We had unexpected visitors the next morning—Sir Jon and two police officers. I was in front of the AGA when they arrived, whipping up what Mum called my famous French toast. Thick slices of homemade white bread were dredged in beaten egg flavored with nutmeg and vanilla then fried in butter.
“Carry on, Molly,” Aunt Violet said, her expression irked at the intrusion. But she politely asked the guests, “Tea? Or should I send Nina for coffee?”
Inspector Ryan placed his tablet and a manila folder on the table before shrugging out of his overcoat, which he hung on the back of a chair. “I’ll take tea, thanks. How about you, Sergeant Adhikari?
Sergeant Adhikari said, “Tea would be lovely, thank you.” Trim in her uniform, she had inky hair and eyes and smooth bronze skin. She also carried a tablet.
“I can always drink another cup,” Sir Jon said, rubbing his hands together. “It’s a bit brisk this morning.”
“Supposed to warm up later,” Ryan said. He gave a slight shudder. “We can only hope.”
When I pushed the full kettle onto the burner, I saw my hands were shaking. I clenched my fists to hopefully stop it. What were the police doing here so early? Were they going to arrest Aunt Violet? But if so, would they stop for tea first?
Maybe so, in England. Tea seemed to accompany every ritual.
I caught the French toast before it burned, flipping the slices over in haste. Aunt Violet came alongside me to retrieve the teapot and mugs from the cupboard. When I had a chance, I gave her a quick, covert hug. “It will be okay,” I whispered, not sure of this in the slightest.
She nodded. “It will. Especially since my lawyer is here.” She gave me a close-lipped smile. “Sir Jon is a barrister.”
What couldn’t the man do? In the United Kingdom, the legal system was slightly different than in the States. Barristers represented clients in court, while solicitors did everything but. How fortuitous that Sir Jon had stopped by this morning.
I slid the French toast onto a platter. Minding my manners, I asked the room at large, “Who would like French toast? We have real maple syrup.” We’d brought a quart with us since it was very pricey here. England didn’t have sugar maple trees, the way New England did.
Sergeant Adhikari looked interested and her face fell when Inspector Ryan said, “None for us, thank you. But please, go ahead with breakfast.”
“I’ll take a couple of pieces, Molly,” Sir Jon said, his eyes twinkling. “You had me at maple syrup.”
“If only I’d known it was that easy,” Aunt Violet joked. She placed tea bags in the pot and added boiling water.
Her bustling movements pouring and serving tea occupied the next couple of minutes. I gave Sir Jon the first golden pieces, then dredged two more slices in the egg mixture and put them in the pan. Not that I was still hungry, but it gave me something to do.
Mum came down the stairs and popped into the kitchen. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know we had guests.” She looked fresh and lovely in a slim linen skirt and sleeveless blouse, and Inspector Ryan definitely noticed. I didn’t see a wedding band on his finger but that didn’t mean he wasn’t committed.
Oh, stop it Molly. He’s probably here because he thinks your aunt is a killer.
“Please join us, Nina,” Aunt Violet said, waving at an empty chair. “They haven’t started the inquisition yet.”
“All right.” Mum sounded doubtful but she took a seat across from the officers. Sir Jon was at one end of the table, and Aunt Violet’s seat was at the other.
I pointed at the pan and then Sir Jon’s already decimated plate, raising my brows in question. Mum nodded and smiled. Good. She could have this batch.
“Thank you for the tea, Miss Marlowe,” Inspector Ryan said, his voice oddly formal. “We do have a few more questions for you, so is there a place we can speak?”
“Right here is fine.” Aunt Violet set her jaw. She picked up her mug with both hands and drank.
Inspector Ryan frowned. “I’m not sure—”
Aunt Violet set the mug down with a clank. “Sir Jon is representing me.” Sir Jon’s brows rose but he didn’t object as he continued to shovel in French toast. “And Molly and Nina are my family. I have no secrets from them. So, unless you’re arresting me…”
Ryan slid a glance at his companion. “Er, no. We are not.” He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “We’ll proceed then.” After a moment to gather his thoughts, he went on. “About that family tree we discovered in Myrtle’s flat.”
