Wesley’s mouth dropped when he recognized me. “Molly. What are you doing here?”
Then, as if aware how that sounded, he amended, “I thought you were having fun at the dance.”
“I was.” My mind spun as I tried to decide what to say. “Um, I’m going to go meet someone. At the pub. Then go back to the dance.”
He didn’t question that, lame as it sounded. This gate was closer to the Headless Monk. After a moment, he pulled the gate open. “Out you go.”
Now what? I wanted so badly to question him about Thad’s phone. Why he had it. Where he got it. Not to mention The Fatal Folio’s whereabouts. He wasn’t wearing orange trainers, I’d noticed. Did that mean he hadn’t killed his cousin? Or had it only been a red herring, a clue in my own mind? An orange red herring, I thought nonsensically.
The gate swung close behind us. Wesley glanced up and down the alley in between sending looks toward me. I had the distinct feeling he wanted me to leave.
“Waiting for someone?” I asked. It wasn’t my business and it was foolish to prod the bear.
“Why do you ask?” His tone was sharp. “What if I am?”
“No reason.” Definitely defensive. He was the one, all right, I was almost positive. “See ya.” I strode off down the lane, leaving him standing alone under the streetlight. Was the pub this way? Yes. Phew.
A distance away, I stopped and pulled out my phone, acting as if I’d gotten a message or call. I sent Thad’s number a text. Delayed. Be there ASAP.
The notification sound from Wesley’s phone was audible. He began to furiously peck at the screen.
Now my phone bleeped. I’ll give you five.
Good for Wesley. He wasn’t going to let the bookdealer, fictional as he was, push him around.
Unfortunately he had also heard my phone—er, the burner—go off. I could feel the accusation in his glare from here.
Adrenaline flooded my body but I couldn’t move. My limbs had that leaden, rooted-to-the ground sensation so common in nightmares.
He took big strides down the lane toward me. “What are you playing at, Molly?”
I squared up, clenching my fists. “What are you playing at?” Best defense was good offense, right? I sent off my one and only shot. “Detective Inspector Ryan has your messages. So be careful. Be very careful.”
His big foot actually paused mid-step. “Wha—Detective Inspector—you…” Then the foot went down and the hands went up. “I didn’t kill him. I swear.”
“Why should I—I mean, the inspector, believe you? You have Thad’s phone. You’ve had it all along. Why didn’t you turn it in, if you’re innocent?”
He lowered his chin. “I thought I could help,” he mumbled. “Figure out who killed him, I mean.”
His excuse was out-there enough to be plausible. I moved a few steps closer. “Did you take it off his … person?” That would be gruesome—and indicate that he hadn’t called for help after the attack. We had been the ones to do it and the phone was already missing by then.
He shook his head. “No way. You really think— He left it in his room. Plugged into the charger. I saw it sitting there and grabbed it, before the police came to search. I thought I might find clues on it. Find out who he was meeting. Who killed him.”
“Did he say he was meeting anyone?” If Wesley knew all this and hadn’t shared … I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes when Sean Ryan caught up with him. Not that Ryan was going to be happy with me either. I decided not to think about that right now.
Wesley folded his arms. “He didn’t tell me anything. He said he was going to the common for the bonfire.” He tipped his head back enough that the streetlight shone on his face. “He asked me to go and I said no.” He began to blink rapidly. Was he crying? “If I had…” His voice, husky now, almost broke. “Maybe—”
Compassion flooded my heart. I knew that helpless feeling of losing someone all too well. “Oh, Wesley.”
He cleared his throat. “Anyway. Yeah, I have his phone.”
“Any idea who killed him?” I asked. Maybe this bumbling student had made some progress, unlike the police and me.
“It all started with the hunting lodge,” he said. “Someone tried then.”
“I thought that too,” I said, excited. “An accidental shooting that wasn’t.”
“Josh was with me the whole time,” he said. “So it wasn’t him. Thad was off by himself, still in line, though. He knew better than that, to get ahead of the shooters.” He pointed to his right, as if imagining the scene. “The shot came from the east. If it had been someone in the hunt, it would have come from the opposite direction.”
“Did you share that with anyone? His parents? The police?”
Wesley’s shoulders slumped. “I tried. Everyone was invested in the idea of an accident. Anything else sounded too far out.” He toed his sneaker into the cobblestones. “Not much fun being right sometimes.”
“I hear that,” I said. “What did Thad think?”
He thought for a moment. “He was pretty freaked out. He dragged us to a hotel in Edinburgh where we drank ourselves sick before taking the train back.”
“I can’t blame him. Or you.” Edinburgh. Where had I heard that mentioned? Never mind. This wasn’t the time or place to start pondering.
Wesley’s head lifted. “So you sent my messages to the police. What does that mean, exactly?”
I knew he’d get around to this question at some point. I tried to break it to him gently. “Reginald Dubold isn’t coming. There’s no buyer for the manuscript.” And the police and I knew he was involved in the theft. That part remained unspoken.
In response, Wesley literally rocked back on his heels. Then he spun around, unlocked the gate, and fled inside.
He sure could move fast when he wanted to. “Wait,” I called out. “Wesley.” I leaped forward, grabbing the gate before it clicked shut. I could have bitten my tongue. Hard. Was he going to get rid of the manuscript? Maybe even destroy it? Heartsick, cursing my big mouth, I picked up my skirts and ran, chasing him.
To my relief, he didn’t head for his staircase, where I assumed he kept the stolen book. Instead he kept going, in the direction of the main court. Was he going back to the dance?
