Abbot's Moon

ABBOT’S MOON

JIM CARR

IN MEMORIAM

WILLIAM NEVILLE ANDERSON

March 6, 1922 -- September 09, 2020

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Michele Hansen

For her structuring advice and suggestions

COPYRIGHT 2020 JamesWCarr

ISBN: 978-1-9894252084

Chapter One

“I’m willing to bet no one – including your friend – can guess who the murderer is,” said Alan Simmons, a 26-yearold writer of mystery stories, who liked to concoct intricate plots.

We were sitting in Mystery Books on Front Street in Toronto and discussing one of my ideas about publicizing Simmons’s first novel. My suggestion was simple enough: Invite my good friend, Inspector Winton Hazlett, an old war friend, who was visiting me, to join us for a mystery weekend, and see if he could discover the identity of the murderer before the weekend was up.

“I like it, Mr. Anderson,” said Alex Fitzgibbon, Mystery Books’ hands-on president, who had a flair for promotion and publicity, after I explained we should also have a contest among readers to tell us what character they would like to play – and why – in 100 words. The best ones would be selected to play these characters during the mystery weekend.

“Thanks to Alan,” I said, nodding in his direction, “we can add another wrinkle. We can publicize the weekend as a contest between the author and Winton.”

“Better still,” said Fitzgibbon, “let’s invite a couple of reporters along to report on the weekend and who wins.”

“Next item: Where do we hold it,” said Alex Fitzgibbon, rubbing his hands and smiling. His weather-beaten face crinkled like sun-dried mud on a beach bank, and his balding head gleamed in the sun that streamed in from the window behind him. There was barely enough room for the three of us. Books sat on empty chairs and the large table

behind us. Fitzgibbon lit a cigar and kept puffing until it was lit.

“If I can swing it, what about Harry Ashford’s estate just outside Goderich on Lake Huron? It used to be an old abbey. As you know, he’s one of my clients.”

If you can manage it, Bill, you’ll get a big bonus.”

“I hope you plan to include me.” Simmons’ voice broke like a young teen. “Just to make sure your friend doesn’t get any help along the way.”

“I’m afraid my friend, Hazlett, wouldn’t allow it, Alan. He’s a square shooter in everything he does.”

“Getting back to Asford’s estate,” said Fitzgibbon in a voice that suggested business. He could smell opportunity and wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers quickly.

“I’ll approach him about it on Friday. I have a meeting with him then.”

“Is there anything we could do to entice him? It’s the perfect setting for Alan’s book.”

“First, let me see what Winton says.”

Fitzgibbon’s secretary tapped at his door and stuck her head through. “Cassandra would like a word,” she said in a voice that bordered on a whisper.

Fitzgibbon’s voice brightened. “Ask Cassandra to give me a minute or two and then bring her in.”

Then, turning to Simmons and me, “Cassandra is one of our writers. She’s a psychic, mystic, seer and writes books about her experiences in helping the police in their murder investigations and locating the bodies of murder victims through her visions. She’s very gifted.”

He looked at Simmons, who was counting the ornate ceiling tiles over Fitzgibbon’s desk. “It may interest you, Alan, to know that her books usually go to second printings.”

“I take it you want us to meet this creature.”

“If it’s not too much effort, Alan. And who knows, you

may even enjoy it.”

“Somehow,” said Simmons under his breath, “I think not.”

Fitzgibbon, who couldn’t have missed hearing his comment if he tried, smiled. “You may be in for quite a surprise.”

A minute later, we found out exactly what he meant. Simmons sucked in his breath when she appeared in the doorway. I don’t know your idea of what a psychic should look like but Cassandra Whitney wasn’t mine. With her tall, willowy body, long blonde hair and heart-piercing looks, she could easily have passed as Brigitte Bardot’s sister. Bardot was France’s sex kitten in the 1960s.

Fitzgibbon introduced us. Simmons was still holding her hand when she turned from him and focused her dark smoky eyes on me. She nodded and returned my smile with lips that might have been used for a lipstick ad in glossy magazines.

“You wanted to see me,” said Fitzgibbon when the smoke cleared. “Is it something you would prefer to discuss in private?”

