Collectors, Cats & Murder Read online

  These two items seemed to be missing—“Agatha Christie to G.K. Chesterton re: the Detection Club 22_4_1935” and “Doyle to Twain 70th b’day tribute 5_12_1905”. I was amazed at how little he’d paid for the Doyle letter—£125. Could that be right? He’d only purchased the Agatha Christie item a few weeks ago, though he’d had the Doyle letter for several years. So where are they?

  I moved around the room, but I didn’t see them. Maybe they’re in the sitting room, I thought, but they weren’t, nor were they hanging in the hall. A glance in the kitchen as I passed the door revealed not a thing. I returned to the bedroom. All the other wall items are in this room. Shouldn’t these other two be here too? Puzzled, I moved from the Sherlock Holmes photos back to the closet. Upon closer inspection, I saw a faint shadow above the three frames. It was over my head so it was no wonder I hadn’t noticed it at first. Standing on tiptoe, I saw a tiny nail hole. At some point, a frame must have hung there. So, I’d found eight, and a spot for a ninth, but no sign of the tenth.

  Thinking I’d looked everywhere I could, I returned to the library. “Beatrix, I’m finished with the shelves and the walls. Shall I move on to the binder labeled Miscellany?”

  She looked up. “I guess so. I haven’t found anything missing in this binder yet.”

  “Okay, let me know if you need help.” I tiptoed to the wingback chair opposite Constable James and got started on the Miscellany binder. He didn’t stir.

  This binder was mostly filled with newspaper clippings and playbills. Some of the clippings were original; others were copies. I laughed aloud at an article in which J.M. Barrie and Rudyard Kipling described their typewriters. According to Barrie, “nine-tenths of typewriter machines are vixens, and all of them have moments of malevolence.” I could say that about my laptop, I thought, though I’d call it a curmudgeon—not a vixen.

  Kipling humorously described his typewriter as doing the job for him, claiming to “start the cam action at the first line, pull open the throttle valve, and go out for a walk . . . [and return] to a poem of any desired length completed.” If all the clippings were this entertaining, I’d never finish my task.

  Several pages were filled with colorful postage stamps dedicated to authors or their novels—John Keats, Robert Burns, George Eliot, Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre, and Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring. There were playbills for My Fair Lady and The Mousetrap and many more London plays. As I scanned those, I noted he’d come by some by attending the play—he’d written notes on those—and others via flea market stalls.

  I forced myself to focus on checking items off the list, knowing Beatrix would let me spend more time with the binders later. I could imagine her hosting an after-hours party at the Book Nook and inviting her friends to flip through the collection. With that image in mind, I sped through the cross-referencing. This binder appeared to be intact until near the end, where I encountered two empty plastic sleeves.

  Examining the ledger sheets for items labeled as being in the Miscellany notebook, I found a notation for “T.S. Eliot notes on A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court 3_5_1924.” Acquired only a few months ago, it was the next to the last entry for the Miscellany binder and it was quite pricey—£1025. Moving my finger up the sheet, I found another entry for which I had no corresponding document— “Twain/ on Arthur Conan Doyle for the Strand 23_7_1907.” I thought this might be a copy of an article, as it was only £10.

  I rose from my seat and moved to the desk. Dickens had fallen asleep at my feet, so now two males were dozing in the library. “Beatrix, I’m done, and I’ve discovered two things missing from this binder. I wonder whether they’re among the papers piled here.” I shuffled through the stack and found both documents. That was easy. The T.S. Eliot item was typed and scribbled across the top were the words ‘possible subject for article.’ I recalled seeing it on Sunday. Why? Why was it pulled from the binder and discarded? I had the same question about the other document, Twain’s article for the Strand.

  She looked up and frowned. “Are they there?”

  “Yes, but I don’t understand why they’re not in the binder. No matter, that means I only have two things missing—both supposed to be on the wall.” I read aloud the items that I couldn’t find. “How’s it going for you? All accounted for so far?”

  “No, two are missing, and I’m not quite finished. And, best I can tell, he didn’t pay nearly what I would expect—hundreds of pounds instead of thousands. It’s a good thing he kept such good records.”

