At the last minute, I jumped, using muscle memory honed by living in Vermont, where I’d leaped mud puddles, ditches, rushing streams.
Puck clung to me with his claws as we fell to the cobblestones. I landed hard on my hip. Ouch! Before I closed my eyes with a shriek of pain, I glimpsed the car as it rushed past, the wheels inches from my prone body.
Aunt Violet’s Cortina. Or a car that looked exactly like it.
Tires squealed as the car turned onto Trinity Street. The pub door flew open and Mum ran over, her heels clattering. “Molly. Molly, are you all right?”
“I’m alive,” I said with a laugh. Puck was now sitting on my chest, staring down at me. Ordering me to get up. I wasn’t sure I could. “We almost got run over.”
“I saw that, on my way out of the pub.” Mum brushed my hair back, frowning as she studied my scalp. “Did you hit your head?”
“Shall I call an ambulance?” Inspector Ryan appeared, looming over us. Where had he come from?
“My head is fine,” I said. “I landed on my hip, only because I’m clumsy and tripped. The car didn’t touch me.”
“Help me get her inside, Sean,” Mum said.
Sean? The surprise of hearing her call the inspector by his first name helped boost me to my feet. My hip ached but I could walk. That was the good thing. “Give me an ice pack and a belt of whiskey and I’ll be fine,” I said as I hobbled between them to the shop door, Puck still cradled in one arm.
“Did you see who was driving?” Inspector Ryan asked, supporting me while Mum unlocked the door. “Or notice any details about the car?”
“I didn’t have time to see the driver,” I said, “but funny thing, it looked exactly like Aunt Violet’s car. But I’m sure they made more than one.”
Mum and Inspector Ryan exchanged glances. “Where does she park her car?” he practically barked.
“In the garage down there,” Mum said, pointing. “You don’t think…”
“Can you handle her from here?” he asked. “I’ll be right back.” He took off at a trot down the lane.
“Someone stole Aunt Violet’s car?” I asked. “But how? And who?”
“Good question.” Mum’s voice was grim. “How about sitting in this armchair? I’ll go get the ice and whiskey.”
I’d sort of been joking about the whiskey but I didn’t bother to object. Leaning back in the chair, I patted my poor traumatized cat and pondered the situation.
Had someone just tried to kill me? Oddly, I was able to consider this in a fairly detached manner, which meant I was probably in shock.
Mum was tucking an ice pack next to my hip when Inspector Ryan returned. “The car is gone.” He fumbled for his cell phone. “I’m calling it in. Do you remember the plate number?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Mum said. “It’s registered to Aunt Violet, though.”
Footsteps thumped over our head. “I think she’s awake, Mum.”
“Good.” Mum handed me a mug containing an inch of whiskey. “I’ll go fetch her.”
I worked on sipping the whiskey while the inspector barked orders into his cell phone. I really hoped they would get Aunt Violet’s nice old car back in one piece. Didn’t thieves sometimes chop up cars for parts?
Mum and Aunt Violet hurried into the room, my aunt wearing a fluffy dressing gown over her nightie. As soon as Inspector Ryan hung up, she said, “Inspector, my spare keys are missing. Car and garage. They’re on a silver St. Hildegard’s College key ring.”
His expressive brows drew together. “Missing? Since when?”
Aunt Violet’s headshake was rueful. “I honestly don’t know. George and I each have a set, and we never use the spares. They’re usually hanging in the kitchen. Come, I’ll show you.” They hurried away.
I stayed where I was, allowing the cold pack to numb my hip and the hot trace of whiskey to burn away my fear.
Someone had deliberately taken those keys. Had they also planned to run me down?
“Molly,” Daisy cried when I hobbled through the tea shop door the next morning, still bruised and aching. She ran around the end of the counter to hug me. “How are you doing, you poor thing?” Only a couple of other customers were in the place, sipping hot beverages with heavy-lidded eyes as they tapped at laptops.
I gave her a crooked grin. “I’m okay. A little sore, but still in one piece.” The over-the-counter painkillers were finally kicking in.
“Thank heavens.” She gave me a last squeeze and returned to her station, where she began making me a coffee. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news.” Her mouth turned down. “The whole pub was abuzz.”