“No. It concerns these gentlemen, too. She paused to study our faces again. “I don’t know what you gentlemen are planning but I do know no good will come of it. I see death. Murder. And blood.”

She stopped when she saw the smiles on our faces. “You’re not taking me seriously. But I can assure you that before the month is out, you will.”

The smile disappeared from her face but not the aura of mystery that surrounded her.

“We aren’t smiling at you, Cassandra, or your warning,” said Fitzgibbon in a measured voice.

“That’s not what it looked like from where I stand.”

“We’re planning a mystery weekend during which we would re-enact the plot of a new murder mystery by Alan

Simmons. It tickled our funny bones when you mentioned murder.”

Cassandra tossed back her blond hair. No matter what pose she struck, she certainly turned heads and I wondered why she hadn’t become a model rather than a psychic.

“I was talking about real murder and real blood. That’s all I wanted to say.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I’m afraid I must leave now. But please, whatever you’re planning, please think about what I’ve said.”

We watched her leave in silence. Simmons followed her with his heart. Fitzgibbon just smiled and rubbed his chin in excitement. He opened his lower desk drawer and withdrew a bottle of Scotch and poured a drink for the three of us. Fitzgibbon, who grew a fondness for Scotch during his war years at the front, downed his in one gulp. Simmons tried to do the same but lost his breath. I reached over and patted him on the back. Fitzgibbon winked at me and sat back.

“Are you guys thinking what I’m thinking?” Fitzgibbon’s grey eyes danced like firecrackers on dry summer pavement.

Simmons and I waited. We both knew Fitzgibbon liked to ask rhetorical questions.

“Let’s make it a three-way contest. Cassandra, Alan and your friend, Inspector Hazlett.” He sat back in his chair and spread his arms.

“May I suggest, gentlemen, that we offer a prize for the winner? We’ll put up the prize,” said Fitzgibbon. His dark grey dancing eyes and square jaw made him a standout in any crowd.

“And if our belle dame sans merci discovers the identity of the murderer before Hazlett, what then?”

I wasn’t sure what Simmons was driving at.

“No one wins. Neither Alan nor your friend,” Fitzgibbon jumped in before I could respond. “But whatever hap-

pens, it will make great publicity.”

He was right, of course. “I agree, Fitz, but what happens if the lady does not wish to join our little enterprise?”

“Leave that to me.”

“She seemed quite worked up,” said Simmons in a thin voice. “I’m not an expert on psychics but I’d say she’s a bit ticked off by the way we received her warning. She may take a bit of coaxing.”

***

“You want me to do what?”

“It’s part of a promotion,” I tried to explain.

“Then change it, Bill,” said Hazlett. “I am a serious police inspector and take my work just as seriously. I’d rather not.”

Everything had gone beautifully – the contest with Simmons, the mystery weekend, the concept, everything –until I mentioned we planned to hold the event at Ashford’s country estate in an old restored abbey. He also had considerable reservations about wealthy business people due to dealing with them in his work.

“They have a feeling of entitlement, of being above the law, as if having money made them special and untouchable,” said Hazlett.

I was in the public relations business, and Hazlett, barely 47 in 1976, was making a name for himself as an inspector with the Glastonbury Constabulary in England.

“Men like your friend, Ashford, do not do anything for anyone – without expecting something in return. What did you promise?”

“Nothing. Not a thing. I admit shford can be a bit gruff at times but he has a good heart. Alex Fitzgibbon, a friend of the cardinal, had his eminence write Ashford on his behalf. The cardinal wrote that Fitzgibbon was interested in publishing a book on the life of St. Francis, written by a mem-

ber of the Curia, asking Ashford to make his country estate available to Fitz for a mystery weekend. So that you know, Ashford is a great admirer of St. Francis of Assisi.”

“How does he square his greed and riches with the poverty of his favourite saint?”

“I’m not sure but there are stories about how Ashford dresses in a monk’s habit when he’s at home on his country estate. He even has his chaplain.”

“You forget, Bill, that I’m on holiday. And that doesn’t sound much like a holiday to me.”

