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

by Merryn Allingham

  Jack stood irresolute, not knowing where to go, what to do.

  ‘You went up to the Priory, though?’ Charlie, it seemed, was not going away.

  ‘Are you spying on me, young man?’

  The boy shrugged his shoulders. ‘What did the hotel say?’

  Jack gave up. Charlie Teague was determined to be his confederate. ‘They said they hadn’t seen Miss Steele leave.’

  ‘Then she must still be there.’ Charlie kicked a larger than average stone into the gutter and watched it roll away.

  ‘That’s what I thought, but I searched the whole of the building. Both floors.’

  ‘Did you look in the library?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, impatiently. A frown creased his forehead. ‘Did you mention the library for any particular reason?’

  ‘I ’membered the priest hole, that’s all. Did you look there?’

  Jack felt his mouth drop open. ‘What priest hole?’

  Twenty-Nine

  For what seemed minutes on end, Flora lay frozen into immobility, her body seemingly embedded into the stone floor. Then panic kicked in. The air was growing heavier by the second, its taste damp and cloying. Her throat seemed to have closed and her breath began to come in spasms. Blindly, she stumbled to her feet, staggering forward and groping along the wall, first to the left and then right, feeling for a lever, a handle, anything that might set her free from this dungeon of death. Rough plaster was all she could feel.

  It was plain the mechanism could only be set in motion from the bookcase beyond. Why had she thought otherwise? Hadn’t she read of priests dying of starvation or from lack of oxygen before they could be released? Simultaneously gasping and crying, she groped her way back to the door that had cut her adrift from the world and began first to claw at the barrier, and then to hammer against its unforgiving surface until her fists bled.

  Flora could see nothing, but when she felt the sticky wetness on her hands, she realised what she had done and came to her senses. She could hammer until she had reduced her body to a pulp, but the shelving was immovable and there was no one to hear her. Except for Elliot, no one would venture into his office. She shuffled back a few paces and fumbled her way down onto the floor of cold stone. How many times all those centuries ago had Anselm been forced to take shelter in this way? He would at least have had a candle to light him and a book to while away the hours, but for his sake, she hoped it had not been often and not for long.

  Sitting cross-legged, the cold slowly seeped through her body. Her limbs might be numb, but she was struggling hard to keep her mind alive. How was she to escape this dreadful fate? Think, Flora, she urged herself, but in truth, there was little to think about. The situation was all too clear. Elliot had the papers he’d killed for and even now would be somewhere in the Priory grounds making use of them. Would he return to the house, to the office, in order to gloat? If so, and he were to flick that lever, sending the bookcase swinging open, she must be ready for him. But in her heart, she knew it for a forlorn hope. She had already tried to rush the man and failed and, as the minutes passed, the hours passed, she would grow only weaker.

  It was far more likely that Elliot would never return, but simply leave her here to rot. Very soon he would have what he’d killed for. Jack had been right. The murder had been committed for money. On the surface, Elliot exuded success: he owned an historic mansion and a country estate, employed a large staff, wore Savile Row suits and handmade shoes. But beneath this carapace of wealth, he was as hunted, as desperate for money, as Bernie Mitchell struggling to escape his squalid gambling debts.

  No more struggling for Elliot, though. Once he’d retrieved the jewellery, he’d be on his way to London to search out a shady dealer, if he hadn’t already found one. Whatever he unearthed from the Priory grounds, he’d not receive its true value, but still he would pocket a good deal of money, certainly sufficient to disappear from Abbeymead and leave his dreadful secret behind. Only if some future owner of the Priory were to fall heavily against that bookcase would the secret come to light. What would that new proprietor make of it, she wondered, a door swinging open to reveal a decomposed body and an ancient typewriter?

  The image had her shudder. Death suddenly seemed very close, her mind pivoting to Kevin in his final moments, to Cyril in his agony, and then to her aunt. How distraught Violet would have been if she’d known what the future held for her beloved niece. There would be no waking now to a bright morning in Montmartre, no throwing coins in a Rome fountain, or walking the hill to the Acropolis. And no All’s Well. What would happen to her aunt’s beloved bookshop? The thought made Flora cry again.

