The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Merryn Allingham

  ‘Have you given up?’ Jack asked. His pile, she saw, was considerably smaller than hers.

  ‘Almost. It’s very hard work, and I’m beginning to feel hungry again.’

  ‘I’m nearly through my first column. I’ll give you a hand when I’m done.’

  She felt guilty. This wasn’t the way anyone would choose to spend their afternoon, even with uninviting weather outside. Jack had work piling up, as well. Tomorrow he was meeting his agent, who would almost certainly want to know when he could expect the next book, a book that Jack had neglected to help her. He didn’t even believe in the legend or in the missing manuscript or indeed in a malfunctioning typewriter. It was all down to her and, dejectedly, she wondered why she’d been so certain it was the answer to her problem.

  Would it really make much difference to her business if she could prove Anderson had been murdered here? She straightened her aching shoulders. It had to. She was managing now to attract a small trickle of people to the shop, but they were mostly customers from beyond Abbeymead. It was the village that the All’s Well depended on for the bulk of its trade, the village that Aunt Violet had assiduously courted as she’d built her business. And it was orders from Abbeymead that had dried up. Alice’s friend, who worked in Steyning, had let slip that the bookshop there was doing particularly well, far better than they were accustomed to. Flora had to believe that this search would make a difference.

  While she’d been daydreaming, Jack had cleared an entire stack, putting the last of the volumes back on the shelf. He reached over for one of hers, dislodging a much smaller book that she hadn’t noticed before. A book that over the years would have been carried by many of the inhabitants of the Priory. She felt goose bumps rising.

  ‘This one,’ she said. ‘Let’s try this one. It’s a Book of Hours. It must have got into my aunt’s purchases by mistake.’

  Jack looked across at the volume she was holding. ‘A Book of Hours? I agree, it would be too precious to sell – one of the most coveted items a literate person could own. When life was regulated by religion, it would have been vital to own a collection of biblical texts and prayers to read throughout the day.’

  ‘And a perfect hiding place for the manuscript! This could have been Lady Ianthe’s own – the book looks very old – something she would have kept close to her.’

  ‘Is that a coat of arms?’

  Flora bent her head, looking down at the beautifully tooled cover and stroking its rich surface. ‘It could be, though the symbol is very worn.’ Carefully, she peeled back the first page to reveal a vivid illustration. ‘It’s quite lovely – masses of gold and silver, and lapis blue. It must have cost a fortune to produce.’

  ‘So, a prized possession. No doubt handed down through generations.’

  ‘Certainly, in a Catholic family like the Templetons,’ Flora agreed. ‘I think prayer books and family bibles superseded Books of Hours for Protestants. Shall I keep turning?’

  ‘There’s doesn’t seem a lot to turn.’ Jack leaned over to look more closely.

  ‘They’re usually in three sections, the church’s feast days first, then passages from the gospels, then prayers and psalms.’

  She began slowly to turn the wonderfully illustrated pages, through the calendar of feast days and saints days, marked in rich, gold lettering, and on to the second portion of the book. It was as she was moving between a passage from the Gospel by Matthew to one by John, that she stopped. She sat back on her heels, numbed, her breath caught in her throat and her stomach somersaulting.

  ‘It’s here,’ she said in a strangled voice. Her fingers wrapped themselves around a folded sheet of parchment. ‘It’s actually here!’

  Unfolding the paper, she spread it flat, seeing a page filled with the strong black strokes of a quill pen. Her breath did stop then, at least for a second.

  ‘My God, you’re right,’ Jack murmured, huddling up closer to read. Together, they peered down at the close-written lines. ‘Can you make the words out?’

  ‘We need a torch,’ she decided. Jumping up, she hurried back to her desk at the front of the shop. The bottom drawer held the torch that Violet always kept for emergencies.

  Beneath the brighter light, Flora could just begin to make out the curls and loops of Tudor writing. ‘Shall I read it?’

  ‘You’d better. I’m still too stunned to speak.’

