Murder Is a Must

by Marty Wingate

  I had no way of knowing how Oona had arrived at the answer, and so I would turn to the original clue—Lady Fowling’s page of funny phrases—and decipher the code myself. And I would do that, just as soon as Mrs. Woolgar and I agreed on the menu for the exhibition’s gala opening.

  That took the better part of our morning briefing. I could barely sit still while we discussed the drinks menu, the finger food, and how to limit the numbers at an event sure to draw a crowd. One second, I teetered on the verge of telling her my theory, and the next, caution overtook me and I determined to keep quiet.

  “I don’t care to eat soup while standing,” Mrs. Woolgar said, perusing a bid from a caterer. “The probability for a mishap is far too high.”

  My mind continued to argue with itself while I glanced down at the list of finger foods. “Oh, arancini—those little Italian rice balls are easy to eat. Actually, do we need to decide now?”

  “As Ms. Powell took it upon herself to gather the information from three caterers, I thought we should show some interest.”

  “Yes, of course. When did you last talk with Clara?”

  “She rang late Friday to ask for the board members’ contact details. She plans to interview them about her ladyship. I believe she’s spoken to Jane Arbuthnot and Maureen Frost as well as the Moons. Ms. Babbage was away for the weekend.”

  Clara seemed intent on furthering her career, I must say. Taking over Oona’s flat, assuming the responsibility for publicity, and now contacting the board members without even running it past me first. A bit presumptuous. How far would she go to—

  “It sounded like a fine idea to me,” Mrs. Woolgar said.

  “Yes, of course it is.”

  I blushed. If anyone wanted to further a career, how about Naomi? Or Zeno? No, not Clara.

  The secretary glanced at her notes. “And how are plans for the displays progressing?”

  I had deftly put Zeno’s callous and bizarre suggestion—to put a spiral staircase in the entry—out of my mind for the weekend, circumstances being what they were, but now the horror of it hit me again with full force.

  “We continue to gather ideas,” I said.

  “Well, then, is there anything else for this morning?” Mrs. Woolgar asked.

  All at once I was certain I didn’t want to say anything about Oona’s discovery that may or may not have revealed the location of the missing rare book, because I had not one shred of hard evidence.

  “Yes, I believe that’s all.”

  I would settle down immediately to study the code—but first, I’d better check on things at the Charlotte.

  * * *

  * * *

  Zeno sat hunkered over his laptop in Oona’s office. I eyed the flip chart tucked behind the desk and thought about the spiral staircase sketch. His gloves lay at his feet, as if he’d rushed in only a moment before I arrived and shed his winter outer layer. He turned to me with nonchalance, put an elbow on top of a stack of papers, and gave me a mild and pleasant smile.

  “Ah, Ms. Burke. A lovely weekend, I hope? Did you say you went to Liverpool to visit your mother? I’ve spent a bit of time there myself. Where in the city does she reside?”

  “It was lovely, yes. She has a flat . . . Zeno, that reminds me. I don’t seem to have a physical address for you. And I really need one to complete the paperwork.”

  “An omission on my part, Ms. Burke, forgive me. I’ll send the particulars to you by email, if that’s all right?”

  “Fine.”

  “Heigh-ho.”

  “Mmm. Now—”

  “Before you ask, let me just say that Ms. Powell is off on a legitimate errand this time. She has gone to print out some sort of background material for ease of access, not only for you, but for . . . others. When it’s appropriate for you to . . . utilize it.”

  In other words, he didn’t have a clue what she was up to. “And what do you have for me today, Zeno?”

  He held up a finger. “Books, Ms. Burke.”

  “Yes, books.”

  He lifted the top page on the stack, and gave it a quick perusal.

  “How much does a book cost?” he asked.

  That sounded rhetorical, so I kept quiet.

  “Or more to the point, how much did a book cost in the 1930s or those editions during the war? You see, what I envision is a chart.” He turned the paper toward me. He’d drawn a square and divided it into columns and rows, each one containing squiggles. “This chart will tell us how much a book cost to make and how much it was sold for. Because—books. We’re all about books.”

