“Where did that come from?” I asked, pointing at the needle. It looked exactly like the one that had killed Myrtle, theoretically from the pair that Aunt Violet had been using. The second one had disappeared too, pulled out of her knitting project.
“What are you talking about?” The receptionist stood, peering at the countertop. “Oh, you mean this knitting needle?” She picked it up, trying to hand it to me. “Is it yours?”
I backed away, my hands up. “No, it’s not mine. But my aunt had a pair just like that.” I was overreacting, right? There had to be dozens, if not hundreds of pairs of pink knitting needles in Cambridge alone. But the fact that one had turned up in the office of a murder suspect—well, he was a suspect in my mind—couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
The receptionist’s brow cleared. “Did your auntie come to the presentation? We had a number of pensioners attend.” She dimpled. “They all want one of those bungalows.”
“No, my aunt didn’t come to the presentation,” I said between gritted teeth. “Where did that needle come from?”
“Let me think.” She tapped the needle on the edge of counter as she glanced around. Then she pointed with it. “In Clive’s office, on the carpet next to the wall. It caught my eye right away, being pink and all.”
As if hearing his name, the door to the office burst open and Clive hurried out. “Claire, did you—” He broke off when he saw me, practically screeching to a halt on the carpet. “Molly. What are you doing here?”
“I came to give you a check.” I opened my messenger bag and pulled out the envelope. When he didn’t move forward to take it, I placed it on the countertop.
But his eyes were riveted on the needle in Claire’s hand. “Where did that come from?”
She shrugged. “I found it in your office.” The dimples flashed again. “Have you taken up knitting, Clive? I’ve heard a lot of men knit nowadays.”
He scowled. “No. What a ridiculous idea.” He reached for it. “Let me throw it away before someone gets hurt.”
“No.” The loudness of my voice startled even me. They both stared. “We need to call the police. Inspector Ryan needs to see that needle.”
Claire’s penciled brows shot up. “An inspector? But why? It’s only a knitting needle.” She began to examine it. “Am I missing something?”
I was watching Clive’s face. Beyond the bluster, did I see a hint of fear in those watery blue eyes? “Because one just like it was used to kill a woman.”
My cousin’s eyes bugged out. “Someone killed her with a knitting needle? The paper just said she was stabbed. I was in London that night, wasn’t I, Claire?” He made a brusque gesture. “Pull up my calendar.”
Claire gnawed at her bottom lip, her eyes darting back and forth between her boss and me. “Your calendar. Right.” She set the needle down, which promptly rolled off the desk onto the floor, and started tapping on her keyboard.
Clive went for the needle, but I glared at him. “Leave it,” I said. While they both hovered over the computer monitor, I stepped away a few paces, into the adjacent meeting area. Before I called Inspector Ryan and perhaps embarrassed myself beyond redemption, I needed to find something out.
Sir Jon answered right away. “Molly. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I whispered, turning my back. Over at the computer, Clive was reprimanding Claire for not moving fast enough. His barked orders seemed to cause her to fumble even more. “I have a quick question. Is there any way to know what the police took into custody from Aunt Violet’s house?”
Thankfully he didn’t ask any questions. “They always give a receipt, so normally you check that. But in this case, I was there when they searched the house. They were looking for a matching knitting needle, but they didn’t find it.”
I plopped down onto a folding chair, which was harder than it looked. Ouch. “I just did. I think.” My only hope had been that the police had taken the needle before I checked the basket. If they hadn’t, why didn’t the killer leave it there, to frame Aunt Violet?
“Where are you?” Alarm was plain in Sir Jon’s voice. “Are you in danger?”
Over at the computer, the pair was still squabbling. “I don’t think so. I’m at Marlowe Construction. Clive is trying pretty frantically to prove he was out of town when Myrtle died.”
“Hmm,” Sir Jon said. “Like I told you, I’m pretty sure I saw him in Cambridge that evening.”
“I think he’s a big fat fibber,” I whispered into the phone. Not only had he been in Cambridge the night of the reading, he’d acted surprised to hear Myrtle was dead. More evidence that he was up to no good at her flat?
“I’m calling Inspector Ryan right now,” I told Sir Jon. “Talk to you later.” Thankfully I had the inspector’s number in my contacts, added from the card he gave Aunt Violet.
I braced myself for voice mail, but to my surprise, the inspector answered after a couple of rings. “Ryan here.”
Now what? I gulped and said in a rush, “Hi, it’s me, Molly Kimball. Violet Marlowe’s niece.”
“I remember,” he said, his tone heavy with irony. How could he forget me, right? Not only had I discovered a murder victim, he’d seen me at the victim’s home twice. “Did you find some more evidence?”
