After Amy left, I searched various bookdealer sites for the titles she wanted. Many were available overseas, which meant huge shipping fees, so I narrowed my results to the UK.
Reginald Dubold had one of the books and it looked to be a perfect match for Amy’s. He was the dealer Aunt Violet had said was sketchy. Thad had his card.
Of course I put two and two together and jumped to conclusions. Thad had sold Amy’s book to Reginald. I reached for the shop phone to call the dealer, then thought better of it. I would go in person, introduce myself, and scope out Mr. Dubold.
I glanced at the time. Aunt Violet was still out so Mum and I were the only ones here. It might be better to wait until tomorrow. His shop was within walking distance, on the other side of the Marketplace.
“Cup of tea, Molly?” Mum asked. “I’m going to put the kettle on.”
“Love one, thanks,” I said, needing the lift to get through the rest of the afternoon.
After we closed tonight, Kieran and I were going to grab pizza and ride out to Hazelhurst, where we planned to look at gravestones from the time of Selwyn Scott. One entry in the family Bible had been obscured and we wanted to see if we could learn more in the family cemetery.
Was it strange that I was looking forward to an excursion to a graveyard? Of course, if Kieran was involved, I’d go anywhere. He made everything fun.
Mum soon reappeared, tray in hand. Along with mugs of tea, she had thoughtfully provided a plate of biscuits. A few of those would tide me over until pizza time.
Trade was slow, so around four, I settled in my favorite chair with my copy of The Fatal Folio. Both cats tried to sit on my lap, which was a first for Clarence. In the end, they squashed in, one on each side of me. I was basically wedged into the chair.
“You’re going to have to pull me out of here,” I told Mum, who was seated behind the desk working on the bookkeeping.
She laughed. “I see that.”
I opened the book and began to read aloud, Mum and the cats as my audience.
The Fatal Folio, cont.
After a long afternoon in the library, where I found more than two-dozen other editions I wanted to purchase, Estella came to tell us dinner would soon be ready.
“You have both been so busy,” she said, beginning to look through my stack. “All of these are of interest to you?”
I hurried to join her, noticing as I did so that she had changed into a different dress for dinner. Still black, this one had a low, scooped neckline and puffed sleeves, and it rustled when she moved. Her perfume was light yet sweet, like a rose garden in full bloom.
Forcing my attention to the book she held, I said, “These are the volumes I am interested in. If you wish to keep any of them, I will not be offended.”
She shook her head and set the book down, then picked up the next and studied it. “These subjects have no special meaning to me. I am happy for you to take them.” She glanced around the library. “I may even find a new owner for this house and move. It is so lonely here.”
I could well imagine, with only a small village nearby. Normally a woman of this age and beauty would be dwelling in a city, attending dances and soirees and fending off suitors. “Where do you think you will go?” I asked.
She waved her hand. “To my aunt’s, in Milan, no doubt. She’s been pressing me to set a date for the wedding.” Her cheeks flushed. “With the death of my father so recent, I am in no hurry to be wed.”
Not a surprise, yet a disappointment, as if I, a lowly bookseller from Cambridge, England, could offer this exquisite creature anything she would want. “Not an unreasonable aim on her part,” I murmured. “After all, most people wish to engage in holy matrimony.”
“Are you married, Mr. Marlboro?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Unfortunately not. My fiancée died of a fever before we reached that happy day.” The result of my grief had been to drive me further into the world of books. They at least lived on, forever if cared for correctly.
“I am so sorry to hear that.” She placed a gentle hand on my sleeve.
Mr. Coates of course could not accept that our conversation did not include him. “I am not married, either,” he said. “In my case it is because I have not found a woman suitable, one who will be a perfect helpmeet at my country estate.” He stood so as to puff out his chest. “I have great expectations, you know. A title, and a great deal of land.”
Estella smiled politely. “How nice for you—and the future Mrs. Coates.” The clock on the mantel struck. “Come. We will have a glass of wine before dinner.”
After we washed our hands and faces, the silent manservant showed us to the drawing room. There Estella waited with the promised wine. As we sipped, waiting for the announcement of dinner, rain began to lash against the tall windows.
Estella went to the closest window to peer out. “The storm is here.” As she said that, lightning flashed, followed by a boom of thunder that shook even this thick-walled dwelling.
I joined her at the window, which provided a vista of the monastery ruins and the valley beyond. Lightning illuminated the tumbled walls and the remaining bell tower in a most disturbing manner. To my fevered imagination, these ruins foretold the eventual demise that all men face, the crumbling of the external shell into dust.
“You will not be able to return to the village tonight,” Estella said. “The road often washes out during these storms. Rocks sometimes wash down and strike people, even causing them to tumble over the cliffs.”
I exchanged a glance with Mr. Coates. This was an eventuality I hadn’t foreseen. Our luggage was at the hotel and our horses were rented. “They’ll think we ran off with our mounts,” I said, only half-jesting.
“They will understand that you are stranded,” Estella said. “It often happened to Papa’s visitors. Any excess fees you need to pay, I will be glad to cover. Since you are my guests, after all.”
