. Audrey Moon will be receptive to you.”
At least she left me the easy ones. “And I’ll explain to Adele, too.”
“That’s settled, then, isn’t it?” Duncan asked with a relieved smile. “Ms. Burke, ten cartons of the rare books will be delivered this afternoon. Would you like me to stay?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Rennie. I’ll have them taken up to the library and begin the search.”
“I’m sure you’ll run across it. This is quite a prize that you’ve discovered,” he said.
Yes, but was it worth a life?
I paused, the shopping bags growing heavier by the second. “Oh, and Mrs. Woolgar—I won’t be going away for the weekend after all.”
* * *
* * *
The afternoon took care of itself. I had a brief, but compassionate, phone conversation with Audrey and Sylvia Moon, who comforted me with “She was so full of life, wasn’t she?” I exchanged texts with Val to catch him up while I unpacked one small carton at a time on the large library table, looking for the elusive treasure.
The books had been packed away well—each wrapped in acid-free tissue paper, not too many per carton, and all lying flat so as not to break the spines. These first editions had been published beginning in the 1920s—well before Lady Fowling had started collecting— and many included an inscription to the original owners. Happy birthday, nephew! . . . A Christie for Christmas . . . Albert Campion to the rescue!
Halfway through the second carton, my heart thumped in my chest when I spotted a yellow dust jacket that read Murder Must Advertise. The book had all the signs of a Dorothy L. Sayers first edition from her publisher, Victor Gollancz—bold Art Deco–style font, none of the artwork that decorates books today. But, although a first edition, it was unsigned. I took it out onto the landing and held it up to Lady Fowling’s portrait.
“So, not this one. But it’s somewhere, isn’t it? Oona thought she knew, although she never got the chance to tell me.”
Lady Fowling regarded me from her painting, and her brown eyes seemed to flash with a knowing gleam. Keep looking.
“What if it isn’t in one of these cartons?” I asked. I paused and—as if I’d heard her counter with a question of her own—added, “No, I haven’t read to the end of the book yet, but I will. I was busy last evening.”
Oona found the clue. You will find it.
“Ms. Burke?”
I dashed to the railing and called down. “Yes, Mrs. Woolgar?”
“Did you need something?”
“No, thank you. I was only . . .”
Better not finish that sentence.
* * *
* * *
By five o’clock, I had changed clothes and stood on the pavement outside the Raven, looking up Quiet Street and waiting for Adele. But she caught me out by coming from the other way.
“You’d better have a good excuse for not going to the seaside,” she said by way of greeting. “Is Val all right?”
My mind took a swift turn away from murder an
d back to the previous evening—the good part of it. The best. I took a sharp breath and focused.
“Fine, yes, it’s only that something’s happened. Let’s go upstairs and get our drinks.”
Adele squinted at me out of the corner of her eye. “What is it, Hayley? Oona hasn’t run off, has she?”
“Oona is dead.” Too abrupt, but I couldn’t stop it from popping out. I should get cards printed up and hand them out to all and sundry. I regret to inform you that . . .
Adele’s face paled, setting off her wild red curls, and emphasizing her Celtic-goddess look.
“What? How?”
She wouldn’t move until I explained. I kept it brief so that we could get indoors before she sank to the ground. Once finished, I took her arm. “Now—come on.”
Upstairs, I left Adele in our usual corner and bought a bottle of red at the bar. I asked for three glasses, although I had a feeling Val might need to buy a second bottle by the time he arrived.
Adele took a sizable gulp of wine and then peppered me with questions, which I fielded as best I could, ending with “Clara’s a trouper. She wants to stay on and she’s eager to learn, but it’s obvious this is tough on her.”
“And you think the murderer is someone who wants the book?”
“Possibly. What else?”
I splashed a bit more wine into our glasses and cut my eyes at Adele. “You haven’t told me about you and Oona.”
“Are you thinking I’m a suspect?” she blurted out.
“Adele!”
“Do your police contacts want to question me under caution or something?”
“You know that isn’t what I meant.”
“Good thing I have school as an alibi, isn’t it?” she asked hotly. “And Suffragette Club after. There’s CCTV all over school—I’d be easy to spot.”
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