Murder in the Mystery Suite (A Book Retreat Mystery) (9 page)

Jane gestured at the locket. “What does this key open? A vault with a Gutenberg Bible? A lost Shakespeare play?”

“Those and more,” Aunt Octavia said. Jane was about to laugh when she realized that her aunt wasn’t kidding.

“We’ve worked for a host of sovereigns, but we answer to no man,” Uncle Aloysius explained. “We live by a code written by the Greek scholars Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. Centuries ago, they penned a detailed set of rules and guidelines for us to follow. We have abided by this code ever since. One of the rules clearly states that a guardian who can no longer fulfill his duties must pass the responsibility to his heir. That, my dear, is you.”

Plucking the key from the heart of the locket, Jane held it to the light. It didn’t look particularly special. “I’ve read too many Gothic novels, Uncle, so right now I’m imagining you using this to open a door hidden behind a bookcase. It creaks on rusty hinges as you push it inward. You travel down a worn spiral staircase that leads into a cold underground cave filled with vacuum-sealed chests of rare books.”

Uncle Aloysius gave a wry chuckle. “Not bad, my dear. But in this case, your winding staircase leads up. The secret room isn’t a cave or an attic strewn with cobwebs. It’s a library. A soundproof, fireproof, bulletproof library.”

“Oh,” Jane said in a small voice.

“When you return to Storyton Hall, find Sinclair,” her uncle commanded. “Tell him I have named you the new guardian. He will know what to do next. He has been waiting for this day for many years.”

Jane’s head was spinning. “I don’t understand.”

“You will,” Aunt Octavia said. “And then you’ll realize why you must recover our copy of Adela Dundee’s
Lost Letters
at all costs.”

At that moment, the nurse returned to see if Aunt Octavia had eaten her lunch. “Mrs. Steward, you need to get your strength back,” the nurse remonstrated her gently. “You have to finish that soup.”

“You’re right. I’ve been talking so much that I’ve let it go cold. Would you be a love and heat it up for me? I promise to swallow every distasteful mouthful if it’s hot.” When the nurse left carrying the soup bowl, Aunt Octavia gave Jane a weary smile. “You’d better get on home. I’m feeling quite tired and you have so much to do.”

Jane was about to argue when she noticed the wan look to her aunt’s face. After giving her a soft kiss on the cheek, she put the long chain over her head and tucked the locket inside the fold of her wrap dress. Aunt Octavia stared at the bulge the pendant made with a critical eye. “You need to gain at least fifty pounds. There’s no place for that locket to hide. I suppose a breast augmentation is out of the question. We just don’t have the funds for cosmetic surgery.”

“Octavia.” Uncle Aloysius wagged a finger at her, his eyes shining with affection.

“I’ll call you two later,” Jane said and left.

•   •   •

She found Sterling
waiting some distance down the hall, suitcase in hand. He quickly delivered the case to Uncle Aloysius and then asked Jane to wait by the hospital’s front entrance while he fetched the car. On the ride back to Storyton Hall, he asked after Aunt Octavia. Jane explained that, although her aunt still needed a complete physical therapy assessment, she was likely to need a wheelchair.

Sterling’s brows rose when Jane mentioned Aunt Octavia’s inability to stand on her own. “I can’t begin to picture that, Miss Jane. Even with a cane, Mrs. Steward has a knack of popping up around the house or grounds with no notice. She’s quite stealthy for a woman her age.”

“She adores those surprise inspections,” Jane said with a wistful smile. “But I’m afraid those will cease for the time being, as will her late-night visits to the kitchen. Right now, that’s the only bright side I can see to this whole mess.”

Sterling looked thoughtful. “It’s none of my business, Miss Jane, but I don’t think Mr. Steward can manage on his own. With the lifting and all that.”

Jane shook her head. “No, he can’t. Aunt Octavia is as solid as the Hall’s foundation stone. She doesn’t like to be touched by strangers either. Did you ever hear the tale of what she did when a little girl sat on her lap uninvited?”

