Murder in the Secret Garden (11 page)

Edwin was just about to ask her to join him for a waltz on the grass when Butterworth suddenly appeared at her side.

“You must come at once,” he whispered urgently into her ear. “The rare herbal Sinclair put on display in the Henry James Library has been stolen.”

Jane threw Edwin a brief, distrustful glance before calmly
rising to her feet and following Butterworth away from the festivities.

As she hurried through the flower-covered arch on her way back to Storyton Hall, she yanked off a single marigold flower. She then crushed the blossom until it was nothing but yellow dust in her fist.

In the Henry James Library, Sinclair was despondently staring at the empty display case.

Though Jane practically tiptoed across the carpet, he heard her approach and raised his eyes to meet hers. “Your uncle will never allow you to auction an item from the secret library now. Forgive me, Miss Jane.”

Jane was crushed. She'd been trying to convince Uncle Aloysius to let her sell one or two of the more obscure treasures housed in the temperature-controlled attic turret. Building the Storyton Mews and retiling the Jules Verne Pool had eaten up all the profits from the Romancing the Reader event, and Jane had so many projects tacked to the Hopes and Dreams board in her office that there wasn't room for more. She wanted to restore the folly and the orchards, create more walking trails through the woods, open a second boutique, and buy paddleboats for the lake. Above all else, she wanted Storyton Hall to have a world-class spa.

Jane gazed at the velvet-lined display case in despair. “Uncle Aloysius had his doubts about my taking that herbal
from the secret library, but you know how I feel about all those books, scrolls, and documents being sealed away up there, and I finally convinced him that sharing these works is the right thing to do.”

“And I agree wholeheartedly,” Sinclair said. “Except for the materials with harmful or destructive content, of course. Those should remain in their locked drawers. There are many others, however, too splendid and wonderful to be kept in the dark.”

“Stories are meant to be shared,” Jane insisted. “No writer ever picked up a pen hoping that no one would see the results of his or her labors.”

Sinclair indicated a distant bookshelf. “A personal diary might be the exception to that rule.”

At the mention of a diary, Jane thought of Edwin. He hadn't left her side all evening. Could he have been responsible for the theft?

“The lock was picked?” she asked Sinclair.

“Yes,” he answered. And then, “I thought a sturdy lock, combined with my presence, would be a sufficient deterrent against theft.”

Jane leaned over and examined the glass. “I don't see any fingerprints. I suppose the thief wore gloves. Is Sterling reviewing video footage?”

“As we speak.” Sinclair laced his hands together. “Miss Jane, I believe I was in my office when the theft occurred. The Henry James Library doesn't close until nine, so the main door stood open. Naturally, I wanted to be available for those guests not attending the wedding, but as the evening wore on, it became clear that I was unlikely to receive any patrons. Therefore, I entered my office to continue work on a list of plants that can be successfully made into lethal, injectable poisons.”

“Sinclair.” Jane walked around the barren case and took the head librarian's hands. “This is not your fault. We're not
equipped with motion detectors or laser sensors. It's bad enough that we have cameras recording the activities in our public areas. Whoever stole that herbal will appear on the hallway feed. Unless they were aware of the camera. In that case, they could have timed their departure from the library to avoid being captured on film. Still, we should be able to see who entered from the back terrace—” She abruptly stopped. Dread seeped into her bones like a winter mist dampening the ground. “When did you last see the book intact in its case?”

“Moments before I spoke with you on the terrace.”

Squeezing his hands a little tighter, Jane asked, “And when you returned to the library?”

“I didn't look at the case, Miss Jane,” Sinclair admitted miserably. “Nothing seemed amiss, and I was intent on continuing my research.”

“The thief could be Edwin, then. I'm sure he's adept at lock picking. He could have taken the book and hidden it somewhere until after the wedding,” Jane said. She released Sinclair's hands because her own arms felt too leaden to hold up.

“This is not my handiwork, I can assure you. I wouldn't have been so sloppy,” a low voice said from behind them.

Jane swung around to see Edwin squatting by the case. “I believe the culprit entered sometime during the wedding feast.”

“How can you tell?” Sinclair asked.

Edwin indicated a tiny orange petal on the carpet. It was well camouflaged by the red and yellow floral designs in the wool carpet, but with Edwin pointing it out, Jane had no trouble identifying its source.

