The Cracked Spine (22 page)

“Red hair, are you sure?” I silently chastised myself for chasing after the figure of Hamlet I'd probably just imagined instead of sticking with Monroe.

“No.”

“What was the name?”

“I dinnae ken. Macbeth. No, I cannae be sure.”

I didn't think Monroe was the name of any of Shakespeare's characters, and I bit back the question:
Hamlet?
I didn't need to plant any seeds.

“Are you sure you can't remember the name?” I said, urging his sluggish mind to put it together.

“Maybe Othello?”

Whether or not he was remembering correctly, I was impressed by his recall of Shakespearean names.

“And did you see the man again? Perhaps leaving the building?”

“No, I went tae my friend's and dinnae go back tae my own flat until the next morning,” he said.

Then he winked at me—a sloppy, bizarre wink. “Got me a girlfriend or two in the building. One on the third floor, one on the fourth. I have tae be very careful.”

“I imagine so,” I said.

Elias made a noise that sounded like a short growl, like an engine that had just been revved briefly.

“Anyway, Jenny would n'er talk much about her brother,” Gregory continued as if he found a second wind. “A few days afore she was kil't, oot of the blue, she said something about him that made me curious. She said that he expected too much oot of her.”

“Too much what?” I said.

“I asked the same question. Weel, I asked what she meant. She said that he had too much faith in her, sometin' about expecting her tae keep secrets. She wasnae a good secret keeper.” He paused, wobbled a bit, and then continued, his voice almost inaudible. “He should have ken that.”

“I see.” I paused a moment, sure I knew what Jenny had been getting at. “Anything else?”

“No.”

“And ye didnae tell the police any of this?” Elias asked.

Gregory laughed. “No. And they didnae ask. They wilnae. They dinnae care about people like Jenny and me. We've given them more trouble than we're worth, in their opinions.”

“I think they'd want details about a murder. I've talked to a couple of inspectors. Do you mind if I send them to talk to you? Your information might be useful to the investigation,” I said.

Gregory changed again. His heavy eyes became suddenly aware and bright. His mouth got tight and made a straight line. “What information? I havenae told ye anything t'all.” A few seconds later, he had quickly woven his way through the crowd and out of the pub.

I looked at Elias. “Oops. I should probably have known better.”

Elias watched Gregory leave the pub, probably to make sure he didn't come back and kill the stupid redhead from America who wanted to send the police to talk to him—a man with drug issues and, possibly, a record. Once Gregory was out the door and most likely not coming back, Elias turned his attention to me.

“Och, Delaney, ye did weel until the very end there,” he said with a smile. “He did tell ye sae many things. I was surprised. But I wouldnae recommend that ye go tae the police with the information ye learned. Truth most likely isnae Gregory's strong point. And, if the police stop by his flat in the next day or two, ye might be in danger. Meebe not, but it's not worth the risk. And weighing the dangers is important. Particularly when murder's involved.”

“Advice taken,” I said. Though I wasn't sure what I would do if I were put into a situation where I thought the information might actually help find a killer. In a distant and fuzzy way, I was beginning to truly care about Jenny, the woman I would never know in person. Maybe Hamlet's feelings were wearing off on me.

“Let's go home,” Elias said. “And dinnae tell Aggie we came tae this place.”

“Deal.”

 

NINETEEN

Hamlet and I were the early ones the next morning. I'd become quickly comfortable with my bus route, and I stepped off outside The Cracked Spine just before seven. The sky was blue and the temperature a comfortable coolish-warmish as I hurried up the hill to the bagel shop around the corner from the Grassmarket Hotel, where I ordered some breakfast and a giant cup of coffee. I spotted Hamlet unlocking the front door just as I turned the corner again making my way back to the shop.

I hadn't slept well. There was too much to think about. Along with trying to understand exactly what everyone was up to and if their activities could have anything to do with Jenny's murder, Aggie had put together another small part of the purple puzzle.

