3
Friday’s highlight—at least for Mrs. Woolgar—was that she caught me out during our morning briefing when she mentioned Margery Allingham, one of the Golden Age of Mystery writers, and her protagonist, Albert Campion. I made the life-shattering mistake of referring to him as “inspector” when he was really an amateur sleuth. Score one for Team Woolgar.
Never mind—I had the weekend. On Saturday morning, I was at the station and on a train by seven o’clock, off to see my mum in Liverpool. It was a four-hour journey with two changes, but I didn’t mind—it gave me time to read and think and drink tea as I stared out the window. It wouldn’t take any less time if I drove, and besides—I didn’t have a car.
Once I’d made my second change at Birmingham New Street, I secured a slice of lemon drizzle from the tea trolley when it came past and had just ripped it open when my phone lit up and I saw Dinah’s name.
“Morning, Mum,” she said with cheer, although the greeting was followed by a yawn. “Are you on the train?”
“I am. Are you in bed?”
“I’m not—but I am standing next to it. How’s the job? Full of mysteries?”
“Good, it’s quite good. You’ll love my flat—although, I don’t suppose you’ll see it before Christmas, will you?”
“Yeah.” It was a distracted answer. “Listen, about the money you sent.”
“Yes, sweetie—what about it?”
“Thanks very much for it. It’s only that . . . Dad came for a visit yesterday.”
Those few words were enough to chill my blood.
“Did he?” I asked. “How lovely he could spend the time with you.” I wanted to say spare the time, but I knew the rules—don’t bad-mouth the ex in front of the child, even an adult child. No matter what went on between the parents, father and daughter had a right to their own relationship.
“And his car had something wrong with it, but he’s a bit skint right now and couldn’t pay for the repairs.”
My head swam with the vilest names imaginable for this so-called father, this ingrate, this mooch, this— I swallowed hard and choked out, “Oh?”
“And so, you know, I lent him the money. He said he’ll pay it back soon. He asked me not to tell you about it, but I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
I held the phone at arm’s length and clapped my other hand over my mouth as I whimpered. The older gentleman across the aisle cut his eyes at me and went back to his newspaper.
“That was money for your share of the house,” I reminded her. Dinah rented a large and mostly dilapidated Victorian pile of bricks with another young woman. The monthly rent was outrageous, but they loved the place. “Well, we can’t have you turfed out, now, can we?” I laughed lightheartedly through clenched teeth. Believe me, it’s possible, I’ve had plenty of practice.
“Thanks, Mum. I’m sorry about Dad. It’s just he gets so pitiful—like a little boy. He hasn’t really ever grown up, has he?”
Arrived in Liverpool, I walked up from Lime Street station to Mum’s flat in a sheltered housing arrangement for pensioners. I greeted her nurse—slipping her an envelope with her pay as she left—and leaned over Mum’s wheelchair to give her a kiss. After a quick coffee, the two of us were away for a day of shopping, lunch, a wander through a museum, tea, and then back to her flat for a much-needed nap. I got my two miles in and more, as I counted double when I pushed her chair up even the slightest incline.
Mum, although sound of mind and sharp of wit, had a game leg, the result of a car crash two years earlier in which she’d been a passenger. She’d got off better than her friend Edna, who had died after driving into a postbox on the side of the road when she’d suffered a heart attack. Mum had been left needing a walking frame for short distances and a wheelchair otherwise, but both her spirit and her insight were undaunted.
“But are you happy with Wyn in London and you in Bath?” she asked during our tea and cake and after I told her the latest on Myrtle.
“Of course. It’s just the way it has to be right now—with his new company and my new job.”
“Well”—she gave my hand a pat—“if you’re happy, then I’m happy. As long as you’re happy.”
I took a midday train home on Sunday. Bunter greeted me at the door of Middlebank, and I dangled a catnip mouse in front of his nose, until he batted it out of my fingers and across the entry. He made quite a show of chasing it round the legs of the hall stand before clamping it in his mouth and trotting up the stairs to the library landing. I followed, and paused as the cat continued his play under the Chippendale chair that sat beside Lady Fowling’s portrait. I gave her a nod.
No, I do not believe our benefactor had returned from the grave to her former home, as Trist proclaimed. It was the painting, you see—one of those vast, full-length works of art that occupied most of the wall and seemed so alive. Lady Fowling had been painted in a gorgeous 1930s-style burgundy satin evening gown. A halter bodice with a high neck, and cut on the bias, it draped elegantly to the floor. She was turned ever so slightly so you could see her bare back. Unlike Mrs. Woolgar’s pencil-thin physique, her ladyship had a curve or two, and she and the dress suited each other perfectly. In the back of my mind was the weak hope that I’d come across this dress in the cellar and could try it on.
In the portrait, Lady Fowling stood next to a late-Regency upholstered armchair. It was empty, and her hand rested on its back—a symbol, no doubt, of her late husband. She looked in her forties to me—although it’s possible I was projecting—and the artist had captured a playful gleam in her eye. Each Sunday evening upon my return we took a moment to regard each other.
