The Silence Of The Library

TWENTY-ONE

Would anyone really kill in order to obtain a rare copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion? Even if a collector had paid twenty thousand dollars for one?

I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew people murdered for far less and for even more bizarre reasons. Kanesha needed to know about this. I copied the link for the page and e-mailed it to her with a brief explanation. All she had to do was check Carrie Taylor’s collection, and if the copy with the incorrect title turned up, then the book wasn’t the motive. If it was missing, she might have a lead on why Mrs. Taylor was killed.

What about Aunt Dottie’s copy? My hand shook a little as I reached for the book. I opened it and found the last page of the text.

I almost dropped the book.

Aunt Dottie’s copy was one of the rare ones. There it was, right on the page. The Clarevoyant’s Clew.

I examined the book. Beautiful condition, I thought. Not exactly pristine, because it had obviously been read a few times. The dust jacket was intact, no tears or chips, and the colors were bright and crisp. My late aunt had loved her books and always took great care of them, even as a child. She had helped instill that love in me.

I had better look after this copy, I realized. There was no way I would ever sell it, and I decided against lending it for the exhibit. I would feel better knowing it was in its place on the shelf upstairs. It would probably be perfectly safe in a locked exhibit case in the library, but I didn’t want to take the chance of having it stolen or damaged.

I wondered idly if both Aunt Dottie’s copy and Carrie Taylor’s had come from a bookstore in Athena. I remembered my aunt telling me about one on the square when she was a child, back in the late thirties. At some point she must have told me the name, but it had gone out of business by the time I came along.

My laptop beeped to let me know I had new e-mail. I set the book gingerly aside and checked the screen. I had a response from Kanesha. Terse, as usual: “Thanks. We’ll check for it.”

It was out of my hands now. I knew Mrs. Taylor’s house would be subjected to a thorough and painstaking search. If the book was still there, they would find it. The question was, would Kanesha tell me one way or the other? Without my having to annoy her by asking, that is.

If the book was potentially the motive, then who would want it badly enough to kill for it?

My prime suspect was Gordon Betts—a notion based more on my antipathy to the man than on anything concrete. He boasted he had the largest collection in the world of Mrs. Cartwright’s books. Did he have a copy of the variant printing of the first book, though?

A whisper of memory teased at me. What was it Mrs. Taylor had said the last time I saw her? Something to do with Gordon Betts.

I thought hard and finally dredged it up. I heard her voice in my head saying, Gordon may think he has everything, but I know better.

Could she have been talking about her copy of Spellwood Mansion?

No, it couldn’t be that, surely, because her possession of it was right there on the Web for anyone to see. Gordon Betts, obsessive collector that he allegedly was, surely wouldn’t overlook a piece of information as significant as that.

No, I decided after further thought. There had to be something else Mrs. Taylor had that he didn’t.

If he killed her then, he probably did so for a different reason.

Another idea struck me. Unless she had a better copy than he did. I knew serious collectors would trade up, as it were, replacing an inferior item in their collection with one that was in better condition in some way. Gordon Betts could have wanted her copy for that reason.

I was tempted to e-mail Kanesha with these speculations, but I came to my senses before I did. I doubted she would thank me for complicating the issue. Better to wait until I knew whether Mrs. Taylor’s copy was missing.

A glance at the laptop screen reminded me I hadn’t quite finished my e-mail to Bronwyn. I had better get back to work and finish it.

Twenty minutes later I hit Send then shut down the laptop. In my earlier excitement I hadn’t realized that my neck and shoulders ached from hunching over the computer. I rubbed the back of my neck with both hands, and that helped. A hot shower would help even more, but I thought I’d stretch out on the bed for a bit first.

I made myself comfortable and picked up Spellwood Mansion. I probably should have put it away without finishing my reread, but I would be careful with it. I needed to get Mylar jacket covers and put them on all the books, I decided. That would protect them much better.

I found my place and began to read.

“Tell me, Mrs. Eden, the source of the danger,” Veronica urged once again.

