The Fatal Folio, cont.
“Isn’t this book beautiful?” To my horror, Estella had picked up the fatal tome and was now smoothing the leather cover. As she touched the calfskin, it seemed to grow lighter, less stained and scuffed. Embossed motifs I hadn’t noticed caught the light, a design of flowering vines twining along the edges.
I blinked away this illusion, horror growing as she began to open the cover. “Stop. Don’t do that.” I rushed to her side, prepared to wrest the book from her hands.
“What are you doing, Mr. Marlboro?” Mr. Coates asked. “I’m sure the signorina knows how to handle a fine book without your intervention.”
“It’s not that—” I broke off, unable to articulate my sudden panic, the certainty that the book itself was dangerous to any who touched it. What madness was this? Surely a result of the long, fraught journey and the shock of the Duke’s death.
Estella was now seated in the Duke’s chair, the book open in front of her. She gave a delightful little gurgling laugh. “This book is wonderful. I can see why Papa was so enamored of it. He had to travel quite a distance to buy it, you know, even though it was written in the monastery here. Before all the monks died that year.”
She said this so blithely, as if the demise of holy men all at once was not a matter of curiosity if not concern. “What happened to the monks?” I asked.
Her shrug was pretty, as were all her gestures. “Some sort of pox? All I know is that it went through the monastery with great speed. Ever since I was a child, we’ve been warned not to poke around the ruins. The air is said to be contaminated.”
I exchanged a glance with Mr. Coates. This tale had to be a fable, to keep the children away from where they might fall or otherwise get hurt. If I had the opportunity, I would like to visit the ruins. Such exploration was a hobby of mine, especially sites of ancient origin and historic interest.
Estella began leafing through the book, the pages rustling and the gilded edges catching the light. I hadn’t noticed the gilding before.
Stopping to read, she smiled, her eyes glowing. Now I doubted that she would even want to sell this book. Mr. Coates would have to find another gift for his esteemed uncle.
Mr. Coates moved to stand beside her. “Can I look on? I’ve been curious about this book for years.”
Like a child might, she frowned up at him and hid the book against her bosom. “No, you may not. Papa said this book speaks to each reader. Sharing it with someone will only dilute the experience.”
Although I was also curious to see what the book contained, I said, “Let her be, Mr. Coates. We are strangers, after all.” To reassure Estella, I added, “But gentlemen. And as such, we must withdraw. Please let us know by tomorrow if you wish to sell the book or any other in the collection. We cannot linger in your country long, lovely as it may be.”
To my surprise, she appeared disappointed. “You must leave me already? I have planned a delicious dinner for you. We rarely have guests, you see, especially since Papa died.” She closed the book and placed it on the blotter before hopping up. “Please, look through the shelves. I am sure you will find something to your liking.” She set her face in resolute lines. “I cannot promise to sell everything but I will entertain offers. Papa fortunately left a ledger with notes about each book and its value.”
My guess, after dealing with many clients, was that she needed the money. It was a crafty move on her part to let us know her father had a good grasp of what the books were worth. Other dealers without as much integrity would probably try to take advantage of the young woman. I refused to behave in such an underhanded way, which is why my reputation was sterling and above reproach.
“We would be most happy to join you for dinner,” Mr. Coates said with a bow. “I know that Mr. Marlboro is always looking for special editions for his patrons. I myself have other interests too. Thank you for your kind offer to browse the shelves.” He sent me a greedy look of glee, barely refraining from rubbing his hands together. I would need to disabuse him of the notions he obviously held about our hostess and her naiveté.
The notion of a book that tailored itself to each reader stayed with me all morning while I updated the inventory for Thomas Marlowe. I was taking a day off from the cataloguing to catch up on tasks in the shop. Kieran and I were meeting for lunch in his apartment, which I was looking forward to. It felt like ages since we’d spent time together alone.
Tim was behind the counter in the bike shop when I arrived. “He’s already gone up,” he said, pointing to the ceiling.
