Never Laugh as a Hearse Goes By: A Penny Brannigan Mystery (14 page)

Penny was taken aback by the change in his appearance in just a few days. Dark rings circled his dull, vacant eyes and he seemed wreathed in despair and desolation. His shoulders hunched into his jacket and the loose skin on his noticeably thinner face drooped into sad little jowls.

“Ah, Miss Brannigan,” he said. “So good to have you back with us. I do hope your stay this time will be much more uneventful.”

“Yes,” agreed Penny. “So do I.”

“Now, do let me know if there’s anything you need or anything I can do to make your visit more comfortable,” the warden said.

“Thank you,” said Penny. “I’m just going to take my case upstairs and then I’m going to browse in the Library. Unfortunately, I didn’t spend nearly as much time there as I should have on my last visit. I’m here to remedy that now.”

“Well, here, let me help you,” said the warden, reaching for her overnight case and turning toward the stairs that led to the bedroom level.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you,” said Penny. And I hope I can help you, Penny thought. Bronwyn had assured her that Thomas would not mention to the warden the real purpose of her visit.

Fletcher led the way.

“Have the police finished here?” Penny asked when they reached the landing that looked out over the garden statuary.

“They seem to have wrapped up the forensics part, but the man in charge told us they could return at any time to ask more questions or reinterview us.” He let out a little sigh. “Such a dreadful business. I’m sure nothing like that has ever happened here before.” He smiled at Penny. “But our beautiful Library is open again, so that’s some consolation.” He set the suitcase down outside the door of a single room at the end of the corridor. “Well, it only remains for me to wish you a pleasant stay. If you should need me for anything at all, my office is just down the hall there, at the end.” He pointed toward the Library wing.

“My office is just adjacent to the Library chamber,” said the warden. “It’s never far from my thoughts and I am never far from it. Literally.”

“Oh, right, well, thank you,” said Penny. “I see I have a couple of hours before dinner, so I must use that time wisely.”

She opened the door and let herself into the comfortable, modern room that was oddly made even more comfortable by its lack of a television set, standard in a hotel room.

As part of the Library’s mission of creating an environment conducive to quiet contemplation—thinking and reading—there were no in-room distractions. Anyway, they weren’t needed, as anyone staying in the Library could sign out any book from the Library or borrow any book from the Gladstone Room’s collection of contemporary fiction. And the people who chose to stay here were usually involved in research or writing projects that took up all their time and attention.

Penny set down her suitcase and approached the leaded window that offered a view of the fence and graveyard of St. Deiniol’s Church, which was adjacent to the Library. She unfastened the latch, pushed the window open, and stuck out her head. A clatter below caught her attention, and she looked down. A kitchen worker dumped a large plastic bucket filled with potato peelings, eggshells, carrot scrapings, and other kitchen waste into a large, green composting bin, closed the lid, and disappeared from view, presumably back into the kitchen.

Penny pulled her head back in. She washed her hands, collected a pen and notebook, and headed downstairs to the Library.

The librarian, a young woman in her late twenties with fair, shoulder-length hair, looked up and smiled as Penny entered. She was not the same one who had been on duty the day Penny discovered Shipton’s body.

“Hello,” Penny said in a whispery voice. The librarian acknowledged the greeting with a slight nod but said nothing. “I wonder if you can help me,” Penny continued. “Is it possible to check what books someone signed out?” The librarian looked at her warily.

“Why would you want to know that?”

“I’m looking for a piece of paper and it might be in a book that was signed out by someone who was staying here a few days ago.” The librarian maintained her steady, questioning expression so Penny smiled and changed tack. “How does the sign-out system work?”

“It’s simple. You find the book you want and then you fill out one of the tickets and counterfoils in the booklets scattered all over the Library.” She showed Penny a simple form with write-in space for the name of the book and name and room number of the borrower. “You take the book you want off the shelf and leave the ticket in the spot where the book was. Leave the counterfoil in the booklet. When you bring the book back, you leave it here.” She gestured at a small stack of books at one end of her desk. “And when the book is reshelved, we take the ticket. Don’t reshelve the books yourself.”

