Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  The first one was Bulldog Moyle.

  “Hello, good evening,” I managed. I’d forgotten that he had bought the series because he hadn’t attended the previous week. Behind him, another surprise—Arthur Fish.

  “I rang Bulldog the other day,” Arthur said, “thinking he might give me his ticket for tonight—I’d hate to miss Margaret. He persuaded me that I should just come along regardless. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “You’re very welcome,” I said, thinking with the addition of Zeno and Clara—and now Arthur—perhaps I could perch on the mantel like Bunter. “After all, you were our inaugural speaker. Please go up.” Arthur headed for the stairs, and I stepped in front of Bulldog. “Could I have a word?”

  After a glance up to his friend’s disappearing figure, Moyle shrugged.

  “I want to apologize again for ringing the police on Saturday,” I explained. “I’m sure you can understand how unsettling it would be for me to see someone waiting on the pavement at the very place where a murder had been committed two days earlier.”

  Bulldog stretched his neck to the side as if his collar were too tight. The top of the book tattoo winked at me above his scarf.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Well. Got it sorted.”

  “Good. I hope you enjoy the lecture,” I said, and then added, “Oh, there’s just this—Arthur said he rang you. Didn’t you tell police that you’d lost your mobile and he didn’t have your new number?”

  Bulldog stared at me a moment, and then his eyes darted past me to people drifting in the open front door.

  “He has it now.”

  * * *

  * * *

  We had more than a full house, but no one seemed to mind the close quarters once the lecture got under way. Just as Margaret had captivated the staff at the Gainsborough, she caught up everyone attending the salon in her stories of the Met, the true ones and those in popular mystery and crime fiction. When she’d finished, a book-buying queue quickly formed, and for another three-quarters of an hour, Margaret’s voice could be heard above the general chatter in the room.

  Another successful evening for the literary salon series, but I could remember little of what she’d said, because my attention had been elsewhere. I had spent far too much effort trying not to stare at Stuart Moyle. What’s this about Arthur Fish having—or not having—Bulldog’s mobile number? I should ask Arthur what sort of a collector Moyle was. Avid? Rabid? Was he the sort who kept his most valuable items a secret? In the art world, stolen paintings could disappear entirely into a “private” collection. Would Bulldog murder Oona in order to get his hands on that first edition and then hide it away?

  But he didn’t get it—Oona’s last text indicated she knew where it was, not that she had it in hand. Had he tried to force the information out of her? And even now, did he have plans to conduct his own search?

  I’d yet to finish going through the boxes of rare books Duncan Rennie had sent over from secure storage, but we’d needed the library space for the lecture, and so, that morning, I had shifted the lot into the library storage area, which amounted to locked cupboards behind one section of wood paneling. I would keep my eyes on Bulldog, and if I caught him trying to case Middlebank before he left, I’d give him a boot to the bum.

  When I hadn’t been stewing about Stuart, I had watched Zeno, who, after the lecture, enjoyed himself entirely too much chatting with anyone within easy reach. He’d charmed Audrey and Sylvia Moon, and even Jane Arbuthnot and Maureen Frost had thawed a bit. Mrs. Woolgar remained decidedly uncharmed, but then she was well known to be a hard sell. And Adele? Every time she looked at Zeno, I saw her stifle a giggle.

  * * *

  * * *

  The crowd dribbled out of the library, heading to the entry, where Mrs. Woolgar handed out coats. Like a sheepdog with her flock, I deftly cut Arthur Fish off from the herd before he could make it to the stairs.

  “Oh, Arthur,” I said in all innocence, “I wanted to tell you about the great feedback we’ve received from your lecture.”

  Bulldog paused and so did I. After a moment, he nodded at Arthur. “I’ll wait downstairs.”

  When he was out of earshot, I continued with Arthur. “Everyone loved your talk, really. What a way to start the series. Also, there’s just this one more thing. You gave the police Bulldog’s mobile number, but apparently it was a phone he’d lost.”

