The Bodies in the Library

by Marty Wingate

  I watched as they trooped up the stairs, and then said, “Well, that’s them sorted.”

  “Shall we get back to it?” Val asked.

  “We could do, yes—although, I’ve a cold supper if you’re interested.” I shrugged away any impression of importance. “Not much—just chicken and salad. From Waitrose.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  “Through here,” I said, leading him to the kitchenette.

  Val glanced at the table—already set—and then at me. “I knew I would have you at ‘Waitrose,’” I said. “There’s mustard down there”—I nodded to a square basket sitting on a low shelf—“and pickle. Whatever you need.”

  He perused the contents, and then reached in and drew out a catnip mouse by its tail.

  “Bunter’s contribution, I take it?”

  We ate our meal and drank the wine at the tiny table and talked and talked. I quizzed him about growing up in Margate, and he enquired as to how my mum was doing.

  “Have you always been a teacher?” I asked.

  Val paused, glass in hand, and gave me half a nod. “I’ve been a teacher for as long as I can remember. And you?” he asked. “Always a curator?”

  “Let’s count the number of professions open to someone with a degree in nineteenth-century literature,” I said. “My first job was in the reference library of the Great Western Railway Museum in Swindon—that’s where we lived. About twelve years ago, Dinah and I moved here—she had just turned eleven—and I got on with the Jane Austen Centre.”

  With the story I’d told him in the pub, I believed that he could clearly put the pieces of my life in the right order—in Swindon, married with a daughter, followed by Bath, divorced with a daughter.

  “What did you do at the Centre?”

  “Assistant to the assistant curator—in other words, office worker. The people were lovely, but the pay wasn’t quite enough for us to live on, so I took in student papers for proofreading. They wanted more than their grammar corrected, of course. ‘Can’t you just write it for me?’ they’d ask. They didn’t much care for my reply.”

  “Which was ‘Write your own bloody paper’?” Val asked, and we both laughed. “And now you’re running the show here at Middlebank.”

  “But for how long?” I told him the latest—the arrival of Charles Henry Dill. “He made everyone’s life a misery after Lady Fowling died, and I’m going to have to keep my eye on him. If he tries to intimidate me, I’ll report him—now that I have an in with the police, you know. Although, perhaps I’ll start with Detective Constable Pye.”

  “Kenny Pye?” Val asked. “Is he in on the murder enquiry? He’s in my Thursday-evening short-story course.”

  “DC Pye is taking a class from you?”

  “And not the first. He writes stories set in 1920s London with a private investigator as his protagonist. Wait—that was his sergeant I saw here on Monday? What’s his name?”

  “Ronald Hopgood.”

  Val threw back his head and laughed. “His PI is called Alehouse.”

  I laughed, too, but asked, “Could he get in trouble for that?”

  “I don’t see how—historical fiction, after all. And Alehouse is a smart man—he can be friendly, but take care of that sharp edge.”

  “That’s DS Hopgood all right. Constable Pye must keep busy with both police work and writing.”

  “You make time for what you love,” Val said.

  We fell quiet. Since the previous evening, I’d felt the need to explain myself, and throughout the afternoon I’d attempted to pull together a few thoughts, but they were muddled. Here now was the perfect moment to say something, but the right words eluded me.

  “It was good of you to come round this evening,” I said. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “I wasn’t sure I would be needed, what with Wyn here now.”

  I couldn’t hold his gaze, and looked instead at my empty plate.

  “As it turned out, he couldn’t stay.”

  “Ah, back to the Big Smoke first thing this morning, was it?”

  Val was fishing—he couldn’t be more obvious—and I shouldn’t answer.

  “He had to leave last night, actually. He’d come down to Bath to see a fellow from Brussels who was here only for the one day—a software programmer. It was vital Wyn meet with him about . . . er . . . programming software for Myrtle.”

  “Who’s Myrtle?”

  “The robot that delivers the meals for Wyn’s company.”

  “And so,” Val said, his forehead furrowed, “he didn’t actually come to Bath see you. Instead—”

  “Of course he came to see me.”

  “Were you an afterthought?” Val persisted. “Even though someone had broken in here and left a murder victim in the library below your flat? Is it always business first with him?”

  Suddenly I was filled with righteous indignation, and ready to rail against anyone who believed Wyn would take me for granted. The fact that I was now a member of that group made not one whit of difference.

  “Wyn’s business”—I jabbed my finger on the table—“is at an extremely delicate stage with finances, and research and development and . . . the like. It’s an enormous responsibility, and so, of course, he’s quite focused and concerned.”

  “Shouldn’t he be concerned about you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you make a lot of excuses for your boyfriend.”

  I leapt up from the table. “I do not make excuses for him—he makes his own excuses!”

  Harry’s wan face appeared at the door. “Sorry, Hayley,” she whispered, “it’s only . . . we wanted to let you know we’ll be on our way now.”

  I gripped the back of the chair to steady myself. “Right, thanks, Harry. Let me show you out.” I followed her to the door, where the others waited. “I’ll be in touch about next Wednesday,” I told them.