Thanks for the opening. “Actually, yes.” I turned to look at the counter, where the pink needle once again sat on the ledge. Claire and Clive were still fussing over the computer. “I’m at Clive Marlowe’s office and someone left a pink knitting needle here.”
“A pink knitting needle, hmm.” I distinctly heard laughter in his voice. “Those aren’t exactly uncommon, you realize.”
I jumped up and began to pace. “I know that. But you have to admit it’s strange. Especially since Clive was in Cambridge around six p.m. the night Myrtle was killed. Claims to the contrary.”
His tone sharpened. “How do you know that?”
My pacing had brought me near a podium, where a loose-leaf binder lay open. “Sir Jon told me. He saw Clive at a pub near the railway station.” The top page was dated, and below it was a list of names. The Cherry Hinton presentation, maybe?
“Did he now.” Ryan sighed. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right over.” He confirmed the address before hanging up.
I read over the list of names on the slight chance that Claire had been right and one of the attendees had left the knitting needle behind. None of the names were familiar, but I took a photograph anyway.
“Molly,” Clive called. “Can you please come over here?” It sounded as though he was gritting his teeth.
“Sure.” I sauntered over to the counter, not in any particular hurry. “Inspector Ryan is coming right over.” I stabbed a finger at the needle. “He’s very interested in seeing that.”
Claire gasped theatrically. “He is? But why?” She turned the monitor to face me. “Clive was in London. See? This is his calendar.”
More to humor her than anything, I took a good look at the calendar, which included his travel arrangements. He’d gone up in the morning—and had been scheduled to return the next day.
Clive stood with his arms folded across his chest, nodding in satisfaction. “This proves it. I was nowhere near the bookshop when Myrtle was killed.”
His loyal assistant gasped again. “Who would ever think such a thing? Someone like you, a well-respected businessman, a community leader?”
“Good question.” I stared at Clive until he met my eyes. “Especially someone who always operates on the up-and-up.”
I knew he understood my insinuation when his beefy face reddened. “You need to look a little closer to home, miss.” He wagged a finger at me. “Your aunt has made a right hash of things. Served her right that Myrtle was going to make a claim. She was all for the Best Books deal.”
This was war. “I’ll bet she was. Myrtle loved money. Why would she care if centuries of history were lost forever?” By the heat in my cheeks, I guessed my face was as flushed as his. “Too bad her claim was ill-founded. There was a will.” If only we could find it. “Aunt Violet is the rightful owner.”
Claire looked back and forth between us, puzzled and shocked by our animosity. “I’m going to put on the kettle. A nice cup of tea will help.” She fled into the back room.
With an effort, I put aside the argument over Myrtle. That threat at least had been nullified. Locating the envelope, I waved it. “This is another payment on the loan. We’re ahead of schedule now, Clive. And we’re planning to keep it that way until you get every dime. Er, shilling.”
We glared at each other in a standoff. Then movement at the front door caught my eye. Inspector Ryan and Sergeant Adhikari had arrived.
Clive’s ruddy complexion went white. “You really did call them.”
I rested my hands on my hips. “Unlike some people, I say what I mean.” I hesitated over my next words. Oh why not, we’d crossed the Rubicon and were now openly enemies. “You might want to rethink your story about London.”
Naturally Inspector Ryan booted me off the premises before he started questioning Clive. I did have a chance to explain why I was at the office and how I had spotted the needle sitting there. And to mention the disappearance of the second needle the night Myrtle died.
Pedaling home, one of the inspector’s comments rang in my mind. “I’ll give you this, Miss Kimball, you are one of the most observant people I’ve ever met.” He’d seemed almost reluctantly admiring.
I chalked up this ability to my native curiosity plus a splash of obstinacy, both of which were indispensable as a librarian. Roadblocks and leads that petered out only energized my determination to track down answers.
As I wheeled into the bookshop’s back gate, I realized something surprising. My skills appeared to be quite transferable—to a murder investigation.
Mum and Aunt Violet were in the kitchen making dinner. Savory aromas from a roasting chicken greeted me along with the welcome sight of Mum whipping potatoes with a hand mixer. Mum’s mashed potatoes were to die for, creamy with lots of butter and milk.
“What can I do to help?” I asked, slipping off my messenger bag.
“Set the table?” Aunt Violet asked. She inserted a thermometer into the golden brown chicken to see if it was done. Nodding in satisfaction, she shut off the oven.
I moved toward the dish cupboards. “Sure, I can do that.” While I laid out dishes and silverware, I told them about my visit to Clive’s office.
Aunt Violet stared at me, a gravy whisk suspended above the pot. “He had my knitting needle?”
