Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1) (12 page)

“I
’
m cursing myself because I didn
’
t invest in the surveillance system sooner. Never foresaw
someone committing murder and then manipulating the evidence from within our
ranks.”

Female laughter from outside the door made Piers, Martha and
Helen go rigid. Helen jumped into the lavatory while Martha made a quick dash
for the wardrobe.

“All done with your meal Mr. Cousins?”
a young nurse
asked, coming into the room.

“Oh yes, thank you,”
Piers replied.

“Where did you get the soup?”

“My friend brought it to me from home.”

“Best not let Ms. Davis know about it. She doesn
’
t like people bringing patients food in from the outside.”

“I promise not to tell, if you don
’
t,”
Piers
said.

There was a rattling of dishes and they heard the door swing
open.

“You
’
re safe with me, Mr. Cousins. Get
some rest. It
’
s almost lights out and Ms. Davis will be
down to give you your bath and tuck you in. Good night.”

The door closed and out popped the girls from their hiding
spots.

“Okay. We
’
ve got to dash, Piers,”
Helen said in a
hurried voice. “The police will be by tomorrow to see those videos. Might not
mention that Martha and I have already had a look. In the meantime, we
’
re going to The Grange to check on some things. Whoever might
have guessed at your password is extremely dangerous.”

“That
’
s right. You
’
ve
got to be careful. They
’
ve tried to cover their steps by
editing the videos but they don
’
t know if there
’
s a back-up, which makes things dicey.”
Martha said. “Did you tell Devry there
wasn
’
t a back-up?”

“No. He didn
’
t even ask. That means he
has to be innocent, right?”

“Not exactly. It may simply mean he isn
’
t
showing his concern which might make him look guilty. All it takes is a phone
call to the software company you bought the system from, to find out about the
options you purchased,”
Martha said.

“We
’
ve got to get out of here. Piers,
we
’
ll call later. Keep your cell phone close. If you think
of anything, call us,”
Helen said.

The girls waved good-bye and peeked out the door. Two nurses
sat in their station while a custodial person waxed floors with a loud machine.
The noise was a great cover for slipping down the hallway unnoticed.

“No time like the present,”
Martha said and off they went.

Half-way past the station, one tired nurse looked up and
gave them a quizzical glance but simply shrugged and went back to her reports.
They whipped through the reception area. When they were within yards of the
exit, an alarm blared above their heads.

Hospital personnel raced toward Martha and Helen. The girls
froze and stared with horrified faces at their pursuers. The sliding doors of
the entrance flew open and an emergency team yelled at them to stand back.
Martha and Helen jumped to the side and watched the hospital staff rush past
them pushing a gurney with a man on it.

The commotion swirled around the girls and then moved
rapidly away down the corridor. Helen and Martha stood gawking after the moving
maelstrom.

“Let
’
s get out of here.”
Martha said.

“I
’
m right behind you.”
Helen agreed.

Chapter 22

WAYFORD AND MARSDEN-LACEY WERE only fifteen minutes apart.
The day had been extremely long and both Helen and Martha were ready for a
glass of wine, soft beds and sweet dreams. However, they had one last errand to
run.

As they drove along the quiet English countryside, the
evening air was tinged with a coolness that helped to clear their brains of any
dullness or fatigue. Crickets and frogs sang soft lullabies in the hedgerow
while moonlight gave the rounded haystacks, still drying in the fields, a
ghostly luminescence. The Mini Cooper meandered along the peaceful country road
bordered by ancient stone walls, with the occasional pretty cottage tucked into
a grove of oaks or yew trees.

Pulling into the parking area to the west of The Grange,
Helen turned off the car
’
s motor and headlamps. She
slumped a bit, leaned over and hugged the steering wheel, resting her chin on
its top curve. Without the drone of the car
’
s engine, the
growing darkness and the deep silence of the night settled on the girls. The
silhouette of the old Elizabethan building, backlit by a bright crescent moon
hanging above its chimneys rose up in front of their car. For a moment both
girls were aware of their hesitation to get out and enter the dark, empty
building.

“You know what?”
Helen asked studying the scene through the windshield.

“What?”

“
I don
’
t want to
go in. This whole situation seems to be getting edgy.”

“
No kidding. I
’
m
wishing I had a big stick,”
Martha said. “Fortunately, I know how to use my hands as lethal weapons.”

Helen gave Martha
’
s hands a cursory
glance but didn
’
t seem impressed. “Yeah, right. We
probably ought to go get Chief Johns before we start looking around.”

“Nah, my instincts say it
’
ll be okay.
Remind me again of why we
’
re going in there.”

“I need to get my briefcase. I
’
ve got
my calendar and my phone charger in it.”

Martha dug around in the car
’
s
floorboard under her feet. Something was lodged halfway under the seat.
Reaching down, she pulled a bulky envelope out of its tight spot.

