‘He’ll pay for it,’ Jack said softly. ‘And Mitchell, Flora? Did Elliot say anything about him?’
Flora lowered her voice as though Kate might still be in the house. ‘Bernie Mitchell was his accomplice. He planted the hemlock, kept it alive, and then burnt what was left of it immediately after Cyril died. No wonder Kate said her husband was Elliot’s right-hand man.’
‘Why did the wretch disappear then?’ Alice asked, still twisting her rings in agitation. ‘Not that I can’t be grateful that he has, even with Kate breakin’ her heart over him.’
‘Elliot threatened that he would be next in line for a swift death if he dared to spill the beans, and that prompted Mitchell to take off in a panic. Kate mentioned how much pressure her husband had been under, and now we know why.’
‘His disappearance can’t be suicide then,’ Jack remarked. ‘If he was trying to save his skin, he’d hardly go swimming – and naked.’
‘You wouldn’t go swimming in any case if you were trying to escape, unless you were hoping to fake a suicide.’
‘That’s it,’ Alice said decidedly. ‘It’s the kind of low thing Mitchell would do. Sacrifice his wife’s peace of mind to keep himself safe.’
‘I hope for Kate’s sake that the mystery of Bernie’s whereabouts is soon cleared up,’ Flora said. ‘At least, then, she can begin to come to terms with what’s happened.’
‘Something is bothering me.’ The creases in Jack’s forehead deepened.
‘Only something?’ Pallid and exhausted as she was, it was Flora’s weak attempt at a joke.
‘Presumably Vernon Elliot found out what Kevin had been researching and knew he had to look for a manuscript that was in the Priory library. He must have searched every book on the library shelves, either with Kevin or alone.’
‘With Kevin,’ Flora confirmed.
‘They couldn’t have found the letter because we found it in your books, but why didn’t they find the clue that Anselm left? You went straight to it.’
‘I thought about that when I was in the black hole. I had a lot of time to think. I reckoned that either Elliot’s search was slapdash, which doesn’t fit with the man we know, or he did find the strip of parchment that I discovered and didn’t realise its significance. You haven’t seen it, Jack, but it’s just one long, narrow strip. It could easily be taken for a bookmark. Elliot wasn’t looking for a bookmark. He was looking for a manuscript and could have dismissed what he found as unimportant.’
‘But if he read what was written on it – I don’t imagine Anselm wrote in invisible ink.’
‘There was nothing written on it. Just three drawings, which would make very little sense to anyone who hadn’t read the letter that we found.’
Jack shifted in his seat. ‘I’m intrigued. We seem to be dealing with one devious monk here. Tell me, what exactly did he draw?’
‘The top image was of a statue, which I worked out had to be Minerva. Remember that cryptic line in the letter?’
‘Minerva? Wisdom!’
‘You’re right. And the drawing at the bottom was of a tree, the tree of sorrow. In between the two, there was a large cross.’
‘Sounds like a tall tale,’ Alice said, looking from one to the other.
‘That tree of sorrow…’
Flora smiled. Jack liked to get to the bottom of things. ‘The dule tree. It was used for centuries to make gallows.’
‘Would Elliot have worked that out?’ he asked doubtfully. ‘The man didn’t strike me as someone close to nature.’
‘He would recognise the statue of Minerva, I’m sure. Everyone who’s ever walked in the Priory grounds knows it. I guess he’d start digging between that and the nearest tree.’
‘Like I said, a tall tale.’ Alice bounced up from the bed, smoothing down her pinafore.
‘One that has led Elliot to whatever Anselm buried all those centuries ago.’ Flora’s voice was tinged with bitterness. She looked across at Jack, still sprawled uncomfortably in the too small chair. ‘We might have uncovered the murderer but, in the end, we failed.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Elliot will have found the treasure by now, whatever it is, even if he had to dig for hours. He’ll have used it to escape and he’ll never face justice.’
Jack levered himself from his seat, walking over to the bedside again, and shaking his head. ‘Not so, Miss Steele.’
‘That’s right,’ Alice confirmed. ‘The police have got him.’
‘Really?’ Flora sat bolt upright.
‘He’s at Brighton police station. Locked safely in a cell,’ Jack added.
The news turned Flora’s world upside down. ‘How did the police know what he was up to?’ Her head was spinning.
