Lost Books and Old Bones

by Paige Shelton

  She relaxed in the way I’d seen other women who didn’t trust their husbands relax—after they realized he hadn’t been cheating.

  “I see,” she said again, the now friendly if small smile making her seem younger. “You chose well. He is the one tae speak tae. He knows his books. He’s set up many a display from his collections.” She half-smiled again. “You might be sorry you asked him, but I’m sure he’ll be happy tae share his knowledge, wordy though it will be. Perhaps you could come back another day? And block off a good chunk of time.”

  “Of course. Thank you. I’ll try to call first. I’m sorry about the death in the family.”

  She nodded, and grief pinched at her eyes. She extended her hand. “I’m Dr. Meg Carson.”

  “Delaney Nichols.”

  “You’re from the U.S.?”

  “I am. I was lucky to be offered the job here in Edinburgh, and I jumped on the opportunity. I’ve only been here for about a year.”

  She turned as if to lead me out of the building. I went along as we walked slowly down the hallway.

  “An adventure?” she asked in the way everyone did, a tinge of jealousy with the curiosity.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a lovely idea,” she said, sounding even more youthful. “I’d like tae do something like that someday. We’ll see.”

  “I recommend it.”

  “What’s the name of the bookshop? You said you wanted tae talk tae Bryon about some books. What kind of shop is it?”

  This is where my plan would implode or be the reason that Meg Carson might not be so happy to have met me. I didn’t know how much she knew about where Mallory had been killed. But I had to give her an answer.

  “The Cracked Spine. Mostly used. We have many rare books and manuscripts we acquire and then resell or trade.”

  “I have a … novel,” she said, seemingly embarrassed, but not aware of the connection of the bookshop to Mallory. “It’s old. I’ve thought about selling it.”

  “We love novels,” I said.

  I thought back to meeting Dr. Eban at the pub. He seemed almost sixty, but a young almost sixty. Dr. Carson didn’t look old either; her hairstyle was so sophisticated that even her gray hair didn’t make her seem older. But she had that old-fashioned shame about enjoying novels. I still knew some book snobs who thought fiction wasn’t important, but for the most part that was a dated and long-dead attitude.

  “What’s the book?” I asked as we stopped just this side of the entryway.

  “The Scottish Chiefs by Jane Porter,” she said.

  “I’ve heard of that one. Early nineteenth century?” I said.

  “Aye. 1810.”

  “It’s about William Wallace?” I said, having recently been submerged in Wallace’s history. Goose bumps rose on my arms as I thought about the dangers of that recent experience. I rubbed my arms, but Dr. Carson didn’t seem to notice.

  “Aye. My mother read it tae me when I was a wee lass,” she said. She smiled. “The language and writing are old-fashioned, but I relished every time she read it tae me. The copy I have isn’t something from my youth, but something I found in a bookshop not too long ago. It’s in pristine condition.”

  “I know we’d be happy to take a look at it. I’m not usually the one to determine the value, just authenticity, but I can get you to the right person if that’s what you want to know,” I said.

  “Grassmarket?” she asked.

  “Yes.” I gave her the address and watched her closely.

  “I will try tae stop by soon,” she said after a brief hesitation.

  I inspected her gray eyes. She’d put the pieces together possibly, but she wasn’t completely sure. I smiled.

  “Thank you for your time, and we’d love to see you at the shop,” I said as I pushed on the door.

  “Lass? What are the titles of the books you want to talk to Bryon about?”

  “An Atlas of Illustrations of Clinical Medicine, Surgery and Pathology, from the early twentieth century.”

  She didn’t hide her surprise. She lifted her eyebrows and blinked as her mouth made an O. She finally spoke, “Hand-drawn illustrations?”

  “Yes. You know about the books? Oh, of course you do. I’m sure most medical school professors and doctors would know about them.”

  She half-smiled once again. I wondered if that was her only smile. “Well, I’ve heard of them, and Dr. Eban, Bryon, will be very happy tae talk tae you about them. I have your address. I’ll have him ring you. It won’t be today … the death … but I’m sure he’ll want tae meet with you soon.”

  “I look forward to it. I’m truly sorry for your loss. Someone in your family or your husband’s?”

  “Neither. A student.” She looked at me, and her eyes hardened. She’d definitely put all the pieces together. I would answer honestly if she asked me any questions, but I held back from offering anything more. I’d dug myself in deep enough. Time to cut myself loose.

  “Oh, that’s terrible,” I said, pushing on the door some more.

  “Goodbye, lass.”

  She nodded once, curtly, and then motioned for me to go, almost swept me away. I did leave, and she locked the door behind me before she turned and walked back toward the hallway. I heard her quick footsteps fade away.

  I took the locking door personally and wanted to check it just to make sure. It was definitely locked tight.

  It had been a meeting of mixed, and confusing, messages. I hadn’t had a plan, and the one I’d improvised had been less than ideal.

  However, in a way, I now understood the “fierce” description regarding Dr. Carson’s persona, and I wondered how she might use that fierceness to put her husband in his place, if that’s what she did. Though I’d wanted to talk to Dr. Eban, I found Dr. Carson just as interesting, if not more so. However, I didn’t know what to make of either of them.

