“Be careful,” Daisy warned. “These stairs are pretty steep.” She was leading me up the narrow, winding flight to the tea shop attic, where we were going to search through Joan’s belongings.
She wasn’t kidding about the stairs. I had to place my sneakers carefully on tapering steps obviously made for much smaller feet. This building wasn’t as old as the bookshop, but it made my Vermont farmhouse look new. Some people don’t like the smell of ancient dust and wood and plaster, but I breathed it in with relish, feeling strangely connected to all the generations who had gone before. Another woman had climbed these stairs when the apple fell on Newton’s head. While Jane Austen was penning her novels. The year Victoria ascended the throne.
At the top, Daisy pressed the thumb latch and opened the door, releasing a gust of hot, dry air. “It’s pretty stifling up here,” she warned, pulling a string to turn on an overhead light. “One reason I haven’t made much progress clearing it out. It’s also a complete shambles.”
One person’s shambles was another’s treasure trove. Echoing the roof, the room was steeply peaked with only a tiny window at each end, and it was jam-packed with interesting and enticing objects. On our way to Joan’s trunk, I spotted a row of Toby face mugs, a stuffed badger, and a Guy Fawkes mask on a mannequin head that also held a cavalier’s feathered hat.
Daisy threw a smile over her shoulder. “My great-aunt and uncle were eccentric, to say the least. He wore that mask whenever he put on those stilts”—she pointed to the long poles propped in a corner—“along with that cloak.” The garment in question was black, hooded, and spangled with crescent moons and stars.
“He must have been quite the sight,” I said. “Seriously, if you need help, let me know. I love looking through attics.” Judging by what I’d seen so far, many wonderful finds were lurking up here.
“I might take you up on that,” Daisy said. Kneeling on the floor, she threw up the lid of a black metal trunk. “As you can see, they just tossed everything from Joan’s room inside.”
I sat cross-legged beside her, and both of us stared into the trunk, which held a jumble of books, notebooks, loose papers, pens, a mug or two, a hairbrush, and more. I could imagine Joan’s grief-stricken parents clearing surfaces and drawers, the remnants of their daughter’s life of no interest without her. Or maybe they’d been gun-shy about uncovering secrets, kind of the way I felt after Persephone’s insinuations about my family this afternoon.
“Where do we begin?” I asked, reluctant to paw through the late student’s belongings.
Daisy sighed as she lifted out a book. “From the top, I guess. Let’s sort things by category.”
Together we excavated the trunk, making piles around us on the floor. In addition to textbooks, we found a number of yellowed, dog-eared paperbacks, mostly poetry and literature.
“Anything of value here?” Daisy asked me.
I took a closer look at the books. “This first edition of Wordsworth is interesting.” I pulled out my phone and looked it up. “It’s not super-rare—those go for tens of thousands-—but probably worth around a thousand dollars. Seven or eight hundred pounds,” I translated. An expensive book for a scholarship student to own, even fifty years ago. Where had she gotten it? Was it a lucky find at the Cambridge Market? Or a gift, perhaps, from a very generous friend?
“Can you get me a firm price?” Daisy asked. “I’ll ask my aunt and uncle if they want to sell it. I’m sure they could use a little extra money.”
“I’d be happy to.” I set the book to one side. “Shall we keep going?”
“Sure.” Daisy glanced at her phone. “We have about fifteen minutes.” We were meeting Kieran and Tim at the pub for dinner and darts.
Next I leafed through a few photographs. One showed Joan seated at her desk, Myrtle beside her, both grinning. Another picture was of a young man standing next to the fountain in St. Hildegard’s garden. The name Gregory was written on the back.
“Gregory. Isn’t that the name of Fiona’s husband?” I asked.
Daisy nodded. “Yes. Gregory Fosdyke, MP. He’s in the House of Commons.”
Why did Joan have a photograph of him? “House of Commons. So not a member of the nobility,” I said. Parliament had two government bodies, and members of the Commons were elected by the people, not appointed or internally elected as in the House of Lords.
“He’s a barrister,” Daisy said, turning the pages of a notebook filled with scrawled handwriting. “Representing Cambridge. Very respected, he is.”
I put the pictures down and turned to the notebooks. Most had flimsy cardboard covers and spiral binding, typical student supplies. But one was bound in leather, heavy and expensive and butter-soft. My heart beat a little faster when I flipped it open, my intuition already telling me it was special.
