“Hey, everyone,” I said, waving the clipping. “Myrtle thought Joan Watson was murdered. Or that there was something fishy about her death,” I qualified. “But either way, someone paid her to keep quiet, looks like.”
“Hold on,” George said. “What are you talking about? Who is Joan Watson?”
Sir Jon stood with fists lightly clenched, a faraway look in his eyes. “Joan was at St. Hildegard’s with Violet and the others. A lovely girl, I remember. Quiet but so bright. She committed suicide in her first year.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Or so the coroner ruled. Sedatives mixed with wine.”
“She was Daisy’s great-aunt,” I said. “And she grew up in Hazelhurst. “Remember that scholarship, George? Maybe Myrtle created it in honor of Joan.”
George nodded slowly, light dawning across his broad face. “Oh, I see. Myrtle thought her friend was killed and that’s why she wanted to start the scholarship. To rub it in their faces, like.”
“But I don’t understand why she didn’t go to the police,” Mum said. “I mean, I know she was a greedy old thing, but surely she wouldn’t let a killer go free.”
“Good point, Mum.” My mind turned over the situation, trying to see it from Myrtle’s viewpoint. “Maybe she couldn’t quite prove who killed her. Maybe there wasn’t enough evidence. And she held that over the person’s head anyway.”
“That could be,” Mum said. “Even being accused can ruin someone’s life.”
There was a pause as we all considered Aunt Violet and George’s situation.
“We need to know more about Joan’s death,” I said. “How did she die? Who discovered her? And so on.”
Sir Jon had begun to pace, moving back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. He halted in the middle of the rug. “I’ll make a few calls, find out who worked the case. We might be able to get those questions answered.”
“We could also talk to Daisy’s family,” I said. “See what they remember.” I winced at the thought of intruding on their grief. “Although I hate to reopen old wounds if we don’t have to.”
“We’ll play that by ear.” Sir Jon swept his hand over the videotape cases, the money, and the newspaper clipping. “I’ll show all this to Inspector Ryan, but otherwise, let’s keep it to ourselves. Especially the case with Joan’s obituary.” His expression was grim. “If she was murdered, the last thing we want to do is tip off the killer.”
A thought struck me. Was it possible that Myrtle’s murder was connected to Joan’s death? Maybe the killer had gotten tired of being blackmailed.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Aunt Violet asked me for the third time. She and Mum were headed out for a spot of shopping and a late lunch, so I was going to be in charge of the bookshop while they were gone.
I waved away her concern. “I’ll be fine.” This was the first time I’d actually run the shop on my own and I was looking forward to it. Although I was rather weak when it came to book appraisals. I didn’t know nearly enough to do that successfully yet. And I was totally incapable of driving a hard bargain as well. I prayed no one would try to negotiate today. So as long as customers came in and bought books for the listed price, I was all set.
“If it’s slow,” I continued, “I plan to start sorting through Uncle Tom’s books.” A couple of cardboard boxes sat behind the desk, ready for me to excavate.
Aunt Violet eyed the boxes with a sigh. “Thank you, Molly. I can’t believe I put it off for so long. Maybe you’ll find a treasure or two.”
“That’s what I’m hoping.” But even if the books weren’t especially valuable, I would enjoy leafing through old favorites.
Mum joined Aunt Violet at the desk, pretty in a sundress and fragrant with English lavender perfume. She thanked me as well. “I’ve been longing for a day off to browse through the shops. I haven’t been to Marks and Spencer for ages.”
“I hope you find lots of good stuff,” I said. “Have fun.”
“We’ll bring you lunch,” Mum promised as they left the shop. The door shut behind them with a jingle and I was alone. Well, except for two cats. Clarence was in his usual window and Puck was perched on top of a bookcase, looming over me like a gargoyle—a cute one, if there is such a thing.
Although work called me—adding books to the online inventory, updating social media, looking through Tom’s boxes—I sat quietly for a few minutes just absorbing the shop’s atmosphere. The ancient building settled around me, a tick here, a creak there. Outside the big windows, pigeons swooped down and strutted on the cobblestones.
I was cocooned by books, hemmed in by rows and stacks of volumes on bookshelves and tables. More than I could ever read in a lifetime. I could dip in and out of these books for a hundred years, sipping knowledge, imagination, beauty.
Oh, how I loved this place. I’d willingly spend the rest of my life here, puttering around with books.
