“No, although I was . . . aware of him.”
That pause spoke volumes, and I sensed in Linda Carlisle an ally.
“I hadn’t met him either,” I said. “But both Adele and Mrs. Woolgar—and even the solicitor, Mr. Rennie—warned me—”
Linda’s look sharpened, and I was seized with worry—had I said too much?
“That is—” I stammered, but she waved a hand as if to brush my words away.
“I’ve heard concerns from Glynis. Even Lady Fowling had the occasion to mention him, and not in the most favorable light. But even if I hadn’t already known the sort of man he is,” Linda said, “I would’ve cottoned on since his arrival yesterday. He’s taken every opportunity to make it known that he is Lady Fowling’s nephew and it’s ‘only a matter of time’ before he moves into Middlebank.”
“The nerve!” My voice was shrill in my own ears, and I dropped it to a whisper. “What did he do—pull up in a taxi with all his belongings?”
“No, he walked in on his own, and then had the hotel’s car and driver bring his things over.”
I heaved a great sigh. It was one thing to hope for and possibly assist in a quick resolution to Trist’s murder, but it was an entirely different matter to have to battle Charles Henry Dill at the same time. For a moment, I entertained the idea of escape. I could march straight down to the rail station and board a train to . . . where? I caught a whiff of briny air, and I could hear the sea crashing against rocks and feel the edge of a foamy wave roll over my toes. Fancies—I shook my head.
“Thank you, Linda.” I extended my hand, and we exchanged a warm and firm shake. “I appreciate your telling me your memories of Lady Fowling. There’s a large portrait of her on the first-floor landing at Middlebank, and I admit that sometimes I think she’s watching over us. I suppose it’s more a wish. Well, I’d best be on my way.”
“Oh, look,” Linda said, contemplating the remaining macarons. “Those will just have to be binned. I do hate the waste. The coffee service is on Mr. Dill’s room, of course, but I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take them away with you?”
* * *
* * *
Three macarons—one each, purple, pink, and buttercream—were my reward for facing up to Charles Henry Dill. I finished them off as I walked into the city center, not really seeing where my feet led as I tried to assess the viability of his threats. It was only when I stopped in front of the police station that I realized another part of my mind had planned the route. Yes, I would talk with Detective Sergeant Hopgood.
He came out to the lobby, and I looked at him in a new light—as inspiration for Kenny Pye’s 1920s private detective. I’d quite like to read those stories—although I’d have to put them at the back of the queue, with dozens and dozens of mystery books ahead of them.
“Ms. Burke,” Hopgood greeted me. “Come through.” I followed him in and he opened the door of Interview #1—my home away from home. “Do you have something for us?” he asked.
I had built up a good head of steam on my walk down, but now I sputtered. “Yes, there is something I’d like to discuss with you, although I’m not sure you would consider it evidence.”
“No matter,” Hopgood replied. “I have something to show you. Will you wait?”
I took my usual chair and had ample time to put my thoughts into reasonable order. When I had done that, I realized I was in the wrong place—I shouldn’t be at the police station, I should be in Duncan Rennie’s office—our solicitor for the Society. He’d dealt with Charles Henry before, he could do it again.
Hopgood returned with a long roll of paper, which he unfurled across the table. It was a map of the city center lavishly decorated in five colors of felt markers. There were Xs, large dots, arcs, and trails of dotted lines. Off to the side the writers’ names were listed—each with his or her own color.
“A map of their movements that night,” Hopgood explained, giving his mustache a quick brush with his fingers. “Here now, let me show you. You see Mariella Vine and Peter Talbot”—purple and brown, respectively—“and here, Amanda Seabrook on her own”—green—“and Harry Tanner leaving with the victim.”
Harry, red, and Trist, black. The sergeant described each route, tapping the map and tracing the lines as if giving a battle plan to his army, as he indicated the various positions of the writers after they left the Minerva, where, that very evening, Pauline had been behind the bar.
