The first part of our walk home passed in silence. I was practically staggering, I was so emotionally wiped out. It was after midnight, and the streets were fairly deserted now, with only the occasional pop of a firecracker in the distance. Except for glimpsing a few bursts of color above the rooftops, I’d missed most of the Bonfire Night celebrations.
And stumbled into another murder. If only Oliver had met us at the Magpie. We wouldn’t have been anywhere near St. Aelred tonight and I would have read about Thad in the news. As Thad’s tutor, though, Kieran’s cousin would still have been affected. And he was the crux of the issue between us, I knew.
We’d had a moment of warmth on the bench but now Kieran was distant again, his eyes glassy with exhaustion. Grief as well, since he knew Thad. In light of that, bringing up any issues was probably a bad move, for now at least. Especially since he hadn’t said anything to me, it was only something I felt. Like a cool breeze blowing through a cracked door.
Magpie Lane at last. Our steps slowed as we reached the bike shop. “Want to come up, Molly?” he asked. “We deserve a nightcap, don’t you think?” Kieran had a flat above the shop, even though his family lived in an incredible manor only a few miles away. He liked both the independence and the ease of caring for such a small space, he’d told me.
“I could use one,” I admitted, following him around back to the staircase door.
He unlocked the door and switched on the light, then stood back to let me enter first. At the top of the stairs, the flat was one large space, with a bedroom and bathroom to the far left. Kieran’s building was much newer than the bookshop, but it had many nice features, including thick ceiling beams, wide-board floors, exposed brick, and a balcony. We’d spent many an evening in warmer weather sitting out there, eating dinner and drinking beer.
I kicked off my shoes and sat on the overstuffed sofa while Kieran went into the galley kitchen. “Beer or shot?” he asked. “I’ve got Irish and Scotch whiskey.”
“I’ll take a shot of Irish.” Beer before bed was too much liquid.
“Not quite as good as Oliver’s,” he said while pouring into two small glasses. “He’s more of a connoisseur.”
The mention of Oliver gave me an opening but I waited until he joined me on the sofa and handed me my drink. We settled back in our corners, legs outstretched and feet almost touching. I lifted my glass in a toast and took a sip, welcoming the burn in my throat and chest.
“Kieran,” I said at the same time he said, “I’m sorry.”
We laughed. “You go first,” I said, relieved.
His gaze went to the glass he held. “I’m worried about Oliver.”
Braced for criticism, I wasn’t expecting that. “What? What do you mean?”
“You heard him.” Kieran pressed his lips together. “He was really angry with Thad about messing up his promotion.”
So he was concerned about the threat too. “I get that. But I’m gathering a lot of people were mad at Thad. Besides, Oliver was only blowing off steam.”
Now he looked at me, his dark brown eyes gleaming. “You think?” Then he shook his head. “Oliver can be impulsive. And he has a bad temper. He was sent down from more than one boarding school, you know. His poor parents wondered if jail was next.”
I contrasted the images his words evoked with what I knew of the adult Oliver. He was personable, energetic, and seemingly sanguine about a career switch to novelist. “I admit I don’t know him very well,” I said. “He kept it together pretty well tonight.”
Kieran nodded. “He did, didn’t he?” After considering that for a moment, he said, “I’m sorry I was annoyed with you. For pointing out his jacket, I mean. I thought … maybe he had done it.” His nose wrinkled. “I can’t believe I actually said that.” He tossed back the rest of his whiskey as if to wash away his words.
“Well, say you’re right.” His chin whipped up, mouth hanging open. “Hold on. I have a point. You said he’s impulsive and hot-tempered. Or was in the past. That doesn’t line up with the Oliver we saw tonight. Was he upset or edgy when he arrived at the gate? No. If he were guilty, would he identify the murder weapon and lead the police to the case in the dining hall? Again, no.”
He tapped his fingers on his knee, considering what I’d said. “You’re right. The old Oliver would lose his temper and run off for a while, then creep back, ashamed and apologetic. He’d be more likely to confess rather than pretend he was innocent.”
“You know him better than anyone,” I said. “So hang on to that. If the police focus on him.”
He put his glass on the coffee table and sidled closer. “I get it now. How you felt when Aunt Violet was a suspect.” He put a hand to his midsection. “It makes you queasy. As if the world just got turned upside down.”
“Yeah, it was really special,” I said, sarcasm in my tone. “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with it. Plus, you knew the victim.” I set my glass down and put a hand on his knee. “How awful.”
Our faces were close now and after a moment filled with sweet energy, he kissed me. To my enormous relief, the rift was mended and we were back to normal. Meaning, in love and very, very happy. Even with a murderer on the loose.
Later, back at the bookshop, at who knows what hour, I checked the shelves for a copy of The Fatal Folio, hoping George hadn’t bought our last one. I’d never read it—in fact, much of the early gothic canon was new to me—and I was looking forward to diving in. Discovering rich and untapped veins of literature never ceased to thrill me.