“Thanks.” I moved closer to the counter to ask, “How are you?” I hadn’t seen much of Tim lately either.
“Fine, thanks.” He continued to sort through slips as we talked. “Daisy told me about the tour you went on. I’ll have to catch that next time.”
“I think she has plans for you and her in a punt,” I said, teasing. A nearby rack of jackets caught my eye and I began leafing through them. As I thought, they were the same brand the presumed killer had been wearing—the person we saw running down St. Aelred’s Way.
“Those are very popular,” Tim said. “We just got that shipment in. Second order this fall.”
“Do you know who bought the last bunch?” I asked. “Their names, I mean.”
His head came up. “What do you mean?”
“Remember the runner we saw that night?” I didn’t have to elaborate. I held up one of the coats. “They were wearing this brand.” My finger traced the silver design. “I noticed this. It’s very distinctive.”
Tim shook his head. “I see where you’re going, but those jackets are sold all over the city. Not to mention online. There must be dozens, if not hundreds, around.”
I backed up slightly. “Can you get a list of who bought them? Is it possible, I mean?”
He held up a slip. “I suppose so. We note the date, customer name, and what they bought on these slips. Kind of redundant because the point of sale also records the inventory number, which is what we use to reorder. The customer isn’t logged in the computer, though, hence why they get a slip.” Now he grabbed a fistful of the yellow pages. “It would be quite a task, looking through all these. Or cross-referencing them to the system entries, which we could do.”
“I get that.” I hung the jacket up again. “Did Daisy tell you the police confiscated a jacket like this from a student’s room?”
“Uh-huh. I heard all about it.” Tim’s brow creased. “I hope you two are being careful. They haven’t made an arrest yet so the killer is still out there.”
“Of course we are.” Kieran was waiting for me, so I probably should get going. I started toward the door.
Tim’s words halted me. “I’ve been giving that night a lot of thought,” he said. “The trainers the runner was wearing? I think I know the brand.”
“Really? I was focused on that creepy mask and the jacket.” I hadn’t even looked at the runner’s feet.
“I always notice shoes. Before coming here, I worked in a sporting goods store that sold a lot of high-end trainers.” Tim picked up his phone and began searching. “I’m pretty sure they were wearing these.”
I went over the counter to get a better look at the image. The shoes were bright orange and very pricey. “Men’s or women’s?”
“Both,” he said. “Unfortunately. That would narrow it down some.”
“You should tell Inspector Ryan,” I said. “I’m sure they’re grasping for any clue to narrow down the suspects.”
He set the phone on the counter. “What if I’m wrong?”
“Let them figure it out. I know they’ll be grateful to hear from you.” I took out my own phone and sent him a text. “There. You’ve got his number now, so no excuse.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, eyes twinkling.
“Did that sound bossy? Sorry.” I waved as I headed toward the exit. “Talk to you later.”
Up in his flat, Kieran was at the stove, stirring something in a pot when I let myself in. “Molly. Good to see you.”
I crossed the room for a kiss. “Good to see you too.” I peered into the pan. “What is that? It smells great.”
“Potato leek soup.” He beamed with pride. “First time making my nana’s recipe.”
“Yum. Potato anything is a hit with me.” I took a seat at the table, which was already set, and poured myself a glass of water. “How’s your day going?”
“Very well, thanks.” He threw me a look. “Even better now.”
For a moment our eyes locked and then he gave a start. “Oops.” He checked the flame. “I don’t want this to burn.” He tested the soup with a spoon. “It’s definitely hot enough.”
“Yes, it is,” I murmured before laughing at my corny joke, as did he. I liked the fact that we could be lovey-dovey and joke about it too.
He ladled soup into bowls, pointed to fresh slices of bread and a dish of butter on a board, and we dove in.
“Delicious,” I said as I scooped up the last morsel, wishing I could lick my bowl like a child. Leeks made potato soup taste even better.
“There’s more,” he said. “Let me get it for you.” He served us both second helpings. After we finished the soup, he put out a plate of bite-size brownies and made coffee in a French press. Mugs in hand, we settled on the sofa.
