Gabe protested only once when I said I wanted to join them in the bookbinder’s shop. I didn’t need to protest a second time. Willie did it for me. Her lecture on equality for women was met with a groan from Alex and a shrug from Gabe. It must be a variation of a lecture she’d given before.
After a word with Gabe, the constable guarding the front door disappeared inside. He emerged a moment later and held the door open. “Detective Inspector Bailey says to go in. Mind the blood.”
Only Willie noticed my shudder. “Don’t spill your breakfast or I’ll never hear the end of it from Alex. Now, buck up. We’re women. We’ve seen worse.”
She might have, but I hadn’t.
There was less blood than I expected, however. Droplets were splattered on the floor near the door, but there weren’t pools of it.
Cyclops greeted us gravely. He took my presence in his stride, even steering me by the elbow around the dried blood, as if civilians at crime scenes was entirely natural. “Everything is more or less as we found it.”
I looked past him and my heart sank to my stomach. A table in the center of the small shop had been overturned. Several books lay scattered nearby, some open, face down, their hand-stitched spines straining. I resisted the urge to pick them up and find space for them on one of the other display tables or bookshelves.
There was no point anyway. The shop was a mess. Books, tools, and papers were everywhere. Drawers lay open and emptied, the contents scattered. Shelves were bare, and furniture was broken.
The space housed Mr. Littleproud’s workshop at the back. A door led through to a tiny room with a bed in it but little else. For an industry that was mostly done on a large scale with machinery nowadays, this one-man business operated with traditional equipment. From where I stood, I could see uncut pages on the floor near one of the two tables alongside binder’s boards, rulers and cutters. The splintered half of a sewing frame sat on one of the tables, the other half in the shadows somewhere. A press with heavy cast iron legs was the only thing that looked to be in its rightful place, in front of the second work table.
From what I could make out from the mess, Mr. Littleproud was very skilled. Lady Stanhope had claimed the paper in her purchases were magician-made, but I wondered if the bookbinder was a magician himself. He was a master craftsman, after all, although he didn’t create the source materials he worked with. I suspected a magician bookbinder worked the same way as a magician watchmaker. He could assemble artless-made parts that held no magic, and put them together quickly, easily and flawlessly by hand without using a spell. The use of a spell would enhance their superior quality further, perhaps make the books unbreakable, until the spell wore off.
I breathed deeply to draw the scent of paper and leather into my lungs, only to gag and cough. Either the smell of death clogged my throat or the idea of it did. I quickly swallowed the rising bile before anyone saw. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quick enough. Willie scowled at me, daring me to embarrass her after she’d stood up for me outside.
Gabe placed a hand on my lower back. “Do you need fresh air?”
“I’m fine.” I moved to inspect the books on the floor near the overturned display table.
“Don’t touch anything yet,” Cyclops said. “The scene has been processed, but Gabe and Alex need to have a good look around before things are put to rights.”
“And me,” Willie snapped. “I’ve got eyes too.”
“But you’re not on the police force in any official capacity.”
“And whose fault is that? If women were allowed to join, I’d be a great detective.”
Cyclops snorted. “Detective work requires patience and focused observation. You’ve got the patience and focus of a five-year-old.”
She tossed him a rude hand gesture that had him chuckling into his chest.
I inspected the crime scene, starting with the books that had been on display. They were lovely examples of Mr. Littleproud’s skill, with cloth or leather covers decorated with patterns, floral borders or images, all in gold or done with colored stamps. Most sported corner protectors, some in worked silver, others of plain brass. I was relieved to see the books weren’t damaged.
I was about to inspect the workshop area when one fallen book caught my eye. Two drops of blood marked the beautiful leather cover decorated with a design of gold strapwork in interlocking inlays of green, gold and red leather. There was no other blood in the immediate vicinity.
Gabe came up alongside me. “You can pick them up soon,” he said gently.
I pointed to the book with the blood droplets. “There’s more blood here.”