But I couldn’t concentrate on his details—my head was too full of a more immediate crisis, and only when the room had turned silent did I realize Hopgood was staring at me with expectation.
“Sorry, what was that?” I asked.
“As I said, we lose them here”—he pointed to dots on the map—“here, and here. But please note—not a one of them leaves the pub walking in the direction of their respective homes.”
“Where were they going?”
“To the shop for milk or to avoid a roadworks closure or enjoying the fine night or—well, they seemed to have a multitude of destinations.” The sergeant did not sound convinced by any of them. “And,” he continued, “there’s no CCTV at either end of Gravel Walk behind Middlebank. The car park across the road has it, but not pointed to our advantage. What I want to know from you, Ms. Burke, is this—if you were standing at each of these locations, which way would you take to arrive at the back-garden entrance of Middlebank?”
I stared at the map, forcing myself to consider the possibilities. “From here”—I pointed at Amanda’s green line—“I’d be likely to take this corner and come round on the far end. And there”—my finger traced Harry’s red path—“it’s quite convenient to take this pass-through. Now, these two—” One by one I put myself on the pavement or in the lanes and walked to Middlebank. The DS made notes as I went along, and in the end seemed pleased enough.
“My PC who is viewing every working CCTV in the city will be grateful for this—narrows his search down a bit.”
Good—see what a help I can be?
“Now, Sergeant, I’m sure you have a great deal yet to do on this investigation, but do you have any idea how long it will take to solve Trist’s murder?” There went the eyebrows in the silent question Are you mad? I hurried on. “It’s only that we find ourselves unable to move forward at The First Edition Society because of the enquiry, and now, on top of that, Charles Henry Dill has arrived to cause trouble.”
“Who is Charles Henry Dill?”
For a moment, I was taken aback, but then it came to me that the DS had no reason to know him. “He is Lady Fowling’s”—lout of a—“nephew.”
“Did he know Trist Cummins?” Hopgood asked. “Is this about the murder? Does he live here in Bath?”
“He doesn’t live here—he arrived yesterday and made straight for Middlebank. He’s using this enquiry to try for a takeover—The First Edition Society, the house, Lady Fowling’s estate—he’s always thought he should’ve inherited everything.”
“Why is this a matter for the police? Is he harassing you?”
He’s trying to steal my job from me, and I want you to tell him to stop.
“He feeds off other people’s misery,” I said. “He creates chaos.”
“Those are sharp words, Ms. Burke.”
“Sergeant, how could you pull Mrs. Woolgar into the station and accuse her of murder based on a long-ago incident—when she hit Trist with her handbag?”
“Mrs. Woolgar preferred to answer our questions here—that was her idea,” he replied, switching to his kindly police tone. “And she is not accused of murder. It was merely a chat.”
But my questions had opened a door in my mind. Charles Henry Dill had applied himself to finding my weak spot—that my background had nothing to do with the Golden Age of Mystery—and sought to turn it to his own advantage. If he could do it to me, he could do it to others, and who better to target
than the person who embodied the continuation of Lady Fowling’s spirit—Mrs. Woolgar.
“Who told you about that incident?”
“A tip phoned into the station—it was anonymous.”
“Anonymous my eye,” I said. “I’ll tell you who put that flea in your ear—and he did it only to make trouble. It was Charles Henry Dill.”
* * *
* * *
My accusation had made no impact on Sergeant Hopgood, and to avoid looking entirely useless, I had passed on the bit Amanda had told me about Peter and Trist’s set-to when they had tried to collaborate. After that, I left, carrying my frustration along with me. I looked for Harry, but the low wall across the road from the station was empty, as it had been when I arrived. Perhaps she had returned to work, giving up on her Trist vigil.
Next on my agenda, Pauline. I checked my watch—lunch was not the best time to carry out an interview in the pub. I would try later in the afternoon. Instead, I stopped off at the Waitrose café and had a sandwich before returning to Middlebank, where, in an unprecedented turn of events, Mrs. Woolgar and I held our second briefing in less than twenty-four hours. I gave her a blow-by-blow account of my meeting with Dill.
