“Here you go.” I held out the new key and the code written on a sticky note, but for one moment, I couldn’t let go. Was I doing the right thing? “You don’t . . . er . . .”
“I’ll put them away safely, you can be sure of that. I won’t let them out of my sight.” As if to prove it, Pauline stared at the key and paper until I cleared my throat. “And oh, Hayley,” she added in a nonchalant tone I’d heard only recently. “Adele. She seems nice.”
Pauline was a suspect in a murder enquiry—she could even be the prime suspect. Did I want my friend to become involved with a murderer? Possible murderer. Was Pauline a murderer?
“Do you have time for a chat after you finish?” I asked.
“I’d love to, really I would, it’s only that I’m chockablock today.” I heard the door of Mrs. Woolgar’s flat closing downstairs. Pauline revved up the vacuum again, and added, “Better crack on.”
* * *
* * *
Pauline had moved on to my flat by the time Mrs. Woolgar and I sat down for our morning briefing. It was our twice-monthly membership overview for The First Edition Society. Since I’d started my job, the reports had been dismal—always several names in the “have not renewed” category and rarely a new name. This week, however, the two lists evened out—four members dropped and four members added. Nothing to cause Mrs. Woolgar to leap on her desk and do a jig—there’s a sight I’d like to see—but still, not as bleak as usual.
“They do know we don’t offer a murder every month, don’t they?” I asked, only half joking.
Mrs. Woolgar did not respond, and instead read out a new letter of welcome she wanted to send. I had difficulty concentrating, as suspects in the enquiry paraded through my mind—Pauline with the key and the code to Middlebank, as well as a dodgy-looking brother, and the others, the writers, who had neither key nor code. That group formed an oddly disconnected yet solid front. They didn’t seem to like one another yet were quick to gloss over problems inside the group.
And still, did the police have any idea why Trist would be lurking along the path behind Middlebank in the middle of the night?
“And your activities for the day, Ms. Burke?” Mrs. Woolgar asked.
Yes, what would I do? Perhaps I would spend my day slumped in a chair at my desk, stewing in a vat of regret for how my evening with Val had turned out. That was just where I’d end up if I didn’t find a well-defined task, a project that would engage my mind and keep it off other topics—murder and suspects and boyfriends. Fortunately, I didn’t have to look far.
“I’m going to talk with Mr. Dill,” I told Mrs. Woolgar.
I might’ve said I was going to throw myself off the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral or swim the English Channel before lunch for the reaction I got—the secretary’s eyes opened wide in shock and her face drained of color.
“You what?”
“I’m going to the Royal Crescent Hotel,” I said firmly. “I will not cower and worry and obsess—I will come right out with it and ask his intentions.”
“You can’t do that,” Mrs. Woolgar insisted. “You don’t know what he’s like. He takes what you say and twists it to his own advantage. He’s up to no good. I promise you he’s looking for a way this very minute to use the murder to further his own agenda. He’s a disrupter—that’s how he operates.”
I was more impressed with Mrs. Woolgar’s passion than I was with her warning.
“It’s all right,” I assured her. “I can take care of myself. I’ll be reasonable and polite.”
A clatter on the stairs brought me up short.
“Sorry, Mrs. Woolgar.” I leapt up and backed out of her office as I explained. “It’s only that I wanted to catch Pauline about something before she leaves.”
The cleaner was on a call. She had her phone to her ear with one hand, and her head down as she shifted the vacuum and pails from the entry to the front step, propping open the door with her bum. The extension duster, folded up on itself, stuck out of her back pocket like a foxtail with a bad perm.
“I did this for you, Leonard,” Pauline snapped. “Now look how it’s turned out. If this keeps up, she’ll find herself in the nick.” She turned round for the last pail and jumped at the sight of me. “So, yeah,” she said lightly, “I’ll be there on time for my shift. See ya.”
“Pauline,” I began.
