The Book Collector

by Alice Thompson

  ‘A book has gone missing from my husband’s safe. A rare book.’

  ‘And you think I stole it?’

  ‘No. Of course not. But I wondered if someone might have given it to you to bind.’

  Lavinia rang a bell. The butler entered. ‘Bring me a sherry. Do you want something?’

  Violet shook her head.

  ‘One sherry. Dry. Sorry, what were you saying? Oh yes, a book your husband has lost.’

  ‘Stolen. The book was stolen.’

  ‘Yes, lost. What is the title?’

  ‘It was a book of fairy tales.’

  ‘Ah yes, his first wife liked fairy tales.’

  ‘Except his first wife has died.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She picked up the anatomy book again from the table and gave it to Violet. ‘Dead loved ones are used as memorabilia. And then sometimes not even dead ones.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The anatomy book had been freshly bound. She could see the skin of the cover, pale and fresh and soft to touch, like the fine fuzz of a rose. Violet dropped it back onto the table, her heart hurt and unsteady, her breath short.

  ‘Don’t become the object of affection. It’s dangerous. Certain men want to possess you entirely. Men will do anything to satisfy their desires and this can lead men down paths they are powerless to resist.’

  The loneliness of her marriage had led her inexorably to this woman, Violet thought. Lavinia was the witch who lived in the centre of the fairy tale forest. Violet was now in the witch’s house where she might be given a spell to help her with her heart’s desire, but at a certain price. Violet wondered if Lavinia had secretly desired Archie. You could never tell: people’s attraction for certain types was utterly unpredictable. She still felt certain Lavinia exerted a secret power over Archie.

  Violet stood up. ‘Well, thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’

  ‘I hope your husband finds his book.’

  ‘Sentimental value, I think. Please let me know if you hear anything about it.’

  ‘I will.’

  As Violet was leaving the room, she heard Lavinia murmuring to the butler. ‘Don’t let her come in here again. She’s over-susceptible. They are always the worst.’

  Violet came out into the open air and took a deep breath, relieved to be free of Lavinia’s profane and overpowering presence.

  She felt she had been in the presence of an odd kind of madness, the kind of insanity generated by wealth, where people are spoilt and pampered and do not understand or tolerate what it is like not to get their way. A terrible overwhelming sense of privilege that they are completely unaware of. Where will has not been tempered by awareness of others. Violet had not come across this sense of entitlement before and it made her wonder to what lengths these kinds of people could go, what generic terrors or unhappiness could they unleash in the name of their desires?

  Deep in thought, she stepped into the road just as the roar and clattering of a horse carriage clattered past. She leapt back just in time, the sound of rattling wheels and the beating of hooves resonating in her head. It was as if the carriage had come out of nowhere, like the horsemen of the apocalypse. It had seemed deliberate, as if the carriage had been trying to run her down.

  She chided herself for being foolish and remembered Lavinia’s comment about her being susceptible to her imaginings. This was just another case of her paranoia. Besides, who on earth would be wanting to kill her? She had no enemies. She had just been overwhelmed by Lavinia and her room and her animals and her books.

  Chapter 27

  SHE LOOKED OVER at her husband, sitting on the other side of the breakfast table in the morning light. She felt guiltless about her infidelity. It was as if it had never happened. She needed him, she depended on him for everything, her livelihood and her happiness. He glanced up from his newspaper. On the front page was a small photograph of Betsy when she was younger, with her dark curly hair down to her shoulders, looking very serious for the photographer. Violet wondered whether to mention the detective’s visit and decided not to.

  She heard a carriage coming up the driveway. It had to be Bea.

  ‘I’ve got to leave now,’ her husband said.

  Bea came in, all country trees and moral goodness, and just for a second Violet felt stifled. This wholesomeness didn’t acknowledge the totality of life. It was only a part of it. But then she saw Bea’s smile and felt relieved. Such straightforward goodness. How could she question it? She looked out at the honeysuckle at the window, noticing that the leaves were covered in a dark mildew. They were becoming corrupted, she thought. She would have to do something about it. Some time. Not now.

  ‘Have you heard about the women disappearing from the asylum?’ Bea asked. ‘Lucky you got out of there alive!’

  ‘I met one of them in the asylum,’ Violet said. ‘Her photograph is in the newspaper today.’

  ‘I saw it. What was she like?’

  ‘Kind.’ She hesitated. ‘Another one I met, just before I was leaving, told me that Archie used to come to the asylum. Donna said that he would give the doctor money.’

  Bea looked astonished. ‘Honestly, Violet! And you believed her tittle tattle?’

  Violet was surprised by the ferocity of Bea’s reaction, how dismissive she was. But people were always surprising her. They were always acting out of character. People were complex and inconsistent – bad people doing good things, good people bad things.

  ‘So you think it was just Donna spinning tales?’

  ‘Of course. Archie is a good-looking man. These impoverished lunatics are bound to latch onto him in some way. She would have seen him visiting you and just made up this story about him visiting her. You don’t really think for a moment Archie is mixed up in this?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Well, stop spouting this drivel. I do sometimes wonder if you really are mad as a cuckoo! Is that jam I see you’ve been making?’

