Thankfully it didn’t take long to satisfy my curiosity about Sir Jon’s visit. He joined us in a pretty little sitting room and, after a brief exchange of pleasantries and polite personal inquiries, said, “You must be wondering why I’m here today.” He inclined his head toward Lady Asha. “Besides the opportunity to enjoy your company.” Silver-haired, dapper, and trim, Sir Jon had the bearing and charm one might expect of a gentleman spy.
“You’re always welcome here, Sir Jon,” Lady Asha murmured. She sat regally over a huge tray holding a silver tea set and tiers with tiny pastries and sandwiches.
Sir Jon set his cup and saucer aside before reaching into his breast pocket for a small tablet and a stylus. “As happens now and then, I’ve been called in as a consultant to Scotland Yard. This time it’s really up my alley.” He gave us a closed-lip smile. “Rare books.” In his retirement, Sir Jon had opened a bookshop specializing in military history and spy novels. He was also an antiquities expert and had helped apprehend smuggling rings.
“Have there been other thefts?” I asked. At Thomas Marlowe, we tried to keep abreast of these crimes, including details about what was stolen. If someone tried to sell us a stolen book, we would immediately alert the authorities.
“Here and there,” he said. “Nothing that forms a pattern yet.” His lips twisted. “Not like the London warehouse case.”
We all glanced up involuntarily. Several years ago, a daring gang of thieves had entered a shipping warehouse through the ceiling and stolen dozens of rare books belonging to three dealers. These had eventually been retrieved after being buried underground in Romania. Some of the books were damaged, a situation that made a bookseller’s blood run cold. While the criminals had gone to trial, questions remained regarding how they had known exactly when the books were there, since they were in transit, on their way to a book show in Las Vegas.
“We think some of the players are local,” Sir Jon went on. “Hence the interest in your loss. With any luck, your manuscript will help us break the case.”
“Let us know what we can do to help,” Lady Asha said. We all nodded.
Sir Jon touched his table screen. “Thank you. Why don’t we start with a few questions?” He paused. “Who knew the manuscript would be on display today?”
“No one,” Lady Asha said. “It was a last-minute decision, right, Kieran?”
Kieran leaned forward, hands clasped between his knees. “This morning, before the lecture started, my cousin, Dr. Oliver Scott, who was speaking, said it was too bad people couldn’t view the original manuscript. He was speaking on the same book, you see. So we went to Mum to ask if we could display it.”
First a murder and now a theft, with Kieran’s cousin right in the middle. I didn’t like the fact that Oliver had suggested the display.
Lady Asha put a hand to her mouth. “I really thought it would be all right. I mean, we locked it in a case and the room was secured before and after the viewing.”
“I’ll have more questions about those specifics later,” Sir Jon said. “Was the case monitored?”
Kieran and his mother exchanged looks. “If you mean, did we post a guard, no,” Kieran admitted. “Everyone filed through, in one door and out the other. Most of the audience was students, so we thought…”
“Students steal too,” Sir Jon said. “Unfortunately.”
I thought of a high-profile case at Transylvania University, in Lexington, Kentucky. Four students had overpowered a librarian and made off with more than five million in rare books.
“Who went through the viewing?” Sir Jon asked. “Molly? George?”
“I didn’t,” I said. Since I’d already seen the manuscript and could access it anytime, I hadn’t bothered. Now I wished I had.
George raised his hand. “Like Kieran said, we lined up and filed through the library. Each person got a minute, tops, to look at the manuscript.”
Sir Jon nodded. “I’ll take a look at the library after tea. Did you observe any odd behavior, George? Anyone who lingered? Made a strange comment?”
“Hmm.” George gazed into his teacup. “To be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention to anyone except to Amy and Josh, who were ahead of me.” He made a shooing motion. “Hoping they’d get a move on. I was very eager to see the manuscript.”
Amusement brightened George’s eyes. “Josh said something funny. When Amy asked if he’d want to look inside the real fatal folio, he said, ‘If I did, I’d be sending myself down from school. Mum and Dad wouldn’t be pleased.’”
