“I’m all right now,” I assured him and myself. “Really I am. It’s all just . . . you know.”
Moffatt held out a clean paper napkin. “Sorry, I don’t carry a handkerchief. Look, you’re allowed a bit of a breakdown—this is a terrible business. And you can shout at me again if you like, but I still say you should—”
I held up a finger. “Wait—I have a solution. The police are sending a patrol car down the street every hour, and uniforms on foot along Gravel Walk behind. I’ll ring and ask if they would meet me at the door.”
His face lit up. “There now—that’s good thinking. Let them look round indoors before you go in.”
Sergeant Hopgood answered his mobile promptly and commended me for my forethought. I was so proud. It was only after I ended the call and said, “Sorted—officers will meet me at Middlebank within thirty minutes,” that reality struck.
I leapt up from the table. “I’ve got to go! It’ll take me at least that long to walk back.”
Moffatt leapt up, too. “I’ve my car—I’ll drive you.”
We dashed off, almost forgetting our shopping under the table, and then legging it to the car park, where he stopped at a dark red Renault that looked as if it had been through the wars. Our shopping safely stowed in the boot, we were off, pulling up to Middlebank only ten minutes later to find a police car at the curb and two uniforms milling about on the pavement.
“Hello,” I called, “here I am, thank you so much for waiting.”
When I’d unlocked the door and turned off the alarm, the officers took over. “You stay here,” the woman PC said, “and we’ll have a shufti.”
And so I waited in the entry as they took the key to my flat and searched Middlebank from top to bottom for any untoward visitors. Bunter sat in the doorway to my office, his radar ears going berserk, and Moffatt took my sacks of groceries from his car, handed them over, and then waited outside.
It didn’t take the police long. “Right, Ms. Burke,” the PC said as she handed back my key. “No one else here . . . Your friend who lives downstairs is out for the evening?”
My friend—I’m sure Mrs. Woolgar would love to hear that one. “Yes, she’s away. Thanks so much for checking.” They walked out, and as I pushed the door closed, I added my thanks to Moffatt.
“You’ll ring if you need anything,” he said.
“Yes, I will.”
I closed the door, threw the lock, set the alarm, and skipped up the stairs to my flat, where I locked myself in. Kneeling on a chair, I unlatched and pushed open the front window and leaned out to look down at the street. Moffatt stood on the pavement and, when he saw me, gave a nod of satisfaction. It was silly, but I felt a tiny bit like Rapunzel, as if I should let down my ponytail and . . . Get a grip, Hayley.
“Good night, Mr. Moffatt.”
A smile. “Good night, Ms. Burke.”
10
Do they know what time he died?” Mum asked me as we sat over coffee in her flat.
“The police aren’t certain. Sometime after midnight, I think.”
“You should find that out—it’ll give you a better picture of what happened. But if he was cold when you touched him, it would’ve been several hours before.”
Everyone’s a detective—everyone but me, that is.
“You feel safe at Middlebank, do you?”
Dinah had asked the same when I phoned her that morning. I assured her I did, and my daughter and I spent the rest of the conversation talking about whether she and her housemate should find a less expensive place to live.
Now I slid the plate of digestive biscuits closer to my mum and said, “Well, I can’t imagine the person who killed Trist would then have a reason to come after me or Mrs. Woolgar. It isn’t as if we have anything in common with the victim.”
“True.” Mum tapped a finger on the rim of her saucer. “You should ask a few questions about those writers, you know—find out more of their background.”
“Mum, can’t I leave that to the police? It’s their job, after all.”
She didn’t answer, but she did give me that squinty glance of hers that meant she knew whereof she spoke.
“How is your Wyn?” she asked, pulling on her jacket as we readied for our outing under cloudy skies.
“He’s super!” I exclaimed. “And he’s working so hard. It’s incredible the many things he needs to do—his work really takes up almost every day. He’s constantly thinking of how he can make Eat Here, Eat Now the best business it possibly can be. For example, here’s something they really had to think through—when to take Myrtle out for a test run. As it turns out, Sunday afternoon in London is the perfect time, because there are far fewer people walking about, and so no one will be in her way.”
This was how Wyn had explained it to me when I rang him from the train on the way to Liverpool that morning and broached the subject of a Sunday visit. “If you came, I’d have to ignore you,” he’d said in a sad voice. “I’d feel a right proper prat for doing it, too, and you’d end up miserable.”
It was a perfectly reasonable excuse. There was no point in allowing my spirits to sink as low as they had just because my dreamy plans for Sunday with my boyfriend had been dashed. Even so, I had spent the rest of my journey staring glumly out the window and had brightened only when I’d reached Mum’s flat.
Now she thrust her unopened brolly into the pocket on the side of her wheelchair as though it were a sword going into its scabbard, and faced the door. “Where are we off to today?”
* * *
* * *
This Val Moffatt,” Mum said over our late breakfast the next morning. “How lucky it is for you to find someone to work with on your project. What’s his story?”