  Bea strode over to the oven and picked up a spoon and began stirring. Violet felt irrationally angry with her.

  ‘Could you leave that, Bea? You shouldn’t stir jam so much.’

  ‘Of course.’ Bea still had her back to her but Violet could sense a coldness in the hunch of her shoulders. Bea was not used to anyone speaking to her like that, especially meek, apparently loyal Violet.

  Violet was mortified.

  ‘Can I get you some tea?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Bea said, plonking herself down in the chair, smiling widely, and all was right with the world again. A brief tiff, thought Violet, that was all. Nothing significant. But she felt sad as if something, even if it had not been broken, had developed a crack.

  ‘And did Betsy, the murdered one, have anything else to say for herself?’

  ‘Just that her husband had put her in there.’

  ‘But that’s interesting in itself.’

  ‘What do you mean? We don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘Exactly. Invisible. It makes it all seem suspicious. It’s bound to be him.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Bea shrugged her shoulders. Her silver hair was like the skin of a dappled pony, Violet thought, so smooth and shiny. She wanted to stroke it. Why was she thinking these strange, inconsequential thoughts, she wondered. The sun shone through the window, bringing out the dark undertones of Bea’s grey hair. She looked at Bea with her capable manner, her unfeminine trousers, her unostentatious way of dressing that became her so. She loved the way she took over the kitchen, made it hers too. Bea was fundamentally good. Her only slight fault was a lack of insight into others. She was so resolutely herself, she took it for granted others were themselves, too.

  ‘Everyone in the village is panicking. I don’t see why. If he’s going to get you, he probably will.’

  ‘It’s probably best to take precautions,’ Violet said cautiously.

  And for some reason this made them both laugh.

  ‘Anyway, what does a murderer look
like?’ Bea said.

  ‘Surely he would be easy to spot.’

  ‘Horrible,’ Bea said. ‘ I don’t want to think about it!’

  Bea was the epitome of the anti-psychopath, thought Violet – wouldn’t dream of manipulating anyone. She would just give direct orders. If she wanted someone to do something for her she would treat them like a horse or dog.

  ‘Well, you can’t be the killer, Violet. You couldn’t manipulate yourself out of a room.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Violet replied. And they both laughed out loud, again.

  Chapter 28

  DETECTIVE BENEDICT PAID her another visit, this time when Archie was at home. Seeing the two men sit next to each other in the drawing room in the evening light, Violet was struck by how different they were. The detective was the opposite of Archie, she thought. Detective Benedict was precise and present. He had vivid, alert eyes that flashed with a kind of painful intelligence. It’s as if he understands too much, she thought, and it hurts him to be so different from others. She saw Archie appraising him with cool eyes.

  ‘We have discovered a body.’

  ‘Betsy!’ she exclaimed before she could stop herself.

  ‘No, it’s a Donna Wakefield. We believe she was killed a while before Betsy Moore disappeared. Donna’s body has been found a mile away from here on the other side of the village by the church. Although we think she may have been moved from the place where she was actually killed. We found some traces of granite dust on her skin. I wondered if you would mind answering some questions?’ He turned to Archie.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I believe you have visited the asylum, Lord Murray?’

  ‘Only to visit my wife.’

  Violet remained silent regarding what Donna had told her about his previous secret visits.

  The detective turned to Violet. ‘You were there for a while, is that correct, Lady Murray?’

  ‘About a month.’

  You were there at the same time as Betsy and Donna?’

  Violet nodded.

  ‘Did either of them talk to you?’

  She wracked her brain. She felt so tired. ‘Donna was a dancer,’ was all she could say. But to her surprise he looked interested in this.

  ‘Ah, I wonder if that’s significant. The murderer cut off her feet.’

  ‘Like “The Red Shoes”.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Never mind. It’s just a fairy story.’

  She could see Detective Benedict trying not to look impatient with her.

  ‘Betsy had a husband. Did she mention him?’

  ‘Yes, I remember now. She said he had been very cruel to her.’

  ‘Well, he has disappeared. We think he had a motive. A mistress. He didn’t want Betsy home. Doubt we will see him again. Probably killed all three.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Well, apart from Donna, there is also Amy Louden, another released patient, who went missing earlier in the year. Like Betsy, we still haven’t found her body. Sad cases. All attractive, vulnerable young women.’ He stood up.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ Violet said. As his body stood in the doorway, blocking out the light, she felt oddly, misguidedly drawn to it, as if it would help her in some way.

  ‘Make sure your door is locked at night, just in case.’

  She nodded. One day, she thought, he may be able to protect me.

  She felt bereft at his leaving when she returned to the kitchen to see Archie there. He was staring at her.

  ‘Betsy or Donna didn’t talk to you about anything else?’ He was looking worried.

  ‘You know what I’m like. Things become so uncertain.’

  Archie came up and hugged her. ‘You need to look after yourself. Be careful.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know. I am careful.’ She hesitated, then added, ‘You know that delusion I had recently? The body of Betsy by the stream? That Clara told you about. I don’t think it could have been. A delusion, I mean. There are too many coincidences.’

