Sir Jon was taken aback to see me, I could tell. Then, with great aplomb, he managed to pretend that we hadn’t met. “I’m sorry, miss, you will need to excuse us.” He tipped his head toward the door, which I interpreted as meaning, “Please leave now.”
I gestured toward my stack of books. “I was here to buy those.” Should I share my suspicions with Sir Jon, that they had been stolen? Or at the very least, sold by accident? Noticing that one of the officers was pulling out a search warrant, I decided now was not the time.
“Leave it,” Sir Jon said, confirming my decision. “Please.”
I put down the books and hurried for the door, wishing I could stay and find out what was going on. Did they think Reginald had the manuscript stolen from Hazelhurst House? Or were they looking for other stolen books?
Aunt Violet had been right about Reginald operating on the margins of the trade. Sir Jon wouldn’t question him or serve a search warrant without evidence.
Outside the shop, I glanced around, hoping no one had seen me here. The last thing I wanted was to taint Thomas Marlowe by association, which I should have thought of earlier. I was too impulsive sometimes.
I did find Amy’s books, though. That was something. Although, if Reginald was arrested, I wasn’t sure how we’d get them back. What was I going to tell her? She was probably waiting for an update.
After pondering this dilemma all the way back to the shop, I decided to call her. This wasn’t a conversation to have over text.
I took out my phone as I entered Magpie Lane, planning to sit in one of our outside chairs to talk. The morning sunshine was beaming strongly into the lane, the buildings on both sides capturing and magnifying its meager warmth. With winter looming, I had resolved to savor every minute of good weather.
As I was walking past Spinning Your Wheels, Detective Inspector Sean Ryan exited the front door. “Inspector Ryan. What are you doing here?” Immediately regretting my nosy question, I said, “I mean, hello. How are you?”
He laughed, which made him look much younger and even more handsome. I could see why Mum liked him, even if I would find his profession intimidating.
“I was on my way to see Nina. Is she in?”
“Yes, she is.” I threw up a trial balloon. “Were you talking about orange shoes?” I tipped my head toward the bike shop. “In there?” This time I wouldn’t mention that Oliver owned the same clothing as the probable killer. I’d done enough damage the first time.
Eyes twinkling, he pursed his lips in amusement. “Maybe. You know I can’t share details of a case with you, Molly.”
“Even if I’m the one who suggested the report?” He didn’t say anything so I shrugged and gave up. “Go ahead in. I have to make a call.”
He opened the shop door and I perched on a chair, the cold from the seat immediately penetrating my jeans. Maybe I wouldn’t linger out here after all.
I dialed Amy, who answered right away. “Molly. Did you get them? Did you find out who sold them?”
“Hold on a sec, Amy. I’m sorry to say, the answer is no to both questions.”
“What? Why not? You were right there.”
“I know I was.” I took a breath, debating how to frame my answer. I should tell the truth, I finally decided. It would come out sooner or later, if Reginald was arrested. “I was about to ask the shopkeeper when the police arrived. They booted me out before I could ask him anything.”
“The police? What did they want?” Amy sounded confused.
“I’m not sure. They had a search warrant, though.”
She didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Weird. What now?”
Having never faced this situation before, I had no idea. “I suppose we should wait and see what happens. If he isn’t arrested, we can go get your books.”
“And if he is?”
“I suppose he’ll be out on bail at some point. I’m not sure if they’ll let him operate his shop. Or if he’ll close it and lay low.”
She grunted in frustration. “I want my books back.”
“I totally understand.” She could file a police report but that might mean the books would then be caught up in red tape. “Why don’t we wait and see for now? If we have to, we can file a police report and see if they can help you get them back.”
Amy sighed. “I suppose. Thanks for tracking them down. I really appreciate it.” She exhaled again. “It’s been a day from hell all around. I started digging into the books for the Institute, and wow, what a mess.”
“Thad didn’t do a good job?” I guessed.
