Deadly Editions Page 3

  “That’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, if we’re being technically correct, Jacques. And yes, that’s exactly it.”

  Jacques sighed.

  Shelagh continued. “I have … hidden my most prized copy of my most favorite book of all time. Louis and I have taken great pains to put together the hunt.”

  Louis nodded solemnly. I noted to myself that he was in on at least that much of the plan. What more could there be?

  Shelagh continued. “Now, please let me finish, and then I will answer questions. I believe, and I hope, that none of you is capable of hurting anyone, which is part of the reason you were all chosen. This will be a fair hunt with no threat of violence. And if one of you becomes harmed in the search, I will go to the police immediately about the other three.”

  I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

  “Also,” Shelagh went on, “once the book is found, you each will receive a large sum of money. You will all receive the same amount, and it is substantial, but I’m not going to share the number with you—not today at least.”

  “Why are you giving us money?” Birk asked.

  “Because I have to do something with it, Birk. I think that using some of it to pay you for your efforts is only fair. Also, if you all receive money when this is over, you might cheer each other on rather than compete in any dangerous way. Does that make sense?”

  I could see Birk’s answer in his eyes. Lots of this didn’t make sense. The whole thing seemed oddly frivolous, but also fun and exciting. Birk only nodded.

  “This is how it will begin. I want to give each of you an individual tour of my library. I don’t want to do this part as a group, and that’s probably unfair. But that is my rule.” Shelagh glanced briefly at Jacques. I thought I saw some sort of challenge there, but it was over too quickly for me to be sure. “We will draw straws to see who gets to visit first, and it is during the tours that I will give you each the first clue. We’ll do the tours tomorrow.

  “Now, a wee bit more about the book. It’s a first-edition copy, signed by the author. I realize most of you have seen such things before, and you know they are the most valuable of all editions, particularly if they are in pristine condition. This one is. This one has been long hidden in my library, away from the elements as well as any human touch. It is a precious book, although it isn’t perfect, and that’s why I love it so. I love imperfection so much more than perfection. This book, my book, has a pen mark. By hand, someone changed the year of issue inside from 1885 to 1886.”

  “Why would anyone do such a thing?” Tricia asked, appalled.

  “The original publication date on the books was supposed to be 1885, but there was a delay in shipping, and because of Christmas most people didn’t get their copy until 1886. A helpful bookseller made the change. I think it’s a charming anecdote, don’t you?” Shelagh smiled and then closed her eyes. “I can see it. The diligent bookman, working late in his lovely shop one evening, and the box of books he ordered arrives. He locks his shop door against the dark and snowy post-holiday night, gathers his jumper around himself as he adjusts his glasses and sets down his pipe. He opens the box and sees the contents inside. He becomes gleeful. He takes it upon himself to fix the date, because, gracious, he can’t let his faithful patrons think he had the books in the back, keeping them to himself until after the season.” She opened her eyes and gave a satisfied nod.

  “You should be a writer, Auntie,” Jacques said.

  “Oh, not at all. Doesn’t everyone have such an imagination?”

  The four of us looked around at one another.

  Again Birk spoke up. “No, Shelagh, they don’t.”

  “Well, they should. Grab the straws, Louis. Now, who’s in?” Shelagh looked around expectantly.

  “I … uh, don’t know,” Tricia said.

  “What’s on your mind, dear?” Shelagh asked.

  “I wonder about all of it, and I’m not sure I’m able to do what might be needed to hunt down a book.”

  “You are one of the cleverest librarians in all of Edinburgh.” Shelagh leaned forward on the table. “I have no doubt that you can figure out anything at all.”

  Tricia pushed up her glasses, and her eyes got big behind the lenses. “Ms. O’Conner, Shelagh, I wonder if you would share with us what happened to you back when … you were in trouble. I think it’s only fair for us to know as much as we can about the person sending us on a treasure hunt.”

  I wanted to hear that story too, but I waited silently as Birk cringed and Jacques turned his gaze downward. Louis didn’t seem fazed in the least.