  She had let Violet down so very badly. If she’d not persisted with this investigation, she would still be safe. The affair had begun rationally enough with her desire to save the All’s Well from debt and eventual closure, but she could see now that rationality had gradually been lost. An absolute determination to bring the killer to justice, shop or no shop, had taken over.

  Jack had warned her to be careful, but she hadn’t listened. He’d asked her not to take risks today, to wait for him to get back from London and together they would work out their next move. But she had stupidly barged ahead and fallen into the most dreadful trouble she could ever have imagined. Why? Her pride? Her refusal to take advice? Or a wish to show that women, patronised, infantilised even, as they so often were, could do as well as any man?

  What would Jack do, she wondered, when he discovered her gone? He would be coming off the train from London any time now, full of news from his day in the city. He might even go looking for her and, when he didn’t find her… what would he think? That she had walked out on him, walked out on the bookshop and the village that had nurtured her all these years? He must know that she wouldn’t, and he’d search, if not tonight, then tomorrow. But no matter how hard he looked, he wouldn’t find her. He might try to run Elliot to ground, hoping the man could tell him more, but Elliot would be long gone from Sussex and, if ever Jack caught up with him, it would be far too late.

  Flora’s eyes filled with tears again, and she brushed them angrily away. She was too full of self-pity, she told herself. If she was to die, she must do it with dignity. She must resign herself to whatever was to come. Maybe she would fall into a coma and know no more. That would be the easiest. Spreading herself to lie flat on the cold floor once more, she hoped that was how it would be.

  ‘A priest hole?’ Jack repeated, hardly able to get the words out.

  ‘It’s where blokes used to hide when they were being chased. Relig’ous blokes.’

  ‘I know what a priest hole is, but what’s it got to do with the Priory?’

  ‘There’s one in the library. Old Lord Templeton used to let us kids see it. Real spooky it was. One of the bookcases swung out and there was this horrible black hole. We used to play a game, say we’d pull the lever and shut our mates in. But the old chap never let us play there alone. He said it was too dangerous.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Jack’s heart had begun to thump loudly. Was it possible that Flora had gone to the library after all, discovered the lever Charlie spoke of, and found the priest hole? Then by accident shut herself in. Or… been shut in.

  ‘Could you locate it, this lever – if we went back to the hotel?’ Jack was praying hard.

  ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘Then, c’mon, Charlie. If you open that priest hole, you’ve a big treat in store.’

  ‘What kinda treat?’

  ‘Never you mind. It will be big, that’s all you need to know.’

  Charlie gave a soft whistle. ‘I’ll find it,’ he said, striding ahead of Jack and already on his way to the Priory gates.

  Jack was unsure how he was to explain a second visit to the hotel within an hour, but when the two of them walked through the square stone of the entrance, there was no one to be seen. The foyer had been cleared of every scrap of rubbish and the reek of floor polish stung Jack’s nose. He reckoned the ma
ids must have finished for the day and the waiters were now working in the restaurant at the other side of the building. No one had replaced Polly Dakers at reception, and, crucially, Vernon Elliot was still absent. Hopefully, the formidable Miss Horrocks would remain above stairs, supervising the evening routine of turning down beds.

  ‘Quick,’ Jack said in a low voice. ‘Make for the corridor on the right before anyone puts in an appearance.’

  Charlie was before him, already halfway to the library, but when the boy walked into the magnificent space and looked around him, his young face was perplexed.

  ‘It’s not the same,’ he said.

  Jack caught up with him and put an arm around the boy’s shoulders. ‘Places you’ve been to when you’re young can look very different when you see them again,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Take a minute to remember.’

  ‘I ’member all right,’ the boy said stoutly. ‘But it don’t look right.’

  Jack felt despair rising. ‘Think,’ he said urgently. ‘How does it not look right?’

  The boy turned slowly in a circle, his gaze sweeping the room. ‘That was there.’ He pointed to the wall of windows, ‘and them, too.’ He gestured to the walls on either side, filled floor to ceiling with books. ‘But the bookcase that moved – it was here in the corner, and there in’t a bookcase there now.’