“What’s new?” he asked. “Anything with the case?”
“Where to begin?” Sipping coffee, I organized my thoughts. Then I remembered the publisher’s letter and the manuscript page. Despite the incredible temptation to compare them, I’d forced myself to wait until Kieran and I were together.
“Hang on,” I said, getting out my phone. “Let’s look at handwriting samples.” He leaned close, watching as I lined up the two images.
One glance was all we needed. “They’re not the same,” I said, depressed. “See how these letters are rolling and round while the manuscript page is more spiky and cramped?”
“I sure do,” he said, sounding equally disappointed. “What does this mean? Any ideas?”
“Um … maybe Selwyn had an assistant. That person might have handled correspondence.”
“Even if they were the same, we still wouldn’t know who Selwyn was,” Kieran pointed out. “We need something with his or her real name to compare.”
“Good point.” With a sigh, I put my phone aside. “Back to our present-day mystery.” I told him about the tour the previous evening, including chatting with Josh and Amy at the Headless Monk pub, and, finally, Tim’s shoe clue.
“Do you think Oliver did it?” he asked, his voice pained.
I hastily thought over what I’d shared. Had something I said implicated Oliver? Not in particular, I decided, although, to be honest, he was still on the list of suspects. He had motive and opportunity and perhaps access to the weapon. He’d visited Thad, according to Josh and Amy.
“Why do you say that?” Like a coward, I dodged the question. “Does he have orange shoes?”
“I have no idea.” He stared into his mug. “Don’t get me wrong. I really can’t imagine Oliver being violent. He has trouble killing houseflies. That night, though … it was dodgy the way he didn’t show up for dinner. Not like him to stand me up. Then yesterday, he…” His voice trailed off.
“He what?” I prodded when he didn’t continue.
Kieran looked miserable. “He told me that Thad did file a complaint with Dr. Cutler, requesting a review of how Oliver is grading papers.”
“Does that matter now? Thad is—” I heard myself and stopped.
“Dead. I know.” Kieran’s smile was wan. “He’s still being asked to explain why he graded Thad the way he did. In the interests of being thorough, Dr. Cutler said.”
That sounded horribly unfair. I thought of something else. “Oliver isn’t the only professor Thad was difficult with. I saw some scathing notes from Dr. Verona on a paper he wrote. According to Amy, he rewrote the paper and got a higher grade.”
“I bet Oliver refused to let him do a rewrite,” Kieran said. “You should pass that along to Oliver. It might help his defense.”
“Secondhand information? Maybe. Besides, he probably knows all about it, since he’s seeing Sophie. I saw them together on the banks of the river. Last night, while we were in the punt.”
“What?” Kieran gave a little yelp. “He hasn’t said anything to me. And in fact, I gave him plenty of opportunity, when we were talking about—”
“What?” I teased, although I could guess. I leaned over, landing against his shoulder. “About me, by chance?”
Kieran blushed, which was adorable. “I want to assure you that I don’t gossip about us or share anything too personal.”
I hooted with laughter. “I didn’t think you do. It’s perfectly normal to talk about your relationship with a close friend or relative.” I snuggled closer. “I talk to Daisy all the time about us.”
“Really?” He kissed my nose, smiling. “What do you say?”
I put my coffee down before it could spill. “That you’re totally fabulous and I”—Oops. Don’t go there—“really like you.”
His mug joined mine on the table. “I really like you too.”
The next hour or so was a wonderful interlude on a cold November afternoon. Kieran and I should meet for lunch more often, I decided.
“Molly.” Aunt Violet’s tone was brisk as she paused while shelving a book.
My shoulders lifted in a cringe as I anticipated her questioning me about my late return from lunch. Aunt Violet was due to leave for an appointment, I remembered.
“I’m sorry—Kieran and I, well … we got hung up.”
She flapped her hand. “No matter. I wanted to tell you that you have a visitor.” She nodded toward the red upholstered chair tucked between two bookshelves, my favorite seat in the shop.
