Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (17 page)

A sorrowful sigh escaped through Jane’s lips as she realized that the scandal at Storyton Hall would affect the livelihood of each and every villager.

Eloise heard the sound and put an arm around her friend. “Buck up. Things will work out. Even if the news spreads around the country, it might not have the dire consequences you’re imagining. In fact, if Storyton Hall gets loads of media coverage, you may have more guests than before. You could never afford that kind of advertising.”

“But what about the murders?”

Eloise shrugged. “In this age of sensationalism, a violent crime could very well be a draw.”

“We wouldn’t be attracting our regular clientele, then,” Jane said. “In general, our patrons are smart, cordial, and gentle.”

“Oh, right!” Eloise snorted. “Look at your current batch. They spend all their free time reading about dead bodies. That’s not to say that they aren’t lovely. I’ve enjoyed getting to know every guest who’s crossed my threshold over the last few days, but a pair of murders isn’t going to scare them off. People won’t leave. You’ll see. If anything, you’ll get loads of calls asking if there are vacancies.”

Suddenly, a deafening mechanical whine pierced the silence. It sounded like it was coming from inside the bookstore. Jane was about to leap to her feet when Eloise shouted, “Don’t worry! That’s just Edwin doing demolition.”

“During business hours?” Jane yelled back.

“I told him he could only work when the shop was empty, so every time it clears out, I put in my earplugs and he starts using the tile saw or whatever it is he’s got next door.” Eloise smiled. “It never lasts long.”

She was right. The noise stopped as quickly as it started, and then they heard the sound of a power drill. It was less unnerving than that of the saw, and Jane sank back into her seat. “Is he going to renovate the café himself?”

Eloise nodded. “He’s really handy.”

“Can he manage such a big project? I thought he was a food writer.”

“He is, but he’s picked up all sorts of skills during his travels,” Eloise explained. “And he considers himself an anthropologist first and a writer second. In other words, he often stays in one place for several months to fully absorb the local culture. He finds temporary employment, and while researching the cuisine, he also learns a new trade and starts soaking in the language. At this point, he speaks six or seven, though I can’t even remember which ones. He picks things up like that.” She snapped her fingers. “It’s so annoying. I’m no good at anything unless I practice like crazy. It took me years to learn how to play the piano. Not Edwin. He could perform Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto from memory after just a few months. Do you know how tough it was to grow up in his shadow?”

“I bet.” Jane turned toward the café. Edwin Alcott was becoming more interesting with each passing day. “So where did he learn his construction skills?”

“Italy. He was doing a series on Tuscan food and took a job as a day laborer. He was part of a crew working on a major museum renovation,” Eloise said. “Unfortunately, the whole project was scrapped after one of the museum’s priceless artifacts was stolen. A book, actually. By that point, Edwin had finished his series of articles and learned all about framing, dry wall, and laying tile, so he moved on to the next country.”

Jane’s throat had gone dry. “What kind of book was taken?”

“An illuminated manuscript,” Eloise shook her head over the loss. “Edwin said it was a beauty too. A book of hours filled with gorgeous sixteenth-century illustrations done in tempera, gold, and ink on vellum.” She sighed wistfully. “I hope the thief treated it with care. There aren’t many books like that left in this world.”

Except, perhaps, in the secret library of Storyton Hall
, Jane thought and then felt a chill in her bones. Was it pure coincidence that Edwin had moved back to Storyton at the same time Alice Hart had appeared? Could he somehow have known of the existence of a rare and unusual copy of
Lost Letters
? A copy that had an unopened letter from Adela Dundee hidden under its dust jacket.

Jane furrowed her brow. She had yet to deduce how Alice Hart had tracked the book to Storyton Hall. It was time to finish reading the collection of Adela Dundee letters that had set the recent series of events in motion.

“I’d better get going,” Jane said and finished her last sip of pumpkin latte. “I need to make sure everything’s in order for tonight’s performance.”

“‘The play’s the thing’!” Eloise exclaimed in a British accent.

“Please, no
Hamlet
references,” Jane begged. “Things at Storyton Hall are far too close to a Shakespearean tragedy for my comfort.”