  If we didn’t have at least one display decided on soon, I would go mad, so I tried to look at this effort as not as boring as the others and certainly not as sensational as the entry idea he had put forward.

  “You would focus on the mystery genre, right?” I said. “And, what about using one publisher as an example—Victor Gollancz would be good. After all, they published most of Sayers’s work in Britain. And also, you would need some perspective—was the cost of a book in 1932 a great deal of money or pocket change? Show us who bought the books and a sampling of incomes from various fields. That might—”

  “Brilliant, Ms. Burke,” Zeno said. “Absolutely brilliant.”

  Not brilliant, but it might be turned into a vaguely interesting bit of information for one small display.

  “And then perhaps a tie-in,” I said. “Those books that cost a few shillings then—what are they worth now?”

  “Of course.” Zeno nodded. “There we are again—that book. Ms. Powell brought up the topic just this morning. What would that signed edition be worth today?”

  Nothing if we can’t find it, I thought, but was saved from replying with Clara’s return.

  “Hello, Hayley, good morning. How was your weekend?” She set her satchel in the corner and chatted away as she hung her coat over mine on a peg behind the door.

  “Well, may I leave you two to it?” Zeno asked, standing, pulling on his coat, and retrieving his gloves from the floor. As he wriggled his fingers in, he said, “Thought I’d nip out for a coffee. Can I bring you one?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” I said. Clara declined, too.

  Zeno tapped the stack of papers and then picked up the lot and thrust it into Clara’s hands. “Here you are, Ms. Powell, all you need to know and more about the exhibition I mounted with Oona on the Wars of the Roses. Visitors were encouraged to throw red or white rose petals at each other in mock battle.” In response to my raised eyebrow, Zeno hurried on and said, “Ms. Powell did ask me for details. But, of course, you’re right, Ms. Burke. Now is not the time for this.” He took the stack of papers back, slipped them into his satchel, and slung it over his shoulder.

  Zeno left for his coffee, and I replied to Clara’s question. “I had a lovely weekend with my mum and then took the train to Sheffield to see my daughter yesterday afternoon. And how was yours?”

  “Oh well, that is—” She hauled her satchel onto her lap and pulled out a file folder. A single sheet of paper came loose, and I bent over to catch it before it hit the floor, but Clara got to it first. She stuffed it into her bag. “Fine. My weekend was fine.”

  “But you didn’t go home to Shepton Mallet?”

  Her hands went still and her face went pink. “My nana has quite high expectations for me. I can’t let her down.” She looked up brightly. “And, after all, February is here. February, Hayley. That means the exhibition on Lady Fowling is less than three months away. Mr. King-Barnes told me he started on the Druids last year. There’s no time to lose, and so I stayed over in order to interview the First Edition Society’s board members. I began with Mrs. Arbuthnot and Ms Frost. And then spoke with Mrs. Moon and Mrs. Moon—”

  “Yes, I heard. Clara, I’m delighted you are coming up with all this inspiration, but you cannot take things into your own hands. You nee
d to talk with me first.”

  “But, Hayley, it was your idea.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yes, you said we should take advantage of primary sources—the people who knew Lady Fowling. Then, on Friday afternoon, when I was helping you map out the library shelves because you thought it might be a good idea to rearrange according to date of publication—”

  I had wanted to get Clara away from Zeno, and it was the only project that had come to mind. Yes, busywork.

  “—you were telling me about how Lady Fowling and her friends would take tea at the Royal Crescent. And so, I thought it would be good to interview those friends.”

  Yes, I remembered now—that had been my idea. What surprised me was that someone had listened.

  “Well, I hope you heard a few interesting stories.”

  “Oh my, yes,” Clara said. “Also, I consumed a great deal of tea—and a fair amount of sherry.”

  I chuckled. “That must’ve been at the Moons’.”

