The loss of this rare and irreplaceable manuscript hit me like a blow to the stomach. “George, it’s gone!” My shout was a rude intrusion in the hushed atmosphere.
“The Fatal Folio? No.” Even under the shock of this revelation, George carefully shelved the book he was holding before trucking across the carpet to my side. Gnawing on his lip, he carefully examined the case. “I’m afraid you’re right. Someone has gone and lifted the book.”
“But who? How?” I found my phone, which was the quickest way to reach Kieran in this huge house. I pressed his name then put the phone on speaker.
“Molly. What’s up?” By the clanging in the background, I guessed he was in the kitchen.
“We need you. Someone stole the Fatal Folio manuscript.” Too bad the curse wouldn’t extend to the thief, I thought darkly.
Leaning over my shoulder, George spoke toward the phone. “She’s right, mate. Someone broke into the case.”
A brief silence as Kieran absorbed this. “I’ll be right there. Don’t touch anything, okay?”
The window. “I think they went out the window. It was open. I shut it before I realized.”
“Don’t worry about that.” He disconnected.
I sank into the closest chair. “This is horrible.” Even though the manuscript wasn’t mine, I felt both violated and outraged. These emotions weren’t unfamiliar. When I was in college, someone had stripped my bicycle, leaving only the frame. I hadn’t locked it up correctly. Of course, this was a much worse situation, but this room had been locked too … how had they done it?
George rubbed his chin. “It had to be one of the lecture attendees, don’t you think?” He wandered over to the window and checked behind the floor-length curtains.
“I didn’t go on the tour. How did it work?”
“We lined up and walked through, each person getting a moment or two to study the manuscript through the glass. Then we went out that door.” He pointed to a door I hadn’t paid attention to. Not the cupboard.
I went over and tested the handle. Locked. “Where does this take you?”
He shrugged. “A sitting room. We went through there and back into the hall.”
“Was anyone watching as you all filed through the room?”
George frowned as he thought. “Not really. Lady Asha unlocked the doors but then she was called away. Dr. Scott stood by the case for a while but he too left after I went through. Or so I assume. I saw him in the Great Hall.”
“Someone hid in here,” I said. “They must have. By then both doors were locked, so they went out the window.”
Kieran strode through the doorway and headed right for the empty case. We joined him there.
“They broke in,” George said, pointing out the lock and the fractured glass. “Molly already solved the crime.”
Kieran looked at me. “I have a theory that might work,” I temporized. “Someone hid in here, behind the curtains, probably, and after the doors were locked, broke into the case.” I went over to the window. “This window was open when George and I came in. Only a crack so it took a few minutes to notice.”
Kieran inspected the window and peered outside. On this side of the building, there was a grassy strip edging the moat, with a footbridge leading to gardens a short distance away. “And off they went,” he muttered.
The three of us stood in agitated silence for a moment. Kieran sighed and took out his phone. “We need to call the police.”
After placing the call, Kieran went to find his mother and break the news. George and I sat in the library, at loose ends until the officers arrived.
“Can you bring me that copy of Wuthering Heights?” I finally said. “I need to get something done today.” Or at least try to.
George hopped right up. “Sure thing.” He carried the book over to the table where I’d set up my laptop.
With a few clicks, I brought up the program. “Here we go. Entry number one.”
What a thrill to handle such a rare and beautiful book, to think of the history behind it, the quest of Emily and her sisters to get something published. It hadn’t been easy—Charlotte’s first book, The Professor, wasn’t published until 1857—but their work had left a lasting legacy. A copy like this had sold more than a decade ago for over $100,000.
A sudden thought jolted through me. Had the thief taken anything else? I scanned the shelves, looking for gaps in the books. I couldn’t see any. Perhaps Lady Asha should take a look. She must know where the most valuable books were located, even if they hadn’t been catalogued yet.
My heart sank at having to make this suggestion. What a frustrating and unfair situation. Lady Asha had kindly opened her home to a group of scholars only to be ripped off.
The officers and Lady Asha returned with Kieran. I recognized them immediately as Constable Johnson, a woman with curly red hair, and Constable Malago, a gorgeous young man with burnished skin.
Constable Johnson nodded when she saw me. “Miss Kimball, isn’t it?”
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m an owner of a bookshop in Cambridge. This is George Flowers, my friend. We’re the ones who discovered the theft.”
“You were here in the library why?” Constable Malago asked.