  My Gracious Lady,

  I write in haste. My friend and brother in God, Francis, has brought news of a ship that leaves for France tonight, whereby I may secure a passage. It gives me much sadness to leave my country but there is no safety for me here.

  Many dangers lie ahead of me, My Lady, and I dare not take with me that which you entrusted to me. Fear not, I have buried it well close by and leave this letter in your most precious volume, which I hope will find its way to you wherever you may be.

  Root out the devil, My Lady, and find sorrow and wisdom between.

  Your servant in God

  Anselm

  Flora let her breath go. ‘The legend wasn’t rubbish. The priest did hide Lady Ianthe’s treasure before he escaped to France and this is his message to her.’

  Jack got to his feet, stretching his arms to the ceiling. For a few minutes, he paced up and down the narrow space, while Flora watched him uneasily.

  ‘It’s a wonderful find,’ he said at last. ‘But where does it actually get us? If this Anselm buried Lady Ianthe’s jewellery on the estate – and I guess we can assume the rest of the legend is correct – it could be anywhere in the Priory grounds. There’s no X marking the spot, is there? That’s an awful lot of grass to dig up. And you’d have to, more or less, if you want to prove to the police there was treasure and that Anderson was killed for it.’

  ‘Anselm must have left a clue for Lady Ianthe to follow. He had to have, or there would be no point in his writing.’ Flora picked up the parchment again and read silently through it.

  ‘So where is the clue?’

  ‘There’s only one part of the letter that’s unclear and that must be it. What did he mean by finding sorrow and wisdom?’

  ‘What did he mean by rooting out the devil? Anselm, old chap, you talk in riddles.’

  ‘To us, maybe, but it would have to mean something to Lady Ianthe. Lead her to discovering the hiding place. But how?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘You’ve done brilliantly, but I reckon this is the end of the trail.’

  She scrambled to her feet to stand beside him, her mouth stiff with annoyance.

  ‘Why are you always such a naysayer? It isn’t the end,’ she said stoutly. ‘It could be just the beginning. We need to find what Anselm was referring to.’

  Jack took a while before he responded. ‘How do you propose to do that?’ She heard the deliberate calm in his voice. ‘It’s time to admit it’s a dead duck, Flora – why pursue it any further? How is it going to get more customers through your door?’

  ‘I don’t know if it will,’ she said honestly, ‘but I do know that something wicked has been going on in Abbeymead and I need to expose it. I’m surprised you don’t feel the same. The triumph of good, the defeat of evil – isn’t that what your books are all about?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘How is there a “but”?’

  ‘Look, I understand the commitment you feel, but it’s become impossible. We looked for a document, we found it, and though it’s fascinating and historically hugely interesting, it doesn’t get us any closer to where we need to be.’ The grey eyes fixed her in a steady look, willing her to agree.

  ‘It will if I can work out what Anselm meant,’ Flora said defiantly. ‘And it won’t require me to dig up acres of grass!’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’ Jack sounded cynical. ‘Where do you propose to start this monumental search?’

  ‘It’s obvious. The Priory library.’

  He stared at her. ‘Kevin would have searched all the books that are still there.’

  ‘He didn’
t have the benefit of this letter, did he? He was unsuccessful, but I won’t be.’

  ‘You expect to find… what, exactly?’ She could tell he was humouring her.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Something that has to do with the devil and sorrow and wisdom.’

  ‘Quite a tall order. You intend to go through every book in the library on the off chance that those words have some kind of meaning? Always providing you can get access to the room. Come on, Flora, be realistic.’

  ‘I can get access. I’m going to the Priory tomorrow. I can easily slip away from the party.’ She bent down and ran a finger along the spines of the books they had reshelved. ‘You know,’ she said suddenly, a flash of inspiration emerging through the murk. ‘I don’t think I’ll have to look far after all.’

  ‘You’ve had one of your hunches?’

  ‘Not just a hunch, but a crushing, mind-boggling revelation.’ She clasped both his hands and danced him around in a circle.

