Snuffed It in the Library

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by Kate Hamilton




  Snuffed It In the Library

  A MISS LAVENDER Snuffed It Mystery

  KATE HAMILTON

  Copyright © 2019 Kate Hamilton

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction.

  Chapter ONE

  ‘I expect you’ll be wanting a cup of tea.’

  ‘You can say that again. It’s been quite a day.’

  ‘And we aren’t through it yet, not by a long chalk.’

  Miss Lavender got up and went to the kitchen to boil the kettle. The tea things were already laid out by her maid Minnie, who had the rest of the day off, for Miss Lavender had been expecting her visitor this afternoon.

  ‘Is it just milk?’

  ‘That’s right. No sugar.’

  His blue, watery eyes scanned the cosy, cottage room, its low beams, white washed walls and rather faded pink chintz arm chairs, without taking anything in.

  ‘Haven’t taken sugar since I was young.’

  There was a chuckle of laughter from the kitchen.

  ‘Well, you’re not dead yet . . .’

  Miss Lavender appeared at the door, her face beetroot.

  ‘Oh dear, whatever am I saying!’

  Albert Seddon’s face became an almost matching shade of green.

  ‘Here, take this,’ Miss Lavender pressed a cup of Darjeeling into his shaking hands. ‘And under the circumstances, if I were you, I would take some sugar.’

  She stood for a minute, scrutinising him with a frown, then added. ‘How about a drop of brandy?’

  Albert Seddon nodded. ‘Just a drop, then.’

  She moved to the sideboard and produced a small bottle and a crystal glass. ‘It won’t do any harm, and it should do you some good. I don’t expect you’ve seen a body before. At least not a murdered one.’ She turned to hand the glass of brandy to him, then gasped. Mr Seddon had fainted dead away.

  II

  If there was a touch of the mole about him this morning, (he muttered ‘onion sauce, onion sauce,’ as the grey Morris Minor turned off the A343), he could be forgiven. The catkins danced, the little woolly lambs frisked and frolicked in happy groups in the green fields, and all the birds of Hampshire were singing in the hedgerows. Mr Wittering Shapley, owner of the prestigious Antiquarian booksellers, Shapley, Shapley & Orde had stepped in at the last minute. His assistant, Bidcombe, had been unexpectedly indisposed with a case of acute appendicitis. He was normally the one who took on the task of perusing new acquisitions in the libraries of the great houses of England. Mr Shapley had not done so for nearly five years, since just after the war. In fact, after the initial fuss he felt expected of him, as the owner, he had very much looked forward to getting out of the city. The shop, located across the road from the British Museum, and his office in particular, could feel a little stifling in the springtime. A break away to the countryside, unplanned as it was, was indeed a welcome change.

  He stopped a couple of miles down the side road, to consult the AA handbook and get his bearings. There was no guarantee he would be offered coffee at his destination. These landed gentry types could be dashed mean, he recalled. He pulled out a Thermos flask from his briefcase, wound down the window and poured some steaming fluid into the cup. The landscape was pretty flat, but ahead of him rose a substantial hillock, topped by a wood. One had the feeling round here that time had not moved on for a thousand years. That could be an Iron Age fort, he thought. Looking at the hill, if he had time, he wouldn’t mind going for a walk in the evening to find it. He drained the cup, noting the buzz of a small plane above - there must be an airfield nearby - and started up the engine. Glancing at his watch, as he moved into second gear, he felt pleased. One mile or so to go. Dead on time.

  III

  The sands of time ground slow at The Court, Lower Wallop, a wisteria covered Georgian mansion of yellow and white. Life at The Court was dominated by the incessant chiming of the collection of grandfather clocks, all of which were set at slightly different times. This by order of Sir Tempest, who, wherever he was located, would cease whatever he was about, listen intently, and identify which time piece was striking. It might have been this very dedication which had sent his first wife Mildred to an early grave, and his second wife Prudence shortly thereafter. Indeed, the talk was, if the latter had taken rather more after her name and avoided the marriage, she might still be with them. Sir Tempest Harrington was certainly dedicated to the habitual round.