After thanking Eloise for being such a good listener, Jane called for the boys and walked to where she’d left her bike leaning against the picket fence. When she gazed at the dirty window of what was once the Loafing Around Café, she thought she saw a face staring back at her. She looked down for a brief moment to release her kickstand, and when she glanced at the window again, the face was gone.

And then the twins appeared in a flurry of movement and noise, shouting comic book quotes and pumping their fists in the air. Together, the trio mounted their bikes and headed for home.

•   •   •

With such dramatic
goings-on at Storyton Hall, Jane knew that the chance of keeping her employees’ tongues from wagging was unlikely. However, she deemed it necessary to send an e-mail to her staff explaining that Sheriff Evans was looking into the cases of the two Rip Van Winkles. She also asked that all inquiries concerning the subject should be directed to Butterworth or herself. Her in-box was full of unread messages, and she did her best to read and respond to the most pressing ones before shutting down the computer and heading to the Madame Bovary Dining Room.

Greeting the hostess on duty, Jane stood with her at the podium and watched as the last guest was seated for the special dinner theater performance of
Murder at the Vicarage
. Most of the guests, who were already tipsy after enjoying cocktails on the terrace, were about to be treated to a sumptuous meal of field greens with barley and red pear, creamy butternut squash soup, pomegranate roasted chicken, and mustard trout with capers. If the diners had any room left for dessert, they could choose between a warm apple-walnut cobbler with a scoop of maple-vanilla ice cream or a decadent chocolate-cranberry fudge cake.

Jane and the boys ate the same fare as the guests. They pulled stools up to a prep counter in the kitchen, ate their sumptuous meal, and lavished Mrs. Hubbard with compliments. Mrs. Hubbard glowed with pride when the twins told her that her soup didn’t taste “like a yucky vegetable,” and she let them sample both desserts. After supper, Jane saw that her boys were tucked away in her aunt and uncle’s spare bedroom with a DVD of
The Jungle Book
, and then she stretched out on Aunt Octavia’s living room sofa and resumed reading
Lost Letters
.

The apartment felt sleepy and tranquil. Uncle Aloysius was closeted in his office, and Aunt Octavia had fallen asleep on the sofa across from Jane’s. Muffet Cat was snoozing on her belly and Jane tried not to laugh as the cat’s body rose and fell with each of her aunt’s breaths. Muffet Cat looked like a black-and-white buoy bobbing up and down in a gentle ocean. He also looked deeply content. Aunt Octavia’s soft snores didn’t bother Muffet Cat in the least, and Jane actually found that the rhythmic noises helped her concentrate on her reading. She was soon swept into Adela Dundee’s past.

Adela had written most of the letters to her husband, George, but there were several short missives to her agent, Richard Cobb, as well. Cobb had been Adela’s agent for her entire career, and Jane could tell from the easy and casual language in Adela’s letters that she respected and trusted this man.

It was while reading the last of the letters meant for Richard Cobb that Jane believed she might have stumbled upon the clue that had led Alice Hart to Storyton Hall.

Clutching the book to her chest, Jane crossed the rug separating the two sofas and dropped to her knees next to her aunt’s slumbering form.

“Aunt Octavia,” she whispered. “Wake up. I need to ask you something.” Jane put a hand on her aunt’s fleshy arm and gave it a little shake.

Muffet Cat reached out a paw and laid it on the exposed skin of Jane’s wrist. His claws were still retracted, but a slit of yellow eye warned her that she would be punished should she shake Aunt Octavia’s arm again.

“Forgive me for interrupting your nap,” Jane said, addressing both Muffet Cat and her aunt at once. “But this is important.”

“What is it?” her aunt demanded without opening her eyes.

“A clue,” Jane said. “At least, I hope so. One of the letters in this book was written to Adela Dundee’s literary agent. Apparently, the letter was never mailed. It was still sealed when Alice found it in that historical society in Cornwall. Here are the lines I want you to hear: ‘
After much thought, I have decided to heed your recommendation. Ferrari will not be retired just yet. He has more work to do, as do I. And I’m not certain that I’ve settled on the ending. In any case, I’ve sent a few scraps of paper to a storied knight for safekeeping. He will serve as its guardian. It was Richard who suggested I mail the package to America as a precaution. According to his friends at the War Office, not even the remotest corner of London will be safe once the bombing starts . . .
’”

Jane trailed off. Looking at her aunt, she said, “Wasn’t there a Steward named after a knight?”