I didn’t take offense. It was his job to ask questions. “I was hired to work on a catalogue of the library. George and I both attended a lecture this morning and he was hanging out with me for a while.”
“They didn’t steal the manuscript,” Kieran said. “I can personally vouch for them both.”
“So can I,” Lady Asha put in.
“What lecture?” Constable Johnson asked.
I let Kieran answer. “My cousin, Dr. Oliver Scott, from St. Aelred, spoke on The Fatal Folio, among other gothic books, as part of the Gothic Literature Institute symposium going on this week.”
“So he spoke on the book that was stolen?” Constable Malago clarified.
“Yes, which is why we had it on display,” Kieran said. “We figure it happened sometime between the viewing and when I let Molly and George into the library, about half an hour ago.” He gave the officers details about the morning’s events. “After everyone went through, both doors into the room were locked. My mother has the only set of keys.”
“But how—” Constable Johnson started.
“We think they went out the window.” I pointed. “That one was open a crack.”
“We felt the draft when we came in here,” George added.
The officers went over and peered outside, exactly the way we had earlier. Although they didn’t say anything, their expressions seemed to confirm my theory.
Who had stolen the handwritten manuscript? “Is there a list of attendees from this morning? Or a sign-in sheet?” I hadn’t signed in but that didn’t mean others hadn’t. “Did you sign in, George?” He shook his head.
Everyone looked at Kieran and Lady Asha. “Maybe?” Kieran took out his phone. “I’ll send Oliver a text and ask.”
The officers were examining the broken case. “Was the manuscript always kept in there?” Constable Johnson asked.
Lady Asha shook her head. “It was usually in storage. We only set this up for the event today.” She grimaced. “What a mistake.”
“You couldn’t have known, Mum,” Kieran said. “Whoever did this worked fast. The viewing wasn’t announced until after Oliver’s talk.”
He had a good point. Without advance knowledge, the thief had come up with a strategy to steal with lightning speed. Maybe they’d gone through once and then circled back, at the tail end.
“No cameras in here, huh?” Officer Malago asked, his gaze on the ceiling.
Lady Asha gave a little laugh of disbelief. “Not hardly. We have them outside, at the entrances, yes. We’re not open to the public so cameras inside aren’t necessary.” She crossed her arms, frowning. “Well, they weren’t.”
“They aren’t now, either, Mum,” Kieran said. “We have alarms on the ground floor entrances and windows.”
“Which we turned off this morning,” his mother said. “That’s why they could go out the window without triggering the alarm.”
The theft of The Fatal Folio was obviously a crime carried out during a very narrow window of opportunity.
Kieran’s phone rang. “Oliver.” He picked up and walked a short distance away. “I have bad news,” he said. “The manuscript was stolen.” A pause. “Yes, I’m serious. The police are here now. They want a copy of the attendee list, if you have one.” After a little more conversation, he returned to us. “Oliver has an electronic sign-up sheet and a handwritten one from this morning.”
“We’ll be wanting to talk to Dr. Scott,” Constable Johnson said. “We’ll get those then.”
Kieran passed along Oliver’s contact information. The officers took pictures, dusted for prints—no luck there—and asked a few more questions. Then they were gone.
Sitting slumped in an armchair, Lady Asha put a hand to her forehead. “I can’t believe this.”
I couldn’t either, and I still needed to raise another sore point. “As you know, I’ve just started the cataloguing.” I picked up Wuthering Heights. “If this is a sample of what you’ve got here, then the collection is priceless. I hate to say this, but can you tell if anything is missing?”
“Oh, no, Molly,” Kieran said, shock in his voice. “You think they took something else?” His gaze flew to the shelves.
“I hope not. But they were in here alone for a while, we think.” My words painted a dismal picture, sending everyone’s spirits plummeting even further.
Lady Asha leaped up from the chair, head craned as she stared at the shelves. “I don’t see anything missing…”
“I don’t either, Mum,” Kieran said. He gave a helpless shrug. “Not that I have the shelves memorized.”
There was one way we could find out, although it wasn’t guaranteed to be thorough or complete. “Do you have any previous catalogues or records of what’s here?”
Lady Asha brightened slightly. “We might. Remember the journal that Lord Llewellyn kept, Kieran? In the mid-1800s? He mentioned highlights of the collection and logged purchases.”
“No,” Kieran said. “But I’ll take your word for it.”
