‘What about the bookshop?’
‘The legend specifically mentions the Priory library, so why was Kevin looking in the All’s Well?’
Jack had no answer. The argument was going in circles and it seemed very much as though they had reached a dead end. Relapsing into silence for the remainder of the journey, they were still saying little when they waved the bus goodbye and walked towards the bookshop. He felt his companion slow and, following her gaze, saw the figure of a man waiting outside the shop door, his back towards them.
The man turned as he heard them approach.
‘Miss Steele?’ He raised his trilby. ‘Pleased to meet you at last. May I introduce myself? Joseph Rawston. Here, have one of my cards.’ He shuffled around in the pocket of a pair of voluminous grey trousers and brought out a handful of business cards.
‘Rawston’s Rare Books, bang in the middle of Worthing town centre and one of the best bookshops in Sussex, though I say it myself. There’s not a rare book I can’t track down.’
This could prove interesting, Jack thought. Rare books were turning out to be important.
Twenty
Flora took the proffered card, feeling uncomfortable. What was this man doing here?
‘Sorry about turning up unannounced.’ He appeared to have sensed a frostiness in the air. ‘I did give you a tinkle on Saturday but there was no answer.’ He smiled broadly. ‘So here I am.’
He was lying, Flora thought. She had been in the shop all day on Saturday and the telephone hadn’t rung once. By why would the man lie? It added to her discomfort.
‘How can I help you, Mr Rawston?’ she asked crisply.
‘I think we can help each other, Miss Steele.’ He puffed out pudgy cheeks, as though congratulating himself. ‘Nice little place you have here.’ His gaze roved proprietorially up and down the building, taking in the solid brick and flint walls, the pretty latticed windows and the wide white-painted entrance.
It was as if he owned the All’s Well, she thought indignantly.
Jack had imperceptibly moved closer. ‘Jack Carrington,’ he said, holding out a hand that Joseph touched briefly. ‘You’ve come quite a way from Worthing.’
‘No problem, squire. Got the old jalopy.’ He gestured to a Morris Minor parked a little way down the high street. ‘I knew your aunt, you know,’ he said suddenly, his gaze once more sweeping over Flora.
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. Used to meet her regularly at the local auctions.’
‘I don’t recall her mentioning you, Mr Rawston.’ Violet may well have mentioned Rawston’s Books some time in the past, but Flora was keen to unsettle her unwelcome visitor. She didn’t like the way he swaggered.
Joseph gave a little smirk. ‘Violet Steele knew me all right. I don’t think I ever saw you at any of the auctions, but your aunt was a dab hand.’
‘She enjoyed the excitement of bidding.’
‘She certainly did. A keen bidder as well – a little too keen for me at times.’ His cheeks seem to deflate at the thought. ‘An auction is why I came.’
At last, they were getting to the nub of this man’s odd arrival on her doorstep.
‘There was an auction at Abbeymead a few years back. At the big house here.’
‘The Priory?’ Jack asked.
‘That’s the one. The owner had died and the chap who’d inherited – somebody told me he was from Australia – didn’t want any of it. The house, the furniture, the books. They didn’t put the whole library up for sale. A lot of it wasn’t worth having, but I liked the look of one of the lots and then went on to bid for a second. I didn’t get that one, though. Your aunt was after it, too, and she was the one who took the books home.’
‘I’m sorry you were disappointed,’ Flora said politely, ‘but I don’t understand what this has to do with me.’ She was feeling increasingly chilled, wanting nothing more than to shut the door on Joseph Rawston of Rawston’s Rare Books.
‘I’m coming to it, young lady. All in good time.’ The cheeks had inflated again. Flora watched, fascinated, though she would dearly liked to have taken a pin to puncture them.
‘The thing is,’ Rawston went on, ‘I still want to acquire those books. I’ve tried to find other copies but never managed it. I thought I’d come to the horse’s mouth. See if we can do a deal.’
‘You know that my aunt died earlier this year?’
