‘Hopefully, he won’t stick around too long,’ Polly said. ‘Then we can have fun. Plenty of people here who like a real party.’
Plenty of young people, Polly could have said. She had invited a number of mature souls – her mother, Alice, a group of villagers with whom her mother was particularly friendly and, of course, Uncle Ted. Otherwise, the company was made up of Polly’s friends from the village and the youngest members of staff at the Priory. Of the secret sponsor, there was no sign. Pity, Flora thought. She would liked to have seen just what kind of future Polly was stepping into.
‘My, you look lovely.’ Alice had quietly joined them and was looking Flora up and down, her eyes bright with appreciation.
Flora saw Polly’s lips begin to form themselves into a pout. The girl evidently didn’t enjoy hearing praise for someone she considered hopelessly unfashionable, but her expression brightened when one of the more dashing waiters switched on a record player that had sat unnoticed on one of the hall’s oak coffers.
Bill Haley’s ‘Rock Around the Clock’ reverberated through the space, startling the older guests, but bringing smiles to younger faces. The waiter swooped down on Polly and began an energetic dance with her around the edge of the room, both of them laughing uproariously.
‘I saw Kate this morning,’ Alice said quietly. ‘I wanted her to know where I’d be – she’s so alone, poor lamb – and she couldn’t face this party, though Polly invited her. She’s at the café, trying to keep herself busy.’
‘I’m not surprised Kate had no wish to come,’ Flora responded. ‘It looks as though it could get rowdy.’
As if hearing Flora’s words, Vernon Elliot lifted his glass in the air, banging it with a teaspoon until he got the attention of the gathering. It took several minutes.
‘I would like to propose a toast,’ he began portentously. ‘To Miss Polly Dakers who has been a valued member of staff at the Priory these last two—’
‘Three,’ Polly put in.
‘—these last three years.’ He glowered across the room at her, then remembered he should smile. ‘Polly,’ he continued, in a reedy voice, ‘may be leaving us today, but I’m sure we’ll be hearing from her in the future.’
I’m sure we will, Flora thought.
‘Let us now raise our glasses to Miss Dakers, to Polly, and wish her well in her new life.’
There was a ringing declaration of ‘To Polly’ and a general murmur of good luck, followed by a good deal of swooshing down of champagne. While several of the older guests began to make their excuses, the waiters busily refilled the glasses of those who remained. It would become rowdy, Flora judged, but that was all to the good. The noise and distraction would provide extra cover for what she’d come to do.
Alice had stayed by her side and now nudged her towards the overflowing trestle table. ‘You should try one of these,’ she said, pointing to a plate of round golden whirls decorated with strips of icing. ‘Lavender and lemon cakes. I’d never made them before, but I reckon they’ve come off really well.’
Flora had just taken her first bite when her companion was called to one side by a young boy. Was that Charlie Teague recovered from the mumps? It was, and he was once more playing messenger.
When Alice returned, she was white-faced. ‘I’ll have to go, Flora. Kate can’t be on her own.’
‘Whatever’s happened? Why was Charlie here?’
‘The police have been round to the Nook. They’ve found Bernie Mitchell. Leastways, they’ve found his clothes. A pile of them on Littlehampton beach. A dog walker said he noticed them there two days ago. Thought someone had gone swimming but then when he walked the same way today, the clothes were still there and he got worried.’
‘And Mitchell?’
Alice shook her head. ‘Not a sign. I asked Charlie. He was with Kate when the police called – she’s a soft spot for him, always giving him an iced bun or custard tart. He heard Constable Tring say they were keeping an open mind, but that it looked like suicide, though there was no note. But there wouldn’t be with Mitchell. He’d not have the thought to say sorry to the woman who loves him.’
Even in death, Alice couldn’t forgive the man. ‘It’s possible,’ Flora said, ‘that he went for a swim, as the dog walker thought, and then got into difficulties.’
Alice gave a little shrug. ‘Perhaps. Makes no difference. The man’s gone and that lass is breakin’ her heart, I’ll make no doubt. After losin’ her father, too – it’s too much for the girl to bear.’
