The Burning Library, page 7
Sarabeth smiled.
“The rugby club has a social tomorrow night, at the student union. I expect Jamie will drink a lot, as usual. He might have an accident on the way home.”
“That will hurt them.”
“It’s the best we can do at short notice. We need to strike back fast. Charlotte agrees.”
“As do I. Who started the fire at the lab, do we know?”
“Not yet. Charlotte thinks it could have been one of the women who worked in the canteen.”
“Nobody checked her out?”
“An oversight we’re going to have to live with.” Diana hated to make mistakes. They weighed on her. She wondered if she looked as tired as she felt. Her adrenaline was dipping, and there was still so much to do.
“Can you please tell our girls about our plans for Jamie? I would do it myself, but Charlotte wants me in London. She promises me it’s good news. She wants me to bring Anya, too, to introduce her to the benefactor. She says it’s time.”
“It’s way too soon for her to meet him. We need to get her settled here first.”
“I agree. I said the same, but Charlotte wants what she wants. She’s spooked. She has been since we disposed of Eleanor Bruton.”
“It’s not like her to be so squeamish,” Sarabeth said. “She’d also do well to remember that the Order of St. Katherine isn’t averse to taking lethal action. We’re more certain than ever that they killed that detective, by the way, Lillian Shapiro.”
Sarabeth was always braver talking about Charlotte than to her face, Diana thought, but it was pointless to say so. “I thought they must have,” she said. “Shapiro must have been digging and got too close, so they’ve done us a favor, too.”
“We always knew that there would be a human cost to finding The Book of Wonder,” Sarabeth said.
“We did,” Diana agreed, though she thought Sarabeth sounded haughty, which bothered her. For Diana this wasn’t a comfortable thing to think about, let alone talk about. It was time to end the conversation.
“Are you clear on what needs doing about Jamie Whitelaw?”
“Crystal clear.”
“Thank you.” Diana stood and smoothed the front of her skirt. “Okay. We must be ready for Anya’s arrival.”
“She’s a born teacher’s pet, so I imagine that will be any minute now.”
Diana allowed herself to laugh. “Indeed. The timing of everything is terrible, so it’s all the more important that her first day is a good one, especially as I need to tell her that she and I are traveling to London tonight.”
Sarabeth reached out, took Diana’s hand, and squeezed it briefly before letting go. “Anya Brown may be valuable property, but she’s also just a pawn, our pawn, and we’ve planned our moves.”
Yes, Diana thought. We have. But she never stopped worrying whether they’d thought enough moves ahead to avoid being checkmated by the Kats, because whoever found The Book of Wonder first would use it to become immensely more powerful, and to crush their opposition.
Clio
Every so often, over the summer, Clio had taken out the poem and read it again.
After discovering it, she’d left the island earlier than planned, finding enough cell reception to call for a boat to her get back to the mainland the next day. Family emergency, she’d lied. She’d stashed the poem and its envelope in a freezer bag, the closest thing to an evidence bag she could find, and brought them with her.
Once she was off the island, away from its isolation and the strangeness of its otherworldly atmosphere, she found she wasn’t sure what to do about the poem. At first, she felt determined to show it to her boss or to the Scottish police and insist that Eleanor’s death be reinvestigated, but her rational mind reasserted itself when she thought about how her colleagues might react. She was going to sound like a fool if she claimed it was evidence of anything on its own. And she couldn’t forget Lillian’s warning not to let anyone know what she was doing.
She also couldn’t prove who had written the poem or hidden it—the fact that it was carefully printed in block capitals would make handwriting analysis very difficult, even if she did manage to get a sample of Eleanor Bruton’s writing. And then there was the fact that she hadn’t the first clue how to interpret the poem. For all she knew it could be part of a prank, perhaps a game played by a family staying at the cottage. Maybe an elaborate treasure hunt or an attempt to terrify a sibling.
She put off a decision all summer and threw herself back into work. Operation Platinum, a demanding investigation into a forged painting and an associated money-laundering ring, was helpfully all-consuming. She did a lot of overtime, some undercover work. She performed well, got some praise, got noticed. It helped to keep her grief at bay.
In September, two things happened.
First, there was a lull at work, and she started to think about Lillian and about the poem again. She did a bit of quiet digging and found an address for Eleanor Bruton’s family home.
Second, she was sent to Bristol to assist the Avon and Somerset Police on an inquiry. When she was looking at transport options for the journey, she realized that if she drove, it would be easy to take a quick detour to the Bruton house. It was too tempting to resist.
* * *
The sleepy village where Eleanor Bruton had lived looked picture perfect. Thatched cottages surrounded a duck pond overhung by a weeping willow, its fronds trailing in the water. To one side was the village green, with a pretty cricket pavilion and a well-worn pitch.
She followed the GPS down a narrow lane and parked at the end beside an ancient village church. The old graveyard encircling the church had beautiful views of the chalk hills around it.
The Old Vicarage was directly across the road from the church, a large house built from the same red brick as the cottages, probably Georgian, Clio thought. There was a sense of comfortable neglect. Roses rambled over the porch, just about still in flower, long, whippy stems tangled and in need of pruning.