  ‘Whoa! Tell me,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Anselm mentions rooting out the devil. Have you noticed the titles of the books we’ve been looking at?’

  Jack frowned. ‘I’ve been too busy turning pages.’

  ‘Look now,’ she urged. ‘Most of them are books on witches. Aunt Violet bid for this particular lot because she loved really old books and was fascinated by witchcraft.’

  Flora bent down to the bookshelf and selected one of the thinnest volumes. ‘This one is The Discovery of Witches by Matthew Hopkins. He was known as the Witchfinder General – that was his grim profession.’ She turned to the title page and read aloud.

  The discovery of witches: in answer to severall Queries, lately delivered to the Judges of Assize for the County of Norfolk. And now published by Matthew Hopkins Witch-finder, for the benefit of the whole kingdome.

  Jack bent to flick through several more title pages, and when he spoke, he sounded sceptical. ‘These books were published in the seventeenth century. Much later than the period we’re interested in.’

  ‘Witchcraft was a big topic then.’

  ‘So a past Lord Templeton was into witches. Why is that important?’ Jack’s hands made a furrow through his thick hair. ‘I don’t see where this is leading.’

  ‘Why was this Lord Templeton into witches, though? It could be that it was a burning topic of conversation in Sussex at the time or… something closer to home. A book he found on his library shelves that prompted his interest. I’ve remembered what Aunt Violet once told me. The Priory library holds a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum. There are several still in existence – one is in the British Library. It’s the earliest treatise on witchcraft. I don’t think the Priory copy was one of the first to be printed. If it were, it would be too valuable to leave on the shelves unguarded, but it is old and it’s perfectly possible that it was there in Anselm’s time. Our monk could have read it and chosen it as a resting place for his final clue.’

  ‘That’s pretty tenuous.’

  ‘I don’t think so. The Maleficarum would be a book that a Catholic priest would be sure to read. The Pope had already acknowledged a belief in witchcraft and sent inquisitors to Germany to prosecute so-called witches. This book, Malleus Maleficarum, helped popularise the belief that witchcraft was heresy, a crime against God. A priest would need to arm himself against such terrors. Anselm could have been reading it as he planned his escape and slipped whatever clue he’d come up with between its pages. Lady Ianthe would be familiar with the book. She and the priest may have discussed its contents together. Rooting out the devil? She would know where to look.’

  ‘It’s not just a long shot. It’s out of sight.’

  ‘Maybe, but you’re the one who said inspiration can sometimes be more valuable than logic.’

  ‘If this book is the archetypal treatise on witchcraft, why isn’t it here among the books your aunt bought?’

  ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea. When Lord Templeton died, his solicitors chose the books they thought would make the most money, along with the best paintings and the best pieces of furniture. Whoever put the lots together may have thought the Maleficarum was too scruffy to sell, not realising its importance. I’ve seen it and it was shabby. Or it simply got left behind by accident, in the same way as the Book of Hours was included in Violet’s haul.’

  ‘Or it may no longer be in the Priory library.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Flora said calmly. ‘But until I look, I won’t know.’

  Jack silently replaced the remaining volumes on the empty shelves. For a long time, he didn’t speak. Finally, he said, ‘I still have to go up to London tomorrow.’

  Flora pulled a small face. ‘You don’t sound too enamoured.’

  ‘I’m not, particularly at this moment, when I should be keeping an eye on you. At least I’ll be back by early evening. Go to Polly’s party, but go there to have fun. No gatecrashing the library for this book. Or darting in and out of offices on the hunt for a faulty typewriter.’

  Flora felt ruffled. He was laying down the law to her but dipping out of the investigation himself, and at the most crucial time.

  ‘If you weren’t haring off to London, you could have come with me to the party and we could have worked together. We’re so nearly there.’

  ‘When I get back, we’ll talk about it. Find some other way to get into the library. I’ll even ask for a guided tour of the hotel under the pretext of booking a conference, while you do your worst. Until then, promise me you won’t do anything stupid, Flora.’