‘I’ll come by shortly,’ Flora called after her companion’s disappearing back. ‘I’ll call at the Nook on my way home.’
Alice hadn’t lowered her voice and Flora was aware that several people close to them had stopped their conversation and been listening intently. Before her friend had collected her handbag and was halfway to the entrance, the murmuring began. At first it was quiet, whispering sibilants, but becoming louder and more confident as the story expanded to fill people’s expectations.
For a while, Flora stood where Alice had left her, trying to make sense of this new drama. She had last seen Mitchell on Fern Hill, changing a punctured tyre and, to all intents and purposes, working his way through a normal day. Where had he gone from there and when had he returned the van to Katie’s Nook? Alice had been clear that Mitchell hadn’t been driving when he left. If so, how had the man got to Littlehampton beach? From Abbeymead, there was no direct route, and would anyone contemplating suicide wait around for a series of buses?
In any case, why suicide? Flora cast her mind over the times she’d seen Mitchell in the last few weeks, looking for any clue that might explain his behaviour. There had been that odd moment, she recalled, just after Cyril died. She and Jack had been walking down the Priory drive, having been more or less ordered off the premises by Elliot, when Mitchell had driven past them at a crazy speed, almost scraping the estate gates as he shot through.
Something had gone badly wrong for the man, that was clear, and his death was unlikely to be an accident, even though she’d suggested as much to Alice. Flora couldn’t imagine anyone stripping off at the end of October and plunging into the English Channel for a leisurely swim. No, suicide was a far more sensible explanation, yet the question remained of why and why now? What had happened to make Mitchell determined to die? Or… maybe to fake his death and assume a new identity. That was always a possibility. Flora had heard of desperate men, and it was usually men, who had done just that.
Perhaps his gambling debts had become more than he could face. Or he’d acted out of guilt. If Mitchell had been involved in the murder of Kevin Anderson and the death of his father-in-law, it wouldn’t be surprising that he’d taken his own life, or decided to disappear for ever. Or – Flora felt her heart beat a little faster – could it be another case of murder? Had the real killer seen Mitchell as a danger and disposed of him?
She felt overwhelmed by the questions, far too many questions. Right now, she was at the Priory for a purpose, and the message Charlie Teague had brought had made her job that little bit easier. She looked around. Every guest was talking, huddled together in groups, gossiping avidly. The music played on – The Platters’ ‘Only You’ had replaced Bill Haley – but no one was taking any notice. This was a piece of news that wouldn’t die easily.
It was time to make her move.
Twenty-Five
Flora had set herself two tasks, to her mind each dependent on the other. They were two sides to the biggest question of them all: what was hidden and who had killed for it? She had Anselm’s letter in her possession now, but the monk’s instructions lay somewhere in the Priory library. If she could unravel their mystery, they would lead her to what had been hidden, what had provided the motive for killing. It wasn’t simply motive she needed, though. She must find the murderer, or at least narrow down the likely suspects, and that was where the errant typewriter would play its part. Jack might dismiss her search as pointless, but she was convinced it was utterly right.
The machine had been used to type an order for Flowers for You, leading to a bouquet that had signalled death.
She was standing a few feet from the reception desk, Polly’s erstwhile home and, giving a quick glance around the foyer at the groups of chattering people, she edged backwards until she felt its hard wood behind her. It took only a slight shuffle to the right to whisk herself behind the desk and disappear into the office beyond. It was a much smaller room than Flora had anticipated, made even smaller by the litter of paper: a tall column of brochures and one of advertising leaflets, a stack of invoices, and ledgers piled so high they were in imminent danger of crashing to the floor. Polly, it seemed, had made no attempt to tidy the space. As far as the girl was concerned, she had worked her last hour at the Priory and someone else could pick up the mess.