“Hey. Look what I found.”
She held up a good-sized, yellow envelope.

“Where was it?”
Helen asked.

“It must have fallen out of the bag Mrs. Thyme gave us and
my foot pushed it back under the seat.”
Martha smiled knowingly at Helen and arched one eyebrow. “What does this
remind you of?”

In less than a second, Helen remembered. “The envelope in
the video. It looks like the one Louis Devry took out of the satchel. This must
be the book of poetry Sir Carstons was trying to steal.”

“Yeah, but it
’
s not waiting for you at
The Grange, is it? It
’
s been hidden for some reason in a
linen closet at Healy.”
Martha plopped the envelope down on her lap and squeezed the metal
bracket which kept the envelope closed.

She pulled out the contents. It appeared to be many pages of
paper bound together. The writing was in someone
’
s natural hand but in an antique style. Helen
’
s
curatorial instincts were flashing red. She always got a funny feeling when she
was near something exceptional.

“Turn the overhead light on. May I look at it?”
Helen asked.

Martha, with a perplexed expression, handed Helen what
looked like a bunch of paper bound together and neatly enclosed in a plastic
bag. Helen riffled around in her purse and pulled out some small glasses.
Putting them on, she studied the front cover of the carefully hand-bound
manuscript.

“Martha, this isn
’
t a book of poetry.
In fact it isn't a published volume at all. It’s a handwritten manuscript. I
won
’
t take it out of the mylar bag until I have the right
equipment and gloves. Something isn
’
t right about this.
Let
’
s go get my briefcase and a few other things I need to
examine this more closely.”

“Okay, we should hide it again don
’
t
you think? Under the seat would be good. I
’
ll take my
flashlight with us.”
Martha
dug in the glovebox and unearthed a small silver flashlight.

They gently put the manuscript back into the envelope and
tenderly maneuvered it under the passenger seat. Martha put a few things around
it to hide it from view. Once out of the car, they locked the doors and walked
in the dark with the flashlight towards a side entrance.

The garden walkway was easy to traverse because the
moonlight illuminated the white gravel. A thoroughly modern metal door,
half-hidden by two flanking cypress shrubs, told Helen she had found the right
place. She waved her badge in front of the security pad and where a red light
once flashed, a solid green light was displayed. The door made a click sound
and Helen gave it a firm push.

Once both women were inside with the door shut, they found
themselves in a dark hallway eerily lit by a security light which gave off a
red glow. Helen felt for the light switch and flipped it on. They sighed in
relief.

“Glad you found it,”
Martha said. “The red light was definitely not giving me a warm, fuzzy
feeling.”

“Follow me. I want to see if there are any other manila
envelopes on Devry
’
s desk
.”

“
Good idea. I
’
m
right behind you.”

Louis Devry
’
s office was down the
hallway from the reception area, close to the library where Helen had been
working. Devry
’
s office door was unlocked. Helen reached
into the room and flipped on the light. From the doorway they could see how
tidy he kept his office but not one manila envelope could be seen anywhere.

“Hmm? What do you think, Helen? Should we maybe poke around
a bit? Lift papers up and look under them?”
Martha flicked a pile of papers on Devry
’
s desk so
she could see what was under them.

“Maybe we could also open a desk drawer or a file cabinet.”

With nothing to hold them back, they perused the room with
an efficiency the CIA would have found admirable but they still did not find a
single manila envelope.

“I think our work here is done,”
Martha said then pursing her lips and
settling her hands on her hips. “If he
’
s got the book
somewhere, then it has got to be on him. The manuscript we have is definitely
not poetry.”

“Or it wasn
’
t ever a poetry book in the
first place. Maybe it was what is inside the manila envelope in your car. Let
’
s get my stuff and go to your house,”
Helen said. “I want to get a better look
at that manuscript. My briefcase is in the library. Follow me.”

Tidying up after themselves in Devry
’
s
office, they made their way to the library. Helen found her briefcase and her
laptop, and checked to make sure she had cotton gloves and her phone charger.

“My tools are all here. We should be able to get some
information about the manuscript tonight,”
Helen said while packing up her things.

“My question is why was it found in a linen cupboard at
Healy? Odd, don
’
t you think?”

“Someone was hiding it, I guess. It
’
s
as if they were in a hurry. Who knows though? It could be something someone
laid there years ago.”

“Gotcha there, my dear. The envelope wasn
’
t
made in the UK. It had a ‘Made in Exton, PA
’
along the fold and
it had a bubble wrap liner. Couldn
’
t be too old,”
Martha noted.

“You
’
re good.
”
Helen was delighted
with Martha
’
s observational powers. “We would make a great
detective team.”

Without warning, the lights in the library went out. Martha
and Helen could feel their hearts leap into their throats. The meager light
filtering into the huge room came from the signs designating the exits.