  “And whose letters are they? I mean, who wrote them?”

  “Mark Twain. Look here where I’ve highlighted the entries on the ledger sheet.”

  I read aloud, “’Twain to Doyle on their meeting in America 29_8_1894’ and ‘Twain to Barrie on seeing Peter Pan in London 29_12_1905.’ I always have to think about the dates when I see them written this way. In the states, we put the month first—so August of 1894 and then December 1905.” What is it about Mark Twain?

  Glancing at the still-snoozing Constable, I lowered my voice. “I’m not sure whether it will help or not, but I’m going to take pictures of the pages in the binders and the loose ones too. We may want to refer back to them, and I know Constable James isn’t going to let us take them with us. This way we’ll have the ledger pages plus what’s in the binders.”

  “Okay, start with the Miscellany notebook so I can finish up here. I only have a few pages left. Then I’ll check the desk to see if the letters are mixed in with the piles of papers.” We went about our separate tasks, Constable James and Dickens snoozing all the while. We finished, checked on Belle, and were pretty much wrapped up when Dickens snorted and rolled over.

  I knelt to rub his belly. “Dickens, did you have a nice nap? And, look, your companion is waking up too.”

  Constable James shook his head and turned red. “You won’t tell DI Taylor, will you? If she hears I wasn’t watching you ladies the whole time, she’ll have a fit.”

  I mimed the lips-sealed sign. “Do you need to report back on our findings? Better get your notebook out.” We told him about the four missing items and the two that turned up among the loose pages on the desk, and I handed him a set of ledger sheets with the items highlighted so he could show Gemma.

  He frowned as he jotted notes. “So, we have a cane and a handful of letters missing. Hardly seems a reason for murder. Still, it establishes things were stolen, doesn’t it?”

  My thoughts were all over the place. “Yes, I think it means theft was involved. As good a recordkeeper as Teddy was, he would have noted the information if he’d sold anything. As for a reason for murder, maybe Teddy interrupted the thief. Except he was in bed. If he’d caught someone in the act, wouldn’t we have found him in the library?”

  Beatrix nodded. “The binders were in plain sight in this room. No reason for someone to even go to the bedroom. If Teddy had called out, whoever it was could have left without being seen. Unless . . . unless they still hadn’t found what they came for. Could someone have killed him so they could keep looking? That’s horrible. You wake a harmless old man and kill him? For what? A few pieces of paper?”

  “Beatrix, two of the missing items were supposedly on the wall, and I think they must have been in Teddy’s bedroom. If they were the objective, the thief would have been out of luck in the library and would have ventured into the bedroom to search.”

  Constable James shook his head. “I wonder why they only wanted those few items.”

  Tears came to Beatrix’s eyes, and I put my arms around her. “Enough. Let’s not think any more about this now. We’ve helped the police by identifying the missing items, and they can take it from here. You’ve got an appointment this afternoon. Let’s get you on your way, and Belle and I can work with Constable James to put everything back together and shipshape.”

  Sniffling, she agreed and asked that I call her if I had any sudden brainstorms. While Constable James put away the dishes in the kitchen and chatted with Belle, I return
ed the burgundy leather book and the grey storage boxes with the Poe books to the safe. I locked it, placed the key in the envelope, and tucked it back in The Collector. The copies of the ledger sheets I put in my purse.

  “Belle,” I said as I entered the kitchen, “I bet you’re ready for your afternoon nap. Did this young man tell you he got one?”

  Constable James ducked his head and smiled.

  Dickens nudged Christie where she was curled in Belle’s lap. “Me too. Did you get one?”

  “Pfft. I was busy looking for clues, you silly dog. Good thing Leta brought me along.”

  Belle was all smiles. “When I get to enjoy interesting days like today, I can always forgo my nap. I hope I get to look through this binder again, and I’d love to show Ellie. She’ll recognize many of the items, just as I did.”

  Patting Constable James on the shoulder, I thanked him for his help. “Your google skills were invaluable with the treasure hunt. I look up tons of things when I’m at my desk but don’t always think about using my phone—wait, computer! Why didn’t I think of that?! Teddy must have had a computer.”