  Seddon, the butler, creaked his way from the kitchen to the front door, just as the air reverberated to the sweet chimes of the hall clock, the first to strike. It was a Grandfather of mahogany from Amsterdam. A ship rocked between a happy looking sun, and a silvery moon, on its face. As the hour was eleven, there would be need of forbearance. Nevertheless, Mr Shapley was up to time. Always a good thing at The Court. Seddon greeted the man, took his coat, hat and scarf, as the third clock struck, and escorted him through to the library. Sir Tempest, a man in his mid-fifties, and rather bald, stood up from his leather chair by the fire, in a bluish cloud of pipe smoke.

  ‘Mr Shapley. How good of you to come,’ he said, as he shook the man’s hand. ‘Had a good trip, I hope? Just put your case down there, if you like. I had expected one of your assistants, as a matter of fact. Coffee? Seddon, coffee for two, if you will.’

  ‘I must explain, my assistant, Rodger Bidcombe normally does this type of work, Sir Tempest, but he is indisposed. Case of appendicitis, as a matter of fact,’ he said, putting his briefcase down by the standard lamp.

  ‘Really? Not good. Still, you made it down to us.’ He gestured for Mr Shapley, a balding man in his mid-fifties, to an armchair by the large desk in the centre of the room. ‘What I would like, is some expert advice on the value of the entire library, so to speak.’ He paused momentarily, listening with satisfaction, as the great Grandfather clock on the top landing boomed out the hour solemnly. It was the last. Until midday. ‘Now, I have not brought you here, under false pretences. Be assured of that. There will be some agreements, I am sure, as to sales. However, I do need to make out my will again, and am urged to reconsider the overall value.’

  ‘Absolutely, Sir Harrington,’ said Mr Shapley, casting a quick glance round the room, and estimating the number of books. ‘However, this will take quite some time. Perhaps we could make it a little later in the year?’

  ‘Oh, hardly worth your while coming all the way down here from London,’ said Sir Tempest, with a somewhat rough laugh. ‘Why not stay until the job is done. There’s a guest room, and you are more than welcome to make yourself comfortable. As a matter of fact there are some nice walks here abouts. Fish at all?’

  ‘Well, Sir Tempest, I shall require to check with the office but - .’

  Wittering Shapley reminded himself quickly that this was not the city. Country hospitality might well be the rule. And he was mightily tempted. He could do with a break, and the library, though small by some standards, could well hold some gems. ‘I shall be very pleased to take you up on it. I should need three or four days, I think, judging by the number of volumes, I see here.’

  ‘By Jove, that’s the spirit,’ Sir Tempest beamed.

  Seddon appeared bearing coffee and biscuits.

  ‘Seddon, fetch the cigarettes from the drawing room would you. Don’t normally keep any in here,’ he added, by way of explanation. ‘Pipe smoker, myself.’

  ‘Please, don’t trouble,’ said Shapley, ‘As a matter of fact, I too, smoke a pipe.’ He reached for the pocket of his tweed jacket, pulling out a brown leather pouch.

  ‘Don’t tell me, Borkum Riff!’

  ‘Borkum Riff, it is,’ Shapley replied with a smile. ‘Please. Allow me.’ Leaning forward he let Sir Tempest fill his pipe, then taki
ng his time, filled his own. They were off to a good start.

  IV

  ‘Birds of a feather,’ said Seddon, as he reached the kitchen.

  Mrs Hoskins was putting the finishing touches to an apple pie. An ample and motherly woman, she had been cook at The Court almost as long as the butler. As all cooks, her bark was worse than her bite.

  ‘What’s that you say, Albert?’ If he was suffering from rheumatism, she was showing her age with an increasing amount of deafness.

  ‘That bookman, down from the Capital,’ Seddon replied, leaning against the pine dresser, with a pained expression.

  ‘Him ‘as come to assess the library?’ Mrs Hoskins swept up the leftover pieces of pastry and beat up some egg yolk for the glaze.

  ‘That’s the one. Getting on like an ‘ouse on fire with Sir T.’

  ‘I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it agin. The man should remarry. Loneliness, that’s ‘is problem.’

  ‘Twice married, three times shy, I should say,’ responded Seddon.

