Snuffed It in the Library

by Kate Hamilton

  ‘Evidently he also likes to read,’ said Miss Lavender, keeping her eyes on the knitting.’

  ‘Rupert? Yes. Reads every night before he turns out the light.’

  ‘Tell me, how long have you been married?’

  ‘We are coming up for our thirteenth wedding anniversary, next month. They always said May was an unlucky month to be married. But we haven’t found it so.’

  ‘And you enjoy Army life?’

  ‘It has its moments. I enjoy life on the Patch.’

  ‘What’s your quarter like?’

  ‘Rambling. Enormous garden. Draughty. Difficult to heat. In fact I spend most of the winter in the kitchen. Warmest place in the house.’

  She flung the used cotton wool balls into a waste paper basket and shut the bottle of varnish remover.

  ‘And you have your own house.’

  ‘Property? No. Can’t afford it. However when father - . I mean. Well, you know what it’s like.’

  ‘Inherited wealth.’ Miss Lavender nodded. ‘But surely your mother. Mildred. Didn’t she - ?’

  ‘Not a bean. Not a sausage. Never did see a will, of course. It all went to father.’ She picked up a bottle of coral coloured nail varnish and shook it violently. ‘Naturally one tries not to be bitter.’ She broke off.

  ‘Quite,’ said Miss Lavender, and nodded.

  III

  Miss Lavender caught up with Simon in the kitchen. He was getting a cold drink from the fridge.

  ‘Had a good game?’

  ‘Sure. I won. So that can’t be bad.’ He pulled the cap off the bottle with the opener and put it to his lips. ‘Edie’s not bad. But she’s a girl. Oh, sorry, do you want some?’

  ‘Oh, no thank you. I will just have a glass of water, though. I didn’t want to bother Seddon.’

  She had in fact quietly followed Simon downstairs when she saw him come across the garden on his way back from tennis. She wanted to have a word with him. He went to the sink and filled a glass with water, and handed it to her.

  ‘I expect you will miss her when you go off to France.’

  ‘Well. I may not go.’

  ‘Really? I thought you were quite keen.’

  ‘I’m not got rid of quite so easily.’ He took another swig from the bottle.

  ‘Something of a home bird, are you?’

  He took a towel he had round his neck and rubbed the sweat off his face. For a moment he looked like a small boy about to burst into tears. She felt for him.

  ‘Something like that.’

  She looked at him keenly for a moment. ‘Or wanting to settle an old score, perhaps.’

  His eyes darkened.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Chapter Ten

  Mr Edward Constantine’s car rolled up the drive promptly, as expected, at ten o’clock. The family, as agreed, had dispersed although Miss Lavender was aware of them hovering. All except Fenella who had taken herself off early. Presumably to her glass house. He was a silver haired gentleman, in his fifties. Tall, in a pin striped suit and wearing a bowler hat. Seddon opened the door to him as the last chimes of the clocks died away. The chauffeur was given tea in the kitchen.

  Sir Tempest greeted him in the sitting room. It was the largest room in the house, had an ornately carved ceiling, polished wooden floors covered in Persian rugs, a vast marble fireplace, and a bay window that looked out onto water meadows and weeping willows. The furniture was antique.

  Miss Lavender was introduced, and an amount of small talk ensued while Seddon served coffee. Mr Constantine had driven down from London the day before. He had had a comfortable night’s stay at the Red Lion in Salisbury, a town he knew well. He was to travel on later that day to stay with friends in Winchester. Yes, the Cathedral was very imposing. Yes, that was where Jane Austen had died, and where King Arthur was supposed to have had his court.

  When it was seen that his guest had been set at his ease, Sir Tempest introduced the more painful topic of Mr Wittering Shapley.

  ‘Naturally, my family and I, and I include Miss Lavender here, offer you our deepest condolences, Mr Constantine.’

  Their visitor’s face betrayed no emotion. His florid complexion did not pale in the slightest. His manner was very formal.

  ‘To lose a relative, in such a dreadful way . . .’