  “He did. He had a Chromebook and the SOCOs have it. I don’t think they’ve looked it over yet, and that reminds me, I need to ask about the cane. Hold on, let me ring them now.” We listened as he placed the call. “No? You didn’t pick up a cane? Then we need to add that to the list of missing items. We did a thorough inventory today, and I have a few more things to add. Hold on.” He looked at me and asked what they should look for on the computer.

  “If it’s a Chromebook, he likely used it for email and surfing the internet. I’d say we need to know about any correspondence about rare documents and books—collectibles—plus internet searches for the same thing.”

  When he ended the call, I added, “With any luck, we’ll discover that someone had an interest in the missing documents. That could lead us to the murderer or at least to whoever sent him—or her. I always have a hard time thinking of a woman as a murderer, but I guess I shouldn’t. Anyway, if a collector wanted something Teddy had, they could have hired someone to break in and get it. It’s hard to imagine some well-heeled collector of rare works breaking and entering.”

  “But not impossible, Tuppence,” murmured Belle. “Miss Marple would never rule anyone out this early in the game.”

  Constable James looked from Belle to me. “Oh no, don’t tell me . . . “

  Belle grinned. “What? That the Little Old Ladies are on the case? Too late.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Belle,” I said as we parted company with Constable James, “Are you okay if we make a quick stop by Bluebird Books? I’d like to ask Fiona about the sword cane, to confirm Teddy took it to the bedroom Friday night.”

  “Sure. I wouldn’t be averse to looking around the shop either. I’ve never visited this one.”

  When we reached the High Street, I turned toward the shop and found a parking place right in front. The only problem with making this stop was the need to once again get my four-legged companions out of the backseat. With Christie on my back and Dickens’s leash in my hand, we all paraded into Bluebird Books.

  Pris looked up as we entered. At least today, she was smiling, and when she spied Christie, a wide grin split her face. “Oh my gosh. Is that a cat peeking out of your backpack?” She rubbed Christie’s nose and tickled her chin, which sent the princess into a paroxysm of purring and then loud meowing.

  “I want to get down, Leta.”

  “No, Christie, I’m not putting you down. We won’t be here that long.”

  Dickens all but stuck out his tongue. “But I get to wander anywhere I like.”

  The two animals had Pris chuckling. “So, what can I help you ladies with today?”

  That reminded me I needed to introduce Belle, who explained to Pris she’d met Teddy Thursday night. They chatted about how delightful he was, and Pris pointed out some of the highlights of the shop. I learned that Teddy had been responsible for finding the movie posters I’d admired and that Watson the cat had been a hit with customers when he stayed at the shop.

  “I swear no matter where I shifted the Sherlock Holmes selections, he’d wind up stretched out nearby. It was as if he knew, not that I believe that for a moment.”

  “Pris, is Fiona around?” I asked.

  She looked at me quizzically before saying Fiona was upstairs. “There’s an outside entrance and one from our storeroom. Go on up the inside stairs and knock on the door. She won’t mind.”

  With Dickens at my heels and Christie on my back, I made my way to the inside door and knocked. “Fiona, it’s Leta and Dickens and another visitor. I hope we’re not disturbing you.”

  She was grinning as she opened the door. “Dickens, come on in. You too, Leta.”

  Dickens put his front paws on her knees and licked her face when she leaned down. When she stood, she spied Christie and squealed, “A cat—in a backpack? Oh my! Could be a children’s book like The Cat in the Hat.”

  We tossed rhymes around as I let Christie out of the pack. Fiona assured me the flat was too small for Christie to get lost.

  The flat was compact yet inviting. The door opened to a sitting room, and I could see the outside door off the kitchen to the left. There were yellow and green flowered curtains over the sink and on the door, and a decoupaged key rack with several sets of keys hung on the wall. From what I could see, the short hall directly in front of me had a bathroom on the left and bedroom on the right. Fiona invited me to sit on a loveseat, but I declined the tea she offered.

