Daisy was right. Someone had signed in as Joan Watson. My heart thudded. Would someone really use that particular name as an alias? And why?
I picked up my ale and sipped to ease my suddenly dry throat. “Maybe it’s another Joan. There have got to be dozens of them in England and maybe even a couple in Cambridge.”
She had her own phone out now. “Yeah, there are over a hundred Joan Watsons in the UK. So you must be right. It gave me a shock, that’s all.”
“I can understand that.” I put down my fork, unable to eat right now. Snippets of what I’d read in the journal floated into my mind, a familiar conflict churning in my chest. I wanted to share what I’d learned about her lovely aunt with Daisy but I was hesitant to open the wounds of loss.
Thankfully she solved my dilemma for me. “Have you learned anything interesting in her journal? I realized that I’ve been such a coward. I want to read it as soon as you are done.”
“Well, I won’t spoil it for you,” I said. “But I will tell you this. Your aunt was a delightful person. I wish I’d had a chance to know her.”
“Me too,” Daisy said wistfully. “You’re so lucky to have your Aunt Violet still with you.”
Yes, I am. “I know, especially since I didn’t meet her until we moved here.” I didn’t add that I hadn’t even known of her existence. That was Mum’s business, the fact that she’d been estranged for so long. In fact, I hadn’t even told Daisy about the encounter with my uncle and cousin. If all continued to go well with them, they could gradually become part of our lives.
And now that my thoughts about Daisy’s aunt were out in the open, my appetite returned. The Magpie Pub’s fish and chips deserved my full attention and enjoyment.
Later that night, overstuffed from the high-calorie meal, I lumbered up into bed with Puck and picked up Joan’s journal. I’d been reading it slowly so I could really absorb each entry, plus I was reluctant to reach the end. Once I did, there would be nothing more of Joan’s, ever. That made me sad.
I wondered about her poems, where they were. Although she mentioned her writing output, saying she’d had good days and bad, I hadn’t seen any poems in the other notebooks. Maybe her parents had kept them.
Puck gave a little chirp as he turned over, all four paws in the air. “I know what you want,” I said, laughing. He loved it when I rubbed his soft belly. When he’d had enough, he rolled again, onto his side.
“I get the hint,” I said, pulling my hand away. I opened the journal and began.
Joan Watson’s journal
Saturday started as a very good day. But oh, how quickly things can go downhill! No wonder my joy is always tethered, like a balloon with a very short string.
Our little poetry society met right after breakfast in the garden. It was a beautiful morning, a warm and golden late October day. Except for the bright leaves carpeting the grass, there was no sign that bleak November was right around the corner.
The six or seven of us sat on the grass, on plaid blankets someone had thoughtfully contributed. Persephone provided a huge hamper of tea, biscuits, and fruit as usual. Our ritual was for each of us to read aloud and then everyone else commented.
They were all kind, but my heart thumped and my palms went damp every time it was my turn. I really don’t like reading aloud. But as Persephone says, we need to get used to it, practice for when we are famous.
Ha. But, to my relief, they liked my poem, which had an All Hallows’ Eve theme, appropriate to this time of year. “You’re so imaginative,” one girl commented. “Where do you get your ideas?”
Since she wrote the sweet treacle you might read in women’s magazines, I wanted to ask why she didn’t have any. But I held my tongue. Am I the only one who feels the weight of history here, who can sense the ghosts around us? There are places in this city where the veil between past and present is wavering and thin, where one feels as if it’s possible to step through …
I’ll have to explore that later—Anyway, after we all read, we discussed our upcoming publication. We’re each submitting two or three of our best poems, with the aim of producing an issue in the spring. Exciting stuff.
So, I was in good spirits when I returned to my room. Gregory had called and invited me to lunch at the Holly & Ivy. I knew where that was, of course, since my older brother and his wife run a tearoom down the lane from the hotel. The Holly & Ivy is small, but very exclusive, a definite cut above the usual pub fare we gorge on.
Since it was such a fancy place, I wore my fine wool plaid dress, new stockings, and my court shoes with the buckle. My best tweed overcoat looked nice, as did my gloves and hat. I almost felt chic.
