The Silence Of The Library

TWENTY-SIX

I examined the book more carefully. There were no labels, no marks of any kind that I found. The book looked like it had seldom been opened, the binding tight, the colors of the jacket fresh and unfaded. A rare copy indeed, to have survived eighty years in this condition.

Nothing to answer my question about its provenance, of course. Betts could have possessed this copy for years. Or he could have stolen it from Carrie Taylor after he killed her.

Then I realized how stupid I had been to pick up the book in the first place. Fingerprints. I had added mine to whatever prints the Mylar cover might hold. I might even have smudged those of another person. Hastily I put the book down on top of the pile from which I had pulled it.

I dreaded the inevitable glare of irritation and disapproval I’d get when I told Kanesha about this. But I had to tell her, in case this copy of the book had anything to do with the murder.

I turned to go, but a question popped into my head. Did Betts have another copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion?

Without touching any of the books on the table, I examined the piles, looking for a second copy of the first Veronica Thane book.

I didn’t find one. What did that tell me?

I really wasn’t certain. Betts had boasted that he had over five hundred Veronica Thane books in various formats, and there couldn’t be more than sixty or seventy books on the table. The others were probably somewhere in the suite, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea for me to try to find them and go through them all.

I decided I had better get going and not yield to temptation to see what else he had. I glanced at the sleeping man on my way to the door, and he seemed fine.

Before I could open the door, however, I heard a groan emanating from the area of the sofa. I hesitated, but the groaning continued, then intensified. I turned back to see what was wrong. Betts was struggling to get the blanket off and rise from the sofa.

“Going to be sick.” He managed to get the words out before his body convulsed.

I spotted a small, decorative garbage can at the end of sofa and scooped it up. Barely in time, I managed to stick it in front of him, and he vomited into it. He clutched at the can and pulled it to his chest, letting his head hang over it.

He threw up again. I watched, alert for any sign that he was about to drop the can or to collapse. He seemed steady enough. I waited, and though he made a few retching sounds, nothing else issued forth. His grasp on the can loosened, and I took it from him and set it aside, trying not to look at or smell the contents.

Betts stared up at me, bleary-eyed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Could you get me a wet towel?”

“Sure. Be right back.” I hadn’t expected to play nursemaid to a drunken man tonight, but I couldn’t in all good conscience abandon him at this point, no matter how tempted I was to walk right out.

I found a washcloth, luxuriously thick, in the bathroom and soaked it in cold water. After I’d wrung out most of the water, I carried it back to the ailing Betts.

He mumbled his thanks and wiped his face several times, then folded the cloth and pressed it to his forehead.

Figuring he would be okay on his own now for a few minutes, I took the garbage can, thankfully metal, and carried it into the bathroom. I dumped the contents into the toilet and flushed them, then I stuck the can under the faucet in the bathtub and ran water into it. I sloshed that around a bit, then dumped it again in the toilet.

I did that a couple more times before I was satisfied that the garbage can was as clean as I was going to get it. Back in the living room, I set the can on the floor near Betts, just in case. He raised his head and focused on me as I was about to sit down. “Sorry to trouble you,” he said, sounding actually humble, “but would you mind getting me some soda from the bar fridge? And some crackers if you can find some? I think that would help settle my stomach a bit.”

“Sure.” I found a can of soda along with some peanut butter crackers and brought them back to him. He fumbled with the tab on the aluminum can, so I opened it for him. Then I opened the crackers, too. Once again he thanked me.

He sipped at the cola and ate a couple of crackers, avoiding my gaze for the moment. His color appeared normal again, and his eyes seemed clearer when he did at last look directly at me. He drained the can and set it aside.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

“Much,” he said with a faint smile. “Look, I really owe you one for helping me like this. Didn’t realize how lit I was getting. I don’t often drink like that.”

“It can hit you pretty quickly if you’re not used to it.” I kept my tone mild, though I was pretty irritated with him. Still, I reckoned, he had suffered from his overindulgence, and he was acting much nicer than I had seen him do so far in our brief acquaintance.

“I’m not used to it, despite what you probably think of me.” Betts managed a wry grin. “I know I come on way too strong sometimes.”

“Yes, you most certainly do.” I softened my words with a brief smile.

He leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes. “I really feel wonky, but the soda and the crackers helped.”

“Best thing you can do now is go to bed and sleep.” I stood. “Would you like some help? I should probably be going now.”

“No, I’ll be okay, I think.” Betts pushed himself up from the sofa. He didn’t wobble on his feet, and I took that as a positive sign. “Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. I decided to ask him something before I left, though, and take advantage of his pliant, repentant mood. “Did you get Mrs. Cartwright to sign your books yet?”

Betts shook his head. “No, not yet. I still have to work out the arrangements with her daughter.” He paused. “To be honest, the daughter is insisting on one thing that I’m not happy about.”

“Really? What is that?”

“She wants me to bring all of the books to their house and leave them there for as long as it takes Mrs. Cartwright to sign them all. I know she’s an old lady, but Mrs. Marter said it could take her three or four weeks. I’m not sure I want to leave my books with them that long. They could get damaged, and there wouldn’t be much I could do about it.”

“That is rather odd,” I said, though I could understand that Mrs. Cartwright might not be up to signing several hundred books in a couple of days’ time. “But what if that’s the only way you can get them all signed?”

Betts shrugged. “I don’t have much choice, do I? I gave them the money before Mrs. Marter informed me of that particular condition.”