“No, it’s not that.” She paused. “Some of the numbers don’t add up. In other words, money might be missing.” She gave a little laugh. “Whoops. Forget I said that, ’kay?”
“Not my business,” I said, even though I made a mental note. Did Oliver know? “Good luck. And listen, I’ll keep an eye on the Reginald Dubold situation.”
“Reginald Dubold?”
“Yes, he’s the bookseller I’ve been talking about.” Hadn’t I mentioned his name? Thinking back through my messages and this conversation, I might not have. “Do you know him?”
Her answer was a squawk. “Got to go.”
I stared at my suddenly dead phone. She’d hung up. Very strange. Why had she reacted so strongly to his name? I’d love to know, though I had a feeling she wouldn’t answer if I called back. Next time we spoke, I’d ask her.
Standing, I stretched. My poor bum was frozen solid. Curled in the window in a shaft of sunlight, Clarence opened one eye to regard me with disdain. You wouldn’t catch me out there, his expression seemed to say.
Smart cat. Moving fast, I nipped into the shop, enjoying the gusts of warm air that enveloped me. Puck ran over to rub against my legs, meowing.
“Tea?” Mum asked. She was seated behind the counter, where Sean Ryan was leaning, mug in hand. Aunt Violet was puttering around the bookshelves.
“I could use one,” I said, unbuttoning my coat. “Thanks.”
She filled a mug with steaming tea from the teapot and handed it over. “Like your costume,” she said, nodding at my dress, which was hanging on a hook behind the desk.
I smiled at the dress, imagining Kieran and me at the party. “We’re going as characters from The Fatal Folio.”
Did I imagine Sean Ryan’s sudden tensing at the mention of the book? I pondered whether to mention my visit to Reginald Dubold’s shop. Then I decided, why not? After all, Sir Jon would almost certainly bring it up.
“On the way back from picking out my costume, I stopped by Reginald Dubold’s bookshop.” The room went utterly still.
Mum looked confused. Sean frowned. Aunt Violet popped out from behind a bookshelf, scowling. “Why on earth did you do that, Molly? The man is a cheat. And worse, no doubt.”
“His website said he had a certain book a customer wants. And he did.” I paused for dramatic emphasis. “Hers. It was sold to him without her knowledge.” All three of them exclaimed in dismay and I put up a hand. “Hold on, I’ll explain.”
I took them through the situation, starting with Amy retrieving her books from Thad’s room. That we’d been in the murder victim’s room startled Sean but I didn’t stop for his opinion. I explained how Amy wanted to purchase duplicate copies of certain titles and how I’d found one listed by Reginald. Plus, once I was there, found all three books, and Amy asserted that they belonged to her.
“Yet another example of Reginald’s dishonesty,” Aunt Violet said. “Who sold them to him?”
“Well, to be fair,” I said, “they weren’t so valuable as to require provenance. I was about to ask him when Sir Jon arrived. With two police officers in tow.” After they absorbed that, I added, “I wonder if they were on the trail of the Fatal Folio manuscript. The one that was stolen at Hazelhurst House.”
One look at Sean told me that yes, he did know about the theft and the task force Sir Jon was leading. “Can you help Amy?” I asked. “She really wants to get her books back. I’m afraid they’ll be frozen along with all of Reginald’s assets.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sean finally said. “Have her send me the information that proves she’s the owner of those books.”
“Sure thing,” I said, relieved. “I have pictures of them in the store. I’m sure she has receipts.” Eager to share this progress with Amy, I pulled out my phone and sent her a text, then attached the photos of the books I’d taken.
Put your supporting information together and mail or take it to Detective Inspector Ryan’s station. He’ll make sure that it gets handled.
Despite this masterful effort on my part, Amy didn’t write back, not even to say thank you. That miffed me. Oh, well. The ball was in her court.