We had several editions, and I chose the most battered, least valuable one to read. Then, with Puck at my feet and a glass of water in hand, I headed up to my room. Once tucked among the down pillows and duvets, Puck purring next to me, I opened the book with anticipation. Besides enjoying a new story, I was hoping to discover clues to Selwyn Scott’s identity. Every author left a trace of their personality, attitudes, and outlook on their work. It was inescapable and individual, like fingerprints.
The Fatal Folio
My name is Matthew Marlboro, and I am a humble bookseller by trade, with a modest establishment in the City of Cambridge near the gates of Trinity College. Despite the size of my shop, and the limited wares that I carry, through Providence and hard work, I have developed a reputation for obtaining the finest manuscripts and folios. Rare books, some printed by hand, on topics that span the esoteric, the religious, even the magical. My patrons have learned that I never ask questions nor do I reveal their requests or purchases—or their desire to sell extra books in their collection—to anyone.
It is this reputation for discretion, I believe, that brought me my most difficult, challenging, and dangerous quest to date. A quest that almost cost my life, not to mention my sanity.
Late in the winter, a gentleman named Dudley Coates, nephew of the Earl of Mercia, paid me a visit. Since said Earl is without issue after the loss of three wives, Mr. Coates is the heir presumptive. Although I didn’t know it at the time, his inheritance was the motivation for his request—that I help him obtain the only existing copy of The Ramblings of a Monk, written around the year one thousand in a monastery in the remote, mountainous region of Piemonte, in Italy.
When I asked why the manuscript was available, Mr. Coates said that it had been sold several times already, when the monastery fell on hard times. This I already knew, but I prefer to pretend ignorance sometimes, to discern the depth of a patron’s knowledge. The present owner was a nobleman in the village of Malvagio, he said, which confirmed my understanding. Through his contacts, he’d heard that the book was for sale and wanted me to accompany him on a trip there, to represent his interests and negotiate the purchase.
I’m not one to venture far from my little lair, with its stacks of books and aroma of ink and paper and leather, although I do make annual trips to London and I’ve been to Paris once or twice. However, I have finally taken on an assistant, so a prolonged absence would not hinder my regular trade.
Though I kept it to myself at this juncture, I was most curious to view The Ramblings of a Monk. According to the rumors and speculations that often arise around rare manuscripts on decidedly arcane topics, it held a peculiar sort of power, giving rise to its informal title, whispered at every level of the book trade: The Fatal Folio.
I admit to pressing one old bookseller, a veteran of the trade, about the rumors. How exactly did the book get its name? I asked. Was it so valuable that men had killed to possess it?
His answers were evasive. He claimed not to know exactly how the book exerted its power, only that many owners had died with it in their possession, often within an uncommonly short time after adding the book to their collection.
I raised this point with Mr. Coates. “Aren’t you worried about the book’s, er, possible effects?”
“It’s not for me,” he said. “It’s a gift for the Earl. I know he will appreciate this rare and beautiful addition to his extensive library.” He gave a hearty laugh. “Those superstitious rumors only add to its novelty value. How can a book kill someone? Unless it falls on your head.”
Using hindsight, his remark should have been the first clue that something was amiss. At the time, however, I was so enamored with the opportunity to see the storied tome, to examine such a gem of literary genius, that I readily agreed to accompany him in a fortnight hence.
One thing immediately struck me about The Fatal Folio. The main character was a bookseller in Cambridge. Since authors often drew from real life, was it possible that Selwyn Scott had been acquainted with whoever was running Thomas Marlowe at the time?
Here was a possible point of connection to The Fatal Folio. I thought of the library cupboard crammed with papers. Did they include bills of sale for books? Tracking down purchase information for valuable and important titles would be an important step in appraising the collection.
I’d only been hired to catalogue, but perhaps Lady Asha would let me poke around and see if any of the library’s books had come from my bookshop and who in the family had bought them. This wasn’t only of personal interest to me. If Selwyn Scott had a relationship with the bookseller at the time, perhaps they had included my ancestor as a character. With a different name, of course, but Marlboro was pretty close to Marlowe.
Sitting up, I reached for a notebook and pen. At the top of the page, I wrote Who is Selwyn Scott? Under that, I listed Samuel, Frances, and Agatha Scott. First action item: check bills of sale for book purchases. Connection to Thomas Marlowe relevant? It was only a theory at this point.
I checked my phone one last time before turning off the lamp. Nothing from Oliver about the research project, which wasn’t surprising. He had other, more pressing things on his mind tonight.
The tempting aroma of breakfast sausage teased me out of sleep. That and Puck’s paw gently batting at my nose. It didn’t matter to him that I’d only gotten six hours’ sleep and my head was full of pea-soup fog. His dish was calling.
“Cut it out.” I pried my eyes open to find his nose practically touching mine. “I’m getting up, okay?”
