Aunt Violet and I glanced at each other. “What did she do to you, Ruth?” Aunt Violet asked, her voice gentle.
Ruth ducked her head, obviously wrestling with the memories. Her fingers continued to squeeze and shred the poor napkin. Finally she tossed it onto the table with a laugh. “Guess I destroyed that.” She picked up her mug and took a sip of tea, then set it down, moving it to the perfect spot. “Catherine,” she said. “It was about Catherine.”
Aunt Violet, guessing correctly that I was lost, whispered to me, “Her partner, in every way.”
Oh. I got it. Fifty years ago attitudes were far different. Myrtle obviously had the knack of zeroing in on a person’s vulnerabilities. Anger and revulsion churned in my gut. How evil.
“She threatened you,” Aunt Violet said, saving Ruth from having to go into detail.
Ruth nodded, tears glittering in her eyes. “Right before my parents came to visit. She was going to tell them unless I paid her.” Her voice rose to an offended squawk. “It wasn’t as though I was rich, although I did have a bit of spending money.” She swallowed. “And she wanted it all.”
“What did you do?” I asked, horrified at the dilemma she had faced. Had Ruth still held a grudge against Myrtle all these years? I couldn’t say as I blamed her.
Her answer surprised me. “I told them.” She lifted her chin. “It took everything I had, but it went far better than I expected.” Picking up the shredded napkin, she dabbed at her eyes. “They really were the best. Violet, did I ever tell you that they invested in our publishing company?” Her face glowed with satisfaction. “And when we had our first best seller, it added a very nice chunk to their retirement fund.”
“How wonderful,” Aunt Violet said. “The first of many bestsellers, I’ve noticed. And awards too.”
Ruth nodded. “Catherine has a great eye. Between her taste and my business skills, we’ve done all right.”
I picked up my phone and searched for Ruth’s company, Virginia’s House. The catalog was impressive, fairly small but featuring fine poetry, fiction, and memoirs. Aunt Violet was right about awards—many titles had at least one. The overall focus was on women’s voices, and the description said the company name had been inspired by Virginia Woolf’s famous essay, A Room of One’s Own. Women now had a publishing house of their own.
Although tempted to check out some of the titles further, I set the phone aside. We needed to talk to Ruth about Myrtle while we had the chance.
“Anyone want a refill?” Aunt Violet held up the teapot, which was ensconced in a knit tea cozy shaped like a cottage.
Ruth glanced at her phone then shook her head. “I’m sorry, love, but I’ve got to run.” She gave a little laugh. “Back-to-back meetings with potential authors.”
Oh no. We hadn’t even discussed the murder yet. “Before you go,” I said hastily. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary the night Myrtle died? Anyone acting strangely?”
Ruth pulled her head back. “What do you mean? During the reading?”
“Or before it.” I gestured around the kitchen. “Someone sneaking around the property, for instance.” Aunt Violet nodded, encouraging me to go on. But since the papers only revealed that Myrtle was stabbed, I wouldn’t mention the knitting needle. “Aunt Violet is their main suspect. Thankfully they haven’t arrested her yet.”
“That’s dreadful.” Ruth’s hand went to her throat. “Because it happened in your garden, Vi? But there were dozens of people here that evening. Anyone could have killed her.”
“We know,” I said with a groan. “It makes it very complicated.” A flash of insight struck. “Maybe the killer took advantage of the situation. To muddy the water.” It had been a bold move, the risk of discovery high, but the murderer had pulled it off.
Our guest fiddled with her bracelet, thinking. Finally she shook her head. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary.” She shrugged graceful shoulders. “I was so caught up in the reading, in the excitement of Persephone’s new book.” She gave Aunt Violet a small smile. “And seeing you again, of course.”
Frustration slid across my aunt’s features but her expression smoothed as she said, “And it’s been lovely to see you. Do me a favor, though, will you? If you think of anything that sheds light on the situation, please tell the police.”
“Or us,” I put in, not wanting to be out of the loop. “We’ll make sure Inspector Ryan gets the message.”
