“Good night,” I called to my friends as we left the pub a while later. Daisy went toward the tea shop, Kieran to the bicycle shop, and Tim took off on his bicycle. He lived a few blocks away.
A little black shape came darting out of the bookshop’s side alley, meeting me halfway across the street. “Puck. You are the cutest.” I bent and picked him up, snuggling my face into his soft fur. Strolling slowly on cobblestones still warm from the day’s heat, we watched as a crescent moon sailed above the chimney pots. Even at night, living on Magpie Lane was like dwelling inside a classic children’s book. Mary Poppins. The Secret Garden. The Wind in the Willows, with Rat and Mole “messing about in boats.” After seeing the punts on the Cam, I wanted to mess about in a boat too.
A rubbish bin crashed over in the alley, the lid rolling away and landing with a clatter. “Bloody ’ell,” a male voice muttered.
Torn from my gentle fantasy world, I landed hard in a thriller. “Who’s there?” I called. “Is that you, George?” He swore like George, that much was true.
No answer, but a dark shape detached itself from the shadows. Footsteps sounded, slow at first but then breaking into a trot.
Not again. And this time I wasn’t having it. After hastily unlocking the shop and putting Puck inside, to keep him safe, I gave chase. “Stop,” I yelled. “Stop, I say.” I was already panting by the time I reached the mouth of the alley, where I almost tripped over the bin lid. Kicking it aside, I kept going.
The man was fast, like the person Kieran had chased the night of Myrtle’s death. Was it the killer, returned to the scene again? Why didn’t he stay away?
I reached the intersection with the back alley, pausing to see if he’d gone left or right. But then I heard the feet thudding ahead, continuing toward Ivy Close. One of George’s tenants taking a shortcut home? But why didn’t he say anything when I called out?
“You really need to stop,” I yelled. “What a hero. Lurking about trying to scare women.” My voice echoed off the canyon of buildings around me.
How quiet it was back here, I realized suddenly. How deserted.
My anger vanished, leaving me shivering. What was I doing out here all by myself? Chasing a possible killer?
Maybe he was hiding up ahead, waiting for me. A thrill of sheer terror iced my spine and I took off again, this time toward home.
In my haste, I’d forgotten to lock the door again. How careless of me. Then, as I started to barge in, eager to reach safety, I noticed a note taped to the oval window. Without bothering to stop and read it, I pulled the paper off and carried it inside, then locked the door and checked it for good measure.
Puck wound around my ankles, mewing. “Hold on a sec. I’ll get you a snack in a minute.” I wanted to read the note first. In the shadowy half dark of the shop’s night lighting, I read, I’m sorry. C. I flipped over the page, but that was it.
C? My thoughts went immediately to Clive. Had he had a change of heart regarding his underhanded attempt to sell the bookstore? Or was he confessing to Myrtle’s murder?
Puck mewed again, his you’d-better-pay-attention squawk, so I hurried through to the kitchen, still holding the note. He ran ahead eagerly, racing me.
The note went on the table, and trying to be quiet, I put a few pebbles of kibble in his dish and filled a glass with water to take upstairs with me. Clarence was upstairs with Aunt Violet, but I gave his dish a few more as well.
“Molly. You’re home.” My mother stood in the kitchen doorway, wrapped in a bathrobe, her hair still damp from a shower.
“I hope I didn’t make too much noise,” I said before slurping a gulp of water. “I tried to be quiet.” Well, except for the shouting outside. But the walls were thick in this very old house.
“No, I didn’t hear a thing.” Mum fluffed her hair as she walked farther into the room. “Want a cup of cocoa? I’m going to make one before I climb into bed with a good book.”
“Perfect. I’d love one.” Cocoa was one of our favorite treats, and we made a game of trying new and creative additions to the hot drink. Peppermint and chocolate liqueur were two favorites. “It will be our first hot cocoa here in England.” I’d seen a bottle of schnapps in the cupboard and I went to retrieve it.
“Sainsbury’s had an organic fair-trade brand—what’s this?” Mum was staring down at the note. “Where did this come from?”
Carrying the bottle, I joined her at the table. “It was taped to the front door. I thought maybe Clive left it.”
Mum sat in a chair, or rather, collapsed as if boneless, the color draining out of her face. She picked up the note with shaking fingers.
“What is it, Mum?” I asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
She rested her head on her hand. “I wasn’t ready for this.”
I pulled out a chair and sat. “Please, tell me. You’re scaring me.”
Something in my voice must have penetrated her distress because she reached out and patted my arm. “I’m sorry, Molly. I’ve been working up my courage to tell you, but my brother beat me to it.” She pointed at the note. “I’d know his handwriting anywhere. Plus he always signs as C, since he’s always been teased about his name, Christopher Marlowe.” Christopher Marlowe had been a playwright, one of Shakespeare’s contemporaries.