“His story?” I asked. “I don’t know anything about the man. He teaches classes at Bath College. Mostly in the adult-learning department. Oh, he has twin daughters who are twenty-four—his wife died when the girls were young.” I reached for another slice of toast. “He likes The Magic Roundabout,” I added, remembering he’d recognized the names of cats we’d had, who had been called after characters on the program. “And he’s quite fond of Waitrose—that’s funny, isn’t it?”
“Funny as in funny or funny as in a coincidence that you’re quite fond of Waitrose yourself?” Mum asked. “What does Adele think of him?”
My mum and Adele had met twice when my friend had taken the train up to Liverpool with me—once when she was to teach a short course at the university during her August summer holidays, and once when she continued to York to visit cousins. Mum and Adele had hit it off immediately.
Instead of waiting for an answer—could she guess Adele approved of him?—Mum took a battered paperback book from her lap and said, “Here—this is for you.”
The Body in the Library.
“Really, Mum?”
“It seemed appropriate.”
“I am going to read all the Agatha Christies,” I said. “It’s only that I haven’t had the time yet.”
“Well, you’ve a four-hour journey on the train today—there’s your time.”
I grumbled a reply but slid the book into my handbag and took myself off to the station. Low, dripping skies made for a gray view from my window on the train, and with the heavy sigh of one greatly put upon, I opened the paperback, and found myself in the middle of a situation that was eerily familiar to my own.
* * *
* * *
Huddling at the far end of a bench on the platform at Bristol Temple Meads, I glanced up to see the second train I’d missed closing its doors. No matter—I was near the end of my journey and the trains to Bath ran frequently. I had better things to do—Miss Marple had just put the pieces together, but she had to make sure she was right. I had to make sure, too. How was it that she could see so clearly what the police could not?
I reached the la
st page, closed the book, and held it to my chest, my heart rate tripping along as if I’d run a race. Only then did I glance at my surroundings and was startled to see that the other people on the platform went about their ordinary business, unaware that I had just reached an epiphany.
Miss Marple, an unassuming little old lady, had solved the murder when the police had needed help. The clues had been right there under everyone’s nose, but she was the only one who saw them. At last I understood. The detective story was a tale of subtlety and deviousness and characters and cups of tea, and—in the end—order out of chaos. I was astounded, and longed to shout my conversion to all and sundry.
And would look barking mad if I did so. Instead, I stuffed the book in my bag and boarded the next train. Fifteen minutes later, I hopped off and, under murky skies, hurried up Manvers Street toward home.
Upon arrival at the door to Middlebank, I paused, remembering my circumstances. Mrs. Woolgar might not have returned yet. But I reminded myself that was no matter, because the house was secure and I was safe. The new key slid in the lock without trouble, and I walked in.
Bunter waited at the bottom of the stairs, and once I’d dealt with the alarm, he trotted over to weave a figure eight round my legs. After presentation of the catnip mouse, he monitored the cleaning of the litter pan and watched as I piled his dish high with food. But instead of tucking in, he returned with me to the entry, where he became possessed by one of those demons that caused him to race up and down the stairs several times. On his final return to the ground floor, he stopped abruptly and flopped over onto his new toy.
“Well done, cat,” I said. “Good show.”
I started up the stairs, but Bunter overtook me—mouse in mouth—and gave me a look over his shoulder. On the first-floor landing, he padded to the door of the library, dropped the mouse, and scrabbled at the threshold while he made low, throaty sounds.
“We aren’t going in the library—not tonight,” I said firmly. Bunter stood on his back legs and stretched his lithe body high, batting the door handle with a paw and meowing.
“There’s nothing in there,” I told him—and myself—but he was insistent and kept at it until I thought I’d better prove the point to both of us. I marched over, grabbed hold of the handle, and opened the door before I could think twice. When I hit the light switch, the cat seized his toy and trotted in while I remained in the doorway, scanning the room.
“You see, silly, there’s no one.”
Bunter made straight for the copper coal bucket at the fireplace, deposited the mouse, and returned to sit in front of me.
“Finished, are you?” I asked.
He blinked calmly, and then his gaze shifted ever so slightly, so that he was looking over my shoulder and out onto the landing. His eyes grew large and dark, and his whiskers stood at attention.
I broke out in a cold sweat. “Don’t you try that with me, cat—you will not make me believe—” But I couldn’t help myself. I whirled round, saw a larger-than-life form looming at the top of the stairs, and squealed. My heart pounded in my chest as the form took on detail, revealing itself to be Lady Fowling’s portrait. I collapsed against the doorpost.
“Bunter!”
I turned to find the cat washing the back of a paw.
* * *
* * *
I spent the evening going back over the pages of The Body in the Library, looking for clues and marking particular passages in the tattered paperback with notes to myself. I ate my dinner—the four-cheese ravioli—with the book in one hand. When a text came in, I tore myself away from Miss Marple.
Safe home?
From Val Moffatt. I desperately needed to talk with someone about the new world I’d discovered. Would he think me daft for declaring myself a novice when it came to mysteries? My finger twitched over my phone screen, but I pulled it back in time. I’d already had a breakdown in front of him, and so I couldn’t start rabbiting on about Miss Marple and have him believe I was totally unhinged. With great care, I replied:
All is well. See you tomorrow.