Grinning, Sterling nodded. “It happened during afternoon tea. The girl, who was terribly behaved according to the waitstaff, wanted the tea cakes from Mrs. Steward’s plate, and when your aunt told her she couldn’t have them, she decided to help herself.”

“Yes. The precocious child climbed onto Aunt Octavia’s lap as if she were telling Santa Claus what she wanted for Christmas. That’s when my aunt upended the pitcher of pink lemonade over the child’s head.” Jane chuckled at the memory, though at the time, she’d been aghast. “Her parents were furious that their daughter’s new party dress had been ruined, but Aunt Octavia didn’t give them the chance to vent their anger. Instead, she gave them such a long-winded lecture about the importance of manners and how they were failing their daughter by not exercising their right to discipline that they checked out of Storyton Hall before suppertime.”

It felt good to remember that Aunt Octavia wasn’t easily intimidated. If, as her nurse said, fighters made the best progress after suffering a stroke, then Jane’s aunt wouldn’t be cowed by muscle weakness or balance problems. She’d battle against her own body to get out of her wheelchair, but she’d need plenty of help along the way. Professional help.

“I’ll need to hire a nurse,” she told Sterling. “Someone who can assist with Aunt Octavia’s physical therapy and monitor her diet. Someone with sturdy arms and a strong back who isn’t easily bullied.” Jane sighed. “Where am I going to find this strapping saint?”
And how much will his or her services cost?

Jane’s fingers touched the chain on her neck. She hadn’t worn such a heavy necklace in years, but she found the locket’s weight a comfort. The last twenty-four hours had been replete with unpleasant surprises, and she hoped that whatever Sinclair would tell her would be more positive. And yet she was fearful. What did it mean to be a guardian? And how could she serve in this age-old role in addition to her other responsibilities? She had her boys and Storyton Hall and its staff to look after. And now she also had Aunt Octavia to worry about. That was enough, as far as Jane was concerned, but before she knew it, she was saying good-bye to Sterling and heading for the main library.

She found Sinclair standing by the large-print section. He gestured at the shelves and asked a pair of elderly ladies if he could locate a particular author or genre for them.

“I want something steamy,” the first woman announced. “A rugged Scottish Highlander kidnapping a naïve and ravishing noblewoman. I’d rather the Scot were bare-chested through most of the book. And by the end, I’d like to know exactly what he has under his kilt.”

“Madge!” Her companion turned away in embarrassment.

“Don’t pay attention to her,” Madge said, unabashed. “She’ll read it the second I’m done.”

Sinclair’s gaze traveled over the shelves. “I believe the perfect book awaits you right . . .” He paused, frowned, and then whispered a triumphant “A-ha!” He presented Madge with a book. Its spine was covered by gold lettering and a blue and green tartan design. She clutched it to her chest in delight while Sinclair inquired after her friend’s reading tastes.

“She likes ghost stories,” Madge said. “The old-fashioned kind—not these new ones where the spirits are friendly or act like glorified house pets. Something like
Rebecca
or
The Tell-Tale Heart
.”

“Has she read
The Haunting of Hill House
? I think Shirley Jackson pens a deliciously creepy psychological tale.” Sinclair pulled the book from the stacks and held it out.

Madge’s friend wandered over, shot a curious glance at the cover, and lit up from the inside. Jane had seen the same look on the faces of so many of Storyton Hall’s guests, but she never grew tired of it. Sinclair was born to match readers with books.

“Well done,” she told him after the two women rushed off to read in the Isak Dinesen Safari Room.

Sinclair was about to answer when he spied the outline of the locket beneath the thin fabric of Jane’s dress. His expression turned grave. “Is your aunt’s condition that serious?”

In a hushed voice, Jane gave him a brief update and then put her palm over the locket. “Can someone take over here? I won’t be able to get anything else done today until I understand what secrets my great-aunt and -uncle have been keeping and precisely what it is to be the guardian of Storyton Hall.”