“It seems like a very trusting system,” said Penny.

“Yes, you’d think that,” agreed the librarian, “but very few of our books ever go missing. I guess that’s because many of the people who use the Library are clergy and the concept of thou shalt not steal is something they’re very familiar with.”

“One would hope so,” said Penny. “Now these forms that you collect when the book is reshelved. Keep them for a bit, do you?”

“For a bit.”

“Then I wonder if you’d be kind enough to tell me what book or books Minty Russell signed out. She was here earlier. She organized the Church in Wales conference that was held here.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I couldn’t do that. It’s a privacy issue, you see.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Russell, Russell,” the librarian said. “Isn’t that the lady who was taken ill here and then…”

“Yes,” said Penny. “Sadly, she died.” Penny swallowed and took a deep breath. “You see, she was working on a project that was very dear to her and I have undertaken to finish it for her, in her memory, as it were, so it would be helpful if I knew what books she was reading at the time. I believe she checked out at least one book from the Library.”

The librarian thought for a moment and then opened a drawer and took out a small sheaf of paper tickets. She flipped through them and pulled two.

“Here we are. Seems she was interested in the plight of the Victorian servant and also a history of middle-class English Victorian women who travelled out to India.” She took off her glasses and ran her hand over her eyes, then replaced the glasses. “I know that book. Fascinating. They went out either to marry army officers or work as governesses.” She jotted down the call numbers of the books on the back of a small scrap of recycled paper and handed it to Penny.

“Where can I find them?” asked Penny.

“In the history section. Upper level, top of the stairs, on the left.” Penny looked up at the second tier and pointed above their heads. “Over there?”

The librarian nodded. It was not far from the table where she had discovered Shipton’s body. An uncomfortable tension seemed to connect the two women as if each was wondering whether to mention the body in the library. But the moment passed. Penny nodded her thanks and climbed the stairs to the gallery.

She compared the numbers on the slip of paper to the numbers on the spines of the books, looking for a match. When she came to the two books Minty Russell had checked out, she hesitated. She had an uncomfortable feeling she was crossing over into police territory. Would Gareth be upset if she handled these books, possibly destroying fingerprints, if the piece of paper she was searching for was within their pages? But the librarians have already handled the books, she told herself. She pulled them off the shelf and took them to a small side table. But not the table where Shipton’s body had been.

She opened the first book and thumbed through the pages, then held the book upside down by the cover. The pages fanned out, but nothing fell from them. She closed the book and set it on the table and did the same with the second. Again, nothing. She let out a small sound of frustrated disappointment that was somewhere between a sigh and a hiss. She’d been so sure she’d find the missing page or pages from Minty Russell’s shorthand notebook.

She went back to the first book and examined it more closely, running her fingers down the cover and checking to see if anything had been tucked in anywhere. Again, nothing. After doing the same with the second book, she admitted defeat and returned to the ground floor and placed the books in the return pile.

Well, what now, she wondered. There was just enough time for a mind-clearing walk before dinner, so she returned to her room to fetch her jacket and let herself out the front door. She walked down the path and turned left, toward neighbouring St. Deiniol’s Church. After exploring the churchyard, with its tipsy tombstones and statuary covered in smooth green lichen, and examining signs listing the types of birds and trees to be found in the area, she turned back toward the Library. She glanced up at her window, which overlooked the church, and then hearing a noise from the other side of the stone wall that separated the Library from the church, entered the gate, and walked through the area where the rubbish and composting bins were located. Obviously the kitchen area, she thought, taking in the sign that said
DELIVERIES
with an arrow. She looked up again at the window of her room. Below it was a window that must be part of the kitchen suite. A small chalkboard, easily seen from the area in which she was standing, had been set up inside the window.
FOUR CREAM, TWO REGULAR, TWO SKIM
, had been written on it. That’s efficient, she thought. The kitchen staff write their daily order on the chalkboard in letters large enough so the milkman can read the message without having to leave his delivery vehicle so he only has to make the one trip.

