Murder Is a Must Read online

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Marty Wingate

  The Bodies in the Library

  Murder Is a Must

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2020 by Martha Wingate

  Excerpt by Marty Wingate copyright © 2020 by Martha Wingate

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  BERKLEY and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Wingate, Marty, author.

  Title: Murder is a must / Marty Wingate.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley Prime Crime, 2020. | Series: First edition library mystery

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020019714 (print) | LCCN 2020019715 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984804136 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984804150 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3623.I66225 M87 2020 (print) | LCC PS3623.I66225 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020019714

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020019715

  Cover art by Josée Bisaillon

  Cover design by Rita Frangie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_5.6.1_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Marty Wingate

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from the Next First Edition Library Mystery

  About the Author

  To Leighton with love

  1

  The taxi drove west away from the rail station, avoiding the Monday-evening commuter traffic on Manvers Street. Instead, we encountered it along Green Park. Skirting Queen Square, we swung round the Circus, where lights twinkled in the austere Georgian terraces that formed the circle—doing their small part against the January darkness. No quicker a journey than walking, and certainly not cheaper, but I’d had no energy for the hike from the train up to Middlebank House. Perhaps I should’ve done. Nervous excitement had built up during my afternoon journey from Liverpool to Bath—my tummy atwitter at the thought of the First Edition Society’s inaugural literary salon. It would be my first official public event as curator, and would go live in only twenty-four hours.

  Nerves were the order of the day. When I walked into the entry, Mrs. Woolgar, Society secretary, shot out of her office and, dispensing with formalities, said, “Ms. Burke, a man delivered six cases of wine this afternoon. I had him leave them in the kitchenette, but—will we need that much?”

  “I tell you what,” I said, dropping my case next to the hallstand and hanging up my coat. “If they don’t drink it all during the salon tomorrow evening, you and I can finish it off after everyone’s left.”

  Behind her glasses, Mrs. Woolgar’s eyes grew large. “Well, I hardly think—” She caught herself.

  “Or we’ll keep it until next week’s salon,” I said. “And the next or however long it lasts. We saved fifteen pounds with a large order.”

  “And Professor Fish? You’re certain he’ll arrive early enough tomorrow—and Mr. Moffatt knows to collect him?”

  Actually, Arthur Fish wasn’t a professor—he was a tutor at a college in London. But as he was our lecturer for the inaugural salon, I thought it better not to press the point. Titles and position meant a great deal to Mrs. Woolgar.

  “Mr. Fish will come down on the train and arrive by midday, and Val will meet him.” I’d been over this with her, but repeating it helped me as much as I hoped it helped her. “I’ve a cold lunch arranged”—or would have, as soon as I did the shopping in the morning at Waitrose—“and he’ll have a quiet afternoon to sort himself out over a cup of tea.”

  While she tried to think of another potential disaster—my reading on the situation—the secretary smoothed the cutwork collar on her dress. She wore her usual-style frock, a narrow skirt and wide lapel, this one navy with matching belt. I admit to a bit of envy at Mrs. Woolgar’s 1930s wardrobe. Narrow skirts didn’t suit me.

  “Still,” she said, “I’m not entirely comfortable with the title of his talk—‘Fifty Ways to Murder.’ Rather sensational.”

  I might’ve conceded her point but for the fact it was also the title of his popular book and that Middlebank was home to the First Edition library, a stunning collection of books from the women authors of the Golden Age of Mystery.

  It had been the lifetime passion of Lady Georgiana Fowling, who, through her élan and generous nature, had garnered the love and admiration of the people of Bath and the worldwide membership of the Society. Her ladyship had died almost four years ago at the grand old age of ninety-four and, sadly but inevitably, during the last few years of her life, the Society had diminished and the world’s attention had turned elsewhere. This is where I came in.

  “The title did its job, though, didn’t it?” I reminded her. “The entire series of salons was sold out in a fortnight even though we had only this first title to announce.”

  Mrs. Woolgar sighed, and I knew this indicated she could think of no other argument for the moment. “That arrived by hand for you this afternoon,” she said, nodding to a brown envelope on the hallstand.

  Comic Sans font had been used to print out both my address— Ms. Hayley Burke, Curator, First Edition Society, Middlebank House—and the return address—Make an Exhibition of Yourself! James Street West, Bath.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I believe I can leave it for the morning.”

  “Well, then,” Mrs. Woolgar said, “I’ll say good night. Tomorrow will be an eventful day, I’m sure.”

  “Yes, it will be—in the best possible way.”