‘I had heard. Very sad.’ He shook his head, his bulky figure shaking alongside.
‘Why didn’t you ask her when she was still alive? She would have known whether to sell or not. And known the right price.’
‘I heard the dear lady was ill and didn’t want to intrude. I’m sure you’re just as able to fix a price. I’m willing to pay generously.’
‘If these are books you’ve wanted so badly, why come now?’ Flora pursued. ‘You could have contacted me any time during the last six months.’
He looked up and down the high street, as if for inspiration. ‘I have a client now,’ he said at last. ‘A client who will pay well.’
‘Then maybe you should put him in touch with me.’
Rawston gave a falsely jovial laugh. ‘That’s not how it works, Miss Steele. I’m sure you must know that. We all have to make a small profit, don’t we, and I’ll pay you a fair price, but I can’t divulge the name of my client – that’s a personal contact.’
‘I see.’
‘So what do you say?’
She felt Jack give her arm a small nudge. ‘I’ll think about it, Mr Rawston.’
The smile vanished and the man took a pace forward so that his face was inches away. Immediately, Jack stepped between them. ‘Miss Steele will think about it,’ he repeated.
Joseph Rawston’s eyes were cold and so was his voice when he spoke. ‘You’ve got my card,’ he snapped out. ‘Telephone me as soon as you’ve decided.’
They stood together, watching the man’s plump figure roll down the road to his parked car. Only when the vehicle had swept past them, Rawston looking grim-faced, did Flora turn the key of the bookshop door.
Once inside, Jack turned to face her, his eyebrows raised. ‘Singular, wouldn’t you say?’
‘If that means odd, yes. I really disliked the man.’
‘Poor Joseph. He won’t be getting his books, I fear, which is just as well.’
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘That it’s strange he should turn up on your doorstep at this particular time, desperate to buy books your aunt has had for several years?’
‘Do you think he’s learned of the legend, knows there’s a priest’s letter, and is chasing the jewellery?’ It was a big leap to make, but Flora’s instincts were telling her she was right.
‘The fact that he wants the books doesn’t mean the legend is true,’ Jack warned. ‘He could be testing the water. It’s how he heard the story that seems most interesting.’
‘The legend must be fairly well-known, particularly among older people – Cyril knew it, for a start.’
‘But Rawston?’
‘I suppose it’s possible that Rawston heard it only recently,’ Flora conceded, ‘and that sent him scurrying through the books he’d bought at auction, if he still had them. Then, when he found nothing, he came here for those my aunt bought.’
‘Not all the books at the Priory were put up for sale, were they? What about those left in the library?’
‘Nowhere near all. But it would be difficult for Rawston to get access to the Priory. Much easier for him to start with Violet’s books and hope to discover what he was looking for.’
Jack looked unconvinced. ‘Do you still have the books he wanted?’
Flora’s heart was beating far too rapidly at the thought of what Rawston’s visit might mean. ‘As far as I know, they’re still where Violet shelved them.’
‘A win! What are we waiting for?’
Flora led the way towards the rear of the shop and the section reserved for second-hand books. They
had walked this way together before, she remembered. If they turned another corner, they would be exactly where they’d found Kevin Anderson’s body. Was that young man connected to Joseph Rawston in some way? If those books had been Kevin’s goal, he’d collapsed only several yards short, and Flora could almost feel sorry for him.
She stood back to let Jack view the two huge bookcases that held Violet’s spoils.
‘Do you know which came from the Priory?’ he asked. ‘Or do we have to plough through five hundred volumes?’
‘I can’t be completely sure, but I think they fill the bottom four shelves of each bookcase.’
‘That’s still a good hundred books to look through. We’ll have to do it page by page. If this manuscript exists, it will be fragile, probably stuck in the binding. It won’t float free by simply shaking each book. I say it’s too big a job for tonight.’
‘We can’t just leave it.’ Agitation gripped Flora. ‘We’re about to uncover a secret. A very valuable secret. We should search for it before someone else breaks in and finds it for themselves.’
