I glanced at Kieran, not quite sure what to make of this display. Kieran threw me a smile before calling, “Great performance. What’s your encore?”
Oliver jolted, literally rocking back on his heels. Then he composed himself and strode toward us. “Sorry you had to witness that. I just got some irritating news.”
“So I gathered,” Kieran said. He lifted a brow. “College politics?”
His cousin snorted. “Exactly. I’ve been up for a promotion from associate to full professor for almost the entire past year. Every time I think they’re going to pull the trigger, there’s a delay. And now I’ve got competition. Sophia Verona, who also runs the Gothic Institute, is in the running.”
“That must be tricky,” I put in. “Competing against your friend.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “It is, but that’s not the worst of it. I’ve got a student trying to make trouble for me.” Oliver grimaced. “Thad claims I didn’t rank him fairly. I make it very clear that all my students are treated the same.”
Thad Devine, I’m going to kill you. I put two and two together. “If he complains, it might affect your promotion?”
Oliver’s expression was grim. “Might? Definitely. Dr. Cutler is a stickler. His favorite aphorism is, ‘You faculty are St. Aelred.’ If he could, he’d have us living like the monks who founded the place.”
“St. Aelred is rather traditional,” Kieran said. “Didn’t you say there are endowments that ride on the college’s reputation?”
“Uh-huh,” Oliver said. “Some donors monitor our every move. Nowadays, with social media, a scandal can blow up out of nowhere, as you know. If there’s a risk of that, well, Dr. Cutler certainly won’t promote me.” He sounded bitter.
“Tough break, old man,” Kieran said. “I know how dedicated you’ve been.”
Seeming to shake off his bad mood, Oliver smiled a thank-you. “Hence the need for Plan B. After I get a book published, I’ll retire from teaching and pen novels.” He glanced at the portraits. “It’s a family tradition, after all.”
Having known a few writers, I was aware that venturing into publishing was never a slam dunk. Although Oliver did have a few things going for him—namely, being a Scott. His blond good looks and connections to the nobility would certainly be attractive on a book cover, I thought somewhat cynically.
He gestured toward the portraits. “Getting started already, Molly?”
“Part of my preliminary work,” I said. “Let’s talk in a day or two, okay?”
“Sounds good.” Oliver turned back to Kieran. “Are you going to town for the festivities tonight?” When Kieran said yes, he asked, “Want to grab a bite to eat first? I’m thinking we could meet around six thirty.”
Kieran looked at me, so I answered. “We’d love to. If you don’t have any preference, how about the Magpie Pub? It’s one of our favs.” The pub was right across the lane from the bookshop and bike shop, which would be easy for us. From there, we could walk to the common.
“Magpie Pub it is.” Oliver nodded at me. “I already have your number, Molly, so I’ll shoot over what I’m thinking on the research project. Then you can get back to me at your leisure.”
If the offered rate was decent, I already knew my answer. I wanted to be the one to discover Selwyn Scott’s identity. Not for fame, or even necessarily for the money, but because I loved using my research skills—and intuition—to solve mysteries.
The early winter sun was setting as I drove away from Hazelhurst House later that afternoon, towers and ramparts etched against the sky. After much practice, I was finally comfortable driving on the left in Aunt Violet’s vintage Cortina. The retro ride handled well, so as I tooled along quiet country lanes toward the A14, I reviewed the afternoon’s progress.
To my relief, I’d discovered that the library was organized by subject, loosely perhaps, but in some kind of order. It wasn’t much good having a list of books owned if they couldn’t be located. The library had a wide array of fiction and poetry, including the esoteric, architecture and art, farming and veterinarian sciences, biology, history, law, and the physical sciences. And that was less than a complete listing. From a quick survey of their reading habits, the Scotts were inquisitive, dedicated to estate management, and lovers of the arts.
My heart warmed with joy as I approached my exit, the college spires creating an enchanting skyline. We lived in the heart of the oldest section and it was very easy to imagine that I had stepped into the past. Automobiles were strictly limited in this area and I crept along the cobblestone streets, watching for pedestrians and cyclists.
I reached Magpie Lane at last: a short, narrow, hidden enclave, and bumped down the cobblestones toward our garage at the end. On the way, I passed the Magpie Pub and the Holly & Ivy Inn, both on the corner, Spinning Your Wheels, and Tea & Crumpets, my friend’s tea shop. As always, I slowed to take in the bookshop, located in an iconic timber-and-plaster Tudor building. The bow-front diamond-pane window was softly lit, and the bookshop cats, Clarence and Puck, sat in the display, watching me go by. They knew the car.
When I walked into the bookshop a few minutes later, Puck, a young black stray I’d rescued, came running to greet me. Clarence didn’t move from his spot. It was beneath him to show enthusiasm unless it involved his dish.