  ‘Ah, but he was more than a relative,’ said Mr Constantine. ‘We worked together. Let me explain. My cousin was Hugh Orde. He set up the business with Wittering and his father, Arnold Shapley. Hugh was killed in the war. That’s when I took his place at the book shop. Wittering Shapley was a distant relative, but my closest colleague. In fact it could have been myself who came down last week to do the valuation. But I tend to keep to the accounts and book keeping side of the business. My background was in shipping before the war.’

  ‘A chilling thought.’

  ‘Quite so. Of course Wittering and I go back a long way. We were at school together. Dulwich. It has been something of a shock, as you can imagine. I feel as though I have lost a brother.’

  Sir Tempest and Miss Lavender made suitably sympathetic noises. But they let him talk.

  ‘I don’t know which is the worst, as a matter of fact, losing a relative, or losing a colleague. Wittering was in actual fact the mainstay of Shapley, Shapley & Orde.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ said Miss Lavender, ‘I trust that you will not have to close? You are known throughout the civilised world, you know.’

  ‘Quite,’ put in Sir Tempest. ‘In actual fact I would not choose any other Antiquarian bookseller to work with. There are plenty to choose from in Salisbury, you know. Down by the cathedral.’

  ‘Had your cousin always been in the antiquarian book business, Mr Constantine?’ asked Miss Lavender.

  ‘Wittering took his time to settle after Dulwich. Had aspirations to become a writer. Took a cottage in a remote part of Wales for a few years. At that time Arnold, his father had a pretty successful law practise. When the writing venture failed, his father paid for him to study art. I think Wittering enjoyed the artistic set he got in with. Society. Pretty fast, if you ask me. I don’t think his heart was in the actual painting though. One wonders just how much talent he had for it. Pretty competitive too.’

  ‘The Slade, was it?’ asked Miss Lavender.

  Mr Constantine laughed. ‘Good gracious, no. He wouldn’t have got in there. No, he went to a small private school. Heatherleys. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘As a matter of it fact, I have,’ said Sir Tempest. He was very quiet.

  ‘In the end it worked out rather like the writing. Wittering tried his hand for a couple of years. Shared a studio, that sort of thing. But he couldn’t make a go of it. They were, as I say a pretty fast set. He made a mess of things. Got some girl into trouble. Hushed up of course. And finally his father decided to set up the book business with Wittering and Hugh. That was back in nineteen twenty-six. As I said, I stepped in after Hugh was killed. It has suited us all very well. We even managed to keep going during the Blitz. Now this has happened it really changes things.’

  ‘And Mr Shapley senior?’

  ‘Mr Shapley passed away a number of years ago. Strange to think that all the founding members are now dead.’

  If Miss Lavender, or indeed Sir Tempest, had had any idea of sharing with Mr Constantine the possibility that Wittering Shapley had been murdered mistakenly, they did not do so. After half an hour, as the hall clock struck ten thirty, they went through to the library. Mr Constantine stared round the room in silence, then walked slowly over to the desk. It was as if he was paying his last respects. A pall hung over the room.

  ‘He had been valuing the books,’ said Sir Tempest, tersely

  ‘Oh, yes. I know. He called me to let me know he would be staying for a few days. He did say there was something he’d found that was of great value.’

  ‘Yes. That would be the three volumes here, I expect,’ said Sir Tempest. ‘The Magnacopious.’

  Mr Constantine walked over
to where the books lay on the round table by the window, and opened them, looking them over with an experienced eye.

  ‘Yes.’ He said shortly. ‘Wittering was right there.’

  ‘When all this ghastly affair is over, perhaps we can take things up again with you, Mr Constantine,’ said Sir Tempest. ‘However, in the meantime, I would rather let things lie.’

  ‘Quite. Quite. Absolutely,’ replied the book man, closing the volume abruptly. ‘You have a good library here.’

  He stepped away from the table. ‘And nothing has been discovered. About the death, I mean.’

  ‘The police are going on with their inquiries. Were you the next of kin?’ asked Miss Lavender.

  ‘As a matter of fact, no. Hugh’s widow, Wittering’s sister, is. I shall be letting her know how I got on, of course. Needless to say the police will be contacting her if they have anything to report. Did Wittering leave anything here?’