‘I called in one more favour. Inspector Ridley sent two of his men to search the Priory grounds – for you, incidentally – but lo and behold, they found Elliot instead, with a shovel, a pile of earth and a chipped wooden casket in his hands.’
‘They couldn’t arrest him for that,’ she protested. ‘He was digging on his own land. They couldn’t arrest him for murder either. With the flowers gone, there’s no proof that he killed Anderson, only his confession to me, and that won’t stand up in a court of law. It will be one voice pitted against another.’
Jack pulled a face. ‘You’re right – up to a point. It’s infuriating that the Anderson murder will go by the board. Ridley has no proof beyond the statement that you’ll make, but he does have evidence of what happened to you. After I called him, he ordered his men to be on the lookout for Elliot and, if his officers were at all suspicious, they were to bring the man in for questioning. Since then, Elliot has admitted to imprisoning you in that dreadful place, and Ridley knows it was with every intention of letting you die there. That’s attempted murder. Then there’s the little matter of growing poisonous flowers and the accidental killing of a pensioner. It would mean exhuming Cyril to prove it, I’m afraid – Kevin is beyond reach – but I think we’ll find that Elliot will spend quite a number of years behind bars.’
‘Good riddance to him, I say.’ Alice hovered in the doorway. ‘The man’s a monster and now the village knows just what he’s done. I’m telling everyone I meet that it was him, not ghosts or poisonous fumes that killed that young man in your bookshop. You’ll have plenty of customers coming back, you’ll see.’
‘The right kind of notorious?’ Jack queried, his eyes laughing.
Flora grinned, recalling the boast she’d made what seemed a lifetime ago. ‘Let’s hope so. But what will happen to your work at the Priory, Alice?’
‘I dunno if I’ll have a job at the end of all this, but right now I don’t much care, and whoever takes over the hotel has to be better. Now, my love, what can I get you for breakfast? While Jack was sitting with you, I went back home and collected a couple of new-laid eggs. My hens must have known what was needed.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘Yes, you could. You’re too skinny already and you’ve not eaten for days. Any case, eggs are good for shock.’
Flora looked surprised.
‘You didn’t know that, did you?’ Jack said, straight-faced.
‘Have them soft boiled, with some soldiers for dipping,’ Alice put in. ‘I’ve just baked a fresh loaf and the milkman’s delivered a slab of his best butter.’
Flora gave in graciously. ‘You’re so kind.’
When Alice had clattered down the stairs, she gestured to Jack to come closer, reaching out for his hand. ‘I haven’t said thank you, and I need to. You saved my life.’
He took her hand and held it for a while. ‘Strictly speaking, it was Charlie Teague who saved your life. He was the one who told me about the priest hole.’
Flora nodded reminiscently. ‘Charlie would know – the children used to play in the library. Edward Templeton loved having them there.’ She levered herself up to sit a little straighter. ‘I must think of an especially good treat for Charlie as a way of saying thank you.’
‘I’ve been working on it. What do you say to a day in Brighton? Candy floss, the Palace Pier, a fish and chip supper and to round it off, a show at the Hippodrome?’
She grinned. ‘I’d say that Master Teague will be in heaven.’
‘Me, too. I’ve never been on a pier.’
‘Jack, you have had such a strange life!’ Her expression grew serious. ‘Thanks to your calling the police at just the right time, that wretched man will go to prison. I hope it’s for a very long time, but I’m sad that when he comes out he’ll still own the Priory and still be able to claim the treasure. Do you know what it turned out to be? Was it a casket of jewellery?’
He nodded.
‘Just as I thought. Tudor gold and silver will be worth a fortune. It’s so unjust. I know any treasure over three hundred years old has to be offered for sale to a museum, but there’s bound to be plenty who’ll want it. Elliot will become a rich man. He’ll be able to pay off his debts and escape his past.’
‘I’m not sure any museum will want it.’ Jack, she noticed, had a sly smile on his face.
‘The jewellery will still be there when he gets out of prison,’ she said a trifle tartly. ‘And still be his to sell. He can’t lose.’
Jack was now smiling broadly.
‘I don’t see there’s anything to smile about.’ Flora was cross and plumped her pillows with unnecessary force.
‘Oh, there is. That priceless Tudor jewellery, it seems, is nothing but a fake. Mere paste…’
She gaped at him. ‘What!’
