I woke up to a text from Kieran. Bad news. My heart began to race.
Your dad? With held breath, I waited for his response. “This stinks, Puck,” I said. Lying on my extra pillow, he reached out a paw to touch my arm.
Sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you. I might be late for the dance tonight.
The dance? I don’t care about that. I’m just glad that your dad is okay?
He is. Much better. We have another meeting with the doctors today.
Phew. And tell him Puck says get better.
Ha ha. I will. X
Hmm. X. Some Brits used X as a closing to messages and posts all the time, which gave them a friendly intimacy. Kieran didn’t.
X. I thought for a second and upped the ante with a hug. O.
He sent a smiley face back.
Well, then. I was awake and might as well get going rather than try to snooze a little longer. I pulled the curtains open to check out the lane, a morning ritual. Today, frost furred the cobblestones, the trash bins, and the rooftops, which steamed in the rising sun. Lights were on inside Tea & Crumpets and I decided to go have breakfast at Daisy’s.
“It’s a cold one, Puck,” I said, opening a drawer for some woolies. “A real sweater day.”
A quick shower later, I was crossing the street to the tea shop. Daisy was clearing a table inside, placing mugs and plates in a dish tub. She looked up when the bells jangled. “Good morning, Molly. Hurry up, close that door.”
I wrestled it closed against the wind. “It’s frigid out there.” The shop was in a lull, which meant Daisy would have time to chat. Only a few tables were occupied with people tapping away on laptops or looking at the phones. Classical music played over the loudspeakers, low enough for private conversation.
Daisy wiped the table before returning to the counter. “What will you have?”
“My usual coffee and something to eat.” I scanned the bakery case. “Sausage rolls? Perfect. Two, please.”
“Heated?” Daisy put them on a plate.
“Yes, please. I’m planning to eat here.” I leaned on the counter and watched as she popped them into the microwave and turned on the kettle. “I have a lot of updates. Oh, and there’s a dance tonight at St. Aelred.”
“Already on it.” Daisy pulled my plate from the microwave. “Tim and I put together costumes. We’re going as the leads in Nosferatu.”
I laughed. “Great. Kieran and I used The Fatal Folio as our inspiration. Hopefully he’ll make it back from London in time.”
“London?” Daisy added napkin-rolled silverware to my tray before deftly pouring boiling water through the coffee cone.
“His father had medical appointments.” I waited until she finished pouring. “Can you sit a minute?”
She glanced out the window, at the empty lane. “Sure. Until someone comes.” She grabbed a cup of tea and joined me at a table in the corner.
After the first salty, savory bite of sausage roll followed by a rich, delicious sip of coffee, I said, “Feels like I haven’t seen you for ages. Not since the tour, right?”
Daisy blew on her tea to cool it. “Feels like months ago.”
“Sure does.” I swallowed another bite, thinking about where to begin. Why not lead with the best news? “I found Among the Ruins.”
She let out a squeal loud enough to draw attention. After curious glances, everyone went back their devices. “That’s fabulous, Molly. Where was it?”
I told her about my excursion to the garret. “Such fun to make a groundbreaking literary discovery.”
“Any progress on Selwyn’s identity?”
“Nothing definitive.” I showed her the handwriting samples while detailing the trip to the cemetery. That led to a discussion of Oliver’s orange shoes, followed by a segue into my trip to Reginald Dubold’s and the raid by Sir Jon and his team.
Daisy listened with only occasional prompts and exclamations. “You have had a time of it, haven’t you? My goodness.” A sip of tea. “And they still don’t know who killed Thad, do they?”
“No arrest yet.”
“Did they ever find his phone?” Daisy asked.
I started my second sausage roll, which was as good as the first. “Not that I know of. Too bad, because Thad might have been meeting someone at the gate. Wouldn’t that be a tidy wrap-up?”
“It would.” Daisy’s gaze was distant. “So where do we stand?”
I liked how she included herself in my situations. “Jury’s still out on Selwyn, though it’s got to be Agatha, Frances, or Samuel.” An idea struck. “Or two of the three. Maybe they were coauthors.” I shelved the concept for later dissection. “Moving on, Thad’s case seems stuck right now. The matter of the missing manuscript is too.”
“You think it was someone from St. Aelred?”
“Someone who was at Oliver’s talk, definitely,” I clarified. “Since then, I found out that Thad knew Reginald Dubold, who is in big trouble for illicit book sales. That’s probably how Amy’s books ended up there. On purpose or not, we don’t know. From there, it’s a logical step that someone in the group of friends also saw an opportunity to sell the manuscript illegally.”
“They didn’t find it at the bookstore, you said. Which means…?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. Reginald could be lying. He might already have sold it. Or the deal hadn’t been finalized. Maybe he was looking for a buyer first.” I was spitballing here.
“The last thing you said. Maybe the thief still has it.” A gleam shone in Daisy’s eyes. “I have an idea, which is probably crazy and due to my binge-watching a detective show last night—”
“The best ideas are out there,” I said, nodding to encourage her. “Go on.”