“The story is a long one.” Mrs. Eden spoke in a low voice. “I can hardly bear to think of the horrible, vicious man who is at the root of all my troubles. But I must share the details with someone.” She paused for a deep, sobbing breath.

Veronica was concerned that Mrs. Eden might lose her fading strength altogether, unless she had some kind of restorative to bolster her strength and her spirits. “Might we ask for some tea? I am quite thirsty myself, and I believe the hot tea would revive us both.”

Mrs. Eden nodded gratefully. She pointed with a trembling hand to a bell pull on the wall by the fireplace. “If you will be so kind as to summon Bradberry, he will see that refreshments are brought.”

Veronica complied with the request and immediately resumed her place beside her hostess. Moments later the door opened, and the butler entered the room noiselessly.

“What do you require, Madam?” He gazed intently at his employer, and Veronica found his expression slightly menacing.

“Tea, if you please, Bradberry, and a few sandwiches, if Cook will be so kind.” Mrs. Eden’s voice died away to a mere whisper on the final words.

“Certainly, Madam.” Bradberry inclined his head before he turned and glided quietly out of the room.

Mrs. Eden lay back on the chaise, the back of her hand against her forehead and her eyes closed. Veronica hesitated to rouse the invalid, but if she were to help Mrs. Eden, she must hear what her hostess had to say about her danger.

“Mrs. Eden, please, continue your story,” Veronica urged in a quiet tone.

The invalid’s eyes fluttered open. “Yes, of course, my dear. I was about to name my persecutor.” She paused. “He is none other than Langley Braddock.”

Veronica gasped. Langley Braddock was a well-known financier and socialite of the highest reputation. He moved in the best circles and called many an important man his friend. Yet Mrs. Eden claimed him as her oppressor. How could this be?

Mrs. Eden nodded weakly. “I see you recognize the name.” Her tone was bitter as she continued. “To the rest of the world he is a paragon, a leader of society, but to me he is a heartless, cold tyrant. He is the executor of my late husband’s estate, and he has stolen almost everything my husband left me to further his own dark schemes.”

Veronica found herself in a quandary. Langley Braddock was an acquaintance of her own guardian and had been entertained by Aunt Araminta on at least three occasions. She recalled him as a distinguished man of somewhat cold and regal bearing. She had not warmed to him herself but knew her guardian admired him. Yet Mrs. Eden claimed him as the source of her danger. Perhaps the woman was deranged after all.

“I see you are doubtful.” Mrs. Eden sighed heavily. “That is my great misfortune, because he is such a plausible rogue. I alone know the truth, yet no one will believe me.”

Veronica spoke hesitantly. “Have you any proof of his crimes against you?”

Mrs. Eden nodded wearily. “The evidence lies in my late husband’s papers, but the villain has them in his own keeping. He has taken great pains to discredit me, and no lawyer will go against him. So you see, my plight is desperate. He means to sell my house and force me into utter penury. I will soon have nothing left.”

Veronica held her response, for at that moment Bradberry appeared through the door, pushing a tea tray in front of him. He came to a halt beside Veronica. “Perhaps you will serve, miss, as Madam is not well.”

Veronica inclined her head to indicate that she would. “That will be all, thank you,” she said firmly.

Bradberry departed, and Veronica poured tea for herself and her hostess. “Here,” she said as she handed the cup and saucer to the invalid. “Perhaps this will help restore you somewhat.”

Mrs. Eden accepted the tea gratefully and began to sip at it. Veronica took her own cup and began to drink. The tea was strong—stronger, in fact, than she normally liked—but as she was so thirsty, she drank down the first cup and quickly poured herself a second.

There was a plate of sandwiches, and Veronica selected one and placed it on a small dish, which she then proffered to Mrs. Eden. Her hostess waved it limply away. “The tea is enough for now.”

Veronica nodded. “Please continue when you feel you can.” She picked up the sandwich, but it seemed heavy. Veronica frowned. She felt so sleepy all of a sudden. She was rather tired, she thought. Maybe more tea would revive her.

The cup never reached her mouth, for Veronica could no longer fight off the waves of exhaustion that engulfed her. The plate with its sandwich slipped to the floor as Veronica fell soundly asleep.