  ‘It’s no use ‘im getting familiar with the likes of a book shop owner from Lindin. He needs to keep ‘is dignity.’

  ‘He is the owner, not just an assistant,’ Seddon pointed out. ‘Looked like brothers, they did, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Brothers indeed,’ scoffed Mrs Hoskins. She spread the egg liberally over the pie with a pastry brush. ‘There, that should do ‘em for lunch,’ she said, straightening up.

  ‘You’ll be doing a bit more than lunch,’ said Seddon with a weary smile. ‘He’s been invited to stay.’

  V

  ‘Oh, gosh, sorry.’

  Wittering Shapley, peered over his gold frame specs, looking down from the library steps at the youth who had appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Is the Pater about, d’y’know, by any chance?’ Of slim build, he had untidy black hair, a white face, was wearing a custard yellow golf sweater, and brown corduroy trousers. He looked about eighteen.

  A callow youth, thought Shapley. ‘Sir Tempest is in the garden, evidently.’

  Rather than retreating the boy hung on the door for a moment, and then came into the room. ‘You down to suss out the books, I s’pose.’ The tone was languid, though not unfriendly.

  Shapley replaced the priceless volume on the shelf. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Simon’s my name. Simon Harrington.’

  ‘Very pleased to meet you, Simon.’

  ‘You’ll find you’re bored to death round here.’

  ‘Really? I shouldn’t have thought so. I am finding this job fascinating actually.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve found something worthwhile!’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I think I have. Ever heard of the Magnacopius ?’

  ‘No. Can’t say as I have.’

  ‘Your Pater, as you call him, has an exceptionally fine set of volumes of the man’s writings. He was a fourteenth century monk. Have a look?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said the boy in a lazy tone of voice. He picked over the ancient pages, without much interest. Then nodded. ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  Did the chap not have a school to attend? thought Shapley. If he was set to work at the shop, he wouldn’t know himself.

  VI

  ‘Edie, go and find your brother, would you,’ Sir Tempest said in an exasperated tone, as the dining room clock struck the hour, following on the one in the hall. ‘Mrs Hoskins has more to do than prepare food that ends up stone cold on our plates.’

  ‘Sure, Pops.’

  Edie, as dark haired, white faced and slim as her brother, gave Shapley a cheeky smile and slipped off to find her brother. She had a somewhat androgynous figure, and was dressed in a navy blue 1920s gym-slip, brightly embroidered gypsy blouse, black tights and ballet pumps. Her hair, which was thick and long, hung in a plait over one shoulder. She returned in a few moments saying, ‘ S’coming.’

  ‘Well, he jolly well better,’ grumbled her father. ‘The gong sounded at least seven minutes ago.’

  ’S’all your fault, Pater,’ said Simon, when he appeared, evidently totally unrepentant, ‘if you will run this place like a ship!’

  ‘I have not the slightest idea what you mean, Simon. And you will kindly take your elbows off the table!’

  ‘Are your children educated at home, Sir Tempest?’ asked Shapley, as Seddon served him some mushroom soup.

  Edie giggled.

  ‘I s’pose it comes of getting old.’ Simon’s tone was still languid.

  ‘Young man, that will do,’ growled his father. ‘My children have both left school. Simon last summer, and Edie - Edie you were in Switzerland, weren’t you.’

  ‘That is correct. At the Institut Alpin Fleurie. Do you know it?’ She looked at Shapley from under lowered eyelashes.

  ‘Not having daughters, myself, I have to say pass on that one.’

  ‘Edie learned to arrange flowers, took a course in cookery, and one in French.’

  ‘And we became very good at writing letters, Pops.’

  ‘Letter writing. Now that is an art,’ said Shapley.

  ‘You never wrote me any, Sis,’ said Simon.

  ‘That is because you never asked me,’ said his sister, in a haughty voice. ‘And Pops is right, Simon, you really are a slouch.’

  The plates were cleared by Milly, and Seddon brought in the roast pork, which was served with sprouts, boiled potatoes and cranberry sauce. They certainly knew how to eat well, thought Shapley. He declined wine. He never drank at lunchtime when he was working.