“How considerate,” Mr. Coates demurred. “But entirely unnecessary. We will accept your hospitality with gladness.” There was more in his expression, I discerned, than relief at not getting drenched or worse during a possibly treacherous ride down the mountainside. He was gloating at the prospect of additional time here, either to continue looking through the library or to woo Estella. I hadn’t missed the acquisitive glint in his eye when he gazed upon her.
Another reason could be that he hoped for another look at The Ramblings of a Monk. During our time prowling the shelves, he told me he still hoped to persuade her to sell. Despite the fineness of the rest of the collection, that piece alone was almost worth all the rest. The storied volume would indeed be a suitable gift for a duke, and undoubtedly would become the centerpiece of his collection, which I had heard was quite fine.
In any event, despite the machinations and plots of my companion, it appeared that we would be spending the night here, at the villa. And as Estella offered her arm for me to escort her into dinner, I couldn’t help but be glad.
On the way out to Hazelhurst in Kieran’s Land Rover, we stopped to pick up a pizza at our favorite place. “It smells so good,” I moaned as we continued on. What was it about the aroma of hot cheese and tomato sauce?
“Patience, my dear,” Kieran said. “We’re almost there.”
“What if it’s cold?” If I were driving my own vehicle—not the Cortina, which was pristine—I would have torn into it already. His leather seats were still showroom clean and I shuddered at the thought of being the one to stain them.
“We’ll heat it up.” Traffic was light out here in the country and Kieran stepped on the gas, probably eager to feed me and stop my whining.
The way to Hazelhurst House was so familiar by now I recognized certain houses and trees and bends in the road. As we pulled down the drive, lights flickered through the trees. Only a few, as the electric bill must be enormous. Kieran drove over the bridge and parked in the forecourt. I carried the pizza and he grabbed his camping lantern for our expedition to the cemetery.
“Oliver will be joining us,” he said as we entered the house. “He also wants to see Selwyn’s writing garret and take a stab at searching for the second book.”
“How’s he doing on his own book?” I asked. If he could have his published at the same time Selwyn’s was rereleased, it would be the literary event of the year.
“Not sure,” Kieran said. “I think he’s been distracted lately.”
By Thad’s murder, the controversy around his teaching, or his relationship with Sophie? All three, probably.
We made our way to the enormous kitchen, where Lady Asha was putting together a meal tray. “Kieran, love. I didn’t know you were coming. Hello, Molly.”
A nice blend of old and new, the kitchen featured an AGA in an arched niche, a scrubbed table that could seat twenty, banks of cabinets and open shelves, and a butcher-block island.
Kieran greeted his mother with a kiss on the cheek. “We brought our own dinner.”
I said hello and placed the cardboard box on the table. Kieran went over to the AGA and turned on an oven.
“How’s Dad?” Kieran asked as he dispensed ice from the refrigerator into two glasses.
Once the clatter of ice dropping died down, Lady Asha said, “He’s all right. A bit nervous about his appointment in London tomorrow.”
I didn’t know much about Lord Graham’s illness, but had gathered he was waiting to find out if the cancer had gone into remission.
“I’m sure it will go well.” Despite his firm tone, doubt flickered in Kieran’s eyes. “By the way, I’m going with you.”
Lady Asha looked relieved. “Are you? I’m sure your father will appreciate it.”
I hoped for everyone’s sake that Lord Graham would come through. Although Kieran and I were close, we hadn’t talked much about his father’s ordeal. Oh, that famous British reticence. I was letting him set the pace regarding the subject.
Lady Asha excused herself with the tray and Kieran slid the pizza into the oven to warm. I pulled out plates and silverware.
We’d chosen a Quattro Stagioni—“four seasons”—which had ham, artichokes, mushrooms, and olives in the Italian four-quadrants style.
“So good,” I murmured as I devoured my second piece.
Kieran picked up his third slice. “My favorite.”
“Do you want to go to a dance?” I asked. “St. Aelred is having one this weekend, put on by the Gothic Institute.”
“A gothic dance, huh? Costumes?” He took a bite, then wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Yes, which is not my favorite thing. I never know what to wear.”
“How about we go as characters from The Fatal Folio?” Kieran suggested. “I’ll be Matthew and you can be Estella.”
“Oh, I like that.” I frowned. “Where can I find a dress?” Dresses in the 1840s had natural waistlines and full skirts.
“There’s a local place that’s pretty good,” Kieran said. He pulled out his phone and brought up a site. “Take a look.”
Crossing my fingers they would have a dress that was appropriate and in my size, I browsed through the site. To my relief, I found several choices that might work. “I’ll have to pop over tomorrow,” I said. “Before I come out here to work.”
“Why don’t we meet at the shop?” he suggested. “We can help each other pick out costumes.”
“It’s a plan.” I handed him his phone back, then surveyed the decimated pizza. “Are we done here?” Then I remembered his cousin was supposed to join us. “Is Oliver still coming?”
Kieran looked at his phone. “Late as usual. We’ll go ahead.” After sending a text, presumably to inform Oliver, he tucked his phone away.
