17

No one can walk up to and along the Royal Crescent without being impressed. A sweeping five-hundred-foot-long arc of tall Georgian town houses built from Bath stone in the Palladian style, it offered a panoramic view of Royal Victoria Park and had a deep connection with the Regency period and with Jane Austen. Although she never lived on the Crescent herself, a few of her characters had. That thought led me back to my previous job at the Jane Austen Centre, not a ten-minute walk away where I had spent my days filing and copying and making tea. Now look at me—I’d taken an enormous leap and was curator in my own right of The First Edition Society. I wasn’t about to let anyone take that away from me without a fight.

“Hello, I’m Hayley Burke,” I said to the young woman behind the reception desk at the Royal Crescent Hotel. “I’m curator of The First Edition Society at Middlebank House—we’re only just round the corner from you.”

The young woman kept the smile on her face, but I believe I saw the tiniest flicker of recognition, quickly quashed by her good manners. An older woman in a business suit, her silver hair in a neat chignon, appeared in the doorway behind. She carried a tablet, and her eyes darted to me and back to the screen. Were they both thinking, Oh yes, that’s the place where that fellow was found dead in the library?

“Hello, good morning, Ms. Burke,” the young woman said, “and welcome to the Royal Crescent. How can I help you?”

“I believe Charles Henry Dill is staying with you, and I’d like to speak with him. Do you know if he’s in?”

“Mr. Dill,” she replied, shifting a few papers round on the desk, as if she’d mislaid Charles Henry. “Well, I’m not sure if I’m able to—”

The older woman looked up and said, “It’s all right, Sandy, go on and ring Mr. Dill’s room.”

“Yes, Ms. Carlisle,” Sandy replied and did as she was told.

“Thank you.” I beamed at her. “I’ll just wait over here.”

I stood next to a Chinese palm for a few minutes, until he emerged from the lift. He wore the same brown plaid suit but had lost the leer—apparently not a good look for a posh hotel lobby.

“How delightful to see you, Ms. Burke.” He extended his hand and I obliged in kind, barely containing a shudder as he gave me the squeeze.

“Mr. Dill, I stopped in to have a chat.”

“Oh, how disappointing,” he said in an obsequious manner. “I’m so sorry to say that you’ve wasted a journey. You see, I was just this minute going out. Unavoidable appointment, I’m afraid. If it were any other time, we could have coffee—”

Perhaps he hadn’t prepared for such a quick return on his invitation. Perhaps he had a reason to try to avoid me. But Charles Henry Dill had no idea with whom he dealt. If I could cut off the escape route of a fifteen-year-old Dinah intent on meeting friends for an evening of cider drinking, I could certainly stop him. I raised my voice slightly so all could hear.

“Coffee? Yes, I’d love coffee. Thanks so much, Mr. Dill.”

The older woman approached us with a welcoming smile. I glanced at her name tag—the word Manager stood out.

“Coffee for two, Mr. Dill?” she asked. “Let me ring the kitchen for you and have a tray sent into the drawing room. Would you like to go through?”

What choice did he have? “Yes, well,” Dill conceded, “coffee, why not?”

I led the way. When I chanced a look over my shoulder to make sure Charles Henry followed, I saw the hotelier, behind him, with a smile. I smiled back—grateful for the assistance she unknowingly had offered.

The drawing room, with its ecru walls, ornate plasterwork ceiling, and decorative Greek-style cornices, oozed Georgian class. Tall windows ran along the front wall, and elegant tables, chairs, and sofas formed groupings round the room. I’d been here before—we’d had afternoon tea at the Royal Crescent for Dinah’s twelfth birthday along with three of her friends. That had set me back, I can tell you.

I made for two chairs in the corner with a low table between them, and a young man with the coffee service arrived on our heels. I was delighted to see a plate of macarons—purple, pink, and a pale yellow that I hoped had buttercream filling. I slipped one onto my saucer and, as the young man poured, couldn’t resist a bite.

The combination of crisp meringue and smooth buttercream bolstered my nerves. To begin in a civil manner, I took a sip of coffee and said, “Tell me, Mr. Dill, where do you call home?”

