11 Another Slice of Death

Christie’s Detective Agency Two Part 11 THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY

Sitting with D.I. Cyril Hodbur in the Copper’s Nark, Jenny Marple smiled as she sipped a rather large gin and tonic that he’d bought, and he grinned back.

“My number two’s gone to see the Gorgeous Will bloke,” she told him.

“Gorgerous bloke? I don’t see young Horace talking to me, and I’m the gorgeous bloke sitting right here, perving at your knees and wondering if I dared touch them. You know, make absolutely sure they’re real.”

“If there’s nobody watching you can go ahead,” she said, “but at the moment I can see at least half a dozen coppers wondering who their D.I’s chatting up.”

“Half of them know you already, silly,” he said, “from when you were a very able Detective Constable yourself.”

“Then they may be aware that there aren’t many tricks I miss,” she said, “but I seem to have missed the one about a certain librarian changing his name way back.”

“If that’s a trick you missed, then I missed it as well,” he murmured, “are you sure of your facts?”

“I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure. My number two’s mother dated him yonks ago, and she knows.”

“I see. I’ll check that out then, Jenny.”

“And you’ll let me know, seeing as I started a little bell ringing in your wise old head.”

“Of course, though less of the old! But there might be something of interest, I suppose, in it, though I doubt it’ll have anything to do with the demise of Miss Foster. I mean, why does an intelligent and educated man change his name? It’s not the sort of thing I’d associate with his type.”

“He might have done something horrendous in the past,” suggested Jenny, “you know, caught doing naughties with a sheep or trying to inseminate an elm tree!”.

“That’s your mind, Jenny! It’s more likely that the family name might have been tainted by someone else doing something unpleasant,” added Cyril. “You’d be surprised how many people are affected by someone else’s reputation.”

“I’d like to know, all the same.”

“That’s what I always liked about you, the way you chased up the details that other coppers don’t think about. It was a bad day when you left the force, Jenny.”

“If granddad had left Christie’s to someone else I’d still be with you, Cyril. But it’s the way the cookie crumbled. He built up the business and left it to me, and I’d never see it fall to pieces without at least trying to save it. When he died the two old geezers who helped him retired. They were getting on and well past it. I know that for a fact. Anyway, I’m building the business back up from scratch, with the help of young Horace, of course.”

“Best of luck, Jenny. And hey: look who’s come to seduce you!”

“Horace!” smiled Jenny as the young man walked towards her.

“I guessed I’d find you in here,” he said.

“So you’ve got a reputation, have you?” grinned the D.I.

“I left a note for him, telling him I was looking for you,” replied Jenny, “so you can see: it’s you with the reputation, Cyril, and not me. And you’ve not scratched my shiny new car, I hope, Horace.”

“As if I would. I need some sane company after spending as little time as possible with a mad man,” said Horace, “and mad he is, too! Dresses as if he’s God’s gift, all shiny and twinkling, and lives in a tip! But it’s a tip with a huge T.V in every room so that he can spend every hour he’s got watching himself advertising swimwear to the universe. And whatever he might think, he’s no great shakes in trunks. But I did find nothing out really, just that on the night the woman was killed he caught a glimpse through a window and saw someone in moonlight sitting at the far end of the library at a table, and then the moon went in and she was gone. At least, that’s how I read it.”

“And that’s all?”

“He fancies himself in Bermuda shorts, but I didn’t see him in them, thank goodness,” sighed Horace, “but horrible as he is, he’s got no means or opportunity, and I doubt he’s got a motive either.”

“That’s how I concluded,” nodded Cyril, “and he’d been drinking like a fish. His breathalyser nearly exploded when he puffed into it! No, if he’d wanted to do her in he might have felt he needed a sip of fortification, but not rendered himself incapable of even plaiting his legs! He couldn’t have broken in. And Bob Grungeworthy saw his prang just a minute or two before he caught him staring through the library window.”

“So who killed Lauren Foster?” asked Jenny.

“Are we quite sure there wasn’t anyone else around?” asked Horace, frowning. “What about other assistants? And that cleaning lass, what’s her name?”

Cyril shook his head. “Buxton. Rosie Buxton. She was nowhere near. She finished her work at lunch time, it being a Saturday. Five and a half days a week she worked, and that was her half day. As far as I can gather, when she wasn’t at work she either had her nose in a book or all of her in bed with Jimmy Soul, a hard working young fellow who has absolutely nothing to do with our investigation and who worships her.”

“So who does that leave us with?” asked Jenny.

“The librarian. Dorian Leslie. A stuffed shirt if ever there was one. But we’ve just discovered that for some unknown reason a few years ago he changed his name, and I, for one, would like to know why.”

“But would a man like that stab an old lady to death?” asked Horace.

“Don’t judge people by what you think they are until it’s proved you’re right,” said Jenny, “remember the vicar?”

“And his fund for the church roof? Quite.” nodded Horace.

They sat quietly for a few moments, a quietness that was suddenly disturbed by two policemen, clearly on duty, bursting in.

“There’s been another murder, sir,” announced P.C. Peter Simmons, “in the library! It’s that woman behind the counter, Damsel Eagerhill! The library was quiet as a mouse’s nest, and when the young cleaning lass popped in to get something to read during her week off, she saw the victim lying behind the counter as dead as a dodo.”

“Another blade?” asked Cyril, jumping to his feet.

“No sir. Looks like poison to me. Or it might be something innocent like a heart attack, but from the look on her face I’d say strychnine.”

Cyril turned to Jenny. You’d best stay here,” he said, “can’t have civilians at a murder scene, even clever ones like you. But I’ll keep you in touch.”

He vanished, leaving three quarters of a pint of best bitter going stale, and Jenny grabbed Horace.

“Come on,” she said, “we can’t go to the scene itself, but we can see how close we can get and see if we hear any careless copper whispers.”

“Yes,” he said, frowning, “and that settles it. The show-off with Bermuda shorts can’t have done it. I left him not half an hour since, drooling over advertisements showing him ready to swim the channel! His car’s off the road, and there’s only one bus a day from Swanspottle to Brumpton!”

“That leaves … not many,” sighed Jenny, “I know: you get to the Brumpton Echo, I’ll ring them and warn them you’re coming, I know the editor there quite well, we were lovers once until she decided she wasn’t gay any more. And see if you can take a peek at any back copies they might have, go back, let me see, twenty to thirty years, and see if you can find any clue about the Librarian changing his name, what to and what from and why he felt he had to do it. I’ll hang on here just in case.”

Horace sighed. More office work on his own doing something he guessed she’d already tried to do, and failed. But this time he’d find something. He had a feeling in his bones, and delving into old newspapers seemed more like detective work than googling stuff in the office.

“OK,” he murmured, and wandered off.

© Peter Rogerson 05.10.21

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