He jumped down with a thump disproportionate to his actual body weight and ran for the door. Moving much more slowly, I sat up, pushed the covers aside, and reached for my tartan robe. Sheepskin slippers went on my feet.
With Puck leading the way, I slowly clomped down the stairs and turned right to enter the kitchen. This long room, warmed by a vintage AGA stove, was where we hung out during off hours. In addition to a long wooden table that seated eight, a couple of armchairs and a squashy sofa formed a seating area. Aunt Violet’s knitting basket marked her chair and both arms of the sofa held books in progress for me and Mum.
“Morning,” Mum said, turning to smile at me. “Coffee is ready.” One of the first items we’d added to the kitchen was a French press. We had to have our daily java.
“Awesome. Is there anything I can do to help?”
She waved that off and as I pulled out a chair, brought me a steaming mug. “How was last night?”
Last night. Scenes flashed through my mind. Thad, lying on the ground. The bloody knife. The police interview. The terrible news that Thad had died.
“That’s right,” I said. “You don’t know.” It had been far too late to wake Mum and Aunt Violet up when I finally got home from Kieran’s. I also have to admit to deliberately pushing the whole dire experience aside for a moment. I knew firsthand how consuming a murder case could be.
“I don’t know what?” Mum sent me a look as she returned to the stove, where she flipped the sausages.
Stalling, I took a sip of coffee. To tell her would mean that my enjoyment of this—purring cats, hot coffee, and a delicious breakfast on the way—would be swamped by the grim murk of reality.
“Molly.” Mum banged around at the stove a little louder than necessary.
I knew she was worried that I’d run into trouble. Which I had, although it hadn’t resulted in harm to me. After a couple more swallows, I said, almost in a monotone, “There was an untimely death last night. Kieran and I came across the scene. We were with Daisy and Tim, on our way to the common. It was a student from St. Aelred, where Kieran’s cousin teaches.”
Mum whirled around, the spatula in her hand. “What? Oh, no.” She put the tool down and turned the gas low before coming over to me. “I’m … I … I don’t know what to say.” She took the seat beside me and leaned close, concern etching her brow.
I spun the mug in circles, needing to do something with my hands. “Yeah. It was pretty awful.” As briefly as possible, omitting my suspicions about Oliver, I took her through the night’s events. “Hopefully Sean Ryan will get to the bottom of it fast,” I concluded.
“I hope so too.” Mum leaped up, unable to hide her reaction to his name, and returned to the stove. “Kieran’s family knows the young man? Does that change your plans for today?”
Good question. My phone was in my robe pocket, so I sent Lady Asha a text, expressing condolences and asking if she still wanted me to come out today to work on the library. Then I checked the Gothic Institute’s website. The conference is still on, read a banner. No changes to the agenda.
That must mean Oliver was still giving his lecture about The Fatal Folio. Lady Asha wrote back immediately, saying it was up to me if I came out today. Although I was exhausted, I told her I’d be there. With Oliver’s lecture and the possibility of others from the Gothic Institute and St. Aelred attending, Hazelhurst House was the place to be. If there was any progress in finding Thad’s killer, I wanted to be there.
Aunt Violet wandered down to the kitchen as Mum was dishing up sausages and scrambled eggs. “My timing is spectacular as always,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Thanks for breakfast, Nina.” As she sat down, I noticed she was wearing yoga pants and a stretchy long-sleeve top instead of her usual robe.
“What have you been up to, Aunt Violet?” I asked, scooping up a forkful of eggs. Puck and Clarence were both hovering at my feet, hoping for stray crumbs. I might have dropped a golden morsel or two, accidentally on purpose.
She poured milk into her mug. “I was doing senior yoga. They have videos online, you know. I like the instructor, although she’s a bit chirpy for so early in the morning.” She cocked an eyebrow. “After that, I checked out the news. There was a murder last night at St. Aelred. Isn’t that where Oliver Scott teaches? Such a handsome lad.”
“Yes, it is.” I inhaled a breath, filling my lungs to give my great-aunt the full story. “And I’m a witness. Again.”
Aunt Violet was riveted as once again I went through the previous evening. “You’ve got quite a few suspects,” she said. “Those three students and that other instructor. It wasn’t Oliver. He’s too dishy.”
“Aunt Violet,” I protested. “Good looks aren’t a reason not to suspect someone.” I hastily added, “Though I agree, it wasn’t him. He helped the police figure out where the murder weapon came from.”
“Which only a true criminal mastermind would do,” Mum put in. “From what you’ve said, Oliver is too transparent for that kind of manipulation.”
“Exactly.” I glanced at another text, this one from George. “Oh good, George is going today.” I wrote back, asking if he’d like a ride. The only drawback was that I would be staying at Hazelhurst House all day. He accepted, saying that he would take the bus back.
After a last bite of sausage and egg and a refill of coffee, I hurried off to get ready for my day at Hazelhurst House. Hopefully progress would be made on both mysteries—Selwyn Scott’s identity and Thad Devine’s murder.