  Arthur chuckled. “Is that what he told them? Not really lost, I gave them the wrong number. He’s got more than one mobile—one for general use, one for his books, and one for his miniature-army-figure collections.”

  “Toy soldiers?”

  “Yes. He won’t answer the book phone unless he recognizes the number—I must’ve given the detective constable that one by mistake.”

  Maybe Bulldog recognized that number as police, and that’s why he didn’t answer.

  “Seems like it could cause confusion having three mobiles,” I said. “I hope Bulldog didn’t blame you for giving them the wrong number.”

  “Sorry, Hayley—”

  It was Clara, holding a carton of wineglasses. She’d volunteered to stay behind to help the servers pack up.

  “Can I give you a hand?” Arthur asked, taking the box from her and heading downstairs behind the servers.

  “Thank you, Mr. Fish,” Clara called.

  We followed. On the way down, I said to Clara, “You didn’t have to help tidy up—you were a guest this evening.”

  “I didn’t mind,” Clara said. “It’s all part of a PA’s remit—pitch in where needed. Thank you so much for inviting me, Hayley. What an inspiration Ms. Raines is.”

  “I’m glad you could make it—are you all right to get back to your flat?”

  “Oh, yes, thanks.”

  Zeno came out onto the library landing, looked down, and called, “Good night, Ms. Powell. See you bright and early.”

  “Yes, Mr. Berryfield, good night,” Clara replied, but in a whisper, as Zeno had gone back into the library.

  Arthur and Bulldog were out the front door just ahead of the servers and then Clara left. I turned to Mrs. Woolgar, who hovered near the stairs to her lower-ground-floor flat. “Ms. Raines is a fascinating woman,” she said to me. “And this was a successful evening. Well done.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Woolgar, thank you.” I gushed as if she’d just congratulated me on winning Wimbledon—compliments from her were that rare. “Of course, it wouldn’t’ve been possible without your help. See you in the morning.”

  I was alone in the front entry when my phone rang. The jangle echoed in the space as I fumbled to answer—late-evening calls were so rarely a welcome interruption. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the caller: DS Hopgood.

  I answered, “Yes, hello?” as I dashed into my office and closed the door but for a few inches. Zeno was still in the library with Margaret and Val.

  “Ms. Burke? I hope this isn’t coming at an inconvenient time, but I did think you’d want this news sooner rather than later. It’s about Mr. Berryfield’s alibi for the day Ms. Atherton was murdered.”

  I braced myself against my desk. “Yes? Did he . . . was he. . . . ?”

  “We have located him here at the Bath Spa station leaving at 10:37 and arriving at Bristol Temple Meads at 10:49. We can track him as far as a building on Temple Quay. We find him returning just at the time he said, 18:30 from Bristol Temple Meads arriving at Bath Spa 18:41. He isn’t difficult to spot, I’ll say that for him.”

  An appropriate response was called for—I had enough sense to know that—but my mind had gone numb, as if cushioning me against a great swell of emotion.

  “Ms. Burke?”

  “Yes, Sergeant, thank you,” I managed to choke out. “And so, Zeno is no longer a suspect?”

  “His alibi is confirmed for well before and past the time of the murder. We got a good look at his fac
e on the platform, both going and coming, because he’d stopped to ask a question at the ticket barrier.” When I didn’t speak, Hopgood added, “I thought this would ease your mind.”

  “Yes, indeed it does. Thanks for ringing. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I looked out of my office to see Val and Margaret coming down the stairs followed by Zeno. As they landed in the entry, I threw open the door and stalked out. It had been building inside me, this uneasy fear of Zeno, along with annoyance at him for not coming clean about seeing Oona in Bath. With Hopgood’s news, these two emotions coalesced and swelled into a fiery fury that demanded release. I could not blame him for the former, but I could certainly blast him for the latter.

  “Well, a successful evening,” I said to the three of them. Zeno had paused on the last step but one. I looked up at him now. “Zeno, could you stay just a moment longer?” I asked the question in what I thought sounded like a pleasant and congenial voice.

