Aunt Violet sucked in a sharp breath. She thumped her fist on the table, making a spoon clatter. “George Flowers. What are you on about?”
The rest of us were equally shocked, although Sir Jon’s reaction was muted, merely a flare of his nostrils.
George hunched his shoulders, tracing a circle on the tabletop with his forefinger. “Myrtle owed me a lot of money. I’m her landlord, you see, over on Ivy Close,” he said. “And she was seriously in arrears. Months, as a matter of fact. I had to threaten eviction.”
“Hard to get your money if she’s deceased,” Sir Jon said crisply.
“True.” George’s lips twisted in a brief smile. “Unfortunately, she and I had a quite a row yesterday morning. I think the whole street heard it.” He waved one meaty hand. “She kept promising to get caught up. ‘I’ve got a windfall coming,’ she’d say. ‘I’ll take care of it.’ But I’ve got bills to pay, I told her. I can’t pay them with promises.” As he went on, his already ruddy complexion deepened to beet red. “And before you accuse me of cruelty to a pensioner, I know she was well-off. One look at her flat would tell you that.”
Aunt Violet pursed her lips. “Interesting. She was always on about how much things cost, how hard it was to survive on her pension.”
I thought of Myrtle and her free dinner. “I think she also convinced Steve at the pub that she was poor. She ate there without paying the other night.”
“That sounds just like Myrtle,” George said. “She could identify a soft touch at a hundred paces.” His expression was chagrined. “She hit me up more than once ’til I caught on.”
“You’re a good man, George,” Aunt Violet declared. “And no one will ever convince me otherwise.”
“That’s right,” Mum agreed. “We need to look elsewhere.”
George inclined his head, trying to hide a pleased smile. “Thank you kindly.”
Sir Jon cleared his throat and we all looked at him. “I’d like to know where that promised windfall was coming from. Not to speak ill of the dead, but your Myrtle sounds a wee bit shifty. My spidey senses are tingling.”
Coming from a former secret agent, that intuition meant something. “Mine too,” I said. “And I think someone killed her here to implicate you, Aunt Violet. Or you, George.” Resolve and determination hardened in my mid-section. “And we’re not going to let them get away with it.”
Sir Jon sent me an approving look. “That’s the spirit.” He circled a finger, including us all. “With the brains and talent around this table, I think we can get to the bottom of this.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Not that I’m discounting the police, mind you. But they have to follow a narrow set of rules.” His infectious grin transformed his face, making him look decades younger. I could understand the swooning now, for sure. “We don’t have that problem.”
Hope lit Aunt Violet’s face and George gave a thoughtful nod. As for Mum, she glanced over at me with lifted brows. I smiled at her, guessing what she was thinking. Our Cambridge adventure had taken yet another twist, but it was too late to turn back now. We had to save Aunt Violet. And George.
Something tickling my cheek woke me. I opened my eyes to find Puck sitting on my chest and staring down at me, yellow eyes blinking. His whiskers twitched, as if he was saying, Do I need to do that again?
With a laugh, I turned to look at the clock. “Is it time to get up?” Good. It was after seven. Not too early. Gently placing him aside, I scooted to an upright position. “I bet you need to go out, don’t you?”
I hadn’t even thought about a litter box for the little guy. Clarence had one but I didn’t want to start Cat War III by letting Puck use that.
He waited patiently while I threw on jeans and a T-shirt, then found my sneakers under the bed. My plan today, besides helping in the shop, was to begin my Books in the Wild project. Building off Persephone’s reading last night, I wanted to feature famous local poets in our first social media campaign. Cambridge had a slew of them to choose from, with wonderful former haunts to photograph.
My heart thumped as I remembered my most important mission—we had a murder to investigate. The St. Hildegard’s friends were on my list to talk to, along with Steve at the pub. In addition, George was going to see if his other tenants and neighbors knew anything. Hopefully, as Sir Jon had assured us, one piece of information would lead to another.
I tied my sneakers and grabbed the cat, eager to begin the day. First up, feed Puck, then go get coffee.
The lane was quiet this morning, with no visible trace of the police activity last night. Puck and I crossed the cobblestones toward the tea shop, enjoying the touch of morning sun slanting down between the ancient buildings. At the pub, Susie was sweeping the entrance, and guests were enjoying breakfast in the small courtyard behind the Holly & Ivy Inn, where Ruth was staying. Aunt Violet should contact her before she went back to London.
“Good morning,” Daisy greeted me as I entered the tea shop, poor Puck left on the other side of the door. Her blue eyes studied me with concern. “How are you, love?”
“I’m okay, considering.” Glancing around, I noticed that the tea shop was empty for the moment, so I could speak freely. “We put a team together last night to investigate Myrtle’s death. Do you want to help us?”