  I decided she’d probably still pass along the message about the books. If she was the type of person I thought she was, she would use any excuse to question her husband about me, no matter that we didn’t really know each other and that chances were he’d forgotten all about meeting me.

  “Hello.” A female voice pulled my concentration away from the door.

  “Lola, hello,” I said to the woman I’d only formally met this morning. I didn’t jump in my skin as much this time. She didn’t look any the worse for wear.

  “Small world,” she said. “I assumed earlier, but are you a student here?”

  “No,” I said. I looked back at the office building. “Long story why I was here today.” I looked at her and the backpack slung over her shoulder. “Are you here to study?”

  “On my way to a group project meeting now. Glad to get my mind off what happened to Mallory, but I’m not a fan of group projects.”

  “I remember that feeling,” I said.

  She was so young that, unfairly in my mind, she seemed on the opposite end of the spectrum from Dr. Carson. Her dark ponytail fell all the way to the middle of her back and her large blue eyes shone even bluer against her matching sweater and her fair, smooth skin. There were no red eyes, no red splotches, but she looked tired. It would have taken me a couple of days to bounce back if I’d been crying as hard as she had been. She had a pixie nose that somehow looked refined, but I imagined it had been cute when she was a little girl.

  “What year are you?” I continued as I stepped next to her.

  “What year do you think?” she asked.

  “Freshman?”

  “No. It’s my last year. I get mistaken for a new student all the time.”

  “Nothing wrong with looking young.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “What are you studying?”

  “I have to get to my group, but walk with me if you’d like,” she said.

  We fell into a comfortable but quick pace.

  “I’m studying economics,” Lola said. “My mother is from the U.S. and my grandfather is in banking in Virginia. I’m moving th
ere after school, see if I like it.”

  “An adventure?” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  I stopped walking before I said, “I’m sorry to bring this up again, but earlier you mentioned a rumor about Mallory and Dr. Eban.”

  “Oh. That. I was upset, and I should never have said anything like that,” she said quickly. “You were right about rumors and all. I’m sorry.” She looked to her left quickly, toward George Square, a patch of short trees and green grass beyond some of the campus buildings, where students passed through, or relaxed when the weather allowed, which wasn’t often.

  There were no events there today, and only a few students passing through.

  I wondered what she’d seen or was looking for, but she moved her attention back to me before I could notice anything curious.

  “You don’t think it’s true? The rumor?” I said.

  “I really don’t know, but it was weird and wrong for me to make such a comment at that moment.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. I watched her but she didn’t look back at George Square. “Do you know much about Dr. Eban?”

  “I guess I know his reputation.”

  “Because you go to school here, or because of where you live?”

  She thought a moment. “Both, probably. I don’t know if I would know about him if I didn’t live in a building with so many medical school students. Since I do, though, I pay more attention to things that might be said about him.”

  “Like?” I said.

  She made a doubtful noise in the back of her throat. “I’m not really sure. I don’t want to say anything that’s … Well, I shouldn’t have said what I said in the first place.”

  She turned and started walking again. I kept pace.

  “Do you think you should tell the police about Dr. Eban? Maybe because of Mallory specifically. Even rumors should be considered, maybe. I shouldn’t have chastised you. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, I already told the police,” she said as if it had suddenly become clear to her that that had been my concern all along. “That was the first thing I told them. They showed up not long after you left Sophie and Rena’s. I … I happened tae see you leave. Oh, yes, I told them.”

  “Good.”

  “It’s what Rena and I discussed last night. When she said she was as sure as I was that Mallory was with Dr. Eban and that’s why she hadn’t come home. It seemed like the right thing tae do.”

  My steps hitched as I processed her words.

  “Last night?” I said. “You talked to Rena last night?”

  “Sure, when she got in, she stopped by Mallory’s door and knocked. I heard her so I peered out, told her I’d seen Mallory leave after coming in with Sophie an hour or so earlier. I’m a light sleeper, and I hear and see almost all of the ins and outs in our building. I wish I could sleep better, or that the walls were thicker, or that I couldn’t see most everyone coming and going.”

  “What time was that?” I asked, holding back on suggesting she could close her blinds.

  “One or one-thirty,” she said.

  Hadn’t Rena said that she’d come home shortly after Sophie? Sophie and Mallory had left the pub at around midnight.

  “Rena got home that late?” I said.

  “Aye, she does sometimes. We all do,” Lola said.

  “I remember,” I said. I was probably reading way too much into Rena’s late night and the lie about when she got home. She was a grown-up who’d just taken a big anatomy exam. A late night with whatever activity she desired was well deserved and she didn’t owe anyone an explanation. Unless murder had been involved, of course. And, she’d knocked on Mallory’s door. Mallory was a grown-up too. Obviously, she had left at some point after dropping Sophie off. She’d been killed in the close. That didn’t mean she’d been with Dr. Eban. I wished I’d thought to somehow ask Dr. Carson if she knew where her husband had been all night.

  “You remember … being at university?” Lola asked.

