A Spider on the Stairs

by Cassandra Chan

  He shook his head, quite lost in his contemplation of the horror he had seen.

  “I understand,” said Gibbons gently, “that you’re the owner of the bookshop?”

  “What? Oh, yes, yes. My father started the place and I joined him when I came down from Cambridge.”

  “Was there any particular reason you came into the shop today?” asked Gibbons. “It being Christmas, I mean.”

  Mittlesdon looked about blankly. “Well, there’s always things to do,” he said, raising one hand to indicate a cart full of books standing at one end of the sales counter. “But really, I suppose, I just wanted a few moments of peace and quiet. It’s rather crowded at my house over the holidays, you see.”

  Gibbons nodded in understanding. He himself had five siblings and nearly twice as many cousins; his parents’ house was nothing short of bursting at the seams during the holidays.

  “So you came in just to tidy up a bit,” he said encouragingly.

  “Yes, well, I do like to be occupied,” said Mittlesdon. “And it’s relaxing work for me, I’m so used to it.” He hesitated. “I’m afraid,” he said apologetically, “I did put away some books before I found—found it. I do hope you’re not too upset with me: I know you’re supposed to leave everything just as it is at the scene of a crime.”

  Gibbons smiled; it was quite unusual to find a witness concerned that he might have made the policemen’s job harder.

  “I’m sure it will be all right,” he said. “Some of the books left down here, were they?” He indicated the counter.

  “Yes, that’s right. Just a small pile of books from—” Mittlesdon broke off, struck by a sudden thought.

  “Have you remembered something?” asked Gibbons.

  To his surprise, Mittlesdon blushed and looked down at his hands.

  “It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I can’t think why such a silly thing should occur to me. It’s nonsense, of course.”

  “I can’t tell unless I know what it is,” said Gibbons patiently. “Was there something out of place when you came in?”

  “No, no.” Mittlesdon seemed embarrassed. “I only remembered finding the spider when I was putting away the books. Silly, I know, but I thought of that old proverb—Araignée du matin—chagrin; Araignée du midi—plaisir; Araignée du soir—espoir, you know—and, well, I can’t help thinking maybe this wouldn’t have happened if I’d killed the spider instead of putting it outside. Quite ridiculous, but, well, I can’t say I feel entirely myself.”

  “Of course not,” said Gibbons, who did not know many French proverbs. “No one does when they’ve unexpectedly been faced with a dead body. Let’s see, chagrin, that’s ‘sorrow,’ isn’t it?”

  “Oh,” said Mittlesdon, looking apologetic again. “I’m sorry. In English it would be—now let me think—yes, it would be, ‘A spider seen in the morning is a sign of grief; a spider seen at noon, of joy; a spider seen in the evening, of hope.’ Yes, that’s it, more or less. I remember as children my sister and I were told never to kill a spider except in the morning.”

  Gibbons was not at all certain what to make of this speech, except that they were straying very far from the topic of murder.

  “Apart from the spider,” he said, “did you notice anything else out of the ordinary this morning? Was the door locked just as usual?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mittlesdon vaguely. “I would have noticed if it hadn’t been—I’m quite careful about such things. No, everything seemed just as we had left it until I went into the office.” He swallowed and dabbed his forehead again.

  “Did you come in the front door or the back?”

  “The back. I always use that way when the shop is closed—it’s easier than having to roll up the gate at the front door.”

  Bit by bit, Gibbons coaxed all the details out of the man, though the story was simple enough.

  “Did you know the deceased?” he asked, once Mittlesdon had recounted his finding of the corpse.

  Mittlesdon shuddered. “No,” he said. “No, indeed. I’d never seen her before in my life.”

  A sweat had broken out on his brow again, so Gibbons turned the conversation away from the subject to give him time to recover.

  “Now what I’d like from you,” he said, “is a list of your employees and anyone else who has keys to the shop.”

  “Oh, we’re a very small group,” said Mittlesdon. “Although, of course, I haven’t everyone’s address and phone number in my head.” He hesitated. “To get that information, I should have to go back to the office.”

