The Bodies in the Library Read online

  We fell silent and watched the steady stream of traffic flow past my office door. At last, DC Pye stopped and put his head in.

  “What’s behind the locked doors—above and below?”

  “Our flats,” I explained. “Mrs. Woolgar and I live on the premises. We usually keep our doors locked—we wouldn’t want any visitors thinking our flats were part of the Society.” Not that we ever had any actual members of the public ask to come in—not since I’d been on staff. “But we leave them unlocked on Thursday mornings for Pauline.”

  “Are you the basement flat?” Pye asked me.

  “Lower ground floor,” Mrs. Woolgar corrected him. “That is mine.”

  “Mine’s on the second floor—above the library.”

  “And you heard nothing during the night?” the DC asked.

  “Not a sound. Good Georgian construction,” I replied.

  “With sympathetic updating by Lady Fowling in the 1980s,” Mrs. Woolgar added. “Middlebank is, after all, Grade II listed.”

  The DC didn’t seem interested in architectural standards. “And neither of you found anything disturbed in your flats?”

  We shook our heads.

  “The French doors in my flat that open onto the back garden are always locked and bolted,” Mrs. Woolgar said.

  “And the other door,” Pye continued. “In the . . . lower ground floor?”

  “The cellar,” the secretary said. “It’s used for storage—furniture mostly. Her ladyship’s.”

  “And that leaves the top floor. Attic?” the detective constable asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’ve some cartons up there, but that’s about all. Do you want me to get the attic key for you?”

  “I’ll leave that for the boss to decide.”

  “Could I make a pot of tea?” Pauline asked.

  DC Pye glanced over his shoulder and said, “Yeah, you’re all right.”

  Set free, Pauline dashed into the kitchenette, but returned to whisper a complaint that police had left dust everywhere.

  “They’re looking for fingerprints,” the detective constable said from behind her. Pauline flinched. “We’ll need to eliminate the three of yours from any we find. Sorry—that’ll mean a trip down to the station. This afternoon, if you can.”

  Mrs. Woolgar’s office was conscripted for what DC Pye called the “interview room” and DS Hopgood referred to as “a place to sit down and have a chat.” Pauline supplied tea and a plate of Marie biscuits. I went in first. As DC Pye escorted Mrs. Woolgar upstairs, I heard him say, “Boss—no sign of forced entry.”

  Hopgood followed me into the office and settled into Mrs. Woolgar’s chair, and I walked him through last evening and this morning, ending with a hopeful, “Was it an accident?”

  “No, Ms. Burke,” the sergeant replied. “Not an accident.”

  “He was . . . murdered?” My voice squeaked like a rusty gate.

  Hopgood ignored my question and asked his own. “You had no idea that he—or anyone else—knew how to get back in?”

  “How could he know? Was he a professional cat burglar? When did he get in? We left no windows open. After the group had left and Mrs. Woolgar returned, I switched on the alarm system, and this morning I switched it off when I left for my walk. And the doors were always locked.”

  “Security systems and locks are playthings in the hands of some, Ms. Burke. So—it looks as if this is one of your locked-room mysteries.”

  “Those are books, Sergeant Hopgood—stories.”

  Stories I hadn’t read. I hoped he didn’t start questioning me about plot lines.

  “And speaking of those books”—the DS sat forward in Mrs. Woolgar’s desk chair—“are they worth a great deal?”

  “Lady Fowling had three hundred and fourteen first editions by the various authors—many by Agatha Christie—that were each worth about two thousand pounds.” Hopgood’s eyebrows shot up and I understood the question. “Those books are safely in storage at the bank. Not forever, you understand—they’ll be coming out of the vault for an exhibition the Society will be mounting on the Golden Age of Mystery, so that the public can see the extent and deep interest the genre can engender.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Mrs. Woolgar didn’t hear and, just to be on the safe side, added, “We’re still in the planning stages, of course.”