Later, when I heard another text come in, I scrambled for my phone, ready to abandon my caution and tell Val Moffatt everything. But instead, I found a photo of Wyn—sandy-colored hair curling round his forehead and a boyish grin on his face. He stood on the pavement with one arm round what looked to be a large metal box perched atop small pram wheels. The box wore kitchen attire—a red-checkered pinny. Myrtle. I replied with a string of hearts, and went to bed.
* * *
* * *
I approached Monday morning’s briefing the way anyone would tackle an obstacle—with a compliment.
“That’s a lovely dress, Mrs. Woolgar.” And it was—that thirties narrow look that suited her so well. “And the color—sky blue?”
“Dresden,” Mrs. Woolgar replied, opening the Society’s membership ledger.
“Dresden,” I echoed, wondering how we’d got on the subject of china. Then the penny dropped. “Yes, of course, Dresden blue.”
After that stunning opener, we exchanged the obligatory “How was your weekend?” enquiries. I toyed with the idea of asking the secretary what she thought of Christie’s ability to make a character look guilty or not, depending on the scene. Would the secretary and I enter into a lively and friendly discussion on the merits and pitfalls of detective fiction? I couldn’t quite see it.
Instead, I told her about my meeting with Bath College that afternoon, and then I escaped—retreating to my office, where I wrote a news release about the literary salons as if they were already a reality.
The front-door buzzer sounded at half-past eleven. It was Amanda, her face pinched with worry. One hand played with her thick blond braid, and the other she had plunged into the pocket of her coat—not the baggy one she usually wore, but a smart red slicker with a hood. Behind her, a steady rain fell.
“Look, Hayley, I’m so very sorry to bother you like this.”
“No, it’s all right,” I replied with little enthusiasm but an inkling of why she had stopped by. “Come through.”
I sat at my desk, hoping the more businesslike position would let her know I had little time to spare.
Amanda didn’t sit, but paced.
“The thing is,” she said, “we find ourselves a bit lost. Who knew we relied on Trist so much to lead the group? His murder has rather thrown us for a loop—well, actually not all of us, but still . . .”
She’d stopped pacing and examined the end of her braid. “The police won’t talk. Sergeant Hopgood keeps saying we should come to you.”
I suspected Amanda’s interpretation to be off the mark—it wasn’t that the police wouldn’t talk, it’s that they were weary of the writers asking questions about the enquiry without offering any useful details, and the detective sergeant steered them my way as one would try to shoo a pesky fly out the window.
“I’m not privy to details of their investigation.”
“Yes, yes, I understand, but the others don’t. I didn’t think there was any point in all of us badgering you, so I told them I would come alone. Peter’s getting a bit aggressive, you see, and he’ll just get himself in trouble again if he continues to . . .” She whirled round to face me. “I don’t want to beg, but I think we all realize it would help us process what’s happened if the group could carry on meeting here.”
Just as I thought.
“Yes, all right—you can meet here this Wednesday. But really, I’m not sure if we can keep it up, and so you should look into other venues. A pub—the Minerva, perhaps. I think it has a tiny back room. Do you know it?”
“The Minerva.” She nodded, as if filing away the suggestion. “Thanks for letting us return this week. And you know, it would be fine if you want to sit in on the session. You could bring DS Hopgood along, too.”
I tried to imagine the sergeant joining the group round the tab
le in the library. “Yes, well, we’ll have to see about that. Until Wednesday, then.”
With Amanda gone, I banished the writers group from my mind, wrenched my thoughts from Miss Marple, and concentrated on the afternoon’s meeting. I should change clothes.
My foot had barely touched the bottom step on my way up when the buzzer went off.
Peter greeted me with, “They aren’t taking us seriously. Police.”
“Is Mariella with you?” I asked, leaning over to look behind him.
“What? No, why should she be?”
I had no answer to that, except that they seemed to travel as a pair. Wait—was that a clue? Should I make a note of it and mention it to the police?
“Would you like to come through?” I asked.
“Look”—Peter adjusted the shoulder strap on his satchel, but didn’t move—“I know Trist had come whining to you about our complaints. I hope you didn’t pay him any mind—he could be a bit touchy.”
Peter stood at the door with the rain beaded up on his head and shoulders, and that—along with his belligerent attitude—reminded me of Trist’s visit the afternoon I’d first been down in the cellar. What had he said? Something like “There have been complaints” and he, too, had grumbled about not being taken seriously. After he left, I’d dismissed it from my mind, not wanting to get in the middle of the group’s politics. And then I’d forgotten to mention it to the police.
What sort of an amateur sleuth does that? Wouldn’t Miss Marple at least have followed up on what he’d said? I wasn’t sure what Hercule Poirot’s next move would be—I’d yet to crack one of those books. Or Tommy and Tuppence, for that matter. But on the strength of reading one book, I now had Jane Marple sitting on my shoulder and, little old lady or no, I felt the weight of her.
Yet here was Peter telling me to ignore what looked very much like an important clue.
The Bodies in the Library Page 10