‘Michael has fitted extra locks, hasn’t he? And a burglar alarm. Whatever secret there is will be safe for tonight. Tomorrow, after the funeral, we’ll come back and get stuck in.’
‘The shop will be closed anyway,’ she said slowly. ‘I wasn’t going to open, not tomorrow, not with Cyril being buried, so no one will think it odd.’
Flora felt badly disappointed, but she was tired and no doubt Jack was, too. They could well miss what they were looking for. And if it turned out there was no manuscript hidden in Violet’s books, it would be better to discover the fact after a decent night’s sleep.
The rain woke her, hitting her bedroom window with a ferocity that sent streams of water bouncing onto the red brick path below. Parting the curtains, she saw a blanket of grey: sky, garden, road. What a day for a funeral. Violet had been buried on a bright April morning and Flora had been glad of it. Daffodils had bent their head as the cortège passed by, primroses smiling from the hedgerows. Her aunt would have liked that.
She took some time to decide on what to wear: a dark raincoat that covered a black skirt and a grey top. There was to be no social gathering after the church service, but Flora felt it right to be dressed appropriately. Rummaging in her wardrobe, she unearthed the umbrella she hadn’t used for days.
The funeral was booked for eleven o’clock and by the time she left home, the downpour had dissolved into a drizzle, but bruising clouds still filled the sky and it was a good bet that the heavens would open at the slightest provocation. Her fellow parishioners, she saw, had come similarly armed, a procession of black raincoats and black umbrellas making its way through the lychgate and up the brick path to the porch of St Saviour’s.
This morning the grey stone of the Norman church was hardly distinguishable from its surroundings, the outline of its square tower against the murky sky the only noticeable landmark. Inside, the building was cold, its ancient damp seeping through Flora’s raincoat and into her bones. Seeing Alice Jenner sitting alongside Kate on the front pew, Flora took a seat towards the rear and waited for Jack. She presumed he would come, though he’d made no definite promise.
Although Violet had been a regular church attender, Flora had rarely accompanied her aunt, and this morning she took a while to absorb her surroundings, properly aware for the first time of the centuries-old smell of must, the dust motes floating in the grey light, the finely crafted stonework: panels depicting Biblical stories and capitals carved with impressive Norman-style heads.
A figure sweeping down the aisle interrupted her survey. It was Miss Horrocks, ramrod straight in flowing black cloak and a black wool cloche rammed tightly onto her head. She gave Flora a brief nod as she passed. The woman could have walked out of a Dickens novel, Flora thought. Her gaze wandered again, this time taking in the large congregation. The church was almost full. Cyril had been well liked by his fellow villagers and there was sympathy for his daughter. Almost everyone, Flora reckoned, felt sadness for Kate. She craned her neck to look again at the front pew where Kate was sitting. Alice might be there, but there was no sign of the errant husband. Surely even Bernard Mitchell wouldn’t let his wife down on a day like today?
Vernon Elliot was sitting in the pew behind them, his long, skeletal form dwarfing his fellow mourners, and on the other side of the aisle, Polly Dakers, beside an older man. Uncle Ted, perhaps? Flora hoped she would have the chance to talk to the girl, talk to Alice and Kate as well, and Elliot, too. It was what Jack had advised.
With the thought, came the man. He slid into the seat beside her, cramming a very wet fedora between his knees.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said in a low voice.
‘Don’t tell me – you couldn’t find the church.’
‘I got held up. Stuff,’ he said vaguely.
‘Such as?’
‘I’ll tell you later.’
Twenty-One
That morning Jack had received an unnerving letter from his agent. Arthur Bellaby needed to see him as a matter of urgency, and would Jack meet him in London on Wednesday that week. Lunch was on him – at the Ritz, no less. Wednesday was tomorrow and going to London was the last thing Jack wanted right now. He could telegram, he supposed, and put the meeting off, but he was sure that Arthur wouldn’t let it rest. This was a big opportunity for Jack, the letter announced. Carrington novels sold reasonably well, certainly well enough to feed their author, but this could be the next step up. Arthur had been coy in his letter about the exact nature of what was being offered. Something about a crime series set in different counties. A marketing campaign would run alongside and be the responsibility of whatever local authority was involved. Working together, his agent proclaimed, they would make the beauty spots of England hum.