Instead of trying to leap into my arms, Puck meowed again, sounding alarmed. “What is it?” I asked, bending over and allowing my bags to slide to the floor. “Is something wrong?”
His answer was a hiss and an arching of his back. I followed his gaze to a dark corner of the bookshop, where a grinning white face seemed to hover in midair, its curved brows, curly mustache, and chin-strip beard making it even more eerie.
I jumped with a gasp. “What the—”
Aunt Violet stepped the rest of the way around the bookcase and pulled off the mask. “Did I startle you, Molly?” The way her blue eyes twinkled behind her glasses revealed that had been her intent. My tiny and energetic great-aunt, with her high-piled white hair that often hid a pencil or two, wasn’t above an occasional practical joke.
“Yes, I was,” I admitted, scooping up my things. “Puck didn’t like it either.” I’d seen that face before, I realized. It was a Guy Fawkes mask.
“Sorry. I couldn’t resist.” She studied the mask. “When I was at university, we used to wear something similar. Such freedom in being anonymous, although some took it too far.”
“Someone always does, right?” I carried my bags around behind the counter and pulled out my laptop. “Where’s Mum?” My mother, Nina Marlowe, who was a published poet, also worked in the bookstore.
Before Aunt Violet could answer, footsteps creaked along the floor from the direction of the kitchen, which was located behind the shop. I turned, expecting to see Mum. Instead our friend and handyman, George Flowers, appeared. A sturdy, broad-featured, and balding man about Aunt Violet’s age, George was like an uncle to me.
“I fixed the leak,” he said. “Needed new washers in the faucet.”
“Thank you, George,” Aunt Violet said. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
“Oh, go on with you,” he scoffed, a protest belied by his obvious pleasure at the praise. George, who owned an apartment building nearby, was a whiz at almost any repair job. Happily, he always came right over when we called.
“George,” I said, leaning against the counter, phone in hand, “I have something to show you.” I had downloaded the agenda for the gothic symposium and now brought it up on my screen. Nothing yet from Oliver about the research project, I noticed. Not that I was expecting anything this soon.
George ambled over to stand by my side. “What’s this?”
I handed him the phone. “You’re a Brontë fan, I know, so I thought you’d like to attend this symposium. Most of the events are open to the public.”
He studied the list, muttering under his breath. “A lecture series, the gothic in Film Series, Gothic tour of Cambridge … a costume dance…” He gave back the phone. “Can you send that along to me, Molly? There are one or two events I’d like to take in.”
“Definitely.” I forwarded the agenda to George’s number. “Let me know which ones you’re interested in. Maybe we can go together.”
Aunt Violet was rearranging some books nearby. “How did it go at Hazelhurst House, Molly?”
“I made a good start,” I said, not wanting to reveal I was already behind, at least in my mind. “Oh, guess what? Kieran showed me the original manuscript for The Fatal Folio. His cousin is lecturing on the book tomorrow for the symposium.”
George, who was browsing the fiction shelves, paused to show us a book. “You mean the original of this?” He flipped through the edition from the late 1800s, a nice but not exceptionally valuable copy. “This is a real classic.”
“It is.” I sat behind the counter and flipped open my laptop, thinking to catch up with my email. “So exciting to think that Kieran’s ancestor wrote it, although under a pen name. Kieran and I are going to try to find out who Selwyn Scott actually was by researching the family in that generation.” Oh, who was I kidding by holding out for Oliver’s offer? I was too curious not to continue the project. Besides, it was something Kieran and I could work on together.
Still holding the book, George wandered over to the counter. “It was one of the women, I’m guessing.”
“Really?” I reached into my memory for the name. “Not Samuel? He was the only adult male Scott alive when the book was published.”
George tapped the cover. “A man wouldn’t write under a pen name. He’d be too proud for that.”
“Well, they did sometimes,” I said, warming to the debate. “Horace Walpole, for example. The Castle of Otranto was first published under the name William Marshall.”
“That’s true.” George made the concession before swinging into his argument. “He was trying to pass off the story as a translation of a sixteenth-century manuscript written by a monk.” He held up the book. “By the second edition, he came clean and included his name as author. William Beckford also used that device with Vathek, claiming it too was translated from an ancient manuscript. In contrast, The Fatal Folio is set in the contemporary time and makes no claim to a mysterious origin.”
He was correct. The Fatal Folio’s main character was an English bookseller traveling in a mountainous and remote region of Italy. The story was in first person, told after the main character survived a beautiful book rumored to kill its owners. Objects that bring disaster are a gothic trope—for example, Wilkie Collins’s moonstone.
“Good point, George,” I said. “I’ll keep it in mind during my investigation. With any luck, we’ll find some hard evidence one way or another.” Were there clues among Kieran’s family papers? Or perhaps in other library holdings?