At last, Bunter caught his latest prey, and—leather strip of a tail dangling from his mouth—took it off. I’d brought him back a new mouse each of the weekends since I’d moved to Middlebank, and since then had come across them stashed in the most unlikely places. I continued up to my flat, pausing only a moment for a last look over my shoulder at the portrait.
“Good night, Lady Fowling.”
By Wednesday, the entire sum of my accomplishments for the week had been to serve tea to the board. Two of the members were to embark on a cruise to the Caribbean in eight days’ time, and Mrs. Woolgar wanted to send them off in style. I agreed to help and spent all day Monday polishing silver and arranging Lady Fowling’s nineteenth-century Minton tea set while the secretary set off to the Bertinet, a French bakery in town.
But was this all I was good for—serving tea? I felt myself being sucked into the same vortex of doubt as I had been each week, and faced with the same dilemma. The difficulty was that I had no shape to my workdays, apart from the morning briefings with Mrs. Woolgar, which usually took the form of the secretary reminding me of the sacred trust we held and must ensure to—blah, blah, blah.
If my days were without form, what of Glynis Woolgar, former personal assistant to Lady Fowling and now Society secretary? Early on, when it had occurred to me I had no idea what she did every day in front of her computer, I had asked point-blank. Not rudely, but in a “Just how do you stay busy these days?” sort of way. With shining eyes and head held high, Mrs. Woolgar explained that she felt it her duty to correspond with the Society’s members across the globe. Yes, that’s right—every single member personally. That may sound like an incredible feat, but I had seen the rolls and knew it couldn’t be too taxing.
It wasn’t as if I could brag about my own activities. I had read through two years’ worth of old newsletters, and studied a stack of magazines—all at least five years old—that occasionally mentioned Lady Fowling. I often went upstairs to the library and stood staring at the shelves, overwhelmed by what I did not know. I discovered that the less I had to do, the more lethargic I became.
The truth of the matter was that nothing really went on with the Society. What was I curator of—a load of nothing? The thought frightened me—what if others noticed I had no real work to do? Would the Society cease to exist? If so, where would that leave me?
The most exciting thing I’d done by midweek was to e-mail Bath College and ask to be referred to someone who might like to discuss a collaborative literature program. I’d heard nothing back.
Right, time to take action. I cleared my desk, pulled out a clean notebook, and began to scribble ideas as I envisioned a long-term plan with concrete goals.
We would increase membership by 10 percent next year. Was that too much or not enough? Consider twenty percent, I added.
We would sponsor a lecture series and bring in scholars of the genre. That could be in addition to our literary salons, of course, and set apart by the fact that morning lectures included coffee and cake, whereas at evening activities, such as the salons, a glass of wine was essential.
Right, salons, lectures—what was next? Perhaps the board would approve a small scholarship to be given to a woman in the creative-writing field. Or an award for best first mystery by a woman?
Yes, that’s the ticket—the Georgiana Fowling First Edition Society award. “There, you see,” I said to no one in particular. An award would fulfill our mission statement and ensure that the Society leads into the future while . . . I ran out of steam at that point, but, as it was the end of the day, at least I finished with some satisfaction in knowing I had a point to my life.
The front-door buzzer sounded, and I checked the time. Far too early for the writers group. I went to answer, noticing out of the corner of my eye that Mrs. Woolgar had remained at her desk, the glow of the computer screen reflected in her glasses.
My hand hovered above the latch for a moment. We rarely had surprise visitors at Middlebank, and a brief sensation of possibility— a scent of anticipation—put a welcoming smile on my face.
A man stood on the doorstep. He had chestnut hair threaded with silver and a closely trimmed beard. His green eyes matched the green of his corduroy jacket—dark, like the color of oak leaves in summer. He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in a rather charming way.
“Mrs. Woolgar?” he asked.
He lost his charm at that remark—did I really look like Mrs. Woolgar?
“I have an appointment,” he added.
“She’s just in her office.” What sort of fellow was this, and what sort of an appointment did he have? “Come in, and I’ll let her know you’re here. What is your name?”
He glanced about the entry as he said, “Val Moffatt.”
Mrs. Woolgar emerged from her office. “Mr. Moffatt? How do you do?” She extended her hand as she said to me, “Mr. Moffatt has an appointment with you, Ms. Burke.”
“Does he?”
“I’m sorry,” Moffatt said, looking from one of us to the other. “Have I come at the wrong time?”
“Mr. Moffatt is from Bath College. His appointment is in your diary,” Mrs. Woolgar added, as if instructing a young child.
And she had said nothing, not even at our morning briefing. The cow. She’d made the appointment, written it in my diary, and didn’t tell me about it—all on purpose. To what end other than to make me look a fool? An unpleasant idea crept out of my subconscious and settled itself front and center. It wasn’t only that Mrs. Woolgar mourned the loss of Lady Fowling or thought I didn’t know what I was doing—her primary motive was that she didn’t want to share. She wanted to make me miserable enough to leave—scarper, just as the first curator had. She and others had pointed a finger at the nephew, saying he was responsible for that, but perhaps it was really Mrs. Woolgar who wanted Middlebank all to herself.