  Val looked from Zeno to me as he helped Margaret on with her coat.

  “Of course I’ll stay, Ms. Burke,” Zeno said. “I’ve learned that in exhibition management, our hours are not our own, especially as time grows short.”

  “Do you need me?” Val asked with a slight frown.

  “No,” I said, and waved a dismissive hand, “it’s just a quick question for him. You go on and drive Margaret to her cousin’s.”

  “A lovely evening, Hayley,” Margaret boomed. “Please do keep me informed about the Society. I daresay I’ll be down for this noteworthy exhibition.”

  “Thank you, Margaret, we’ll look forward to seeing you again,” I said, shepherding them out the door and, just as it closed, adding, “Good night.”

  I turned back to Zeno, who smiled and said, “Shall we talk in your office? Turned quite cold again, hasn’t it? Is the fire going?”

  Not a chance. This wasn’t a settle-down-by-the-fire sort of conversation. This was more of a stand-in-the-front-entry-as-if-you-were-in-the-dock confrontation.

  “We won’t be long,” I said quietly. “Zeno, you told me you had not seen Oona since arriving in Bath.”

  “Yes. Well . . . yes.” His eyes flickered round the entry.

  “But that isn’t true, is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you lied. The day before Oona was killed, you were seen going into the Charlotte.”

  “Who would say such a thing?” he blurted out, his face going scarlet. “How can you believe such a fabrication?”

  “It’s no ‘fabrication,’” I said, my voice rough with anger. “It happened, and when asked, you lied about it. Did you see her more than once? Did you go back to the Charlotte or meet her somewhere or go to her flat? And forget to mention those encounters, too?”

  His face, immobile for a moment, began to crumple like an avalanche, which then traveled down through his entire body, and when it hit his legs, caused him to sink to the step, holding on to the railing with one hand.

  “I’m so ashamed,” he said to the floor. “Look at me—even now, confronted with the truth, I did not have the courage to admit my failure. Yes, Oona had already contacted me about her new project. We met once or twice. She was so proud and I wanted to be happy for her—at least we still had that. I went to her on Wednesday. I had hopes. Such hopes. One last chance for us to reconcile our differences and perhaps find the common ground we had once held. It was an emotional meeting, but not a happy one.”

  “And how was it you forgot to mention all these encounters?”

  “What good would it have done apart from dredging up my failures?”

  I had an overwhelming urge to punch him in the face for lying to me, and—as irrational as it sounded—for not being the murderer. Before I realized it, I moved toward him with my hand balled into a fist.

  The knock on the front door, brief but urgent, jerked me back to reality. I answered to Val.

  “Margaret got a taxi,” he explained as he peered round me into the entry.

  Saved from being charged with Gross Bodily Harm, I opened the door wide to let him in.

  Zeno popped up off the step. “Ms. Burke, I understand my transgression, I really do. And you have every right to send me packing this minute. I only hope you won’t—for Lady Fowling’s sake, of course, but also for Oona’s. I beg you, let me mount an exhibition she would be proud of.”

  I considered my options. Keep Zeno—which satisfied Naomi’s requirement of having a proper manager—or keep my sanity.

  “Also,” Zeno said, “I realize this may not be the right time to mention it, but I hope you are as concerned as I am about the relative humidity in the Charlotte. Lady Fowling’s books and papers are priceless, and we mustn’t do anything to harm them. It so happens, I’ve written a paper on the qualities of the various types of silica gel, and I’d be happy to share it with you so that we may . . . that is, if there is a ‘we.’”

  Fear and anger had drained away as I imagined spots of mold appearing on her ladyship’s favorite books. Did I have time to delve into the world of silica gel? I gave up. “Yes, all right,” I said. “But this is it, Zeno—no more lies.”

  He raised his hand in a silent oath.