“That would be best,” he said. “Otherwise it’s all theory and speculation, right?” His smile was sly. “Not that many haven’t made a career of such. There’s a new theory about the Brontë family every time I turn around.”
“They seem to be an endless source of fascination.” While Selwyn Scott couldn’t claim anything close to Charlotte, Emily, and Anne’s popularity, new information could spark interest. Someone might even want to make a television series or movie based on The Fatal Folio. Or the life of Selwyn Scott. Hazelhurst House would make the perfect setting for a period drama. Letting my mind run away with me a bit, I wondered if the Scotts would allow filming there.
The front door opened and Mum breezed through, chased by a cold wind. “Brr. It’s frigid out there.” She set down a cloth shopping bag and plucked off a wool hat to reveal her pixie-cut dark hair. Smoothing it down, she wrinkled her nose. “People are already setting off firecrackers. One startled me as I walked out of Sainsbury’s.”
“The police will have their hands full tonight,” George said. “You’re not supposed to set off bangers in the street or public places.”
I revised my expectation of Bonfire Night from us standing beside a fire while watching fireworks to something less tame.
“Bonfire Night has gotten wild at times,” Aunt Violet said. “Remember when we were young, George? The drinking and carousing. Running through the streets.”
His expression was carefully innocent. “That’d be telling, wouldn’t it?” He tapped the copy of The Fatal Folio he’d placed on the counter. “Will you ring this up, Molly? Then I’ll get out of your way and let you close up.”
After George left with a promise to connect regarding the symposium, Aunt Violet and I tallied the day’s sales and locked the shop door. Mum was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. The three of us took turns shopping and cooking, an arrangement we all appreciated.
“What are your plans tonight, Molly?” Aunt Violet asked. “You aren’t staying in, I hope.”
“And miss my first Guy Fawkes Night? No way.” I slid the bank deposit into a bank bag and zipped it. “Kieran and I are meeting friends at the Magpie for dinner and then heading over to the common for the celebration.”
“I’d warn you to be careful but that would make me a meddling old woman,” Aunt Violet said. Concern shadowed her blue eyes. “But I must say this—if things get violent, don’t hang around. Run.”
Aunt Violet’s warning came to mind as Kieran and I made our way through packed streets toward Midsummer Common. Thousands of people were out tonight—families; groups of laughing teenagers; and older, more furtive adults. Dressed in black, they wore Guy Fawkes masks and wove through the crowd in swift silence.
I checked my coat pocket for my wallet and phone after someone brushed by a little too closely. Public mask-wearing was a perfect cover for pickpockets, especially when all the masks were identical.
Down an alley, something banged and a light flared. Acrid smoke drifted our way. “Someone put a firecracker in a trash can,” Kieran said, shaking his head.
I edged closer to Kieran, scanning the throng for trouble. Oliver hadn’t shown up at the Magpie, finally sending Kieran a text saying he’d meet us later, at St. Aelred, on the way to the common. To my surprise, Kieran took the change of plans in stride, although Oliver had asked us to dinner. “He’s like that,” he said. “Easily distracted.” I would have called him unreliable, but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t my cousin. I did wonder how it would be working with him on the research project, if he did hire me.
Happily, we had connected with our friends Daisy Watson and Tim Ellis at the pub. Daisy owned Tea & Crumpets and Tim worked at the bike shop. They were walking ahead of us, Tim with his arm around Daisy’s shoulders.
“This way,” Kieran called. We had reached the intersection with St. Aelred’s Way. Although I’d heard of the college, I hadn’t explored this area yet. Cambridge had so many enticing colleges, parks, and historical sites, not to mention shops and events.
“Where are we meeting him?” I asked, hoping we wouldn’t have to go inside the school tonight and track him down, although I wouldn’t mind a tour another time. Founded in the fourteenth century, St. Aelred featured medieval architecture and gardens. “At the Master’s Lodge Gate,” Kieran said. “That’s why we’re going this way. The main gate is back there.” He pointed south. “Students and visitors have to use that entrance. Faculty only at this one.” A deep-voiced bell tolled beyond the wall. “That’s the monk’s bell, in the campanile.”
At a better time, I’d bring up a map of the college on my phone and examine it more closely. Cambridge colleges were like worlds unto themselves, with classrooms, lodging, dining facilities, libraries and more tucked behind walls. Something about the cloistered nature of these establishments appealed to me, the notion that one could retreat from the world and focus on learning, often with distinguished instructors.
St. Aelred’s Way was narrow and paved with cobblestones, tall stone walls looming on both sides. The sounds of the city dropped away before we’d even walked a block. Only an occasional pool of yellow light from a lamppost lit the way. Beyond the walls, bare branches swayed and rattled in the cold wind.