He crouched to get a better look then stood again. He returned to the front door, inspecting the floor as he went.
“You say he was tortured,” Alex said to his father. “What evidence led to that conclusion?”
“There were signs of strangulation.” Cyclops tugged on his stiff shirt collar. “There was blood under his fingernails, but it could have been his own as he tried to remove whatever was around his neck. One arm was broken, as if it had been wrenched behind his back. His legs and torso were badly beaten, his face less so, but he had been hit in the jaw. He’d lost a tooth. We found it near the counter.”
I winced and tried to focus on the books, something familiar and comforting.
“The autopsy will reveal how he died,” Cyclops went on. “It wasn’t obvious which particular injury killed him.”
“He didn’t bleed to death.” Gabe indicated the blood splatters. “There’s not enough.”
“He may have bled internally.”
I moved to the workshop near the back where Alex was looking over the contents on and near one of the tables. The tools of a bookbinder’s trade were strewn about. Two needles protruded from a pincushion shaped like an open book, and another two had rolled into a ruler. A set of bone tools used for folding paper littered the floor, and unwound spools of thread lay in a tangled pile nearby.
Alex opened a long box he found and pulled out lengths of woven fabric strips. “What are these?”
“Endbands,” I said. “They go at the top and bottom of the spine.”
He found more boxes containing lengths of ribbons. The boxes had probably been arranged in color order in a drawer, but the killer had tossed the boxes out. Luckily the lids had remained in place and the ribbons inside were untouched and untangled.
“Bookmarks,” I told Alex.
We found square boxes full of corner protectors made from various metals. Like the ribbons, they’d stayed in their boxes, but each box had been pulled out of its drawer and thrown aside. I dug my fingers through the most intricately worked silver corner protectors, letting them cascade through my fingers like water. If they held magic, I couldn’t feel it.
Would I feel magic if it existed anywhere in this shop? I wasn’t entirely convinced yet that I was a magician of any description.
Alex turned to the wall of empty shelves behind us then looked down. He indicated the lengths of colored cloths that lay unrolled on the floor near our feet. “For book covers?”
I nodded. “The bookbinder cuts whichever one his customer wants to size then starches it to stiffen it.”
Gabe joined us and we all looked upon the uncut endpapers that covered the floor like a patchwork blanket. There must have been hundreds of them. They were in an array of colors, many of them marbled with others patterned like wallpaper. I crouched and fingered one of the thicker papers edged in gold. It was smooth to touch.
“Lovely,” I said on a breath.
Behind me, Willie clicked her tongue. “The killer turned it over real good. Nothing’s where it should be.”
“They were looking for something,” Cyclops agreed.
“A book, do you reckon? Or the books sold to Lady Stanhope, maybe.”
Cyclops made his way through the wreckage to the front counter and found the sales ledger. He flipped the pages as he returned to us then handed it to Gabe. “The sale to Lady Stanhope isn’t recorded.”
Gabe ran his finger down the date column of the last page before handing the ledger back to Cyclops. “We don’t know if the killer wanted those particular books. He might have been looking for something else. The murder could be unrelated.” From his tone, it was clear he didn’t think so.
“What else could a bookbinder have worth taking?” Willie asked, looking around. “Worth murdering for?”
“Do you know if anything is missing?” Alex asked his father.
“It’s hard to say, given the state of the shop. But there was money in the cash register so it wasn’t a theft gone wrong.” Cyclops tucked the ledger under his arm as he also surveyed the mess. “I think the intruder came here looking for something specific, most likely the magician-made untitled books. He killed Littleproud when the bookbinder tried to stop him then searched the shop. When he didn’t find what he wanted, he realized the books could have been sold so checked the ledger. That’s why it was lying open on the counter to the last page when everything else has been tossed onto the floor.”
Gabe walked over to the blood splatters near the door. “I think you’re partially right. But why murder Littleproud before finding the books? It’s not logical. I think the intruder tried to ask him, but he refused to answer. The intruder then beat up Littleproud in an attempt to force the answer from him, but he went too far and Littleproud died.”