It wouldn’t be Bernard Mitchell, Flora mused, though he could easily have worked here. Could have used this very typewriter, sitting square on the old mahogany desk. Polly was no longer a suspect, but with Mitchell’s disappearance, his role as a typist had assumed a new importance. Bending down, she opened the top drawer of the desk, searching for a sheet of spare paper. A collection of dead make-up and blunt pencils was her reward. The next drawer down had packets of chewing gum and a few tattered envelopes. It was only when she reached the final drawer that she struck lucky. An opened packet of typing paper sat beneath a scattering of cardboard files that looked as though it might constitute Polly’s filing system.
Quickly, Flora inserted the paper into the roller and hit the letter “s”. It came out perfectly formed. She made another attempt and found exactly the same. Then she tried with the shift key down. However she typed, the letter was never less than perfect. Tearing the sheet from the typewriter, she balled it up and threw it into the overflowing wastebasket. She would have to search further afield and that meant Elliot’s own office.
Flora slid unnoticed around the reception desk and back into the party, still in full swing. Vernon Elliot, she saw, was by the huge stone fireplace, engaged with several of the village worthies, men who had influence in the district. Elliot had his head bent, as though trying to savour every one of his companions’ words. Flora wasn’t fooled. His was a false attention, good public relations, that was all, but it served her purpose in keeping him engaged.
Alice had said that Elliot’s private office led off from the library. Having spent many happy hours in that magnificent room, when Lord Templeton had kept open house, Flora could have found her way there blindfolded. She would search first for the Malleus Maleficarum, she decided, and then move to the office to test the only other typewriter in the building. Hopefully, her search would prove swift and she would be back at the party within minutes.
Drink in hand, she weaved in and out of several small groups of people, a nod here and there, a smiling triviality on her lips, until she was close to the corridor that led to the library. In a few steps, she had ditched her glass and was walking swiftly towards her goal. No one had noticed her leave, she was certain. The news of Mitchell’s likely death, while devastating for Kate, had kept people distracted and talking.
Flora had always loved the library. It was her favourite room in the whole of the Priory. Unhooking the rope that now guarded the room, she walked through its double doors. As always, it was a revelation of light, the high carved ceiling patterned a luminous green and cream and one entire wall taken up by a series of tall, arched windows. The shelving was dark – mahogany – but set within arches of white plaster, the higher shelves holding marble busts of an array of pompous-looking gentleman. She had once asked Lord Templeton who they were, thinking they must be his ancestors. He’d shaken his head. No idea, Flora, he’d said. They’re probably the spoils of an early Templeton’s misspent youth, while he was on the Grand Tour. A carved mahogany fireplace, a satinwood desk and Chesterfield wing-back chairs completed the room’s tranquil beauty. She was relieved that Elliot’s fell hand had not fallen on this wonderful room.
For a while, she stood motionless on the threshold, allowing its peace to wash over her. Then an overpowering urge took hold and she almost ran across the Persian carpet, past the thinly populated shelves that had once housed books sold at auction, to those lining the far wall. Flora knew exactly where she must look, grabbing the wooden library steps and trundling them to the section closest to the line of windows. This was where the books on witchcraft had always been kept. If the Maleficarum was still in the library, it would be here or hereabouts.
With so many volumes sold, the remaining books had been given a good deal more space, but a quick glance showed her they were a motley collection. She would need to work her way systematically through the section, from left to right, top to bottom, to find the one she needed.
The calm November day was coming to an end, its mellow light filtering through the window, splashing itself across the first few shelves. Running her finger along the spine of each book, she still had to bend close to make out every title. Many volumes were part of a series, identical in shape and colour, and these she could speed across, but for the most part it was a painstaking task. Halfway down the section, and close to a window, she found what she was after. The Malleus Maleficarum was still here! As she’d told Jack, it was by far the oldest book in the library, its leather cover roughened, the gold lettering faded, and the edges of its pages crinkled and occasionally torn.