  Clara giggled. “Mrs. Sylvia Moon and Mrs. Audrey Moon. I wasn’t sure I should ask them, but—how are they related?”

  “They married brothers, and are now both widows, so they decided to combine households.”

  “Ah. Well, I wanted Lady Fowling’s friends to read through what I’d written, and so I offered to email my notes to them.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

  Clara didn’t look up. “It was Mrs. Arbuthnot’s idea—she said she needed to give final approval, but she would have to read it in print.”

  “I can imagine she did—Jane Arbuthnot can be a bit contrary.”

  “I still want to talk with Ms. Babbage,” Clara said.

  “Adele teaches at the girls’ school, and she will give you an entirely different view of Lady Fowling—from a younger perspective. In fact, her ladyship would sometimes visit Adele’s class, and I think some of the girls formed a François Flambeaux fan club. You know that her ladyship’s detective wasn’t really French—he was from Dorset.”

  We both laughed, and at that moment, the office door flew open so abruptly that Clara’s coat fell off the peg onto the floor. Zeno looked at us both, his smile frozen, and then he said, “Heigh-ho, you two—having too much fun without me? Tommy’s invited us down to take a look at the show before the grand gala. Interested?”

  21

  Interested in seeing the Druids exhibition? Yes—perhaps I could pick up a few pointers about shows.

  Clara, Zeno, and I trooped down the spiral staircase, through the door to the other part of the Charlotte. We reached the landing for the stairs that led down into the exhibition space, and I saw a dozen or so people milling about with glasses in hand, including Naomi.

  “Come down,” Tommy said, gesturing to us. “It’s our unofficial blessing.” When we arrived on the ground floor, flutes of prosecco were pressed upon us. “Have a wander,” he told us. “Tell me what you think.”

  I sipped my fizzy wine and examined everything, starting with the exhibition title—Druids Then and Now—printed on a banner that hung over the entrance. It had a drawing that suggested figures in flowing garments and circles of stones protruding from the earth. In the bottom corner of the banner, in smaller letters but quite readable, were the words Brought to you by Timeless Productions. If we had a banner with Lady Fowling: A Life in Words, would Zeno insist we include Brought to you by Make an Exhibition of Yourself!? I shuddered at the thought.

  I continued through the show, studying the signage font, the size of displays, and the angles at which objects were shown. I stood in various spots in the rooms and observed what could be seen, what was hidden, and how new views were revealed by walking around a tall display or a toga-draped Druid mannequin. Along the way, someone kept refilling my glass.

  Electric leads across the floor from wall outlets had been carefully covered as per Health and Safety rules—no cowboys here—and this led me to take note of the number of plug outlets and their location. From there, I began a general analysis of illumination as part of the exhibition’s art. The intensity of a halogen lamp inside one of their Perspex boxes made me blink. How much light was too much? Naomi must have guidelines for the Charlotte that detail such things. I scanned the room for her and noticed the crowd had grown. When I stepped around a massive and quite realistic trunk of an oak tree, I saw Naomi and Zeno in a serious chat back by the kitchen, each of them with glass in hand as they surveyed the room. Naomi saw me, said something, and Zeno looked, too. They smiled.

  I acknowledged with a wave. Did I look as if I had been spying on them? What were they talking about? Could Oona’s murder have been a conspiracy? I turned away to be met with a fellow who refilled my glass. I needed food.

  But Tommy, standing with a few others at the entry beneath a dolmen made from those faux rocks, had started an impromptu explanation of the importance of continuity within an exhibition, and I lingered to listen. When the group broke up, I approached and said, “Thanks for letting us have an early look.”

  “Drop in anytime, Hayley,” Tommy said. “We exhibition managers need to work with each other, not against. We’re a brotherhood—and sisterhood,” he added quickly.

  “Well, I’m not really—”

  He didn’t listen, but turned to greet several newcomers. I looked round. If this was the pre-event, what would the actual gala be like?

  Time for me to be on my way, although—my mind fuzzy with fizz—I couldn’t quite say where I would be going.