I shuddered. It was so macabre, it almost didn’t seem real.
We stood about in silence as we considered the horror of Gabe’s theory. It certainly made sense and explained why the shop was shambolic. The killer couldn’t find what he was looking for, most likely because the books had already been sold. It also explained the terrible injuries inflicted on Adolphus Littleproud.
Alex indicated the sales ledger under his father’s arm. “I agree with your theory, simply because Lady Stanhope isn’t dead, nor has her house been broken into.” He raised his brows at Cyclops who nodded. “If whoever did this knew she’d purchased the books, she’d be in danger too.”
“If the killer was after her books,” Willie pointed out.
We all gave her arched looks.
She put up her hands. “All right, all right. You don’t believe in coincidences, so it’s likely her books are the ones the killer wants.”
“We’ll call on her and warn her,” Gabe said. “After we speak to the widow.”
Alex picked up pieces of a broken chair. “Not me. I’ll stay and tidy up if you’ve finished processing the crime scene.”
Cyclops squeezed his son’s shoulder and gave him a sad smile. “Mrs. Littleproud will appreciate that. I’ll ask the constable to assist you.” He checked his notebook for the widow’s address and wrote it down for Gabe. “She’s staying with her sister for the timebeing.”
Outside, Willie cranked the engine of the Hudson, while Gabe sat behind the steering wheel. As he pulled the ignition switch, he half-turned to me, seated in the back.
“Are you all right, Sylvia? That was probably too overwhelming for your first murder. Sorry. I should have been more considerate. For me, death has become normal. Too normal.”
My fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, caress his cheek to soothe and reassure him. I balled my hand into a tight fist and forced a smile instead. “While it was awful, it wasn’t…affecting, if that makes sense. I never met Mr. Littleproud so I suppose his death feels unreal. It’s like watching a moving picture on screen, except in color.”
Willie swore loudly as the engine kicked back. She shook out her hand and swore again at the motor. Cyclops offered to crank the engine for her but she gave him such a cold glare that he stepped back onto the pavement, hands in the air. She tried again and this time the engine rumbled to life.
She climbed into the front passenger seat and stored the crank handle on the floor near the door. She rubbed her hand. “Why didn’t you bring the Vauxhall?”
“This is more comfortable with four,” Gabe said.
“I hate this old thing. It’s time to get something newer.”
Gabe steered the motorcar away from the curb. “I do have something newer. The Vauxhall Prince Henry. Anyway, this one’s not very old and until it completely gives up, my parents will keep her.” He patted the steering wheel. “There’s nothing stopping you from buying a motorcar of your own, Willie.”
“There is. It’s called money. I ain’t got none.”
“You would if you worked.”
“Who’d employ me?”
Gabe didn’t have an answer for that.
We drove to Mrs. Littleproud’s sister’s home, located in a nice middle-class suburb some distance from the shop. Gabe parked the motorcar outside the semi-detached house. None of us immediately got out.
I voiced something that had been on my mind during the drive. “What I don’t understand is, a bookbinder binds books for his customers. He’s not a bookseller. So why did he sell those particular books, the ones Lady Stanhope bought? Where did they come from and why did he have them in his possession? And how did the killer know about them?”
Gabe rested his arm on the seat and turned to me. “Something led him to Mr. Littleproud’s shop the night before last, mere hours after she purchased them. Whatever it was, he wanted the books so desperately he tortured Littleproud to get them.” He heaved out a breath and indicated the house. “Ready?”
“I’ll stay here,” Willie said. “I hate talking to widows. Unless they’re the merry kind.”
Mrs. Littleproud’s sister led us through to the parlor after we introduced ourselves and stayed for the interview. Both sisters were in their early fifties, their gray hair swept up in a pompadour style common among ladies their age. Mrs. Littleproud was a stout woman with broad hands that clutched her handkerchief tightly. Her face showed signs of distress, in her red eyes and deeply furrowed brow, but she bravely welcomed us and thanked us for investigating her husband’s murder.