  Shelagh’s mouth pinched tight. She took a deep breath. “I hoped it wouldn’t come up. Gracious, it has been over fifty years since all that silliness, the late sixties, for goodness’ sake. Hasn’t everyone heard the story? With the internet and everything.”

  “No,” Tricia said. “I did some research before coming here today and found some mention of the trouble, but there were no details, no copies of any articles that ran back then. I wanted to stop by the Scotsman and ask to peruse their archives, but I didn’t have time. Would you mind sharing what happened, from your point of view?”

  Shelagh tsked. “Well, ultimately it was tragic, of course, and my inclusion was all very silly, really. I was young and bored—I was seventeen. I first read about Jekyll and Hyde when I was sixteen, and my passion for the story was immediately ignited. Anyway, because of my obsession with the story—I’m willing to call it that—I decided I wanted to try to live a double life and see if I could fool anyone, see if I could give myself something interesting to do. Life is so dull when you’re rich, young, and dramatic, you know.

  “Anyway, I lived as a beggar during the night, going so far as to wear old clothes and dirty up my face. My own version of Mr. Hyde, though without the voilence. It was an act at first, just something fun. Then I enjoyed observing people’s reaction to my beggar’s behavior. I was treated so differently than in my real life. Truly, it was a real study of human behavior, even if I didn’t quite understand that then. It became fun, interesting.” Shelagh shrugged.

  “Were you treated better or worse as a beggar?” I interjected.

  Shelagh smiled knowingly. “Excellent question, Delaney. In fact, I think I was treated more honestly as a beggar. Some people were disgusted by me, some wanted to help. When I was the rich me, people catered to me, but I doubt much of it was genuine. As a beggar I felt the need to ‘trust the kindness of strangers,’ if you will. If someone helped, they truly wanted to. In my real life, people just thought they should—they were being paid or wanted something from me. No one behaved as if they were disgusted by the rich girl, though I’m sure some were.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “So it was fun until you were accused of killing someone?” Tricia said.

  “Yes.” Shelagh frowned. “I didn’t kill anyone, and I was never arrested. It all came from rumors and speculations, the press wanting to make me into the rich girl who’d gone bad.”

  Birk made a small noise. “Some people enjoy those sorts of stories.”

  “Who was killed?” I asked. I hadn’t done even as much research as Tricia had.

  It didn’t appear that Shelagh was going to answer.

  Birk and Shelagh looked at each other then, and I sensed the years falling away. I saw something there in that small moment of time travel. They’d known each other before this meeting, perhaps well.

  Shelagh blinked and then looked away from Birk and down at her lap. “A secret beau. Oliver McCabe. A potential beau. We never … it never really developed into a relationship.”

  I sat up straighter.

  Birk cleared his throat. “He and Shelagh were close.”

  “And then he was killed.” Shelagh looked up at Birk, her eyes keeping a level gaze.

  “He was.” Birk nodded.

  “Who killed him?” Jacques asked, looking at Birk.

  “The killer was never foun
d, as far as I know,” Birk said.

  “No, never.” Shelagh sat up straighter too. “That’s the part that people forget. Though at first our relationship was a secret because my parents wouldn’t have approved, it later became clear that I’d lost someone I cared about, and there has never been any resolution. My crime was lying, maybe pretending to be someone I wasn’t. When I was recognized in the crowd in the picture near … Ollie’s body.” She paused. “Well, I was young, I didn’t know how to handle all of these things.

  “We didn’t have cameras everywhere back then, but someone managed to snap a picture and I was there, yes. I saw the man I loved, now dead. Whoever took the picture then took the film in to be developed and then discovered the photo two months after the murder. Instead of taking it to the police, they took it to the newspaper. It was embarrassing, for me and my family. But ultimately no evidence was found against me. Still, though, imagine what was thought of me when our relationship became public knowledge. My family was unfairly and further shamed. It was horrible, and Ollie was gone.” Shelagh shook her head. “No one cared that my heart had been irreparably broken. My possible involvement became even more important than the fact that a good man was now dead.”