She walked on and turned left, which brought her to the rear of the building. She sat down on the bench marked
JUSTICE
and thought about the blackboard she had just seen in the kitchen window. Old fashioned and low tech, for sure, but efficient and effective. Is there another blackboard in the kitchen, she wondered. One that the person in charge of the kitchen could use to communicate instructions to the staff? To list the next day’s menu perhaps? Or, possibly, to note if a particular guest had a specific allergy? To nuts, say? Or seafood?

She got to her feet and walked round to the front of the building and entered by the main door.

A few minutes later she closed the door to her room, sat on the bed, and got out her laptop. When it was up and running, she tried to access her e-mail but the Wi-Fi reception was poor. She took her computer down the hall and set it on the window ledge outside the Robinson Room, where it worked perfectly.

She read a few messages, answered some, and deleted a couple. Then, she opened a message from Victoria with the subject line
CONWY CASTLE
.

Lord Chamberlain’s Men performing
Macbeth
at the castle in August, Penny read. Tickets go fast. Ordering six. We’ll make up a party.

Great, Penny typed in reply.
Macbeth
is my favourite play. Thought that group just did the comedies but look forward to it. She finished her e-mailing, closed her laptop and returned to her room. It was 6:45
P.M.
and dinner service was starting, but she lay down on her bed, opened a book, and began to read. Twenty minutes later, when she judged that most, if not all of the guests, would have been served, she went downstairs and entered the dining room. As she had hoped there was no queue. The menu board listed a choice of lamb hotpot, grilled salmon fillet, and a vegetarian risotto as that evening’s entree choices.

She smiled as she approached the server and gestured. “I’d like the grilled salmon, please.” The server picked up a spatula from the metal tray containing the salmon and placed a fillet on a plate, added rice and vegetables, and handed the plate to Penny.

“I guess you have to use a separate utensil with the salmon,” Penny remarked.

“Yes,” the server said. “Some people are allergic to fish. And other things. We have to be careful.”

“So if a guest lets you know that she’s allergic to something, is the kitchen staff informed?” Penny asked.

“Sometimes,” the server said. “But we’re always very careful with our ingredients and our utensils. Same with vegetarian and non-vegetarian. We can’t stir a pot with meat in it—a stew, say, and then use the same spoon to stir a vegetarian dish. We can’t transfer anything. We just assume allergies and always take precautions. You can’t be too careful.”

“Makes sense,” said Penny. “Well, thank you.”

“I’m just about to end service, so if you want pudding, you’d better take it now. It’s apple crumble. Homemade, of course.”

Penny indicated she wanted some and the server spooned it into a small bowl and added a generous ladle of custard. The server checked her watch and then leaned over to see if anyone was behind Penny. Seeing no one, she reached up and pulled down the metal grille. When it was halfway down, she paused.

“Is there anything else?” she asked Penny, who had not moved.

“I’m sorry,” said Penny, “but I’m curious. I always like to know how things work. When I was out walking I noticed the sign you have for the milk delivery and I wondered … how would the kitchen staff be informed about an allergy?”

The server’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s a funny question for you to be asking.”

“Is it?”

“Do you have an allergy?”

“No, I don’t, but I know someone who has and she was thinking about coming here to stay with me, so I just wanted to make sure that a food allergy wouldn’t be a problem for you or for her.”

“No, not a problem. We’ve had a lot of experience with them. Your friend will be fine here.” She pulled the grille down the rest of the way with a loud clatter and locked it into place, leaving Penny to enter the dining room.

The warden was sitting by himself at the back of the room, a plate of uneaten vegetables cooling in front of him. Penny approached his table and set her tray down. “Good evening, Warden Fletcher,” she said, “I wondered if I might…”

Fletcher made a small, slight gesture of pushing the plate away from him, and then turned his gaze upward. Penny gave a short, sharp intake of breath.