4
And I’ll be sure to e-mail you with those details,” I said coolly to Val Moffatt. My cup of tea had sat untouched as we worked. Although conversation had been stilted, I felt it was my duty to finish the meeting on a professional note, regardless of the cheek of the man. “Thank you for coming today.”
He interpreted my meaning correctly and rose to leave. “This is a good idea,” he said, “and I’m glad you thought of us.”
Contacting Bath College had been Adele’s idea, but I had no inclination to wander into personal details again. As we walked out to the entry, I responded, “I certainly hope it will benefit both the college and the Society.”
Moffatt frowned. “Ms. Burke, I hope you don’t—”
The front-door buzzer sounded, followed by Mrs. Woolgar emerging from her office, which reminded me it was Wednesday evening. I opened the door and all five writers tumbled in as if they’d been leaning against it.
“Mr. Moffatt!”
“Hello, Amanda,” Moffatt replied.
“Ms. Burke.” The secretary stood behind me as if I were her shield against the group. She began edging her way to freedom. “I do hope you will—”
“Yes, Mrs. Woolgar, I’ll have a word. Wait—on second thought, why don’t you relay your concern about—”
But she was gone.
“Hayley, could I talk with you?” Harry clutched her laptop to her chest, the corners of her mouth drooping. “It’s a matter of respect, you see. I believe we should each of us—”
“Oh, lighten up, Harry,” Peter said. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“He’s that way with all of us,” Mariella said, turning to Trist. “Aren’t you?”
Harry put her nose in the air. “The curator of the Society should be made aware of how people are treated.”
Trist clicked his tongue. “I thought you were tougher than that, Harry—going begging to our host. Don’t look for any comfort there.”
“Shut it, Trist,” Amanda said. “Look, Harry, it isn’t Hayley’s place to solve our problems for us. We don’t need a mediator—we’re adults and should be able to talk things through on our own.”
Or otherwise you’ll be out on your bums. But I’d save that for later— I wasn’t about to get in the middle of this now, and I could only hope Harry would take Amanda’s advice.
“I understand the difference between critique and criticism,” Harry said to me, walking backward as the group moved to the stairs like a single-celled organism. “And I don’t think that line should be crossed.”
That seemed to put an end to the complaint—for the moment. They continued up to the library, and I heaved a sigh, pushed the door closed, and turned round to find Val Moffatt still inside, hands in the pockets of his jacket as he watched the group and then returned his gaze to me. I opened the door again.
“You’ll be hearing from me, Mr. Moffatt.”
“Good evening, then, Ms. Burke.”
While the writers worked quietly in the library above me, I exchanged texts with Wyn—Myrtle the robot’s navigation system now sorted, the next step would be finding better wheels for her—and then settled down to finishing the proposal for the literary salons. Mrs. Woolgar made her timely appearance immediately after the group departed, and paused before descending to her flat.
“I hope your meeting with Mr. Moffatt went well.”
“Perfect,” I replied with enthusiasm. “We’ve only to work out the details. Our collaboration with Bath College is just the beginning.”
I’d like to say she looked disappointed that her attempt to discombobulate me had not succeeded, but she had a knack for throwing me off balance, and instead she smiled and said, “Lovely. Good night.”
It was twelve thirty before I could sit back, satisfied with the proposal. But I had enough sense to refrain from sending an e-mail off at that early an hour. No, I would wait for the morning, and with rested eyes, take one more look before I dispatched the document to Bath College—and then we would be on our way to establishing The First Edition Society as a cultural and educational hub for twentieth-century popular fiction. I hadn’t thought of that last line until I was upstairs and in bed with the light off, so I’d turned it back on and written myself a note.
The result of my late night was that morning came a bit too soon for me, and a seven o’clock two-mile walk didn’t really appeal. It had gone seven thirty by the time I rolled out of bed. But I asked myself how I would feel when it came time for a coffee and perhaps a shortbread finger at eleven o’clock if I hadn’t walked first, and that got me moving. At last, when I was out the door and the sun hit the terrace, turning it to gold, I could see a bright day ahead. I inhaled deeply—the air chill and invigorating—and set off in a different direction to see where my feet would lead.
They led me into the shopping district, just waking for the new day. I took to the lanes, walking along narrow Northumberland Place and past the Minerva—a cozy pub framed by hanging baskets and window boxes now planted with autumnal shades of pansies and tiny yellow flowers that dripped over the edges of their containers. A signboard hung above the door with a painted rendition of the gilt bronze head of the goddess Minerva, which had been uncovered in the city’s Roman baths in the eighteenth century. The goddess notwithstanding, it was a good little pub where our cleaner, Pauline, worked—it was run by her brother, I thought.
I basked in my accomplishments as I slowed down to admire the window displays of shops not yet open. I’d had enough money this month to transfer a second round to Dinah’s account—that in itself was cause for celebration. When it came to discussing my ex with my daughter, I’d taken the high ground. I’d written a thorough proposal on the literary salons of The First Edition Society.
And it was Thursday—in two days I’d be off to Liverpool for my mini-holiday with Mum. Perhaps on Sunday I would take an early train from Liverpool to London. Wyn and I could have almost the entire day together, which we desperately needed.
That thought put an extra spring in my step. I showered and took my tea and toast while dreaming of a lazy Sunday afternoon with my boyfriend. Only when I checked the time did I remember about my late start. Grabbing for my jacket, I tore out the door, intent on sending the literary salon proposal before our morning briefing so the secretary would have no room to object. Not that that would stop her.