Mum and Sean were chatting about various goings-on in Cambridge so I left them to it and went out to the kitchen to make a lunch. I needed to get out to Hazelhurst House and continue the library inventory. Lady Asha had kindly fed me each time, but this afternoon, they were headed to London for medical appointments. I would take care of myself.
One of the staff let me in at Hazelhurst House, which seemed sad and empty without Lady Asha to greet me. Kieran had gone up to London with his parents, so I couldn’t ask him to come out and see me either.
The only advantage of working alone without interruption was that I got a lot done. At times I was tempted to linger over a book or two, admiring its rarity, age, and beauty, but I managed to resist. I could revisit them later, once I was finished.
At lunchtime, I carried my sack to the kitchen, where I ate while reading another chapter of The Fatal Folio. It was thrilling to realize it had been penned in this house, even if we weren’t quite sure yet who the author was. Which reminded me I needed to search for correspondence from any of the Scotts living here during that time— Agatha, Frances, and Samuel. Since they’d written the letters, they would likely be found in collections of the recipient’s papers.
The Fatal Folio, cont.
After a sumptuous meal, we were shown to our quarters, large bedrooms on the second floor. Mine had a small balcony and a view of the ruins. In better weather, I would have immediately gone out to survey the landscape, but the storm was still raging.
Mr. Coates and I parted, wishing each other a night of good rest. Although the bed was fine, wide and firm, I wasn’t convinced I would get much sleep. In addition to the thunder rumbling through the hills, the villa was eerie at night, full of shadows and mysterious sounds. The tread of footsteps, doors thudding shut. Occasionally something scratching at the window. The thing was, we were alone in this wing. Who or what was making those noises? Several times I peered into the dark corridor, only to see no one. Mr. Coates’s door remained firmly shut.
Finally, unable to settle down, I decided to read, having chosen a book from the library. A comfortable armchair was placed in a corner, a table with a lamp close to hand. From here, I could see through the window and keep watch on the storm.
I was soon engrossed in the book, a fine copy of The Castle of Otranto, possibly not the wisest choice under the circumstances. Too many details resembled the situation I found myself in, with the effect that I began to have trouble distinguishing between fact and fancy. Were the flickering shadows, the gloom enveloping me, the sound of footsteps real? Or had I fallen asleep and begun to dream?
I awoke with a start, the clang of a bell still echoing in my ears. It was midnight, according to the clock on the mantel. The book was open on my lap and the lamp still glowed.
The storm was gone, I realized, leaving behind a profound silence. Putting the book aside, I rose—somewhat stiffly—from my chair and went to the balcony door. The air was soft, tinged with moisture still, the hills serene under a sky filled with stars.
The monastery ruins hulked, their shapes impenetrable and forbidding. As I watched, a single light began to glow. At first I thought it might be someone exploring despite the obvious dangers of such an endeavor, but the light didn’t move. It remained stationary.
Someone was lurking in the ruins. I couldn’t help but wonder: who—and why?
When the light continued to burn, I decided to assuage my curiosity and find out who was there. What if it were a prowler getting up to mischief? Chasing him off would only improve Estella’s estimation of my worth.
The thought forced me to acknowledge that I thought very highly of her, myself. Our conversation over dinner had shown her to be erudite, intelligent, and kind, not to mention beautiful. I had never met such a perfect specimen of womanhood—nor one who was so unobtainable for the likes of me, a humble bookseller from a university town. No, Estella was fated to wed a prince or other nobleman, to rule over this corner of Italy as a benefactress and patron of all that is good.
The fact that she had found only delight in the so-called fatal folio only reinforced my conclusions. In her sweet hands, it was fatal no more.
Was it possible—a faint inkling of the truth knocked at the back of my mind.
The light in the ruins flickered, as though reminding me of its presence, and I thrust aside my speculations. If I was to go, it should be now.
I pulled on my boots and my coat and picked up the lamp. I wasn’t going to try to make my journey in the dark. The only danger was that the person in the ruins would see me approaching but it couldn’t be helped. The landscape and the tumbled walls were too dangerous to traverse otherwise.
