Death by the Book (23 page)

The older woman turned her attention to her lace. “Could have fooled me.”

“Please, Aunt Ruth—”

“No, I know when to leave well enough alone.”

“I just haven’t decided yet. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Then I’ll tell you something I haven’t told anyone. Not in years and years.” She stopped her work again, this time laying it completely aside. “You’ve heard of Bert Williamson, haven’t you?”

Madeline nodded. Aunt Ruth never talked about Bert or about anything that happened when she was young. “He drowned.”

Aunt Ruth’s mouth tightened. “He did. Two weeks before we were to be married.”

“That must have been terrible for you.”

“It
was
terrible. More terrible than you know. Because I had broken with him the night before.”

“You had? I thought—”

“Everybody thought. Everybody thought we were going to get married and I lost him tragically. Well, that was true . . . after a fashion. We found out that his father had embezzled some money from the bank where he was a manager, and it was all going to come out in the next day or two. My mother, your grandma Milner, told me I had to break it off with Bert before the scandal broke. I still remember the look in his eyes when I told him. Poor boy, as if he hadn’t had enough heartache already.”

“And then he died.” Madeline reached over to squeeze her aunt’s hand, heedless of her unraveled stitches. “Oh, Aunt Ruth. You don’t think he meant to—”

The older woman looked a little bewildered, as if the pain were a thing of yesterday. “I don’t know. I know his father ended things afterward with a bullet to the brain.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Aunt Ruth sniffed and straightened in her seat, her expression coolly resolute. “Well, I didn’t have to face the scandal with him. And I didn’t have to spend my life learning to live with his imperfections and failings, so I suppose I was saved a lot of heartache myself. I thought you might want to benefit from my poor share of wisdom, but I see you know your own mind. ‘Experience keeps a dear school, but fools will learn in no other.’”

Madeline dropped her head, feeling as if she were seven years old again, small and awkward.
You’re a young woman, darling, not
a child.
She could almost hear Drew saying it.

She looked up again. Aunt Ruth was once more peering over her glasses at her. “I do want to learn from you, Aunt Ruth.” Madeline steeled herself. “I do, and I have. And one of the things I’ve learned is that I don’t want to spend my whole life alone. What happened to Bert was terrible for you, I know, and
I don’t want to end up without the man I love, either. Can’t you understand that?”

The tiniest hint of a smile tugged at the older woman’s mouth. “Well, I was wondering if you loved him enough to speak for him. Land sakes, girl, I wasn’t going to let you marry a man you wouldn’t even stand up for.”

With a little cry, Madeline threw her arms around her aunt.

“You’re crushing my dress, child!”

Madeline released her. “He’s a good man, Aunt Ruth, truly.”

“Kind of you to say so.” Nick grinned at her as he came into the room. “Of course, you really shouldn’t talk about me behind my back.”

As usual, Aunt Ruth looked unimpressed. “Tweedle Dum and no Tweedle Dee, eh?”

Nick laughed. “Drew not home yet? I thought he’d be here for tea. Not like him to skip that. Especially not like him to miss dinner.”

“I’m sure he’ll be home soon.” Madeline put on a smile, forcing herself to look braver than she felt.

T
he windows of The Running Brooks were dark, but Drew could see a little light from the first floor. Surely she wouldn’t have gone to bed already. He knocked at the door, waited a moment more and then knocked again, this time a bit louder. He waited again and heard a rustling about inside. The lights came on.

“Who is it, please?”

Her voice had that touch of anxious bravado adopted by women who lived alone. No doubt she spent her evenings in her rooms above the shop, giving herself permanent waves and listening to the wireless.

“It’s Drew Farthering,” he called. “I hope I haven’t dropped by too late, Mrs. Harkness.”

She opened the door and, smiling, put down the heavy spanner she had held defensively in front of her. “Oh, Mr. Farthering, do excuse me.” She put her hand to the scarf tied around her hair. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. Is there something I can do for you? Do come in.”

He took off his hat and followed her inside. “I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you after closing time, but I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

“If I’m able. I was just making tea. Will you join me while we talk?”

“Yes. Lovely.”

She took him past the stacks of books to the back of the shop and then to the foot of the stairs.

“Excuse me a moment while I do up the lock. I don’t like to leave it open after hours.” She scurried to the front door, locked it, and hurried back. “Now, I hope you won’t mind sitting in the kitchen. It’s so much cozier.”

He followed her through her shabby little parlor and into the kitchen. It wasn’t much, just a sink and some cabinets and a gas ring for the kettle. A small table and two chairs finished out the room.

“It’s not a proper kitchen, you know. Hardly more than a place to brew up.” She smiled in apology, and he sat down.

“It’ll be fine, Mrs. Harkness. Now, do you—?”

“Ah, that’s the kettle.” She turned around and switched off the gas. “Why don’t you ask me what you want to know while I make the tea?”

“Remember when you sold me that book?” he asked as she fussed about. “The one on women who commit murder?”

“Oh, yes. Frightful thing, that. But really, I don’t know all that much about it.” She set two cups on the table and filled them both from the teapot. “I ordered it from a publisher in London. Not one I usually use, of course. Do take one.”