  To have got so far but face defeat was beyond bearing. ‘Are you sure, Charlie?’ Jack asked, anguish in his voice.

  ‘Yeah. Absolutely. The room looks kinda smaller now.’

  ‘That’s because you’re bigger yourself. Places always shrink…’ Jack stopped. ‘Or because the room has been altered,’ he said slowly.

  Charlie looked hopefully up at him.

  ‘When you used to play here, was there an office off the library?’

  ‘Nah,’ Charlie said. ‘Old Lord Templeton wouldn’t have known what to do with an office.’

  ‘Come.’ He grabbed Charlie’s arm, dragging him out of the library and into the adjoining room. The place was in darkness and he switched on the desk lamp.

  ‘Cor, this is new,’ Charlie said, looking around him.

  ‘And the bookcases?’ Jack held his breath.

  Charlie looked. ‘Not that one.’ He pointed to the modern shelving unit at the other side of the room. ‘I never saw that one. But this one. This looks like the one that was in the library.’ He moved closer. ‘There was a nick in the wood, like someone had taken a penknife to it. Yeah. It’s still there.’

  Jack tried to still a heartbeat so loud he could hear it thrashing through his ears. ‘The lever, Charlie. Show me.’

  ‘It was up there.’ He pointed to a shelf above his head. ‘I couldn’t reach it. Old Templeton had to lift me up so I could pull it.’

  ‘You probably still can’t reach it, but I can. Tell me where.’ Jack’s hand floated uncertainly in the air.

  ‘It was a bit higher than that. Right in the corner, near the last book.’

  Jack fumbled, his hand groping along the shelf that Charlie had indicated, but finding nothing. ‘I’ll try the next shelf up.’ He reached up once more and suddenly his hand touched metal. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said tersely.

  ‘You gotta pull hard.’

  Jack pulled hard and stepped back quickly as the entire bookcase began to swing open. It was a moment of excitement, a moment of dread, and his senses were acute. The bookcase had swung open smoothly, easily, he noted. Whatever the mechanism, it had recently been oiled. Which meant that Elliot knew about the priest hole.

  Then he saw her. A crumpled body lying in the dark cavern beyond.

  ‘Cor!’ Charlie exclaimed again. ‘In’t that Miss Steele?’

  Jack rushed forward and scooped her from the stone floor, holding the girl’s limp form close to his chest as he brought her out into the lamplight. She had lapsed into unconsciousness, but the warmth of his body seemed very slowly to wake her.

  Flora’s eyes half opened and she struggled to speak. ‘Is that you, Jack?’

  ‘It is, and you’re safe.’ He hugged her even closer.

  She gave a wan smile. ‘What kept you so long?’ she asked. Then fell unconscious again.

  Thirty

  When Flora finally woke properly, it was to find Jack Carrington sitting in a chair by her bedroom window. She blinked at him.

  ‘What—’ she began.

  ‘Alice is downstairs,’ he said soothingly. ‘You’ve been in and out of consciousness for hours and she’s been keeping watch. She’s been here since I brought you back from the Priory. Kate Mitchell, too – at least, for the first night.’

  ‘The first night?’ Flora tried to sit up, but her head was doing unpleasant things and she subsided back on her pillows. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘On and off for a couple of days. We called Dr Hanson. He poked around with his stethoscope and decided you were healthy enough, that it was simply your body repairing itself after a shock and there was nothing to worry about. I must admit I’m glad to see you open your eyes.’

  She’d had a shock, Jack said, but what had that been? Her memory stirred. At first, it was only a trickle – fragments of images, snatches of words – then the trickle turned into a torrent. ‘That place,’ she whispered. ‘The dark. The air. Suffocation.’

  Jack walked over to the bed and took her hand. ‘It’s OK to feel scared. I wouldn’t blame you if you had nightmares for days to come. But you’re going to be fine.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she said stoutly. ‘It was just… I’m being feeble, and I need to get out of bed.’

  ‘Absolutely not. For the moment, you’re to stay just where you are.’

  ‘But the shop. It’s been closed all this time. How many days did you say I’ve been here?’