‘That’s right. While you were lying prone, I went up to London. Ridley allowed me to take the box of goodies and have its contents valued. They were well-preserved – we’re lucky the casket was lead-lined. There were several bracelets, a necklace and three rings. Lovely-looking items, but Lady Ianthe was a naughty girl. She must have sold the real jewels and substituted them for paste replicas. They were troubled times – she probably needed the money.’
‘But then why did the priest go to all the trouble of burying the box and leaving instructions where to find it? It makes no sense.’
‘Lady Templeton would hardly have broadcast the fact that she’d sold her jewels, would she? She would have been keen to keep up the fiction, even when she was carted off to prison. Anselm must have thought he was burying the real thing, saving the Templeton jewels from destruction.’
Flora swung her legs out of bed, shrugging herself into her dressing gown. She walked to the window and looked out on the curling drifts of copper and gold leaves, trying to absorb this amazing turn of events.
Eventually, she turned to face Jack. ‘So Elliot will get nothing for them?’
‘They are beautiful pieces, so perhaps two and sixpence for the lot.’
At this, she laughed aloud.
‘It’s good to hear you laugh again. I was beginning to wonder if I ever would. There’s something else that will make you laugh, or smile at least. When I was at the London auction house, I asked their books and manuscript valuer to have a look at Anselm’s letter. Unfortunately, the strip of parchment – the bookmark, you called it – was ruined in Elliot’s digging, but the letter excited the valuer greatly. It has considerable historical significance, apparently, and, along with the Book of Hours that your aunt bought, turns out to be worth a good deal of money. My expert reckoned that together they would fetch well over two hundred pounds in a sale.’
Flora was stunned. ‘It will save the bookshop,’ she stuttered. ‘Even if the village doesn’t come back as quickly as Alice thinks.’
‘It will do a great deal more than that. There’ll be enough for you to hire an assistant, make her your manager and allow you to travel to your heart’s content. On those proceeds, you could manage a good year away.’
She was dumbfounded. Was an impossible dream becoming reality? Would she get to all those places she’d had in her heart for so long: Paris, Rome and way beyond? Her spirits quickened at this stunning development. Then, just as swiftly, they plummeted. She would be leaving a village she loved, leaving her beloved bookshop in unknown hands, and travelling alone. Seeing those long-desired sights with no one by her side. Somehow it no longer carried the appeal it once had.
‘I don’t know,’ she said uncertainly. ‘After all this time, I’m not sure that I’d make a good solo traveller.’
Jack walked over to the window and stood silently by her side. Meeting his gaze, Flora was aware of grey eyes that changed from light to dark and back again. It was as though he was struggling to find the right words.
‘I’m off to Cornwall early in the summer,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve had no time to tell you, but it’s part of the project my agent has lined up for me. It’s a few months distant and not exactly France or Italy, but Cornwall is a beautiful county, especially in May. You could always travel with me.’
Flora felt a tingle of pleasure. A sensation of warmth. Cornwall and Jack? She definitely liked the sound of it. And May was months away, so time enough to rebuild trade after such a disastrous period. Time to make the All’s Well buzz again. Travel was exciting but Abbeymead was where her heart lay.
‘Thank you for the invitation. I’ll certainly think about it,’ she said, not wanting to sound too enthusiastic. ‘We make a good team, don’t we?’
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Books by Merryn Allingham
The Bookshop Murder
A Letter from Merryn
I’d like to say a huge thank you for choosing to read The Bookshop Murder. If you enjoyed it and want to keep up to date with all my latest releases, just sign up at the following link. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.
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The 1950s is a fascinating period, outwardly conformist but beneath the surface there’s rebellion brewing, even in Sussex! I’ve lived in the county for many years now and love it – the small villages, the South Downs, and the sea – and I hope you enjoyed Flora and Jack’s adventures there as much as I loved imagining them. If you did, you can follow their fortunes in the next Abbeymead mystery.
In the meantime, I love hearing from you all – I promise, it will make my day! – so do get in touch on my Facebook page, through Twitter, Goodreads or my website, and if you enjoyed The Bookshop Murder, I would love a short review. Getting feedback is amazing and it helps new readers to discover one of my books for the first time.
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Merryn
www.merrynallingham.com
Published by Bookouture in 2021
An imprint of Storyfire Ltd.
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Copyright © Merryn Allingham, 2021
Merryn Allingham has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-80019-681-0
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
erryn Allingham, The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1)
The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1) Page 23