  “Sorry to arrive without calling first, but I wanted to ask you something. As we checked around Teddy’s cottage today, we realized we didn’t see his cane—the one he had Friday, the sword cane. Do you have any idea where it is?”

  “When he went to bed, he always leaned it against the wall between the bed and the nightstand. That one or whichever cane he was using that day. Wasn’t it there?”

  “No. That’s just it. We were sure he’d need it to get to bed and out again. We even checked beneath the bed, but it wasn’t there.”

  “Well, it was for sure there when I left him for the evening. He was about to get up to fetch one of his binders, but I stopped him. He was stubborn like that, and I had to insist he let me get it for him. He already had a book to read but wanted his binder of letters to look through too.

  “He had his odd ways. When his wife was alive, she never would have let him pile books on the bed. She’d have his head if she could see the state it gets in some nights—the Telegraph, the Daily Mail, a book or two, a binder, maybe even the day’s receipts—all spread out on what used to be her side of the bed.”

  My mouth dropped open. “He had a binder in bed with him? Do you recall which one?”

  “Yes, it was the Author Letters. It wasn’t unusual for him to sit in the library of an evening and flip through one. When he was tired, though, like he was Friday night, he’d take one to bed. What with being out Thursday evening and at the festival most of Friday, he was pretty well knackered.”

  I was about to answer when someone hammered on the door to the kitchen. Fiona rolled her eyes and went to unlock the door. “Don’t know why he has to knock so hard.”

  When a dark-haired young man burst through the door, I saw it was Albert. “Fi, can you lend me some dosh? I’m flat broke and I’ve got no petrol to get back to Dad’s—oh. You’ve got company. Sorry, didn’t know.”

  Standing, I held out my hand. “Hi, I’m Leta Parker. I saw you at the festival Friday when you were there with Teddy and again at the cottage Saturday. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  I could tell he was having difficulty placing me. “Um . . . yes. I’m going to miss him. Could talk your ear off, but he was a good ’un to work for.” Christie chose that moment to rub against his ankles, and he squatted to pet her. “Is this your cat? She’s a beauty.”

  Christie nudged his hand and meowed. “This one’s pretty observant.”

  It seemed pett
ing Christie made Albert think of Teddy’s cat. “Do you know who has Watson? He must be upset about Teddy.”

  I explained where Watson was as Fiona looked through her purse and handed him some bills. “Now be off with you, and I expect to see that back.”

  He grunted goodbye and was gone.

  “Is Albert your boyfriend, Fiona?”

  “Boyfriend? That one? No, we were in school together in Manchester, but he went on to Oxford. Unfortunately, he got sent down over a girl and that ended his shot at a University education. “

  My protective instinct kicked in. “A girl? Please tell me he didn’t attack a girl at Oxford?”

  “Oh, no, no, nothing like that. He was head over heels, the poor sod, and did something stupid when she dumped him. Broke into her flat and took some things he’d given her, the way he tells it. Who knows the real story? It was enough to get him sent down, and he never had the heart to go back.

  “Now, he does odd jobs here and there. He's forever low on petrol and petrol money because he’s always on the road on his motorbike or in his dad’s van, what with checking estate sales for furniture and books. ’Course, one of his best jobs was driving Teddy. Always said driving the Rolls was sweet.”

  “I bet it was. I don’t know that Beatrix knows yet whether she’ll keep it or not. She’s got lots to think of right now. We spent most of today on the mystery of the key, as we’re calling it, and then figuring out what might be missing from his collection.”

  “Beats me. Teddy sure loved those letters and clippings and figurines.” She teared up. “I can see him now sitting in front of the fireplace thumbing through one of his Teddy’s Treasures notebooks. Sometimes, he’d lift it so Watson could climb in his lap. Once the cat was settled, he’d open it again. I wonder where Watson will go long-term. Does Beatrix know he used to visit the shop? He’d make himself at home here all day and then go home with Teddy.”

  I explained the cat was one more thing my friend would have to figure out. She had Tommy and Tuppence at the Book Nook, so she’d probably be okay with having a shop cat at Bluebird Books—as long as he’d be well taken care of.