Two Birds with One Stone (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 1) (3 page)

Chapter 6

London, England

1898

PETER DUTTON, SOLICITOR FOR LAUGHTON, Audley & Dutton,
opened the letter from Thomas Gunn, an estate agent located in West Yorkshire.
He read as follows:

23 January 1898

Moor Lane House, England

Laughton, Audley & Dutton

Solicitors, Middle Temple Lane, London.

Honored Sirs:

I take this opportunity to inform you of our completion in
cataloguing the estate of Miss Ellen Nussey. We have employed the respectable
estate agents of Howard & Sons to prepare the premises for auction. Weather
permitting, the first of March should give sufficient time to advertise the
event properly.

Along with many nice household items, Miss Nussey had a
substantial collection of correspondence and written materials from her
friendship with Charlotte Bronte and the Bronte family. It may be wise to
handle these items separately by employing a London agent to find a proper
buyer.

Enclosed you will find a detailed account of each item as
you requested and I take the liberty of sending you the Bronte curios by way of
my assistant, Mr. Wallins. We await your approval of our endeavors and any
further requests.

Respectfully,

Mr. Thomas Gunn, Solicitor,

Brathwait & Co Solicitors

As Dutton lay the letter on his desk, he considered the
package Gunn
’
s assistant had delivered that morning. Gunn
had managed to clear up the estate quite well and had recognized the importance
of the Bronte items correctly.

Dutton called in his clerk. “Perkins, take these items to
Hodgson & Company, the book auctioneers. Tell them to find an appropriate buyer.”

The clerk took the packages and did as he was told. Both
items were sold later that year to Amy Lowell, a poet and socialite living in
Brookline, Massachusetts.

Chapter 7

Marsden-Lacey, England

Present Day

“
ALIVE? HE
’
S
ALIVE? OH MY God. We left him there for dead,”
Helen said, taking a turn at sounding a bit hysterical.

Johns eyed the two women critically. Littleword was pretty,
although kind of plump for his taste, and the brunette seemed uptight. They
were both around forty, and didn
’
t look like fledgling
murderers but until he had more information, he wouldn
’
t
rule them out.

With a glint in his eyes, Johns pointed to Helen. “Tell me
what happened and don
’
t scrimp on the highlights. I love a
good story.”

“
Well,
”
she said, as if hesitant to begin, “Mrs. Littleword came into the
library where I
’
d been working and introduced herself. She
couldn
’
t locate Mary, the receptionist, so I offered to
help. We came down into the hall and found the man lying on the floor with his
head bashed in.”

“What about you, Mrs. Littleword?”
Johns asked. “You
’
ve
been in it today. A mugging in the market and now an attempted murder at The
Grange. Maybe I ought to take you in and lock you up to bring the crime rate
down,”
Johns
said.

Helen gave Martha an uncertain look.

Martha stiffened but ignored the verbal jab.

“Like she said, we came out looking for the receptionist and
saw some type of liquid on the floor. Helen bent down and we realized it was
blood. It was then I saw the man lying behind the desk. He wasn
’
t
there before.”

“Before? Explain,”
Johns said.

“I came to The Grange intending to meet with Mr. Devry, the
curator. I
’
m taking his statement in a case. I rang the
bell on the desk and no one came, so I looked around to see if anyone was there.
No one was here and certainly not someone with their head bashed and bloody.”

“You two know each other?”
Johns asked.

“No, this is the first time we
’
ve met,”
Martha said with a
smile.

“Yes, that
’
s right. We seem to have
been thrown into a mess,”
Helen said with a short laugh.

It was John
’
s turn to look quizzically
at Helen. “You find this humorous, Mrs.?”

“Ryes. Helen Ryes. No, I…I…I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed,”
Helen stammered
apologetically.

“You don’t need to be so gruff with us. Helen is in shock!”
Martha said hotly.

Johns was surprised by the redhead’s sudden temper. She
stood there defiantly looking at him, her blue eyes boring into his. He changed
his tone to a softer one.

