A Rare Murder In Princeton (10 page)

“I’ll go get my knitting,” said McLeod.

“Yes, indeed, I think you should work on it with greater dedication. I’ve never had a hand-knit sweater before.”

“I just hope I don’t screw up your sweater,” said McLeod when she came back downstairs. She got out the sweater, which she had barely started. “This part is pretty straightforward, but when I get up to where the pattern is, I’ll have to be very careful.”

“Be
very
careful, then,” said George. They sat down before the fire with their martinis and a bowl of pretzels, and George said, “Now tell me how you happened to find the body.”

So McLeod told him about her habit of stopping to look in on Belcher’s office and how this morning she had seen Philip Sheridan stretched out. “Was it just this morning? It seems like a century ago.”

“And your old friend Nick Perry is back on the job. Do you have any ideas about who did it? You’ve been spending a lot of time in Rare Books.”

“I don’t have any idea who did it. Philip Sheridan was such a nice man. But accusations are already flying.” She told him about Dodo and her talk of Chester.

“Do you think Mrs. Westcott is a reliable accuser?”

“I don’t know,” said McLeod, then added, “No, I don’t think so.”

“What did you think of Tom?” asked George, changing the subject.

“He seemed quite nice—in the two minutes I talked to him.”

“I like him,” said George.

“Who took your place as assistant to the president?”

“A woman. She’s good at the job—but not as good as I was.”

“Lots of changes,” said McLeod.

“Yes,” said George.

She was on the verge of telling George about the book and the crucifix when the doorbell rang and they both went to let Chester Holmes in.

CHESTER COULD BARELY wait until McLeod had performed the introductions to express his gratitude for the invitation.

“Chester, this is George Bridges. George, do you know Chester Holmes?” she was finally able to say. While George was hanging up Chester’s down jacket, Chester began chattering as he brushed his floppy brown hair out of his eyes. “I am so glad you called, McLeod. I can call you McLeod, can’t I? It seems friendlier than Ms. Dulaney. Anyway, I thought I should stay there at the house and answer the phone and deal with all the people who called. Then Mrs. Hamilton arrived, and she has never approved of me. Never. She tries her dead level best to be nice to me, but she just can’t. And so when you called, it was like a lifeline to a drowning sailor. I said to myself, ‘I can get out of here and she can be in charge and do what she likes.’ So I said, ‘Yes,’ and here I am.”

“Who is Mrs. Hamilton?” asked McLeod. They were still standing around in the hall.

“She’s Mr. Sheridan’s sister,” said Chester. “She’s his closest relative. I called her this morning. She lives in New York and she came right down. She does like to manage things and I guess it’s good she’s here, because I want Mr. Sheridan to have a proper funeral and she’ll see to
that
—”

George interrupted. “Let’s go sit down, Chester. What would you like to drink?”

“Oh, water’s fine,” said Chester. “I’m not much of a drinker.” He followed them into the parlor with its small blazing fire.

“Come on,” said George. “Have a drink. McLeod and I are having martinis. Wouldn’t you like one? It’ll do you good.”

“All right, I will. Maybe it will make me feel better.”

“It will,” George assured him and headed to the kitchen.

“I just hope Mrs. Hamilton is not going to be here for long,” Chester said. “It’s bad enough that Mr. Sheridan is dead. That breaks my heart. I can’t take it in—I’m sort of numb and I guess that’s good. But I’m not so numb that Mrs. Hamilton won’t get under my skin—even if she is good at managing things.”

“What does she do that’s so annoying?”

“It’s hard to describe. She makes me feel like I don’t belong there, even though I
live
there and she doesn’t. It’s a horrible feeling.”

“Maybe you should stay here. George, can’t we put Chester up here?” she asked as George came back with Chester’s drink.

“I don’t quite see how,” said George. “McLeod is in my very nice guest room at the moment,” he added for Chester’s benefit.

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t intrude. I’ll stay in Mr. Sheridan’s house. It
is
my home, after all. The only thing is I can’t go to work for a while, because the police are taking over Rare Books.”

“I know,” said McLeod. “Natty called me. I can’t quite see why they need the whole area.”

“They’re looking for the murder weapon,” said Chester, taking a gulp of his martini. “I told them what I thought it was and they’re looking for it.” He took another gulp.

“What do you think it was?”

“I’m sure it was Mr. Sheridan’s own paper knife,” said Chester. “It was a splendid ivory-handled knife, very old, designed originally to cut the pages in books—you know, when they used to come with ‘uncut pages.’ And he used it for a letter opener, too. It was very, very sharp. Some of the old paper knives were dull, but this one was sharp. Mr. Sheridan kept it that way. He had arthritis in his hands and it was hard for him to use a knife. So he kept it sharp. Anyway, it’s not on his desk, where he always kept it. So I’m sure that’s what the murderer used.” With a third gulp, he finished off his martini and set the glass down on a table beside the sofa.

“Would you like another?” asked George, standing up to take the glass. “McLeod?”

“No, thanks,” she said.

Chester just smiled. George left carrying his glass.

“Did you tell the police about the paper knife?” asked McLeod.

“Yes,” said Chester. “Finally. Most of the day they were asking us all about times—times we last saw Mr. Sheridan and all that.”

“When
did
you see him the last time?” asked McLeod as George came back in with Chester’s fresh drink.

“I’m going to finish up supper,” said George, interrupting.

“Can I help?” asked McLeod.

“No, no. You talk to Chester. This will be easy.”

“Chester, when did you see Mr. Sheridan the last time?” McLeod repeated.

“That’s what’s so hard. I last saw him when I left about six o’ clock Tuesday. How did I know I’d never see him again?” He drank half his second martini.

“You didn’t go home together?”