“This is a life-changing moment for you, Miss Jane. Most of us who’ve been called to serve have already lived a full life. We’ve married, had children, worked a host of jobs, and traveled the world. You are very young to wear this mantle, but with the loss of your parents and Mr. Cedric . . .” He released a mournful sigh and then squared his shoulders. “We cannot always choose our fate, I’m afraid, so we shall face it head-on. Therefore, if you’d accompany me to your aunt and uncle’s apartments, I will humbly introduce you to the Eighth Wonder of the World.”

More confused than ever, Jane unlocked the door to her aunt and uncle’s rooms and followed Sinclair inside. He walked to the center of the sitting room and put his finger to his lips. Jane realized that he was listening, but for what, she had no idea. He then beckoned for her to join him in the bedroom. “This way, please,” he said, walking straight into Aunt Octavia’s spacious closet. Uncle Aloysius used a closet half the size, but his suits, sweaters, and fishing hats were nowhere as numerous as Aunt Octavia’s custom-made dresses. And though Jane reveled in the bright colors and wild patterns her aunt favored, she couldn’t fathom how being among her zebra-stripe or leopard-print garments would help unravel her family’s secret.

At the back of the closet, Sinclair squatted and pushed a metal shoe rack away from the wall, revealing an air vent. After removing four small screws, he pried the vent cover off and laid it on the floor. Jane expected to see a yawning hole, but when Sinclair moved aside, she saw only a small keyhole and a metal lever.

“Turn your key clockwise as you move the lever handle counterclockwise. You must perform these actions in unison.”

Dumbfounded, Jane bent down to follow his instructions. The key turned easily, but she had to use all her strength to get the handle to budge. When it did, she heard wheels turning behind the wall. It sounded like something was moving to her right, which was the east wall of the sitting room. “This was the first time I’ve had an advantage because I’m a lefty.”

“The majority of your relatives are left-handed. To access a Steward vault, your forbearers have always needed to use both hands, and the locking mechanisms have favored lefties for generations.” Sinclair offered Jane his hand. “And now the entrance to the greatest treasure trove in human history has been opened. You need only return to the sitting room to see it for yourself.”

“Please come with me,” Jane said. “For some reason, I’m a little frightened.”

“It would be my honor.”

In the sitting room, the bookcase containing Aunt Octavia’s prized collection of Meissen porcelain teapots had swung away from the wall, creating a gap of about two feet through which a person could pass sideways. “Why didn’t the teapots break?” she asked Sinclair. “Aunt Octavia warned me a million times not to go anywhere near her fragile collection.”

“They’re held in place with pieces of wax,” he said. “It’s a brilliant ruse. You see, most people would assume that a secret panel would be concealed behind a bookcase. After all, it’s not practical to have a priceless collection of antique porcelain jolted and jarred each time one wants to enter a hidden room. Therefore, it’s unlikely that the opening would be discovered by all but the shrewdest of thieves.” He gestured at the floor. “There’s a battery-powered lantern just inside the passage.”

Jane reached into the blackness and made contact with the lantern. She turned it on and took a hesitant step into the shadows. And another. And another. She then came to the base of a staircase. Raising the lantern, she saw that rough stairs had been hewn into the stone. They curled up and up. Too intrigued to hesitate, Jane climbed to the top and paused before a small metal door.

“This is just like one of my favorite childhood stories,” she said in a hushed voice. “It’s
Through the Looking Glass
and
The Chronicles of Narnia
and Nancy Drew’s
The Hidden Staircase
all mixed together.”

“Miss Jane,” Sinclair whispered behind her. “If you did not believe in magic before, that is about to change.”

Hand trembling in anticipation, Jane pushed down on the handle and entered a cool, dark chamber. Sinclair reached around her and flicked a switch on the wall. Instantly, the room was illuminated with a soft light.

The first thing Jane noticed was the gleam of metal. From floor to ceiling, the walls were lined with metal drawers. They reminded Jane of the safety-deposit boxes inside a bank. Passing the lantern to Sinclair, she approached the first row of drawers and read the label out loud. “‘Shakespeare, William. Three unpublished plays.’” After glancing back at Sinclair, she read the label directly to the right. “‘Dickens, Charles.
The Mystery of Edwin Drood (Complete Manuscript)
.’” She shook her head. “Impossible. Dickens didn’t finish that novel.”