Thinking to bring a companion, I rapped at Mr. Coates’s door. He didn’t answer, and after a long moment, I tested the knob. It was unlocked. When I pushed the door open, I saw that the room was empty, curtains blowing in the breeze. Was he out on his balcony? When I went to see, I discovered that this was also deserted.
The library. The rascal was probably looking at the folio, perhaps even planning to steal it and leave. I had rarely seen a man so single-minded when it came to a book, and I wasn’t without experience in that regard. Collectors could be obsessed, fanatics, even, when it came to the editions they coveted.
Was his inheritance conditional on this gift? I could not think of any other reason why he would go to the trouble and the expense of traveling to this remote place otherwise. Again, the truth knocked, but it was quickly pushed away again in my eagerness to be on my way. Now that I had determined to venture on a quest that would take some effort and time, I naturally longed for my bed. How perverse is man.
Mr. Coates was not in the library as expected, so I continued out to the grounds alone. I exited through the garden doors and passed through what must surely be an enchanting retreat in the daylight hours. Fountains burbled. Flowering hedges released alluring scents. Pebbled paths crunched under my feet.
A gate in the wall led into overgrown fields, the grass wet and up to my knees. Despite the discomfort of this, I kept pressing forward, eager to reach the ruins that always seemed tantalizingly just out of reach.
When I stumbled on a stone hidden in the grass, I knew I had reached the destroyed monastery at last. Thinking it prudent, I stopped to survey the way ahead, my lantern lifted high. Among the tumbled walls, I could see the remains of a courtyard. The wavering light was on the other side, in what looked to be an intact section of the structure.
With a deep breath of resolve, I continued on. Whoever was inside the ancient house would soon be receiving a visitor.
As I closed the book, deciding to save the reveal for later, I had another tempting thought. Before I continued the inventory, I would take another look around the writing garret.
The loose page we’d found nagged at me. Why was it left behind? Dropped by accident? If so, where was the rest of the manuscript, and why hadn’t it been added at some point? I hoped the book hadn’t been burned. That would be tragic.
I packed up, making sure I left the kitchen spotless, and returned to the library. Wary of the door that shut on its own—or had it?—I propped a chair against it and taped up a note that said, I’m in the closet, do not close the door, please!
Making sure I had my phone, I climbed the tower stairs, my heart beating faster with anticipation. Whether or not I found the lost book, it was a real thrill to explore, to enter a room untouched for centuries.
Once again, I circuited the room, studying the view out of every window, which had sills wide enough to sit on. In one direction, the towers of Cambridge were visible, and in another, the river wound through the countryside, patchwork fields bordered with stone on either side. Ignore the few signs of the modern era and this was what Selwyn Scott had seen. Wind whistled around the tower, a haunting, melancholy sound. Outside the patches of sunshine, the room was icy cold, making me appreciate my thick sweater and warm socks.
I took a closer look at the chaise longue. With its rolled and tufted upholstery header and carved wood trim, it was a handsome piece. Too bad several metal tacks along the front were hanging loose, along with the frayed gold braid trim in that section.
Hunkering down, I studied the area, wondering how easy it would be to repair. If I owned it, I might carry it downstairs and use it. It might be too valuable, though.
Standing up, I rested my hand on the seat. It didn’t give the way it should, as if the cushion had gone hard. Oliver had said the same thing. I pushed down along the seat, trying to see if the whole thing was that way. It wasn’t. Other sections, while not exactly soft, gave under my palm.
The firmness of the seat. A section of upholstery that had been tampered with.
I plopped down on the floor, ignoring the thump to my rear, and carefully pushed my fingers up under the fabric.
I touched paper. Holding my breath, barely daring to put my hopes to the test, I found the edges, grabbed it, and pulled. Gently.
A stack of pages flopped down into my lap, dust flying everywhere.
I had found Among the Ruins.