Gregory came to St. Hildegard’s to meet me. “You look lovely, Joan,” he said, kissing me right in front of the porter. Didn’t I tell you it was a good day?
Then he stepped back and looked at me, his expression nervous. “I got a call a little bit ago. From my parents. They’re in town.”
I stared at him, puzzled. “Does this mean you need to cancel?” Why hadn’t he simply called and left me a message? I could be working on my poems instead.
He shook his head. “I’ve invited them to join us. But if you’d rather not … I’ll beg off. I can see them for dinner.”
“What do you want to do?” I asked, sliding my hand through his arm. “I’m happy to meet your parents. Or not.”
Patting my hand, he stared down into my eyes. “Thank you for understanding, Joan. Let’s go have lunch.”
We took a cab to the hotel, an indulgence I certainly never allowed myself. As we disembarked in front, I wondered if I would happen to see my brother or sister-in-law. They’d get a kick out of seeing me all dressed up for a meal, I was sure.
The Holly & Ivy was historic, quaint, tiny, and immaculate, like a dollhouse. We stood in the lobby while the clerk rang Mr. and Mrs. Fosdyke’s room.
“They’re staying here?” I whispered, shocked. Had this all been planned without me knowing?
He ran a finger around inside his collar. “They are. I only booked us for lunch because I’ve been here before a bunch of times. Honest, Joan. I had no idea they were coming this weekend.”
But did they know about his lunch with me was the question. I remembered that they wanted Fiona for Gregory. I was an interloper.
The overdramatic thought made me smile, and I squared my shoulders. At least I was a good-looking interloper.
A moment later, Mr. and Mrs. Fosdyke came down the stairs, heads held high, smiles chilly. “How nice to meet you,” Mrs. Fosdyke said. “Percy and I so wanted to meet the young woman Gregory has been raving about.”
And it went downhill from there. I won’t give a blow-by-blow account. Suffice it to say that I can’t even remember what we ate. It was the most miserable meal I ever had.
Poor Gregory was mortified. “I’ll make it up to you, Joan,” he said later. “We’ll go up to London, just the two of us, and see the sights.”
“They don’t like me,” I said sadly. “It was very obvious.” I didn’t come from the right background. No wealth, connections, or pedigree.
“It’s not you, Joan.” He was livid. “It’s their outdated, ridiculous notions of what they want my life to be, as their son. Who they want me to marry. But I’m of age. I’ll do what I want, not what they want.”
Does Gregory have the mettle to stand up against his parents and the centuries-old traditions of the Fosdyke family? I’m not sure.
I should probably end it now.
When I read that last sentence, I actually jumped. Puck raised his head and glared. “It’s okay,” I told him, smoothing his fur. “Something surprised me, that’s all.”
After I got over the initial shock, caused by what I knew about Joan’s death, I calmed down. She was talking about ending her relationship with Gregory because she wanted to avoid the uphill battle of forming a serious relationship without his parents’ blessing. This was over fifty years ago, I reminded myself. Parental approval meant more then, especially for someone like Gregory, poised to follow his father into politics. I’d heard about the often brutal class system in England, how much pressure there was to marry someone of the same status.
So why had Joan killed herself, as everyone had believed? So far I had seen absolutely no sign that she was depressed or hopeless.
I leafed ahead in the journal, eager to find out if anything had changed. The next few entries focused on school and her poetry, which she said was going well. A couple more dates with Gregory were mentioned, so she hadn’t pulled the plug yet.
The journal abruptly ended. But when I studied the book closer, I saw that several pages had been removed. Not ripped out, but sliced close to the gutter—the space where pages met the binding. The pages after the excision were blank.
Someone had removed Joan’s last words. But who? And why? Was Joan murdered, the way Myrtle had implied with the Midsomer Murders label?
The next morning, Mum and I finished pricing out the Oz books, coming up with a total that made my eyes water. If we found other treasures of this caliber in Tom’s collection, the bookshop’s income would soar. We’d easily pay Clive off and start building a nest egg.
