“Flippin’ ’ell,” George exclaimed. “Who has gone and done this?” With a dazed expression on his face, he stepped into the flat.
We all crowded behind, careful to remain in the doorway of a spacious living room furnished with comfortable antiques. The sofa and chair cushions were on the carpet, and all the books had been removed from built-in shelves on each side of a faux fireplace mantel. Through the open door to the kitchen, I noticed white powder all over the tiled floor. Flour? Sugar? The cupboard doors in there hung open, contents pulled out onto the counters and floor.
“The police didn’t leave it this way,” Mum said. It wasn’t a question.
“They certainly did not,” George said. “I took a quick look round after they left.” He pulled a mobile phone out of his trouser pocket. “I’m calling them right now.”
I took a closer look, noticing that despite the dishevelment, the obvious items sought by thieves were still in place. The huge flat-screen television mounted above the fireplace. An expensive stereo system inside a glass-front cabinet. What looked to be antique and valuable paintings hanging on the walls.
“It doesn’t look like they took the really good stuff,” I said, pointing to Myrtle’s expensive belongings. “What were they doing here, then?” Making a mess to make a point? Or looking for something that wasn’t so obvious?
Aunt Violet was studying the room, her eyes huge behind her glasses. She stiffened, pointing. “What’s that?”
A large piece of paper was taped to the wall over the desk in the corner, and even from here, I could read the lettering across the top: Marlowe Family Tree. Below were the typical lines used to show family relationships with descendants. “Why did she have that?” I asked. “Was she researching our family?”
A funny look crossed Aunt Violet’s face. “She wouldn’t,” she said cryptically before marching across the room, her shoes crunching broken glass.
George was now speaking on the phone, so I looked at Mum. “Want to go see? It should be all right if we don’t touch anything.”
We crunched across the room, too, and joined Aunt Violet in front of the desk. She was peering up at the chart, her lips moving as she scanned the lines. Now that I was closer, I saw the chart began with Thomas Marlowe, the original founder of the bookshop.
“What’s going on?” Mum asked.
“Myrtle and I are cousins,” Aunt Violet said. She cracked a brief grin when we gasped. “Distant cousins.” She pointed to a line showing the family in the 1700s. “Her branch was descended from another Thomas, often the name of the oldest male in a generation.” Like my uncle Tom, I thought. “We are descended from Samuel Marlowe, his younger brother.”
It took a few seconds before something clicked. “If her ancestor was the oldest, why did we inherit the bookshop? I thought property usually went to the oldest male back then.” Thankfully inheritance laws had changed. I’d even heard that titles could go to females now instead of passing to the next closest male heir, like in Downton Abbey. If Lady Mary lived now, she would have inherited the estate instead of Matthew.
“The oldest male usually did inherit,” Aunt Violet said. “Unless there was a specific will leaving the property to someone else.” She shrugged. “And that’s what I’ve always understood, that Samuel was favored for some reason.”
“If there was a will, then what was Myrtle doing with this chart?” I asked. “Was she just generally interested in family history?” But even as I said that, it felt wrong. From what I’d learned of Myrtle, she never did anything casually. There was always an angle. Challenging a will three hundred years later was a bit of a stretch, though.
“She’s been hinting around about something,” Aunt Violet said. “But I ignored her. But come to think of it, it all started after Clive sprang the Best Books people on me. The day you saw them wasn’t their first visit.” Footsteps sounded in the hall and we all turned to look. Were the police here already? George had barely hung up. “Speak of the devil,” Aunt Violet muttered.
Clive Marlowe stood in the doorway, car keys in hand and a stunned expression on his face. “Where’s Myrtle?” he asked.
So many questions went through my mind. Didn’t he know she was dead? And if not, why was he visiting her? Was he another blackmail victim—or in cahoots with her?
“Oh, Clive. Haven’t you heard?” Aunt Violet quickly crossed the room to his side. “Myrtle … passed away. Last night.”
He shook his head. “I just got back from London. Went up on business yesterday.” Putting a hand to his brow, he ducked his chin, as if collecting himself. When he looked up again, his gaze roamed the ransacked room as if noticing the mess for the first time. “What’s all this?” His mouth dropped open in shock. “Did someone break in and kill her?”
“No,” George said. “She wasn’t here when this happened.” I noticed that he wasn’t rushing to share the details of Myrtle’s murder, either.
Mum, who had been taking all this in, asked, “What brings you here, Clive? Were you and Myrtle friends?”