“His plan is to get rid of me just as he got rid of the first curator,” I said. “But he’ll soon discover I won’t budge. He has no ability to take over the Society—and no backing or support.”
Mrs. Woolgar frowned.
“He doesn’t—does he?” I asked.
“No, certainly not.” She pressed her lips together. “Of course, I doubt if that would stop him from muddying the waters. Perhaps I’d better speak with Mr. Rennie.”
“Yes, good idea. I’m back out again this afternoon to see Pauline—she’s got a shift at the Minerva.”
“Quite right. I don’t believe Ms. Lunn has sufficiently explained her movements. She is the only other person, after all, with a way in.”
My initial response was to ignore my doubts and defend Pauline. “But did she know Trist? What sort of an altercation would they have had? Why ever would she take him into the library?” I shook my head. “Nothing holds up.”
Although I tried to make a good show of it, I wasn’t entirely convinced of Pauline’s innocence. I blamed this on her brother, Leonard, and that young woman—they were the ones who worried me. They looked shifty enough to be involved in something untoward, but I don’t like the look of them didn’t seem enough to take to the police. How could I find out if they knew Trist? If I learned something, I would take it straight to Sergeant Hopgood, regardless of whether it implicated Pauline. In an enquiry, all parties must be treated equally.
Gathering my notebook and pen, I rose, but paused at the office door and got up the courage to push out into uncharted waters.
“Charles Henry Dill thinks I’m vulnerable, because my background is not in twentieth-century literature.” More to the point, commercial detective fiction. “And I know that has been a . . . concern of yours, too, Mrs. Woolgar. But I’m taking care of it. I’ve already read The Murder at the Vicarage and The Body in the Library. Last night, I started on The Mysterious Affair at Styles. I thought it would be good for me to understand Poirot, too.” Val had recommended that one, and I’d hoped we could discuss it next time we met. If we ever met again.
“No one understands Poirot,” the secretary commiserated. “He of the little gray cells.”
I added, “Also, I’ll skim a couple of Tommy and Tuppence stories. That way I’ll have the writers group’s detectives covered before I go on to another author.”
“Would that we were all as sharp as Jane Marple.”
Buoyed by what I perceived as her support, I edged dangerously toward emotion. “Mrs. Woolgar, I just wanted to say that . . . our recent briefings have been . . . quite . . .”
“Useful?” she offered. Yes, there’s a term that would keep us at arm’s length.
“Yes, that’s it. We are, after all, both dedicated to carrying on Lady Fowling’s vision.”
The secretary gave a curt nod, indicating that was enough bonding for one day.
* * *
* * *
Pauline didn’t seem best pleased to see me walk into the pub, and that made me sad. Did I already look like the enemy to her? I liked her and thought that she and Adele would get along well together. I wasn’t altogether sure that Pauline was gay, but that was something the two women could work out on their own. They certainly seemed to hit it off, and I did so want Adele to find someone nice.
Just not a murderer.
Only one of the six tables at the Minerva was occupied and no one was at the bar, so I climbed up on a stool and smiled.
“Hiya,” Pauline said, not meeting my eye as she loaded glasses into the tiny dishwasher under the counter. “You finished for the day?”
“Oh, well”—I exhaled in a gust and made a show of checking the time—“close enough. I’ll have a glass of red wine, please. And a packet of crisps—lightly salted.”
Pauline filled my order silently and then busied herself with straightening the lineup of bottles on the shelves against the mirror.
“Pauline, could I ask you something?”
She whipped round and put her hands on the counter behind, as if bracing for the worst.
