“We sold the Oz set,” Mum said, setting the phone down. “The buyer will be down from London tomorrow to pick it up.”
“That’s great, Mum,” I said, looking up from the social media post I was composing. After the exciting events of the day before, life was getting back to normal at the bookshop. Puck was on my lap, Clarence in his chair, and out in the lane, pedestrians strolled by, checking out the window displays. “We can treat Uncle Chris and Charlie to dinner tonight.” We were meeting at the Magpie Pub for fish and chips.
“We can, but don’t spend that money yet.” Mum’s joy dimmed slightly. “Well, he did say he will need to inspect them first, make sure their condition is as stated.”
“It is.” I glanced up at the colorful row in the secure glass case. “We checked and double-checked everything, remember?” I’d been as anxious as Mum to make sure our evaluation and price were accurate. Selling the set would go a long way to paying Clive off. He’d probably have to put the money toward legal fees, though. The police had arrested him yesterday for bribery of public officials related to his building projects.
Aunt Violet came into the bookshop, carrying a tray holding a teapot and cups. “After tea, I’m off to see Fiona. She’s resting quietly at home.”
“I’m so glad she’s okay,” I said with a shudder. “It would have been tragic if she had become Persephone’s second victim.”
“Why did Persephone hit her?” Mum asked. “Did Fiona guess she was the killer?”
“Exactly right,” Aunt Violet said. “Fiona had noticed a few little things that didn’t add up the night of the reading. Persephone was supposed to join her and Ruth for drinks but never showed up. She claimed she was revisiting old haunts on foot. And when she did arrive at the hotel, she was not only dressed oddly, but acting flustered and rather excited. But all she told them was that she bumped into an old friend.”
With a knitting needle, I thought, my stomach turning over. Uncle Chris must have seen her right before or after the murder, it sounded like, while she was wearing the coat and a hat.
“All of it is coming together,” Mum said. “Show Aunt Violet the news article you found, Molly.”
Instead of being behind the camera, Kelsey Cook was in front of it for a change, next to headlines that screamed “Her Last Bright Performance” and “Who Is Joan Watson, Mystery Poet?” Kelsey had shared her story about trying to photograph a reluctant Persephone, not the night of the murder, but right after she’d gone into Myrtle’s flat and taped up the family tree so the police couldn’t miss it. As evidence against Aunt Violet.
Aunt Janice had been right. Someone, namely Persephone, really hadn’t liked Aunt Violet. But why? What had Aunt Violet ever done besides sell lovely old books?
Then I understood. “Aunt Violet, I think a notebook of Joan’s must still be here somewhere. The one she gave Tom. I can’t think of any other reason why Persephone would have tried to frame you. She wanted you out of the way in case it was ever found. But even if it was discovered at some point, who’s to say Mum or I would make the connection? It was Joan’s journal, languishing in Daisy’s dusty attic for decades, that helped me put two and two together.”
“You might be right, Molly,” Aunt Violet said. “I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out why she would do such a thing. Persephone and I were never close but we always got along.” Her eyes twinkled. “She spouted poetry and I listened. That’s all she ever wanted.”
“I can certainly see that,” I said. “She made her murder confession into a performance.” Videos of her speech had popped up online despite police efforts to contain them. But since Persephone had pled guilty at the hearing, they weren’t affecting the investigation. There wouldn’t be a jury trial. She was going straight to sentencing.
We heard whistling from the kitchen, announcing George’s arrival. “Good morning, ladies,” he said. “Am I in time for a cuppa?” He was standing with his hands behind his back, which I thought was odd.
“Always,” Aunt Violet said, indicating the teapot, which was still steeping. “How are things going with Myrtle’s flat?”
George pulled out one hand, holding a mug. He had come prepared. “Excellent, excellent. I’ve got a new tenant, starting next month.”
“So you’re done clearing out the place?” Mum asked. “What a big job.”
“You’re not kidding,” George said. Now he brought his other hand forward, revealing a manila envelope. “Found something interesting, I did.” He opened the metal tab. “The police already have the originals, but I kept a copy. For you lot.”
What was this? More blackmail information? Something else about the Marlowe family tree? George handed it to me. “You should see this first, Molly. You’re the one who put all the pieces together, like.”
A strange chirp burst from my lips as I leafed through the sheets, photocopies of handwritten pages. “These are from Joan’s diary.” With exclamations, Mum and Aunt Violet came to look over my shoulder.
“Yes, they are.” Looking immensely pleased with himself, George picked up the teapot and began to fill the mugs.
“But Persephone said that Myrtle had burned pages…” I began to read, and all quickly became clear. “She probably did, anything about turning Myrtle in for trying to blackmail Ruth and Catherine. But these pages…” They detailed Joan’s growing suspicion that Persephone was overly interested in her work. The clincher was a poem by Persephone printed in a local newspaper that Joan felt was awfully similar to her own work. She’d even written the two works side by side, showing the similarities.
“Oh, George,” I said. “I’m so glad you found these. The last piece of the puzzle.” Rather than let Joan’s family or the authorities find them, Myrtle had kept them for future use in blackmailing Persephone. And who knows? If Persephone didn’t cooperate, Myrtle might have tried to accuse her of murder. With Persephone’s high-profile career, even an unproven allegation could be damaging.