First day of term, St. Hildegard’s, 1964
Alone. In my own room, sitting at a desk overlooking an incredible garden, the whole situation beyond my wildest dreams.
I stopped reading, knowing that I was intruding into something not meant for public consumption. “Daisy.” I nudged her with my elbow. “I think this is Joan’s journal. Her diary.”
She took it and leafed through, each page dated and followed by entries, some long, some short. Fragments of poems, too, it looked like. Near the end, the pages were blank.
The hair on my arms stood up. Was this Joan’s last journal? No wonder her parents had stuffed it into the bottom of the trunk.
Daisy pressed it onto my lap. “Take it, will you? Please. Read it?” Her brows drew together. “I can’t. But there might be something, a clue.… We never understood why, why she … and maybe, just maybe, there’s something important in there about Myrtle.”
Honored by her trust, I held the notebook to my chest. “I’ll take good care of it, I promise.” And Joan’s secrets as well.
After leaving the notebook at the bookshop for safekeeping, Daisy and I went across to the pub. A blackboard easel sign outside the door announced, Cottage Pie Tonight.
“That’s what I’m getting,” Daisy said. “Susie makes the best cottage pie ever.”
I wasn’t quite sure what cottage pie was, but I was game to try it. Inside the pub, Kieran and Tim were already sitting at a four-top table. Kieran waved when he saw us, then stood, as did Tim. How polite. Two pints already awaited us, I noticed.
“Brown ale, right?” he asked, sitting again when I did.
Flattered he’d remembered, I grinned as I picked up my glass. “Perfect.” The local ale had a slightly bitter and hoppy taste I had come to appreciate.
Tim fiddled with the menu. “We’re having cottage pie. What’s your pleasure, ladies?”
“Same,” we said simultaneously, then laughed.
Tim got up, tapping the table. “I’ll order.”
“I’ll go with you,” Daisy said. “I need to talk to Susie.”
After the pair went up to the bar, Kieran and I sipped beer in silence for a long moment. Ridiculously, I felt totally tongue-tied, like a teenager. Was it because I found him so devastatingly attractive? Or did his notoriety and family background intimidate me? Buck up, Molly, I told myself. This isn’t the Middle Ages.
“What have you been up to?” Kieran finally asked. He smiled ruefully. “Sorry I had to run out on you at the market.”
“It’s okay.” I gave what I hoped was a casual, unconcerned shrug. “Your business comes first. As a new bookshop proprietor, I totally understand.”
He ran his forefinger around a wet circle left by a beer glass, his lips pushed out in almost a pout. “But I wanted to tour the market with you. And do some sightseeing. Maybe you’ll give me a rain check?”
I’ll give you more than that, was my cheeky thought. But I played it cool. “Sure. I’d like that.” I picked up my glass and sipped. I thought of trying to arrange a time but refrained. Let him come to me.
Tim and Daisy returned to the table. “They said dinner will be right out,” Tim informed us. He held Daisy’s chair for her, a nice touch.
“I’ve offered to help Susie with the funeral meal,” Daisy said. “I’m going to do my butterfly cakes. Myrtle loved them.”
“They’re scrumptious,” I said. “I had one this morning when Ruth came by. She was also raving about them, you should know.”
Daisy smiled, pleased. “Always good to hear.”
“Ruth Orforo, the publisher?” Kieran asked. “She went to school with your aunt, right?”
I nodded. “Ruth was part of the gang, along with Myrtle, Persephone, and Fiona Fosdyke. They were all at the reading.”
“I remember,” Kieran said. “A distinguished group of women, for sure.”
“My aunt was friends with them too,” Daisy said. “But sadly she died while at college.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tim said, his blue eyes sympathetic.
Kieran echoed his sentiments.
The kitchen door banged open and Susie emerged, holding two oval ceramic casserole dishes aloft. Steve was right behind her, holding two more.
“Careful, they’re hot.” Susie set the casseroles in front of Daisy and me, then stepped back for Steve to deliver his, along with a basket of bread he’d carried in the crook of his elbow. Susie rubbed her hands across her apron front. “Anything else I can get you?”
We looked at one another and shook our heads. “It’s really nice of you to host a meal for Myrtle,” I said, buttering a hot roll. “Let us know at the bookshop if we can do anything to help.”
“I’ll give it some thought,” Susie said. “If that’s all…” With a nod, she set off across the floor, intent on getting back into the kitchen.
Steve checked our beer glasses. “Give a shout when you want another,” he said. But instead of leaving, he lingered, staring at the barstool where Myrtle last sat. “That old bird was a bit of a pain, you know? But now that she’s gone, I kind of miss her.”