“That journal would be a huge help,” I said. The older books might be mentioned and those were likely to be among the more valuable ones. “We can also check any invoices that were saved.” I’d wanted to do that anyway, to see if the Scotts had bought books from my ancestors. That seemed such a minor and petty quest right now. Then I reminded myself that a relationship with the bookshop might shed light on Selwyn Scott’s identity—it wasn’t just idle curiosity.
Lady Asha strode toward the cupboard. “I’m going to look for that journal.” Kieran handed her the key ring and she began flipping through the keys.
I was back at my laptop and George came over and sat beside me, a mournful expression on his face. “Bad business, innit?”
“It sure is, George.” I went back to entering Wuthering Heights into the catalogue program. “I’m praying nothing else was taken. The loss of that one manuscript is bad enough. If it’s sold to a private collector, we may never see it again.” It wasn’t only the piece’s monetary value. It was also integral to Scott family and literary histories.
“People suck.”
A laugh burst out of me at his pithy and far too accurate assessment. “Yes, they do.” In my opinion, anyone who stole books—or defaced them or sliced out pictures—deserved their own circle of hell.
“You’ll have to be on the lookout,” George said. “They might try to sell the manuscript to Thomas Marlowe.”
Still typing, I laughed. “Good luck with that one. We know where it came from.” He was right in the sense that we bought and sold used books, specializing in the rare. However, as with works of art, we established provenance for the most valuable items. Books were portable and easily stolen.
“Maybe we should warn Violet,” George said, his tone casual.
“Go ahead and call her,” I said, knowing he was dying to fill her in. If I weren’t so far behind, I would have done it already. “Fetch me another Brontë first, will you? Thanks.”
Lady Asha bustled out of the storage room carrying a leather-covered journal. She set it down next to my computer with a flourish. “This is Lord Llewellyn’s book inventory.” She flipped it open to show me pages filled with dense handwriting.
At a glance, it looked like a rudimentary cataloguing system, with Lord Llewellyn noting titles, authors, editions, and supplemental notes.
“This is going to be very useful.” Despite the situation, I couldn’t keep the excitement out of my voice. “I’ll add his notes to the catalogue. They’ll really round it out.” I glanced toward the cupboard. “Where’s Kieran?”
Lady Asha followed my gaze, smiling fondly. “He’s sorting through the papers, looking for invoices for books. Never thought I’d see him take such an interest.” Her significant glance at me revealed where she placed the credit for his new fascination with their library.
“Great,” I said, trying to sound casual even though inside I was jumping up and down. This cataloguing job, besides being a plum project, was helping me build a relationship with Kieran’s mum. “Any help is appreciated.” Especially his.
Lady Asha tapped the table. “I’ll let you get back to work. Break for tea in a couple of hours? I’ll come get you.”
“That sounds wonderful.” Maybe I would get a solid start on the project today after all.
She left, and for the next hour or so, George ferried books to me while Kieran continued his work in the closet. Except for the tapping of keys and an occasional muttered exclamation from Kieran, the library was peaceful. I could almost forget the broken case sitting just out of my line of sight. Almost forget Thad Devine’s murder.
We had worked our way through the Brontë family and I was logging an early edition of Frankenstein, shelved near the works of Mary Shelley’s friend Lord Byron, when Lady Asha returned.
I pushed back in my chair, stretching. “Is it teatime already?” As always, the time had flown while I was immersed in books.
Lady Asha glanced at a wall clock. “I suppose it is. That’s not why I came in, though.” She glanced around. “Is Kieran still here?” He emerged from the cupboard. “I wanted to let you know that Sir Jon is on his way.”
Sir Jonathon Yeats was a former MI6 agent, bookseller, and special investigator. I knew he wasn’t here in the first capacity—or I hoped not—so which of the latter was it? Or was it purely a social call? Sir Jon seemed to know everyone. In fact, he’d gone to college with Aunt Violet and I was convinced something was brewing there.
“Coming to tea?” Kieran asked, miming the act of drinking with pinky extended.
“Not exactly,” Lady Asha said. “He’s investigating the stolen manuscript. Something about a special task force.”
Although relieved to hear that Sir Jon, with his experience and expertise, was going to help us, I couldn’t help but be curious. While valuable and rare, the Fatal Folio manuscript wasn’t reason enough to launch a full-fledged task force.
Something bigger must be going on.