“My brother.” The implications took a second to sink in. “You mean I have an uncle?”
She pressed her lips together in a wan smile. “And an aunt. Janice. A cousin as well. Charlie is about your age. He works in the family thatching business with his dad. The Marlowes have been doing that almost as long as this bookshop.”
“I have a cousin too?” My hands went up as I reared back in my seat. “Why did I never know about them?” Filled with angst that made it impossible to sit still, I got up and went to the cupboards, blindly opening and shutting doors as I searched for the cocoa. Mum had kept the existence of these relatives from me all my life. Well, except for a whisper here and there, an overheard conversation I didn’t understand. I whirled around. “Dad knew, didn’t he?”
Mum was studying the note, her finger tracing the letters. “Of course he did.” Her face crumpled with pain. “He was the … um, ‘inciting incident’ as they say in novels.” She rose from her chair. “Please, sit. I’ll make cocoa and explain.” Mum shared my habit of restlessness when facing difficult situations or conversations.
Unable to find the cocoa, which turned out to be sitting on the counter, I did as she said. Puck came over and crawled up into my lap, not seeming to mind when I began to pet him feverishly. My stomach knotted with anxiety as I waited for her explanation. Dad had been an only child, which meant I’d had no cousins or aunts and uncles growing up. And how I’d longed for a long holiday table surrounded by loving relatives, for the support of a tribe that always had your back.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Mum said with a dry laugh as she opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk. “I tried not to think about it—about them—for years.” A drawer rattled as she jerked it open. “But maybe Chris’s note is a good thing. Maybe he truly is sorry.” She pulled out a measuring cup and filled it with milk.
“Did he do something to you?” I asked, pushing the words through my closed throat. My mind danced around the possibilities, as if dark shapes waited, jeering in the shadows.
Mum threw me a sharp glance. “No one laid a finger on me, if that’s what you mean. But our family dynamic was far from healthy. Chris was the favorite, you see. I was the unwanted one.”
Anguish tore at my heart. “No, Mum. That can’t be true.”
But she nodded, affirming that it was. “You know all those stories about changeling children? The ones the fairies bring and leave in the cot? My mother told me I was one of them, an imp sent to make her miserable.”
Shocked, I sucked in a breath. “Mum, that’s awful.”
Mum shrugged. “I’ve come to realize that my mother was mentally ill. And I wasn’t the easiest child—bright, inquisitive, unwilling to conform. But marrying your father and having you did a great deal to heal the wounds.” Her skin pinked. “I know what love is. I’m very fortunate.”
“So what’s the deal with your brother? Did he think you were a changeling too?” My grandparents were both dead, but my resentment still had a target. Had Uncle Chris been the man lurking outside? So afraid to talk to his sister he’d resorted to leaving a note? A possible estrangement between my mother and grandparents must be what Persephone had been hinting about today at St. Hildegard’s.
“Chris accepted the role of favorite, enjoyed it very much.” Mum mixed spoonfuls of cocoa powder in a little milk. “And when he married Janice, well, the whole thing was written in stone. She’s … not the nicest person, I’ll just say that. So after I met your father and we went to the States, I basically cut them all off.” She tapped her head. “It was vital for my mental health.”
“I can see that.” A new worry struck. “Being back here isn’t upsetting you, is it?” Now I understood the magnitude of her sacrifice in moving to Cambridge. The risk that old wounds would be reopened.
“I’m fine.” Mum measured sugar and added it to the pot. “I’ve been pondering whether or not I should get in touch with Chris. Now he’s made the decision for me.”
I stared at the note, tempted to crumple it up and toss it in the trash. “You don’t have to do anything. Ignore it.”
Mum selected a whisk from the crock and began to stir. “I might do that. I need to think a bit more.”
“I wonder if Uncle Chris was the man I chased tonight.” Puck mewed faintly as if annoyed by the mention of my rash action. If it had been him, what must he be thinking about his wild and crazy niece?
The whisk paused. “The man you chased? What are you talking about?”
I laughed. “That’s why I asked if you heard me. There was a man lurking in the alley tonight. Like when we found Myrtle. I yelled at him and he took off. Stupidly, I chased him.” I shook my head. What had I been thinking? “I found the note when I came to my senses and ran back to the shop.”
Mum resumed stirring. “Sounds like it might have been Chris, then. But don’t do that again. My nerves can’t take it.”
“Mine are pretty shot too.” I thought back over the last couple of days and realized Mum and I hadn’t really talked. We’d both been so busy, going in opposite directions most of the time. “Want to hear the latest about the murder case?”
Mum seized on the topic with interest, and as I hoped, it distracted her from her family woes. Over cocoa, I relayed what I’d learned so far, including Ollie’s disclosures about Clive.