I laughed. “Good one, Josh.” To Sir Jon, I said, “Amy and Josh are students at St. Aelred. Dr. Scott is one of their instructors.”
“St. Aelred.” Sir Jon’s tone was contemplative. “A student was killed there on Bonfire Night. Stabbed outside the gate.”
My insides twisted as images flashed through my mind. Thad sprawled on the ground. The antique knife. Blood.
I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to veer into that territory. “Such a tragedy,” Lady Asha said. “Thad was the son of dear friends.” She set her teacup down with a clink. “Shall we go see the library?”
“So sorry for your loss,” Sir Jon murmured. He tucked away his tablet and stood. “Lead on, milady.”
By the time I returned to Cambridge, dozens of books entered into the catalogue, I was more than ready for a beer and a chat with my best friend. After parking the Cortina, I swung by the bookshop to drop my laptop and wash up, then headed over to the pub. Mum and Aunt Violet were out, so updating them would have to wait.
Daisy waved me over to a two-top, where a pint of beer awaited. The benefits of text updates. I slumped into my chair and grabbed the glass for a healthy swallow of my favorite bitter. She watched with amusement, her glass already half empty.
“Ah. This really hit the spot.” I lifted the glass in a salute. “Thank you.”
“Tough day in the library?” Daisy smiled.
I glanced around to be sure no one was listening. “You could say that. The original Fatal Folio manuscript was stolen. Right under everyone’s noses.”
Daisy looked taken aback. “Today? During the event?”
“Yep.” Anger churned and I gritted my teeth. “After the walk-through. We think the thief hid in the library. After lunch, George and I discovered that the case was broken and a window left open.”
Daisy absently spun her glass, around and around. “So someone who attended the event … Was the exhibition publicized?”
“Exactly what the police wanted to know,” I said. “No, it was a last-minute thing this morning. Oliver suggested it.”
Something flashed in Daisy’s eyes. “Oliver suggested it?” She shook her head.
“I know,” I admitted. “He’s the obvious candidate. In planning the theft, anyway. He wasn’t in the library when it happened.” If our theory about timing was correct.
“Would he actually steal from his own family?” Daisy asked, her brow furrowed.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” There was another possibility, although it pained me to say it. “The theft will bring attention to the book, though. He’s writing his own gothic … hoping for a big publishing deal … Gah. I hate to even say it.” My lips twisted. “Sir Jon is on the case. If it was an inside job, it could get ugly.”
Daisy laughed. “Oh, yeah. I wouldn’t want him tracking me.” She reconsidered. “Well, maybe I would, if I weren’t in love with Tim.”
“He’s a hottie, isn’t he? Even at age seventy-something.” It wasn’t only his well-preserved looks, accomplishments, and money. Sir Jon had a very attractive air of competence that gave the sense one was in good hands. Kieran had that quality too.
“For sure.” Daisy picked up the menu card. “Let’s eat. I want the steak-and-ale pie.” She passed the card to me.
“Sounds good.” I scanned the list. “Wild boar sausage? Wow. I didn’t know they had that.” Sausages with mash would be a good comfort food choice.
Daisy got up. “I’ll go order.” She circled her finger over our glasses. “Plus get two more.”
“Thanks, friend.” I sat back with my glass, savoring the thought of a delicious hot meal to come.
Daisy returned with two pints of beer and slid one across the table to me. “So tell me. Why is Sir Jon involved?”
I wasn’t surprised that my smart friend was delving further into this point. Not much got past her. “Scotland Yard brought him in. There have been a few thefts recently and they’re trying to figure out if they’re connected.”
“Hmm.” Daisy sipped beer. “The one today seems more like a theft of opportunity.”
“Or it’s meant to look that way.” Again, my heart sank at the realization that Oliver might have masterminded the situation. Maybe the exhibit was last minute but the lecture wasn’t. It had to have been planned for months. “Having it stolen during the event spreads the suspicion around quite effectively.”
The local police would have their hands full following up with the fifty people or so who had attended. They were probably relieved if Scotland Yard was taking over.