“A couple of things you should know about Ashford before you decide. First, he was born in Ireland to an impoverished family. He joined the British army, rose to the rank of Sergeant-Major and took part in the Dieppe Raid. He was captured, escaped, lived on scraps of food given to him by some of the people who hid him before finding a row boat and started rowing himself across the Channel before being picked up by a British patrol boat.

“He also fully supports a shelter and food kitchen for homeless people and the very poor in Toronto. He will not allow anyone to know about it.”

Hazlett cocked his head, and his face and cornflower blue eyes brightened. “I don’t feel comfortable spending a weekend in a place like that.”

“Besides,” I added, trying to sound as carefree as possible, “it’s too late to back off now. There’s a contest between you and a psychic. There’s a prize for the winner.”

That’s when I decided to spring Cassandra on him. “One thing more,” I began.

“I had a feeling there was more.”

It was a moment I knew I would savour for centuries. I paused for dramatic effect. “Cassandra Whitney.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And….” His voice trailed off as a bus revved up its diesel engine outside. We were sitting in my upstairs office.

“She’s a psychic. And a writer of crime stories, real-life crime stories, recounting how she uses her psychic powers to lead police to missing murder victims and help them track down the murderers.”

“Where is this leading?” His voice had the cutting edge of surgical steel.

“Fitzgibbon thinks a three-way contest among the three of you – the author, Cassandra and you – would make intriguing publicity and boom sales of Simmons’ book.”

Hazlett shook his head and sucked in his breath. “What are you leaving out?”

“Nothing.”

Then, after a pause, came the real question. “What does she look like?”

“Oh, that. Cassandra looks enough like Brigitte Bardot that she could be her sister.” I had a hard time controlling my voice, knowing his fondness for Brigitte Bardot. Hazlett had not dated anyone since his wife died nine years earlier.

It was about that time he developed an interest in astrology, and I often wondered later if there were a connection.

“I bet.”

“Wait until you meet her.”

“What else?”

“She broke into our meeting yesterday to warn us that our mystery weekend would end in tragedy and murder –or words to that effect.”

The sword “murder” was the clincher.

“What did you say her name was?”

Chapter Two

“Whydo you think the old man called us here?” The anger in Julian Ashford’s voice was ready to explode.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” he said, standing up at the dining room table, “but I’ve had enough of his lord-of-the-manor attitude. If he doesn’t show up in the next five minutes, I’m out of here.”

“Shut up, Julian.” Nina Ashford’s tone was sharp, inpatient and dismissive as her father’s. “For someone scared of cats, you’re not going to do anything, now or ever.”

Julian glared at his sister and was reminded again how much he hated his father. He had gained weight since the beginning of the year, and it showed in his face. His youthful, dashing looks had quietly slipped away with his frequent orgies of liquor and drugs.

“You’re not going anywhere, and you know it. Sit down.”

“Am I the only one who’s prepared to stand up to him?”

The outburst was needed to clear the air. The atmosphere in Harry Ashford’s private dining room was heavy and hinted at violence. You could see it in the guarded looks and the taunt, white faces around the long mahogany dinner table that usually sat 20 -- Bartholomew Quick, Ashford’s accountant and executive assistant; Roger Witherspoon, his lawyer; and Father Théo, his chaplain.

The matching sideboard behind Julian’s back was piled high with potatoes, carrots, cabbage from the estate’s garden, along with chicken and roast beef. The long wide window overlooking Lake Huron lit up the panelled walls dec-

orated with war pictures and County Kerry in Ireland.

Ashford arrived without warning a few minutes later and took his seat at the head of the table. He nodded, and the butler began serving dinner.

There was an extra chair, decorated with a covering of wild flowers and a large painting of St. Francis behind him. “My apologies. I was held up by a call.” Harry Ashford had lobbed enough bombshells in his day to know the one was about to drop would set off a firestorm. It was time to tell them. Coffee was being served, and he stood, straightened his black dinner jacket and waited for the talk around the table to die.

“I have an announcement,” he said, clearing his throat. “But first, a couple of housekeeping items to dispense with. A small group of literary adventurers will be staying at the Abbey this weekend.”