  “You can give me a ring,” Amanda said. “I’ll let everyone know.”

  She walked out first, followed by Peter and Mariella. Harry stayed behind.

  “Pub, Harry?” Mariella asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” she replied, backing up toward the kitchenette. “You go on, though, and I’ll catch you up—I just need to nip into the loo.”

  The others left, and I closed the door and turned to find Val Moffatt waiting, in a repeat of last Wednesday evening. Had that been only a week ago?

  Opening the door again, I said, “Well, that’s a start for the salons. You’ll let me know if the dates suit the college?”

  He didn’t move, only watched me. I looked at the floor. Hadn’t I made a big enough fool of myself for one evening?

  “Hayley—” he began, but I was saved when Harry came out of the loo.

  “Good evening,” I said to him. He nodded to each of us and left.

  I waited for Harry to walk out, too, but found she had sunk down onto the bottom step of the stairs and put her head against the railing.

  “You all right, Harry? Was it a difficult session this evening?”

  “My story has become quite sad,” she said wistfully, “full of missed opportunities and regret. I wanted Miss Marple and the baby she had given up for adoption—who is now a member of Parliament—to be reconciled, but the characters won’t do what I want.”

  “But aren’t you in charge of what they do?” I asked. “Seems it would be easier to move characters around the page than make real people do what you want?”

  “You would think,” she agreed. “Hayley, are we allowed to look at the books in the library?”

  “Allowed?” This is what comes of Mrs. Woolgar’s treating the library as a shrine. “Of course you’re allowed—that’s the entire point of Lady Fowling’s collection. Did you want to see any title in particular?”

  Harry s
hook her head. “No, not me. Trist didn’t think it was a good idea—he said no amount of wallowing in atmosphere could help some writing.”

  “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “Well, I suppose I’d better catch them up. Mariella and Peter have run into difficulties with their manuscripts, but Amanda had twenty new pages this week. Although, they were a bit odd. Well, so, we’re celebrating. Would you like to go along?”

  “To the Minerva?” I glanced up the stairs—I really should do my nightly check on the condition of the library and then get to bed—where I could lie awake and feel miserable about arguing with Val.

  “Yeah, sure, why not?”

  16

  What clues would Miss Marple have picked up from our drinks at the pub? I could detect none. Neither Pauline nor her brother was behind the bar, and the short woman was nowhere in sight. The writers lasted through only one round and held their conversation steady to the topic of a new television production of Christie’s Pocketful of Rye.

  When I attempted to edge the talk toward Trist by asking a leading question—“What do you think he meant by ‘soaking up atmosphere won’t help a bad manuscript’?”—no one replied, and Harry wouldn’t meet my eye. Soon after that, they all swiftly reached the bottoms of their glasses, collectively yawned, and made to leave.

  Defeated, discontented, and disillusioned, I followed them out. The others moved off, but I stopped with Harry and held her laptop as she struggled with her coat. She’d just taken her computer back when we heard the commotion.

  “You keep your hands off it!” Amanda yelled. I whipped round to see her in a tug-of-war with Peter over a canvas bag while passersby gave them barely a glance.

  “I should’ve known I had the wrong one,” he countered in a loud voice. “Yours is so jammed with paper it’s a wonder you can find anything. Here, take it.” He let go, causing Amanda to lurch backward. He reached for her. “Give me mine, then,” he said.

  Amanda shrieked—“Don’t you touch me!”—and shoved him. He stumbled back, and Mariella caught his arm.

  “Oi!” I called, and hurried over to put myself between them. “Amanda, are you all right?”

  “Why are you asking her?” Mariella demanded. “What about Peter?”

  “Well, that is”—I divided my attention to be fair—“Peter, are you all right?”

  “Fine,” he spat. “Can I have my own bag now?”

  Amanda held two brown canvas satchels, one in each hand, both shoddy and overstuffed. I hadn’t realized they were almost identical. She seemed to weigh them for a moment, and then handed one over.

  “Right, well—night all,” she said. “See you next week.”

  “Yeah, night,” the others replied.

  As they ambled off, I asked Harry, “What was that about?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno. Just the usual.”

  We walked together to Union Passage, where I turned right and Harry left.

  “Night, Hayley,” she said.

  The pubs were still open, so the narrow lane was quiet apart from a few clusters of smokers puffing away in the chill. I’d left the last of them behind and took a gulp of clean air as I passed a shadowy corner, when a hand shot out and gripped my arm.

  “Ah!” I cried, and then saw who it was. “Oh God, Amanda, you frightened the wits out of me.”

  She let go of my arm. “Sorry, Hayley, I didn’t mean to. It’s only that I started home, but then thought I’d better find you and apologize for that.” She nodded her head in the Minerva’s direction.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Amanda wrinkled her nose. “Nothing, really—I overreacted. I guess we’re all a bit on edge. Police are being closemouthed about the enquiry, yet they keep coming back to each of us, and asking the same questions over and over. They’re doing that to you as well?” She didn’t wait for an answer but continued. “Still, I should know better than to annoy Peter after what happened between him and Trist.”