“A marigold petal,” she said, recalling the blossom she'd crushed in her fist.

“There's also a strong hint of cumin in the air, which wouldn't have come from you, Jane, because you partook
of dessert.” Edwin stood up. “The thief didn't. He or she ate the catfish or carrots before entering the library to commit the crime.” He glanced between Sinclair and Jane. “Is the book very valuable?”

“A twelfth-century herbal. Intact. Completely original. Magnificent illumination.” Sinclair never spoke in staccato, and Jane shot him a concerned look.

Edwin, on the other hand, nodded gravely. “A rare treasure, indeed. But hope is not lost. The culprit left the wedding feast during a specific time period, entered the resort, and then returned to the feast after stealing—and supposedly stashing—the herbal. You have a camera feed for the back terrace and another for the hallway outside the library, so you should have no trouble identifying the most likely suspects.”

“You've scoped out our camera locations quite thoroughly,” Jane said accusingly.

Edwin shrugged. “An occupational hazard.” Keeping his gaze fixed on Jane's face, he gestured at the lock. “May I take a closer look?”

To Jane's surprise, Sinclair produced a pair of gloves from his desk drawer and offered them to Edwin. “Would a magnifying glass be useful?”

“It would,” Edwin said. “And a flashlight, if you have one.”

Sinclair fetched both from his desk.

“Would you mind pointing the beam at the lock?” Edwin asked and Sinclair instantly complied.

Jane couldn't believe what she was seeing. Why was Sinclair allowing Edwin to investigate?

Why am
I
allowing this?
she silently wondered. But she knew the answer. She wanted to give Edwin a chance to either incriminate or exonerate himself. She wanted to know now, before another second passed, if Edwin Alcott would dare to steal a book from Storyton Hall.

So she made no move to stop Edwin as he held the magnifying glass over the lock. “Scratches everywhere. This was the work of an amateur. The thief was flustered. Rushed.” Edwin returned the glass and the gloves to Sinclair. “No professional would have left this lock with a bit of metal from a lock-picking tool lodged inside. He would have simply pocketed the lock and left. Add that mistake to the flower petal and the telltale aroma, and the conclusion is that you're dealing with an individual who is either desperate for funds or coveted that particular book.”

Jane and Sinclair exchanged concerned looks. Edwin's description could fit any number of Medieval Herbalists.

“If you'd just stolen a priceless book from this library, where would you stash it?” Jane asked Edwin.

His expression became pensive. “Not outdoors. It's far too humid. The safest place would be among other books. In another reading room perhaps. The real question is how does the thief plan to get the book off your property? He can't pack a twelfth-century herbal in his suitcase and hope for the best.”

At the very thought of this, Jane felt her face flush with anger. “No one will be leaving without having every inch of their belongings searched. There's more at stake here than the book itself. I have plans . . .” She trailed off, too angry to continue.

Edwin reached for her hand. “I'll do anything in my power to help retrieve the stolen herbal. But I won't be of much use if you can't trust me. Please, Jane. Grant me ten minutes. Alone.”

“Not now,” Jane said, pulling her hand free. “I need to review the video footage.”

“I could watch the feed too, but you can't allow that because I'm not above suspicion. Please, Jane,” Edwin persisted. “Ten minutes. If I haven't convinced you after that, I'll leave. And I won't breathe a word about the missing book.”

At a loss, Jane glanced at Sinclair and was astonished to see him dip his chin in a barely imperceptible nod. None of the Fins trusted Edwin Alcott, and Jane knew they'd be glad if he never stepped foot inside Storyton Hall again. And yet Sinclair, who was the closest thing Jane had to a father other than Uncle Aloysius, was encouraging her to hear Edwin out.

“All right,” she told Edwin. “Sinclair, I'll meet you in the security office in twenty minutes.”

“Where are you going?” Sinclair wanted to know. It was Jane's job to protect the secret library, but as a Fin, Sinclair was responsible for keeping the Guardian of Storyton Hall safe. Though he was willing to give Edwin a chance, he wasn't going to trust the man until Jane did.

Jane's mouth twitched. “To sit in my garden. I saw Muffet Cat headed that way, and he's an excellent judge of character.”

Edwin groaned. “I should have saved a piece of catfish from supper.”