“Why weren’t we told?” said Julian. “I wouldn’t have come if I knew you were entertaining.”

Ashford’s heavy grey eyebrows knitted in annoyance. “Please understand, Julian, and this goes for the rest of you. I am not seeking your approval. I am merely doing you the courtesy of informing you that I have visitors this weekend. If you don’t like the idea of sharing the Abbey, you’re free to leave just as soon as we conclude our dinner.”

No one spoke. They knew how quickly Ashford’s moods could change and dreaded the moment the Irish lilt in his voice suddenly turned to acid. His long, thin face was as stiff as the hardness in his dark grey eyes.

A small fan on the sideboard whirred in the silence. A lone mosquito wheeled somewhere in the distance before lighting on Julian’s neck. Ashford blamed it on the cologne his son liked to wear; only Ashford called it “perfume.” The memory of the roast beef dinner still lingered in the air.

Ashford cleared his throat again, and the talk around

the table died instantly. “I asked you here to tell you that I’ve decided who will succeed me as head of Ashfords.”

Everyone held their breath. Only Witherspoon had an idea what was coming and glanced at the drawn, frozen faces across the table.

“As you all know, my health has been failing in recent months. I also regret to say it has only heightened my concern about the future of Ashfords and who is best suited to take the company to the next level.”

He paused to clear his throat again. “It is for that reason I have decided to throw the succession of CEO of Ashfords open to everyone.”

“What do you mean?” Nina Ashford’s voice stung like a laser on bare skin.

“I’m not finished, Nina.” He glanced at Quick, who was nodding in that quiet way of his whenever he sensed Ashford was not at ease.

“Initially, the search will be limited to everyone sitting at this table. And, yes, that includes you, Mr. Quick and Mr. Witherspoon.”

“But they’re not family, “said Julian, who kept shaking his head.

Ashford looked at him in disgust. “If you’d stop fiddling your hands for a minute, you’d understand what I’m trying to tell you. Sooner or later, Ashfords will need a new vision and someone with the right combination of street smarts and backbone to carry out that vision and make Ashfords a dominant force in world business.”

Nina stood and looked at her father. “What about me?”

Ashford looked at her for a full minute to decide how to answer her. “You’ve got the brains and the smarts to become a great CEO but you’re a woman. If you were my son, I wouldn’t be worried about what will happen with I die.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair or not, it’s a hard world out there. We need someone with the toughness to stand up to the toughest competition, which is getting harder by the year. If you want to prove to me you’ve got the toughness, throw your hat into the ring by all means.”

“What if something happens to Julian?” Nina wasn’t giving up.

“Don’t even think such thoughts.”

“How will that person be selected, and who will be making the final decision?” Nina asked in a rising voice. The skin had crinkled around her eyes, and she looked at him as an equal.

Ashford liked Nina’s directness and, for the millionth time, regretted she had not been born a boy.

“I will,” he said finally, “We shall meet again in 30 days. That’s how much time you’ve got to create your vision for Ashfords and a detailed strategic plan on how you expect to carry it out.”

“A month isn’t very long.” Julian’s voice faded like a dying ember.

“Long enough, Julian. When I started this business, some days I had less than a minute to make life-and-death decisions for the company.”

Nina smiled. She always felt she was smarter than her younger brother and always resented how everyone indulged his foolishness.

“One more thing. I want to see figures to back up your vision, including income projections for everything you suggest.”

By rights, the mantle should have been passed to Julian but looking at his son’s long, dark brown wavy hair tied by a bright red ribbon in a ponytail, Ashford knew he had made the right decision.

“Any other questions?”

”I have one.” Nina didn’t wait for the others. “What happens if you don’t like any of our proposals?”

“Then we will have to look outside.” Ashford paused to see the sudden fear in all their faces. “Ashford’s must survive and make no mistake about it. It will.”

“What if you don’t find anyone who lives up to your standards?” Nina again.

“Or,” said Julian, “you die before you’ve had a chance to name a successor?”

For Ashford, their questions summed up where his children’s minds were. “I have already asked Mr. Witherspoon to draw up a new will with that possibility in mind. In that eventuality, you and Nina will be provided for but the bulk of my holdings will go to the church. I’m sure they’ll find someone.”