I could see the thoughts flickering in his eyes. Mum had given him a very nice out. To his credit, he cleared his throat and admitted, “We weren’t close, no.” Then a crafty expression crept across his face and I guessed a lie was coming. “But she was a cousin, and elderly, so I kept an eye on her. Stopped by now and then.”
“As you do with me?” Aunt Violet asked, her tone vinegar. “Aren’t you the noble one? No, all I heard from you are demands for money.”
Clive’s already ruddy complexion flushed. “Now that you bring it up, don’t forget another payment is due next week.” He nodded at Mum. “Thanks for bringing the loan current. Keep it that way.” With that, he jingled his keys and spun on his heel. Soon we heard his footsteps lightly tapping down the stairs.
Aunt Violet clenched her fists and growled. “Oh, that man. He makes me furious.”
“Don’t let him get under your skin,” George said. “He enjoys that.” He tilted his head toward the family tree. “If you ask me, Clive and Myrtle were up to some mischief.” He rested an elbow in one hand and tapped his chin with the other. “And I do wonder if he was actually in London last night. Inquiring minds want to know.”
“George, you’re a tonic.” Aunt Violet swooped in and kissed him on the cheek. “Remember the man Molly saw lurking in the alley? Maybe it was Clive.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Maybe it was. Certainly looked to be the same build.” Meaning tallish but stout.
Someone rapped on the door downstairs. “There’s the police now.” George started toward the doorway, then halted. “If the street door is locked, how did Clive get in?” As he hurried to let the police into the building, we all knew the answer.
Clive had a key. That alone spoke to so much more than a casual, cousinly relationship. If he was lying about that, what else was he lying about? Had he killed Myrtle and planned to search her flat tonight, maybe to remove evidence of his involvement in her life—or something else entirely?
Several sets of footsteps ascended the stairs. To my surprise, Inspector Ryan was first through the door, followed by a female constable and George. I hadn’t thought they would send an inspector to a break-in call, but maybe he had wanted to take it due to the murder case.
“What are you doing here?” he greeted us.
The three of us exchanged glances. “We came over at the landlord’s invitation to look around,” Mum said. “Our understanding was that the police had released the flat and we could enter.”
Inspector Ryan acknowledged this truth with a nod. “What were you hoping to find?”
His cool manner intimidated me, which made me angry. We weren’t guilty of anything nor had we been charged or arrested. “Clues to who killed her,” I blurted. “Since it certainly wasn’t my aunt.”
The inspector’s gaze flickered around the room. “This isn’t your handiwork, I take it.”
Now Mum was getting annoyed. I could tell by the set of her jaw. “Absolutely not. We found it this way and that’s why George called you.” She folded her arms and glared at him. “And speaking of clues, Clive Marlowe was just here. Apparently he has keys to this building and this flat, which I find very odd. You might want to talk to him.”
Ryan glanced at the constable, who readied herself to make notes. “Clive Marlowe, your cousin?” he asked Aunt Violet “He didn’t attend the event last night, did he?”
“No, he was in London,” Aunt Violet said. “Or so he told us.” She turned to the constable. There was a touch of smugness in her smile. “I have his contact information if you want it.” How I’d love to be a fly on the wall when Clive got the call.
While the constable took down Clive’s contact information, Inspector Ryan moved farther into the flat, gazing around. Halfway across the carpet, he stopped and pointed to the family tree on the wall. “That was not there earlier.”
“It certainly wasn’t,” George said. “l took a walk through after your team left.”
Which meant that whoever had broken in had taped the chart to the wall. To provide clues about Myrtle’s activities—or to further implicate Aunt Violet?
Inspector Ryan inspected the family tree. “I didn’t know you were related to her, Violet.”
Aunt Violet returned to the desk. “As you can see, the connection was centuries ago. Our great-great-whatever grandfathers were brothers.”
He didn’t seem to fully understand the implications of the relationship or realize that the line of inheritance for the bookshop had come down through the younger brother. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything. We certainly weren’t going to point it out to him.
But my hope he’d overlook the family tree was dashed when he turned to the constable. “Take this into evidence, will you? Obviously someone wanted us to see it.” He looked at us over his shoulder. “Thank you for phoning this in. If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch.”
Dismissed. Our search of Myrtle’s flat had come to a screeching halt. At least for now.