I lost him near the arched entrance to the main court. Not seeing anywhere else he could have gone, I plunged through the passage.
As I emerged at the other end, I saw a monk striding away. There he was. I committed the sin of cutting across the grass so as to shorten the distance.
On he went, and as he passed under a light, I saw the shoes. Huh. Orange. Maybe it was Oliver I was following now. Oh, the absurdity of people everywhere dressed like monks. I pictured them crisscrossing the courts, hands in their sleeves.
As they had centuries ago, no doubt. With a huff at my own unruly brain, I watched as the monk approached the bell tower. The bottom of this edifice was open, with arches supporting the upper part housing the bell. As I got closer, I saw the monk with orange shoes step inside. Another person emerged from the shadows. Wesley.
“The jig is up,” Wesley said.
The other monk laughed and I could tell it was a woman. “What are you talking about?”
Wesley gestured and the other monk pushed back her hood with an impatient gesture. Sophie Verona. When she moved to stand beside him, I noticed they were very similar in height and build. And she was wearing orange shoes. “We sold a lot of that style,” Tim had said. Men’s and women’s both.
Was Sophie the masked runner we believed had killed Thad? They worked together in the Institute, which had funky bookkeeping, according to Amy. Sophie had let Thad redo his paper for a better grade.
And Sophie had probably been in Edinburgh at the conference with Oliver the day Thad was shot at while hunting.
“So,” Wesley was saying, “I got a text from Reginald tonight saying he had a buyer.”
“Really? That’s wonderful. Did he say how much?”
Sophie and Wesley had worked together to steal the manuscript. I had no doubt that Wesley had carried out the actual dirty work. That seemed like her style.
Wesley lowered the phone. “Let me finish.” After a pause, he went on. “The messages weren’t from him. Someone used a burner phone.”
I was impressed that he hadn’t mentioned me by name. Trying to keep me out of the line of fire? That was nice of him.
“It was a prank?” Sophie barked. “But who would know to send you that message?”
“Exactly,” Wesley said. “They know we stole The Fatal Folio. That’s not the worst of it. The police have these texts now.”
“The police?” Sophie shrieked. She began to swear at him while slapping at his head and shoulders.
“Hey.” Wesley ducked away, trying to fend her off. “Cut it out.”
I called 999 to report an assault, speaking low under the shouts and protests. My hope was that when they questioned Sophie about this altercation, she would confess to Thad’s murder.
Wesley managed to get away from her flailing arms and he bolted from the bell tower, robe flying. I was still in the middle of the call. Was Sophie going to run as well?
No, she stayed in the bell tower, pacing around. I’d keep an eye on her, I decided, to make the police’s job easier.
I had barely hung up, officers supposedly on their way, when footsteps sounded on the path. Half expecting to see Wesley returning for a final word, I wasn’t surprised to see a monk costume.
Then he pushed back the hood. Oliver. “Sophie?” he called. “I’ve been looking for you.” He entered the bell tower and went over to her. “What’s the matter?”
She had turned her back on him. “Nothing. I had an argument with someone, that’s all. I’ll be okay in a minute.”
“Why don’t we go back to the dance? We can have a drink and celebrate your promotion.”
“You’re something else,” she said, admiration in her tone. “I thought you’d be all bitter and angry.”
“I am,” he said with a laugh. “But not at you. Dr. Cutler is a different matter.”
As the pair hesitated, I saw an opportunity to clarify some matters. Putting my phone on record, I approached the bell tower. “Hey, Oliver,” I called. “There you are.” They turned to face me, dressed identically in habits and orange shoes. I laughed. “Did you notice that you’re both wearing the same shoes?”
Oliver lifted one sneaker and glanced at Sophie’s feet. “I guess we are. These are my favorite trainers.”
“Mine too,” she said. “Great minds, right?” She snuggled closer, taking his arm.
“Congratulations, Dr. Verona,” I said. “I read about your promotion.” She inclined her head to accept the kudos. “I have to say, the Institute this week has only increased my interest in gothic literature. Plus I’ve been enjoying The Fatal Folio. I’d love to read your paper, Dr. Verona. The one on retribution.” I turned to Oliver, acting innocent. “You presented on that in Edinburgh too, right?”
“We were co-presenters,” Oliver said. He nudged her with an elbow. “Which was a good thing. I had to start without you.”
She sighed. “And I pride myself on being prompt.”
“Where were you?” I asked. Temptation trembled on my tongue and I gave into it. “Doing a spot of hunting, perhaps?”
Her eyes went wide. “What? How did—”
“Wild guess,” I said. “You decided to take a potshot at Thad, using the conference as a cover. Or you made the plan after you learned his lodge was so close to the city? It didn’t work, so you tried again. So clever, Sophie, pointing the finger at the other students with a grudge against him.”
“Molly,” Oliver said, sounding confused. “What are you talking about?”
Sophie tried to make a break for it, which required pushing past Oliver and me.
“You can run but you can’t hide,” I said. “The police are on their way.” As if in answer, blue-and-white lights flashed outside the main gate, reflecting off the buildings.
She ran anyway, of course, shoving us both aside. Oliver stared at me. “What’s going on?”
“She killed Thad. And she helped steal The Fatal Folio.” Noticing movement at the main gate door to the court, I went over to the bell rope. “Cover your ears.”
I pulled the rope and the bell pealed out, once, twice, three times. That would attract their attention. Thad Devine was going to get justice. And with any luck, we would soon be restoring the Fatal Folio manuscript to the Hazelhurst House library.