Amy waved. “Hey, Molly.” She sat with her laptop open, and, to my amusement, I saw that Puck was lying along the chairback and Clarence was sprawled across her shoes.
“I see you’ve met the welcoming committee,” I said.
“They’re adorable. Such fun to have shop cats.” She struggled to rise, trapped by Clarence’s heft. Puck reached out a paw and tangled it in her curly hair. “Ouch.”
“Come on, boys. Let her up.”
With a glare in my direction, Clarence rolled off her shoes and slunk off. Once Amy was up, Puck slid down to the seat. He began to wash, as if that had been his plan all along. They truly were incorrigible.
Amy closed her slim laptop and slid it into a case. “I’m looking for particular editions. Novels, mostly. I thought you might be able to help.”
“That’s right up our alley,” I said, walking toward the desk. “We’ll check the inventory first to see if we have copies.” Amy could have asked Aunt Violet or Mum to help. The fact she’d waited for me was flattering, as if we were becoming friends.
I opened the point of sale system, which let me search. “Go ahead, shoot. Title and author.”
Amy put her bag on the ledge then leaned forward on her elbows. “Remember when we were in Thad’s room? I couldn’t find all of my books?”
“I do.” I waited, fingers poised to type. “I don’t recall offhand which titles.” Come to think of it, she hadn’t mentioned specific books.
Licking her lips, she hesitated. “Um, I’m not quite sure how to say this.”
“When you’re ready.” I had an inkling where this was going and found myself bristling in anticipation, which I did my best to hide.
She began fiddling with a rack of business cards. “I might as well come right out with it.” She paused. “Did he sell you anything lately?”
“I can find out.” I knew he hadn’t because I’d never heard of Thad Devine until the day I met Oliver, but it didn’t hurt to be thorough. “I’ll search the system.” We paid vendors by check, so if he had sold us books, he should be in there. A few keystrokes later, I shook my head. “We did not buy any books from Thad.”
“You’re sure?” She looked both relieved and disappointed.
“Positive. We don’t pay cash. Well, unless we’re at a flea market, maybe.” We kept a small fund around for those impulsive purchases, which often paid off.
“Want me to look for copies?” I asked. “Hopefully you can replace those titles.”
She groaned. “I guess so. Hopefully I’ll be able to afford to buy them. They weren’t cheap the first time.”
That really was a drag, especially if she’d lent books to a friend. That’s why I rarely ever did. Never got them back, most of the time.
“How’s this? Give me the titles and all the details you can remember. I’ll search around and see what I can turn up. Then, if you want to buy, I can handle that.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Amy pulled out her laptop. “I’m going to check the bibliography on one of my papers.”
I found a lined pad and a pen, ready to take notes. If the books weren’t in Thad’s room, where were they? “Excuse me for saying this, but have you checked with Thad’s parents? Maybe he took your books home.”
“I doubt it. He didn’t go home all term. Only up to Scotland for the shooting party. I was with him that weekend and he didn’t have the books.”
“That’s pretty clear, then. I’ll be happy to scout around for you.” She began reading out edition information for me to jot down. Three books, classics by Charlotte and Emily Brontë and Daphne du Maurier. I also took her number, so I could text with any updates.
“Thanks, Molly,” Amy said. She glanced at the old schoolhouse clock on the wall. “I’d better scoot.”
“You have a lecture?” I asked, more to say something than because I cared.
“No, not this afternoon. I’m meeting with Dr. Verona so we can go over the Institute books. That’s my new part-time job. Thad used to do it.”
“Good luck,” I said. “Thanks for coming in.”
She slid her laptop back into her bag and slung the strap over her shoulder. “Are you coming to the dance later this week?”
“I might.” I hadn’t given the event much thought, although I’d noticed it was to be held in the cellars at St. Aelred. Great setting for a gothic dance.
“If you do, wear a costume. See you later.” On the way out the door, she stopped to pat the cats, a gesture I—and they—appreciated. They were the real bosses around here, after all.