“Smile for the camera,” Kelsey Cook said with a grin as Kieran and I exited the restaurant. She readied her camera and stepped closer.
Kieran scowled. “What are you doing here?” He moved slightly ahead of me, as if to shield me from the photographer’s view.
Kelsey grinned again as she lowered her camera. “Little bird told me.” She put a finger to her lips. “And no, I’m not going to say who.” Her mischievous eyes darted to me. “Hello, Molly. Welcome to the world of rumor and innuendo.”
I couldn’t hold back a smile. Who could resist this photographer’s ironic honesty about her profession? Kieran couldn’t either, because he relented. “All right, take a couple. But make sure Molly’s hair looks good.” He winked at me.
“No problem, milord,” she muttered, lifting her camera. “She’s a beauty.”
I tried to smile naturally, thankful this wasn’t a regular occurrence in my life. For his part, Kieran put his arm through mine and pulled me close, looking as if he was happy to be out with me.
Kelsey checked the pictures. “Not bad, not bad at all. Thanks for being a good sport, KS. Molly.” She glanced up at me. “You work in the bookshop, right?” At my nod, she said, “You know that poet, did a reading for you the other night?”
“You mean Persephone Brightwell?” I asked. “Yes, we’re acquainted.” Sort of.
“I’d love to get a few pics of her. Now that she’s winning awards and all that.” Kelsey was still playing with her camera. “But I saw her the other night and she actually shouted at me to get lost. Not that I haven’t heard that before.”
My pulse leaped a little. “Really? She’s a publicity hog if I’ve ever seen one.”
Kelsey made a face as she backed away. “Didn’t like the cut of my jib, I guess. I’ve got to dash. Ta.” She turned and strode up the lane toward Trinity Street.
“I’m not quite ready to call it a night,” Kieran said as Kelsey’s footsteps died away. “How about you?”
My pulse leaped again, this time with excitement. “Me neither. Why don’t we take a walk?” I liked evening walks, especially after a large meal.
“Sure,” Kieran said, starting up the lane. “That sounds good. We can stop somewhere for a drink if you like.”
I put a hand to my midriff. “Once I can fit something in. You were right about this place. The food is fantastic.” Popular, too. Vacated tables had filled again almost immediately.
“Isn’t it great? I tell everyone about it,” Kieran said. “I like promoting another business on Magpie Lane.”
His comment gave me a warm feeling. We Marlowes were part of a community on our sweet little side street. People were going in and out of the pub, making me think about Steve and Susie. I really hoped neither one had anything to do with Myrtle’s death. Losing them would be a blow to the neighborhood for sure.
We strolled down Trinity Street to King’s College, crossed the bridge, then wandered along the river walk. Lots of other people were out enjoying the evening, students in groups and older couples, the occasional runner or cyclist getting some exercise.
“Want to sit here?” Kieran asked, indicating a bench directly across from King’s Chapel. The last rays of golden sun gilded the majestic buildings reflected in the river at our feet. Ducks quacked and swam and punts glided by, trailing laughter and chatter in their wake. “This is one of my favorite spots.”
“I can see why,” I said, checking the bench for any stray dirt or debris before smoothing my dress and sitting. “My list of favorite Cambridge places is growing by the minute.”
“It’s a very special city. I’ve loved it since my first visits as a child.” Kieran rested his right am along the back, close enough for me to feel his warmth but not intruding on my space. This was good. All night I’d sensed us growing closer as we got to know each other, but Kieran was setting a nice, slow pace. Not only was I reluctant to jump into anything, there was the real potential for heartbreak here. I really liked him.
A runner huffed along the path, arms swinging. “He’s got a lot more energy right now than I do,” Kieran commented.
“Seriously,” I said with a laugh. The man was dressed in neon shorts and a T-shirt, sneakers with reflective tape flashing as he trod along. As he drew closer, his features came into focus. “It’s Sir Jon.” In his seventies and still a runner. I was very impressed.
I must have said his name louder than I intended because his head whipped around and he slowed with a wave.
“Hello,” he said between puffs. He halted, bending over with his hands on his thighs, using the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. “Nice evening, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” I said. “Kieran and I ate at the Holly and Ivy tonight. It was excellent.”
His smile was roguish as he glanced back and forth between us, but he didn’t comment on our obvious date. Instead he said, “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. I had to dash up to London again on business. But Violet’s been keeping me posted.”
I thought back to when I’d last spoken to Sir Jon. While I was at Clive’s office, I realized. “So much has happened over the last couple of days. George is the executor of Myrtle’s will, so he’s been questioned. He was at the presentation at Clive’s, where I found the knitting needle right before I called you last. And oh, get this. So was Susie Baker.”
“Susie not Steve?” Sir Jon asked. He eased himself down into a crouch and bounced up and down slightly. “Interesting. I wonder if she knows about his gambling?”
“So do I,” I said. “And my uncle—yes I finally met Mum’s brother—said Steve was in big trouble a few years back. Illegal gambling ring.”