  “I read that it looked in the picture like you had blood on your jumper.” Tricia wasn’t sympathetic to Shelagh’s broken heart.

  “It wasn’t blood.”

  “The jumper was never tested, though,” Tricia said.

  “Dear, it seems you’ve read more than you mentioned. But no, I’d thrown it away. I’d thrown away all those clothes.”

  “They found suspicious remains of a fire in your back garden.”

  “There were no remnants of clothes in the fire.”

  “It was indeterminable.”

  “All I can do, Tricia, is tell you that I did nothing wrong and I was dismissed by the police.” She looked around.

  Tricia pursed her lips and then nodded at Shelagh.

  “Do you want to stay, dear girl?” Shelagh asked, her tone less friendly than her words.

  Tricia thought a long moment. “I do. Thank you.”

  “Very well. I would ask if anyone has any further questions, but I simply don’t feel like answering them now. We will begin the library tours tomorrow. Let’s draw straws to see who gets to go first.”

  I wasn’t disappointed that she’d ended the questions, but I was certainly looking forward to asking her some during my tour the next day.

  Louis seemed to enjoy his role as the holder of the straws. “Ladies first,” he said, and then moved around the table to Tricia, then me, followed by Birk, and finally Jacques.

  Birk drew the longest straw, Tricia second, Jacques, and then me. I was happy with where I landed but tried not to show it too much. I would love to find Shelagh’s lost book, and I knew that Edwin would do something spectacular with her library, but I wanted to be the last to view it so our meeting wouldn’t be rushed.

  I was excited, caught up with the idea of the hunt, the story of the long-ago murder. What happened next, though, made me think that perhaps I should be more concerned.

  Once library tour times were determined, Louis stood and went to the door. He opened it and said, “Ah, there you are. Yes, I believe that Ms. O’Conner is ready to go.”

  The person he spoke to entered the cramped room and made his way around the table to Shelagh. He was there, it seemed, to escort her out of the pub. He didn’t miss the opportunity to look pointedly at me, sending me a wry and far-too-knowing smile. So that was what Findlay Sweet, Tom’s former fishing buddy, meant by being a driver. He was Shelagh O’Conner’s chauffeur.

  I blinked at him openmouthed for a beat, then scowled. What was going on?

  I had so many questions, but I wasn’t sure whom to ask what. For now I’d continue to think on things, formulate a list. Tomorrow I’d get some answers.

  FOUR

  “Findlay?” Tom’s eyes opened wide.

  “Yes!” I reached for one of his fries—chips, that is.

  I’d walked into our favorite takeaway a little later than I expected to. I’d gotten stuck on my spreadsheet project at work and texted Tom that he should start without me. As soon as I got there, I plunked myself down on a stool next to him—one of three seats in the entire place—and told him about my running into Findlay at the meeting with Shelagh.

  “Oh, I don’t like this one bit, Delaney.” Tom put down the piece of fish he’d been holding.

  “I don’t either, but I don’t know why. What’s the story between the two of you?”

  Tom thought a moment. “Order your dinner and I’ll put the story together in my head, so I don’t look like a foolish child.”

  I smiled. I was still learning about Tom’s past, which included some less-than-gentlemanly behavior. Even if he told me a story that did in fact make him look foolish, it would not diminish my love for him. He knew this by now. He caught my smile and quirked a quick one back.

  “You love these stories, don’t you?” he said.

  “I love that you’re human.”

  “Too human for my own good.”

  “Tom, nothing is that bad,” I said.

  “Findlay might think so, and that worries me. Go ahead and order.”

  I scooted off the stool and walked the two steps to the counter, where I ordered quickly and then moved back to Tom as Mica, the shop owner, dropped my fish into the fryer.

  “Are you okay?” I asked Tom.

  “I’m fine, lass. I just wish I’d grown up a wee bit sooner.”

  “Then you might not have waited for me.”