  “But you have a library brimming with old detective books,” Hopgood pointed out.

  “Yes, but the total worth of the library upstairs might be two hundred thousand pounds on a good day—so much depends on the whims of the collectible book market.”

  The DS gave a low whistle. “For a few books?”

  “For five thousand twenty-seven books, and that includes Lady Fowling’s own novels. Among the collection in the library, there are a great many second and third editions—reprints. A new dust jacket or a freshly written preface can be quite appealing to the collector. Foreign language editions, too. Several shelves are books signed by the authors to Lady Fowling personally—a lovely gesture, but it can decrease the value. That means each book is worth less than fifty quid, so unless Trist had decided to nick the entire library one book at a time and didn’t think we’d notice, he wasn’t going to be a wealthy man.”

  “Pye has taken Mrs. Woolgar upstairs to do a once-over. She would know if any were missing just by looking?”

  “Oh, indeed she would,” I replied. “And she’d be able to tell if they had been misshelved or were a quarter inch out of alignment.”

  “So you’re saying no one could take a book away—even with permission?”

  “Middlebank is the home of the collection—we are not a lending library. Fans of books and mysteries come to us.” At least, that was the intention. What would this death do to my chances of revitalizing the Society?

  “Is there anything else of value in the house?” Hopgood asked.

  I shook my head. “Even our tea service is silver plate. Good quality, of course. Sergeant,” I continued, breaking my Marie biscuit into pieces too tiny to dunk, “apart from how he got in, how did he die? I saw the—” I gestured to the back of my own head. “Did someone hit him?”

  “It’s early days yet, Ms. Burke, and the medical examiner will have more information for us once she’s got him—”

  He seemed to swallow his next words, and I was glad of it. My eyes fell to my cup of tea, sitting in the saucer, surrounded by biscuit crumbs.

  “How well did you know the deceased?” Hopgood asked.

  “I didn’t know him—well. Just after I began my job here, I saw a notice that the writers group needed to find a new place to meet—their previous location was no longer available.” Actually, I was unclear on that point—I had a feeling they’d been booted out of a coffee shop or something. “And as their focus is writing Agatha Christie fan fiction, I felt they would be a good match for the Society.”

  “And were they?”

  “I . . . they . . . of course, I’m in no way able to . . .”

  A commotion at the front door caught our attention.

  “Where is Hayley?” I heard a familiar voice ask.

  DS Hopgood strolled out of the office, but one of his team stopped him with a question. I continued to the door. A uniform blocked entry to Harry, who stood on the threshold, clutching her laptop to her chest.

  “Harry, what are you doing here?”

  “You’ve got the police,” she replied, trying to see over my shoulder.

  “Yes, but how did you know that?”

  “Amanda,” she stated. “Amanda runs.”

  I waited for her to finish the sentence, and then realized she had.

  “Yes, that’s right. I saw her late one afternoon—running.”

  “And she ran past here earlier and saw the police cars. She texted the group to say did we know what was up, and no one did.
”

  “She texted you? And everyone answered?” Beads of cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

  “Yeah—no. Mariella, Peter—” She counted them off on her fingers. “But nothing from Trist yet. He’s probably at work. Was it a break-in?” She caught sight of a member of the coverall brigade coming down the stairs. “Cor—SOCO. What’s happened, Hayley?”

  Her answer came from the DS. “I’m Detective Sergeant Hopgood.” He held his warrant card over my shoulder, and I took a step away from the door. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Harry Tanner, sir. What’s happened?”

  “Harry, is it?” he asked.

  “Harriet, if you must,” she replied. “Although I prefer Harry. You’ve no idea the prejudice that still exists when it comes to a woman writing crime. Look how many of us still must resort to hiding our identity in order to be accepted—using initials and the like.”

  “Harry is a member of the writers group,” I explained.