“I bet.” I lowered myself into a chair, deciding I’d sit here and drink my coffee. “Kieran texted me about ten times.” He’d wanted to come see me but I’d already gone to bed.
“They found the car, right?” Daisy dispensed steaming java into a mug, then brought it over to me along with a pitcher of milk. No one needed her assistance right now, so she joined me at the table.
I poured milk into my mug and stirred. “Yes. Late last night. Parked down an alley, driver’s-side door open.” I took the first wonderful sip. “No leads on who was behind the wheel, although we believe they stole the spare key from our kitchen.”
Daisy shivered. “How scary.” After glancing around, she leaned across the table. “Any idea who?”
“Oh, I have an idea.” I swallowed more coffee, enjoying its comforting warmth. “Someone who was trying to shut me up.” We hadn’t had a chance to really catch up, so now I told her about my encounters at the pub with Clive and Catherine. “And Persephone was being weird last night,” I added.
“When is she not?” Daisy laughed. “I swear that woman is in her own world.”
“Yeah, on planet Persephone,” I joked. Needing a break from the subject and my ever-churning thoughts, I grabbed a newspaper sitting on the table.
Ah, there it was. “Kelsey Cook took a picture of us. See?” I held up the paper.
“Ooo, you do look nice,” Daisy said. “How was your date? I never even asked.”
“It was great,” I said. “He wants to go out again soon.”
“Fab. Maybe we can do another double date soon.”
“I’d like that.” Thinking about Persephone had reminded me of Joan and the request I had for my friend. “Actually, Daisy, I have a favor to ask.” I inhaled, knowing that every time I mentioned her late aunt, it opened a wound. “Can I look through the rest of Joan’s notebooks?” At her puzzled look, I added, “I’d rather not go into it now, but I’m piecing something together. To do with her poetry.”
She pointed toward the ceiling. “Go ahead up. You know where everything is.” Then she made a growling sound. “Oh, what a fool I am. You can’t climb the attic stairs right now.”
“I’d rather not,” I admitted. Climbing up one flight to my bedroom had been difficult enough with my bruised hip. “I’ll wait a day or two.”
“No, no.” She looked around the shop. “Why don’t I nip up and grab them? If anyone comes in, tell them I’ll be right back.”
“That I can do,” I said. “One more thing. Do your aunt and uncle have any of Joan’s poems? According to the journal and her old friends, she was very prolific. But there aren’t any poems in the journal, and I didn’t see any the first time we looked through her papers.” Once again I was working purely on instinct, but the excitement nestled in my gut was spurring me on, telling me I was on the right track. Of exactly what, I wasn’t yet sure.
“I don’t think so. She’s never said anything if so. Why don’t I ask her?”
“If you don’t mind.” She hurried out and I chose another newspaper to glance through while I waited. Maybe our picture had made it into more than one. I wouldn’t want to have to constantly watch out for photographers, but I had to admit it was a little exciting. And far less stressful than thinking about last night’s close call.
Back at the bookshop kitchen, Aunt Violet was putting on the kettle, dressed in an apron that read “Kiss me. I love books.” “You’re up and about early, Molly,” she said as I came through the garden door.
“I know.” I dumped the bag of notebooks on the kitchen table. “I’m on the trail of something so I couldn’t sleep.” I omitted mention of my aches and pains, not wanting to become a whiner.
She eyed the spiral-bound notebooks spilling out of the bag with curiosity. “Where did those come from?”
I sat in a chair and began to stack them neatly. “They belonged to Joan Watson.” I wanted to say more but was wary of bandying about accusations before I had proof.
Aunt Violet fed both cats, who were weaving and whining around her ankles. “Looking for clues regarding who killed her?” She rolled up the cat food bag with a crinkle. “I’m still stunned that Myrtle thought she was murdered.”
“Something like that,” I said, getting up from the table. I stole a piece of paper from Aunt Violet’s shopping notebook and grabbed a pen. My plan was to write down scraps of verse or interesting phrases, then match them against Persephone’s poems. “I didn’t find anything in the journal, but someone cut out the last few pages.”
“That’s strange,” Aunt Violet said. “I wonder if the killer did that.”