Pushing aside her tea, the sergeant began to take notes on her tablet.
“What about it?” Aunt Violet sounded unconcerned but from behind, I saw her shoulders stiffen.
Inspector Ryan tapped a finger on the table. “According to the tree, her direct ancestor Thomas Marlowe was the oldest son in the family at that time. Why didn’t the bookshop come down his—and eventually Myrtle’s—line?”
“There was a will,” Aunt Violet said. “And that document left the property to my direct ancestor, Samuel.”
Sir Jon wiped his lips with a napkin then raised a hand. “If I may.” After he had their attention, he said, “The 1540 statute of wills allowed property holders to designate heirs instead of entailing the property to the oldest male. A will would render Thomas’s claim and that of any descendant null and void.”
Ryan took that in. “Can we see a copy of the will?”
Aunt Violet, who had relaxed slightly, now sat up ramrod straight. “I’m sorry, but the will has been misplaced.” She scoffed. “We’re talking three hundred years ago or so about a three-hundred-year-old document, Inspector. Do you have family papers of that vintage kicking around?”
The inspector’s smile was grim. “My ancestors were Irish peasants living in a leased cottage.” Adhikari elbowed him. “But that’s neither here nor there. Our concern is that the late Myrtle Marsh planned to challenge you for ownership of this property.” Unspoken was the conclusion that Aunt Violet might have killed to prevent this.
Sir Jon opened his mouth as though to say something, but then his lips clamped shut. He took out his phone and began to search.
“But she didn’t.” Aunt Violet adjusted her glasses as if taking a closer look at what the inspector was proposing. “And she never even raised the subject with me. So isn’t your theory merely speculative?”
Ryan frowned as he flipped open the folder. “She never emailed you?”
Aunt Violet shook her head. “No. At least I don’t think so … maybe it went to spam.” Aunt Violet wasn’t a fan of computers. She only used her old, clunky computer for online bookshop transactions and communicating with customers and dealers.
The officer extracted a piece of paper and slid it across the table to Aunt Violet. “You never got this?” His tone was heavy with suspicion.
Her headshake was firm. “I did not. She picked up the page and read aloud, “‘Dear Violet, I heard something very interesting the other day. Is it true that Best Books is buying the shop? We need to talk. I’ve stood by my whole life, watching while your branch of the family ran the place into the ground. You’re not cutting out a legitimate heir this time. Myrtle.’” The page fluttered out of her fingers and onto the floor. I bent to scoop it up.
My aunt’s complexion was chalky, almost bloodless. “I never got this. I swear to you.”
“What an awful woman,” Mum said. In contrast to Aunt Violet, Mum’s cheeks were flushed with color, a sure sign that her temper was on the rise. “She was sending nasty notes while pretending to help us boost shop sales.” She turned to Inspector Ryan. “Myrtle asked Persephone Brightwell to come do the reading. It was her idea.”
I believed Aunt Violet, especially because she never would have accepted Myrtle’s help, or allowed her into the house for that matter, if she’d received this not-so-veiled threat. Had the email gone to spam or … I studied the “to” address, which didn’t look quite right. “Aunt Violet, what is your email address?” She recited it. “Well, there you go.” I slapped the page down on the table in triumph. “Myrtle had the wrong address. This message never got to my aunt.”
Aunt Violet grabbed the page again. “Molly is right. She spelled my email address wrong. The right one is on the shop website—if you don’t believe me.”
Sergeant Adhikari searched on her tablet, then showed Ryan the screen. “She’s correct, Inspector. Miss Marsh made a mistake.”
“I’d still like to check your computer,” Inspector Ryan said. “We can get a warrant if necessary.”