Very carefully, she pulled the volume from its resting place and, scurrying down the library steps, took it to the window seat. One by one, she turned the pages, but had advanced only a little way before she felt the weight of the paper change. A rising excitement had her turn the page very, very, slowly and there it was! A narrow strip of parchment, seemingly at some point used as a bookmark. Extracting it with the utmost care, she put the Malleus Maleficarum to one side and laid the parchment onto the cushioned seat. The strip bore faded brown marks along its entire length, and as she looked more closely, she could see they were images that had been drawn in ink. Holding the sliver of paper to the light, she screwed up her eyes, trying to make out the outline of the first drawing. It appeared to be a statue. Puzzled, Flora concentrated on the next image. That seemed to be nothing more than a cross. The final picture was clearer – a tree.
She sat back, bewildered and deeply disappointed. Surely there had to be more. Yet this slip of parchment must mean something. Anselm had hidden the precious object entrusted to him, then left clues for his lady to follow. Delving into her handbag, Flora brought out the priest’s letter, her eyes fixing on the strange line that neither she nor Jack had fathomed.
Root out the devil, My Lady, and find sorrow and wisdom between.
Flora had rooted out the devil, that was the Maleficarum, but sorrow and wisdom? Her gaze went back to the strip of parchment, alighting on the image of the statue. Wisdom? She looked again. It was the statue of Minerva, she thought, the goddess of wisdom, a statue that she’d often sat beneath in the Priory grounds. But the tree? There were an awful lot of trees on the estate. Was this one in any way special? A tree that meant sorrow. She’d read something. What had she read? Desperately raking her mind, it suddenly came. She jumped up, her arms almost punching the air. The dule tree, a tree of lamentation or grief, she’d read, once used as a gallows for public hangings. And between those two images, a large cross. She had done it! She had found the treasure’s resting place. X did indeed mark the spot.
She smiled as she recalled Jack’s words. He should be here right now, sitting by her side, enjoying their triumph. Battling a wave of guilt, she told herself that her visit today had been too good an opportunity to let slip. Jack should have delayed the meeting with his agent. It would have taken only a telephone call. He couldn’t blame her for stealing a march on him, though he probably would.
She stayed for a while, curled up on the window seat, the light gradually fading, as she absorbed what had happened. She had actually found what Kevin Anderson had searched for. Maybe what Mitchell had searched for. Cer
tainly what those writers of legend had believed existed. She picked up the strip of parchment, placing it gently within the folds of Anselm’s letter, and slipped them both into her handbag. She must take the documents to the police, explain their importance, persuade them to dig where Anselm had directed. They would see then what had been at stake, why Anderson had broken into her shop and why he’d died before he could reach the book he sought.
The police would remain sceptical, Flora knew, which was why she needed a name, a name that would finally convince them that this was a murder case. The name of the killer. There was one last job to do, and for the first time she looked properly around her. She had been so focused on finding the Maleficarum that she’d barely looked at the library itself. Glancing towards the entrance, she saw now that an unobtrusive door had been cut into the wall just to the left, between two of the bookshelves. The space beyond must always have been there, but Elliot had accessed it with this new door. His private office was where she must go next.
After the beauty of the library, the room was a disappointment. With no natural light and only a small desk lamp to provide illumination, the gloom was depressing. Did Vernon Elliot really work here? There was a desk, certainly, an office chair and one of the wing-back Chesterfields from the library, presumably for any guest he might entertain. A small table stood in the corner, but was bare except for the stunted green of a plant only half alive. No wonder, she thought. How could any living thing thrive in this murk? There was a modern bookcase to her right and another older set of shelves on the wall adjacent to it. Neither, she imagined, would hold anything interesting.
The older bookcase, though, looked as if it had once belonged to the library. That seemed strange until enlightenment dawned. Of course, this space had once been a part of that magnificent room. She remembered now – why hadn’t she before? There had been a square enclave at one end. Lord Templeton had liked to retire there, to read when his eyes grew tired of the bright light in the rest of the library. Elliot had hived this enclave off with a false partition and a door. It was an odd thing to do, but she wasn’t here to ponder Vernon Elliot’s foibles. She was here to find a typewriter.
The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 19