  ‘The police took anything that was of interest. His coat and hat. He had a Thermos flask. I imagine his car has been returned to Mrs Orde?’

  ‘The Morris? Yes. Evidently they drove it to Wimbledon where she lives, a few days ago.’ Miss Lavender wanted to keep the briefcase until she had the answers to all her questions.

  II

  They were relieved when he had gone. An uncomfortable atmosphere hung about The Court after his departure.

  ‘That’s an odd creature, in my opinion,’ said Seddon, as he handed round the carrots at lunch. ‘Pretty well heeled for being a book shop owner. I thought that sort struggled to make a living, selling second hand books.’

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ said Sir Tempest. ‘If you know what you are doing, you can sell a first edition, for example, for thousands. Especially to the States.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Caroline. ‘We really ought to hold on to things. I know it sounds silly, but even a first edition of Winnie-the-Pooh might be worth something one day.’

  ‘Winnie-the-Pooh,’ said Simon in a scornful voice. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Caro.’

  ‘Always thinking of the money, Caro. As per usual,’ said Edie.

  Caroline ignored the remark. She handed the vegetable dish back to Seddon, her nails glimmering luridly with the coral nail polish.

  ‘How was the ball?’ asked Miss Lavender.

  ‘Lovely. Simply lovely. I wore my ivory satin gown. From Norman Hartnell.’

  ‘You did not!’ said Edie.

  ‘Yes, I jolly well did.’

  ‘Ridiculous. You couldn’t possibly afford it.’

  ‘Well, if you must know, it was second hand. Amelia’s cousin is the Marchioness of Malmesbury. She was getting rid of some of her wardrobe, and Amelia gave me first choice of three. And it does have the label. I can show you.’

  ‘You should jolly well have asked me to the ball,’ said Edie indignantly.

  ‘Not until all the gossip has died down,’ said Caroline. ‘I don’t want you anywhere near the Patch until all this is settled.’

  Edie sulked.

  ‘So did you get anything out of the old boy, then?’

  ‘Simon, how many times must I tell you to take your elbows off the table,’ snapped Sir Tempest who sounded very weary. ‘What on earth would you expect to ‘get out’ of him, as you put it? The man was very close to Mr Shapley. It’s understandable he might want to come down to The Court.’

  ‘He wasn’t here for very long,’ Caroline remarked.

  ‘There wasn’t much to be said. I think he simply wished to see where his cousin had died.’

  ‘Did he ask how he’d died, Pops?’

  ‘I imagine he has all the information from Mrs Orde.’

  ‘One wonders,’ mused Miss Lavender, as she put her fork down, ‘if his interest didn’t lie in quite another direction.’

  ‘Ah,’ cried Simon,‘Miss Lavender to the rescue!’

  She laughed gently. ‘Oh, hardly that. But it did strike me that he was as much taken with the books - the Magnacopious - as he was about poor Wittering. Evidently he had called Mr Constantine about the volumes before he met his death.’

  ‘What do you mean, Miss Lavender?’ asked Caroline, sharply.

  ‘He was only doing his job,’ replied her father.

  ‘That’s the sort of thing they say about the police,’ said Simon with a laugh.

  ‘Simon, don’t be an ass,’ said Edie.

  III

  It had been wet that morning, but as they finished their Eve’s pudding, the sun began to shine. The family made their plans for the afternoon. Miss Lavender was in the happy position of having finished the second sock of the pair she had been knitting and they were duly admired by everyone.

  ‘Hey, would you knit me a sweater?’ said Simon. ‘I really fancy one of those American baseball sweaters. You know. The ones with the broad stripe and the name on the front.’

  ‘You can’t wear that,’ said Edie, ‘You’re not eligible. Anyway it’s too hot in France. They don’t wear sweaters there.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Caroline.‘It gets pretty chilly in the evenings in France. Knitting is very popular there. Even Marie Antoinette knitted!’

  ‘Well, I shan’t be knitting anything until I can find my bag. I’ve mislaid it again. Has anyone seen it?’

  ‘It was in the library, a few days ago,’ said Sir Tempest. ‘Did you leave it in the drawing room, perhaps?’

  ‘I’ll go and look for it, Miss L,’ said Simon kindly. ‘It’s velvet patchwork, isn’t it.’