I thought of another possible mastermind. “There is someone else who could have planned it,” I said. “Dr. Sophie Verona knew about the lecture. And she might have been aware of the manuscript.” Maybe she’d quietly nudged Oliver to set up the exhibition.
“I know who you mean,” Daisy said. “She did the introductions.”
I hadn’t mentioned Sophie to Sir Jon and I made a mental note to do so. With her involvement in the Gothic Institute, she had the expertise to realize the manuscript’s value and place in literary history.
Thad had worked for the Gothic Institute, I recalled. Had he been aware of a plot to steal the manuscript and that was why he was killed?
I didn’t like this idea, since it firmly pointed the finger at Oliver.
As if reading my mind, Daisy said, “I wonder if they’ve made any progress on the murder.” In the pub’s muted light, her face was pale. “I had so much trouble sleeping last night, I tell you. Then the interview with the police…” She shivered.
“That’s right, you mentioned they called,” I said. “How did it go?”
A server holding two plates aloft approached and she didn’t answer until we had our meals and assured the server we were all set for now.
Daisy picked up her fork and pierced the top of her pie, letting the steam escape. “They came to the shop after I got back from Hazelhurst House. I didn’t have time to go to the station and they respected that, thankfully.”
“Was it Inspector Ryan?” I cut into a wild boar sausage, eager to taste this exotic blend.
“No, some underling.” Daisy took a bite. “She wanted to confirm what I’d seen in St. Aelred’s Way. Especially how I’d discovered the knife. Also if I knew Thad.” She paused. “Or Oliver Scott.”
My heart jumped. Were they focusing on Oliver? Tamping down my fears, I asked, “Do you know Oliver?” Daisy had known Kieran since he’d opened his shop.
Daisy’s nose wrinkled. “I don’t know him, know him. He’s come into the tea shop. And I’ve seen him with Kieran, cycling or just hanging out.”
“The knife came from the college,” I said. “So the killer wasn’t random.”
“That’s what you said in your text.”
Late last night, I’d texted Daisy with an update of what had occurred after she and Tim left. “Remember the students I mentioned? They were all at the lecture today.” I hadn’t given many details, not wanting to write a book on my phone.
“Which ones were they?”
Between bites, I described Amy, Josh, and Wesley. “Wesley is Thad’s cousin. He told me that today.”
“Aww, that’s so sad.” Daisy picked up her phone and stared searching. “Last name?”
I thought for a moment. “Wright, I think.” I gave her Amy’s and Josh’s surnames too. “Thad was harassing Amy.”
Daisy lowered her voice. “So her boyfriend might have killed him?”
“All four students lived on the same stair,” I said. “Familiarity breeds contempt, right?”
“It can.” Daisy absently nibbled at her meal while she searched. “Here we go.” She pushed the phone over to me.
The screen displayed an article in a tabloid, the kind of publication Kieran and I appeared in all too frequently for my taste. Then I read the article date: October this year. “Wait, what? ‘Close Call at Scottish Hunting Lodge’?
“‘The Honorable Thad Devine narrowly escaped death during a family hunting trip in Scotland,’” I read aloud. “‘A shot went wild,’ the divine Devine said, ‘and I had to duck for cover.’ The handsome lad laughs as he recalls the incident. ‘We think it was poachers. They’re becoming a real problem.’”
A photo with the article showed Thad and Wesley dressed in hunting tweeds, bird guns over their shoulders, the gray, forbidding lodge rising behind them and the rest of the party standing around in the background.
Naturally my suspicious mind went there immediately. “I wonder if this was a first murder attempt?” I scanned the rest of the article, which said the shooter had not been identified.
“Me too,” Daisy said. “Hmm. Wesley was on the spot both times.”
“Does look sus.” I handed her the phone and turned to mine. After finding the article, I sent it to Inspector Ryan. I’d helped in past cases and I didn’t think he minded too much.
After digging around, I learned that Wesley’s and Thad’s mothers were sisters. One had married into nobility, the other was a widowed schoolteacher in King’s Lynn. Did Wesley resent his richer, entitled (literally) cousin—or did he enjoy going along for the ride? I shared my thoughts with Daisy.