“Send texts to the people you suspect, pretending to be Reginald. Say you have a buyer.”
“Daisy … really? They would see my number.”
“Buy a burner phone.” Daisy sounded triumphant. “I bet he uses one to do his deals.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. “What if someone responds? It won’t be admissible.” I cringed at the probable reaction I would get from Sean Ryan and Sir Jon. Yikes.
“Probably not. But you’ll know where the manuscript is. Take it from there.”
I would love to know where it was—and rescue the precious document before it was destroyed or lost forever. I thought of a final objection. “I don’t have their cell phone numbers.”
“Yes, you do,” Daisy said. “Look in the packet from Oliver’s talk. There was a list of attendees for the conference, complete with cell phone numbers and email addresses.” I must have looked disbelieving because she added, “I picked up more than one packet after. People left them.”
I still had my handout in my bag, I thought. I hadn’t even looked inside the folder.
“You really think I should do that?” What if people found out it was me who sent the text? How could they with a burner? “I’ll think about it. Want to meet up later? We can walk over to the dance together.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Daisy rose from the table. “Want a refill to go?”
At seven that evening, I was dressed for the dance, Kieran still hadn’t returned from London, and I had a burner phone sitting on my bed, staring accusingly up at me.
I’d never bought one of these devices, which were perfectly legal yet felt illicit, probably due to their use by criminals, at least according to the novels I’d read. It had been amazingly inexpensive too.
Sitting beside it was a printout from the packet, which I had kept. Daisy was right, most attendees had included their email addresses and cell phone numbers. I’d seen such lists before, at library conferences. The aim of the organizers was to help people network. Not set up a sting, I was guessing.
“Molly?” Daisy called up the stairs, followed by the sound of her footsteps. Puck leaped off the bed and went to greet her. When she entered my bedroom, she had him in her arms. “Sweet kitty,” she said, stroking his head. “I used to see you lurking in the lane. Now you have a lovely new home.” She would have taken him in but cats— and cat hair—weren’t allowed in tea shops due to health rules.
“I’m ready.” I checked my appearance one more time in front of the mirror. Aunt Violet had found a lacy black shawl that I was wearing over my hair, like a mantilla. It added the perfect touch to my outfit.
“You look gorgeous.” Daisy set Puck down and circled a finger. “Turn around.”
I obligingly spun for her. “You look beautiful too.” She was dressed in a similarly full taffeta dress, a wool shawl over her shoulders pinned with a cameo and her hair hanging in sausage curls.
Daisy patted her hair. “Not bad. I wouldn’t want this fuss every day.”
“No, we’re lucky that way, aren’t we?” I searched around for the small handbag I was bringing tonight. “We don’t even have to wear underwear if we don’t want to.”
She laughed. “True.” Then she noticed the phone on the bed. “You got a burner.” Daisy picked it up and examined it back and front. “Did you text anyone?”
“Not yet.” I found the bag and slid my own phone inside. Keys and a tiny wallet with bills and my identification followed.
Daisy plopped down on the bed. “No time like the present. Let’s do it.”
I stood there, holding the bag, then placed it back on the dresser. “You think we should?”
“Why not? If they’re innocent, they’ll ignore it. And probably block you. No big deal.” Daisy was already flipping through the list. “There are quite a few names here.”
I sat beside her. “I know, that’s the problem. They weren’t all at the talk.”
“Maybe Oliver has the list of who actually signed in,” Daisy suggested.
“Probably.” I hesitated. “I could ask him for it, I suppose. I’d have to tell him why.” The fewer people who knew about this, the better. If nothing came of it, it would stay here, in this room, with me, Daisy, and Puck.
“Why don’t we start with the main players, then?” Daisy scanned the list. “Half the people who went don’t even know who Selwyn Scott is, I bet. The students closest to Oliver definitely do.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure he makes sure to mention the connection.” I moved closer to look over her shoulder. “So, Amy, Josh, and Wesley. We’ll text them. Oh, Sophie Verona too.” I couldn’t quite bring myself to include Oliver. If Kieran found out—
Daisy didn’t press me. “Okay. What shall we say?”
“Something simple.” I thought for a minute. “How about: ‘I have a buyer. Text me back if you want to proceed.’”
“I like it. Short and simple, doesn’t reveal anything. Josh first.” Daisy entered his number and began typing in the text box.
“You know, Amy had quite the reaction when she found out Reginald Dubold was under investigation.” As Daisy worked on the text, I told her how shocked Amy had been when I said his name.
“She might not answer, then,” Daisy said. “If she thinks it’s the police texting her.”
“True.” That would mean another dead end. Not much lost, though, except a few minutes on our end. And a few pounds. Maybe I could resell the phone and recoup some.
Daisy sent the text to the three students, then handed me the phone. “Bring this with you in case one of them answers.”