“Or one that looked exactly like it.” I placed napkins at each setting. “Claire really thought someone had left it by accident. Apparently, they had a lot of people attending a presentation about a new bungalow development recently.”
Mum scooped the potatoes into a bowl. “That could be. Or one of them did it on purpose, knowing that it would implicate Clive.”
I hadn’t even thought of that. “You mean it was planted? That was kind of risky.”
“Well, Molly,” she said as she set the bowl on the table. Near my seat, I noticed. “We are dealing with a killer. And whoever it is, they must have nerves of steel. Myrtle was killed only yards away from quite a large gathering.”
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Aunt Violet poured gravy into a jug. “Can you come get this, Molly?”
I ferried the gravy to the table, followed by the platter of meat Aunt Violet had carved and Brussels sprouts for a green. Soon we were seated around the table digging in. I had Puck on one side and Clarence on the other, both hoping for samples of chicken. Puck was teaching an old cat new tricks, I realized with a smile. I may or may not have dropped a few morsels.
“So anyway,” I said after the first few mouthfuls. “Besides the knitting needle showing up, remember how Sir Jon saw Clive near the railway station the night of Myrtle’s death? I reminded Inspector Ryan about that little fact.”
“And the inspector has Clive’s blackmail picture from Myrtle’s flat,” Mum said. “It’s all pretty incriminating.”
“Poor Clive.” I didn’t mean it. “I’m sure he’s not having a very good evening.”
After dessert—apple pie with ice cream—we adjourned to the new meeting room, where Aunt Violet had set up a table. Here Mum and I would examine The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and The Marvelous Land of Oz, the first two entries in Baum’s fourteen-book series. Aunt Violet carted in several reference books as I set up my laptop. Before proceeding, Mum and I washed our hands rather than don gloves, the latest thinking regarding rare books. Gloves could catch and tear fragile paper.
While lathering up in the loo, I thought about the night of Myrtle’s death. I’d already theorized that someone might have used the loo’s kitchen door to sneak out into the back garden and kill her. And they could have done the same to snag the second needle, after. Or come through in reverse, joining us at the reading.
Maybe it hadn’t been someone attending the reading. The killer might have entered the house through one of the two back doors—kitchen and back hallway—to grab the needles. Clive had been to the shop many times and he no doubt knew that Aunt Violet was an avid knitter. I sighed. Too many doors, too many suspects, too many possibilities.
As I dried my hands, I could only hope that Clive would confess to Myrtle’s murder. That would wrap everything up neatly. But I had a sinking feeling that answers wouldn’t be so easily forthcoming.
“Are you ready?” Aunt Violet asked once we were seated at the table, the beautiful old books waiting in front of us.
Mum and I exchanged looks and giggles. “I feel like I’m back in school,” Mum said.
Aunt Violet gave us a mock frown. “That’s because you are. Listen up, ladies.” Playing along, we cleared our throats and sat up straight. “The important factors to keep in mind while valuing books are these: edition, condition, and scarcity. Let’s begin with identifying the edition. The Oz books were extremely popular and published by more than one company.”
As instructed, we turned to the copyright page of the first book. Here, after consulting the handy Oz value guide, we determined that this particular Wonderful Wizard of Oz was a first edition with a “C” binding, published by Geo. M. Hill, Co. The Marvelous Land of Oz was a 1904 first edition from Reilly and Britton, who published the series from the second book on. Also taken under consideration was the so-called state of the book, which accounted for corrections mid-printing of an edition and other changes. Ours were both second state, which meant lower values but, in this series, still extremely valuable.
Working together, we came up with suggested values and our rationale for Aunt Violet’s confirmation. “Good work,” she said with approval, agreeing with our value range. “Tomorrow you can do the other twelve books.”
Mum and I looked at each other and groaned, mostly for Aunt Violet’s benefit. We’d both had a great time examining the gorgeous classics.
“Don’t worry,” Aunt Violet went on. “The first pass gets easier and faster, almost second nature. But you absolutely need to verify the details. When your conclusions are challenged—and they will be—you need to be able to defend them.”
Verify details and defend conclusions. I could see some similarities between valuing books and solving mysteries. But when it came to murder, the stakes were of course much, much higher.
That night, after I got into bed, I opened Joan’s journal to the next entry. Her voice had been in the back of my mind all day, snippets of what she’d written floating through my thoughts. With a purring Puck curled up next to me, I began reading.
The next few entries focused on the lectures and tutorials Joan attended and, more interesting to me, her dates with Gregory. They went to a pub for dinner and darts, and to a movie, and they punted on the river.