“I left before he did most days. He liked to be alone with his books occasionally, and I would go out and see some of my friends—my other friends. That’s what I did Tuesday night. I left him at the library and went home and changed clothes—Mr. Sheridan was a stickler for a coat and tie at work—and went out to the Alchemist and Barrister with some friends. Then we went to a movie after dinner. I didn’t get home until almost midnight. I didn’t know Mr. Sheridan wasn’t home when I went to bed.”

“What about the next morning?”

“I still didn’t worry. Once in a while, Mr. Sheridan would sleep in, and not go to the library until noon. After all, he wasn’t on anybody’s payroll. I was. Mr. Sheridan paid my salary, but he did it through the university. Since I’m on the university payroll, I keep regular hours.” He polished off his second martini and set the glass down, just as George came in to call them to dinner.

The filets were magnificently tender, the potatoes excellent, and George’s salad was marvelously filling since it contained Parmesan cheese, artichoke hearts, bacon, and beet slices as well as lettuce.

George and McLeod drank sparingly of the Bordeaux, but Chester had several glasses as he ate. And he talked. He answered McLeod’s questions readily and fully.

“So when I saw Mr. Sheridan in the Belcher room this morning—you had not seen him since late Tuesday afternoon ?”

“That’s right, and that’s what the police kept asking me about. They asked me a zillion times if I could get in Rare Books when it was closed. And I told them I could if somebody was still here—they could let me in. I couldn’t get back in if everybody was gone and the alarm was set. They never quite understood about this and they just kept on and on. They asked me over and over, if I came back after I left Tuesday. And they asked me why I didn’t see Mr. Sheridan on the floor of the Belcher room this morning, and I said I never looked in there. Nobody ever looked in there but you, McLeod. They want to talk to me some more tomorrow, they said.”

“They’ll probably talk to you tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” said McLeod.

“I guess so,” said Chester.

“A murder investigation is dreadful,” said George. “I was a suspect one time, and it was foul.”

“Surely I’m not a suspect,” said Chester.

“I think everybody is a suspect at this point,” said McLeod. “Everybody who had a chance to be at the library alone with Mr. Sheridan on Tuesday.”

“That’s scary,” said Chester. “I thought I was just helping the investigation. It never occurred to me they could suspect me.”

“Everybody is suspect until they’re eliminated, I think,” said McLeod.

“I can’t believe anybody would suspect me of killing Mr. Sheridan. He was my best friend. And since my parents died, he’s been like my only relative.”

McLeod relented. “I’m sure you’re not really under suspicion.”

“I should think not,” said Chester. He brushed his hair out of his eyes and switched topics. “This is good wine,” he said, picking up the bottle. “A Bordeaux—Mr. Sheridan always called it claret. He was a real oenophile as well as a bibliophile and an Anglophile.” He filled his glass and set the bottle down.

“You said you told the police about the paper knife, didn’t you?” said McLeod.

“I did. As soon as I noticed it was missing.”

“You said he kept it on his desk.”

“That’s right,” said Chester. “He kept it in a sheath—it was really sharp—and he stuck it in a little antique pitcher that sat on his desk. You know, it was in the sheath, but pointing down in this little pitcher. That was so it wouldn’t get lost among the papers on his desk.”

“Did he use it much?”

“He used it all the time—to open all his letters—but what he liked best was when we got a book with uncut pages, and he would cut the pages with the knife. He loved that. He loved old things, and an old book that nobody had ever read before—that really pleased him.”

“When was the last time you saw the paper knife?” asked McLeod.

“I’m sure it was on his desk Tuesday. Mr. Sheridan opened a lot of mail that day. If he hadn’t used the paper knife, I would have noticed.” Chester brushed his hair back and poured himself another glass of claret.

“So the police are looking for the paper knife,” said McLeod. “Where had they looked when you left?”

“Well, they weren’t devoting all their time to looking for the knife,” said Chester. “As I said, they spent more time asking the same questions of everybody there. When did you last see Philip Sheridan alive? And what time did you leave Rare Books? Who was there when you left? There were a lot of people to ask questions of, too—Mr. Ledbetter, Mr. Keaton, Mrs. Mobley, Mrs. Westcott, Molly, all the clerks and secretaries and conservators and curators.”

“I wonder who was the last person to leave,” said McLeod. “And did that person see Philip Sheridan alive? That’s key, isn’t it? I know how Nick Perry works, and I’m sure he’s keeping careful notes and making charts of times and people. How can they prove when somebody leaves? John could say, I left at five and Mary and Joe were still there and Sheridan was still alive. And Mary could say, oh, no, John was still here when I left at five-fifteen. It’s too bad everybody didn’t have to punch a time clock.”

“That’s all the university needs to improve employee relations—time clocks,” said George, speaking for the first time in a long time. “How about some ice cream and coffee?”

“No, thanks,” said Chester. “I’ll just have another glass of wine.”

“I’ll pass, too,” said McLeod. “Are you going to have ice cream, George?”

“I guess not, but I’ll make a pot of decaf if you’ll have some.”

“I’ll always have decaf coffee,” said McLeod. “I’ll clear the table.”

They all helped to clear the table and load the dishwasher while the coffee dripped. When they were sitting in the parlor, McLeod asked Chester, “But you say the police weren’t conducting an all-out search for the weapon?”

“No, one man was looking all over our office,” said Chester. “He was tearing things apart. I guess he’ll move into the other areas tomorrow or the next day when he finishes in ours.”

“The thing is,” said McLeod, “there are millions of places to hide a knife in that place. Think about all the file drawers and books on shelves upstairs and more books downstairs, and all those boxes of papers in the vault. What a job!”

“Yes,” said Chester thoughtfully. “I guess I hadn’t realized how big a job it would be.” He had brought the bottle of wine with him and he filled his glass again.