  Twenty-Four

  Flora dressed for the party with care. Smart but unobtrusive, she thought, choosing a light wool dress that had been Violet’s last birthday present to her. They had bought it in Hill’s department store on a special shopping trip to Hove. Violet had been too weak to travel by bus, so they had raided the All’s Well’s till and booked a taxi there and back. They’d stayed on for lunch in Hill’s restaurant, an even bigger treat. It had been a wonderful day, the last time Violet had ventured out of Abbeymead, and because of that the dress was particularly dear to Flora.

  She checked her reflection in the mirror. Her aunt had been right about the colour – the deep green set off her reddish-brown hair to perfection, its A-line skirt skimming slim hips and pooling just below the knee. What could be more fashionable? Shoes were more of a problem. It was years since Flora had bought anything that could take her to a party and she was reduced to fishing a pair of strappy heels from deep in her wardrobe, a memento of carefree evenings spent at college hops. She prayed it wouldn’t rain before she reached the Priory.

  Polly’s invitation had been vague, but Flora had learned from Alice that the party would begin at four that afternoon. Elliot apparently had agreed time off for the staff until their evening shifts. Waiters and chambermaids would return to work, but Alice would be free to go.

  ‘I should think so, too,’ she’d said to Flora, when she’d called at the cottage earlier in the week. ‘By then, I’ll have done a restaurant lunch, started the evening meal and prepared all the food for Polly’s party, with only that lummock of a girl, Ivy, to help. And it hasn’t been easy, mind you. Polly’s been so finicky over the food – she’s really pushed the boat out. The chap who’s sponsoring her is paying for it all, or so she says. He’s a mystery man, but he must have loads of money.’

  The Priory grounds were a little shabbier than the last time Flora had walked up the gravel drive, the contract gardeners no doubt being between visits and Bernie Mitchell still officially missing. She’d asked Alice when she’d called whether any attempt had been made to look for him. Flora had heard nothing herself and it seemed the village in general had taken Alice’s view that he was on some drunken binge and would return when he felt like it.

  ‘Kate’s filed a report at the police station,’ Alice had said, ‘though to my mind she’d be better off leavin’ him missin’. Anyways, the police don’t seem too bothered. They think he’ll come back when he’s run out of money, and so do I. Bad pennies a
lways do.’

  If the grounds were not looking their best, the entrance to the old house made up for them. The carved stonework of the square tower was garlanded with streamers and, looking up, Flora saw that each of the windows of the tower had been hung with similarly bright decorations. It was a wonder that no one had climbed onto the roof and hung baubles from the tall Elizabethan chimneys. She walked past the stone pillars into the large square hall that now functioned as the foyer of the hotel. Every wall had been covered in balloons, with bunches of what looked like glitter stuck at intervals along the wood panels. The cleaners would not be too happy with that. Hopefully, Polly had thought to invite them to her party.

  A massive trestle table had been set up on one side of the room, the disapproving face of a long-dead Templeton glowering down at it from the panelled wall. Alice hadn’t exaggerated when she’d spoken of the food. If the table had had a voice, it would have groaned from the weight, and several of the young men Flora recognised as waiters from the restaurant were already munching their way from one end of the trestle to the other. A few of their fellows carried trays of glasses filled with straw-coloured liquid.

  Flora obediently took the glass that was offered. ‘Champagne,’ Polly announced, bouncing up to her. ‘Only the best for me from now on! I’m glad you could come, Flora.’ The words were said warmly, the girl sounding as though she meant them.

  ‘It’s good to see you looking so happy,’ Flora responded.

  ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ Polly gave one of her sudden loud laughs. ‘My dream’s coming true – at last. I’m sharing it with friends, people who’ve wished me well. Though I had to invite the old misery,’ she whispered in Flora’s ear, ‘or he’d never have let me use the hotel.’

  Flora looked across the crowded space and saw a small knot of people, dressed in their finest, gathered beneath a picture of Edward Templeton as a young man. The tall, thin figure of Vernon Elliot stood out from the group, like a weed that had grown too tall to hide in the herbaceous border.