  Without another word, she walked to the back stairs and descended to her garden flat on the lower ground floor. I understood her restraint—to a point. Glynis Woolgar had been personal assistant to and dear friend of our founder for many years and, as directed in her ladyship’s will, had become secretary in perpetuum for the Society. Mrs. Woolgar had seized this duty and inte
rpreted it to mean nothing should happen unless it had happened while Lady Fowling had been alive. Devoted as that made her look, the secretary’s love of the status quo was seeing the Society slowly grind to a halt.

  Just let me introduce a new idea, and I was met with a heavy sigh and a raised eyebrow—her way of reminding me that I had been curator for not quite six months, had never met her ladyship, and had only recently read my first detective story. And so, what did I know?

  I knew my responsibilities and I took them seriously. Job one—resurrect the First Edition Society to its former glory, even if I had to drag Glynis Woolgar along kicking and screaming.

  But at this moment, I needed my bed, and fortunately, it was quite near. We were self-contained at Middlebank—Mrs. Woolgar’s flat on the lower ground floor, our offices and a kitchenette here on the ground floor, the library up one flight of stairs on the first floor, and my flat above that. An attic and a cellar completed this typical Georgian terrace house—built up instead of out.

  I picked up my case, but set it down again when Bunter appeared.

  He came sauntering out of my office, his tortoiseshell fur groomed to perfection and his tail straight as a rod apart from the question-mark curve at its tip. After she had been widowed, Lady Fowling had always had a tortoiseshell cat, and he had always been named Bunter—this one, number seven, had come on board as a kitten not long before she died.

  He stretched, digging his claws into the Persian entry rug and retracting them before pausing at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the library. He twitched his tail with reproach, and I knew why— I was late. An entire day late. I spent weekends with my mum in Liverpool, but usually returned home on Sunday evening.

  After a pause—perhaps deciding he’d looked at his calendar wrong—the cat approached, arched his back, and rubbed against my leg. I made a show of rummaging in my bag before slowly pulling out a catnip mouse and dangling it before him. After we’d gone through the ritual of presentation, I said, “Right—you know the agreement. Get a fresh mouse, give up a manky mouse.”

  We headed upstairs. On the first-floor landing, I opened the library door, switched on the lights, and made straight for the fireplace, the cat on my heels.

  Sticking my hand in the coal bucket, I rummaged round. I’d brought Bunter a new mouse each week for several months now, and only recently had I instituted the one-for-one rule, and so it wasn’t as if his cache of toys would ever diminish.

  Now I pulled out not a lump of coal, but a sorry specimen of catnip mouse, stiff from dried drool and its catnip long since gnawed away. “Ewww,” I said, holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. “Would you like to say any last words?”

  But Bunter, mouth full of fresh prey, only watched as I carried it out. At the library door, I looked back to see him drop the newest addition into the bucket.

  I put my hand on the newel to continue to my flat upstairs, but turned back to Lady Fowling—her full-length portrait, that is—hanging on the library landing.

  “I wish you could be here tomorrow evening,” I said, confident that no one could hear me talking to a painting. In her enigmatic smile I read that, come time for the literary salon, she just might listen in.

  At last in my flat, I dropped my case, kicked off my shoes, and pulled the band out of my ponytail as I moved into the kitchen, phone in hand. I tapped an icon with a red heart labeled Val and switched the kettle on, but changed my mind and reached for a wineglass instead.

  “There you are,” he answered. “Are you home? How was the train?”

  “All right. Crowded. The fellow across from me made it through several cans of Tennent’s Lager—he must’ve started his journey in Glasgow. He offered me one—at least, I think that’s what he said. And your day—all four classes plus office hours?”

  “I had a student ask me today did a novel need a protagonist or could it be peopled only with secondary characters.”

  “Well, that’s a fine way to begin the week. Everything all right with Mr. Fish?” It was Val who had secured our first speaker, having heard Arthur Fish once speak at the Chiswick Book Festival. Arrangements had worked out perfectly when the author had graciously waived his fee in exchange for selling his own books at the salon. “You reminded him that there will be only twenty people there?”

  “He hasn’t had a new book out in two years,” Val said. “We’re doing him a favor as much as he is us. So, coffee tomorrow—the Pump Room?”

  “Perfect. I’ll be close by looking at that space near the Gainsborough.”

  “Pump Room it is, then,” he said. “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

  Dreams were all we had at the moment, and so I took them to bed with me, drifting off as soon as my head touched the pillow.

  * * *

  * * *

  The next morning, Mrs. Woolgar popped into my office first thing. “Shall we, Ms. Burke?” Her eyes fell on the corner of my desk where sat a pristine, rose-red file folder marked Exhibition. “Are we discussing that?”

  “No—that topic is for tomorrow’s board meeting.” I gathered a notebook, papers, and my mug of tea, and followed the secretary out to the entry and into her own office, where our morning briefings were held.