Then my Puritan work ethic clicked in. Time to get to work. I flipped open my laptop and logged onto the internet, planning to check on the store pages and maybe create a new post for the shop. In the classic time-delaying tactic, I checked my social media first, following a couple of rabbit holes that presented themselves on friends’ pages. After dragging myself away, I snapped pictures of Puck and Clarence and wrote posts about our adorable shop cats. Likes appeared almost immediately.
Tempted by a new idea, my fingers hovered over the search bar. Was my uncle on social media? I typed in his name and got a number of results, mostly from the United States. Not knowing the thatching company name, I typed in “thatching” and “Hazelhurst,” and found a company called Shire Thatch with an address in Hazelhurst, but there were no pictures of my uncle on Shire’s website, only a few generic shots of buff young men working on thatched roofs.
Hmm. How about Janice, his wife? A Janice Patterson Marlowe from Hazelhurst featured a profile picture of a Yorkshire terrier on her page. The rest of her page was locked down, no public information, pictures, or friends. Darn.
But there was more than one way to track someone down. Refusing to be denied, I typed her name and location in a search engine and watched as results loaded up.
Here we go. The local newspaper had an article about the annual meeting of the garden club at Hazelhurst House.
I clicked on the link, rewarded by a photograph of a dozen women sitting at a table under a vine-shaded pergola. The caption informed me that the dark-haired woman at the head of the table was Lady Asha Scott, the hostess. Kieran’s mother, I realized with a burst of excitement. So the Scotts lived in Hazelhurst. I put a pin in that and studied the other faces, mostly middle-aged women. They weren’t labeled, so I couldn’t tell which one was my aunt. She was mentioned in the article as the new president of the club.
Studying the photo more closely, I decided my money was on the smug blonde cuddled up to Asha. That made sense, both due to her position in the club and how Mum had described her. Resentment began to burn in my chest. Did I really want to meet the people who had been so hateful to Mum? I was repelled—and curious, I had to admit. But no matter what, I wouldn’t do anything that might hurt my mother.
The bells over the door jingled and Kieran walked in. My heart leaped, a reaction echoed by Puck, who chirped and thumped down from his perch before bolting to greet Kieran. Closing the laptop quickly, I stood up, relieved he hadn’t caught me checking out his mother’s garden club meeting. Even though it was my aunt I was interested in. “Hey,” I said when he got closer to the desk. “What brings you here?”
His steps stuttered as if he wasn’t sure himself. “Uh, I had a few minutes free so I thought I’d stop in to say hello.” He glanced down to where Puck was winding around his jeans-clad legs. “What’s up, Puck?” He scooped up the cat and began to rub his chin. “Who’s the best cat-patter in the whole world, huh?”
I sincerely doubted he’d come to visit my cat but I waited patiently for their bromance to play out. Over in the window, Clarence grunted and turned his back on the proceedings. I get it, I told him telepathically.
Kieran finally released Puck and brushed at the cat hair on his T-shirt and jeans.
“The downside of a black cat,” I said. “Even if he is short-haired.”
He took a step closer, his eyes fastened on my face. After swallowing a couple of times, he asked, “I was wondering if you’d like to go to dinner with me. Sometime. If you’re free.” His expression became pained, probably because he heard his voice shake a trifle. “The Holly and Ivy up the street is quite good. Asian-French fusion.”
“Oh, really?” How lame. I sucked in a breath, ordering my heart to stop hammering. “I’d love to try Asian-French fusion.” Whatever that was. “We didn’t have much of that in Vermont.”
“I suppose not,” he said. He pulled out his phone. “So how about Saturday?” He winced. “I know that isn’t much notice.”
Two days from now, so no, it wasn’t. But I didn’t care. I pretended to check my calendar. “Let me see … yes, I can do that. What time?”
“Um.” He rolled in his lips, thinking. “Eight? I’ll make a reservation right now.” His fingers flew over the screen. “All set.” He tucked his phone into his pocket.
I have a date with Kieran. I managed to stay cool. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Now that the ordeal was over, he appeared much more relaxed. “What else is new? Anything about Myrtle?”
“Come sit,” I suggested, sitting again and patting the chair next to me. “And I’ll tell you.”
He settled behind the desk, traitorous Puck immediately seeking his lap.
“Well, I never.” I pretended to be offended. “Did you forget who took you in from the cold? Who feeds you?” Puck’s response was to stretch a paw out to my knee and rest it there—while staying firmly on Kieran’s lap. We both laughed.