“
Tell Edw
” and then at the opposite corner, the part she'd already figured out: “
rry.
”

So, perhaps Jenny was sorry about something? There seemed to be a lot of things for a number of different people to be sorry for. One idea led to another, making my brain work overtime—all night long.

“Hi,” I said as I came through the front door.

“Delaney, hello,” Hamlet said. He was looking at something in a drawer in the front desk that I had determined was Rosie's favorite spot in the shop. He closed the drawer and stood straight, awkwardly moving his hands to his hips. He wore faded jeans and a light blue dress shirt. His hair was loose today, behind his ears and falling to his shoulders. He had nice hair.

“Share my bagel? I haven't had a bite yet,” I said, forcing my eyes not to look at the desk.

“Oh. That sounds good. Thanks,” he said.

As I followed him to the back corner table my eyes scanned the desk and then casually looked over the crowded bookshelves.

And I was suddenly struck by the flash of some invisible force that threatened to take my breath away. I stopped walking, couldn't move forward if I wanted to, and for a few beats my heart was loud in my ears. What in the world? What was wrong?

Fortunately, the moment passed as quickly as it had come on. My head cleared and my feet became unfrozen. Though I didn't know what specifically had happened, I immediately recognized the difference that followed. It was the books. They were suddenly and eerily quiet. I not only let down my guard and welcomed them into my head, but encouraged them to talk to me. Then begged them.

And, nothing. They'd been silenced.

Though the sun was up, morning shadows still lurked inside, not yet cast away by any direct light. I flipped the switch on the wall next to the stairs, bringing the ceiling fixture to life, and ran my fingers along one of the nearby shelves. I'd read at least three of the books on the shelf. I liked Jane Austen, mostly
Pride and Prejudice,
but as I touched its spine, no one spoke to me. Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth had both been big talkers in the past, but they were currently and stubbornly silent. The other day I'd noticed the books' silence as I'd left the shop with Edwin on our way to the auction, but I'd heard them since then. There was something about the wave of discombobulation that had just run through me that made me think this new voice-less circumstance was now permanent.

“Huh,” I said.

“Delaney?” Hamlet peered around the wall.

“Yeah. Sorry.” No matter what it was, I'd have to deal with it later. At least I didn't still feel like I might pass out.

I joined Hamlet and we split my ham-and-cheese bagel. I offered to pour some of my coffee into another cup but Hamlet declined, saying he'd already had a couple of cups that morning.

“You're here early,” he said.

“You too,” I said.

“I'm usually here this early. I have classes and I try tae get my work done. I check the e-mails and begin searching for the books that are requested.”

“What's the most valuable book you've ever worked with?”

“One I didn't even touch. A signed first edition, perfect condition with the dust jacket still on it,
Gone With the Wind
. It was fate. Someone from America called asking if we would be interested in buying it. Aye, we were. Then a man from Germany called tae see if we had one tae sell. The same day. Edwin wouldn't get in the middle of it though, except tae help with the negotiations on both sides. He directed both the buyer and the seller and didn't receive any money from the transaction. He said he wouldn't have felt right about it, that we weren't meant tae have that one.”

“Does that happen often? I mean, does Edwin turn away … commissions?”

“Aye, sometimes, if he feels like the fates have somehow intervened.”

I chewed a moment. “He couldn't resist purchasing the Folio, could he?”

“If you had that kind of money, who could?”

I shrugged. “He won the auction. Was it because he paid too much for it or because the other members of Fleshmarket didn't want it?”

“I don't know. He didn't tell me how much he paid for it.”

“Have you talked to any of the other members? Did they explain why they didn't want it?”

“I wouldn't talk much tae them unless they came into the shop, and then it would only be greetings. They are a part of Edwin's world that I'm not a part of. I don't know all the members. He did mention that as a whole they were all suspicious of Birk's story of how he got it. Edwin told me the story. It's far-fetched.”

“What about Benny Milton? Isn't he in charge of looking for potential illegal activities?”