“He most certainly did. Unfortunately, the final scenes were written from Edwin Drood’s point of view as he languished in a prison cell. The passages were more of a harsh social commentary on the need for reform in Britain’s penitentiary system than a resolution of the murder mystery. This wasn’t the first time Dickens wrote about prisons. After all, his father was sent to debtors’ prison. But in
The Mystery of Edwin Drood
, Dickens basically accuses the Parliament of encouraging corruption in prisons. He even named names, though he scrambles a few of the letters. A high-standing member of Parliament hired a thief to steal the final chapters. I’ve heard several rumors that this villain helped Dickens to his grave, but that’s neither here nor there. A guardian recovered the original
Edwin Drood
and it’s now in Storyton Hall, safe and sound.”

Jane stared at him. “The Shakespeare plays?” She tried to catch her breath. “Are you telling me that the public doesn’t know about the three plays in that drawer? They’ve never been read? Or performed?”

“That is correct. Only a handful of people have laid eyes on them.”

“For the first time in my life, I may swoon,” Jane whispered, feeling genuinely light-headed.

Sinclair put his palm on the small of her back. “That is why I’m standing so close to you, Miss Jane. However, I expect your wonder and curiosity will overcome your astonishment.”

He was right. Jane moved from drawer to drawer, gasping and exclaiming as the labels revealed Storyton Hall’s secret collection. The vacuum-sealed drawers contained volumes of poetry, illuminated manuscripts, ancient scrolls, history books, a Gutenberg Bible, Leonardo da Vinci’s journal,
The Canterbury Tales
—Part Two, the scientific notes of Galileo, and on and on.

Eventually, Jane couldn’t absorb any more. She stopped where she was and leaned against the wall. “All of these treasures and I’ve only been around half of the room. This library . . . it’s absolutely priceless.” She smiled at Sinclair. “You were right to call it the Eighth Wonder of the World. Who would have guessed that these gems were hidden on the other side of Aunt Octavia’s feather boas and leopard- print shoes?”

Sinclair grinned. “Indeed.”

Jane released a heavy sigh. “What now, Sinclair? We should have armed guards on staff. How am
I
supposed to protect
this
?”

“First, you must train. Your body and mind must be honed like a sword. We’ll begin with fencing and martial arts classes. Sterling will teach you weaponry, and when Gavin recovers from his knee surgery, he and his successor will work with you on hunting, tracking, and survival techniques.”

Jane nearly laughed, but then she saw that Sinclair was deadly serious. “I’m a hotel manager. And a mom. I host book clubs and ride around on a bicycle. I can’t turn into a ninja warrior overnight! It’s not as if my great-uncle had these kinds of skills.” She paused to consider the possibility. “Did he?”

“Mr. Steward is quite deft with a knife, even at his present age. And in his prime, no one could outshoot him. He was a fencing master. With his long limbs, he could lunge from across the room and strike with the deadly accuracy of a cobra. He had the hearing of a bat, the eyesight of an owl, and the quickness of antelope. And yet he carefully masked those abilities beneath a veneer.”

Jane was beginning to understand. “The tweed suits. The worn leather boots and the fishing hat. His appearance as a country gentleman from a bygone era was nothing but a costume?”

Sinclair touched her arm. “No, Miss Jane. Aloysius Steward is the epitome of a country gentleman. Everything you know about him is true. He just never revealed his special talents to you. In turn, yours must also be kept secret. If you are bruised during Tae Kwon Do practice, you’ll say you fell off your bike. If you’re cut juggling daggers, you’ll tell people that you were distracted in the act of chopping onions.”

Jane gaped. “Did you actually say ‘juggling daggers’?”

“Don’t concern yourself with that now, my dear. We have a missing book to recover.”

The childish delight Jane had felt upon entering the secret library instantly vanished. Despite the wonders held in this room, she still had to find Storyton Hall’s copy of Adela Dundee’s
Lost Letters
and find out exactly what happened to Felix Hampden.