“Good morning, dear,” Aunt Violet said when I staggered into the kitchen the next morning, Puck padding at my heels. She was standing over a frying pan at the AGA, where something delicious was cooking. “How does an omelet sound? It will be ready in a sec.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Thank you.” A tall cup of coffee from Tea and Crumpets already sat at my place. “Oh, you got me coffee.” I sat at the table and Puck jumped up into the adjacent seat. From his usual spot in the armchair, Clarence gave him a tepid glare. Yesterday he had hissed. Progress.
My aunt shrugged. “Thought I’d save you a trip.” She picked up her own cup and sipped. “It’s not bad, is it?”
Aunt Violet drinking coffee? Wow. Sipping my own, I watched as she bustled about, making toast, cutting off a piece of the omelet and sliding it onto a plate, and then placing the works in front of me, along with salt and pepper shakers.
The omelet oozed cheese, sautéed mushrooms, and onions, and the toast was thick-cut homemade wheat glistening with melted butter. No calories here. I picked up my fork and set to work. “You are a fabulous cook,” I moaned after my initial hunger had been slaked. “This is so good.” Puck stared at me with hopeful eyes until I gave him a tidbit of egg.
She gave me a satisfied smile as she sat down with a plate. “That’s what I like to see. A girl who appreciates her food.” She sprinkled salt and pepper on her eggs. “I’ve enjoyed cooking for someone again. When Tom was alive, we often ate together.”
How lonely Aunt Violet must have been when her brother died, especially since they’d worked together in the bookshop.
“I’m so sad I never got to meet him,” I said. Maybe I could honor his memory by cataloging his collection of children’s books. We had that in common, at least, a love of literature for young people. I’d get to that soon, I promised myself.
She nodded. “He would have loved you, Molly. You are two peas in a pod. Smart. Kind. Good with people.”
My face heated at her praise. “Thanks,” I muttered. “By the way, where is Mum? Still sleeping?”
Aunt Violet cut a forkful of omelet. “She’s in the bookshop already, going over the books. She’s determined to squeeze Clive’s payment out somehow.”
“If anyone can figure it out, it’s Mum. She’s a whiz with money.” I reached for the rack of three jam pots and spread a spoonful of strawberry on my toast.
“And I am not.” Aunt Violet sighed. “My brother used to take care of all that.”
After swallowing a bite of toast and jam, I said, “Speaking of Uncle Tom, Sir Jon gave me a picture you need to see.” I’d forgotten all about it until now. Setting down my toast, I pushed back my chair. “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”
My pack was hanging on a peg by the back door, along with assorted jackets, hats, and umbrellas. Without taking it down, I unzipped the pocket and pulled out the photocopy.
“Look at this,” I said, handing her the page and sitting down again. “What a great photo.”
Aunt Violet smiled as she scanned the group of young faces. “I think I remember this. Rag Day.”
“That’s what Sir Jon told me.” I resumed eating breakfast. Should I say it? Oh, why not? “I think he had a crush on you.”
Her cheeks pinked. “Bosh. Why would you think that?”
Because he was staring at her with stars in his eyes, maybe. I dropped the subject. “It’s neat to see all your old friends back then. Especially Joan. She was related to Daisy, you know.”
“I do know.” Aunt Violet’s brow creased. “I’ll never forget that terrible day when we found out she had died.” She swallowed. “Fiona was the one to find her.”
Imagining the tragic scene, I put my fork down. “Oh, Aunt Violet. That’s awful.” And now two of the old gang were dead, though in Myrtle’s case, it was clearly murder.
She nodded. “It was. We all thought the world of Joan. Although she was shy and quiet, she would come out with the funniest remarks. She was also a real talent. Everyone was sure she’d be a famous poet someday.”
“That’s what Sir Jon said.” Aunt Violet had placed the picture on the table and I glanced over at it. “On another note, what was up with Fiona and Uncle Tom? They look pretty cozy.” The pair was standing close together, and a grinning Uncle Tom had his arm around Fiona.
“Oh, they dated for a while. We all thought they were going to get married.” She shrugged. “But then she chose Gregory instead. Gregory is all right, I suppose, but he’s a real stick in the mud and a bit of a prig.”
“I wonder why she married him instead of Uncle Tom.” Uncle Tom looked like a great guy. I had enough experience with men to know that good ones were keepers.
“Her parents pressured her, I think,” Aunt Violet said. “Gregory is from a wealthy family and eventually he became a member of Parliament. Not that Fiona isn’t successful in her own right. She’s quite high up at St. Hildegard’s. So, wealthy landowner versus impoverished bookseller. You can see that Tom didn’t stand a chance.”