“I also have an announcement,” Nina blurted out in the silence the followed her father’s last statement. She had her father’s features and manner, including his dark grey eyes and how she stood face-to-face with him in disagreements. For the first time, she noted that his iron straight back was slightly stooped.

“I’ve met someone. A merger and acquisitions lawyer. Our wedding is next month.”

Chapter Three

“Idon’t think you’ll ever grow up,” said Marion Randall in a voice she reserved for people she despised or had no use for. Her husband had just told her he had been selected to play one of the lead characters at a mystery weekend at Harry Ashford’s estate in June. “We’ll talk about this when you get home.”

Austin Randall re-read the telegram he had received a few minutes earlier from the book publisher. No matter what his wife said or how much fuss she kicked up, he was going, and that was that. After all, he had won one of the plum roles – the murderer – and no one, not Marion or the threat of another prison camp, was going to keep him from attending.

Austin was one of the lucky survivors of four years of hell spent in Japanese prison camps in Hong Kong and Japan. He remembered the vow he had made to himself during the years of the starvation, dysentery and brutal treatment that no one would ever fence him in against his will. In those days, he didn’t know that mental fences could be just as confining.

The smell of Sulphur was heavier than usual that afternoon, and he looked out his office window at the cold blue waters of Lake Superior and the line of Birch trees along the highway, not far from the pulp mill, where he worked. Behind him loomed the mill’s boiler tower, which always made him feel insignificant. He wondered what he should wear. He would look at the novel again and see what the murderer was wearing. He had only one good suit, a blue one, and wasn’t sure if he could still fit into it comfortably.

It wasn’t that long ago he was skin and bones. He could eat anything in those days and was lucky if he gained a pound.

The nightmare of those years stayed with him for a long time and was one of the reasons he chose forestry. There were no fences in the bush, and when he first joined the company, he delighted in spending the summer nights under the stars by himself on cruising duties.

Austin took out the telegram and went over it again. The prospect of meeting Harry Ashford in person and that English Police inspector, Hazlett, who had been written up recently in The Glastonbury Observer, excited him as much as the prospect of playing the murderer in the novel.

Outside, rain clouds were gathering over Lake Superior, and he thought of Marion waiting for him at home and how her eyes looked when her anger was about to explode. He shivered and went back to the reports that imprisoned his mind.

It was the last thing Trudy Sherman expected when Jack Purcell, her managing editor at The Gazette, motioned her to the chair in front of his desk. Sherman was an old hand at The Gazette and a bit apprehensive since she received a cryptic memo from Purcell the previous afternoon. Purcell’s office was not large as offices go but it did have a commanding view of University Avenue. Old copies of the paper and a stack of manila file folders gathered dust atop a row of battered green filing cabinets. The smell of stale pipe tobacco mingled in the air with the smothering aftershave Purcell used.

“Well, what do you think?” Purcell asked in a deep, booming voice that could be heard all over the newsroom. His greying hair and rimless glasses made him somehow look tired and older than he was.

“The contest between Hazlett and the psychic and the

author could be interesting. Anyone else covering?”

“Not sure. Maybe the local paper.” Purcell didn’t like to waste words either in his speech or his copy. “The contest may produce a few surprises but it’s just a sidebar. To me,” he added in a disjointed voice, “the real story is about Ashford and an inside look at his estate. He’s a recluse, and we may never get another chance. That’s what people want to read. I think the financial desk might be interested, too. Talk to Bob Parsons before you take off.”

“When will that be?”

“Friday morning. They’ve booked you on a train that leaves Union Station at two o’clock. You’ll be met there by the PR people.”

Trudy, who liked to wear bright blue suits, paused at the door. “What’s the title of the book, by the way?”

“Here’s the press kit the PR people sent. I believe there’s a copy inside.”

Sherman didn’t hear the door click as she left Purcell’s office. Her mind was elsewhere. She could see herself knocking Ashford off his feet with her brilliant writing and as a stepping stone to the New Yorker, even Hollywood. She adjusted her new black-rimmed sunglasses and headed for the elevators. This was her lucky day.