Ruth rose from her chair. “If I remember anything odd or unusual about that night, I promise I’ll let you know.”
Aunt Violet stood to kiss Ruth on both cheeks. “Come by again, won’t you, while you’re in town?”
“I certainly will,” Ruth promised. She looked around, inhaling deeply. “I adore this shop. It’s a book-lover’s dream.” With a wave of farewell, she left, bells jingling on the door.
“I’ll take more tea,” I said once she was gone. “I was really shocked to hear what Myrtle did to Ruth. How hateful.”
Aunt Violet set her lips in a thin line. “It really was despicable.” Finished pouring, Aunt Violet set the teapot down with a clatter. “I wish Ruth had confided in me back then. I would have reported Myrtle to the head of college.”
“I’m starting to see a pattern,” I said. “Kieran Scott told me yesterday that Myrtle tried to blackmail him into giving her money. She said she wouldn’t tip off the tabloids about his movements if he paid her.”
Aunt Violet’s mouth formed an O. “What cheek. Did he fall for it?”
I shook my head. “No. And guess what? The tabloids seem to know his every move.” My tone was dry. “Including the night of the reading. Kelsey Cook got a picture of him leaving the shop.”
Aunt Violet clucked. “I’m sure his parents loved that. Especially after Myrtle…” Her voice trailed off but we got the gist. Kieran at the scene of a murder was not the look his mother preferred.
“I was there when his mother called him,” I said. “I gathered she wasn’t very happy.”
“Asha is lovely,” Aunt Violet said. “But a stickler for propriety.” Her lips pursed. “She certainly whipped Lord Graham into shape.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, dying to know more about Kieran’s family.
My aunt laughed. “He used to be a wild one, that’s for sure. I know they don’t approve of Kieran running the bike shop, but I think that secretly Lord Graham is envious. I always sensed that his title tethered him a little too much.”
I’d had no idea that Aunt Violet knew Kieran’s parents so well, and I filed away her little tidbits. But what she’d said only confirmed my doubts about my place in Kieran’s life. If they didn’t like him running a bike shop, then surely a bookseller would be far from suitable in their eyes. Their loss, I told myself. In my world, books trumped a title any day.
Later that afternoon, I walked over to St. Hildegard’s College to meet Persephone for a photo shoot. The college was on the other side of the river, and my route would take me down Trinity Street and into King’s College, where I planned to cross the bridge.
On the phone, Persephone had sounded excited, almost girlish. “I can’t believe the interest my new book is getting,” she’d said with a giggle. “I’m having a little renaissance, it seems.”
I was glad for her, of course, but as I dodged the students and tourists clogging the cobblestone street, I couldn’t help but wonder if Myrtle’s death had boosted Persephone’s profile. A tabloid headline in a newspaper stand caught my eye—and offered a possible answer to my question. “St. Hildegard’s Alumnae Linked in Life—and Death,” it read, over college-age headshots of Myrtle, Ruth, Fiona, Aunt Violet, and Persephone.
I reached for a copy, deciding I really should buy it. Tabloids weren’t known for their accuracy, but I might glean something. When I turned, paper in hand, I almost bumped into a middle-aged man with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, dressed in dungarees and a T-shirt. “Sorry,” I said at the same time he said, “Pardon me.” We both laughed and after he moved aside, I went into the newsagent’s and paid for the paper.
On King’s College Bridge, I paused to look up and down the Cam. Punts floated along the river, and on the banks, people strolled or sat in the sun. Like the college inner courts, the river provided an oasis of quiet beauty in the middle of this bustling city. Putting my hands on the rampart, I inhaled air flavored with fresh-cut grass, river water, and warm stone. What a wonderful place to while away a warm afternoon.
Here on the bridge there was also a constant stream of foot traffic, with people crossing both ways. A man stopped to lean against the wall and leaf through a newspaper.
With a start, I recognized the man from the newsagent. Was he following me?
Surely not. Obviously this was a popular spot, and if I hadn’t almost bumped into him, would I even have noticed him? How many of the other people on the bridge had also been walking down Trinity Street at the same time as me? I pushed these ridiculous speculations aside, realizing I needed to get moving.