Kieran fiddled with his fork. “We all do, mate. She was part of the community fabric.” His lips twisted. “Even if she did indulge in the occasional spot of blackmail.”
Steve reared back, his mouth falling open. Was he thinking about his covert visit to the betting shop? “I can’t speak to that,” he finally stuttered.
A cluster of people at the bar holding empty glasses looked his way, and he seized the opportunity to escape. “I’d better go serve the clamoring masses … enjoy your meal.”
“You don’t seem surprised,” Tim said to me a moment later. “Kieran fill you in?”
“He did,” I said. “It’s shocking.”
Daisy didn’t seem fazed by the mention of Myrtle’s shenanigans either, which meant she was also in the know. Both men were looking at us and not eating, and I realized they were waiting for us to begin. I picked up my fork and stabbed into a thick layer of cheesy, browned mashed potatoes. Savory steam rose toward my face and my mouth began to water.
For a few minutes, only the clinking of silverware and murmurs of appreciation were heard. Cottage pie was what we called shepherd’s pie in the States, with ground beef, corn, and in this recipe, peas under the crust of potato. Here in England, I gathered, shepherd’s pie was always made with ground lamb.
“Myrtle tried her little games with other people too,” Tim said, reaching for his beer. After a long swallow, he continued. “Clive Marlowe, for instance. I spotted him slipping her a wad of bills more than once.”
“Maybe he felt sorry for her,” Daisy said. “She used to come round the tea shop and ask for day-old baked goods.”
I snorted, loud enough that they all looked at me. “Sorry,” I said. “But Myrtle wasn’t exactly hurting.” Rather than tell them we’d searched her flat, I said, “George, her landlord, told us she owned all kinds of high-end electronics and art.”
“Figures,” Kieran said. “Her poor me act didn’t exactly ring true. For one thing, her shoes were bespoke Italian leather.”
I hadn’t noticed that, but his observation only underscored that he came from a different world, one where people wore custom-made shoes.
“Speaking of Clive.” Tim waved at Ollie, the darts player, who was making his way to the bar. “There’s someone who has a tale to tell.”
Interesting. I wondered how he and Clive were connected.
Ollie changed direction and came over to our table, grabbing an empty chair and turning it backward. “What’s up, mate?” His brow lifted when his eyes met mine. “Vermont. Back again to trounce us, I see.”
I flexed my fingers with a laugh. “Maybe. I don’t always win, as you know.” I gave Kieran a sly smile.
Ollie made a skeptical sound and turned to Tim, who said, “I wanted to ask you about Clive Marlowe and his dealings.” Tim rubbed his forefingers against his thumb in the universal gesture for money.
“Oh yes, Clive. I have a friend who used to work for him.” His gaze returned to me. “But I don’t want to speak out of turn. He’s your relative, isn’t he?”
“That’s okay,” I said. “He’s trying to sell the bookshop to Best Books, so he’s not exactly my favorite person. A team from there was in the shop checking it over the day Mum and I arrived.”
My companions made shocked noises, exclaiming in horror. Kieran made a cross sign, as if warding off evil. “Please, no. That would be a travesty.”
“Oh, we’re doing our best to stop him,” I said. “Aunt Violet owes him money, unfortunately, and he’s trying to use that as leverage. Our plan is to pay him off quick as we can.”
Daisy pointed her fork at me. “I’m going to promote the shop even more. You’ll be bursting at the seams with customers.”
“So will we,” Tim said. “Right, Kieran?”
Kieran nodded, saying of course he would.
My heart warmed at this staunch show of support. “Thank you so much.” I turned to Ollie and smiled. “So please spill.”
Ollie leaned his chin on his arms, which were resting along the chair back in front of him. “Clive’s quite the man-about-town. He’s always got projects on the go, renovating flats here, doing shop retrofits there. But my friend—who used to run one of the building crews—said Clive is definitely dodgy.” His forehead furrowed. “Bribes, favors, the whole bit.” He put a finger to his lips. “But that’s all I’m going to say.”
Tim had seen Clive giving Myrtle money, which tied in with what Ollie told us. Had she caught on to Clive’s schemes? Is that why he went to her flat the other night, to pay her off again? A more ominous thought crept into my mind. Or maybe it was to cover his tracks.