“Does Scotland Yard employ women now?” she asked politely.
“Not yet,” I said. “I’m a librarian at the Glass Library.”
“India Glass’s magic library?”
I smiled. Many people thought of it as magical, even though the books in the collection were about magic, and few actually contained it. “Given the possibility this crime involves magic, Mr. Glass has asked me to assist him in his investigation. He’s India Glass’s—Lady Rycroft’s—son.”
“I see. And what do you mean, the crime involves magic?” Mrs. Littleproud asked.
“We think the murderer was looking for some books in your husband’s possession that were made with magic paper.”
She clutched her throat and swallowed hard.
“You know which books I’m referring to?”
“Yes. Although he’d had them in his shop for years, he only told me about them a few weeks ago.”
“Years?” Gabe prompted. “Do you know how many?”
“About thirty. He couldn’t recall precisely when they were brought in, but it was around then. When he finally decided to retire, he told me about them. He assured me we’d be well off because he was going to sell them. He said the books had magic in the pages and were handwritten by a well-known author. He hoped they’d sell for a small fortune at auction. We were going to use the money to buy a cottage in the country.” Her chin wobbled as tears welled in her eyes.
Her sister clasped Mrs. Littleproud’s hands. “Take your time, dear.”
When she was ready, Gabe asked another question. “Do you know how they came into your husband’s possession?”
“A customer brought them in for binding but never returned to collect them. Adolphus held onto them in case he did, but…” She shrugged. “Apparently the customer was a collector of magical objects and knew the manuscripts were written on magic paper.”
“Was your husband a magician? Is that why the collector came to him?”
She smiled wistfully as she tapped the handkerchief against her breast. “Adolphus was a bookbinder magician, but he didn’t know any spells. His work was exceptional, though, even without them. His customers came from all over the country after your mother made it possible for magicians to live openly alongside artless craftsmen.” She offered Gabe a small smile before tears welled in her eyes again.
“Did Mr. Littleproud tell you the name of the collector who brought the manuscripts to him?” Gabe asked.
She touched the handkerchief to the corner of her eye and shook her head.
“Does the name Honoria Moffat-Jones mean anything to you?”
“Was she the author of the books?”
“They’re her unpublished manuscripts.”
“I wonder if she was aware the collector possessed them.”
It was something we needed to establish. Honoria Moffat-Jones may have nothing to do with her stories finding their way to Mr. Littleproud’s shop, but if there was a link, we needed to uncover it. It could lead us to the killer.
Mrs. Littleproud teased the damp handkerchief between her fingers. “Adolphus should have made a greater effort to contact the customer after he failed to collect the bound books.”
“I’m sure he tried everything within his power,” her sister said.
Mrs. Littleproud shook her head. “When he told me about them, I asked if he’d tried contacting the customer over the years. He was evasive, claiming it wasn’t his responsibility. I think as time passed, he became more and more confident they wouldn’t be collected.”
“Did your husband keep records going back that far?” Gabe asked.
“If he did, they’ll be in the shop.”
“What about the silver corner protectors?” I asked. “Is it possible the collector who brought in the pages for binding also provided the corner protectors for your husband to use on the covers?”
“I doubt it. Adolphus had a variety of metals and styles on hand, some of them finely engraved. He bought them in bulk from suppliers. If they were magic ones, I suppose the customer could have brought them in and requested he use them. If he was a collector of magical objects and the protectors contain magic, it even makes sense. Do they contain magic, Miss Ashe?”
“We’re not sure. The new owner of the books told me Mr. Littleproud mentioned only the magical paper.”
“Oh? You know who purchased them?”
I glanced at Gabe, worried I’d revealed too much.
“Yes,” he said.
Mrs. Littleproud’s eyes darkened. “Adolphus said he had a potential buyer coming to the shop.” Her chin wobbled. “That conversation was the last I had with him.” She sobbed into her handkerchief.