  He was clearly loath to do any such thing, nor was Gibbons eager to have his crime scene disturbed before the arrival of the SOCKOs.

  “Perhaps if you could just give me the names now,” he said.

  “Oh, but wait,” said Mittlesdon, relieved. “I’d forgotten—I have a contact list of them all at home. You know, for emergencies. I could give you that.”

  “That would be very helpful,” said Gibbons. “Oh, look, here comes Constable Redfern with the tea.”

  Mittlesdon looked up, startled, as Redfern came into the shop cradling a porcelain mug.

  “Thought you could do with a cuppa, Mr. Mittlesdon,” he said cheerfully. “You have a sip of that and it’ll set you right.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Mittlesdon, accepting the mug appreciatively. “That was very kind of you, Constable. I confess, I’m feeling quite stunned by it all.”

  While Mittlesdon drank his tea, Gibbons took down his address and phone number, ascertained that he had walked to the shop that morning, and made arrangements for a police car to take him home and collect the contact list of his employees.

  Having seen the good man off the premises, Gibbons explored the rest of the shop with Redfern in tow.

  “I’ve been in here a time or two,” remarked Redfern, as they delved farther back into the shop. “It’s a regular rabbits’ warren—always a bit more round the corner.”

  Gibbons had to agree. At the back of the little area where they had been sitting was another steep, narrow staircase lined with books and, to the left of that, another small doorway. Gibbons had assumed that this led to a single back room, but instead he found himself in a long, rather cramped space which widened out at its end into a little room, beyond which was a further doorway and another room with yet another doorway, leading ever on until one ended up at last in a somewhat larger room with two freestanding bookcases in its center and a window with no further egress. All of it, every spare space, was crammed with books.

  Gibbons, who was fond of books, was amazed.

  “And there’s more upstairs,” said Redfern. “They’ve got a wonderful children’s section. A lot of very pricey first editions of course—that’s Mittlesdon’s specialty—but some very fair secondhand copies, too.”

  Gibbons, examining some shelves of military history, glanced back at him, remembering the baby at dinner the night before.

  “Your little girl isn’t old enough yet for books, surely,” he said.

  “No,” admitted Redfern with a laugh. “But it’s never too early to start thinking about what you’d like to get for her. You’ll see, sir, when you have your first—when they’re as young as Charlotte, it’s more a matter of your own tastes than hers.”

  “No doubt true,” said Gibbons, carefully reshelving the book he had been looking at. “I’m sorry to pull you away from her first Christmas.”

  “That’s all right, sir,” said Redfern. “She won’t be remembering this one anyway—though I expect my wife will,” he added resignedly.

  Gibbons smiled in sympathy. “Well,” he said, “let’s have a look at your daughter’s potential library.”

  They retraced their steps, but before they could start up the stairs, the door to the shop opened to admit Detective Superintendent Freddy MacDonald of the Yorkshire CID.

  MacDonald was a big man with a definite presence, dressed today in an open parka over a brightly striped rugby shirt. Middle age had given him a
burgeoning belly and a balding pate, but it had not dulled the sharp gleam in his blue eyes.

  “There you are, Redfern,” he called out as he strode into the shop. “And you must be Detective Sergeant Gibbons. Freddy MacDonald.”

  He held out a large hand, which Gibbons shook.

  “It’s good to meet you, sir,” he said.

  “Aye, aye,” said MacDonald, impatient with these formalities. “Your super says you’re to have a look at this case, even though he doesn’t think it’s Ashdon. What do you think, Sergeant?”

  “I don’t think it’s Ashdon either, sir,” answered Gibbons. “But I’m happy to look into it.”

  MacDonald was eyeing him appraisingly. “I hear you’re Scotland Yard’s blue-eyed boy,” he said. “You seem a bit young for it, but I’m not one to judge on appearances. Has Redfern here been helpful?”

  “Very helpful,” Gibbons assured him.

  MacDonald nodded as if he had expected no less, and Redfern himself seemed unworried by this questioning of his behavior.