We were talking about fifty years ago, so I guessed I could see that happening. “Well, I would have picked Tom,” I said stoutly. “If he wasn’t my uncle, that is.”
“I wish she had,” Aunt Violet said. “He was pretty broken up about it for quite a while. And he never married. After Fiona, books became his life.”
It seemed the same was true of Aunt Violet, and I wondered what her backstory was. But that was a subject for another time. As I cleaned the rest of my plate, I said, “I’m going to do a little digging into your St. Hildegard’s classmates. After I set up an Instagram account for the store.”
Aunt Violet shook her head. “I’m not even going to ask what that is.” She pushed back her chair and stood. “But on behalf of Thomas Marlowe, I thank you.”
Mum needed to go do a few errands, so I brought my laptop to the front desk. Business was fairly slow when we opened, so I was able to set up the social media accounts mostly undisturbed. It was such fun to see @thomasmarlowebooks on the sites I used personally.
“Come look, Aunt Violet,” I called. “When you have a chance.” She was on a stepladder dusting books on high shelves.
She set the feather duster on the top shelf and climbed down. “I was looking for an excuse to stop,” she said with a laugh. “I hate dusting.”
“Me too.” I sighed. “But it’s a chore that has to be done. I’ll take over for you anytime.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” she said. “It does me good to climb the ladder. Keeps the blood moving.”
Aunt Violet pulled up a chair and I gave her a tour of the new pages. I was especially proud of the Instagram posts, where I already had likes and followers. “Is the book still available?” someone had asked on the Bryon volume. “Yes,” I wrote back. “Give us a call.” I included the landline number in my message.
“Now that is brilliant,” Aunt Violet said. “Where is that person from?”
I checked out their profile. “London. I bet you’ll get interest from the States, too. But right now they’re still sleeping.” The eastern United States was five hours behind, the West Coast, eight. “We really need to set up a web site.”
“We do list our stock online,” Aunt Violet said. She named a couple of big marketplaces. “Sell quite a bit that way.”
“I’m sure.” Those sites were perfect for finding books by title. “But your own site will help build a brand and customer loyalty. We’ll get people interested through social media and then give them a way to check out what else you have.”
Aunt Violet beamed in approval. “What a good idea. We are kind of special, aren’t we?”
I snorted. “I’ll say. Four hundred years worth of special. Even pictures of the building will drive interest.” Who wouldn’t want to buy books from such a quaint and charming shop? “I mean, seriously, would you rather shop in a sterile box or this place?”
“You know the answer to that, Molly.” Aunt Violet clasped her hands in her lap. “That’s why we have to fend off Clive. Best Books might keep the building the same but their stock will be exactly the same as their other stores. Which is fine, because we always need new books, but that’s not what Thomas Marlowe is about.”
I tapped my touchpad and brought up the Wordsworth post. That too was getting likes and comments already. “I’m planning to feature a few more poets. Sylvia Plath, for one, so I’ll head to Newnham for photos. And I’d like to take a picture of Persephone at St. Hildegard’s.”
“Great idea,” Aunt Violet said. “It’s nice that you get to feature a living poet.”
“Exactly.” The word “living” reminded me of my plan to do some digging regarding Myrtle’s murder. “I’d really like to talk to your other friends, see what they know about Myrtle.”
Aunt Violet gave a shocked laugh. “Do you really think they were involved in her death?”
Oh no. Had I put my foot in it? The last thing I wanted to do was upset my aunt.
“I don’t think anything yet.” Which was true. “But any information we can get is more than we know right now.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Aunt Violet plucked at her lower lip. “I do know that none of them really cared for Myrtle. But she was an old friend so we would have felt bad cutting her off.”
Understandable. Except now someone had done much worse than snub her. “Can you help me get in touch with them? Last I knew, Persephone is staying with Fiona, and Ruth is staying up the street, at the Holly & Ivy. Unless they’ve left town again.”
Aunt Violet’s answer was to pick up the desk phone. “Hello, Monique,” she said after someone answered. “How are you? Good, good. Listen, I was wondering if Ruth Orforo is still staying with you. She is? Can you put me through to her room?” After a brief pause, Aunt Violet said, “Good morning, Ruth. I was wondering if you’d like to stop by for a cuppa. Yes, an hour from now would be perfect. See you then.” She hung up, turning to me with a smile. “One down.”