“I need both your statements. Where are you staying?”
he asked.

Helen quickly looked at Martha and said, “I
’
m
at the old pub on King
’
s Street. I can
’
t remember its name. Not much to pick from this time of year.”

“True,”
Johns agreed as he scribbled something in his small notebook. “That
place has seen better days. What about you, Mrs. Littleword?”

“I own Flower Pot Cottage on Canal Street. First house I
’
ve ever owned.”
Martha said with a hint of pride in her voice.

“Seems fitting,”
he grumbled while writing something in his notebook.

“What does that mean?”
Martha asked again as if she was insulted by his comment.

Again, Johns was struck by the woman’s feisty attitude. He
chose not to take the bait but he couldn’t help but wonder what the world was
coming to. One woman was barely able to contain her laughter and the other was
thinking about paint swatches for her new house while a man was bleeding to
death not more than ten feet from them.

“Don
’
t go anywhere. Police Constable
Cross will take your statements. By the way,”
said Johns pointing at the man who was now on the gurney, “either of you
ever seen the gent before?”

“No,”
both women answered in unison.

“I have,” a small voice said.

Everyone turned to look at a pretty, young girl with black
curly hair standing in the door staring at the man on the gurney.

“Mary!”
Helen announced.

Johns turned toward the new arrival. “You there. Come here,
please.”

The girl came over to them, her big, round eyes darting
looks at the man lying on the gurney.

“Young lady, what
’
s your full name? I
assume you are the receptionist?”
Johns asked.

“I am,”
she said with a slight quiver to her voice. “My name is Mary Wilton.
What happened here? Is Sir Carstons dead?”

“No, surprisingly he is still alive,”
Johns said with a sour look at Helen
and Martha.

The brunette flinched but the Littleword woman returned his
sour look.

The paramedics pushed the gurney out the entrance way.

“Everyone around here knows Sir Carstons and that he used to
own The Grange,”
Johns
said. “But he doesn’t live here anymore, so do you have any idea what he was
doing here today?”

“Right. It
’
s odd he
’
s
here.”
Mary
hesitated, and then went on. “He
’
s not supposed to be
here. The Grange is in the hands of a board of trustees now. I was told to let
Mr. Devry know if he ever visited. I
’
ve worked here for
about three months, and I
’
ve only seen Sir Carstons once.”

Johns jotted something down in his notebook then asked, “Where
have you been Miss Wilton? Do you usually take such long lunch breaks?”

“No, not usually. Today I took my break about 2 p.m. but I
had to stop at the post office so it took longer to get back,”
Mary explained.

“Looks like I need a statement from you, too, Miss Wilton.
Police Constable Cross will take it.”

Johns turned to go. He hoped Sir Carstons pulled through.
Otherwise he would be in it thick. With so many tourists at this time of year,
there wasn
’
t any telling why Sir Carstons had been
hammered.

“
Ladies, we
’
ll get
your statements then you may go. I
’
ll ask that you not
touch anything. Thank you.”
Johns touched his forehead in a good-bye salutation and stiffly marched
out of The Grange
’
s old front doors leaving Helen, Martha
and Mary quietly staring after him.

“GOOD RIDDANCE,”
MARTHA SAID AS Johns left through the front doors.

Helen turned to face Martha. “Don’t like him much?”

“He didn’t need to be so rude and he made me feel like we
were guilty of popping Sir Carstons in the head.”

“Sir Carstons?”
Helen said half to herself but looking at the other two.

“Yeah, I wonder what he was doing here,”
Mary said. “He isn
’
t supposed to be on the property. He and the board are in it
over something.”

“Have you seen Mr. Devry today, Mary?”
Martha asked. “I
was supposed to meet him to take his statement.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember talking with you on the phone. He was
here but got a call from his mother. Something about her not feeling well.”
She looked around
nervously. “
I don
’
t want to stay here
by myself. Helen, are you staying?”