Soon after, we stepped outside, Kieran’s flashlight the only source of light. Trees whipped in the wind and clouds scudded across the sky, hiding then revealing the moon. Behind us, the walls and towers of Hazelhurst House loomed forbidding and dark, crenellations etched against the sky.
“Good grief,” I said as we strolled across the garden bridge. “I feel like we’re in a gothic novel.”
“We are.” He leaned close, speaking in a deep, sonorous voice. “I am luring you to the graveyard, my pretty. I need your, ‘blood, your precious blood.’”
I laughed with delighted glee. “Love that quote from Nosferatu.”
“It’s a classic, for sure.”
We stepped off the bridge and started to cross the garden, footsteps crunching on gravel. Topiaries and trees made odd shapes in the dark and unseen things rustled in the undergrowth.
I wondered if Selwyn Scott had wandered these paths at night, drawing inspiration from the surroundings. The author didn’t have to travel to find a mysterious, brooding landscape and ancient manor. It was all right here.
We turned down a path that took us between head-high hedges. I hadn’t been in this corner of the extensive grounds. I was glad to have Kieran guiding me, otherwise I would definitely be lost. We couldn’t even see the house lights now.
“It’s not much farther,” he said. “Honestly.”
“I’m glad,” I said, shivering. “It’s getting cold out.” I was grateful for the pair of gloves I’d stuffed in my pocket and the wool socks keeping my feet toasty. Aunt Violet had made them for me.
Kieran put an arm around me. “We’ll have to stick close together.”
I laughed. “I can live with that.”
The hedge ended and we were in the cemetery, a sea of headstones picked out by Kieran’s flashlight. Huge trees arched overhead, blocking out the sky.
“No one has been buried here since the late eighteen hundreds,” Kieran said as he led me through a gap in a stone wall, leaves rustling as we shuffled along. “We ran out of room.” The markers were of various sizes in a jumble of styles, and small mausoleums stood here and there.
“Any idea where to look?” Maybe we should have waited until daylight.
Kieran veered toward the right. “Actually, yes. They’re in one of the mausoleums.”
“Do we have to go inside?” I had no interest in exploring enclosed spaces after my adventure last summer.
He threw me a look. “Of course not. There are bronze plaques on the outside.”
I gave an exaggerated exhale. “Phew. So glad.”
We made our way across the clearing, skirting gravestones and plots, dodging edging lifted by frost and markers embedded in the tall grass. Gusts of wind sent leaves spinning down from the trees or propelled them in bursts, as if haunted.
“I wish we could see the stones better,” I whispered. It felt wrong to speak in a normal voice out here among the dead, on a dark, cold night. “I like reading the names and dates, and studying the artwork on the stones.” Wandering through a cemetery and thinking about those who had come before us was both melancholy and a history lesson.
At some point, I reminded myself, I should visit the churchyard in Hazelhurst village, where my ancestors had lived. I’d never viewed my grandparents’ graves. My mother hadn’t gotten along with her parents, who practically drove her away from home. She’d married my American father and moved to Vermont.
“We’ll come back,” Kieran promised. Moving slowly along, he focused the flashlight on dull metal rectangles fastened to the structure, which was white stone stained with lichens and rust. With the battering of centuries, literally, the plaques were hard to read.
I helped, taking the lower row while he did the upper. “Aha,” I said. “I found Alistair.” He had died in 1830, at age forty-two.
He moved the light to that square, where we also found Agatha. Her life had spanned 1792 to 1862, so she had reached seventy years of age. “Now the children.”
They were on another plaque. Samuel had died in 1886, at age seventy-four. I gasped. Frances had died in 1842, the year The Fatal Folio was published.
“Is her death the reason Among the Ruins wasn’t published?” I mused. “This has me leaning toward Frances as the author.”
“It’s a possibility,” Kieran said. “It doesn’t knock her mother and brother out of the running, though.”
He was right. The fact that Frances died in 1842 was only one piece of information.
“Look. There’s another entry.” The final inscription provided another tidbit of information. There had been a third child. His name was Selwyn and he had died at age two, in 1816. “Selwyn Scott. He must have been the reason they chose that as a pen name.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Kieran traced his fingers over the letters. “Poor little guy. He was only two.”
“How sad. They lost so many babies back then.” The sound of leaves shuffling caught my ear and I turned to see a light bouncing along the ground. Instinctively, I moved closer to Kieran. “Someone’s coming.”
He watched for a moment then called, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” came a voice. “Oliver.”
I exhaled loudly and Kieran gave me a sidewise glance. “Were you worried?”
“Um, yeah, sort of.” How could I share my fear that we might encounter a killer? Though why here and now would certainly be a mystery.
Oliver continued on, muttering to himself when he almost tripped over something. “Hello,” he said cheerfully when he got closer. “Doing a spot of grave robbing?”
The remark was ridiculous and we both snorted. Then I noticed Oliver’s feet, clearly visible in the beam of his light.
He was wearing orange running shoes—the same style worn by the mysterious runner the night Thad died.