Lacey Dunes sat on her black suitcase in her apartment in Notre Dame de Grace in Montreal and waited for the taxi to arrive to take her to Dorval, Montreal’s airport. A few minutes earlier, she had come down from the roof, where she had been tanning herself in the nude, to shower and get dressed for her flight to Toronto. She gave herself one last look in the mirror and wondered if her low-cut blouse and tight skirt might be a little too exotic for Ashford and his crowd. Like most Canadians, she was familiar with the stories of how he flitted around his estate dressed as a monk.

Lacey pursed her lips and applied another coating of bright red lipstick, and smiled at herself. She loved the colour. Had it made especially for her by an exclusive shop in old Montreal.

She was going places – as far away from that bar she worked at in Place Ville Marie as she could get. She didn’t need Andy, who talked her into going to Montreal the year before and left her for another younger woman a few months after they got there. He still hounded her for money but she was too streetwise to fall for anything that stupid. She had enough of him and the drug scene to last her a lifetime. This was different. She could feel it in her bones. The start of a new life for her. She felt it as soon as she opened the telegram.

The buzzer rang, and she picked up her suitcase and opened the door. Yes, she was on her way. She smiled.

“Who do you think you are? Tying to be someone you’re not and never will be. Lower class people like us have no business with people like the gran signor Ashford.”

Giorgio Zuccaro listened to his brother go on and on like this before but he was not like Enzio and never would be. Enzio was his older brother and never quite shared his vision of Canada as a land of opportunity, open to anyone with brains and the desire to work.

“I don’t know why you’re going in the first place,” Enzio went on in a tedious voice. “It’s a waste of money.” That was Enzio’s idea of the greatest sin of all.

“For my sons, Enzio. For my sons. According to you, they should not think about becoming doctors or lawyers. I do not agree with you. You think like the donkeys at home.”

Giorgio knew he did not fit into this crowd but where his sons were concerned, he didn’t care where he had to go or what he had to do. His dream was to turn one son into a

doctor, another into a lawyer and the third, a big executive like the gran signor.

“Maybe you are right, Enzio. Maybe I am above my station. But if I go, maybe I also meet the gran signor who sits on the board of Hamilton Steel. And it is not a waste of money,” he added, rubbing a day’s growth of black stubble on his chin.

“It’s those stupid mystery books you read. They are putting crazy ideas into your head.”

Giorgio didn’t hear Enzio’s last words. His mind was elsewhere – sitting opposite Ashford and sipping Chianti and telling the big man about his sons, especially Julio, who wanted to be a lawyer. Maybe the gran signor would be his patrone. He looked at his big rough hands, and how he ached inside to play with the grape vines on the small farm he had bought during the winter in Stoney Creek. Giorgio could still feel the dark, moist earth between his hands. Yes, he thought, Ashford could help him in ways Enzio never dreamed of.

Funny about the mystery novel. Georgio liked mysteries but usually the Mickey Spillane type. Good thing he did, he thought and warmed himself with a smile. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be going for the mystery weekend.

All this was new for him – in more ways than one –and he had no idea how far it would lead him by the time the weekend was over.

In his bold, hungry blue eyes, there was something that excited Denyse Doyle and urged her imagination to dawdle over possibilities she never considered before.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” she asked finally. She reached for her drink to avoid his eyes, almost frightened about what she might hear.

Denyse and Arden Rowley were sitting in The Merry

Jester Bar on the mezzanine level of the hotel and discussing their trip to Ashford’s estate the next day. The bar was small and intimate and had an Elizabethan air about it, the kind of place, he thought, made for confidences.

Arden tried to catch her dark eyes before answering. That would tell him if he were on the right track. “Whatever you want it to mean.”

Denyse, a librarian with the National Gallery in Ottawa and an expert on antique books; and Arden, a Latin teacher from Halifax, discussed Ashford’s prize book collection, particularly the Book of Hours, once owned by the Duc du Barri in the 15th Century.

“I always feel it’s a tragedy that a book as precious as this is lost to the world just to satisfy the whims of a rich old man.” And then, after a pause, he added: “Someone, someday, may change all that.”

