A Jane Austen Encounter (17 page)

Gerri came to her feet, tangling in her scarf. “I’ll finish it. I know she would want me to.” And now the howl Richard had been expecting broke forth. Elizabeth attempted to comfort her, but Sylvia chose another tack.

“That’s quite enough of that. Pull yourself together now. The sergeant is waiting to hear what you did this afternoon.”

Amazingly, it worked. Gerri gave a loud sniff, blew her nose on the tissue Elizabeth thrust into her hand, and resumed her seat. “I—I tried to work. After I saw that Muriel was resting comfortably . . . I can’t imagine what she was doing up there. She needed to keep her foot up. She had a pair of crutches, but she was only supposed to use them for going to the loo. If she wanted a book, I would have fetched it for her—” She paused for another loud sniff and a furious dab at her eyes.

“You said you were working.” Sergeant Townsend brought her back on track.

“Yes, I tried. I did read some. In the library. The Chapman book Rosemary got for me. But I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I just walked in the grounds: Terrace, walled garden, fernery . . . I don’t know, just wandered around, really. I went as far as the woods.” Suddenly she brightened. “Oh, yes, Julia was there with Royston. She’ll tell you.”

“Royston?” the sergeant asked.

“One of our Shire horses,” Sylvia explained. “Royston pulls the hitch-cart to transport materials. This is a working estate, Sergeant.”

“Can you think why Dr. Greystone might have chosen to go upstairs? That’s a challenging journey for a woman with a sprained ankle.”

The question sparked a return of Gerri’s tears. “She was so dedicated to her work. She must have needed a book. If only I hadn’t gone out—I could have helped her.” Her face buried in her hands, she pushed to her feet and blundered from the room, barely avoiding crashing into the table beside the couch. Beth grabbed the box of tissues and followed her out, with Arthur on her heels.

Richard stood apart, surveying the people in the room, thinking again of what those who had just left had told of their movements. It was apparent that each one, apart from himself and Elizabeth, had been on their own for at least part of the day. And all within a distance of returning unseen to the Chawton House Library.

But that was nonsense. What motive any of them could possibly have had to tip a heavy oak bookcase over on Muriel Greystone, he couldn’t fathom. Still, the possibility existed.

Chapter 15

THE NEXT MORNING, ELIZABETH’S head was still pounding. Richard had apparently slipped out for a morning stroll in the gardens, so she made a cup of tea and took it to the conservatory that had been added to the stable block for the enjoyment of their resident guests. The morning sun streaming through the glass roof lifted her spirits somewhat. She sat in one of the ladder-backed chairs around the large oak table and gazed out on the verdant garden as she sipped.

Surely yesterday’s calamity hadn’t really happened. Muriel Greystone was such a vital force, so larger than life. She couldn’t be gone. And Richard’s implication that it hadn’t been an accident . . . What else could it possibly have been?

She could picture the scene: Muriel, reaching for a desired volume, unthinkingly putting weight on her injured foot, then, in reaction to the pain, grabbing onto the bookcase, but being off-balance, pulling the whole thing over on herself . . .

She had only glimpsed the room, but surely the way Muriel lay under the cascade of books was consistent with that scenario. If it hadn’t been, Superintendent Dawson would have spotted it.

The superintendent had arrived with a forensics team, which spent considerable time upstairs before the patient ambulance drivers were allowed to take the body away. Elizabeth shivered.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that one of the glass-paned doors would fly open at any moment and Muriel would stride in, demanding to know why Elizabeth was sitting here when she should be at her research. But Elizabeth had seen the sheet-draped stretcher carried down the wide staircase with the inert form on it.

Still, the events replayed themselves in her mind. The superintendent had thanked them all for their cooperation and indicated that matters were now in the coroner’s hands, although at the moment, he could see nothing to prevent a verdict of death by misadventure. “Be sure Sergeant Townsend has your addresses and you will be free to go.”

Gerri, who, after her dramatic exit had returned to the group red-eyed, but quieter, had turned to her. “Go? Go where without Muriel? There’s nothing to do.”

“I thought you were going to finish her work.” Richard stepped in with just the tonic.“Oh. Yes.” Gerri even managed a smile. “Yes. I must. I’m sure that’s what she would want. And you’ll help me, won’t you?” It hadn’t been really a question. More a clinging to a lifeline.