“Or Joan.” I settled back at the table. “She might have regretted something she wrote.” Although in that case, I’d expect the removal to have been rough from ripping out the pages, not neatly sliced.
“No sign of any of her poetry so far?” Aunt Violet asked. She placed several tea bags in a pot, draping the strings over the rim. “I did remember something the other day. Tom was going to read some of her work, give her some feedback.”
I looked up from the notebook. “Tom? Really? Why was that?”
“He was reading poetry at Cambridge.” Aunt Violet poured steaming water into the teapot. Here in England, they called majoring in a subject “reading” it. “Quite the expert, he was. I suppose she wanted his opinion on the quality of her work.”
Lucky Tom. “Daisy is asking Joan’s brother if he found her poems among her belongings from college.” I slapped the stack of books. “These are all notes from Joan’s lectures and assigned reading.”
Aunt Violet was pulling mugs out of the cupboard. “Do you want tea?”
“Yes, please.” I squinted at tiny writing and a drawing along one margin of a page. I used to doodle and write myself notes during classes too, especially when they were boring.
Joan had sketched bare trees arched over a cobblestone street. Haunted Cambridge captioned the picture. Then a few words about cobbled streets echoing with footsteps from the past.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. “‘Oh, haunted Cambridge,’” I muttered, pushing back my chair. Although I knew I was right, I wanted confirmation.
“Quoting poetry this morning?” Aunt Violet asked with a smile.
“You could say that.” Getting up, I headed for the hall door. Puck chased me, thinking we were playing a new game. “The question is, whose?”
By the time I got back to the kitchen, four more people were seated around the table—Mum, George, Sir Jon, and my uncle Chris Marlowe. I braked sharply, my sneakers squeaking on the tile. “Where did you all come from?”
“It was the sausages,” George said. “They lured us in.”
“Sir Jon, so good of you to bring these. They’re lovely.” Aunt Violet was now unwrapping butcher’s paper to reveal plump, juicy sausages. On the AGA, a large stainless steel frying pan awaited.
“What do you have there?” Sir Jon asked me, cup of tea in hand.
“Persephone’s new book.” I put it down on the dresser holding a display of antique dishes, then gathered up the notebooks. With Uncle Chris here, I wasn’t going to discuss my discovery that Persephone Brightwell had plagiarized Joan Watson’s work. After I finished moving the notebooks, I asked Aunt Violet what I could do to help.
“How about beating some eggs?” she suggested. “We’ll do scrambled today.”
I grabbed a dozen from the refrigerator and began breaking them into a ceramic bowl.
George and Uncle Chris were talking about thatching. “I did that for a while,” George said. “There’s quite a trick to it.”
“Dying art, it is,” my uncle said. He sipped his tea. “But still plenty of work for us.”
“I enjoyed visiting your job,” I said. “I hope I can see a demonstration soon.”
Uncle Chris turned in his seat to face me. “A call just came in. I’ll be doing a cottage in Hazelhurst next month. Iona York’s place. Maybe you can visit us while we’re there. It’s a total strip and re-thatch.”
Iona York. Where had I heard that name?
“The children’s book author?” Sir Jon said. “She wrote The Strawberry Girls. I recently read in the trades that they’re publishing an anniversary edition this summer.”
“I just found a first edition of that book,” I said. “In Tom’s boxes.” I pulled out an eggbeater and began to spin the handle, watching as individual eggs turned into a frothy mass.
“Her daughter is getting married in June,” Aunt Violet said, swirling melting butter in a pan for the eggs. “At the same time as the Strawberry Fair, naturally. One of Cambridge’s most popular events.”
“I remember the Strawberry Fair,” Mum said. “It’s fun. Lots of music and art.”
An idea struck. “Do you think we could host a reading with Iona, if she has time? I’m sure lots of people would love to hear her read from The Strawberry Girls.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Aunt Violet said. “I’ll send her a note this week.”
After we’d finished eating, Uncle Chris placed his fork carefully on his plate and said, “I want to come clean about something, Violet.” Everyone quieted, except for Clarence, crunching kibble.
“What’s that, Chris?” Aunt Violet asked, checking the teapot.