She paused in the middle of making me a filter coffee. “An investigation? Really?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Not to slight the police, but Aunt Violet and George are the main suspects.” I moved closer to the counter, lowering my voice as I quickly told her about George’s problems with Myrtle and her mention of a mysterious windfall. “So with Sir Jon’s guidance, Mum, Aunt Violet, George, and I are going to see what we can find out. Maybe she owed other people money as well.”
“That does sound intriguing.” Daisy set my coffee on the counter. “Don’t you find it odd that someone killed her during the reading, though? I mean, why then? Why not another time?”
I took the first heavenly sip. “I was wondering that myself. Was it because the reading distracted everyone? Or was the killer there because of the reading?”
Daisy’s voice was a whisper. “Do you mean her friends from college?”
I thought about that. Could we really consider three women over the age of seventy as murder suspects? Well, why not, since Aunt Violet was already number one on the police’s list. “I guess I do. Although they claimed they hadn’t been in touch with Myrtle. Hadn’t seen her for years, as a matter of fact.”
Daisy considered that as she opened the bakery case and pulled out two blueberry cream cheese scones, using tissue. “Here,” she said, putting one on a plate for me. She took a bite of the other. “Sorry. I don’t usually eat behind the counter, but I haven’t had breakfast yet.”
My mouth already full of scone, I waved away her objection. “Your aunt’s name was Joan, right?” She nodded. “They were talking about her last night, I think. In conjunction with Myrtle.” I explained how I’d overheard them while checking out the knitting basket.
“Joan’s trunk from college is up in the attic,” Daisy said, pointing a finger at the ceiling. “Her brother, my great-uncle, used to run this bakery before I took over. He and his wife left a lot of stuff behind when they moved out five years ago, and I haven’t gotten around to doing anything about most of it.”
My veins tingled, a sensation I experienced whenever I was hot on the research trail, no matter how obscure. “This might sound really far-fetched”—and it did—“but there might be something useful in there. In the interest of being thorough, I think we should look.”
“Me too,” Daisy said. “That’s why I brought it up. Although I can’t imagine how anything that happened decades ago caused someone to kill Myrtle last night.”
“Me neither,” I admitted before stuffing the rest of the scone into my mouth. After I swallowed, I remembered something else. “I’ve been meaning to ask. Why did that photographer take pictures of Kieran last night?”
“You mean Kelsey Cook?” She picked up her phone and searched, then crooked her finger at me. “Take a look.”
I scrolled down, seeing picture after picture of Kieran with lovely women, along with headlines like “Kieran Steps Out,” “Ascot or Not,” “Who Will Cambridge’s Most Eligible Ask to the Ball?” Kelsey had taken quite a few of the photographs.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “Is he a reality show star or something?”
Daisy laughed. “Oh, he’d die if he heard that.” She leaned closer. “His father is Lord Graham Scott. And his mother, Lady Asha, is a famous philanthropist. She is so gorgeous.”
Which meant Kieran came from a titled family and was part of England’s nobility. Everything I knew about him shifted, the pieces coming together into a new picture. Almost. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why does he live here, on Magpie Lane, and run a bicycle shop?”
“He doesn’t want any part of his parents’ world,” Daisy said. “He went to Cambridge, of course, and could have his pick of high-level positions. But as he told me, he wants a simple life. Plus he likes working for himself.”
“Is he actually going to inherit a title?” My voice squeaked on the last word. I couldn’t believe I was asking that about someone I knew. It was like something out of a novel.
Daisy shook her head. “No, he’s got an older brother. But if something happens to him, and he doesn’t have a son, then yes, Kieran is next in line.” She cracked a smile. “He told me that he toasts his brother’s health daily.”
“That sounds like him.” Noticing a group making their way into the bakeshop, I picked up my coffee. “I’d better run, but talk later? I want to take a peek at Joan’s things.”
The bookshop was absolutely slammed from the moment we opened. I’d like to think it was because of Persephone’s reading—the literary festival was still underway, after all—but I had a sneaking suspicion it was due to Myrtle’s murder.
The local newspapers covered it, of course, and among the crowds browsing the bookshelves, I spotted more than one reporter. Kelsey wasn’t among them, but I saw her photo of Kieran’s startled face on the front page of a lurid tabloid someone left behind.
“How did we do?” Aunt Violet asked Mum after we closed for lunch. At her insistence, we were seated at the table in the back garden. Although crime scene tape was still flapping near the shed, she’d refused to be cowed. Her determination to learn the truth about Myrtle’s death and put her to rest had seemed to grow stronger with every passing hour.