Joan Watson’s journal
Sigh. What could be more romantic? Gregory and I went punting on Sunday, only the two of us and a picnic basket. He was quite good at it, really, only almost falling in once. After punting along the Backs, we found a private spot under weeping willows and feasted on roast beef sandwiches and bottled beer.
Then we snuggled and talked about all kinds of things. Life. College. Our friends. He kissed me several times but remained a gentleman. Unlike the fumbling we spotted in other punts. Some people have no shame. That’s all I’ll say about that.
But Gregory … he’s perfect. And maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but I can’t help but wonder, what will Mummy think?
I also wondered what her mother would think. From what I knew of England sixty years ago, class was often a dividing line. Archaic as it seemed, Gregory’s world was quite a stretch for a farmer’s daughter. Opposition would probably come from both families.
The next journal entry mentioned Persephone.
One of my secret hopes has come true and I can scarcely believe it. I’ve been invited to a very small writer’s group here at St. Hildegard’s. As Persephone Brightwell put it, it’s a place to share, be inspired, and grow. She hopes that we can co-publish a volume of short stories and poetry in the second term. Ruth Orforo, who hopes to work in publishing, has offered to edit and print. It’s a dream come true. Only now I have to write something print-worthy.
That was exciting, and I wondered what had become of the group, if they ever had published. Maybe Persephone could tell me. Turning the page, I spotted Myrtle’s name. So far, she’d been a minor player in the group, mentioned at outings but not a central figure in the action.
What a dreary night. Cold and rainy, with a creeping wind that whispers winter. After dinner, I holed up in my room to do some reading. Not easy when I keep seeing Gregory’s face instead of the words on the page.
The knock on the door came as a welcome interruption. Myrtle, who lives next door, holding a mug. “Can I trouble you for a tea bag? I hate to go out in this weather.” We all had electric kettles and kept a supply of cocoa powder, tea bags, and instant coffee in our rooms.
Glad for an excuse to stop studying, I suggested that she join me for a cup. After we made our tea, I sat in my chair and she took the bed.
“This is so nice,” Myrtle said, blowing on her hot tea. “When-ever I thought about going to college, I always imagined chummy nights in with friends.”
She sounded wistful, and I immediately felt bad about not inviting her over more often. But I’d been so busy and, quite frankly, there was something about her that put me off. Maybe I’d misjudged her.
“Yes, there’s nothing like a natter with a good friend,” I said.
“Especially about boys, am I right?” She smiled at me. “You and Gregory seem to be getting on quite well.”
I ducked my head, trying to hide a foolish grin. “We are,” I said lightly. “He’s a good sort.” Putting it mildly.
She was silent for a moment, her finger tracing the design on the bedspread. “No skeletons in the closet, then?” She laughed. “All those families have them, don’t they?”
My hackles stood up. What was she getting at? Gregory’s family was wealthy, yes, but did that mean they had more secrets than say, my family?
“I don’t know what you mean,” I finally said. “He’s pretty straightforward about things.” He’d even told me about his parents pushing Fiona as a match.
Myrtle eyed me and I noticed the calculation in her gaze. “That’s good,” she said. “I hope … well, anyway.” She laughed.
“So what is it your father does?” she asked after an uncomfortable silence. “You’re from Hazelhurst, right?”
“He’s a dairy farmer.” I muttered the words, not liking being questioned about my family. Too many of my fellow students pigeonholed people by their backgrounds. Dairy farming, as you might guess, came fairly low in the pecking order.
“Interesting,” she said, gazing around my room. “He must do well. The school fees here are quite high. My parents, well thankfully, I had a little money from my Gram. But I’m living on birdseed.” Her mouth twisted.
“Tell me about it,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I’m a scholarship student.” How soon could I get rid of this nosy woman?
“Ah,” she said. “Good for you.” A pause, then, “What do you think about Ruth and her friend? Catherine, is it?”
The abrupt change of subject startled me. “I don’t think anything. Why?”
Now it was her turn to duck her head. But I still saw the sly expression on her face. “No reason.” She traced her finger over the pattern. “I think they’re … odd, that’s all” She gave a nasty little laugh. “Always together. Inseparable, almost.”
I was only half done with my tea but I stood, now desperate to get rid of her. “I’m sorry, Myrtle, this has been nice, but I really need to get back to work. I’m so behind.”
She grumbled a bit but finally left, another of my tea bags in her hand. I would have given her the whole tin if I’d had to. I didn’t know what Myrtle’s game was, but I certainly wasn’t going to play.
Here was Myrtle in action, and to be honest, it chilled me, especially after hearing Ruth’s story. Her motivation was laid bare as well, an attempt to keep up with the better-heeled students she probably envied.
The question was, did Myrtle’s schemes have anything to do with Joan’s death, or were there more secrets to unfold?