Uncle Chris’s eyes were on Sir Jon. “I understand the police are looking for a man seen in the area the night Myrtle Marsh was killed.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “I think it’s me they’re looking for.”
We all stared at him as he raised both hands. “Oh, I didn’t touch the old bird. I didn’t even see her. I was on my way over here, but after seeing all the commotion, I thought better of it. So I popped off to a pub for dinner. When I came later, I saw the panda cars.” Meaning the police. “I was in the alley when a young bloke shouted at me and chased me off.”
“That was Kieran,” I said, my voice heavy with disappointment. Another dead end. But at least we knew who the lurker was.
“You didn’t see anyone in the alley?” Sir Jon asked. “Or hear anything?”
“There were a few people on Ivy Close,” Uncle Chris said. “That’s the way I came in.” His eyes widened. “I did see one person in the back alley, headed toward Trinity Street. An older lady. On the short side, wearing a hat and a big coat.” He glanced around. “She resembled that poster in the bookshop. Saw it on my way in here this morning and thought, I’ve seen her somewhere. Finally worked it out.”
The only poster we had in the shop was the one announcing Persephone’s reading. “Hold on,” I said. “I’ll go get it.”
The poster was still standing on the easel. I gripped it by the edges and carried it back into the kitchen.
“That’s her,” Uncle Chris said. “I can’t forget that face, can I?”
I knew what he meant. Persephone had a force of personality that shone through, despite her small stature. Her gaze was intense, like a laser beam.
“What time was it when you saw her?” Sir Jon asked.
Aunt Violet gasped. “You surely don’t think Persephone—”
“I’m not thinking anything, Vi,” Sir Jon said. “Maybe she was taking a shortcut to the bookshop. A lot of people do that, I gather.”
“Like Paddington Station at times back there,” George said.
Uncle Chris rubbed his chin. “I’d say it was around six or so when I saw her. As I said, after noticing something was going on at the shop, I popped over to Bene’t Street for some dinner. Then I came back after, hoping to see you all then.”
The police could confirm his meal easily enough. “I think you should call Inspector Ryan right away,” I said. “Maybe Persephone saw something.” Or … maybe she had a reason to resent Myrtle. Uncle Chris mentioning Persephone to the police would lead them to talk to her again, which couldn’t hurt.
My uncle slapped his knees and rose to his feet. “I’ll do it. Right now.” He pulled a mobile phone out of his pants pocket as he walked toward the garden door.
The rest of us looked at one another. “At least one mystery is solved,” I said. “We know who was lurking in the alley.”
A few minutes later, Uncle Chris returned. “I’m going down to the station now.” He pulled a cap off a wall hook and settled it on his head. “Wish me luck. And thanks again for breakfast.” He hesitated, his eyes darting to Sir Jon and George. He cleared his throat. “But before I go, Nina and Molly, can I have a word with you?”
The three of us stepped out into the bookshop. Obviously uncomfortable, Uncle Chris snatched his hat back off and turned it around in his hands. “I want to apologize. My wife … well, she can be bit of a pain sometimes. I understand she came over here last night.”
“She sure did,” Mum said, her lips tight. “And to be honest, Chris, she was in her usual form. She managed to insult all of us within minutes.” She made a helpless gesture. “I really don’t know what the point was. She can just stay away.”
Uncle Chris’s eyes flared with surprise at Mum’s vehement statement, but then he said, “Don’t blame you a bit. In fact, you might as well hear it now. We’re more or less on the rocks.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mum said, sounding sincere. “Although Janice and I never got along, I hate to hear about a marriage breaking up.”
He clapped his hat back on. “It’s been a long time coming. Anyway. Thanks for your support. I hope I’m welcome here at the old bookshop.”
“Anytime, Chris. You know that.” Mum walked my uncle to the door.
“See you soon,” I called. As I’d thought before, I wouldn’t mind spending some time with my uncle and cousin. “Let me know a good time to visit a thatching job.”
He acknowledged that with a wave and reply and soon was gone.
“Whew,” Mum said. “I didn’t see that coming.” She held up two crossed fingers. “I thought Chris and Janice were welded together.”
“Maybe she started picking on him.” I tucked my laptop in the crook of my arm. My next task was to type up a side-by-side comparison of Joan’s and Persephone’s writing. “And she was probably lining us up as her next set of victims.” I’d encountered serial bullies before, and this was how they operated.