“Sorry, Hayley, I’ve got to run. I promised Leonard I’d take a shift at the Minerva this afternoon, and I’ve still another house to do.” Safely outside, she paused. “Did you need me for something?”
I need to eliminate you from my suspect list and then vet you as a possible girlfriend for Adele. But it was looking worse for Pauline, not better.
“No, it’s nothing really. Although, perhaps I’ll stop round the pub later.”
* * *
* * *
But first, the nephew. I went to my flat for my handbag, and when I returned to the entry, found Mrs. Woolgar waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She followed me to the door.
“It’ll be fine,” I assured her. “You’ll see. Whatever his devious plans are, he needs to know that I am no pushover.”
“There’s something you should know,” Mrs. Woolgar said, twisting her hands together.
Those were words no one welcomed. I stood at the open door, umbrella in hand, and waited for her to go on.
“One of the reasons Eileen Merton left”—Eileen Merton, the first curator, I reminded myself as I waited an excruciatingly long second before Mrs. Woolgar continued—“was because Charles Henry had come across a slightly embarrassing bit of scandal in her family’s history, concerning birthright.”
“An illegitimacy? Really, that isn’t the sort of information anyone would consider a scandal these days.”
“It would have devastated Eileen for the world to know her grandfather had not earned his title properly,” the secretary said. “I’ve no idea how Charles Henry had sussed it out, but his threats of exposure were enough to push her into retirement. You see how he works.”
“Well, let him just try to put the wind up me.”
“Ms. Burke”—she put a hand on my arm—“mind how you go.”
17
No one can walk up to and along the Royal Crescent without being impressed. A sweeping five-hundred-foot-long arc of tall Georgian town houses built from Bath stone in the Palladian style, it offered a panoramic view of Royal Victoria Park and had a deep connection with the Regency period and with Jane Austen. Although she never lived on the Crescent herself, a few of her characters had. That thought led me back to my previous job at the Jane Austen Centre, not a ten-minute walk away where I had spent my days filing and copying and making tea. Now look at me—I’d taken an enormous leap and was curator in my own right of The First Edition Society. I wasn’t about to let anyone take that away from me without a fight.
“Hello, I’m Hayley Burke,” I said to the young woman behind the reception desk at the Royal Crescent Hotel. “I’m curator of The First Edition Society at Middlebank House—we’re only just round the corner from you.”
The young woman kept the smile on her face, but I believe I saw the tiniest flicker of recognition, quickly quashed by her good manners. An older woman in a business suit, her silver hair in a neat chignon, appeared in the doorway behind. She carried a tablet, and her eyes darted to me and back to the screen. Were they both thinking, Oh yes, that’s the place where that fellow was found dead in the library?
“Hello, good morning, Ms. Burke,” the young woman said, “and welcome to the Royal Crescent. How can I help you?”
“I believe Charles Henry Dill is staying with you, and I’d like to speak with him. Do you know if he’s in?”
“Mr. Dill,” she replied, shifting a few papers round on the desk, as if she’d mislaid Charles Henry. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m able to—”
The
older woman looked up and said, “It’s all right, Sandy, go on and ring Mr. Dill’s room.”
“Yes, Ms. Carlisle,” Sandy replied and did as she was told.
“Thank you.” I beamed at her. “I’ll just wait over here.”
I stood next to a Chinese palm for a few minutes, until he emerged from the lift. He wore the same brown plaid suit but had lost the leer—apparently not a good look for a posh hotel lobby.
“How delightful to see you, Ms. Burke.” He extended his hand and I obliged in kind, barely containing a shudder as he gave me the squeeze.
“Mr. Dill, I stopped in to have a chat.”