“I can see him being resentful,” Daisy said. “Especially if Thad rubbed it in. You said he wasn’t the nicest.”
“That’s what I gathered.” Having devoured every bite of the sausages and potato, I sat back with a sigh. “Did you find anything interesting?”
“Amy’s and Josh’s social media pages.” Daisy again passed her phone over. “They look like a fun couple.”
The photos on Josh’s page showed two happy young people living it up in Cambridge. Clinking glasses at a pub. Dancing. Punting on the river. Amy lying with her head in Josh’s lap under a weeping willow, both reading textbooks.
I scrolled down, scanning the posts. “No mention of his conflict with Thad about his treatment of Amy.”
“Very mature,” Daisy said with approval. “I hate it when people fight and trash-post on social media.”
“St. Aelred wouldn’t like it either, I’m sure.” I couldn’t help but wonder if the college preferred to sweep problems like harassment under the rug. That could be a big reason why Amy was reluctant to report Thad. If they weren’t going to do anything about it, then it would only impact her negatively. I also wondered idly how much money Thad’s family gave to the school. It shouldn’t have a bearing on discipline but let’s not be naive.
“So,” Daisy mused. “We have Wesley, Amy, and Josh as possible suspects. Amy and Josh definitely had problems with him. Wesley might have. They all had knowledge of and access to the weapon. All were at college that night.”
I remembered a throwaway remark Josh had made. “Josh and Amy got separated at the bonfire after the tent caught fire. So either one of them could have done it, potentially without the other knowing.”
“Whoever stole the knife waited for a good opportunity?” Daisy guessed.
“Unless they arranged to meet him outside the gate…” I was thinking out loud. “His phone is missing so no way to check.”
“The runner in the mask.” Daisy shivered. “That was probably the killer.” She held up forefinger and thumb a short distance apart. “We were that close to them.”
“It’s a strong possibility.” I thought about the options. “Unless they went the other way. Or into the school.”
“My mind is spinning.” Daisy rested her head on her hand. “So many possibilities. So confusing.”
“Oh, yeah,” I agreed. “All we can do is pull the threads and see which one unravels.” For everyone’s sake, especially Thad’s family’s, I hoped the unraveling would happen quickly.
Replete after my large meal and time with my best friend, I lumbered across the street to the bookshop, grateful I didn’t have far to go. After hashing over the murder and book theft, we’d turned to more pleasant topics. Tomorrow afternoon we were going to attend a showing of classic gothic films at St. Aelred. Not only were we both interested in the movies, it would give us a chance to snoop around. Er, I mean, learn more.
Upstairs with my cat, I crawled into bed and opened The Fatal Folio. Would the original ever be returned to Hazelhurst House? I wondered with a pang. It was a terrible loss—and an infuriating crime.
The Fatal Folio, cont.
Our trip to Italy was plagued with ill omens from the start. As we set sail on a packet out of Dover to Calais, we were immediately met with tumultuous seas that almost swamped our ship, making Mr. Coates grievously ill.
To my surprise, I wasn’t affected by the swells that rocked our craft in a most sickening manner, back and forth, back and forth like a demented cradle. In contrast, Mr. Coates clung to the rail, afraid that the ship would sink and he would be trapped below. Despite his valid fears, I knew deep within that we would live to continue our journey. Our quest for The Ramblings of a Monk had a certain dreadful inevitability about it, as if fated by a Hand greater than us. Wheels had been set in motion, I sensed, and nothing could stop them now.
Despite spending many of my waking hours engrossed in the written word, I’ve never had trouble discerning the difference between fiction and fact. I am quite able to close the covers of a novel and consign the contents to the realm of dreams, enjoyed but soon forgotten. This sense of forces beyond our control, of destiny guiding our steps, was foreign to me.
As an ever-growing landmass on the horizon marked the next stage of the journey, I wondered, Will I ever see Cambridge again? I pictured my shop, friendly lights glowing in a purple dusk, the rows of dear, dusty tomes and the aroma of ancient paper and ink.
No answer floated on the cold wind. I heard only the caw of gulls, shouts of “Land ho,” and the fervent, thankful prayers of my suffering companion.