“That could be,” Mum said. “She’d better stay away from here. I’m too old to play those games.”
George had left too, so only Sir Jon and Violet were in the kitchen. Dressed in an apron and rubber gloves, Sir Jon was loading the dishwasher while Aunt Violet cleaned the pans by hand. They made a very cute couple.
“Now there’s a social media opportunity,” I said as I set my laptop on the table. I reached for my phone with a teasing gesture. “Secret agent, barrister, man-about-town helping with the dishes.”
“Don’t you dare.” Sir Jon wagged a glove at me in mock anger. “I can’t have my softer side becoming common knowledge.”
I gave a huge mock sigh. “Your secret is safe with me.” I put my phone down and flipped open the laptop, then retrieved Persephone’s book and Joan’s notebooks from the dresser. Mum poured a cup of tea and wandered into the bookshop to get ready to open. Speaking of couples, I hadn’t even asked her how she’d gotten on a first-name basis with Inspector Ryan. It wasn’t something I wanted to hit her with cold, so I’d have to wait for the perfect moment.
While half listening to Aunt Violet and Sir Jon’s chatter, I opened a new document and created two columns. If only I could find some of Joan’s actual poetry. Unpublished poetry, since Persephone wouldn’t have borrowed words others had seen.
The kitchen wall extension rang, startling me. “I’ll get it,” Aunt Violet said, wiping her wet hands across her apron.
“Fiona,” Aunt Violet said, glancing at us. “How nice to hear from you.… What’s that? You want me to come over? Right now?” She put a hand over the receiver.
“I can give you a lift,” Sir Jon said. “The Aston Martin is parked a couple of blocks away.” Of course Sir Jon drove the vehicle favored by James Bond.
“Would you?” Aunt Violet took off her apron. “She sounds very upset.”
“Can I go?” I didn’t want to miss this new adventure. Meaning a ride in the Aston Martin as well visiting Fiona.
Leaving Mum in charge of the bookshop, we were soon racing along in Sir Jon’s silver convertible, Aunt Violet in front, me crammed into the tiny rear. Although the roads were too congested to really put the powerful little car through its paces, many admiring glances came our way. Aunt Violet had tied a silk scarf around her hair and donned a pair of tortoiseshell cat’s-eye sunglasses, while Sir Jon was dashing in a pair of aviator specs. I was their decidedly less glamorous companion squashed in back.
With shouted directions from Aunt Violet, we were soon pulling down the narrow lane to Fiona’s gate.
Sir Jon parked along the side of the street. “I haven’t been here for ages,” he said, assisting Aunt Violet out of the passenger seat then gently tugging my arm to help me disembark. “Right after their wedding, I think.”
As we moved toward the gate, I said, “I’ve been reading Joan Watson’s journal. I got the impression that she and Gregory were falling in love.”
Sir Jon opened the gate and ushered us through. “They were. He was very, very torn up after her death. But a year or two later, he and Fiona tied the knot. A lot of family pressure, I’ve always thought. On both sides.”
No one answered the door when we knocked. Or rang the bell. “How odd,” Aunt Violet said. She pulled out her phone and called. “No one is answering,” she said, frowning. “It rang and rang.” Still frowning, she charged down the front steps and trotted along the path. “I’m going to try the side door.”
“I hope Fiona isn’t sick or something,” I said, trailing behind. Sir Jon followed, scoping out the house and property as if looking for signs of trouble.
“At our age, you never know,” Aunt Violet said. “She sounded so upset on the phone.”
French doors to the garden stood open to the morning air, the room beyond dim and quiet, one long curtain swaying in the breeze. Bees buzzed around a newly blooming rosebush and birds hopped and chirped around the flowerbeds.
“Fiona?” Aunt Violet called. The curtain flapped. She stepped closer, one foot on the threshold. “Are you in there?”
I pressed close behind my aunt, eager to find out what was going on. I don’t know who saw it first because we both gasped loudly then tried to get through the door at the same time.
Fiona Fosdyke lay stretched out upon the thick antique carpet, the pool of blood around her head soaking into the fibers.