“This is the draft listing,” I said to Aunt Violet, showing her the computer screen. “Please check it out to make sure I got everything right.” We were posting the books for sale on the bookseller sites Aunt Violet used as well as on the shop website. I also planned to do social media posts, although I wasn’t sure if serious collectors used them. But I was positive the beautiful and quirky Oz books would get lots of attention. The illustrations were amazing. Plus most people didn’t know there were other installments beyond the first book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. I looked forward to delighting them with the news.
Aunt Violet peered through her glasses at the listing, then made a couple of tweaks. “Very good, Molly.” She rose from her chair. “You can go ahead and post.”
My fingers trembled slightly as I uploaded the listing. It was such a responsibility to get this right. Our claims about the books’ condition and value had to be completely accurate. Thomas Marlowe’s reputation depended upon it.
Mum and George were rearranging the position of a bookcase in the back, and hearing his familiar cry of “Bloody” something or other, I remembered what Susie had said the previous night.
“I’ll put the books back, George,” Mum said. “Thanks for your help.”
George appeared around the corner. “Too early for tea, love?” he asked Aunt Violet, who was sealing a package for the mail.
“Never,” she said, placing the book onto the stack going out. “Have a seat.”
He sat next to me behind the counter, watching as I wrote a social media post. “Nice pictures.”
“Thanks. I really enjoy doing this.” My fingers flew as I added hashtags. “Oh, I wanted to ask you something.” Finished with the post, I swiveled my chair to face him. “Did you see Susie Baker at Clive’s bungalow presentation? She told us last night that she went to one.”
George rubbed his chin, thinking. “Yes, I did, come to think of it. She was up front so I didn’t talk to her. Left as soon as I could after, before that Claire woman could buttonhole me.”
So Susie had attended that particular presentation. Had she left the knitting needle behind? It would have been pretty easy if she had waited until the place thinned out. Otherwise someone helpful might have pointed it out.
“Is there any particular reason you’re asking?” George’s expression creased with suspicion. “You think Susie left that knitting needle behind?”
“Not really,” I said, feeling like a rat for suspecting such a nice person. Especially in light of the fact that she and her husband were hosting a meal for Myrtle Sunday afternoon, after the memorial. We’d gotten the word earlier that the event was a go.
“But I think someone left it, maybe to frame Clive,” I went on. Should I share this new information about Susie with Inspector Ryan? Probably, if it meant turning police suspicions away from Aunt Violet and George.
“What motive would Susie have to kill Myrtle?” he pressed. “Myrtle wasn’t blackmailing the Bakers, was she?”
She had been, but I didn’t want to tell George what I knew about Steve’s gambling problems. While I trusted the old gent, the information might slip out anyway and I didn’t want to hurt the pub’s reputation.
“I didn’t see any proof implicating them among Myrtle’s things,” I said honestly. “But I do know that Steve gave her free meals.”
“Free meals?” George’s tone was incredulous. “He did that for all the pensioners in the neighborhood.”
Probably so, since Steve was a generous sort. But I was also sure that Myrtle pushed the envelope.
Aunt Violet returned, carrying a mug of tea for George. “I made a fresh pot if you want one, Molly.”
Here was my excuse. “I think I will grab a cup,” I said, pushing back my chair. “Be right back.” Grabbing my phone, I slipped out of the bookshop and into the kitchen. Then, worried that someone would overhear, I went outside.
Inspector Ryan wasn’t available, so I left a message. “Hello, Inspector,” I said, trying to sound confident and unlike someone implicating innocent people to get her friends and relatives off the hook. “I learned something interesting last night. Susie Baker, owner of the Magpie Pub, attended the same meeting at Clive Marlowe’s office as George. The one where the pink knitting needle was left behind, we think, unless Clive was lying.” Clive wasn’t on my relatives-I-want-to clear list, sad to say. “So do with that what you will.”
I gritted my teeth in frustration. With the addition of Susie, the suspect list was getting longer, not shorter. Would we ever figure out who killed Myrtle?