  ‘Simon is taking a year out, while he decides what he wants to do,’ said his father, once Seddon had left the room. ‘We were thinking of France, weren’t we.’

  ‘No, Pater, you were thinking of France. You and Aunt Fenella. Where is she, by the way?’

  Shapley choked sharply, turning bright red, and clutching for his glass.

  Edie, all flirtatiousness put aside, jumped up immediately, poured him some water and thumped him heartily on the back. He recovered, gulping for air, and blew his nose hard on a large white hankie.

  ‘Goodness. Are you ok?’

  ‘Quite - ah, quite alright,’ he managed to say. ‘Must have been some crackling.’

  ‘Well, don’t let Mrs Hoskins know that, or there will be all hell to pay.’ Simon poured more water into Shapley’s glass. For all their apparent rudeness, he thought, they knew how to behave well, when tried.

  The apple pie - Mrs Hoskins was famed throughout the village for her baking - was served with clotted cream. Biscuits and cheese were provided for those who did not wish a sweet. The stilton was uncovered and set on the table after Milly had cleared. Shapley was offered coffee.

  ‘Actually, if I could have tea? I do prefer tea, when possible.’

  ‘You’ll have something in common with Aunt Fenella, then,’ said Edie. ‘She never seems to stop drinking tea.’

  ‘Till it’s coming out her ears,’ her brother added.

  Sir Tempest had withdrawn into himself. Shapley wasn’t too surprised. It was tiring keeping up with these young people. He wondered about the reason for their anger.

  VII

  ‘Yoo hoo! Ha - llo - o! Where is everyone?!’ Caroline Blessington-Smythe, tossed her full length fur at the patiently waiting Seddon, who had answered her imperious ring on the doorbell, just as the hall clock was striking three.

  ‘Mislaid the damn front door key again. Sorry,’ she said to no one in particular, as she strode through the hall. She was a buxom blonde in her mid thirties. ‘You can never find anyone in this place!’

  Simon drifted in.

  ‘Oh, there you are!’

  ‘Hallo, sister of mine - not,’ he said, as he gave her a pretend kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Now, then, none of that,’ she said in a motherly tone of voice. ‘Where’s Father?’

  ‘God forbid that I should know,’ he raised his eyes to heaven. ‘I am not his keeper.’

  Caroline glar
ed at him as she looked past his shoulder to the open dining room door. ‘I want to speak to him about those gypsies down the lane.’

  ‘Afraid one will attack you, Caro?’

  She sighed heavily and focused on him once more. ‘Haven’t they sorted you out yet? I thought Aunt Fenella had got you a place working at that vineyard in France?’

  ‘Chateau Plonk - da - Plonk. Possibly. You know how long anything takes to reach France. The frogs have probably gobbled up her letter.’

  Caro laughed. ‘Incorrigible boy.’ She strode away towards the library saying, ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Bright sunshine flooded the library and she did not make out the figure of Wittering Shapley at first. He was bending over a pile of large volumes, stacked on a large, circular, mahogany table near the bay window.

  ‘Oh, Lord. You gave me a jump!’

  He stood up slowly at the intrusion, turning toward her with a slightly patient look. He had been concentrating deeply on his work. This must be another family member, perhaps.

  ‘How do you do,’ his tone was polite. ‘I am just assessing books for Sir Harrington. Shapley’s the name.’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ she said as she shook hands, looking him up and down. ‘I thought - but no matter, perhaps he’s in the garden. I won’t bother you any longer.’ However she didn’t turn away but moved forward into the room, a frown on her face. ‘Assessing books, you say?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Valuing them for sale?’

  He did not reply but gazed at her steadily with pursed lips. She turned with a glittering smile. She was not handsome. She made the best of herself. A rather plump, heavily powdered face. She wore pearls, and earrings to match. They looked valuable. She laid a hand on the top volume. Her nails were varnished a bright red. She wore several diamond rings.

  ‘Found anything interesting then, Mr - .’

  ‘Shapley. From an Antiquarian booksellers point of view, yes. Naturally, it all depends on what you are looking for. Do you have an interest in books yourself - Mrs - ?’

 

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