“Go ahead and look,” Aunt Violet said airily. “I have no secrets.” She rose from her chair. “Why don’t we take a peek right now?”
Sir Jon jumped up. “Hold on, Violet. As your counselor, I want to be sure everything is handled correctly.” To Inspector Ryan, he said, “I think you’d better get that warrant.” His smile was wintry. “Although I’m not sure a judge will award it.”
Inspector Ryan took the email back and tucked it into the folder. The tips of his ears were red but despite that telltale sign of stress, he appeared calm, resigned, even. “We’ll be in touch,” he said. “Ready, Sergeant?”
After they left, shown to the door by Mum, a calm descended on the kitchen, rather like that after a sudden and violet storm sweeps through. We were battered and disheveled but more or less intact.
When Mum returned, I served her a plate of French toast. “I can make more,” I told Sir Jon who had demolished his.
“No, thanks, Molly. I’d better not.” He examined his mug. “I wouldn’t say no to a splash more tea though.”
“Pass your mug,” Aunt Violet said, feeling the side of the teapot under its cozy. “This is still hot.”
Without being asked, I put the kettle back on, certain that more pots of tea were in the offing. My appetite had returned, so I dipped two more slices of bread into the egg mixture and placed them in the sizzling pan.
“There is something I need to bring up,” Sir Jon said. “About the will. Do you think you can lay hands on it?”
“I don’t know,” Aunt Violet said. “Tom had it, last I knew. It’s been years since I’ve seen it.”
“Why do we need the will, Sir Jon?” Mum asked. “Surely after three hundred years there can be no question that Aunt Violet’s branch of the family owns the shop.”
He hesitated. “Until the new land registration act was passed in 2003, I’d say that was true. Before it went through, an owner had twelve years to dispute possession. After that, he was out of luck.”
“We are way beyond twelve years.” Aunt Violet gave a snort. “Plus, we were never squatters.”
Although she was right, the mention of a change in the law alarmed me. “What does the new law say?” I asked.
Sir Jon exhaled, his expression troubled. “Basically that someone taking possession needs to petition the rightful owner, giving notice that registration of title will be transferring to the new resident should the owner not object. There have been many, many cases where someone moved onto land or into an abandoned house and, after the twelve years, was considered the rightful owner. The new law tried to close that loophole.”
“But why would Violet petition anyone?” Mum argued. “As far as she knows, she has always been the rightful owner.”
Sir Jon pursed his lips. “Therein lies the trap, I’m afraid. Violet would probably win a case due to the longevity of her family line owning and running the shop. However, Myrtle could have made life very, very difficult with a challenge.”
“Not to mention the bad publicity,” Mum said. “I can see the headlines now. ‘Heirs battle over Cambridge’s oldest bookshop. “We were cheated,” Myrtle Marsh asserts.’”
“She probably wanted money to make it go away.” I flipped the perfectly browned, eggy French toast over. “That was always her game, it seems.” I thought of something else. “Don’t they record wills in a probate court here? They do in the States. Maybe we can get a copy that way.”
Sir Jon, who seemed to know his inheritance law, explained. “Until 1858, wills were almost always recorded in church courts along with baptisms, marriages, and deaths. The problem is, there are many gaps in the parish records for all kinds of reasons. I’m guessing Myrtle already checked for the will before concocting this scheme.”
“That sounds like her.” The kettle had boiled, so Aunt Violet got up to make a fresh pot of tea. “She held a research position at the University, so she was pretty much an expert at digging into historical records.”
And no doubt this skill had served her well in her blackmail schemes. If she had only used her abilities for good, we probably wouldn’t be investigating her murder.
Later that morning, George met the search team—Sir Jon, Mum, and me—at the door of his building. Aunt Violet had begged off, making the point that as the “lead suspect,” as she put it, she’d better stay out of the victim’s home.
“You’re looking sharp, George,” I said as I entered the foyer. He wore a crisp white shirt and tie with tweed trousers pressed to a knife-edge crease.