Helen saw the apprehension on the young girl
’
s
face but didn
’
t want to stay any longer herself in case a
homicidal maniac was on the loose. “Mary, I don
’
t have any
authority here but under the circumstances, it might not be a bad idea to call
your board
’
s president and tell him what happened. He
’
ll want to know. I
’
ll be in the library
for at least another thirty minutes.”

Mary, forgetting Chief John’s request not to touch anything,
started towards the phone on the reception desk but saw the coagulated droplets
of blood. Her head jerked around with an expression of terror and she faltered
in mid-stride.

Helen and Martha both moved at the same time to catch her
before she fell. They lifted her over to the bench and lay her down along its
length. Martha propped Mary
’
s head on her lap while Helen
laid the girl
’
s knees across her own.

Here they were again, on the bench.

“I need a drink,”
Helen sighed.

“Yes, and I wish I still smoked,”
Martha agreed.

Chapter 8

Harvard University, USA

1928

DR. COOLIDGE, THE HEAD LIBRARIAN for the Harvard Library,
went through the new manuscripts and personal papers donated from the recently deceased
socialite and poet, Amy Lowell. Miss Lowell had generously left the library her
highly sought-after collection of Keatsiana and other notable nineteenth-century
authors. As he unwrapped each item, he jotted down its title, author, published
date and its condition.

Being an historian first, Dr. Coolidge loved this part of
his job. It was a privilege to touch and study up close such rare, priceless
things. He compared it to an archaeologist
’
s excitement
when a rock slab rolls back from an ancient tomb. All your senses came alive
and you breathed in the air of the past. For one extraordinary moment your
consciousness knew only the wonder of what you beheld. It was pure magic.

The last items he pulled from the bottom of the enormous
crate were enclosed in a small box, separated from the other manuscripts and
papers. He pulled out the box and placed it on his work table. It opened easily
and he removed an extremely small and exquisitely hand-bound book.

He recognized it immediately as one of the tiny books the
Brontes had co-written as children. Few of these rare jewels existed in the
world and he was astonished to be holding one in his own hands.

With a sense of delighted anticipation, he reached in and
felt for the last item in the chest. A leather box appeared. The leather was
tooled in different Gothic Revival designs with a gold-embossed, quatrefoil
center. Small brass hinges and an ornate latch made up its hardware. The box
was rosewood with the leather glued over and the hardware delicately mounted. It
was either for holding stationary or family papers.

He lifted the lid and there was a manuscript without a cover
of any kind. It was handwritten in a woman
’
s hand. He
quickly scanned the manuscript up to the last page where he noticed the
penmanship became more awkward. Coolidge wondered, as he read the first
chapter, if this manuscript might be an unfinished novel by one of the Brontes.
There was a small poem written in a margin he would need to look into. He made
a quick notation in his notebook, “hand-written manuscript, author unknown,
date unknown but likely 1825 to 1850
’
s, Amy Lowell
collection, donated 1925.”

Dr. Coolidge also accessioned the chest into his register.
He did not return the manuscript or the tiny Bronte book to the chest but
instead laid them both on clean cotton sheets on his work table. Feeling tired,
he left his notebook open for Mildred, his assistant, to find in the morning.
She would put the finishing touches on accessioning the Lowell collection.

When Mildred came in the next morning she went about her
work and neatly typed all Dr. Coolidge
’
s notes. She
gingerly gathered each item of the collection, labeled them according to his
notes, wrapped them in strips of cotton and put each in its own marked box.

The Bronte and the untitled manuscript were placed in
separate boxes and delivered with the rest of Amy Lowell
’
s
collection to Harvard
’
s special holding area for rare
books and artifacts known as The Treasure Room. A more appropriate name could
not have been coined for such a place.

Dr. Coolidge passed away early that morning. The untitled
manuscript he had found among Amy Lowell
’
s collection
would sleep another seventy-five years until someone clever enough to recognize
its worth would come along.