Drew picked up one of the cups. “No, to be sure, but you told me you had ordered it for a customer of yours specially.”

“Yes. That’s right.”

“Could you please tell me who it was for?”

She sat at the table opposite him. “Mr. Farthering, you know I can’t. My customers would stop trusting me with their orders if I spread gossip about them. I’m sure you can understand.”

“Yes, I can and I do, but this is important. I’m thinking maybe it has to do with the hatpin murders.”

Her face paled. “No. You don’t think so really.”

“I’m afraid I do. I promise I won’t say anything to anyone but the authorities, but I need to know who ordered that book from you.”

“The authorities? Is it as serious as all that?”

“Well, I haven’t said anything to them yet, but yes, it might be.”

She drank some of her tea, her brow puckered in thought. “I don’t know that it would be of any help, I’m afraid.”

“Was it Mr. Llewellyn?”

“Dear, sweet Mr. Llewellyn?” She laughed. “Oh, forgive me. You like honey in yours, don’t you? I’ll just get it.”

She stood and reached up to the shelf above the sink.

“May I get that down for you?”

“Oh, no.” She came back to the table with the jar of honey. “There’s rarely anything I can’t reach for myself. Mother always told me I’d be grateful for my height once the awkwardness was grown out of.”

“I generally find my height an advantage, but I suppose it’s different for a woman.” He put two generous spoonfuls of honey into his tea, stirring it in. “A bit intimidating to a certain type of man if a woman is taller than he.”

“I suppose it rather is.”

She passed him a plate containing slices of stale-looking
sponge cake, which he declined with a murmur of thanks. She wasn’t eating any of it, either.

“No, no,” she said. “I’m sure he couldn’t be a murderer. He brought me flowers.”

“But you said something about him intending to bruise himself up when he ran into you. Surely there would be no better way to explain away bruises that would otherwise be incriminating.”

“Don’t be silly. You might say the very same thing about me.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “But I suppose what’s really important is that you’ve enjoyed the investigation.”

The tea was scalding, and he took more of a swallow than he had planned.

“Enjoyed it?” he asked, the question coming out with a cough.

“Oh, you know. The mystery of the thing. Putting the clues together, hearing all the delicious, tawdry details that always come out in an inquiry. Wondering who’d be killed next and when. And how. Do have some cake.” She offered him the plate again and then drank more of her tea. “‘How’ is always one of the best bits, isn’t it?”

Again he declined the cake, watching her. “I suppose if it were just a game, a book or something, you know, it’d be smashing fun. I have to admit this one’s a real puzzler, too. Motives for each of the killings yet none of them related. Not really.”

“Hmmm.” She tapped the edge of her cup with a neat-looking fingernail. “And always some tall, thin fellow at the scene? That
is
telling.”

Drew struggled to keep his expression bland. “Of course, a short woman could never pass herself off convincingly as a man, either.”

She laughed. “No, I suppose not. I don’t know many who’d try anything that daft, though.”

“It’d be a pretty good wheeze, don’t you expect, if one wanted to get in and out of a place and not be known?” He drank more, leaving the cup only half full. “Really put one over.”

“I daresay Shakespeare’s lovely Portia and Viola and Rosalind all found it suited their purposes to go about in doublet and hose for a time. And they’ve been applauded for their wit and courage all the years since and won their gentlemen’s hearts to boot. Why, you yourself told me you’d take a clever woman over a beautiful one.”

“True enough. I suppose whoever’s done these murders is clever enough. As I said before, it would be smashing fun if it weren’t for those people being killed. That rather takes the shine off the thing, don’t you think?”

She smiled faintly, and there was a far-off look in her eyes. “And there was ‘the woman,’ Irene Adler. Even Sherlock Holmes himself was no match for her.

“‘Good night, Mr. Sherlock Holmes,’” he said, and he couldn’t help the quickness in his breathing.

“You didn’t notice that, did you? I suppose, being such a tiny hint, it was easy to pass over without realizing.” She patted the back of his hand as it rested there on the little table. “I was afraid I’d given myself away then. Still, I thought you’d figure it out in time. And you nearly did, too. I mean, you’d considered it might be a woman at least. I can tell that much.”

He remained staring at her, for a moment unable to speak.

“But for the scandal, she might have been queen of them all,” he managed finally. “‘A Scandal in Bohemia,’ of course. Not only Clarice Deschner the Bohemian, but Irene Adler who dressed as a man to outwit Sherlock Holmes.” He felt oddly dizzy, as if his mind didn’t want to accept the evidence laid out before him. “I suppose I ought to be flattered at the comparison.”

“Don’t forget the Bohemian-Tartar waiting for Falstaff to come down dressed as the old woman of Brainford from
The Merry
Wives of Windsor
. I had trouble with that one, you know. Did you ever figure it out?”

He shook his head warily. “What exactly did it mean, all that about being mismatched and hot-tempered and simply waiting for greatness to be humbled?”