  “Ah, in that case, Ms. Tanner, I’d like to have a word with you. One of your fellow writers, Tristram Cummins, was found dead in the library, and we have yet to sort out the circumstances.”

  Harry’s eyes grew as big as full moons. “My God, Trist?” she whispered.

  “Come with me, please.” DS Hopgood led the way to Mrs. Woolgar’s office.

  Harry lagged behind as she pulled her phone out of a pocket. Her thumbs flew over the screen, and before she’d reached the office door, the phone had been put away again.

  6

  One by one they appeared at Middlebank’s door. Not ten minutes after Harry went into the interview room, Mariella ignored the uniform’s request to wait on the pavement and used the pushchair—with baby inside—to barrel her way into the entry. When Harry emerged from her interview, Mariella left the baby with her and went in next. Before Mariella had finished, Peter arrived, running his hand over his slicked-back hair as he ignored me, but questioned the PC about what happened. He received no answers. At last, here came Amanda—changed out of her sleek running togs and back into her shapeless coat.

  After each member of the fan-fiction group cycled through the interview room and gave their statements, they—along with the baby in its pushchair—hung about in the entry, forcing police officers to navigate around them to get up or down the stairs. As the writers watched everything that went on, I stayed nearby, watching them.

  At last, DS Hopgood finished with the group, and the interview tables were turned.

  “Swept the scene, have they, Sergeant?” Peter asked.

  Mariella bounced the pushchair as the baby fussed. “Are you sending them on a door-to-door?”

  “What do you think, Sergeant—was he after the first editions?” Amanda speculated.

  “He didn’t care about the collection,” Peter scoffed. “‘An elitist’s hobby,’ he called it.”

  “You’ll be reviewing the closest CCTV,” Harry said, “but I doubt you’ll find anything nearer than the bus stop on the other side of Guinea Lane.”

  “You know who Trist would blame, don’t you?” Amanda asked her fellow writers.

  “Will you be willing to share the forensics report, Sergeant?” Peter asked.

  “Ms. Burke!” DS Hopgood shot me a look. “A word, please.”

  We stepped back into Mrs. Woolgar’s office, leaving the writers in the entry discussing what time they would meet at the station the following morning to have their fingerprints taken and sign statements.

  “This is not one of Mrs. Christie’s stories,” the DS hissed at me.

  “Yes, Sergeant.” I’d said the same thing to him, but I didn’t think now was a good time to point that out, not with his face turned this deep shade of beetroot.

  “They were asking me as many questions as I was asking them,” he complained. “So, I would like your assurance that these people”—was I grateful he didn’t call them my lot?—“will in no way hamper my investigation.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but I am not responsible for—”

  “Well, I’m making you responsible.” His raised eyebrows drew up into a bristly peak. “And tell me—what did that one mean by who the victim would blame?”

  “It was a joke, I’m afraid—Trist had made a few comments about Lady Fowling’s ghost moving the furniture.”

  “Ghosts!” he sputtered. He gave the cluster of writers in the entry a hard look, which none of them noticed. “Keep them out of my way.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  My head hurt and I was hungry. I’d never seen such a crowd at Middlebank, and for a moment I thought, Well, there you are—The First Edition Society can really pull them in, can’t it? I took two deep breaths before approaching the group.

  “As you can see, the police have everything here in hand,” I said. “Now, I realize you’re all quite upset about Trist”—although, if that were true, they hid it well—“but it would be better for the investigation if you’d clear out and let Sergeant Hopgood and Constable . . .”

  “Pye,” the four of them filled in.

  “Yes, Constable Pye. Let them do their jobs, all right?”

  In mutinous fashion, they remained where they were until I said, “So, move along,” as if they were yobs loitering on the pavement. They oozed toward the door like treacle, giving me plenty of time to add, “And I’m not sure about next week. I’ll let you know. Wait, I only had Trist’s number—could I have one of yours?” Once we had that sorted, I herded them out the door.

  “Ronnie?”