His words uttered moments earlier with all the starkness of a gallows rope still danced in the air. It was open now and no mistaking his meaning. They avoided each other’s eyes, not knowing what to say next.

“At least,” he added, catching the excitement in her eyes, “it’s worth thinking about.”

The idea had started to take shape in his head when he spotted her name and occupation on the guest list. When he got up enough nerve, he called her.

“I see you, and I will be staying over as well,” he had said after asking her what character she would be playing. “What about getting together for dinner? We can help each other rehearse.” Another pause. “I also have a proposition for you.”

They had agreed to meet at four in the lobby. Arden recognized her at once – the long chestnut brown hair, petite figure, navy blue sweater and pearls and grey tartan skirt.

Five minutes after meeting, they were ensconced at The Merry Jester and laughing at each other jokes. There was

a rapport, a spark that crackled in the air every time they looked at each other.

It was time to change focus, he decided. “Tell me something crazy about yourself.”

“I’m having an affair.” The words seemed to gush from her head.

“Another victim of free love?”

“Nothing is free in life,” she shot back, rubbing the centre of her chest to ease a pain that occasionally visited her.

“Do I know him?”

“No. But you will. And that’s all I’m going to say.” She scanned his face, long, thin and boyish and the crew cut that made him look more like 18 or 19. “Now it’s your turn.”

Now or never, he decided and rubbed his Virgilian Society pin for good luck. “I’m a thief.”

“I thought you said a teacher of Latin.” She was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol.

“That, too.”

“What do you steal?”

“Antiquities.”

“Like the Book of Hours?”

He didn’t reply. They both knew there was no need.

Usually, Denyse preferred men with long, wavy hair but looking at the innocent look in his blue eyes and closecropped blond hair, she couldn’t resist a smile.

“If you wish, we can explore this further, perhaps over dinner or breakfast.”

Denyse didn’t respond immediately. “Still,” she said, drawing out every word, “I’d love to see it, just hold it for a few seconds….”

“Do you have an idea what a book like that would fetch in the open market?” He leaned closer, wondering if he should chance kissing her.

“A fair idea.”

“I’d love to see it, too. Maybe even borrowing it for a

while.”

“Why not? Dear me, I’m afraid I’m a bit tipsy,”’ she said, putting a hand over her mouth. She stood but had to hold onto the table to steady herself. “I should go to my room.”

“I think I’d better help you.”

***

“How did you swing that?”

“I entered a contest – and won,” Gillian Merryweather told her boss at the trust company, where she worked on Bay Street. “I wrote about a character I would like to play at the mystery weekend, and I won.”

But at Ashford’s estate? Unbelievable. The old buzzard is a recluse and likes to keep to himself as a rule,” said Jeff Hitchman, manager of the trust department and Gillian’s immediate boss. “It could be a chance of a lifetime. Will you have a chance to meet Ashford?

“Not sure.”

“If you do, Gillian, put in a good word for us. Who knows where that might lead?”

Hitchman had a whisper-soft voice that made his older clients feel at ease.

The way he moved his eyes reminded Gillian of Andrew, her ex, and the two-year nightmare of their marriage. She could feel herself stiffen just thinking about him. She would never forgive him for leaving her the way he did. She tried to smile. She liked showing off her brilliant white teeth. It made up for her sharp, uneven voice, which she knew got on his nerves. But everything was all right now. It also had to be her secret.

As usual, Hitchman’s desk was clear, and she thought of her file-strewn desk and put her office in order before heading out. Hitchman liked a neat office and made that very clear when he hired her.

Gillian felt so lightheaded and carefree when she got

up to go that she felt like skipping until she almost ran into Gretchen Webb at her building entrance.

“So soon? I thought you weren’t leaving until five,” Gretchen said in a whining voice Gillian had come to detest.

Ironically, they were great friends when Gillian arrived at Greynorth Trust 18 months earlier. After a month or two, Gillian made the mistake of confiding in her about her failed marriage. Just about everyone in the office knew about it in less than an hour. There were words between them. Bad words. No-going-back words. And a falling out.