Kieran looked around, as if making sure we were alone. “So, what’s the latest?”
Where to begin? Sir Jon had warned us to keep what we’d found confidential, but surely that didn’t include Kieran or Daisy. They were on our team. But in the interest of keeping specific clues close to the vest, I decided to stay vague. The fewer people who knew everything, the better.
“Probably the biggest news is that we went over to Myrtle’s flat this morning to take another look around,” I said. “Oh, and get this. George is her executor, which made me feel much less guilty about snooping.”
He listened intently as, without too many details, I told him we’d found evidence related to Myrtle’s blackmail schemes. I didn’t mention Joan’s obituary since I wasn’t quite sure how to broach that subject with Daisy, and she deserved to hear it first. And we needed to know more, to find out if it really was murder. After all, Myrtle could have been wrong, although the money she collected said otherwise.
“We called the police, of course,” I went on. “But we did take pictures of everything for our own purposes first. Inspector Ryan wasn’t very happy about us being there but what could he say? George has a right to look at everything Myrtle owned. But probably the main reason is that he’s leaning toward Aunt Violet as a suspect—wrongly. He came over this morning to question her about Myrtle’s Marlowe family tree.”
“Myrtle had a Marlowe family tree?” Kieran asked. “What was that about?”
I explained that Myrtle was actually a distant cousin since our families had been connected centuries ago and, if she’d had her way, the so-called rightful owner of the bookshop.
“You’re kidding.” Kieran’s eyes were wide. “I mean, that’s horrible. And why now?” Understanding dawned on his face. “Oh, I get it. With Clive going after Best Books, Myrtle thought there would be a big payday.”
“Exactly. Or she would have pulled that trick before, right?” After hesitating, I decided to continue my confidences, this time with something even more personal. “Speaking of unknown relatives, I learned last night that I have an uncle. My mother’s brother. And an aunt, his wife. I think she knows your mother. They’re both in the Hazelhurst garden club.”
Kieran put a hand to his head, playing up how amazed he was. “When I asked you what was going on, I didn’t expect this barrage of news.” He squinted in confusion. “Didn’t I just see you last night?”
“A lot can happen in a day, I guess. Even in a quiet little bookshop.” I opened my laptop and brought up the article about the garden club. Now that I’d raised the topic, I felt comfortable showing it to him. “I found this while searching for my aunt. There’s your mother hosting the club.”
Kieran bent close to study the picture. “That’s our garden all right. I don’t know which one is your aunt, though.” He gave me a sly smile. “I always avoided Mum’s club gatherings like the plague when I was growing up. All those twittering women. Plus they loved pinching my cheeks.”
“I’ll bet.” I could imagine Kieran as a small boy, all big brown eyes and a mop of curls. “Anyway, hopefully I’ll meet my uncle and the rest of the family soon. Although I don’t have high hopes that we’ll be close. They didn’t treat Mum very well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” His mouth twisted with dismay. “Families. The best of times and the worst of times.” Kieran was cleverly misquoting a famous Dickens novel, A Tale of Two Cities.
“We have a copy of that around here somewhere,” I joked, glancing around with a laugh. The bells above the door jingled and a group of young women pushed inside. I sighed. “This has been nice but…”
Kieran gently moved Puck’s paw and stood. “I should get back anyway.” He smiled down at me. “See you later.” He strode to the exit, earning glances of appreciation from the new customers. One even peered out the window until he was out of sight.
“You know who that was, don’t you?” Although her friend was speaking behind her hand, her voice carried easily to my ears. The foursome clustered together and began to chat in low voices.
“Let me know if I can help,” I called from the desk when they finished their confab. “Oh, and Kieran owns the bike shop next door if any of you are in the market.”
“Maybe not for a bike,” the cheekiest one said. They burst into laughter.
So this was how it would be dating Kieran Scott. I could handle it, I decided. I felt that thrill again. He asked me out to dinner. A new panic—what was I going to wear? But when one of the women asked me where to find Dodie Smith’s I Capture the Castle, I put that delicious subject aside until later.
An hour or so later, the shop quieted again. After making a reviving cup of tea—I had the habit now, no doubt—I went to work sorting the children’s books.
Oh, what a trove of delights. In the first box, I found a complete set of L. Frank Baum’s Oz series, which included fourteen books. Most people only knew about The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, since the classic was the basis for the iconic movie starring Judy Garland and her sparkly red shoes.