Sir Jon nodded. “I’ll have to look that up.” He rose to his feet in one lithe move. “The police are hot after Clive now, by the way.” His smile was somber. “Something about bribing officials? No arrest yet but they’re building a case, my sources tell me.”
“It couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.” Then I realized poor Kieran was being forced to listen while we caught up. “I’m sorry. This case can be all consuming.”
“I get it,” Kieran said. “I want to find out who killed Myrtle as well.” He pointed a finger. “What about that man we saw in the alley, Molly? Has anyone ever identified him?” He told Sir Jon how he’d given chase but had been unsuccessful.
“Actually, a witness was found during the door-to-door interviews,” Sir Jon said. “I got the update only an hour ago. This person also saw a man in the alley around the time Myrtle died, a time estimated from the physical evidence.” He paused a beat. “They saw a male, burly and of medium height. But they didn’t see his face clearly. And the witness couldn’t identify him from photographs either.” Meaning the police had probably shown the witness pictures of Clive and George, maybe even Steve, if Inspector Ryan had taken my call seriously.
My spirits sank. Every time we moved forward, we stopped just short of the mark. Nothing was conclusive yet.
“This is driving me crazy,” I blurted. “Nothing is fitting together.”
Sir Jon regarded me with sympathy. “Been there, Molly. All we can do is keep pressing forward. The truth will eventually come out.”
“I hope it’s soon,” I said. “This is taking a toll on poor Aunt Violet.” Someone really doesn’t like you. Aunt Janice’s cutting words jeered in my mind. “And George too.”
Sir Jon’s chiseled features rarely betrayed much emotion, but he appeared troubled now. “I don’t like it either. I’ll call Ryan tonight and put a bug in his ear regarding the other suspects.” His smile was ironic. “Of which there are several.” He began to stretch, preparing to start running again. “And I’ll be by tomorrow to see Violet.”
After he set off with a jaunty wave, Kieran said, “I hope I’m half that fit when I’m his age. If I live that long.”
“Me too.” The romantic mood had been broken and I was restless now. But not quite ready to say good night. “Shall we go have that drink?”
We wandered arm in arm back over the bridge and, after a little discussion, popped into our local, the Magpie Pub. How I loved the idea that this was our place. That people knew my name—and my favorite beer.
Dinner service was over but the place was jammed with people enjoying a carefree Friday night. Kieran and I found a cozy table near the fireplace. “I’ll go order,” he said. “Your usual?”
“Yes, please. A half-pint, though.” I was still more than full from dinner.
Kieran made his way to the bar, where Susie was dispensing drinks. A large table beside me cleared out, a boisterous group of students, and as they went out the door, another party pressed in. Steve brought a tray over to the table and began to clear.
“Busy tonight,” I said.
He glanced over his shoulder at the waiting patrons. “You got that right. Been like this all evening.”
“Were you in the alley the night Myrtle died?” My hand flew up to my mouth. Had I really asked that now, in the middle of a crowded pub?
He stopped shoveling dirty glasses into the tray and stared at me. “No, I was not. What’s this about, Molly?”
I backtracked a little. “Someone, a man, was out there, according to a witness.” And Kieran and me, but I didn’t say that. “I thought he might have seen something important. Poor Aunt Violet is suffering something fierce over the death of her friend.” This was laying it on a bit thick but basically true.
His expression softened. “Look. Why don’t you and your young man go into the snug? I’ll pop in there in a few and we can chat.”
“The snug?” Was Kieran my “young man”? Too bad the barkeep couldn’t answer that question.
Steve pointed to a doorway I hadn’t noticed. “Private room. Kieran’s been in there a time or two.”
I intercepted Kieran as he was returning from the bar, glasses in hand. “Let’s go sit in the snug.” His eyes lit up. “Steve wants to talk to us.”
The light dimmed slightly. “All right. Lead on.” He followed me around the bar.
The snug was a tiny room holding only a leather banquette, a round table, and a couple of chairs. Capacity: four persons at most. Stained-glass windows provided privacy from prying gazes in the main room.
“I see why they call it a snug,” I said, sitting on the banquette. Steve’s remark floated into my mind. Who had Kieran sat in here with? That was a question I’d never ask.
Kieran placed the glasses on the table and sat beside me. “Cheers,” he said, lifting his glass. We clinked. “What’s this about, then?” he asked before taking a sip.
“My big mouth,” I said. “I asked him if he was in the alley that night.”
He didn’t need to ask which night. He took his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “Molly. That was a risky move.”
I sipped bitter ale, my eyes on his face. “Do you really think Steve is guilty? I thought he might have seen something.”
Kieran shifted on the leather seat. “True. But that begs the question: why would he be hanging around in the alley?”
Honestly, there wasn’t a good reason I could think of at the moment. “You’re right. Sorry.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m too impulsive sometimes.”
He put his hand gently on mine. “For what it’s worth, I like that about you. In fact, I like—”
Steve whisked into the room, shutting the door behind him. “We’re in a bit of a lull. But I only have a few.”
Kieran withdrew his hand as Steve pulled a chair over and perched. “So what’s this about a man in the alley?” Steve asked.
“We heard tonight that someone saw a man lurking,” I said. “Either the killer or a potential witness.”