After tea, Aunt Violet left to visit Fiona, a bouquet of flowers resting in her bicycle basket, George went home, and Mum and I got back to work.
“Mum, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said.
“What’s that, Molly?” She didn’t glance up from the computer, where she was working on the shop’s accounting system.
“You and Inspector Ryan. Sean. What’s the story?” I’d been wondering since the two of them had left the pub together. Or at the same time. Either way, she called him by his first name.
Mum pressed her lips together. “It’s nothing. Really. He was at the pub and we started talking. About something besides Myrtle. That’s all.” Her cheeks were flushed, putting the lie to her words, but I decided to let it go. For now.
“I think I’ll tackle the rest of Tom’s books today,” I said, letting her off the hook. “Who know what other treasures we might find?” We’d already sorted through the first several boxes, with the Oz set the main prize. The rest of the books were now in the children’s section waiting for their new owners. With the exception of The Strawberry Girls. I was keeping that. I had also called Iona York’s publicist about scheduling a reading, but hadn’t heard back yet.
“Go ahead,” Mum said. “I’ll hold the fort.”
“If you need me, I’ll be upstairs,” I said, taking my phone. “Send me a text.” I smiled at the incongruity of this, communicating by text in a seventeenth-century building. For centuries, our ancestors had to shout up the stairs.
With Puck at my heels, I went up to the unused bedroom where Tom’s things had been stored. During my first foray up here, I’d discovered that some boxes held personal effects brought over from his house after his death. Those I was leaving for Aunt Violet, should she ever want to go through them.
His children’s book collection was my aim, and it was extensive. Box lots from auctions, single precious volumes, a hodgepodge of this and that. Like any avid collector, he’d grabbed bargains and rarities whenever he found them, not worrying about what to do with them until later.
Now it was my job to organize, value, and sell them all. And keep a few of my favorites, perhaps. No, definitely. “Ready, Puck?” I asked, rubbing my hands together with unseemly glee.
Today I sorted, going through boxes and pulling out anything of value or special interest. The less-valuable books stayed together for cataloging later. This Christmas I planned to do a push for classic children’s books. We’d have nice selections at every price point.
I’d gone through a dozen or so boxes and was thinking about a cup of tea when I discovered one marked Trinity in a scrawled hand. Uncle Tom went to Trinity. Maybe …
Footsteps tapped on the stairs. “Molly?”
Kieran. I flew to the doorway. “I’m in here.” My gaze dropped to his hands, holding two mugs of tea. “You’re a godsend.” I gestured. “Welcome to my lair.”
He handed me a mug, staring around at the stacks of books. “Is there a hoarding show featuring book buyers? If not, there should be.”
I snickered. “Easy. This all belonged to my uncle.” After taking a long swig of tea, I set down my mug on the windowsill, the only level surface not holding books.
“I was just about to look in this box.” I showed him the notation. “Probably nothing but his schoolwork, I bet.”
“You never know,” he said, looking over my shoulder. He pointed to the item on top. “That looks like a great old book.”
It was a volume of Lord Alfred Tennyson’s poems—gorgeous, leather-bound, and most likely quite valuable. “You do have an eye.” I placed the book gently aside and reached into the box.
Similar to Joan’s college artifacts, there were a lot of notebooks. Lecture notes. Reading notes. Draft papers. All written by hand in the days before computers or even electric typewriters. At the very bottom, I found what I had been seeking, hoping against hope that it still existed. A notebook with Joan’s name written on the cover. Inside, page after page of poems—
“Molly. Come quick. You need to see this.” Kieran had been wandering the room, poking about while my fickle cat trailed behind him.
Hearing the urgency in his voice, I carried the notebook over to where he was standing, Puck in his arms. On top of a bureau, an ancient atlas lay open to a map of Cambridgeshire.
“I thought this book looked cool,” he said. “Old county maps.” He pointed to a sheet of yellowed paper with faded sepia handwriting. “That was inside, right there.”
Leaning close but not touching the fragile page, I picked out the relevant words. Testament … Thomas Marlowe Manuscripts & Folios … Inventory … to Samuel Marlowe & his entails …
“The missing will.” I kissed Kieran, a long intense smooch of gratitude and joy. “The one that proves Aunt Violet is the rightful heir of the bookshop. You found it.”
“I’ll find whatever you like if you do that again,” he said. “What’s that you have there?” He nodded at the notebook tucked in my elbow.
I snuggled under his shoulder, Puck purring at this cozy arrangement, and opened the cover to show him. “Joan Watson’s poems. She gave this notebook to Tom to read and critique. She died before he could give it back to her, so it was saved from Persephone’s clutches.” I closed the book and held it to my chest. “This is a treasure.” I would read the poems later, slowly and with care. And with any luck, Ruth would publish them. Joan Watson would get her due at last.
Kieran kissed the top of my head. “I actually came by to see if we were still on for our picnic on the river. I didn’t expect to end up in a treasure hunt.”
“All in a typical day at Thomas Marlowe,” I said. “Manuscripts and folios and the pursuit of long-lost literature.” Puck purred louder. “And cats.”
“Don’t forget the cats.” Kieran rubbed Puck’s chin the way he liked it.
This is home, I thought, as we—man, woman, and cat—stood close together in a book-filled room under an ancient roof, in the very heart of a glorious, storied city.