The library door was closed. Mrs. Woolgar must’ve already searched for damage from last night’s group and, having found none, given up and gone to her office. I continued to the ground floor, paused at her doorway, and said, “Good morning.”
But instead of Mrs. Woolgar, there was Pauline with a lambswool duster on an extension pole, working the corner cornices of the twelve-foot ceiling.
“Morning, Hayley,” she replied.
“Mrs. Woolgar?” I asked.
“Haven’t seen her—just as well, really. I’m running a bit late this morning. I gave the kitchenette a once-over and washed the mugs from last evening and thought myself lucky to get in here and finish her office before she came up. I’d a shift at the pub last night, you see, and then I couldn’t find—oh well, you don’t want to hear about that, do you?”
“Well, I’d better get stuck in—I’m a bit late myself,” I told her. I walked back to my own office, but glanced down the stairs to the lower ground floor. Mrs. Woolgar late? Unheard of, as far as I knew. Was she ill? Should I check? But Pauline and I had been late—perhaps as the autumn days grew shorter, we all preferred to hibernate. I’d give her a few more minutes before I worried.
At my desk, I studied the proposal one last time, tweaking words and shifting phrases—then shifting them back again. Lastly, I filled in the e-mail address and then sat, frozen, with my finger hovering a fraction of an inch above the mouse as I began to second-guess myself. Had I taken the right tone? A collaboration to benefit both the college and the Society—should it sound as if we’d be on equal footing or would the college want more credit? Would Val Moffatt, envious of my job, sink the whole idea before it saw the light of day?
In the entry, Pauline dropped a vacuum attachment and I jumped, causing my finger to land on the mouse and click send. I gasped, and she looked in, catching me wringing my hands.
“Sorry, Hayley. All right there?”
“Mmm. Great.”
“I’ll go on up to the library, shall I?” Pauline asked. “Then I’ll finish this floor after.” She looked over her shoulder. “No sign of Mrs. Woolgar yet?”
I checked the time—ten minutes past our usual briefing—and alarm bells went off in my head. Leaping out of my chair, I hurried past Pauline.
“Yes, you go on upstairs. I’ll just nip down to her flat and make sure everything’s . . . That she isn’t . . .”
Not bothering to finish, I grabbed hold of the handrail to swing myself round and head down to the lower ground floor, but the closer I got to her door, the slower my steps became. It seemed forever until I landed at the bottom. To my left, the corridor was lined with the furniture I’d dragged out of the cellar—I had yet to return to that project—and to my right, the door to Mrs. Woolgar’s flat. A fan-shaped, art deco sconce kept the area dimly lit.
A light tap on her door brought no results. I put my ear against the solid oak and heard not a sound. My heart in my throat, I raised my hand again just as the door flew open.
“Ah!” I cried, reeling and my heart pounding.
“What are you doing?” Mrs. Woolgar demanded.
“I thought I’d better see that you were all right . . . I didn’t know if . . .” I’d done nothing and yet here I was wrong-footed. I drew myself up. “It’s only that . . . it’s past your usual time.”
Mrs. Woolgar studied her watch, shook her wrist, and peered at it again. “Dear me,” she muttered. “I don’t know how that happened. Well, Ms. Burke, you can be assured that I will—”
Her excuse was cut off by a shriek from above.
“Pauline?” I turned and ran up the stairs at a clip. Over my shoulder, I explained, “She went to start on the library.”
“You don’t think”—Mrs. Woolgar followed at my heels—“that a shelf of books fell on her?”
A shelf of books? Short of an earthquake, I couldn’t see how that could happen. But as we got to the ground floor, made a hundred-eighty-degree turn, and ran to the next flight of stairs, I heard a heavy thunk.
“Pauline!” I shouted.
We found her on the landing between Lady Fowling’s portrait and the overturned Chippendale side chair. She had flattened herself against the wall and held the duster in front of her as if warding off a vampire.
“He’s in there! I didn’t know,” she stammered, pointing a shaky finger at the open library door and waving the duster in my face. “I thought you might’ve had someone in . . . for a meeting and he . . .”
I grabbed hold of her hands—they were icy. Had someone broken in and attacked her? The library appeared empty, but best to be on one’s guard. “Mrs. Woolgar, shut the library door, put that chair in front of it, and ring for the police. Pauline, look at me. Are you all right? What did he do to you? Is he still in there? Did you fight back?”
The secretary went for the door, but Pauline cried out, “An ambulance—ring for an ambulance!”
“It’s all right, Pauline,” I said. “You’ve every right to defend yourself.”
“No, you don’t understand. I didn’t do that to him—I found him like that.”
Mrs. Woolgar and I exchanged looks. “Stay with her,” I said. “I’ll go in.”
I edged my way over to the open door, my back to the wall. Silence from within the library. When close enough, I craned my neck round and peered in. On the far side of the table, the chairs were askew, and I could see the still form of a man on the floor. But I couldn’t see well enough, and so I crept forward until I could take in the full scene.
He lay on his side, his face turned toward the wall with arms stretched above his head as if he’d been reaching up for something and had collapsed. I could see a wide round red mark on the back of his head and blood matted into his thin hair. Did I know him?
“Hello?” My voice trembled. “Are you all right? Sir?”
I leaned over and gave him a light shake. His entire body shifted, as if frozen. I pulled my hand back, but then took a deep breath and felt his cheek—a second’s touch was enough to tell me he was stone cold. Only then did I roll the body over and see the scar that cut through his right eyebrow, giving him a perpetual look of scorn.
It was Trist.