Steve’s expression became wary. “Are they looking at a man for it, then?”
Kieran’s hand went to his phone, but he pretended to be casually toying with it.
“I don’t think it’s conclusive one way or the other,” I said. Women were suspects too, in addition to Aunt Violet. Susie, for one. And Fiona. Could the person have been wrong? Maybe they only thought the lurker was a man. Fiona was tall and solid, Susie less so.
Steve made a disgruntled sound. “They are fiddling about, aren’t they? Get on with it, I say.”
Would a guilty person say that? Now that I had the opportunity to question him, I had no idea where to begin. What should I ask him? How should I approach the topic of Myrtle’s blackmail?
Maybe I should just go ahead and rattle his cage. He wouldn’t do anything here in the middle of a crowded pub, would he? Plus I had Kieran as a witness. “I know what Myrtle did to you,” I said. “You weren’t alone.”
His eyes flared as he lurched back in his seat, almost sending the chair over. “How on earth—”
“Easy,” Kieran said in a warning tone. “No one is accusing you of anything.”
Steve ran a hand over his cropped hair. “Sorry. It’s just that…” He glanced over his shoulder before lowering his voice. “I can’t have Susie finding out. She’ll give me the boot.” His tone was pleading.
I thought of Susie’s attendance at Clive’s presentation and the knitting needle left behind. Maybe she already knew.
“You’re gambling again,” I said in a sympathetic tone. “I saw you go into a betting shop the other day, Steve. But it’s not up to me to tell anyone.” Besides the police, of course.
Slumping back, he crossed beefy arms over his chest. “Yeah. I need to get a grip on that. Call my sponsor.”
“Back to Myrtle,” I said. “She was blackmailing you, wasn’t she?”
His mouth twitched as he thought about what to say. “Yeah, she was,” he finally admitted. “She knew about some … trouble … I’d had in the past. So I gave her free meals and the odd spot of cash to keep her off my back. But I didn’t kill her.” Recovering his confidence, he slapped a hand on the table. “And I have an alibi. I was here the entire night.” He jumped to his feet, pushing in the chair. “I’d better get back. So if there isn’t anything else, Miss Marple?” Referring to Agatha Christie’s fictional detective.
I accepted the jibe with good grace. After all, I was sitting in the man’s business premises, lucky he hadn’t banned me.
“I’m sorry, Steve,” I said. “I keep hoping someone will be able to prove that Aunt Violet is innocent.” Identifying the real killer would be a bonus.
Again, his face softened at the mention of her name. “Vi’s a good old gal, she is. If I hear anything that will help, I’ll let you know, all right?”
Once he was gone, Kieran regarded me with bemusement. “I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date quite like this before.”
“Me neither.” I spun my glass in circles on the table. “I’m sorry, Kieran.”
He put an arm around my shoulders. “I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” After a moment, he whispered, “Do you think Susie has an alibi?”
I laughed. “I tell you what, trying to clear loved ones aside, this investigating thing is like a rabbit hole. Once you fall in, you can’t extricate yourself.”
After we finished our beer, Kieran walked me home. “Thanks for a wonderful evening,” I said, unlocking the shop door. “I had a great time.”
He moved closer. “So did I, Molly. Truly.” We looked at each other for a moment, the light over the door casting a spotlight on us. Then he swooped in and kissed me, a light, sweet touch of our lips. “I’ll see you soon.”
I watched him stride away, whistling, my fingers to my lips. Then I laughed at myself for acting so sappy and went inside.
Puck immediately glued himself to me while I was locking the door. “Want a bedtime snack?” I asked. He took off, bolting across the shop toward the kitchen door. I detoured by the desk on the way, remembering Persephone’s new book. That would be my bedtime reading tonight since I was finished with Joan’s journal.
Oh, Joan, I thought as I dispensed a little kibble into the cat dishes. Will we ever know the truth about your death? What a loss to us all. I filled a glass with water, then headed upstairs with Persephone’s book and my cat.
The poetry collection was arranged chronologically, and although I was often a dipper, I started from the beginning, curious to read her college poems.
The first few selections featured common motifs of life in Cambridge. The clannish colleges, punts on the river, the changing seasons. Quite clearly she was getting her legs under her, trying different approaches to developing a unique voice.
One more poem, I decided, my eyelids already drooping. This one was about winter. A line struck. A creeping wind ’round the stair, a whisper of winter in the air.
Hmm. A whisper of winter. That turn of phrase sounded familiar. I picked up Joan’s journal and leafed through, scanning the pages.
Joan’s line was a creeping wind that whispers winter. Not a direct quote but the same words used a different way.
I wouldn’t be happy if I were Joan. Had Persephone read Joan’s journal? No, that seemed far-fetched. But maybe some of Joan’s inspired phrases had been included in her poems.
Which were missing. Was I overthinking this? I read them both again.
No, I was on to something. I knew it and so did my nervous system, judging by the speed of my heartbeat and my damp palms. This was huge. Persephone Brightwell was considered Britain’s greatest living poet.
Had she stolen her friend’s work to get there?