“And here I thought my to-do list was quite long enough,” Jane mumbled to herself as she and Sinclair left the small tower room. “After overseeing tonight’s fancy dress ball and the rest of the Murder and Mayhem events, I’m to become a ninja assassin. Nothing to it.”

Stepping into the brightness of her aunt and uncle’s living room, Jane blinked a few times and glanced around. The familiar room should have been comforting, but she felt as if everything she’d known since childhood was suddenly strange and foreign. “Who else on Storyton Hall’s staff is not what they seem?” she asked Sinclair.

“There are a few of us. The Stewards have always been very particular about their help. Sterling is former CIA, Gavin, a retired Navy Seal, and Butterworth was an analyst in Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”

“Holy sh—”

“Yes,” Sinclair interrupted smoothly. “It is imperative that their pasts remain a secret. One of the advantages we have over those who wish to steal from our library is that the thieves assume they need only get past the guardian to gain access to Storyton Hall’s treasures.” He gave a smug chuckle. “Before they set foot in our lobby, every guest is screened. If our suspicions are aroused, they are then watched throughout their stay. No one escapes our scrutiny, Miss Jane.”

Jane sank into her aunt’s favorite reading chair. The wide cushion was no longer flat, but bowl-shaped. Aunt Octavia’s rump had created such a deep depression in the fabric that Jane felt as if she were caught in a chintz quagmire. “So can my staff of trained spies tell me anything pertinent about Felix Hampden?”

“We have no proof that he came to steal our copy of
Lost Letters
. If that was his intention, he was clearly an amateur. The fact that he didn’t have the hidden letter taped inside the dust jacket on his person at the time of his death tells me that he wasn’t aware of its existence. However, there are others we’re watching who’ve raised more serious red flags.”

Jane nodded. “Yes, there’s a woman with white hair and a man resembling Colonel Hastings. And I saw another man. Well, more of a shadow than a man, but he followed Mr. Hampden out of the Fleming Lounge after I awarded him the prize. The other two, the white-haired lady and the Hastings look-alike, were both keen to get the book away from Mr. Hampden.”

Sinclair looked ridiculously pleased. “Your powers of observation are excellent, Miss Jane. Even as a child, you noticed particular details about Storyton Hall’s guests.”

Instead of acknowledging the compliment, Jane frowned. “With all these people after the book, I have to wonder about the significance of the letter. If it was truly written by Adela Dundee, it could be quite valuable. People would pay a great deal of money for a newly discovered piece of Dundee paraphernalia.” She paused. “Yet, how could these potential thieves have known that Aunt Octavia gift-wrapped the wrong book by mistake? There’s only one explanation and I hate to voice it.”

“You must.”

“Someone got into this apartment and examined the book. They saw a chance to make some money and contacted a potential buyer. Who else could it be but a Storyton Hall employee? Most of our staff is exceedingly well read and would recognize Adela Dundee’s name. And if they found the letter and opened it . . . who knows what they could have learned?” She gestured at the ceiling. “Is there an easy way to know who entered here? Are there hidden cameras in every room?”

Sinclair shook his head. “We value our guests’ privacy, Miss Jane. We only intrude upon that privacy if we believe there’s an imminent threat to our special collection. Messrs. Sterling, Gavin, and Butterworth aren’t here to guard the books. Their main priority is to protect those bearing the Steward name. These men are devoted to your family and to Storyton Hall. Their service goes back several generations. Unfortunately, they haven’t had any luck discovering who might have seen the book while it was in your aunt’s possession.”

Jane pursed her lips in thought. “I’ll ask Aunt Octavia. She’s very particular about the people she allows into her rooms. Now I know why! In the meantime, I need to know what you and—” She stopped. “What do you and the other undercover staff members call yourselves?”

Instead of replying, Sinclair removed his suit coat and folded it over the closest chair. He then unbuttoned his shirt and laid it over the coat, leaving him standing in a white T-shirt. Jane had expected the librarian’s arms to be pale and doughy, but they were tan and muscular.

“You’ve got the forearms of Popeye the Sailor!” she exclaimed.