  ‘How very noticing of you. Yes, it is. Pink and black patchwork. I made it myself. I really wanted to sit out in the garden after luncheon. Do you think it dry enough?’

  ‘Come on, Miss Lavender, let’s go and look,’ said Caroline. ‘Let’s bring our coffee outside. You young people can push off.’

  They found the wooden seats under the laburnum had been pushed forward against the table so as to keep them dry. Caroline went to the shed to get a couple of cushions. It was quiet here, after the rain. Even the birds had ceased their chattering. A couple of white butterflies danced across the lawn. Miss Lavender looked back at the house. It was Georgian, but had a wing added at the side to make the drawing room. Probably in the Victorian era. And the conservatory looked Victorian too. Such a beautiful building. But a house with dark secrets. However she knew that one in particular wasn’t going to be a secret for much longer.

  Caroline returned and they settled on the pink and white striped ticking cushions. Presently Simon emerged from the back door bearing the knitting bag.

  ‘Oh, you found it, clever thing. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Where was it?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘You’d left it in the kitchen,’ said Simon. ‘I am amazed that Seddon or Mrs Hoskins didn’t let you know it was there.’

  ‘Well, never mind, I have it now.’ Miss Lavender smiled gratefully.

  ‘Don’t forget about my sweater,’ called Simon as he returned to the house.

  ‘You aren’t really going to knit him a sweater are you, Miss Lavender? It’ll take all night.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Caroline, I do have a few things lined up first before I can consider knitting a large sized jumper.’

  She opened her bag and retrieved her needles and a fresh ball of wool.

  ‘I am ready to begin again on my next project. Not as fancy as the lace socks, I am afraid, but very serviceable. And they knit up very quickly. For a friend of mine. But - oh - .’ She stopped in mid sentence.

  ‘Anything the matter?’ Caroline frowned.

  ‘Oh, nothing dear. Nothing that need alarm you. I had just thought. But no matter.’

  She took the end of the wool and began to cast on stitches. Remaining calm. So, she was still up against the possible murderer. The Churston Deckle notes had been taken. They were no longer in her knitting bag.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gregory Honeybun was in his garden shed when Miss Lavender drove up the next morning. His shed could not have been more different to
Fenella Harrington’s at The Court. The whereabouts of his garden tools was a mystery. Certainly the garden was neatly kept. Perhaps the gardener brought his own tools with him when he came. For Gregory Honeybun’s shed, which was quite a large one, was almost completely filled with two old dining room tables, set side by side. And on these tables were placed his model railway. It was his life’s passion. He may have had a study full of books. But these were never opened. Every spare minute he had was spent setting up his trains and sending them on journeys round the tracks. His shed was opened to the public once a year at the village fete, when for two pennies one could have a five minute peek at his small world. Inevitably there was always a long queue.

  Miss Lavender took some minutes to admire the Hornby Dublo trains before going inside. It intrigued her how attractive worlds in miniature could be. Gregory had set his trains to run on a timer, to avoid collision. The large green engine, pulling two passenger coaches, made its way from the village station behind a hillock of polystyrene. As it came to the crossing a signal went down and it slowed to a stop. A small blue train whizzed by. Lights flashed, the barrier was raised and the green engine went on its way safely.

  There were five engines in all. Gregory Honeybun had cleverly set up their journeys so they were timed to a tee.

  They moved to the small parlour. Mrs Aggers served them tea with a drawn expression and a sniff, as though it was beneath her to do so. Miss Lavender felt very sorry for the mild old man. He deserved better, she thought. Perhaps she would work on a replacement for the dour housekeeper, after all this business at The Court was over.

  ‘Well, my dear. And are you any further on?’

  ‘Considerably. But I shall require your assistance. There have been quite a few developments since my last visit.’

  She passed a list of names across the table. Gregory Honeybun studied it for several minutes.

  ‘You will have to go into details for me, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Quite. Let us take the potential suspects in order of age, as I have done here. The order, doesn’t actually matter. I will work by a process of elimination. We will consider both Wittering Shapley, the victim, but also Sir Tempest Harrington as the possible victim.’