  The ME in her paper outfit padded out from the kitchenette, shaking what looked like an empty, clear plastic bag at Hopgood. He took it and held it up to the light while she stripped off her coveralls, and they had a brief and all-too-quiet conversation. The woman nodded behind her, and the two of them returned to the kitchenette— I followed as they continued outdoors and down the stone steps and to the back gate, where DS Hopgood turned to me and said, “Would you wait here a moment, please?”

  I watched as they entered Gravel Walk, a tree-lined public path behind the entire terrace. A wrought-iron railing ran along the back-garden side of the walk. It was painted black and punctuated by five-foot-high posts along the way—each post ornamented with a cannonball-sized topper. Now blue-and-white police tape stretched from the railing across the path, wrapped round a tree trunk, and back to the railing about fifteen feet down. The detective sergeant and medical examiner ducked under the tape, and she began a pantomime. Gesturing to one of the toppers, she spread her arms out and backed up toward the post. It took little imagination to understand her role-playing. Trist had hit his head on that particular cannonball topper.

  A man with a Westie on a lead and two women with prams passed, taking the impromptu detour that spilled them out onto the grass before they could rejoin the path farther down. They glanced at the activity with mild interest but didn’t stop. I scanned the area—so familiar and yet now so alien. On the other side of Gravel Walk a line of horse chestnut trees separated walkers from the road, and on the other side of the road was a car park for the tennis courts. This could be a busy area—at least during the day. If Trist got into Middlebank from the back and it was late at night, would anyone have seen?

  * * *

  * * *

  When Hopgood and the ME returned, she continued into the house and he pulled up beside me.

  “Well, here’s the thing, Ms. Burke,” he said. “It looks as if Mr. Cummins did indeed hit his head on something—on that rail topper down the way. Forensics has taken samples and will confirm that. And when he did, he must’ve collapsed onto the gravel—some of it is lodged in the wound. There doesn’t seem to be a great deal of blood, which indicates he likely died immediately.”

  I stared at the gravel path and the railing. “How awful,” I said. “But, if he died there, how did he get to the library?”

  “A bit of
a problem, isn’t it?” Hopgood brushed his finger across his mustache thoughtfully. “Did the victim meet someone along Gravel Walk behind the terrace—or was it an unplanned encounter? Was he pushed into the railing or did he fall? If he died out here, why take him in there? He’s a big man—tall, at least, although quite thin. Still, the body would’ve been unwieldy, and yet we find no indications that it was dragged off. The gravel tells no tales—it’s been fairly dry and would be easy to scuff over. Still, the body would be quite a load for one person. Or did it require two?”

  I didn’t answer, as I was too taken up with the speculative way he was looking at me. At last, the penny dropped. “Seriously? Do you think Mrs. Woolgar and I moved a dead man from Gravel Walk into our back garden, up the stone steps, through the kitchenette, and up another flight of stairs to the library?”

  “Doesn’t make much sense, does it?” he agreed. “But someone did it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  During the morning, police had had what DS Hopgood called a “shufti” throughout the house. That apparently meant a nose round, although why he couldn’t speak plain English was beyond me. Mrs. Woolgar had accompanied them for most of the tour while Pauline had remained in my office, except for forays into the kitchenette to make another pot of tea. The scene-of-crime officers had dusted doors for fingerprints, walked through our flats, stood in the doorway of the cellar—as far as they could get—and walked round my cartons in the attic.

  Now, as they began to move out, I glanced up the stairs and panicked. What about Trist? Hopgood followed my gaze and said, “The hearse has collected the body. And we’re finished with a sweep of the library, so you’re welcome to go back inside.”

  Great, thanks.

  “There’s a solicitor involved with the Society, no doubt?” the sergeant asked.

  “Mr. Duncan Rennie—I’ll give you his details. The firm goes back a long way with the family—Mr. Rennie’s grandfather started as Sir John’s solicitor.”