  “He’s generally a helpful sort of lad,” said MacDonald, with a glance at Redfern, who grinned back at him. “Helpful enough that I need him back, at least for an hour or two. Can you cope here, Sergeant? I’ll leave you Constable Murphy outside, and Brumby says his forensics team should be over shortly.”

  “That’s fine, sir,” said Gibbons. “It would be helpful, though, if I could have both Redfern’s number and yours in case I should need to contact you.”

  “By all means,” said MacDonald. “Sync up your phones, will you, Redfern? And I’ll be sending him back to you, Sergeant, but I’m desperate short of men.”

  “What happened to Detective Inspector Curtis?” asked Redfern, pulling out his mobile.

  “Had to send him home,” answered MacDonald. “The DI was running a fever of one hundred three and couldn’t think his way out of a paper bag. Have you got that sorted then? Fine—let’s get on. Sergeant, I’ll check back with you later, as soon as we’ve dealt with this little matter over by the river.”

  And, with Redfern in tow, MacDonald swept back out.

  A little bemused by the encounter, Gibbons tucked his mobile away, then turned toward the stairs to continue his exploration of the shop. He paused to examine a series of framed photographs that were grouped on the sides of the doorjamb. These depicted author signings the shop had hosted, with various members of the staff grinning from positions on either side of the celebrity. Some were faces Gibbons did not recognize, but others were impressive: there was Jeffrey Archer, Brian Jacques, and Reginald Hill. Mittlesdon, Gibbons noticed, was present in nearly all the photos, but the other members of the staff varied considerably. Reflecting that he might have just seen a picture of the murderer, Gibbons turned away to climb the stairs and inspect the children’s department.

  He had rather expected to be interrupted in his tour by the arrival of either the medical team or the SOCKOs, but he finished his inspection of the children’s department—as well as the rest of the shop on the floors above the office—unimpeded. It was the kind of shop where it would be difficult to tell if anything was out of place, particularly in view of the crowds that must have been milling about, disrupting things, just before Christmas, but Gibbons saw nothing obviously amiss. So he returned again to the office to give it a more thorough going-over while he waited.

  He again approached the body, this time pulling on a pair of rubber gloves from a ready supply he kept in his coat pocket. The victim was dressed in a full skirt, its colors muted reds and browns, with a turtleneck worn under a brown jumper. Over all was a lined trench coat, but nowhere did Gibbons see any sign of a handbag.

  He knelt down and delicately, disturbing everything as little as possible, searched the coat’s pockets. He turned up a single latch key, a crumpled bit of paper with a shopping list and a telephone number jotted down on it, a pencil and a torn piece of newspaper that proved to be The Times crossword puzzle from three days ago, a tube of lipstick from Boots, and, pieced together from various pockets, a total of about fifty pounds in coins and small notes.

  There was not a single credit card or a driver’s license, nothing that might have been used to identify her. Gibbons sat back on his heels, frowning a little. Then he stood, letting his eye rove over the room once more. Perhaps he had simply missed her bag; sometimes, he had noticed, women carried very small bags that hardly looked like handbags at all.

  He began a meticulous search of the room.

  4

  In Which a Deluge Occurs and Grants Bethancourt a Reprieve

  The scene inside the Grange on Christmas morning was traditional, with family and guests grouped about the tall Christmas tree in the drawing room, watching the younger members tear open their Christmas packages. Bethancourt was fighting a hangover, the result of tying one on with Daniel Sturridge the night before. He stood at the back of the assembled company, clutching a large mug of coffee and reflecting on Christmases past, when snow was a regular part of the holiday instead of the current grey drizzle. Or was it that he remembered only the snowy Christmases? Impossible to tell, at this remove.

  He had put his mobile in his pocket when dressing that morning out of habit rather than any expectation of hearing from Gibbons, and so was caught off guard when it began to vibrate. He started, spilling some of his coffee.

  “Oh, dear,” he said. “I’ll just run and grab a towel.”

  And he slipped out hastily, pulling his phone out as he went.

  “Hullo,” he said, keeping his voice down and retreating farther from the drawing-room door. “I thought you’d be knee deep in serial killers by now.”