I put my hand out to the visitor. “Hello, I’m Hayley Burke, curator here at The First Edition Society. Mrs. Woolgar keeps my diary for me—” I flashed her an icy smile. “And what would I do without her? Well, Mr. Moffatt, let’s go to my office, shall we?” I marched off.
“If you’d prefer I come back at another time . . .”
I turned round abruptly, not realizing how close he was, and found we were face-to-face.
“No,” I said, backing off, “this is a perfect time—but, I do apologize, I’m not quite as prepared as I’d like to be.” Well, that made no sense. Needless to say, this wouldn’t happen again. From now on, I would examine my diary in detail each morning and evening—and perhaps over lunch as well, lest she try to slip something else in. “Here now, Bunter, make way.”
Bunter, in the wingback chair, raised his head, his eyes dilating at the sight of a new human. Moffatt sat on his heels, put a hand out for the cat to sniff, and was given permission for a pet.
“Bunter, now, is it? He’s yours?”
“He belongs to the house. Lady Fowling always had a tortoiseshell cat, and it was always named Bunter—this fellow came on board just before she died, and he was a great comfort to her, I’m told.” I sat on the edge of my desk. “I’m happy for his company, too. We always had a cat at home—first Dougal, then Ermintrude, and then Zebedee.”
He laughed as he stood up. “The Magic Roundabout? My girls loved that.”
“It was my daughter’s favorite television program—well, mine, too, when I was growing up.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Twenty-two—but still nine years old in my eyes. Yours?”
“Twenty-four. They’re twins.”
“Two at once—don’t know that I could’ve managed that.”
“My wife did most of the managing—for as long as she could. She died when the girls were quite young.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
He shrugged a shoulder and smiled an acceptance—probably well inured to such comments. “And you . . .”
“Divorced.”
“I’m—”
I put a hand up to stop him. “I’ll accept sympathy for the marriage, but not for the divorce.” We both smiled and drifted into an oddly comfortable silence.
All at once I didn’t know where I was. How had we arrived at such a personal place?
When Bunter jumped down from the wingback and wandered out the door, I gestured to the chair. “Please.” I sat behind my desk, clasped my hands across the blotter, and regained my position.
“It’s very good of you to come to us—when I sent the e-mail to the college, I expected a bit of to-and-fro before anyone would meet in person.”
Moffatt settled in the chair and tugged on the cuffs of his jacket, which I now noticed were worn smooth of their corduroy. “Your e-mail went to the department head, of course, but a friend mentioned the Society to me, and so I said I would take this on.”
“You’re a lecturer?”
“Yes, in creative writing and genre fiction. Most of my courses are taught through the adult-learning division.”
“That’s excellent.” And it was—here I had successfully located the right person from Bath College who knew about the Society and worked with adults. What more could I ask?
We talked over the idea of the literary salons. Moffatt wasn’t able to commit—that would take the approval of the college—but we discussed topics, timing, promotion. It was all terribly useful, and even better, here I was having an intelligent conversation with a colleague about my work. Things were looking up.
“I doubt we could offer the speakers a fee,” I admitted.
“Apart from a glass of wine,” he said.
“You know, if we ever wanted to expand the salons and include the nineteenth century, I could get someone from the Jane Austen Centre—it’s where I worked before this.”
“Was it?” he asked, looking me over with both a frown and a smile. “I’m not sure I can see that.”
“I was behind the scenes, not in the public eye.”
“Your knowledge about the mystery genre must be quite extensive to have landed this post.”
“There is always more to learn,” I replied vaguely.
“Crime, suspense—you’re the expert, I’m sure.”
I felt myself being pushed out onto thin ice. “Popular literature, no matter the genre or era, contains many of the same elements, don’t you think?”
“So, what do you think—if we put Inspector Grant up against Chief Inspector Alleyn, who do you believe would solve the crime first?”
“I . . . I . . .” I had no idea. Those names rang distant bells, but I couldn’t tell you which Golden Age authors they belonged to, even though the library shelves were lined with their books. “It isn’t fair for me to put them in a competition.”
“It’s a question I often ask my students,” Moffatt replied. “It focuses them on the elements of the story.” He glanced round the office. “And you live on the premises?”
“I’m not sure this has any bearing on the work we will carry out—”
“Well, you’ve certainly done well for yourself here.” He rubbed his hands on the leather armchair. “A far cry from what a college lecturer can afford, I’ll tell you that.”
“My accommodations,” I said, my face blazing, “are part of the compensation as curator. You can be sure, Mr. Moffatt, that my pay package reflects that fact. And just because I have rooms upstairs at Middlebank, it doesn’t mean I am waited on hand and foot by servants.”
“Tea?” Mrs. Woolgar asked, standing in the doorway with tray in hand.