  I thought of the group’s first evening at Middlebank and the scuffle on the landing. “When you began meeting in the library?”

  “No, even before the group formed—this was yonks ago,” she said dismissively. “The two of them were collaborating on a book with both Poirot and Miss Marple as dueling protagonists. I can’t imagine writing with someone else, and it certainly didn’t work out well for them. There was a big bust-up—I believe Peter broke Trist’s nose.”

  In the moment of silence that ensued, I imagined Peter overtaking Trist on Gravel Walk behind Middlebank, shoving him hard, and then carrying his body up to the library. Immediately the same missing key points lined themselves out: What were they doing there, how did they get back in, and why in God’s name did it happen?

  “They patched things up after that,” Amanda added. “But still, it comes down to the same thing—I just don’t know what we’re going to do without him.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Only the next morning did I remember that I hadn’t checked on the state of the library after the group had departed. What if a chair had been left out of place? What if they’d been into the sherry?

  What if there was another dead body?

  I dressed for my walk, but stopped at the library door on my way down. My hand hovered over the door handle, and it annoyed me that the simple task of peeking into a room could cause my pulse to race. I looked back to the portrait of Lady Fowling for courage and found that she emitted a serene aura in the still morning. I took this as a good sign and pushed in.

  All was not as it should’ve been. Books had gone astray from their proper places—a few were stacked on the table and several more pulled out and left lying on a shelf.

  A stab of fear was followed close on by a giggle. What did we have here? It looked very much like a library—the sort where people actually made use of the books. Hadn’t Harry mentioned this? I glanced at the volumes as I reshelved. Two Poirot stories and one Miss Marple. In fact, the latter was The Murder at the Vicarage—the one I had stayed up into the wee hours to finish.

  As I left for my walk, I considered how Miss Marple solved crimes. In the story, everything had been laid out from the start—the suspects, the alibis. People lied, but no one cottoned on—except her, an unassuming little old lady who spent time in her garden and could see through deceit. Talk about a superpower.

  My morning circuit of Bath helped to clear my head, and I returned up the back-garden path. For the past week, I’d come at the gate from the opposite end of Gravel Walk for the sole reason of avoiding the wrought-iron post into which Trist had been shoved.

  I gave Bunter his breakfast and was about to go up to shower when I heard laughter outside on the front step. I opened the door to find Pauline, dressed for work in coveralls and bandanna. Next to her was Adele—her massive head of red curls loose, tumbling over her shoulders—holding one of the pails of cleaning supplies.

  “I’m trying to talk Adele into a new career.” Pauline shifted the vacuum from one arm to the other and stuck the folded-up extension duster in her back pocket.

  Adele picked up the second pail. “I told Pauline if she saw my flat, she’d know cleaning wasn’t my strong suit.”

  “That’s me as well,” Pauline commiserated. “The cobbler’s children syndrome, I’m afraid. You wouldn’t want to look in my drawers.”

  Adele grinned and looked ready to reply, but instead she walked past me and set the cleaning supplies down. “Morning, Hayley.”

  “Morning,” I said. “Do you two know each other?”

  Pauline deposited the vacuum and, over her shoulder, said, “We’ve only just met.”

  “I’ve come to sign the letter,” Adele said. “Literary salons? I thought I’d better do it this morning, as I’m taking the Suffragette Club up to London on a school trip until tomorrow.”

  “Of course, yes. In h
ere. You all right, Pauline?”

  She’d already got to work on the baseboards. “Yeah, grand. Oh— do you have the new key for me? And the code?”

  “Yes, I’ll bring them out.” In my office, Adele had perched on the arm of the wingback. “So, Pauline owns her own business?”

  “She does.” I retrieved the file with the board’s letter of approval. “Plus, her brother runs the Minerva, and she takes a few shifts there every week.”

  “Does she? We should go there.”

  No detective was needed to pick up on the barely concealed interest in her voice. I verified this with a quick glance—Adele’s cheeks were glowing.

  “We should,” I said, but with little enthusiasm. “Sometime.”

  “What?” Adele asked, narrowing her eyes at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something,” Adele said.

  It was clear that I would need to resolve the issue of Pauline’s guilt or innocence as soon as possible, but for the moment, I had an easy excuse to hand. “It’s only that you don’t want me involved. I’ve just this minute introduced you to a friend of mine—as far as you’re concerned, that’s the kiss of death for a relationship, isn’t it?”

  Adele frowned at my logic but changed topics—good thing it had already escaped her that I hadn’t done any introducing, actually. “How are the literary salons progressing?” she asked. “Working together with Val all right?”

  I laid the letter down and handed over a pen. “Speaking of such things—I know what you’re up to, Ms. Babbage, even though you don’t believe in setting people up. Need I remind you, I have a boyfriend?”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard,” she said under her breath as she signed. “And how is he?”

  “Fine.” I snatched the pen from her and—before she could see straight through my lie—said, “Have a good day at school.”

  When I stepped into the hall, Adele had gone, and Pauline was vacuuming the rug in Mrs. Woolgar’s office. She switched off the vacuum when she saw me.