“Percival!” Aunt Octavia cried, startling Muffet Cat. He jumped off the sofa with an indignant meow and immediately leapt up onto Jane’s. He flopped down on Jane’s splayed book and blinked at her with a snide expression that Jane had learned was the feline equivalent of a human sticking out their tongue. Paying no attention to Muffet Cat, Aunt Octavia held out her hands. “Pull me up, Jane, dear. I can’t catch my breath from this position.”

Tugging her aunt upright, Jane waited expectantly while she readjusted the throw pillows. “Adela must be referring to Percy, my father-in-law. He was the guardian of Storyton Hall before Aloysius. Somehow, Miss Hart discovered that the knight Adela Dundee referred to in her letter was Percival Steward.”

“Adela hints at the Steward surname by using the word ‘guardian.’ And she also says ‘storied.’ Alice must have researched well-known bibliophiles who were also named after a famous knight. From that point, it couldn’t have been hard for her to realize that Percy Steward, a man who lived in a place called Storyton Hall, must have been the recipient of Adela Dundee’s unpublished mystery. The last case of Umberto Ferrari.” Jane had to pause for a moment. “She refers to it as ‘a few scraps of paper,’ but no matter its length, it’s still an incredible treasure. And to think. It’s here. Right above my head.”

“As are many other wonders,” her aunt agreed.

“Which we should share with the world!” Jane cried softly. “Stories are meant to be read—not stored in airtight containers until the end of time. Keeping them to ourselves—it’s nearly as criminal as using poison dart frog toxin.”

Aunt Octavia frowned. “Not true, my dear. Most of the holdings in our secret library were meant to remain secret. Either because they would have caused political unrest, were threats to the lives of an individual or to an entire group of people, or condoned intolerance, injustice, racism—the darker side of human nature.”

“But surely the danger must pass eventually. The completed copy of
The
Mystery of Edwin Drood
, for example. The men Dickens mentioned as having corrupted the prison system are all dead. We could sell the copy and secure our future while delighting Dickens fans the world over!”

“It is not ours to sell or share,” Aunt Octavia said sharply. “We are but custodians of the treasures entrusted to us. Sometimes by the authors. Sometimes by people in positions of power. But more often, by good men and women merely trying to protect and preserve knowledge.” She smiled tenderly at Jane. “I know it’s hard to accept. But think of our special collection as you would a museum filled with artifacts.”

“You can still look at things in a museum. No one gets to read or study or benefit from the most incredible library of all time.”

Aunt Octavia released a little laugh. “We do let a few carefully screened individuals view certain materials. Sinclair will tell you more about that once our current crisis has passed. At the moment, I think it’s more important that we talk to him about this Adela Dundee manuscript.”

Jane knew that her aunt was right, but she silently vowed to resume the debate when things were less frantic. “He’s probably rooting through trash.”

“That is precisely what he’s doing,” said Uncle Aloysius from the doorway. “Sheriff Evans phoned about an hour ago to ask for our cooperation and assistance. I knew you were busy looking for clues in Miss Hart’s book, so I fielded the call.” He walked behind the sofa and planted a featherlight kiss on the crown of Aunt Octavia’s head. Jane loved how her uncle always drew near to his wife when he was worried. It was as if her presence gave him an infusion of strength. “The results of the lab work were presented to Evans late this afternoon,” her uncle continued. “It would appear that Mr. Hampden’s death resulted from what turned out to be lethal contact with golden dart frog toxin. Mr. Evans informed me that the toxin was placed around the tip of Mr. Hampden’s nasal spray. Ms. McKee’s remains and effects are still being examined, but she also had nasal spray among her toiletries. The sheriff, who has sent every available deputy to search alongside our staff, said that the syringe Mr. Collins brought to Storyton Hall must be located tonight. It’s of utmost importance.”

“A genuine needle in a haystack,” Aunt Octavia said, waving her hand dismissively. “Really, Aloysius. Do you think the killer would be dumb enough to toss the murder weapon in the rubbish bin? Because the Collins boy doesn’t have it, just as he doesn’t have our copy of
Lost Letters
, then I suspect the sheriff has yet to apprehend the real culprit.”