“I’ve been to the solicitor’s this morning, haven’t I?” He ushered us toward the stairs. “To my great surprise, he told me that Myrtle made me executor of her will.” His headshake was bemused. “Not only did the old girl include provision to pay me any back rent, the rest of her estate will fund a scholarship at St. Hildegard’s. For young women from Hazelhurst, specifically. Odd, really, since Myrtle came from King’s Lynn.”
Mum was from Hazelhurst. And so was Joan Watson, I remembered with a start. Why had Myrtle chosen that particular village? Grief … or guilt?
“How generous of her,” Mum said, leading the way up the staircase, a tote holding our supplies slung over one arm. We were much better prepared this time, thanks to Sir Jon.
“I was a bit taken aback, I don’t mind telling you.” George pulled a key ring out of his pocket and unlocked Myrtle’s door. “I had no idea about any of it.” He pushed the door open. “Here we are.”
I entered first, noticing a stack of flat boxes against one wall. Although the place was still a shambles, the spilled flour and sugar and broken glass had been swept up. “You’ve made some progress,” I said to George.
He gave a grunt. “A little. Not only is it my job to pack everything up, I need to dispose of it. I might be renting a booth at the market.” He laughed to show he was joking. Myrtle’s artwork and furniture were far too valuable for that approach.
“When my parents died,” Sir Jon said, “we used a firm to handle everything. They come in and appraise, then sell whatever you want them to handle. I can give you their contact information.”
“I might take you up on that,” George said. “This is all a bit overwhelming.”
“We can help sort as we go,” I said. “Put aside anything we think might be valuable, at least.” I pointed at the shelves. “She had some good books, I noticed last time.” With Aunt Violet under suspicion, we wouldn’t sell them, but maybe Sir Jon could.
“And I’ll pack her clothes,” Mum said, which was a really valiant offer. “Those will either be donated or tossed, I assume.”
“Would you?” George’s eyes lit up. “I really didn’t want to go near her … her unmentionables.” He folded a couple of boxes, sealing the seams with packing tape, and set them on the carpet. “Here you go, lass.”
“Thanks,” Mum said. “All right, Sir Jon. Point us in the right direction.” She pulled pairs of disposable gloves out of the tote and passed them around. “I brought these, as you suggested.”
Sir Jon had been strolling around the room, taking everything in. He pointed at the desk stacked with papers and folders, an empty rectangle revealing where Myrtle’s computer had been. “Why don’t you look through the desk, George? The police probably took her bank books and the like, but as executor, it makes sense for you to be the one searching that area.”
“Absolutely,” George said, moving in that direction. “Today’s a good a time as any.” He settled in the desk chair and put on a pair of gloves.
Sir Jon smoothed the fingers of his gloves. “These might be overkill, since the police have dusted twice. But I prefer not to muddy the waters, so to speak, with my paw prints.”
“I don’t think we left any last time,” I said, chagrined we hadn’t thought of gloves then. “We didn’t get far, though. Not after seeing the family tree taped to the wall.”
We all looked at the spot over the desk, where only a stray piece of tape remained.
“I wish I knew who got in here,” George said. “Sleeping on the job, I was.”
Mum tugged at her glove cuffs. “This is uncharted territory for all of us. Well, except you, Sir Jon.”
George perked up. “Fast cars, pretty girls, and the like, I imagine.”
Sir Jon laughed. “It wasn’t exactly like a James Bond movie, I promise you.” His gaze was thoughtful. “Although there was that one time in Paris when I found my contact dead.” He shook himself. “But that’s a story for another day. Let’s get to work.”
I flexed my fingers, eager to begin. “Any tips?”
The former secret agent pivoted on his heel, taking it all in. “Do you have your phone, Molly?”
“Of course.” I extracted it from my jeans pocket. This was exciting. I felt like a real investigator.