  ‘Darling, it’s all these missing women. They are causing you to imagine things. Remember how vivid those crawling insects on Felix’s back seemed to you?’

  ‘So you don’t believe me?’

  Her husband looked exasperated.

  ‘Darling, this has all happened before. You are just seeing things.’

  ‘That was months ago! Before I went to the asylum. You yourself said that the asylum had cured me. Look, let me show you where I saw it.’

  ‘I’m tired. It’s been a long day. Show me tomorrow.’

  She wanted to scream at him, but that would make her seem more insane.

  ‘Please, Archie,’ she said. ‘At least we can check whether it’s there or not.’

  ‘It’s not there, Violet. There is no body.’ He was shouting at her.

  She felt increasingly detached as if she were looking at a married couple arguing from far above. It was odd, she thought, that she was the one who was supposed to be mad yet he was the one getting angry. However, his rage was understandable. He had stood by her when she was put away, sent her flowers. She looked out of the window. An owl flapped over the lawn, ghostly slow and laborious.

  He seemed to concede. ‘Look, I’ll come with you in the morning. Before I go to work, all right?’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Promise.’ He gave her his most winning smile. She so wanted to be reassured, given a reason to believe in his version of the truth.

  That night she looked down at her skin. Her body looked pale and fleshy in the moonlight, so animal and disposable.

  The next morning, Archie roused her from a deep sleep.

  ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘show me where the body is.’

  She took his hand.

  She led him through the estate to the field at the back where Betsy had lain. There was just the stream. The body had disappeared. All other signs of the murder had vanished, too: the iron rings in the ground, the macabre swan’s wing.

  ‘She has gone,’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. He was then silent, waiting for her to say something. She knew what she had to say.

  ‘I must have been mistaken, got confused.’

  He put his arm around her. It felt heavy and cold and wrong in the bright morning air.

  ‘Would you like me to call the doctor?’

  She nodded, acquiescing. She couldn’t risk Felix coming to harm again. These delusions were too real for her to fight them.

  ‘I’ll call the doctor when I get into work and make an appointment for today.’

  Chapter 29

  VIOLET WALKED INTO the village to the doctor’s. It was a bright sunny day. She felt oddly disconnected. This is not happening to me again, she thought. I will not let this happen to me. If I can will it not to happen, it will not occur. She waited in the waiting room. She had left black traces of earth on the white carpet.

  The doctor called her in with his deep Scottish voice but his face was still featureless. He had helped her the first time. Helped her become well by taking her to the asylum: it had been for the best. So she felt grateful: he knew about her and had seen her at her worst.

  ‘What can I do for you, Lady Murray?’

  He made no mention that her husband had called him, had told him all about what had happened. It was necessary to keep up the charade for both of them that she was in some way independent and making her own decisions. That she was not being ushered down an inexorable path once more.

  ‘I’m seeing things again.’

  ‘Can you tell me what kind of things?’

  ‘I saw a body. Of a girl. On our estate.’

  ‘On it?’

  ‘Actually on the edge of it. Just outside, by a stream.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A while ago.’

  ‘Gosh. Poor thing!’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Her voice sounded dull.

  ‘Did anyone else see this?’

  ‘I took my husband there this m
orning.’

  He was silent. Always waiting, she thought, probably always waiting for her to say what was inevitable.

  ‘And it had gone.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But I know Betsy has gone missing from the asylum. Along with another woman earlier this year, an Amy Louden. And Donna’s body has just been discovered on the other side of the village.’

  He scribbled something down. He had a fountain pen, with dark blue ink. The pen was made of some kind of green malachite that glittered.

  ‘What do you think it means?’ she asked.

  ‘Difficult to say. We don’t want to jump to conclusions.’

  She knew what he meant. Jump to conclusions that she was seeing things where nothing existed, creating stuff out of thin air, demonstrating that the intervening months of recovery had meant nothing. It was just the passing of time. Why should time change anything?

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘It could be,’ he continued, ‘just a trick of the light. It’s significant you saw the body at dusk. Water and shadows can play tricks. It could have been a reflection.’

  ‘My reflection?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  She thought of the image. The eviscerated body, the sublime wonder of Betsy’s open dark eyes. And the swan’s wing. No it hadn’t been a reflection. She tried to look as if she was convinced.

  ‘Yes, perhaps it was. Yes. Perhaps it could have been.’

  The doctor looked relieved.

  ‘My feeling is it was just a trick of the light. And perhaps you were feeling tired.’

  ‘Yes, I did feel weary.’

  ‘Look, I can give you some laudanum. Take a spoonful, morning and evening. But be careful. No more. It is easy to take too much. The important thing is, if it happens again, let me know. And we can investigate it further. But it’s very important that you relax and take plenty of bed rest.’

  She stood up.

  ‘Thank you, Doctor.’ She took the brown bottle of laudanum. ‘This has been very helpful.’

  ‘Not at all, Lady Murray. And best wishes to Archie.’