Clio rang the bell. It chimed deep inside the house, and a dog barked. When the door opened a heavyset Labrador barreled out and greeted her as if they were old friends.
“Barney! Shush! Down!” The woman grabbed the dog by its collar and pulled it back into the house. She was in her early thirties, Clio guessed. They were of a similar age. The woman was slim and fit looking, with flushed cheeks and long, uncombed blond hair. She wore skinny jeans, Uggs, and a Breton top.
Clio flashed her badge. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I was wondering if you have a few minutes to talk about Eleanor Bruton?” She spoke softly, conscious of the family’s loss, but the woman answered brusquely: “Oh, God. We thought all that was done with.”
“It’s just a couple of extra questions, nothing to be alarmed about.”
“Well, look, yes, of course, come in, I suppose. The baby’s just waking up, so do you mind waiting while I get Simon?”
In the sitting room at the front of the house a carriage clock ticked somberly on the mantel shelf. The décor was old-fashioned: hunting prints and dowdy landscapes in elaborate frames, some sepia-toned photographs of family members (she assumed), stiff in Victorian finery.
Clio examined the bookshelves. She found Debrett’s Peerage and multiple biographies of male politicians and explorers. There was a collection of books relating to the Roman Empire. Clio was cautious about stereotyping—if there was one thing her job had taught her, it was that you shouldn’t—but the interests on display seemed very masculine.
Simon Bruton was a big man with doleful eyes, fleshy cheeks, and a prematurely thinning crown of fine, pale hair. He wore the country uniform of the well-to-do: checked shirt, corduroy trousers, and a vest.
“DC Clio Spicer,” she said. “From the Scotland Yard Art and Antiques Squad.” She showed him her badge and omitted to tell him that this wasn’t, strictly, official business.
“How can I help you?”
Clio offered her condolences for his loss, and he thanked her gruffly, showing a little more emotion than his wife. She asked, “Are you aware of whether your mother came into possession of a piece of embroidery before her death?”
“She did, and I wish I’d thrown the bloody thing in the bin when I had the chance. Mummy was obsessed with it. Why do you ask? Was it valuable?”
“I’m working on a case it might be relevant to, but I’m afraid I’m not allowed to share details. As to value, I’m not sure.”
“I wanted to get it valued, but Mummy ran off to Scotland and took it with her before I had a chance to. When they sent her things back after she died, it wasn’t there.”
“Are you sure she took it?”
“I saw her pack it myself.”
Clio felt goose bumps as he carried on talking. “Honestly, the whole thing was so bizarre. She took off without any warning after our baby was born. The last time she saw him he was five months old, and he’s eighteen months now. Can you believe it? One minute she was saying she was so looking forward to being a grandmother, the next, she does a disappearing act.”
“Can you describe the embroidery?”
“Not very big, maybe two-thirds the size of an A4 piece of paper, torn across the top. Tatty. Old.”
“Any idea where she got it from?”
“No. There was a horrible accusation from the family who live at the manor house that she stole it from them. I didn’t for an instant believe it, because Mummy never broke the law. It’s unthinkable, and they had a nerve to even suggest it after she cared for one of their relatives.”
Clearly, he still felt very angry about this. Clio asked, “Where do you think she got it from?”
“She’d been collecting scraps of fabric for years, from secondhand shops, jumble sales, and the like, because she did a lot of sewing. She was into all that Women’s Institute sort of stuff. Crafts and the like. Flower arranging for the church. Her collection’s still here. You’re welcome to look at it if you’d like.”
She followed him through the house to a room at the back, which was small but cheerfully furnished and decorated. A large window overlooked a well-stocked garden that was settling into its autumn droop. A botanical print of a palm frond hung prominently on the wall beside it.
“This is where Mummy spent her time whenever me and Daddy didn’t need her,” Simon said. Clio glanced at him to see if he detected anything wrong with still calling his mother “Mummy” at his age or with the casual sexism he was displaying. Apparently not.
She was drawn to a circular table nestled in the window, piled with books.
“That’s Mummy’s booky-wooky table,” Simon said. “That’s what we called it.”
“Right,” Clio said. What a way to infantilize Eleanor Bruton’s interests.
Simon opened the lid of a wooden chest. “Here’s the box of rags.” Again, a casually derogatory description. Maybe Eleanor Bruton had a better sense of humor about such things than I do, Clio thought. She hoped so.
Fabric swatches were folded neatly inside the chest, silks, linens, and cottons in all colors, some embroidered or trimmed with lace. Clio carefully removed some of them. Simon stood over her for a few moments, then his phone rang. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, and stepped out to take the call.
Clio rummaged through everything in the chest, but there was nothing of interest. None of the fabric seemed particularly old or special. She examined some of the books on the table. They were highbrow, and niche, histories of bookbinding and embroidery. Again, she felt goose bumps, and she had just started to flick through one of them when Simon’s voice startled her.
“She was always reading,” he said, watching her from the doorway. “She belonged to a book club. They would meet here sometimes.”
“What kind of book club?”
“Fiction reading. Women’s books.”
Clio held up the book she was holding. “Did she ever talk about these books?”