  ‘Two, and the shop has been open, at least for part of every day. I snaffled your keys – sorry – and opened up. The All’s Well is being run by Charlie after school hours, with Kate watching over him from the café.’

  ‘Charlie Teague?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘He’s just a child.’ Flora scrabbled at the counterpane as though she was about to fling back the bedcovers and rush to the bookshop.

  ‘He’s twelve years old, going on forty. Charlie will do well. He’s been told to write down any orders that come in and hand over any books ready to be collected. I brought up the few packages I found from the cellar. If anyone wants to buy a book off the shelf, he knows how to take the money.’

  ‘There won’t be many customers anyway,’ Flora said miserably, turning her head into the pillows. She felt utterly exhausted and, despite hours of sleep, her body was pummelled and aching.

  ‘Well, no, but I didn’t like to mention that.’

  She lay, eyes half closed, her mind roaming over that last afternoon at Polly’s party. ‘Is Kate all right?’ she asked suddenly. ‘There was terrible news about Bernie Mitchell.’

  Jack lowered himself gingerly back into the tiny bedroom chair, his frame long and awkward. ‘I wouldn’t say she’s in the best of health,’ he replied, ‘but she’s managing to keep things together. Just. When, and if, they find her husband’s body, it might be a different matter.’

  ‘There’s no news of him yet?’

  ‘The lifeboat was scrambled and the coastguard has put out an alert, but it’s all a bit late. Mitchell’s clothes had been on that beach for a couple of days before the alarm was even raised.’

  ‘And Alice?’ she asked. ‘You said she was downstairs.’

  ‘Alice is here, my love.’ The rounded figure of the cook bustled through the doorway. ‘I heard voices and reckoned it was time to put the kettle on. Here, drink this.’

  Flora took the offered cup and sipped. ‘Thank you, Alice.’ She sipped again. ‘I never thought tea could taste so lovely!’ She looked anxiously at her friend, perched on the end of the bed. ‘Was it you who undressed me?’

  Jack gave a loud laugh. ‘I didn’t, if that’s what’s worrying you. Once I had
you out of that hellhole, I had one of the waiters at the Priory call a taxi, while Charlie ran ahead. He ran all the way to Alice’s cottage to tell her what had happened and she was here, Kate alongside, within half an hour of my carrying you through the door.’

  ‘You looked some awful, my love.’ Alice shook her head as though wanting to dislodge the memory. ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Better with every minute.’ Flora took another sip of tea, trying not to succumb to the lethargy overwhelming her.

  ‘That man—’ Alice began.

  ‘We decided it must be Elliot who imprisoned you,’ Jack went on. ‘You didn’t land in the priest hole by accident.’

  ‘It was Elliot all right,’ Flora said bitterly. ‘After I found Anselm’s directions. They were just where I said they’d be, Jack. In the Malleus Maleficarum.’

  Alice was looking bewildered, and Flora hastened to explain. ‘It’s an old book, Alice, the oldest volume the Priory possesses.’

  ‘Did Elliot find you in the library?’ Jack asked, his face grave.

  ‘Not there – in his office. I’d tucked both documents away in my handbag and gone looking for the typewriter, but there didn’t seem to be one.’

  ‘Just an empty rubber mat,’ he concurred.

  ‘That’s right. I reckoned Elliot must have tried to hide it and that if I looked at the room from a different angle, I might be lucky. It didn’t work, but as I was starting to leave, I tripped on the rug and stumbled against the old bookcase. I heard a click and the whole thing started moving.’

  ‘And there was the typewriter, ready and waiting.’

  ‘A typewriter that had a wonky “s”, the one used to order those flowers. I’d just tested the keys when that dreadful man appeared. He murdered Kevin with water hemlock, just as we thought, killing Cyril in the process. He admitted it. He was quite brazen – in fact, proud of what he’d done.’

  ‘He killed Cyril! I knew there was somethin’ wrong. I never said anythin’ to Kate – she had enough to contend with – but Cyril goin’ like that didn’t seem right.’ Alice had turned bright red, her hands twisting her rings compulsively.