“No anchor tattoo, however.” He shoved his sleeve higher up his arm, revealing a bicep that any twenty-year-old would envy. Inked into his skin was a cluster of arrows matching those on Jane’s locket. “We call ourselves the Fins after the Finsbury Archers, England’s most famous archery association. The Finsbury Archers existed for hundreds of years and have always served the Steward family. And while we don’t exactly keep longbows under our desks, we’re prepared to defend these walls at all times.”

The tattoo was small and crudely drawn. To Jane, it seemed incongruent with Sinclair’s penchant for bow ties and silk handkerchiefs. “Do all of Storyton Hall’s Fins have this tattoo?”

“Yes.” He put his dress shirt back on. “It has been a long-standing tradition for the current Steward guardian to mark himself as well. It’s a symbol of commitment. Of courage and sacrifice.”

Jane didn’t think she could handle any more surprises. “Wait a minute. Uncle Aloysius has a tattoo?”

“He most certainly does.” Sinclair buttoned his shirt, slipped his coat on, and straightened his bow tie. Shooting a quick glance at Jane, he said, “Perhaps we’ll postpone your tattooing for a later date. We have more important things to do before tonight’s costume ball.”

“
My
tattoo? I think not.” Jane had had enough. Pushing against the arms of the chair, she managed to extricate herself from the concave cushion. “I made it through college without a tattoo. I tagged along with my girlfriends when they got dolphins on their ankles or flowers on their shoulders, but I refrained. And now, all these years later, I’m supposed to be marked with a permanent image of what? A book? A sword? A quiver of arrows?” She snorted in a most unladylike fashion. “Yes, a deadly weapon inked onto my bicep really says ‘I’m a hotel manager, a mother, and a respectable member of my community.’”

“I don’t think you’ll find the traditional tattoo objectionable, Miss Jane,” Sinclair said. “It’s an owl holding a scroll in its talons.”

Jane thought of all the tales she’d read in which characters sought help from a wise owl. The idea of being compared to the astute bird appealed to Jane. She liked helping people. She liked being needed. The more she thought about it, the more she found all of Sinclair’s proposals, from getting a tattoo to learning martial arts, rather appealing. “All right. I’ll do my best to adjust to this strange new life. I don’t think any of it will be smooth or easy, but a tattoo? That’s a piece of cake. How much can it hurt when compared to giving birth to twins?”

Sinclair tried not to smile. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were being tickled. “I am confident that you can tolerate the discomfort of the procedure. However, you might object to the customary location of
the tattoo.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Jane said. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps, but I won’t be smiling later.” He suddenly sobered. “After all, I’ve known you since you were a little girl in pigtails and it will be somewhat unsettling to tattoo your, ah . . .” He patted his chest, just above the heart.

“I’ll be sure to wear my raciest bra,” Jane teased, feeling more like herself. “Let’s go downstairs so I can learn more about the current threats to Storyton Hall.”

Sinclair, who’d obviously needed a moment to regain his composure following the bra comment, hustled forward to open the door.

•   •   •

Jane had been
in Sinclair’s small and exceedingly tidy office many times before, but she’d never seen him shut and lock the door and then flip his bulletin board around to reveal enlarged driver’s license photographs. Each five-by-seven image was surrounded by a halo of yellow Post-it Notes listing brief biographical details. Jane realized that Sinclair had access to all of Storyton Hall’s online files. Every guest presented a driver’s license upon check-in and the licenses were scanned into an electronic guest file. Sinclair obviously examined those files every day.

Leaning closer to the board, Jane pointed at the photo of the woman with the cloud of white hair. “Moira McKee.” Her eyes moved to the street address. “Another Vermont resident? That can’t be a coincidence.” Next, she examined the dignified visage of the Colonel Hastings look-alike. “Desmond Price, eh? From Cambridge, Mass. Harvard’s town.” Jane looked at Sinclair. “Is Mr. Price a professor?”

Sinclair nodded. “He is. As for Ms. McKee, she’s the current president of the Broadleaf School of the Arts. Alice Hart was a faculty member at the same institution.”