“Oh, how disappointing,” he said in an obsequious manner. “I’m so sorry to say that you’ve wasted a journey. You see, I was just this minute going out. Unavoidable appointment, I’m afraid. If it were any other time, we could have coffee—”
Perhaps he hadn’t prepared for such a quick return on his invitation. Perhaps he had a reason to try to avoid me. But Charles Henry Dill had no idea with whom he dealt. If I could cut off the escape route of a fifteen-year-old Dinah intent on meeting friends for an evening of cider drinking, I could certainly stop him. I raised my voice slightly so all could hear.
“Coffee? Yes, I’d love coffee. Thanks so much, Mr. Dill.”
The older woman approached us with a welcoming smile. I glanced at her name tag—the word Manager stood out.
“Coffee for two, Mr. Dill?” she asked. “Let me ring the kitchen for you and have a tray sent into the drawing room. Would you like to go through?”
What choice did he have? “Yes, well,” Dill conceded, “coffee, why not?”
I led the way. When I chanced a look over my shoulder to make sure Charles Henry followed, I saw the hotelier, behind him, with a smile. I smiled back—grateful for the assistance she unknowingly had offered.
The drawing room, with its ecru walls, ornate plasterwork ceiling, and decorative Greek-style cornices, oozed Georgian class. Tall windows ran along the front wall, and elegant tables, chairs, and sofas formed groupings round the room. I’d been here before—we’d had afternoon tea at the Royal Crescent for Dinah’s twelfth birthday along with three of her friends. That had set me back, I can tell you.
I made for two chairs in the corner with a low table between them, and a young man with the coffee service arrived on our heels. I was delighted to see a plate of macarons—purple, pink, and a pale yellow that I hoped had buttercream filling. I slipped one onto my saucer and, as the young man poured, couldn’t resist a bite.
The combination of crisp meringue and smooth buttercream bolstered my nerves. To begin in a civil manner, I took a sip of coffee and said, “Tell me, Mr. Dill, where do you call home?”
“You mean apart from Middlebank?”
Middlebank wasn’t even in the equation, as far as I knew—he’d never lived there, spent only a few summers growing up. Adele told me Lady Fowling had thought it her duty, as Charles Henry’s mother was her younger sister.
“I mean, where do you live?”
“Abroad for the most part, Ms. Burke,” Dill said glibly. “I have international interests.”
“And what brings you to Bath?”
He popped his second macaron into his mouth and took another before answering. I could tell this was going to be a fight to finish the last crumb on the plate.
“What else could I do, when I heard the news, but offer my deepest condolences for your loss.”
“And what loss is that?”
“How odd it is”—Dill set down his half-empty coffee cup—“that a murder would be committed in the very house dedicated to enlightening the world about this more commercial side of literature. By the way, how is the enquiry progressing?”
“That is a matter for the police.”
“The murder was a rather obvious nod to our Mrs. Christie, wasn’t it?” Dill took another macaron and sat back.
Our Mrs. Christie—what was he playing at? What happened to the musty collection of has-been authors from a bygone era?
“I tell you truthfully, Ms. Burke, I’m desperately concerned about my dear aunt Georgiana’s legacy. Throughout her life, she strove to create a place that crossed the boundaries of time and genre in the world of literature. To think that someone would use the very subject of her favorite books to tear down what she built.”
The landscape was shifting, and I scurried to reposition myself.
“I’m not sure we can go as far as to say—” I began.
“It was The Body in the Library, of course, although, there were elements of other books, too—don’t you think? What about the one with the house-and-garden tour—let me see, which one was that?”
He leaned closer and fixed me with an unwavering gaze, waiting for an answer. A house-and-garden tour? Was this Agatha Christie?
I cleared my throat. “It seems a bit farfetched to believe that someone would—”
“It’s a remarkable world, detective fiction, isn’t it?”
Dill rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, offering me a smile that was just short of his characteristic leer. I could feel my advantage slip away as he gained the high ground.
“I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to be able to discuss the mystery writers with an expert of your caliber,” he said. “And tell me, what do you make of those New Zealand detective stories?”