  Why? Why did we meet in Mrs. Woolgar’s office instead of mine? True, she had a comfortable space with oak bookshelves and desk, a floral Axminster rug, and a view of the street. But my office was larger with a wingback chair for my guest, plus two chairs and a tea table in front of the fireplace and a Victorian desk—walnut, highly polished to show off its swirls and bands. And, I had a view of the garden. My office—the curator’s office. And yet, I didn’t protest. One of the first things I had learned about working with Mrs. Woolgar was to choose my battles carefully.

  We kept the meeting brief—that evening’s literary salon our only concern.

  “I’ve written up the agenda,” I said, pushing a paper across Mrs. Woolgar’s desk, and tapping a finger at the starting time, seven thirty: Remarks by Hayley Burke, curator. I did so like the look of that. “We have two young women to serve the wine. Pauline is sending them over from the Minerva—they work for her at the pub. I’ll introduce our speaker. Apart from that, there’s little to do. He’s in charge of his own book sales.”

  “I wonder will he approach murder methods by discussing the author or the detective?” Mrs. Woolgar mused. “Will it be Sayers’s choice in Unnatural Death—”

  I kept my face in neutral as I scanned the cheat sheet in my head—Dorothy L. Sayers; detective, Lord Peter Wimsey. Yet to read Unnatural Death.

  “—or Inspector Grant’s intellectual ways in A Shilling for Candles—”

  Inspector Grant, let’s see—yes! Josephine Tey. Have yet to read any of hers.

  “—or examine only methods. What would he say about laburnum seeds?”

  Wait now, that sounded familiar—I think I saw the movie.

  I felt sure Mrs. Woolgar’s mention of specific Golden Age of Mystery authors was not meant to trip me up—we’d at least got that far in our professional relationship—and I should’ve been able to add some coherent thought to the discussion. But, put on the spot, I came up with nothing, and so carried on with business.

  “Once Mr. Fish is taken care of this afternoon, I will start on my assessment of the books we have on the shelves in the library,” I told her. “And study the list of the rare books that are in storage. I want to get an idea of the direction we’ll take for the”—breaking my own promise that we would not discuss this topic this morning, I half swallowed the last word—“exhibition.”

  The glow of the computer screen reflected in Mrs. Woolgar’s glasses and masked her eyes. Still, I thought I detected a look of displeasure.

  I popped up from my chair, excused myself, and fled.

  * * *

  * * *

  As I gathered my coat and bag, I rehearsed
my introductory remarks for that evening’s lecture, but by the time I headed out the front door of Middlebank and into a chilly January morning, my mind had shifted to my new venture—and the topic for the Society’s board meeting the following afternoon: the exhibition.

  The six-week series of literary salons—debuting that evening with Arthur Fish—had been booked out before Christmas, and so I’d had bags of time to concentrate on another project. I knew exactly what that should be—to mount a show focusing on our founder and her accomplishments. I called it Lady Georgiana Fowling: A Life in Words.

  We had no shortage of material. Not only the contents of the library, but also the more valuable volumes at the bank, which I had not yet fully investigated. Could one of them be worth as much as the Dorothy L. Sayers book I’d seen in an online auction going for six thousand pounds? I was unclear if all the stored books were signed editions, but I knew that many of the volumes at Middlebank had been inscribed with charming comments from the authors, such as To Georgiana, Albert thanks you for your support, and so do I! That from author Margery Allingham mentioning her amateur sleuth, Albert Campion. On my to-be-read list, of course.

  Enriching the library, we had her ladyship’s notebooks—three cartons full of everyday school exercise books, the kind with the marbled covers. She had kept them throughout her life, beginning with her marriage at twenty to Sir John Fowling, a baronet, seventy. Sir John had died ten years later, after which Lady Fowling’s casual interest in the Golden Age of Mystery became a lifelong obsession. Her notebooks teemed with the everyday—shopping lists, recipes— as well as thoughts on writing, her favorite authors and characters, and memories of her marriage.

  We also had Lady Fowling’s own novels to display. She had written fan fiction—borrowing a sleuth here and there from established authors—but her light shone brightest when she wrote about her own detective, François Flambeaux, a wealthy landowner from Dorset who disguised his serious, crime-solving nature by acting the gadabout.

  What we didn’t have was a venue. Middlebank itself was unsuitable for the sort of event with freestanding glass cases, scenes reconstructed, displays both lifesize and intimate. We didn’t have the space. The ground floor of the terraced house comprised the entry, two offices, and a kitchenette. The library itself took up most of the first floor—shelves, books, enormous table, chairs. My flat was on the second floor, and so that was certainly off-limits—as were Mrs. Woolgar’s accommodations on the lower ground floor. No, we needed a purpose-designed site.