  I sighed. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He flew past us, grabbing his sheepskin coat on the way and saying, “Mr. Moffatt, a pleasure to meet you this evening. I look forward to a good long chin-wag about your courses. ‘Anatomy of a Scene’—a vital skill for any writer. Ms. Burke, I am in your debt. Good night to both of you.”

  I’ll say this for Zeno, he had the good sense to leave before I changed my mind. When he was gone, I threw both locks, set the alarm, and slumped against the door.

  Val took my hands and pulled me to him, lacing his fingers through mine and giving me a much-needed kiss.

  “You have impeccable timing,” I murmured. “Two seconds later and I’d’ve laid him flat.”

  “What was his transgression—wearing shoes so shiny he can see himself in them?”

  “Even worse,” I said. “He told me he hadn’t seen Oona here in Bath, but he had—Dom saw him go into the Charlotte last Wednesday. That lie led me to believe that he might be the murderer. It seemed logical, don’t you think? But Sergeant Hopgood rang just before you came downstairs to say they’d confirmed Zeno’s alibi. So, that’s off.”

  “Did you want him for the murderer?”

  “I shouldn’t. If they had arrested Zeno for Oona’s murder, we would be out an exhibition manager again, and then what?” I put my hands on Val’s chest. “I’ve had enough of this day. I hope you’re staying.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Val and I had spent so few nights together that we’d yet to have that lazy morning after that we so deserved. When it would come, neither of us could guess—it certainly wasn’t the next day. I saw him off early and got myself dressed.

  Just before leaving to check on my two charges at the Charlotte, I rang the last of Zeno’s references again, this an outfit called Tartan Affairs, apparently run by a Scot. I left another message. I wanted to be thorough, although I knew that applicants give only those references that will put them in the best light. And actually, I had to admit Zeno couldn’t even be considered an applicant any longer. No, like it or not, he was our exhibition manager.

  But it seemed securing the post had given him a sort of complacency, because although he had started like a house afire, he had since slowed to a crawl. I had asked for three ideas for a focal-point display—a central exhibit within the show that would either grab those attending and propel them through or turn them off and send them out the door—and Zeno had yet to come up with a single usable idea.

  Instead, he continued to offer thoughts on individual displays that were so lacking in interest as to be banal. Worse than banal—soporific.

 
Wednesday morning, Zeno sprawled in the desk chair in Oona’s office, checked his notes, and offered the idea for a display with signage titled Sir John Fowling and the Tins Market, accompanied by examples of early-twentieth-century tinned tomato soup.

  “You said, didn’t you, Ms. Burke, that was how Sir John made his fortune, which led to Lady Fowling’s generosity in later life?” Zeno asked, apparently trying to lay the blame at my feet. I crossed it off the list.

  Another idea he called How to Build a Library sounded promising at first glance, until I saw that what he meant by it was how to build a library—choosing the wood, the depth and width of the shelves, the hardware to hold them up. Then there was Middlebank Refurbished, which could find a home at an event for builders and developers, but as I told Zeno through clenched teeth, “Building restoration would not be appropriate for our audience. Also,” I continued after I’d unlocked my jaw, “these are hardly ideas for a focal point.”

  “Yes, Ms. Burke, you asked for a knock-their-socks-off display,” Zeno replied. “And I can tell you that I have something in the works, but”—he tapped a forefinger on the side of his nose—“mustn’t say too much just yet.”

  I stood and took my coat from the back of my chair. “I’ll be back by this afternoon. Where is Clara?”

  Zeno shifted in his seat, leaned forward, and with an unaccustomed serious air, said, “I’ve no idea, but I’m glad you’ve brought up the subject. Is Ms. Powell all right, do you think?”

  I sat down again. “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t explain it exactly, but she seems distracted, occasionally combative, and generally missing that spirit of a young person new to our profession. Also, I have heard her speak quietly but with intensity, as if she’s having an argument with herself.”

  “Perhaps it’s her style to work aloud,” I said.

  “Yes, of course, that must be it,” Zeno said with that kindly fish-counter smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”