After reaching the river’s far shore, I followed the map to St. Hildegard’s, which was a brick Victorian enclave. Not nearly as majestic and massive as the other colleges, it still had an imposing, elegant presence. I caught myself glancing over my shoulder several times, but to my relief, I didn’t see the man with the newspaper again. I had been imagining things.
One section of the gate with its filigree metal screen was open, and after I walked through, I stopped to sign in with the porter. “Where is the Medieval Knot Garden?” I asked the kindly older gentleman. The garden had been inspired by the writings of the college’s patron saint, St. Hildegard of Bingen, who had been an herbalist as well as a mystic, a songwriter, a theologian, and a poet. Truly a woman to admire and emulate.
He pulled out a photocopied visitor map of the college, tracing the route then marking the garden with an X. “Can’t miss it,” he said with a friendly smile, sliding the page toward me.
“Thank you. Have a nice day.” I accepted the map and continued into the college proper, where brick Gothic Revival buildings draped with ivy were set here and there behind hedges and among flower beds. St. Hildegard’s had been built in the 1870s, and the college’s architecture perfectly reflected the era.
Following the map, I skirted several buildings and soon found the knot garden, featuring patterned herb and flower beds in a sunken area. A fountain adorned the center, and there, perched on the rim like a nymph, was Persephone. Today her abundant gray hair was long and loose and she wore an ankle-length gauzy dress and gladiator sandals.
She hopped off the edge of the fountain when she saw me approaching. “There you are, Molly. Isn’t it a beautiful day?” Holding her arms wide, she threw her head back and inhaled deeply. “This place is magic. Inspiration is flowing, I tell you. I’ve written two poems already.”
On the grass next to her feet was an open lined notebook, a pen resting in the crease. Seeing the notebook gave me an idea. She should pose as if penning a new poem here in the garden.
“It’s definitely a special spot,” I said, sliding my pack off my shoulders. Inside was Persephone’s first book of poems, a slim volume published in the late 1960s. We could also use that as a prop, and she could sit under that arbor smothered in fat white roses.
Before we moved to the arbor, I took several shots of Persephone on the fountain with her first book. Pretending to read. Coyly displaying the book so the title showed. Holding it aloft in an exuberant pose, the sun sparkling on water droplets around her.
“These are great.” I scrolled through the pictures, pleased that each had the elusive “wow” factor I was aiming for.
Persephone tried to look modest. “I used to do some modeling you know, back in the day. Local fashion shows, some magazine shoots, a couple of album covers.”
“Really? How cool.” Although she was on the short side, she was very photogenic, and judging by the old photo I’d seen, she’d had a classic Carnaby Street style that reminded me of Patti Boyd and Twiggy.
The poet stretched, preening. “What fun we had.” She picked up her tote and started strolling toward the arbor. “My mother was a model too. My father, Geoffrey Brightwell, was completely smitten when he met her at a London nightclub.”
Geoffrey Brightwell. His name rang a bell. Doing a quick search on my phone while we walked, I learned that he had been part of an illustrious group called the Movement, along with Philip Larkin and Kingsley Amis. Like father, like daughter, apparently.
Persephone put her tote on the grass and settled on the arbor bench. “What do you need me to do?”
“I’d love you to pretend you’re writing a poem.” I glanced up at the heavy, clustered blossoms, taking a deep breath of their sweet fragrance. “These roses could even inspire me to write something. They’re incredible.”
“Aren’t they?” Persephone pulled one close for a sniff. “Going to school here was the best part of my life.”
“I doubt that, though it must have been amazing,” I said lightly, directing her how to sit. How sad when someone believed college or even high school was the peak. I preferred to think that the best was yet to come. Especially now, working at my dream job in this historic and charming city.
She studied me, lips pursed. “Where did you go to college, Molly? One of the Ivies?”
“The University of Vermont, for library science. UVM is one of the oldest universities in the country and a very good school.” I bit my lip, annoyed at myself for adding the disclaimer. I despised the game of positioning by alma mater, all too common in some circles.