  Gibbons chuckled. “Actually,” he said, “I’m doing something altogether different. There’s been another unexpected development.”

  “Good God, another one?” asked Bethancourt. “Are you still in York?”

  “Oh, yes,” replied Gibbons. “Do you know a bookshop called Mittlesdon’s?”

  “Of course I do,” answered Bethancourt. “I used to go round there quite regularly in my school days. And I believe my father still buys the occasional book there. But I thought you said the Ashdon victim was found in a shop called Accessorize.”

  “So she was,” agreed Gibbons. “But there’s been another murder, not connected to Ashdon. It’s a young woman found strangled in the back office of Mittlesdon’s Bookshop. I’m helping the local CID out with the case.”

  “That sounds interesting,” said Bethancourt hopefully. “Was the shop broken into?”

  “It doesn’t look like it,” said Gibbons, “but I don’t know a lot yet—I’m still waiting for forensics.”

  “I expect it’s probably Mittlesdon,” said Bethancourt. “I remember him as being very prim and proper—it’s always that sort who have a monomania about something. Or someone.”

  “I thought I’d wait and at least find out who the victim is before I arrested anybody,” said Gibbons dryly. “Very cautious of me, I know.”

  “Well, if you must be sensible, I suppose you must,” said Bethancourt good-naturedly. “I’ll come by when I get let out of here, shall I?”

  “I thought you might like to,” said Gibbons. “When are you leaving, by the way?”

  Bethancourt sighed. “Not till tomorrow afternoon—I’m stuck till after lunch. I should be able to get away then, though.”

  “Well, I’ll ring you later then and let you know where I’ve got to,” said Gibbons. “I’ve got to go—I think I hear the SOCKOs arriving.”

  “All right,” said Bethancourt, and rang off.

  Gibbons had rather thought the medical examiner would arrive first, but instead it was the forensics team, led by a lean, older man with very sharp eyes named Bert Mason.

  “This is a change,” Mason said cheerfully as he ushered his team into the shop, all carrying heavy cases. He looked about him, seeming to take in everything with a single glance.

  “The body’s upstairs,” said Gibbons. “I’d like you to take a
look at the locks on both the front and back doors, though, as well as the lock to the office.”

  “Right,” said Mason. “Jim, did you hear? Good man. Lead the way then, Sergeant, and we’ll get started.”

  Upstairs, Mason paused on the threshold of the office for a moment, his brown eyes flickering over everything, while the rest of the SOCKOs peered at the room from behind him, like greyhounds waiting to be unleashed.

  “Right then,” said Mason, drawing a deep breath. “There’s going to be a lot of trace here, so let’s go carefully and collect as much as we can.”

  “One thing I haven’t found is her handbag, if she had one,” said Gibbons.

  “Murderer might have taken it away with him,” said one of the female SOCKOs, kneeling to unlatch her case.

  “Or she mightn’t have carried one,” added another. “Don’t worry, sir, we’ll keep an eye out for it.”

  Gibbons stood back, out of their way, watching their quiet efficiency at work and turning things over in his mind until he was interrupted by Constable Murphy peering in at the door in search of him.

  “They’re back from dropping Mr. Mittlesdon off, sir,” he announced. “And I’ve got that contact list for you.”

  “Thank you, Constable,” said Gibbons, moving to take it. “The doctor’s not come yet then?”

  “No, sir, but I’ll show him up as soon as he does,” answered Murphy, and Gibbons nodded.

  Murphy withdrew while Gibbons ran his eye down the sheet. There were more names than he had thought there would be, which, he thought, just went to prove that he knew very little about running a bookshop.

  Jim, the locks man, tramped up the stairs, breathing a little heavily as he reached the top. He saw Gibbons standing in the doorway and headed for him.

  “I’ve had a good look at the locks downstairs,” he reported, “and I can’t see any signs of tampering on them. If you ask me, our killer had a key, or else a door was left open for him.”

  Gibbons nodded; it was what he had expected to hear. “Check this one out, too, will you?” he asked. “It’s apparently kept locked all the time, and the owner says it was locked when he let himself in this morning.”