“Hold on. Why don’t we send Sophie one?” I flipped the list pages so I could see the beginning. Sophie, Oliver, and Thad were listed as conference contacts.
Thad. I thought of his missing cell phone. The killer might have tossed it somewhere—into a trash can or the river; hopefully not. Or run it over with a car.
What if they’d kept it? Purely on impulse, I sent the same text to Thad’s number. Sophie’s as well. “There. All done.”
Hopefully we would get an answer from someone.
I couldn’t help but think of The Fatal Folio, and how greed led to so many problems. Thad hadn’t been content with what he had, which by all accounts was a generous amount. Whoever had stolen the rare manuscript had been overcome by the temptation to make money through a criminal act. Worst of all, Thad’s greed—for money, Amy’s attention, and no doubt other things unknown as of this moment—had led to his death. Or so I believed.
The Fatal Folio, cont.
The monk directed us to a doorway I hadn’t noticed, and met us there with his lamp. Most considerate of him, and I have to admit being surprised by his welcome. Anyone who lurked in a ruined monastery was most likely a hermit, I would have thought.
“I knew your father well,” he said to Estella as we traversed a half-ruined corridor. “I am very sorry for your loss.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “When did you meet my father?”
“We had various encounters over the years,” was the cryptic answer. “He was very opinionated in some ways and we would debate. Iron sharpens iron, you know.” He lifted the lamp a little higher, illuminating the room that was our destination.
Besides a table and chair, it held a pallet on the floor and a satchel or two.
“My donkey is housed in the stable,” he explained as he set the lamp on the table. “I pilgrimage from place to place as I am led.”
I imagined him traveling through Italy from ruin to ruin. Surely not. He must stop at monasteries that were still inhabited.
“What leads you here?” I boldly asked. Despite the beauty and grandeur of the situation, there was nothing of comfort to be found here. Why didn’t he come to the manor and seek shelter? He wouldn’t be the first holy man to do so.
Estella had the same thought. “Why didn’t you come to me? We would gladly have taken you in.”
The monk shook his head. “A kind offer to be sure, signorina. However, I need to be alone while writing.” He gestured to the table, where an inkpot and loose pages were placed. He inhaled deeply, gazing around the bare stone room. “This very room was where The Ramblings of a Monk was penned. I draw inspiration from this seminal work, even if my own efforts pale in comparison.”
I certainly hoped they would, since the original book was known for its unfortunate effects on its owners.
“My father owned that book,” Estella said. “Now it is mine.” She sighed. “I already have offers to buy it. Including from Mr. Marlboro’s companion.”
The monk regarded her with eyes that glittered deep within the shelter of his hood. “Does he realize it is not merely a pretty book to place upon a shelf? It has a mysterious power that can be dangerous.”
“Surely not.” Estella laughed. “I find it delightful.”
“You have read it?” The monk seemed to stand even taller as he loomed over her petite form. “You opened the cover and looked at the pages?”
She drew back, her expression puzzled. “Of course I did. How else do you read a book?” She mimed the movements one used while reading.
Seeming to realize that his aspect was overbearing, he pulled back, staring into space as if lost in thought. Then, muttering to himself, he began to pace, hands clasped behind his back.
Estella and I exchanged glances. When she shivered, the shawl she wore entirely inadequate in the chilly room, I offered her my coat. As a gentleman would. She smiled at me with gratitude as I draped it around her shoulders.
“I have never read the book myself,” he said. “I was afraid to.”
Estella cocked her head. “I don’t understand.”
“You wouldn’t, fair lady. You are obviously blameless and pure of heart.” He stared down at her for a long moment as if he could peer right into her soul. “I hesitate to tell you the rest, in light of your own father’s death.”
“Why?” Estella cried. “I don’t understand. The book belongs to me and I need to know the truth about it.”
I had an inkling now, a mere theory only, but rather than voice it, I waited for the monk to make it plain. No wonder the author was considered mad. Who would believe it? The deaths were all coincidences, people would say. The way any object gains a reputation of being haunted—or cursed.
The monk closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I had the impression he was girding himself to reveal what he knew. As if once said, the words and their consequences could not be erased.
“Come on, man,” I urged him, perhaps without the respect due a cleric. “From what I can gather, it’s a matter of life and death.” Literally, it seemed.
With a sharp inhale, he squared his shoulders. “All right. I will tell you. After you promise not to call me a liar or otherwise assault me or my character.”
“I promise,” Estella said. “Although that is quite a disclaimer.”
“You will understand why in a moment.” Another hesitation, during which time I felt the urge to throttle the man to get him to speak. That would indeed be unbecoming behavior toward a man in holy orders. I might even be arrested.
The silence was fraught. Neither of us breathed. Finally the monk spoke.
“The book has an uncanny power. Each reader discovers a different story.”
“You mean they interpret it differently, according to their own thinking?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. Different tales entirely. The book reflects back to each reader the state of his or her soul. That is why so many have died while perusing it. They are stricken by the blatant and unavoidable depiction of their hidden sins.”