“Look, Hayley, I know I’ve been distracted lately, but the thing is, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. I’ve had to double up on my cleaning schedule, because one of my workers doesn’t. Work, that is. I’m this far from sacking her. I’m not supposed to be coming in here for Leonard this often, but he had someone quit, and so here I am. It’s put me all at sixes and sevens. So, I’m really sorry about that man dying and all, but it has nothing to do with me.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” I replied, wishing she hadn’t sounded so defensive. “Sorry if I’m being a nosey parker, but—is it that young woman I saw you talking with on Monday—is she the one you’re wanting to let go?”
Pauline jutted her chin out in a defiant reaction, but then her body slumped. “Lulu Ingleby,” she said with a bitter tone. “A little slip of a thing, and yet she’s doing a fine job of bollocksing up my life as well as Leonard’s.”
I took a sip of wine and leaned forward, pushing aside the packet of crisps for the moment. “She works for you—I saw her bandanna. And does she work here, too? Is that how your brother knows her?”
“Lulu is Leonard’s girlfriend. He begged me to give her a job as one of my cleaners. She doesn’t work here at the pub—says that she’s allergic to the smell of beer. That doesn’t keep her from swanning in and out of the place several times a day—usually in the process of skiving off an assignment I’ve given her. Or to complain about her flatmate.”
“So, you’re letting her go?”
“I threaten, but so far haven’t had the nerve. Leonard’s quite taken with her and, after all, he’s my brother.” Pauline picked up a bar towel, twisting it, as if to wring it dry.
As an only child, I found that a weak argument. “Is it that you don’t trust her?” When I’d overheard Pauline on the phone earlier with her brother, she’d been accusing someone of stealing—had that someone been Lulu?
“I don’t know what Leonard’s even doing with her,” Pauline complained.
Not the answer I was looking for—not really an answer at all. But still, as annoying as this situation was for her, I looked at this as good news for Pauline. Troubles with Lulu Ingleby—she wasn’t a good cleaner, she wouldn’t work in the pub—were troubles that were separate from the murder enquiry.
Now to sweep away the rest of my worries. “And on top of all that, you’ve got the police asking you questions.” I saw the blinds go down in her eyes and hurried on. “It’s happening to all of us. I’ve been in to see the police twice now, since the day you—we—found the body in the library. And so has Mrs. Woolgar. But of course, they have to be thorough—h
ow else can they solve this crime?”
“They keep asking me about having a key and the code to Middlebank. Of course I have them—and for my other houses, too. I have to be able to go in and out without bothering anyone. But why would I jeopardize my business for a load of old books?”
I ignored her last remark. “And I’m sure that when you talked with them, they asked if you knew any of the group that meets at Middlebank. Didn’t they?”
Pauline nodded. “I’m not entirely sure they believed me when I said I didn’t, because it turns out they had all been in here the evening before—that fellow as well as the rest of the group. Your writers.”
I opened my mouth to protest that they weren’t my writers, but decided to let it slide.
“I never work here on a Wednesday,” Pauline continued, “and I didn’t remember if I’d seen any of them before that. I hate doing the last shift of the evening.” She took a clean glass and absentmindedly dried it. “It means closing up and then cleaning—I do enough of that during the day. And I finish here so late—that’s why I was a bit after my time the next morning.”
I thought about DS Hopgood’s map. Pauline’s name had not been on it. Was that good or bad? “Isn’t your flat out off the London Road?”
“Yeah, and I told police we have CCTV at the building. But they came back to me and said there was something wrong with the feed that night. That isn’t my fault.”
“All you can do is tell the truth,” I said. From the closed look on Pauline’s face, I’d say that was unwelcome advice. “What I mean is—”
Never try to have a serious conversation with a person working behind a bar, because just when you think you can get to the meat of the matter, in comes half a rugby team.
“I’m sorry, Pauline.” I had one more item on my agenda and rushed on. “I know it’s all a mess right now, and you don’t need this on top of everything else. I don’t see why you should have to worry about Lulu’s flatmate. Flatmates can be difficult, can’t they? You don’t have a flatmate, do you—or, you know, a partner or . . . anyone significant?”
The Bodies in the Library Page 17