Daisy pulled her collar up with a shiver. “It’s creepy back here.” Like me, she wore a peacoat and jeans, her blond curls hanging loose under a wool beret. “How much further is it?”
“Right up ahead,” Kieran said. “Promise.” He picked up his pace, seeming as eager as the rest of us to return to civilization.
“This lane is actually a shortcut,” Tim chimed in. He wasn’t wearing a hat, and his short blond hair stood up in cute spikes. “It comes out near the common.”
As if to verify his words, running footsteps came pounding along from that direction. Someone cutting through, perhaps, or maybe a St. Aelred student hurrying to the main gate. A tall, lanky figure soon loomed out of the darkness, feet flying and arms pumping. To my unease, I saw they were dressed in black and wearing one of those infernal masks. Not exactly someone I wanted to meet in a dark alley.
“Uh-oh,” Kieran muttered. “This could be trouble.” He pushed me behind his body, as if guarding me, and Tim did the same with Daisy.
But the runner kept going, not even glancing our way. As they passed under a lamppost, subtle silver designs on the cuffs and neck of a black neoprene jacket caught the light. Kieran had the same brand of jacket, favored by runners and cyclists.
On the runner went, soon disappearing from sight. Moving along even faster after the strange encounter, we soon arrived at the Master’s Lodge Gate, a simple wooden door set under a stone arch.
“What’s that on the ground?” Daisy asked.
Just beyond the glow of a light over the gate, a bundle of something lay in the street. Trash? Discarded clothing?
As we moved closer, I saw it was a person wearing a Guy Fawkes mask.
“Someone get a bit squiffy?” Tim asked.
“Possibly.” Kieran glanced up and down the lane. “Not a good place to take a nap. Want to help me, Tim? We need to move them, maybe get them onto their feet and on their way.”
“If they’re a student at St. Aelred, we can call the porter at the main gate,” Daisy said. “Get them inside to their room.”
Speaking of St. Aelred, where was Oliver? Unless that was Oliver, drunk off his face already. I sure hoped not.
Tim went over and the two men arranged themselves, one on each side of the person. “Hey, mate,” Kieran said, reaching down to gently shake a shoulder. “Wake up.”
“Take off the mask,” I suggested. “See who it is.”
Kieran slid the mask up, revealing a young man with curly dark hair and beaky but attractive features. His eyes were closed.
Phew. It wasn’t Oliver.
“Uh, Kieran?” Tim held up his hand. “He’s hurt.”
Daisy inhaled. “Is that blood?” She bent to take a closer look at the young man. “Yes, it is. His whole chest is soaked, see?” She scanned his torso with her phone flashlight. Darker splotches were visible against his black clothing.
“Does anyone have a tissue?” Tim sounded freaked out. “I have blood on my hand.”
In the distance, a boom sounded, followed by a spray of gold and red high in the air. The fireworks were starting.
“We need to call nine-nine-nine.” I yanked my phone out of my pocket, a wad of clean tissue coming with it. I grabbed it off the ground and tossed it to Tim.
Kieran was on his knees, checking the young man’s neck for a pulse. “He’s still alive.” He nudged his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”
My fingers fumbled at the screen although my mind was strangely still, as if emotions and thoughts were on hold for the emergency.
“I know who this is,” Kieran said. “Thad Devine. His parents—”
Thad Devine? That name sounded familiar. “Nine-nine-nine,” a woman’s voice intoned in my ear. “What’s your emergency?” As I gave the details, my name, the location, the incident, my words tumbling over each other, I realized where I’d heard that name before. He was Oliver’s student.
“Thad, Thad,” Kieran was saying. “Who did this to you?” Thad didn’t answer.
“Someone will be there shortly,” the dispatcher said. “Downtown is a mess tonight so it might be a few minutes.”
“Send the ambulance right away,” I said. “He’s still alive.” For now. After losing that much blood, I was afraid he’d die before help arrived.
“We’ll find one,” she promised. “Do you need me to stay on the line?” She sounded harried and I was pretty sure other calls were flooding in, due to it being Bonfire Night. Overhead, more fireworks exploded in the sky.
“No, though I’ll call back if someone doesn’t arrive soon.”
Daisy gave a cry. “I’ve found the weapon.” She shone her light on a slender metal object. “It’s some kind of knife. Antique.”
Footsteps scraped in the lane and I whirled around, hoping it was a bobby on foot, sent to help. Instead it was Oliver. “What’s going on?” he asked, striding toward us.
Here was Oliver, finally arriving at the meeting place he’d suggested. Exactly where the man I’d heard him threaten under his breath was lying unconscious, close to death. To say I didn’t like the coincidence would be an understatement.