“It sounds like you have a truly impressive collection.” I hoped he might volunteer to show me at least part of it.

“Yeah, I do.” Betts yawned. “Look, I need to get to bed. You can show yourself out, right?” He glanced pointedly toward the door.

“Sure. I hope you feel better after a good night’s sleep.” I headed for the door, wondering why he suddenly seemed so ready to get me out of his suite. Was it because he didn’t want me to look through his books?

I pondered the question on the drive home. Betts had more facets to his personality than I’d anticipated, given his rude behavior at our first meeting. I had no doubt he could be ruthless when it came to getting what he wanted, but would he go as far as murder?

Diesel greeted me in the kitchen with a chorus of plaintive meows, I supposed to let me know how lonely he had been without me. Naturally I had to take a couple of minutes to reassure him how wonderful he was and that I was abjectly sorry for abandoning him, although I knew Stewart had given him every attention while I was out.

With the cat pacified—for a few minutes, at least—I decided it was my stomach’s turn for attention. Winston Eagleton’s offerings hadn’t lasted long. I made myself a couple of ham sandwiches and sat at the table to eat. Diesel, from his vantage point right beside my chair, took great interest in my food. Before the impersonation of cat-starving-to-death got under way, I offered him several small bites of ham.

After I polished off the sandwiches, I decided I should let Kanesha know about the copy of Spellwood Mansion I’d found in Gordon Betts’s suite. A brief text message asking her to call me ought to suffice. I didn’t feel like getting out the laptop to do e-mail, nor did I want to attempt it via the phone. I hated typing longer messages on those tiny letters. My fingers were big enough to hit two or three at a time.

The house was quiet as Diesel and I climbed the stairs to my bedroom. I wondered idly whether Stewart had allowed Dante out of his crate yet and whether Laura and Frank had ever come to baby-sit Diesel. With Stewart available, they probably decided they weren’t needed.

I changed into pajamas, despite the fact that it wasn’t quite nine. I felt tired after the events of the evening, but I didn’t want to go to sleep just yet in case Kanesha called me back.

Diesel stretched out on his side of the bed and warbled to let me know he needed more attention. After rubbing his head and along his spine for a bit, I made myself comfortable and picked up Spellwood Mansion. I was in the mood to read more Veronica Thane, and it would pass the time while I waited for a response from Kanesha.

Veronica was being ministered to by her best friend Lucy, I recalled, when I last put the book aside. I found my place once again.

“What happened, Lucy?” Veronica reclined against the pillows. “What time is it?”

“It will soon be eleven. You’ve been asleep all day.” Lucy patted Veronica’s hand. “We don’t really know what happened. When you didn’t return home last night, your guardian became worried. She asked Artie and me if we had heard from you, and when we told her we had not, she became even more agitated.”

“Dear Aunt Araminta,” Veronica murmured. “I regret so deeply that she was worried about me. And dear Artie, too.”

Arthur Marsh, known to his intimates as “Artie,” was a classmate of Veronica Thane and Lucy Carlton. Tall, handsome, and athletic, he was the son of Mrs. Buff-Orpington’s lawyer and chief advisor, Horatio Marsh. He was devoted to Veronica and often escorted her to dances and social affairs. His best friend, Anthony Rutherford, was Lucy Carlton’s frequent escort.

“She knew you would not do such a thing on purpose,” Lucy assured her. “She suspected that you might be in the midst of another adventure, and she asked Artie if he would search for you.”

“I was on my way home from visiting our old chum Mary Ferris in Trentville,” Veronica said slowly. “There was a frightful storm.”

“Yes, it was certainly fierce,” Lucy agreed. “Artie suspected you might have had an accident, driving in such conditions, but he said nothing of that to your guardian.”

“Where did Artie find me? And my car? Is my car damaged?” Veronica had great affection for her trusty red roadster, for it had served her well.

“Your car is fine,” Lucy assured her with a smile, well aware of Veronica’s attachment to the vehicle. “Artie found you, sound asleep in it, just a couple of miles outside of town along the river road. He was unable to rouse you, you were so deeply asleep.” Her troubled expression revealed her affectionate concern for her best chum.

“How very strange,” Veronica murmured. She did not remember feeling tired driving home from Trentville. But the storm—something about the storm. The memory teased her with its elusiveness. She expressed her frustration to Lucy.

“Dearest, you must not force your poor head to remember. It will all come back to you in time.” Lucy again patted Veronica’s hand, then offered her more water to drink, which she accepted gratefully. Her throat still felt quite parched.

“What happened after Artie found me in my car?” Veronica asked, still anxious about her roadster.

“He brought you home immediately, of course,” Lucy said. “As soon as you were safely in your bed and the doctor called to attend you, he went back with one of his chums to retrieve your roadster. It is in its accustomed place in the garage, never fear.”

“Dear Artie,” Veronica said, her eyes gleaming with the faint sheen of tears. Really, she did have the most devoted and worthy friends.

“Artie was desperately worried about you,” Lucy said. “As indeed we all were, for we could not wake you. Dr. Rhodes tried several remedies, but you remained asleep.” She paused, her expression pensive.

“How very peculiar,” Veronica said. “In general I do sleep rather soundly, but I am not hard to awaken.”

“It was very strange,” Lucy agreed. She hesitated before she continued, “Dr. Rhodes concluded that somehow you must have been drugged.”