  I smiled. “I do. I worked hard, but I wish I’d had a little more fun.”

  Lola laughed. “Not a problem for me. In fact, my first couple of years’ marks show how I should have held back on the fun a wee bit.” She looked toward the small, ornate old building we’d come to. “This is my stop. After seeing you a few times over the past few months, it’s nice to have finally met you, Delaney. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” I said as she started up the building’s front stairs. “Hey, Lola, did you by chance tell the police what time Rena made it home?”

  She turned and shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not specifically at least. It didn’t seem to matter much. Do you think I should?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay.” She looked up to a man waiting for her by the doors. “Gotta go though.”

  I nodded and watched her greet the man in a knit cap. They hurried inside without looking my way again. Though I’d enjoyed school, I was grateful I wasn’t on my way to classes or exams. And especially to group project meetings.

  I’d probably already ruined my relationship with Sophie and Rena, but I really wanted to know why Rena had gotten home so late, or had left and then come back.

  If I hadn’t ruined it yet, it looked like that was next on my agenda.

  TEN

  “They haven’t answered my calls,” I said to Tom as I balanced my phone on my shoulder and took the coffeepot from its perch on the machine. I’d tried to call Sophie and Rena a few times since leaving Lola at the university the day before. “I’m not surprised, but I don’t want to just stop by their flat again. Yet. I might later today.”

  “You had a productive day yesterday,” he said into his phone. “What do you think Rena was up tae after the pub?”

  Saturdays, date nights for many couples, were the evenings Tom and I most often didn’t spend together. They were, naturally, one of the pub’s busiest nights, and Tom sometimes didn’t close in time for us to be together, at least with me still awake enough to be good company. As with this Sunday morning, he was usually back in the pub early to finish any remaining cleaning and do his weekly paperwork. It was a comfortable routine, and we both usually tried to go our own ways with the hope of getting together later in the day. We enjoyed our Sunday afternoons, but for now a phone call would have to do.

  “Rena was probably not doing anything that had anything to do with the murder, but I’m curious. Why did she lie? Except that her personal life is none of my business. I’m aware of that. And maybe it wasn’t technically a lie. She probably did come home first and then knock on Mallory’s door before she left again.”

  “The question is where did she go?”

  “Yep. Hopefully, the police know.”

  Tom paused, but not for long. “You’re going to call Inspector Winters, aren’t you?”

  I smiled. I’m sure he heard it in my voice. “I thought I might stop by and see him.”

  “I’m not surprised. Let me know what he says.”

  “Okay, so,” I paused, but couldn’t think of a way to ask him a question any other way than outright, “did that woman stop by and talk to you at the pub yesterday?”

  After he paused too, he said, “Bridget? Aye, briefly. I took a call and she got tired of waiting for me tae hang up.”

  “I thought she might be headed your way. I tried to call your mobile, but no answer. I didn’t think of trying the pub phone. She caught me looking around where Mallory’s body had been found, and asked me if there had been a murder. I got on the bus as soon as I could without telling her much of anything. At least the fact that it was a murder is in the news now.”

  Mallory’s murder had made the front page of the Scotsman. However, no details were given. The article I’d seen said only that she was murdered and an investigation was under way. The reporter didn’t even mention where her body had been found. It was a sparse story, making me think the police hadn’t shared much of anything yet.

  “Aye. She’s a pe
rsistent reporter, I’m certain. I’m sorry about … the past circumstances. She knew I didn’t want tae talk tae her either. Delaney, you know you have no need tae worry about me. I’m one hundred percent yours as long as you’ll have me around.”

  He’d said this so matter-of-factly that I wondered if he really understood the ramifications of his words.

  “Glad to hear it. I’m in too, for as long as you’ll have me around.”

  The pause went on a little longer this time.

  “I’m terribly sorry about the lass, Mallory, and for her family and friends,” Tom said.

  “It’s sad. Mallory’s father’s name is Boris, not Conn—Sophie and Rena told me, but that was mentioned in the Scotsman. I think Gaylord is okay to represent us if we need him.”

  “Good tae know. He’s a good friend, and an even better attorney, though I hope we don’t need him.”

  The crash of glass and curse words from Rodger came through the phone.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I said before Tom hurriedly ended the call.

  It would have been easy to lose myself in a daydream that was all about Scotland and my handsome pub owner, even if it seemed to have turned into more than just a daydream. The edges of my daydreams were less and less fuzzy all the time.

  But I had things I wanted to get done and I knew someone else who liked to work early Sunday mornings, and who might be able to answer some of my questions.

  *

  The National Museum of Scotland wouldn’t be open until ten on Sunday and the administrative staff would be a skeleton crew, but my connection would be there early.

  I had met Joshua Francois, a young prodigy from Paris, when I’d been roaming the museum one day. He already held a number of degrees, and at the tender age of twenty-three he was working on his PhD as well as in some sort of internship capacity at the museum; he was paid a small sum, and his even smaller office, a onetime supply closet, might not scream status, but he was well respected by everyone at the museum. He and I had hit it off immediately because of that mutual part of us that experienced glee when talking about or even just thinking about the history of things. He knew a little bit about everything.