Gabe waited until she regained her composure before asking his next question. “His death occurred around midnight. Does he usually work that late?”
“Sometimes. When he does, he stays overnight so as not to disturb me. There’s a bed in the back room at the shop, and he keeps a few personal items there. When he doesn’t come home, I visit him first thing in the morning and take him a sandwich and a Thermos full of tea. That’s why I was the first to come across his body.” Her pitch rose, bursting into a sob at the end. She buried her face in her handkerchief.
Her sister wrapped her arm around Mrs. Littleproud and indicated with a jerk of her head that we should leave.
Gabe and I rose, but Mrs. Littleproud gathered herself and asked us to sit again. “There’s something I need to tell you. In the days leading up to his death, my husband was worried. I tried to find out why, but he wouldn’t say. Looking back, I’m quite sure it had something to do with the auction catalog.”
“What auction catalog?” Gabe asked.
“He was going to sell the books at auction. He hoped that would bring a higher price. But after the auction house’s catalog came out last week, he became nervous. He pretended everything was fine when I asked what troubled him, but I know Adolphus. He was wary when he came home from the shop the day after the catalog was issued.”
Gabe frowned. “I don’t understand. The books were sold privately. Are you saying he was going to auction them but changed his mind?”
“He must have, yes. The auction was scheduled for next month.”
Lady Stanhope had told me the bookbinder contacted her and asked if she wanted to purchase them. She was becoming known amongst magician circles as a collector, and a wealthy one at that. If Mr. Littleproud wanted a quick sale, it made sense to negotiate with her instead of waiting for the auction. He would have had to accept less, however.
“I don’t have the catalog here, but there’s a copy at home. I can give it to you after I return tomorrow.”
Her sister patted her hand. “You’re welcome to remain here for as long as you need.”
“I can’t stay forever.”
“We don’t recommend you return home just yet,” Gabe said. “The killer hasn’t found those books. It’s possible he’ll search your house next.”
Mrs. Littleproud clutched her throat.
“But he doesn’t know where she lives,” her sister pointed out.
“It won’t be too difficult to find the address.”
The murder was two days ago. It was likely the killer had already been through the house searching for the books while Mrs. Littleproud was here. “We can check for you,” I offered.
“Would you? That would be a relief. I’ll fetch my key.”
While she went to get the key, Gabe asked her sister for the telephone number. A few minutes later, she saw us out.
Willie was asleep on the front seat of the motorcar, her hat pulled low over her eyes. She awoke with a start when Gabe opened the door. She yawned and sat up. “How’d it go?”
He picked up the crank handle. “About as well as can be expected. We learned a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Sylvia will tell you while I crank the engine.”
She turned to me. “What did you learn?”
She interrupted my account so often that I hadn’t finished by the time Gabe took his place behind the wheel. “If you’d joined us, you wouldn’t need to ask so many questions,” he said as he pulled the motorcar away from the curb.
“I was making sure no kidnappers followed us and lurked in the vicinity.”
“With your eyes closed?”
Willie grunted. “Don’t get smart with your elders, young man.”
He drove the short distance to the Littleprouds’ house. Being so far from the Paternoster Row shop in the city, Mr. Littleproud would have to catch a train to work. It was no wonder he stayed at the shop overnight if he decided to work late.
The house was a small semi-detached similar to Mrs. Littleproud’s sister’s home. A path led from the front gate to the porch, carving through stands of purple foxglove swaying in the breeze on their long stems. The path and porch were neat and clean, and there wasn’t a weed in sight.
Gabe inserted the key into the front door but didn’t turn it. The door opened. It wasn’t locked. He pushed it open further.
Willie clicked her tongue as she peered past him. “Looks like the killer’s already been.”
The carpet runner was bunched up on one side of the narrow hall where someone had shoved it aside to inspect what lay underneath. But it was the kitchen at the end of the hall that made my heart sink. From what little of it I could see from the front door, it had been turned over, just like the shop on Paternoster Row.