“You mean apart from Middlebank?”

Middlebank wasn’t even in the equation, as far as I knew—he’d never lived there, spent only a few summers growing up. Adele told me Lady Fowling had thought it her duty, as Charles Henry’s mother was her younger sister.

“I mean, where do you live?”

“Abroad for the most part, Ms. Burke,” Dill said glibly. “I have international interests.”

“And what brings you to Bath?”

He popped his second macaron into his mouth and took another before answering. I could tell this was going to be a fight to finish the last crumb on the plate.

“What else could I do, when I heard the news, but offer my deepest condolences for your loss.”

“And what loss is that?”

“How odd it is”—Dill set down his half-empty coffee cup—“that a murder would be committed in the very house dedicated to enlightening the world about this more commercial side of literature. By the way, how is the enquiry progressing?”

“That is a matter for the police.”

“The murder was a rather obvious nod to our Mrs. Christie, wasn’t it?” Dill took another macaron and sat back.

Our Mrs. Christie—what was he playing at? What happened to the musty collection of has-been authors from a bygone era?

“I tell you truthfully, Ms. Burke, I’m desperately concerned about my dear aunt Georgiana’s legacy. Throughout her life, she strove to create a place that crossed the boundaries of time and genre in the world of literature. To think that someone would use the very subject of her favorite books to tear down what she built.”

The landscape was shifting, and I scurried to reposition myself.

“I’m not sure we can go as far as to say—” I began.

“It was The Body in the Library, of course, although, there were elements of other books, too—don’t you think? What about the one with the house-and-garden tour—let me see, which one was that?”

He leaned closer and fixed me with an unwavering gaze, waiting for an answer. A house-and-garden tour? Was this Agatha Christie?

I cleared my throat. “It seems a bit farfetched to believe that someone would—”

“It’s a remarkable world, detective fiction, isn’t it?”

Dill rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, offering me a smile that was just short of his characteristic leer. I could feel my advantage slip away as he gained the high ground.

“I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to be able to discuss the mystery writers with an expert of your caliber,” he said. “And tell me, what do you make of those New Zealand detective stories?”

Was he having me on? Surely Agatha Christie didn’t write books set in New Zealand. It must be one of the other mystery writers—but which? I needed to stop this line of questioning immediately—I was not capable of engaging in a mystery-genre duel.

I straightened up in my chair and threw back my shoulders. “If you’re concerned about the state of the Society, Mr. Dill, I can assure you that this unfortunate event will have no impact whatsoever. We are already in the midst of planning a variety of activities that will fulfill Lady Fowling’s fondest wish that the world know and appreciate her favorite books.”

He gave me a sly look. “That is just what I intend, too—to reestablish The First Edition Society to its rightful place in the literary sphere. And although it’s true that I have only lately come to realize the brilliance of Aunt Georgiana’s dedication to the mystery and suspense genre, I now know that the Society’s very survival depends on the collection’s continuation. As I see you are a reasonable woman, I’m sure you understand that because the Society is a family legacy, its guidance should remain within the family.”

It was a punch to the stomach that took my breath away. Now I saw what he was up to—Charles Henry had carried out his own investigation on my background and knew me for a charlatan. Mrs. Woolgar was right, he would use anything he could find—he’d chased away the first curator with threats of exposing her grandfather as an illegitimate Edwardian earl. Now I was the target.

He would poke and prod until he created a fissure in my competence—First, he would say, she knows nothing about mystery, and second, a murder right under her nose! Once I was compromised, he would dive in for the kill. He would delight in using Trist’s murder as a way of undermining me, hoping I would scarper as had Eileen Merton. And when he had gained control of The First Edition Society—what then?

Dill stood and brushed the colorful snow of crumbs from his stomach. “I’ve so enjoyed our chat, Ms. Burke, but now you really will have to excuse me.” He took my hand, bending over it as if to plant a kiss. I jerked it away in the nick of time. “Until we meet again,” he added, and walked out.