  Tom smiled all the way now. “I would have waited, but you do have a point—things are meant to be and such. Anyway, I suppose it wasn’t that I did the wrong thing. I did the right thing, but I just went about it the wrong way.”

  “Okay.”

  Tom and I both appreciated how Mica pretended not to overhear the conversations that took place in his small restaurant, but he wasn’t far from us as he attended to my dinner.

  “I was sixteen, and Da was tired of me hanging around the house. I got myself in enough trouble back then—small stuff like skipping class—that he wanted me to have a job during the school year as well as the summer. I spent a year working as a floor sweeper in the university’s library, somewhat under Da’s watchful eye. Surprising him, I took school seriously that year. Da was proud, but I was tired. I quit my job at the library and thought I’d just have some fun over the summer. Da disagreed.” Tom smiled as the memory transformed from contentious to fond. “He told me that if I didn’t get a job, he would get one for me and I wouldn’t like it. I didn’t believe him, but that’s exactly what he did.”

  “He knew Findlay?” I asked as Mica handed me my paper boat full of food.

  “No, he knew me. I was always fond of looking at the water, but I didn’t like being on it back then. I get a wee bit seasick, aye, but open water was a real fear for me when I was young. Not manly, I know, but Da thought I could get over it, face my fear and all. I knew how to swim. He went to the docks and found a fisherman who needed help.” Tom smiled again. “You saw Findlay—he was old and grizzled back then too.”

  “Findlay was the fisherman your dad found?”

  “Aye. Findlay.” Tom nodded.

  I took a bite and waited as he fell into thought again.

  “It started off well enough.” Tom pushed his food away. “Except for the seasickness. At first Findlay was upset that neither Da nor I had told him I suffered such an affliction. He wanted to fire me, but I was just stubborn enough—and didn’t want to disappoint my father—to tell Findlay I could stick it out. And in truth it did get better. Or I just learned to better live with it. Either way, it became bearable. I could work full days for Findlay and not have to take one extra break. I didn’t ever feel great on the boat, but I could do it.”

  I’d come to know his stubborn focus, and it was one of the many things I loved about him.

  Tom continued. “An
yway, after I worked for him for a month or so, we began to get along as friends. I enjoyed his raucous sense of humor, and his gruffness became endearing. In the afternoons he’d take off a couple of hours while I processed the morning’s catch. He claimed that that was his time to rest, that I’d been hired mostly so he could take a nap in the afternoons. I didn’t mind working alone. It was messy but fun, until the day things went south.

  “I was working on the fish, cleaning and filleting, when another man stopped by looking for Findlay. I’d thought Findlay was the most life-worn man I’d ever seen until this man showed up. I couldn’t tell you his name, but he was rough around all his edges, snockered and angry too, looking for my boss, not willing to let me tell him I didn’t know where Findlay was or when he’d return.” Tom shook his head. “He grabbed my ear—just like in the old movies—he grabbed my ear and demanded I take him to Findlay.”

  “He assaulted you,” I said.

  “That’s not how it was looked at. And I knew Findlay wasn’t far away. He lived near the docks. I’d been to his flat, though only briefly. I became scared enough to take this man directly to Findlay’s place. I tried to make noise as we approached the building so Findlay could be prepared or run out the back or something, but it didn’t work.

  “When we got to the front door, the man just broke through. He kicked it open. Inside, there was Findlay and a young woman in a … compromising position.”

  “That’s unfortunate.”

  “Aye, particularly since I’d met Findlay’s wife, and that wasn’t the young woman with him. Apparently Mrs. Sweet did her shopping and errands every afternoon when Findlay took his naps, if you know what I mean.”

  “I do. So Findlay was angry at you for bringing the man to his flat?”

  “No. Though he wasn’t happy about that, it was something else that angered him. I told his wife on him. A week later a sense of propriety came over me, and I told on my boss. Ironic, considering, aye?”

  “Considering your reputation?”

  “Aye. At the time I was young enough not to have much of a reputation, but it did come later.”