  Setting my empty glass next to others on a table with a stack of leaflets titled Druids of the Twenty-First Century: Join Us, I made my way back to Oona’s office to collect my bag, gripping the iron railing as I worked my way round and round and up. I pushed open the office door, heard a flump, and saw Clara’s coat had come unpegged and landed on the floor.

  Zeno, standing over his desk, whirled round as he pulled off his gloves and tossed them aside.

  “Were you looking for me, Ms. Burke? I confess to slipping away for a much-needed coffee. There’s just so much prosecco one can drink in the morning, wouldn’t you say?”

  Clara came in behind me as I took my coat off the peg and replaced hers. “Aren’t they a fascinating group of people?” she asked. “And Mr. King-Barnes has experience on many fronts, not only Druids. I heard someone ask him about Henry the Eighth.”

  “Yes, Ms. Powell,” Zeno said, “but let us not forget we have our own exhibition to mount. We’d best get back to work.”

  “I have a project waiting for me at Middlebank,” I said. “Clara, would you like me to set a meeting up with Adele? How about this evening?”

  “Oh, yes, Hayley, that would be lovely.”

  I pulled out my phone and, as I sent Adele a text, said to Zeno, “Clara is interviewing the board members, because they were all good friends of Lady Fowling’s. We’ll have bags of material to use from her sessions, I’m sure of it. Plus we’ve loads of photos.”

  “Clever of you, Ms. Powell,” Zeno said.

  “Oh, not me—” Clara began.

  I interrupted. “Here’s Adele now. She says seven at the Minerva— do you know it? Northumberland Place, just off Union.”

  “I’ll be there! Ms. Babbage won’t mind me recording, will she?”

  “Certainly not—and you call her Adele.”

  And I was away, off to the café at Waitrose, where I sobered up over a chicken-and-stuffing sandwich and a pot of tea. And an iced cupcake, because—just because. Fortified, I returned to Middlebank and the task ahead, which I both desired and feared: cracking Lady Fowling’s code.

  * * *

  * * *

  I printed out a clean copy for myself. At the top of every page of the transcription, I’d put the month and year in the header, and if her ladyship had written an exact date, I included that, too. This page had only September 1950, and apart from the phras
es, it held nothing else. They’d occupied their own page in her notebook, and I wanted to retain what she’d written just how she had written it.

  Quiet Anticipation Despite

  Wiley Detective Beckons Death

  Betrayal Deemed Quintessential Appraisal

  Marvelous Merchants Appropriate Quietly Authentic Deception

  Bunter kept me company in the wingback chair. The important thing about detection, I decided, was to take things slowly and with a clear method so as not to overlook an important clue. Step one, take the writing at face value. So, I read the phrases aloud over and over again, forward and backward, and with different voice inflections. The cat occasionally twitched an ear, stretched, or had a sudden fit of washing, but otherwise gave me no feedback. After an hour, my eyes were out of focus and my voice tired, so I moved on to step two—first letters of the words.

  QAD. WDBD. BDQA. MMAQAD.

  Jibberish.

  Right, next up—anagrams.

  What could be made of the word detective? Cede. Deck without the k. Video missing the o. I felt betrayed by the letters—where were they when you needed them? Fine, how about one entire line. I pulled my laptop over, searched for an anagram website, and tried Quiet Anticipation Despite. The top result was unintelligible and the dozens that followed just as useless.

  I emailed the phrases to my mum, hoping the Anagram Queen could make something of them. She promised to get started first thing the next day, as she had a committee meeting for Cats Rescue People followed by an awards dinner for her local library society.

  Perhaps a change of scenery would help. I decamped to the library, accompanied by Bunter, who hopped up to the corner of the table and did his impression of a ceramic cat figurine, closing his eyes to slits. I took down all the François Flambeaux books, starting with Flambeaux and the Purloined Poison. Perhaps these phrases of Lady Fowling’s had a direct connection with her books. But after another hour I was no further and rather overwhelmed by her ladyship’s florid prose.