“I appreciate the info,” I said to Ollie. “It certainly casts a new light on my cousin.” Come to think of it, with relatives like Clive, who needed enemies? My stomach hollowed. Was that how Mum felt about her immediate family? Had they done something terrible to her? I set down my fork, unable to eat another bite.
“Is that it?” At Tim’s nod, Ollie rose from the chair. “I’d best be getting on. See you in a bit.” He shouldered his way to the bar, where he ordered a pint, laughing about something with Steve.
“I hope that helped,” Kieran said to me. He must have seen something in my face because concern flashed in his eyes. “Are you all right? Did he say something to upset you?”
I waved my hand. “I’m fine. Just taking it all in, that’s all.” Pasting a smile on my face, I said, “Who’s ready to get trounced, as Ollie said?”
But as it turned out, I had an off night at the dartboard. My mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of Myrtle’s murder, the possible suspects, and the mystery of Mum’s family. Far from the calm and alert state necessary to throw properly.
I was standing alone in a corner, sipping a fresh pint and watching the action, when Kieran came over. “Admit it,” he said with a grin. “This is part of your strategy.”
“What do you mean?” I couldn’t help but return his smile. Being around Kieran had that effect on me. I immediately felt all bubbly.
He set his pint on the high-top table beside me. “You’re letting us think you’ve lost your touch before you stage a comeback and wham, blow us out of the water.”
A giggle burst out of my chest. “Yes, that’s it. How did you guess?”
He moved closer, his shoulder almost touching mine. Little zings of attraction seemed to spark between us. Or was it one-sided, meaning all in my head?
“I meant what I said earlier.” His voice was low, intimate. “I’ll do whatever I can to help figure out who killed Myrtle. It’s beyond ridiculous that anyone could think that your aunt is guilty.” He sidled closer. “She saved my life when I first opened my shop, you know.”
I turned to look at him, which brought my face only inches from his. Our eyes met. My throat thickened and I could barely speak. “She did?” Such eloquence.
He tore his gaze away, staring down at the table instead. “It was far from easy, setting up and getting started. I had a few bad moments when I almost gave up, almost tucked my tail and ran home. But she would make me a cup of tea and tell me to keep going. Then she’d send people over to rent bikes.” He gave a little laugh. “Sometimes I got the feeling she’d practically forced them to.”
Dear Aunt Violet. “I can see her doing that.”
A shout over at the dartboard caught our attention. Tim and Ollie were in the last throes of a heated match, the onlookers cheering and groaning by turns.
“Molly.” Kieran’s voice was tentative. “I’ve been wondering if you—I mean, if you might be—”
Before he could finish spitting it out, Tim sank three darts in the bull’s-eye, causing Ollie to stamp his feet in mock dismay. “You’re up, Kieran,” he shouted, pretending to throw down his darts. “Maybe you can take the blighter out.”
Kieran threw me a bemused, regretful smile. “There’s my cue. Talk later?” He picked up his pint and strode toward his friends, calling out a riposte that made them roar with laughter.
Why did I have the distinct feeling that he had been about to ask me on a date? As I watched him square his shoulders for the first dart toss, I realized something else. Kieran Scott, son of nobility, had been nervous. I tossed my hair with a laugh. Well, well. That was interesting.
“How’s it going?” Daisy sauntered over to my table, beer in hand. “You and Kieran looked pretty cozy over here.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
I crooked a finger, inviting her to come closer. We leaned our elbows on the table and put our heads together. “Is it crazy to think he might like me?” As anyone who has been around the block knows, signals do get crossed. And people often play games. For all I knew, Kieran flirted with everyone in his orbit.
“You mean, does he fancy you?” Daisy nodded. “Uh-huh.” She cut her gaze to Kieran and Tim over at the dartboard. “Totally. Head over heels.”
Really? A warm rush doused me head to toe. “But why me? I mean, I’m okay-looking, I know that. But he’s dated supermodels. And future princesses.” I couldn’t hold back a laugh at the absurdity of royals in this day and age. Although the weddings were spectacular.
Daisy eyed me over the rim of her glass. “Because his parents made him. He’s a regular bloke. Treat him like one and he’ll be yours forever.”
I hoped she was right, well except the “forever” part. So not ready for that. “How about for a date or two? Let’s not get carried away.”
Her expression was shrewd. “No, let’s not.” After a pause, she said, “In other news, Tim asked me out.” She sighed with exaggeration. “Finally.”
“Tell me all the details,” I said, meaning it. It’d been a long time since I’d had a friend to confide in about relationships. I’d forgotten how much fun it was.