Elizabeth sighed and drained the last from her teacup, wishing she had brought the whole pot with her. But recalling last evening’s conversation brought back to her mind her promise to Gerri. “Of course we’ll help you. We’ll do anything we can,” she had assured the distraught girl.

And so she had agreed to meet Gerri in the library first thing in the morning. Well, too late for the “first thing” part, but she could at least show up. No matter how little she felt like undertaking anything academic today.

In the library, she was surprised to find not only Gerri, her head bowed over a book, but also Richard, already hard at work. “Hi, you. I thought you were out for a morning stroll.” She rested her hand on his shoulder.

“Hi yourself, sleepyhead. Actually, I did do a turn around the garden. Afraid I was up with the birds. Then it seemed the only sensible thing was to get stuck into this.”

“Right. Nothing to do but carry on, is there?” Elizabeth had to keep assuring herself of that. Nothing made sense, but if they kept on course, surely things would sort themselves out. Eventually. “So what are you reading?”

Richard turned over the volume he held in his hand. “Edward Austen-Leigh’s memoir.”

“Ah, the original edition.” Elizabeth was impressed. She had read a reprinted edition years ago, but never the full original that included
Lady Susan
and the fragment of
The Watsons
.

“Yes, Rosemary produced this for me.” He indicated the prim librarian apparently doing some research at the computer on her desk. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, she seemed to be recovered from yesterday’s shock.

“Learn anything new?” Elizabeth gestured at the memoir.

“More a reminder of what I knew. The real pleasure is holding this beautiful leather binding.”

“More satisfying than your e-reader?” she teased, then turned to Gerri with some trepidation. She didn’t want to say the wrong thing and upset her.

“You look hard at work, Gerri. I’m sorry I’m later than I said I’d be.”

When Gerri looked up, Elizabeth realized her composure wasn’t as deep as it had appeared at first glance. “That’s all right. I couldn’t sleep. I got here before Rosemary.”

“What are you reading?”

Unlike Richard’s calfskin tome, Gerri held a slim paperback, apparently inexpensively produced by a tourist board. “
Visiting Winchester
,” Elizabeth read. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten we are to go there tomorrow . . .” She left the statement inconclusive. If Gerri didn’t feel like touring, they could change their plans.

“Yes. Thought I should bone up on the history of Jane’s time there. After all, we won’t have Muriel to guide us.” She bit her lip to stop her chin from trembling. “I was hoping something there might give a clue to that—” She caught her breath as if swallowing an expletive. “I wish we’d never heard of that letter. Muriel would still be alive . . .”

Fortunately Rosemary joined them at that moment, giving Gerri a chance to recover herself. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t find anything about Edith Hubback being at Winchester. But I did find this interesting.” She held out the paper. “I don’t know if it will be of any use to you.”

Since Gerri was still dabbing at her eyes, Elizabeth took the sheet and thanked the librarian. “Oh, Gerri, look. This is interesting.”

“What?”

“It’s an extract from Mary Austen’s diary, written at Winchester. I always pictured Cassandra and Jane as being alone in Winchester during Jane’s last days.”

Richard looked up from his reading. “No, I’ve just reread that part of the memoir. Henry and James, their clergymen brothers, were in frequent attendance, and James’ wife Mary was there to help Cassandra with the nursing.”

Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “Mary? The former Mary Lloyd? To whom Martha might have passed her papers?”

Richard nodded. “But here’s an even more interesting thought. Edward Austen-Leigh, Mary’s son, records that some of Jane’s last words were ‘You have always been a kind sister to me, Mary.’”

He paused and Elizabeth picked up on the thought. “Oh, so Jane herself could have passed some notes directly to Mary!” She thought. “Is it possible Jane would have had anything like that at Winchester with her?”

“Unlikely, I should think. She had abandoned the manuscript of
The Watsons
years before. But it is known that earlier on, it was her habit to carry her writing case, with all her manuscripts in it, with her wherever she went. And she must have had her writing case with her at Winchester because she wrote letters on her better days. And a humorous poem the day before she died.”

Elizabeth turned to Rosemary, who was still hovering by the table. “I’d like to read more of Mary Austen’s journal. Do you have a copy of it here?”