“So I gathered. Yay.” Although I was glad we were going to talk to Ruth, I also felt a rush of trepidation. I’d never questioned anyone regarding a murder. How to begin? No idea.
Exactly an hour later, the door bells jingled and Ruth Orforo entered the shop, elegant in a yellow shift dress and matching sandals. She wore a solid gold cuff bracelet, chunky earrings, and a geometric-patterned headband that held her curly hair away from her face.
Aunt Violet swooped in for a hug, full skirt swirling. A pencil fell out of her bun. “Ruth. Gorgeous as ever.”
Ruth returned the embrace, chuckling. “You’re too kind.” She pulled back, hands on Violet’s arms, and studied her friend’s face. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m all right,” Aunt Violet said with a shrug. She slipped her arm through Ruth’s. “Come with me to the kitchen. Kettle’s on.”
I picked up the pencil, which had rolled across the floor to my feet. “Are you going to be okay here?” I asked Mum, who was sitting behind the desk.
She waved me off. “Go on.” Her brows lifted as she put a hand to her mouth. “And fill me in later,” she whispered.
My stomach tightened. I hoped we’d have something to report. We hadn’t heard from the police this morning, which created the uneasy sense of waiting for a hammer to fall. Were they going to sweep in and arrest Aunt Violet? Or George?
In the kitchen, Aunt Violet was chattering away as she set the table for tea. “I’ve got lovely butterfly cakes from the bakery across the street.” She opened the box, which held cupcakes scooped open and filled with jam and cream and topped with two pieces of cake shaped like wings.
Ruth clasped her hands together. “Ooh. Butterfly cakes. My favorite.” She sent me a sly glance. “One of the benefits of getting older is not worrying about the occasional treat.” She shook her head. “All the years I denied myself.”
Aunt Violet set a cake on a plate and placed it in front of her friend. “Eat, drink, and be merry.” For tomorrow we die. The unspoken words seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen. My aunt’s mouth twisted. “Sorry. Bad choice.”
“Don’t give it a thought.” Mischief shone on Ruth’s face as she picked up the cupcake, holding it lightly. “‘Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.’ Ernestine Ulner said that and I do my best to live by her words.” She winked before taking a huge bite.
Aunt Violet poured from the teapot and I passed around the mugs of tea. Ruth had chosen the seat facing away from the garden, and who could blame her? From my chair opposite, I did my best to avoid looking at the shed, which reminded me of finding Myrtle.
“It’s exciting that you’re publishing Persephone’s retrospective.” I blurted out the first topic that came to mind. I figured we should work up to hashing over Myrtle’s death, not dive right in. “We don’t usually carry new books but we’re going to stock it, of course. I’m in the middle of planning a social media campaign.”
Ruth’s eyes lit with interest. “Are you really?” She had whipped cream on her lip and she dabbed at it with a napkin. “Tell me more.”
In between bites of butterfly cake—with tiny licks of cream going to Puck and Clarence—I filled her in about the Poets in the Wild project, which she greeted with enthusiasm and approval. “I’m hoping to connect with Persephone this week and take photos at your old college,” I concluded. “Is she still in town, do you know?” My heart beat a little faster waiting for her reply. Not only did I want to photograph the poet, I hoped to question her about Myrtle and who might have motive to kill her.
“She’s staying with Fiona until after Myrtle’s service,” Ruth said. “Have you heard if anything is scheduled?”
Aunt Violet nodded. “It’s going to be held at the Round Church once the police give the go-ahead.”
Meaning, released her body for burial, I guessed.
“Wonderful,” Ruth said. “She loved that church. Is there a gathering planned yet?”
“Yes, at the Magpie,” Aunt Violet said. “The Bakers offered to put on a big spread of food and an open bar. The mourners will be staggering away, no doubt.”
“How generous of them,” Ruth said. “Maybe I can do flowers.”
I had to agree about the pub owners’ generosity, especially since it looked like Myrtle might have been blackmailing Steve. He was definitely on the list to talk to after I saw him sneaking into the betting shop.
“I’m glad Myrtle is having a nice send-off,” Aunt Violet said. “Even if”—she set her jaw—“she wasn’t the easiest person.”
Ruth’s laugh was ironic. “Easiest person? That’s an understatement, my dear. Did I ever tell you what she did to me?” Her features twisted in pain, and the paper napkin she held became a mangled ball. “Or tried to do, I should say. It all came right in the end. But at the time, I thought my life would end.”