“As we thought,” I concluded, “quite a few people had a motive to kill Myrtle. She tried and failed to blackmail Kieran. She tried to blackmail Ruth in the past, so maybe she made another attempt there. And there’s some indication that she blackmailed Steve at the pub as well as Clive. Plus, I’d like to know more about her other friends, Persephone and Fiona. Persephone told me today that she hadn’t known Myrtle very well. But we’ll see. She might be lying.” I bit my lip, holding back the poet’s insinuations about our family. Mum didn’t need to hear them.
“I doubt anyone is going to claim otherwise,” Mum said. “Would you?”
“Honestly, no,” I agreed with a laugh. “Anyway, we need to get back into Myrtle’s flat and do a thorough search. Hopefully she kept some kind of record or other information about her targets.”
“In addition to the family tree pointing to Aunt Violet, you mean?” Mum said with a rueful smile. “I sincerely hope Inspector Ryan drops that line of inquiry.” Her eyes flashed at the mention of the officer. “If he doesn’t, I’ll have to have a word.”
“Go, Mum.” As you can see, I come by my fiery temper honestly.
“Oh, by the way,” Mum went on. “George came by tonight. We can get into her flat tomorrow. The police released it. Again.”
“Good. I can’t wait to go back inside.” It had been frustrating to have our efforts stalled when we discovered the place had been ransacked. Hopefully the intruder hadn’t removed the evidence we needed.
Mum sighed. “I’ll be glad when the case is closed, as they say on television.” She leaned forward. “On another topic, tell me about your night. I’m so glad you’ve found some young people to hang out with.”
Over the rest of our cocoa, I gave her the highlights of my night and then, nice and relaxed and ready, we headed to bed. Before I went up, I grabbed Joan’s journal, leaving the Wordsworth for Aunt Violet to appraise in the morning. As a favor to Daisy and her family, if they did want to sell, I planned to feature the book on social media.
Upstairs, I washed up and got into my nightgown, then climbed into bed with Puck and the leather-bound journal. The casement window was cracked enough for sweet evening air to filter in, and in the distance I could hear the murmur of traffic. Cambridge, like most cities, never really slept. But all was quiet in our little enclave.
I ran my fingers across the soft leather cover, strangely reluctant to begin reading. Inside were a young woman’s private thoughts and dreams, written with the confidence that no one else would ever read them.
Only the fact that Joan’s writings might shed light on Myrtle’s murder convinced me to open the cover.
Joan Watson’s journal
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, and I can’t write a blasted word. Not one.
It’s so quiet here. Too quiet. I can’t believe I’m saying this but I miss the thump of footsteps on the stairs and the twins shouting at each other. Mum hollering that dinner is on the table and get it while it’s hot. Dad whistling to Sally, our sheepdog, before he goes out to check the flock before bed. Dear little Hazelhurst. I can’t wait to visit you.
Maybe it’s the weight of expectation that is stifling me. It’s one thing to be in awe of and inspired by the greats who came before and another to have their superiority shoved in your face every instant. Theirs and that of the other students with their public school accents and smug smirks.
But a cat can look at a king, right? as my grandmother always said. And this little barn cat is going to do her best to shine. A lot of people have faith in me and I’m not going to let them down.
Someone is knocking at my door. I’d better answer.
Later—The most incredible thing just happened. Persephone Brightwell, she of the illustrious literary lineage, invited me to a get-together. Oh, it was only six of us girls sitting around her room quaffing sherry, but it ended up being a hoot. Let me tell you about the cast of characters:
Persephone—already our Queen Bee, elegant, droll, lovely, a bit snobbish. Also a poet, and talk about a leg up—her father is famous.
Fiona—Old-school girl, the type who normally petrifies me with her hearty chip-chip-cheerio demeanor. But she’s a big-eyed softie underneath all that.
Violet—Oh, sweet Violet. Bookish, kind—and extremely brilliant. Her family owns the legendary Thomas Marlowe bookshop. And judging by the cackles of the others, her brother is equally legendary.
Ruth—Steely ambition in a soft warm package, that’s our Ruth. She’s also quietly hilarious.
Myrtle—Ah. I hate to admit this, but I couldn’t warm to Myrtle. She’s the toadying type and I think P only invited her because she lives across the hall from me. And happened to be outside when we left. She also has a habit of watching everyone as though trying to catch them out in something. I don’t trust her.
So Joan hadn’t trusted Myrtle. And had thought Persephone was condescending, which she still was, judging by how she’d treated me today. How observant Joan had been. I loved her characterizations of the others, which made me see them, a group of bright young women on the brink of brilliant futures.
I closed the book and set it carefully on my nightstand, next to A. A. Milne. She’d given me enough to think about for tonight.