“‘Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman,’” she quoted, looking quite pleased with herself now. “I’m sure you remember Slender’s servant Simple was the one called a Bohemian-Tartar, a mismatched comparison if there ever was one. Tartars are notorious for their tempers, aren’t they? How else would Simple do anything but simply? And who could be greater than great, fat Sir John Falstaff?”

She looked at him expectantly, and he finally nodded.

“I see. And if one descends or comes down, that’s a bit the same as being humbled, I suppose.”

Heavens, how her mind ran in strange paths.

Her eyes sparkled. “Women dressed as men, men dressed as women, plenty for a clever young man to choose from.”

“But they hadn’t done you any wrong.” He had to force his voice not to shake. “All those people, you hardly knew them. How could you have—?”

“Have killed them? I’d seen you in here, buying your murder mysteries, all the time eager for a new one to solve. I thought you’d rather enjoy a real one of your very own. Before, when you were involved in that investigation, the one with your mother and stepfather, it had to be difficult for you. Losing members of your own family had to have taken all the fun out of it. But these people, well, you didn’t really know them, did you? And you must admit, me not really knowing them either, not
having any reason to wish them harm, not benefiting from their deaths, no one would have ever suspected me of killing them, would they?”

Clearly she was mad. Drew’s heart was running like a trip-hammer inside his chest. He had to keep her talking until he figured out how to get himself out of this nasty predicament. She’d left the spanner downstairs in the shop, hadn’t she? They’d both had the tea. Neither of them had eaten the cake.
Lord God, you hold me in the palm
of your hand.

“No. No, that was clever of you. Quite clever.”

“That first one, your solicitor in Winchester, that was the most difficult. I tell you, I was giddy as a goose when I knocked on that door. But I had my lovely marble Shakespeare in my bag, and once he’d turned his back, it was done in a twinkle. The good doctor, well, all he could think of was making a birdie on the first hole. It was nothing to come up near him with the club he’d asked for, stab him through, and then run off shouting for help.”

“I suppose not. How’d you know? About him and about Montford?”

She smiled again. “One picks up the most interesting information while people are shopping. They talk about where they’ve been, where they’re going, who they know. You and Nick Dennison had been in a week or so before, and you told him you were seeing your solicitor in Winchester and the hotel and the time you were meeting him. There’s really no art to it, especially when one is invisible to one’s customers.”

Something chilling came into her smile. She was right. He had chatted on with Nick, with Madeline, with other customers about his activities. There had never seemed any harm in it. Not until now.

“So you decided then that you were going to . . .” He didn’t quite know what to call her murderous scheme.

“Start the game? Oh, no. I’d been thinking about it for a while before then. Our Mr. Montford just happened to be the best opportunity.”

“And Dr. Corneau?”

“I had him picked out some time ago. Annalee’s husband was mates with the boy who usually caddied for him at your golf club. All I had to do was send a telegram to get him out of the way that day and take his place.”

Drew nodded. “And I know Roger Morris was in here with Clarice the day she was murdered. I suppose that was when you slipped the cigarette case into Roger’s pocket.”

She giggled. The woman actually giggled.

“That
was
good, wasn’t it? I never liked that snobbish little tart anyway. She was always too good to buy anything but a newspaper here. It had to be London for everything. It was nothing to drop by her cottage once she was alone and tell her I’d found the book she wanted. I slipped plenty of Veronal into her tea while she was looking at the book, then left her in good spirits.”

“And left poor Roger to take the blame for it.”

“What a sniveling little hedgehog he is, simpering after her the way he did. He should be glad he didn’t marry the silly creature and have her lording over him the rest of his miserable life. And then there was that wretched American boy who kept on nosing around, trying to spoil everything.”

“The meddler. I take it he wasn’t really part of your plan.”

She shrugged. “Not at first. There was only meant to be three. After all, three is just right, isn’t it? Two really isn’t enough, and four is a bit much, if you ask me. I merely thought our Freddie
would do nicely to put a bit of uncertainty between you and Miss Lah-de-dah. She’s really the only person I hate enough to kill, but doing away with her would have spoilt everything.”

“Madeline?”

“The wretched little minx. I’ve seen her deviling you, pulling you close with one hand and driving you off with the other. How’s that for a way to treat anyone, much less the man she loves? Taunting and teasing? What does a girl like that know about how to treat a man? She’s had them all thrown at her all her life no doubt. What does she know about loneliness? About aching just to hear a man’s voice say something kind, something that says you’re a woman and not just a thing.”

“I don’t—”

“You were always kind to me, Mr. Farthering.” Her cheeks turned pink. “Drew.”

“Mrs. Harkness—”

“I knew that if I could make you see me, really see me, you’d realize how much better I was for you than she. You need someone who’s as clever as you are, someone who could keep you amused. You said yourself it had been smashing fun. She’s never done anything of the kind for you, has she?”

“No, she hasn’t. Why didn’t you kill her? I’d’ve thought you’d want to make away with her. Clear your own path, as it were. No?”

She smiled. “Oh, no. I couldn’t have you mourning for her for ages afterward. I wanted you to hate her, not make her into a martyred saint. And if she were dead, that’s what you would have done. Forever young and beautiful, she would have been your idol and still in the way. I couldn’t have that, now, could I?”