“Get under the table,”
Helen said.

The old library table was made of oak. If someone had wanted
to do a jig on it, it wouldn
’
t have made a creak. Along
one side of its length were short shelves full of books and along its short
length was a desk which Helen had been using for her work. As they quickly hid
themselves under the table, the door to the library slowly opened. A flashlight
beam scanned the room.

Martha and Helen dared not breathe. From their position
under the table, they watched the beam of light flip around then stop right
above their heads on the tabletop. Light footsteps approached the desk but
because of the darkness, it was impossible to see who it was.

Instinctually, it dawned on them they were being stalked.
Martha and Helen could hear the blood banging in their ears.

Footsteps stopped and an unnatural voice pierced the
darkness, sounding metallic, crazed and false. “Come out, come out wherever you
are.”

Martha flinched and Helen wrapped herself around her
briefcase.

Fear made Martha act. With all her might she pushed one of
the bookshelves laying up against the table. The shelves were linked together.
If one went over, they all went. Shelves crashed one after the other against
the wooden floor, making a noise so tremendous it could have waked the dead.

Martha, forgetting her flashlight, scrambled out from under
the desk with Helen in tow. Then like two agile rabbits, they crawled towards
an exit at the back of the room.

The spotlight frantically flitted around the room searching
for its prey. Waiting until the beam of light crossed over the door where they
crouched, Helen pushed the door open. They scuttled through and allowed the
door to soundlessly close on its own.

“What do we do?”
Martha asked breathlessly. “Where does this lead?”

Helen shook her head, indicating she didn
’
t
know where they were, then took out her phone and dialed the police station.

“Helen, I hear someone coming.”

Quickly getting up off the floor, they maneuvered the best
they could in the dark.

A woman answered. “Marsden-Lacey Constabulary. Constable
Waters speaking. Hold please.”

Helen grimaced at the phone and with a flash of brilliance
used the phone as a flashlight until they found their way back to the reception
area. The huge entry doors had a bulky chain intertwined through the brass
handles making the main entrance an impossible escape route.

Unsure what to do or where to go next, they began to panic.
Then Helen saw the storage closet for the janitorial staff. Grabbing Martha,
she dragged her inside. With cat-like quietness, Martha and Helen concealed
themselves in between the mops, brooms and paper towels.

The phone came to life. “Yes? How may we be of help?”
the female voice
came back on the phone.

Helen said as quietly as possible into the phone, “Get DCI
Johns to come over to The Grange.”

“I
’
m sorry Madam but you will need to
speak louder,”
the
voice on the other end said loudly.

Helen covered the phone for fear the noise would give them
away. Cupping the phone, she persisted, “Listen. I am hiding in a broom closet
and being stalked by a homicidal killer. Get DCI Johns over to The Grange right
now.”

“One moment, please.”

Back on hold, Helen heard a Carly Simon song. Appropriately,
it was “Anticipation”
and it was in its third stanza. Helen held out the phone for Martha to
listen. “And these are the good old days”
finished up and the chorus began again.

Right then they heard the faint sound of a footstep outside
the doorway.

“Madam, are you still there? Madam?”
The policewoman
’
s
voice sounded like a train horn blaring their location to the crazy person in
the corridor.

Martha grabbed the phone and turned the volume all the way
to mute. They waited, not daring to move a muscle. Helen
’
s
phone flashed a call coming in from the police station.

She hit ‘
accept
’
but didn
’
t speak. Muffling her mouth with her hands, she said, being
careful to draw out her words. “H—e—l—p. The G—r—a—n—g—e,”
and then hung up.

Martha reached for Helen
’
s arm and
found it. She pulled Helen towards her and like a second grade schoolgirl,
cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered as softly as possible, “Grab a
mop or a broom and something to throw. If it opens the door, throw something
and rush it with your mop.”

A beam of light flashed through the door crack. Holding
whatever cleaning utensils they had managed to grab, they waited for the
inevitable. The delicate sound of a turning latch signaled that someone was
twisting the door knob. With every fiber of their bodies tuned and ready to
attack, the girls watched as the door inched open.

With a jab to Helen
’
s side, Martha went
first, screaming, “Ahhh!”

Helen plunged forward yelling, “Ahhh!”

They swung their makeshift weapons wildly in the dark.
Finally, they found a sturdy mass to take their blows.

“What the hell is going on? Get them off me!”
DCI Johns bellowed.

Had the lights come on at that moment, they would have
revealed two women, one with a toilet brush and one with an old mop handle,
beating a well-built policeman who was trying desperately to fend off their
attack.

Helen and Martha had been so keyed up, they didn
’
t slow their attack on the yelling, flailing person in the
dark. It was only when strong hands grabbed them and flashlights blinded them,
that they finally stood still, holding their cleaning utensils limply by their
sides.