Jack wasn’t happy. He suspected this new series would be dictated by others and he would lose any creative freedom. He could be forced into days of travelling – if his novels were to be used as marketing tools for a particular area, he would need to know the county intimately. Publicity teams would expect nothing less. Jack didn’t want to travel. He’d had enough of travelling. He was happy where he was. In Sussex, in Abbeymead. And he didn’t want to tell Flora that he might soon be off. He was enjoying this new friendship, looking forward to the days he saw her. It was true she could be infuriating, but she could also be a delightful companion. One thing she wasn’t, was dull.
By the time he reached the church, he was extremely damp, even though the earlier torrent had abated. The drizzle infiltrated every inch of his raincoat, or so it seemed, and his hat had been reduced to a squashy mess. He spied Flora straight away and inched himself into the seat beside her. She was looking solemn. It was a funeral, after all, and she’d known Cyril Knight and liked him a lot, whereas he’d met the old chap only once.
It was years since Jack had entered a church, let alone sat through a service, but the hymns, the lessons, the readings from the Book of Common Prayer, were over in what seemed a blink of an eye. Was that it? Seventy years in the world and then shuffled out in a matter of minutes. It was a sobering enough thought to have him reconsider what he was making of his own life.
‘I must speak to Kate,’ Flora murmured beside him, as the congregation said a last amen. ‘Have you noticed? Bernie Mitchell isn’t here.’
As was the custom, Kate and Alice, as her supporter, were the first to walk up the aisle and out into the churchyard. Flora followed, with Jack a pace behind. Luckily, the drizzle had worn itself out and, though the air was still bleak and the sky overcast, people mingled, small groups of parishioners gathering on the brick path or getting their shoes wet as they stood between the gravestones. There might not be a wake to attend – Kate had crumpled at the idea – but the need to talk still flourished.
Vernon Elliot paused in the covered porch before joining the throng. His suit was even more sharply cut than the one Flora had seen before, his shirt a fine cotton and his tie an Italian sil
k. He stood waiting to be noticed, then turned to the closest of his audience.
‘Miss Steele? Mr…’
‘Carrington,’ Jack supplied.
‘Good morning. Though not, alas, for Mr Knight. Cyril was a good man. A fine worker.’
Flora didn’t answer. She was filled with disgust. This was the man who had cut Cyril adrift without a pension, without any recompense for his years of hard work at the Priory.
She thought her silence must have penetrated even Elliot’s thick skin, because he said nothing more, merely giving them both a tight smile, and moving on to more congenial company.
It was Kate Mitchell who took his place. ‘Thank you for coming, Flora, and you, Jack. And for getting Dad’s suit sorted out. It meant the arrangements have gone very smoothly.’
The girl’s eyes were raw, her face blotchy in the uneven light. Flora gave her a hug. ‘We wanted to be here, Kate, and it was a lovely service. Were they Mr Knight’s favourite hymns?’
Kate nodded. ‘I hope he enjoyed them,’ she said tremulously.
‘You did him proud. I’m sorry I didn’t call in yesterday. I did mean to when I got back from Hove, but it was late and you’d already shut up shop.’
The excuse made Flora feel guilty. The excitement of discovering the legend, and then realising that she might actually possess the missing document, had allowed Kate’s predicament to take second place in her mind. ‘You’ll want to be quiet for the rest of the day,’ she went on, ‘but I’ll call in later tomorrow, if that’s all right?’
She’d call after Polly’s party, she decided, though she’d say nothing of the girl’s good fortune. That would be horribly insensitive.
‘It will be lovely to see you whenever you come.’ Kate managed a wobbly smile. ‘I may not open the café again for a while, but if it’s closed tomorrow, come to the house.’
The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 16