He shook his head. “I think those are her old university books. She went to Cambridge. That’s where she met Daddy.”
Clio knew he was wrong. The book she was holding had a library sticker and bar code inside the front cover. Eleanor had borrowed it from a library in Salisbury. Presumably, she was supposed to have returned it by now.
Simon’s phone rang again. He glanced at it. “Busy morning,” he said.
She took the hint. “I should leave you in peace,” she said. “Thanks so much for your time.”
Clio sat in her car for a few moments after leaving the Brutons’ house. If Eleanor Bruton had been educating herself about embroidery and bookbinding, then she must have at least suspected that her piece of fabric had something to do with the fragment in the British Museum. It was too much of a coincidence otherwise.
Lillian had believed they were related, too.
Goose bumps. For the third time.
Anya
Sid was sleeping peacefully beside me when I woke up early to the sound of the ocean. I drank my coffee in a cozy spot on the window seat. It was my first day at work, and I was a bag of nervous energy.
I was counting on this place to take the doubts that had plagued me and disperse them over that cold North Sea, leaving them adrift, unable to find their way back to me. I was excited about the manuscripts, about where they might lead me.
The walk to the Institute took no more than five minutes, just the right amount of time to get soaked and cold. I was early and the place felt empty, office doors shut.
The secretary, a gentle, soft-spoken older woman with a Scottish accent, let me in and showed me up to my office.
It was a good room with a view of the courtyard and a large desk where I could spread out books and papers. There was also a comfortable office chair, a generous wall of shelving, and a sofa and easy chair where I imagined myself running tutorials. I unpacked the few books I’d carried in with me and heard voices drifting up from the courtyard, so I peeked out the window.
Students, passing through, were exchanging a few words with Giulia Orlando, who was standing on the steps. It was time to go downstairs and say hello, find out what plans my colleagues had for me today. I took a deep breath, hoping it would gift me some courage, and heard Professor Trevelyan’s words: You have a gift, but you’re an exceptional scholar, too.
Downstairs, in the beautiful back room, Diana Cornish was with Sarabeth Schilders and Karen Lynch. A pot of coffee and some pastries were laid out and the fire was already lit. We exchanged pleasantries and news about our summers until Giulia joined us.
“So good to see you, Anya,” she said.
“We feel very lucky,” Diana said. “Okay, to business. We meet together once a week, generally on Friday mornings, depending on everyone’s schedule.”
She handed me a sheet of paper. “These are the teaching hours we currently have scheduled for you.”
There was almost nothing on it. Just one lecture on Folio 9 and two seminars weekly. I looked at her in surprise.
“It’s not a lot, because we want to give you as much time as possible with the manuscripts,” she said. “And on that note, I hope you won’t mind accompanying me to London tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Our benefactor would like to meet you in person.” Diana caught my expression. “Ah. You assumed Tracy was the benefactor, which is understandable, but no, she’s not. He’s looking forward to meeting you, though.”
I tried not to show it, but I felt blindsided. The benefactor’s identity mattered, because signing up to work on their collection meant signing up to some kind of relationship with them and whatever that entailed, good, bad, or ugly. It wasn’t a relationship I was comfortable in committing to without meeting them first, or at least knowing who they were, but it seemed that was exactly what had happened. I wondered why they hadn’t been clearer with me about this and kicked myself for making the assumption about Tracy.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Diana didn’t answer the question. Instead, she told me they’d booked me a flight and a hotel, that the secretary would have details for me later. “I’m busy all day today,” she said. “But I’ll meet you tomorrow morning, in London, and I can’t wait! In the meantime, Sarabeth and Giulia will make sure you feel at home.”
“Who is the benefactor?” I repeated the question. She was on her feet already, exuding an air of busyness and importance.
“Don’t sound so worried!” she said. “I’ll introduce you in person tomorrow.” I felt gently chided, as if I’d been silly to ask, and I was too embarrassed to ask again in front of everyone.
I spent the morning settling in. I organized my office and met the students who would be in my seminar groups. The secretary ran me through a bunch of admin and their security systems. She gave me a pass, a card with my new email address and a temporary password on it, and my itinerary for London.
Sarabeth suggested I go home at lunchtime to pack. Back at the cottage I found Sid in his office, setting up his tech.
“I think they should have asked if I wanted to go before booking everything,” I shouted up to him, as I threw things into a bag I’d only just unpacked.
“It’s only twenty-four hours. It might be fun.” He was coming down the stairs. “Where are you staying?”
I checked. “Mayfair.”
“And you’re complaining?” he asked.
I googled the hotel. It was fancy. “I guess I’m spoiled already,” I said.
When it was time to go, he hugged me tight. “See you tomorrow.” I felt silly for making a fuss. This was my new life. This was work now.
As I arrived at the airport, I got a message from Mum hoping I’d had a good first day. Once I was through a long security line I called her back.
Viv answered. “She’s gone to bed, I’m afraid. Do you want me to wake her?”
“No,” I said, feeling a little twinge of guilt. “How has she been?”
“Average, I’d say. We managed a walk to the post office, which was good, and she got a letter with the date of the next scan. It’s in November.”