Mum gave her the numbers in between bites of roast beef on crusty bread with mayonnaise and pickles. Aunt Violet nodded. “We haven’t had a morning that good in ages.” She glanced up at the blue sky with a grimace. “It’s an ill wind…”
The rest of the saying ran through my mind. That blows nobody good.
Aunt Violet put her roast beef sandwich down, exchanging it for a napkin, which she used to dab her eyes. “Oh, Myrtle, we’re going to do our best by you.” Mum and I murmured agreement.
“Any news from George?” I asked. We hadn’t seen him yet today. I accidently-on-purpose dropped a tidbit of tender beef for Puck, who was lurking under the table.
She shook her head. “He promised to pop around later, at teatime.” This was around four in the afternoon.
I had plenty of time, then. “Do either of you mind if I go out for a while this afternoon?” I asked. “I want to take pictures for our Books in the Wild social media campaign.” I smiled. “I’m starting with Lord Byron and Wordsworth. When I get a chance, I’m going over to Newnham for Sylvia Plath.” Plath had attended Newnham, another women’s college like St. Hildegard’s.
“Great choices. Why don’t we call it Poets in the Wild?” Mum suggested.
“I like that.” Referencing the genre would immediately create a mental image concerning our featured books.
“Remind me what you’re thinking again,” Aunt Violet asked. As I hoped, the new topic distracted her from grief over her old friend. She had plenty of suggestions for me, and by the time we finished eating, I had firmed up my first two locations.
After carefully wrapping two beautiful leather-bound books, I placed them into my backpack, opened a Cambridge street map and stepped out into Magpie Lane. And so the adventure begins. My heart beating a little faster, as any book nerd would understand, I walked toward my first destination, Trinity College and the Wren Library.
Walking through the gate with its twin towers was like entering the portal to a castle. Immediately inside was the Great Court, a huge swath of lawn intersected by wide paths and edged with pale stone buildings. I paused to take in the leaded-pane windows, chimney pots, and ivy-covered walls, charming features of this college founded by King Henry VIII. Parts of it were even older than the bookshop.
I headed across the court, thrilled to be there and hoping I was blending in, not too obviously a non-student and a foreigner.
The library was in Nevile’s Court, a smaller green surrounded by arcaded buildings. To access items in the collections, one needed a reader’s pass and a recommendation, and perhaps at some point I would have a reason to get those. Today I needed permission for my photo shoot.
The woman at the reception desk looked skeptical at my request until I told her who I was. “You’re Violet’s niece?” Her expression dissolved into a welcoming smile. “The Marlowes have certainly helped us over the centuries. I think we can do the same for you today.”
“I’ll tag the library in my posts,” I promised. Not that they really needed the promotion, but it couldn’t hurt, right?
With a staff member looking on, I took several pictures of the book on a table, with bookshelves behind. Then he took one of me, with the book open and hiding my face, in front of Bryon’s statue, which stood under a stained-glass window. Posed with a pencil to his chin, the poet looked as if deep in thought, busy composing one of his famous works.
“He used to own a bear, he did,” he told me. “Kept it in his quarters.”
“Really?” I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
He nodded solemnly. “His response for not being allowed to keep a dog. He also spent a great deal of his time gambling, carousing, and boxing. ‘Mad, bad, and dangerous to know,’ one of his lady friends said.”
“I guess you could call him a well-rounded student,” I said, earning a wide smile. “Thank you for your help.”
“Any time,” he said before excusing himself to assist other visitors.
My next stop was up the street, King’s College Chapel, an absolutely stunning and iconic building. With towers at each end and spires in between, the chapel featured Tudor stained-glass windows and the world’s highest fan-vault ceiling. William Wordsworth called the architecture a “glorious work of fine intelligence,” so the chapel was a perfect spot to photograph his book of poems. A poet of the Romantic movement like Byron, Wordsworth went to Cambridge in the late 1700s.
After gawking for a while in the main chapel, I found a smaller side chapel to take my photograph. Wordsworth’s Poems for the Young looked beautiful standing on a ledge, a stained-glass window behind.
Like the Wren Library, this church embodied history. Sitting in the side chapel for a minute, I pictured the earliest students worshiping here, dressed in medieval garb. So much had changed since then, but the aim of pursuing knowledge and excellence had remained. How wonderful, that like these gorgeous old buildings, the work of my two poets had survived the centuries.
Rested from this break, I charged back out into the day. A patch of daffodils nodding in the sun reminded me of Wordsworth’s poem about this harbinger of spring. “‘I wandered lonely as a cloud.’” I recited the first line as I walked through the college gate. What came next?
“Molly?” someone said, making me jump. I spun around to see Kieran standing nearby, dressed as usual in worn but well-fitting jeans and a T-shirt. “I was hoping I might run into you.”