“Take pictures of everything in this room before we begin.” He followed me around as I photographed the bookshelves, the furniture, and the ornaments on the mantel. He checked the shots, making sure they were all clear. “Good. Now we have these for reference, should they be needed later.”
He told George and Mum to do the same in their area before they started searching. “What I’ve found is key is to look for anomalies, whatever doesn’t belong. And patterns. Habits. Trust your instincts.” He gestured, encompassing the room. “This place looks like any flat owned by a harmless older woman, right? But she had secrets. Most of us do. We’re in search of those secrets.”
And evidence of her crimes.
My assignment was the bookcases. Thinking about what Sir Jon had said, I stood back and scanned the shelves. Books, books, and more books. A figurine or two. The box for the internet and wall-mounted television.
A dozen black videotape boxes lined up on the bottom shelf. Wait a minute. Myrtle didn’t own a VHS player or even a DVD unit. So why would she keep movies in an outdated format?
I practically ran to the shelves and pulled out a box at random. A handwritten page in the sleeve read “As Time Goes By.” I remembered that show, a wonderful sitcom starring Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer as reunited lovers. Holding my breath, I pried the box open.
Banknotes fluttered onto the rug like a shower of money. Followed by a photograph of my aunt’s friend Fiona Fosdyke locked in an embrace with Uncle Tom. It was dated two years ago.
“Look at this.” Holding the photograph, I stood in the middle of the scattered money. Even at a glance, there looked to be thousands of pounds.
“Fiona and Tom,” Sir Jon said. “Well, well, what do you know?” He waved the picture. “They were very much an item in the old days. Before Fiona married Gregory.”
George took a look. “And she’s still married to him, far as I know.” He peered more closely at the picture. “That looks like Tom’s house.” He passed it along to Mum, who studied it with interest.
I crouched down and started picking up the banknotes. So Fiona and Tom had reconnected after decades apart—like the characters in As Time Goes By. With Fiona’s high-profile job and husband, that made her a perfect target for blackmail.
“You found this in a video case?” Sir Jon asked. “I wonder what’s in the others?”
“Me too.” I sat all the way down on the carpet and pulled out another box. “This one is labeled This Old House. Huh.” I pried the case open and, lo and behold, it was also filled with money. This time I didn’t spill the bundles but gently removed them and set the box on the carpet. Underneath the money was a photograph of Clive—talking to another middle-aged man in what appeared to be a building site.
“Can anyone figure this out?” I handed the picture to Sir Jon, who held it so George could also see.
“Oh ho,” George said with a chortle. “I recognize that chap.” He said the name. “He works for the city, in the enforcement department.”
From my seat, I looked up at them. “Proof of bribes, like Kieran said?”
“Maybe so,” Sir Jon mused. “I wouldn’t want to be Clive when Inspector Ryan questions him.”
“We now have motives for two solid suspects,” I said. “It looks to me like Myrtle was blackmailing Clive and Fiona.” Hopefully our discovery would turn Inspector Ryan’s efforts away from Aunt Violet and George.
“Did Clive attend the reading?” Sir Jon asked abruptly.
Mum and I looked at each other. “I didn’t see him,” I said. There was no way I would have missed him. He was too loud and arrogant.
“I was in London that day, got back to Cambridge around six.” His expression was rueful. “That’s why I was late to the reading. Went home, cleaned up, et cetera first. But anyway, I’m pretty sure I saw Clive at the train station, sitting in one of the pubs.”
“So he might be guilty,” I said. “If the timing works.” Did Clive meet Myrtle before the reading—or even during—and kill her?
“It’s a possibility,” Sir Jon said. “I’ll mention it to the police.”
Mum helped me open the rest of the cases, most of which held only money, although a few included cryptic handwritten notes. But the case labeled Midsomer Murders contained something I certainly didn’t expect to see. A yellowed newspaper clipping of Joan Watson’s obituary.
Judging by Fiona and Clive’s videotape cases, Myrtle’s labels were sly jokes. What did this one mean? Had Joan Watson been murdered?