Was he having me on? Surely Agatha Christie didn’t write books set in New Zealand. It must be one of the other mystery writers—but which? I needed to stop this line of questioning immediately—I was not capable of engaging in a mystery-genre duel.
I straightened up in my chair and threw back my shoulders. “If you’re concerned about the state of the Society, Mr. Dill, I can assure you that this unfortunate event will have no impact whatsoever. We are already in the midst of planning a variety of activities that will fulfill Lady Fowling’s fondest wish that the world know and appreciate her favorite books.”
He gave me a sly look. “That is just what I intend, too—to reestablish The First Edition Society to its rightful place in the literary sphere. And although it’s true that I have only lately come to realize the brilliance of Aunt Georgiana’s dedication to the mystery and suspense genre, I now know that the Society’s very survival depends on the collection’s continuation. As I see you are a reasonable woman, I’m sure you understand that because the Society is a family legacy, its guidance should remain within the family.”
It was a punch to the stomach that took my breath away. Now I saw what he was up to—Charles Henry had carried out his own investigation on my background and knew me for a charlatan. Mrs. Woolgar was right, he would use anything he could find—he’d chased away the first curator with threats of exposing her grandfather as an illegitimate Edwardian earl. Now I was the target.
He would poke and prod until he created a fissure in my competence—First, he would say, she knows nothing about mystery, and second, a murder right under her nose! Once I was compromised, he would dive in for the kill. He would delight in using Trist’s murder as a way of undermining me, hoping I would scarper as had Eileen Merton. And when he had gained control of The First Edition Society—what then?
Dill stood and brushed the colorful snow of crumbs from his stomach. “I’ve so enjoyed our chat, Ms. Burke, but now you really will have to excuse me.” He took my hand, bending over it as if to plant a kiss. I jerked it away in the nick of time. “Until we meet again,” he added, and walked out.
18
The delights of macarons and the drawing room decor drained away, and I realized this was it—the end. If even Mrs. Woolgar was afraid of Charles Henry Dill, what hope did I have of fighting off a takeover? I stood but my legs wobbled, and I had to brace myself against the chair. As I waited to regain my strength and stop my head from spinning, the manager from reception looked in, saw the room empty but for me
, and approached.
“Ms. Burke, I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Linda Carlisle, guest manager. I’ve been at the Royal Crescent for twenty years, and I wanted to tell you what fond memories I have of Lady Fowling. She and her friends would come to tea every month. It was an afternoon the entire staff enjoyed—we were always caught up in her élan and her far-reaching interests. She was such a lovely woman—and she’s very much missed. But I’m so happy to know you are carrying on her vision.”
I had been teetering on the precipice of despair, but her words took hold and pulled me back to safety. My eyes filled with tears.
“How kind of you, Ms. Carlisle.” I could go no further, and searched my pockets for a tissue.
“Please, it’s Linda.”
“Yes, of course.” I sniffed and daubed my eyes with an ancient crumpled specimen. “And call me Hayley. I took the job of curator only a few months ago, and I never actually met Lady Fowling. But I feel her spirit at Middlebank still.”
“I’m sorry you’re going through this difficult time,” Linda said quietly. “How is Glynis holding up?”
“Oh, you know Mrs. Woolgar, too?”
“Indeed—she came along to the teas, as well as Mrs. Sylvia and Mrs. Audrey Moon, and sometimes Mrs. Arbuthnot.”
It sounded like a board meeting. “Ms. Frost?”
“Maureen? Occasionally, with her mother—Maureen was always a headstrong woman and didn’t really settle down until after her mother died. After that, she was a regular. And, the last few years, there was a lively young woman—quite striking in her appearance.”
“That would be Adele Babbage,” I said.
“Yes, that’s it. Those were always such happy gatherings.” Linda’s reminiscence faded as her gaze drifted toward the door of the drawing room leading to the lobby.
I followed her eyes and then asked, “Had you met Mr. Dill before this visit of his?”
The Bodies in the Library Page 16