Ignoring the jest, Jane led Edwin outside. It was only when they were safely hidden behind the tall hedge of Milton's Gardens that she said, “I was close to trusting you before you went away. When you failed to communicate with me during your absence, doubt crept in.”

Edwin's expression was solemn. “And your other feelings? The warmer ones? Were they as fleeting as your trust? A passing fancy?”

If his intent had been to provoke her, he succeeded in spades. Jane stopped and rounded on him. “
You
played with my heart like it was made of clay. I'm a widow in my thirties with two sons! I can't indulge in
fleeting
emotions. I don't
have
flings or
passing fancies
.” She performed a mock curtsy as she repeated this phrase. “I never came close to falling for another man since William died. Until you came along. I didn't want to have feelings for you, but I did all the same. Look where
that
got me!”

Edwin seized her hand again. “I couldn't contact you. I thought about you every hour. Every minute. I was afraid this would happen, but I had no control over my situation. I swear to you, Jane. I never meant to hurt you.”

“You
couldn't
contact me?” Jane stared at him in disbelief. “Why not? Was there no cell phone service in Shanghai? No Internet in Istanbul? Was there a stamp shortage in Palermo or—”

“I was being held captive,” Edwin interrupted. “I was a prisoner.”

For the first time since his return, Jane really looked at Edwin. When she stood very still and studied him, she realized that his face had the pallid, drawn, and slightly gaunt appearance of someone who hasn't been exposed to sunlight or fresh air for too long. She'd seen that look on guests visiting Storyton Hall. Guests who'd been trapped in cubicles or windowless offices for weeks on end. Guests who'd been ill and had spent fitful days in a hospital bed. These people came to Storyton to rest and read, but they also came to walk in the gardens, to play croquet on the lawn, and to breathe the mountain air. They came to have their bellies warmed by homemade food and to have their spirits restored by bookcase after bookcase of stories and by the pristine beauty of their surroundings.

Jane felt a lump form in her throat. Perhaps Edwin didn't deserve her pity. After all, he was a thief who'd undoubtedly been caught in the act of stealing, so why did the idea of his being locked in a lightless cell cause her such grief?

“Edwin,” she whispered hoarsely, touching his cheek. “Is any book worth imprisonment?”

Closing his eyes, he covered her hand with his own. “Let me explain. Please.”

Jane led him to the wooden bench at the far end of her garden. She loved this spot. Vines of morning glories bloomed on a trellis behind the bench, and on temperate
evenings such as this, she liked to sit and read while bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds busied themselves among the heart-shaped leaves and purple-blue flowers.

Edwin joined her on the bench and withdrew his hand. “I'm called The Templar because the men in my family have been Templars since the Order was founded. Not every Alcott male. Only those who've felt the calling. What do you know of the Templars, Jane?”

“I read up on them after I heard your nickname for the first time,” Jane admitted. “The Templars were formed by a French nobleman who wanted to protect pilgrims journeying to Jerusalem. These people were being robbed, injured, or attacked en route to the Holy City, so Hugues de Payens and a group of fellow knights pledged to surrender their worldly goods and devote their lives to ensure safe passage for anyone on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.” She paused, waiting for Edwin to interject or add to her narrative. When he didn't, she continued. “The Templars received the blessing of the Pope and were later supported by both kings and popes. The order was involved in the Crusades, some of which were successful campaigns while others were not. Following a terrible defeat in the final Crusade, Pope Clement the Fifth decreed that the Templars were to be disbanded, and many brave and devout men were tortured or executed as heretics.”

“A solid summary,” Edwin said approvingly. “But there is much more to the Templars than can ever be found online or in books. We have many divisions and many secrets. And each faction has its own goals and treasures.”

Jane thought of Lionel Alcott's diary. “Your greatgrandfather was pursuing one of these treasures, wasn't he? In his diary, he talks about his long sea voyage and how he traveled by cart and by camel. He never says where he's going or what he hopes to retrieve.” She shook her head. “I've read plenty of fantastical stories about the legendary
treasures of the Templars, but those tales remind me of Indiana Jones movie plots. I know there are people who believe that the Templars have the Holy Grail, King Arthur's sword, mountains of gold, and priceless religious relics hidden away in some secret location, but I've never been one of those people.”