Wondering how much they were worth, I logged on and did a search. Not bad. They weren’t in perfect condition but would fetch a respectable price. A full, perfect set generally sold for north of fifty thousand dollars.
If we could bear to part with these beauties, the proceeds would knock a big dent in Aunt Violet’s debt to Clive. Rather than return them to the box, I unlocked the case holding especially valuable books and stored them in there.
The second box held a random assortment of older children’s books, including At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald, a nicely illustrated Alice in Wonderland, and the very charming The Brownies: Their Book, by Palmer Cox.
The last volume in the box was much newer but no less wonderful. The Strawberry Girls, it was called, written and illustrated by Iona York. Calling to mind the Flower Fairies and Brambly Hedge, the pictures were magical. But the tale was long and intricate, leading the tiny sisters on a dangerous quest through a mysterious forest. Iona York lived in Cambridgeshire, the biography said, and she had written the book for her daughters Poppy and Rose, the original, “Strawberry Girls.”
How cool. I put that book aside to read more slowly later. It was a story to be savored.
The schoolhouse clock on the wall rang the hour. Three o’clock. Mum and Aunt Violet would probably be back soon. I stood up and walked around to stretch my legs, then stepped out of the shop into the lane.
As often happened in the afternoon, we were in a lull, although up on Trinity Street, foot traffic and bicycles passed in a constant stream. Since customers arrived in bunches, I was pretty sure we would be busy again soon.
My gaze fell on Joan’s journal, which I’d brought downstairs, thinking I might have time to read between customers. Picking it up, I settled in an ancient leather armchair nestled in a nook but with a good view of the door.
Had Joan been murdered? I wondered as I opened the cover. If so, would I find clues within these pages?
Joan Watson’s journal
An evening out.
Two in the wee hours has just struck on the quadrangle clock, and beyond my window, crickets chirp in the warm evening air.
I’m falling in love.
There. I’ve said it. Admitted the ridiculous truth.
But let me take a step back first. Persephone is responsible for it all, of course. She and Tom Marlowe cooked up an excursion to the Cellar, a club located in an obscure little alley. But they both swore that the music was top notch and that we’d dance the night away.
After she let me borrow one of her new Mary Quant miniskirts, how could I say no? Feeling delightfully underdressed in my short skirt, especially with my long legs, I joined the other girls in Persephone’s room for a drink before we went out. Fiona, Violet, Ruth, and Myrtle were there, along with Ruth’s new friend, Catherine. What a lovely group we were, dressed to the nines, wearing far more makeup than usual and with our hair teased and curled.
After we were nicely tipsy, we put our coats on and went to meet Tom. He had two friends with him, Jon Parrish and Gregory Fosdyke. Tom and Jon were quite the live wires, keeping us entertained with quips, snatches of song, and even a skit or two as we walked through the streets to the club.
Fiona glued herself to Tom but everyone flirted with Jon. Except me. I ended up walking at the rear with Gregory. Although he was quieter than the others, he seemed solid and kind. Quite nice really. So different than the cloddish boys I grew up with in Hazelhurst.
That was my initial thought. A young man I could share my observations with. Could talk to about my classes and the poetry I was trying to write.
Not that Gregory is a writer too. No, he’s much more serious, planning to study law and follow his father’s footsteps into Parliament.
The club was a shabby hole in the wall, the kind of place mothers warn daughters never to go to. Whenever the door opened, snatches of catchy music escaped, and a poster announced a rhythm and blues band.
We girls exchanged excited looks. This was much different than sing-alongs at the pub or even the typical dance where we did the foxtrot and waltzed.
Inside, the club was dark and dingy and tightly packed. The music made me want to dance and after a pint (or two) I did. Mostly with Gregory, although a few numbers with Jon or Tom and then a random bloke or two.
My head was awhirl and my legs loose when we finally left, Gregory with his arm around my shoulder in a most proprietary way. Somehow we got separated from the others and ended up taking the long way home, through the quiet Cambridge streets, lingering on a bridge over the river, talking about all kinds of things. Laughing. Sharing confidences. He told me that his family was pushing Fiona on him, which sounded terribly feudal. The two families had long been allied. But he was resisting the match and so was she. That was obvious, judging by the way she clung to Tom.
At the gate, we said good night—and then he kissed me.
Sigh. There will be sweet dreams tonight.