“I’m sure,” she muttered, her tone condescending.
Grr. Brushing off her snobbery, I returned to the task at hand. “I’m ready when you are.”
Obediently, Persephone picked up her pen and pretended to write in the notebook. The dappled pink light cast by the roses was flattering, and I quickly fired off a great series of shots.
“Take a look,” I said, sitting down beside her. “Pick out your favorites.” Since she was doing me a favor, I wanted her to be happy.
Heads together, we chose the best ones and I saved them in a cloud folder for easy access. “If you have time,” I said. “I’d like to hear more about St. Hildegard’s, for the social media posts.” And hopefully learn something to help us solve Myrtle’s murder. Maybe her demise had nothing to do with her college friends, but we had to explore this angle. Was their reunion for the reading a coincidence or an inciting factor?
“I’d love to chat.” Persephone reached for her tote. “Tea and a biscuit?” She pulled out a thermos of hot tea, two mugs, and a packet of McVitie’s, the kind George liked.
“Oh, I love those biscuits,” I said, opening the packet at her instruction.
“Me too,” she said, opening the thermos and filling a mug for me. “It already has milk. I hope that’s all right.”
I accepted the tea. “That’s the way I take it.” In between sips and bites, I pulled out my own notebook. “Were you good friends with Myrtle in college?” At her questioning look, I added, “I never got a chance to get to know her. What was she like as a young woman?”
Persephone nibbled on a biscuit. “I didn’t know her really well. She was one of those people who hang around so much they eventually become part of the gang.”
“Was she in one of your classes?” I asked, wanting to know more.
The poet shook her head. “No. We all lived in the same accommodations.” She pointed to a building. “Our own study-bedrooms on different floors. Myrtle was across the hall from Joan, who was a friend of Violet’s. I introduced Fiona to Violet, and then somehow we all gelled.”
I’d heard the college friends talking about Joan and Myrtle in our kitchen the other night, so that fit. “Sir Jon showed me a picture of all of you at Rag Day,” I said, coming at the topic sideways.
Persephone laughed. “Oh, Sir Jon. We were all in love with him. Though he wasn’t a ‘sir’ then. That came later, when the Queen knighted him.”
“He was quite handsome,” I said. “Still is. So was my uncle Tom.” A wistful pang hit whenever I thought of my late uncle and how I’d never get to know him.
“Tom was a love,” Persephone said. “I always thought he and Fiona … well, the heart is a mystery. She and Gregory have muddled along for ages now.” She tilted her head, studying me with puzzled eyes. “You never met Tom? Why is that?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t even meet Aunt Violet until we moved here.” Shame twisted at the admission and I regretted being so honest. Mum obviously had a reason for staying away, and although I desperately wanted to know what it was, I hadn’t planned to open the topic to public comment.
As I feared, she didn’t drop the subject. “Odd. How about your grandparents? Did you meet them?”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “No, I never had the opportunity.” How rude would it be if I got up and left? Maybe I could claim another appointment.
“How sad,” she said, patting my arm with what felt like faux sympathy. “And quite strange, really. Maybe Americans don’t place the same importance on family as we Brits do.”
Why was she needling me this way? “That’s not it,” I said before forcing myself to stop talking. It had been Mum’s decision to cut off her family, not Dad’s. Plus I didn’t owe this woman an explanation about family dynamics I didn’t even understand yet.
When I remained silent, Persephone went on. “Myrtle was a Marlowe, you know. Well, way, way back. Generations ago. So you were cousins of sorts.”
“I’m aware of that.” Because of our visit to Myrtle’s flat, this news didn’t quite have the impact I guessed she was aiming for. I jumped up from the bench and began packing my belongings. “And now, sorry to say, I must go. Thanks for the photo shoot, I’ll let you know when the posts are up. Oh, and tea was great. Much appreciated.”
As I practically ran across that lovely garden, pack jostling on my back, I could sense her watching me. What an unpleasant woman she was—despite her talent.