To her surprise, Rosemary turned so pale Elizabeth thought she might faint. “Yes, but . . .”

Richard pulled a chair from the table and guided the librarian to sit.

“Thank you. Silly of me, I know. It’s just that. . .” She swallowed. “You see, it’s kept in the upstairs room where . . .”

“Oh.” Elizabeth understood. “Don’t even think of going back up there yet, Rosemary. I’ll go.”

She had taken a step toward the stairs when a wail from Gerri called her back. “Do you think that’s it? Could that be the book Muriel was looking for when . . .”

“Yes, I think it’s very possible.” If so, that made it all the more important to find the book. But would she be able to do so in the chaos of the room? Elizabeth wondered. Still, she must try. “Can we go in? Are the police done?”

Just then, Sylvia Martin entered the room with a bowl of fresh flowers for the table. “Those Scenes of Crime Officers were here most of the night.” She sniffed. “Of course, we don’t know it
is
a crime. And they made the most unholy mess— their dusting powder over every surface.”

“And you stayed up?” Elizabeth’s amazement was more for the fact that the manager looked so fresh and perfectly put together this morning than for the fact that she had stayed at her post all night.

“Certainly. It was my duty.” She placed the bouquet on the exact center of the table. “At least they said they are finished, so we can get on with our work.”

“Chloe and Anna—” Rosemary began. “Two of our volunteers. They’re up there. I asked them to see what they could do about putting things to rights. Edgar set the case back up and bolted it to the wall.” She started to rise. “I’m being silly. I can go.”

But Elizabeth was already nearly to the stairs. Behind her, she heard Richard distract the librarian with another question. She sped upward, blotting all pictures of yesterday’s horror from her mind.

The door to the room was open and she heard light female voices engaged in pleasant chatter. Chloe and Anna were busy at their work, with no awful spectres to hamper them. Elizabeth took a breath and stepped inside. She couldn’t prevent her eyes going first to the spot on the carpet where Muriel had lain, hoping against hope that no dark brown stain would meet her gaze.

Fortunately, it had been discreetly covered by a small scatter rug. The bookcase stood firm against the wall with a few books returned to the shelves. “Hullo, I’m Elizabeth. Rosemary said you could help me find a book.” She told them what she was looking for.

The young volunteers were eager to help. They introduced themselves and set about scanning the piles of books that had been stacked on the worktable. “Sorry, I don’t recall seeing
The Journal of Mary Austen
or anything of a similar title. But we’re just getting started,” the one with short brown hair who had introduced herself as Anna said in an apologetic tone.

Chloe nodded, making her long blond ponytail bounce. “Fortunately, none of the books were badly damaged. I guess that’s a terrible thing to be concerned about when that lady was killed, but some of these are really valuable, so it would be a shame.”

“Is there a catalog?” Elizabeth asked.

“Of course, on the monitor there.” Anna indicated a computer on the desk in the corner. “But nothing will be in order. And apparently there were books waiting to be cataloged that were knocked off the table, so the list wouldn’t be complete.”

Elizabeth went first to the computer. She didn’t find an entry under “Austen, Mary,” so she tried a keyword search. Several titles came up under “journal” and two under “diary,” but she didn’t think they were the listings she was looking for. Still . . .

She sighed and turned to examine the volumes on the shelves of the bookcase. Talk about a needle in a haystack. Maybe she should have let Rosemary come up herself. As Head Librarian she would have to face it sooner or later. Seeing the room returning to order would probably have been therapeutic. But Elizabeth was here now. She moved on to the next shelf, maybe a quarter filled with books. It was slow searching because the gold-leaf lettering on the spines of some of the volumes was worn and hard to read.

Elizabeth was at the end of the shelf when she stopped. It was only a thread. Caught in a splinter. It could easily have been there for months. Years, even. But the flame-orange color was so distinctive—exactly the shade of the scarf Gerri had worn yesterday.

She slipped the strand in her pocket and backed toward the door. “Chloe, Anna, thank you for your help. I think I’ll let it go for now.” She turned and walked in a daze down the hall toward the stairs. Her mind kept going over and over the sight of the bright orange bit of yarn, matching it in her mind’s eye to the bright length around Gerri’s neck when she flew in from the garden demanding to know why there was an ambulance in the drive.