“I don't know Benny Milton.”

I sat up straighter and looked at Hamlet. His eyes were sincere. Edwin had mentioned the secrecy around Fleshmarket, but now I was even less clear about who was a secret to whom.

I chewed and then swallowed another bite of the bagel.

“What did you do yesterday afternoon, late?” I said.

“Studied. Why?”

“I went to a lecture given by Genevieve Begbie. Do you know her?”

“Aye, she's a friend of Edwin's. She's visited the shop before.”

I nodded. I had no idea how to ask more questions without giving away secrets. Maybe Hamlet wasn't supposed to know the identity of all the members of Fleshmarket. Asking how good of friends Edwin and Genevieve were didn't seem appropriate.

“She knows a lot about Ming vases,” I said.

“I'm not surprised. Edwin and his friends know a lot about a lot of things.”

“Ming vases not your thing?”

“No, not really.” Hamlet's eyebrows came together.

“What do you think about where Birk said he found the Folio?”

Hamlet laughed. “I doubt it's true, but there might be a good reason tae make something up. I wouldn't feel right speculating though.”

“Do you know the exact spot where he found it?”

“Where he
says
he found it. Aye, it's a tourist spot. Very popular.”

“Is it too early to go there? I mean if you don't have too much work to do?”

“It's a wee bit early, but we could go in an hour or so. I think I can do that.”

We finished breakfast quickly. Hamlet checked e-mails and I tackled the top row of books on the shelf by the front window. It seemed like as good a shelf as any to straighten and to see if any of the characters would talk to me. I also wanted to put myself in a spot where I could check the drawer that Hamlet shut so quickly when I first arrived.

The books were wedged in the space so haphazardly that I had to pull out eight of the thirty-two on the row and set them aside for some minor repairs. I took care to reshelf the others so they weren't crushed together or opened against the glass. The books weren't valuable other than they were all a bit old and bound mostly with cloth bindings. Someone would want them and would be willing to pay a reasonable price to take them home. I recognized
Treasure Island
and
Wuthering Heights,
and became distracted by a book of Danish ballads that had been translated into a combination of Scots and English—
Four and Forty
by Alexander Gray—and had couplets like:

You'll be the ninth, and that richt sune,

To atone for a' the wrangs I've dune.

I set it aside; the language fascinated me and I wanted to research its worth. None of the characters talked to me. Not once. It was strange, unsettling, but also unpredictably sad and lonely. I felt unmoored without them. I'd always needed to keep them under control, but I hadn't wanted them to leave.

When I knew Hamlet would be over on the dark side for a few minutes, I moved to the desk and opened the drawer. The only contents were a few pens, a yellow notebook, and—what I discovered when I turned it over—a picture. It was black-and-white and of two people standing together, their arms affectionately around each other, their smiles happy. One person was undoubtedly a younger version of Edwin. He had slightly fewer wrinkles than he had now—or maybe he had the same amount but they just weren't as deep back then. But he still struck me as regal, a gentleman.

I guessed that the other person in the picture must be Jenny. The two of them with similar tall, thin but sturdy builds. Jenny's hair was blondish brown I thought, straight until it hit her shoulders where the ends curled out. She wasn't pretty, but she wasn't unattractive either. I was always intrigued by the use of the word “handsome” for women, and I thought that, like Monroe had said, Jenny had been handsome, but still feminine.

She also seemed perfectly fine in the picture. I got no sense that she wasn't sober. It was an old picture and it was difficult to determine if her coloring was off, but there was nothing about her that screamed drug-addled.

Had Hamlet been looking at the picture or putting it in the drawer? Or was he searching for a pen?

As I put the picture back how I found it, Rosie came through the front door. I mimicked Hamlet's move and shut the drawer quickly before I stood and put my hands guiltily on my hips.

“What can I do for ye, Delaney?” Rosie said as she deposited Hector to the floor. He ran to me and I picked him up.