Usually, they ignored each other, even when they passed in the corridor outside their offices.

“Excuse me,” said Gillian, trying to push past her.

“Meeting someone?” Gretchen never knew when to leave things alone.

“Get a life.” Gillian turned and headed down Bay Street and didn’t pause, even for a second, to look at herself in a store front window until she reached Wellington. She was pleased how her light blue suit looked on her but her lips lacked the vibrancy she always liked and her dark brown hair needed brushing. Bright red lips made her feel 21 again. She was 32 and looked it, especially around the eyes. She would add new lipstick when she reached Union Station.

Trudy Sherman noticed that the lilacs were still in bloom as the train rolled out of Kitchener and headed for Goderich. The lilacs were almost gone in Toronto. He loved how they smelled. She knew she had been handed the assignment because she wrote most of the mystery book reviews for the paper. Even if it hadn’t fallen into her lap, she would have angled for it.

The hardwood trees along the tracks blurred as the train

picked up speed. Someone a few seats away was smoking a cigar, and a woman in a light blue suit started coughing and began waving a copy of The Telegram in front of her face to drive the smoke away as their car swayed when the train rounded the curve.

Sherman opened the copy of The Gazette she had brought with her and started to read a story about Ashford and the opening of one of a new pulp mill in Northern Ontario.

She wondered if Ashford would remember her. She had been reading The Telegram that morning 11 years earlier when she was ushered into Ashford’s inner sanctum on University Avenue. She was just starting in the business in those days and was working at The Tely.

The interview was etched in her head. She had rehearsed it the night before, partly because of what happened.

“How can I help you, Miss Sherman,” Ashford had said in a stiff, unyielding voice that suggested that talking to reporters was somewhat distasteful to him.

“I’m Arnold Sherman’s daughter.”

Ashford’s deep-set dark grey eyes flickered. “How is your father?” he asked after an uncomfortable pause.

“He died last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He died a broken man. He never got over the fact that you stole his invention for $1,000 and went on to make a fortune on it.”

“I regret to tell you this but your father was not an honest man. He was lucky to get the $1,000 I gave to him,” he said, staring her down.

He just looked at her, his face hard and unforgiving. A minute later, the door to Ashford’s office opened without warning. Two security guards entered.

“This young lady is about to leave.”

Sherman gave Ashford what she thought was a withering look. “One day, you will be called upon to settle accounts. Don’t think for a minute this is over.” She remembered how Ashford smiled as he turned, a cruel, cold, evil smile she would remember all her life.

It didn’t end there. A week later, she was called into the general manager’s office. “What did you say to Ashford?”

Giles Colwell, who usually smiled when he talked to young reporters, wasn’t smiling now.

“I asked him about his tree-harvesting invention. It made him very rich, as you know.”

“What else?” As an old reporter, Colwell knew there was more.

“I told him there were stories he had stolen the invention.”

“What possessed you to say something like that?”

“Because it was invented by my father, and Ashford stole it from him for a measly $1,000.”

“What happened then?” asked the slight man dressed in a navy blue suit, sitting in one of the chairs behind Sherman. It was The Tely’s lawyer. Trudy had seen him walking through the newsroom a few times and knew who he was.

“Nothing. Ashford ended the interview right then, and I was shown the door.”

“What did you hope to gain?” Colwell could smell a story as well as the best of them. “What are you leaving out?”

Sherman shrugged. “That’s about it, I’m afraid.”

“Until you have something more, I want you to stay away from Ashford.”

Trudy looked up from the paper she had been reading. The woman in the light blue suit and bright red lipstick had stopped waving her newspaper long enough to note her interest. They exchanged glances but Trudy’s mind was elsewhere.

Gillian opened The Gazette she had bought at the newsstand on her way to her train car. She went straight to the society page, and there it was: A column picture of Julian Ashford and a young woman at a Toronto gathering. She smiled when she saw his picture and leaned back, her mind whirling possibilities as she reached into her bag of brownies for one of the smaller ones, eating it slowly before closing her eyes.

Chapter Four

“Well, well, well. I see we’re all here,” said Roger Witherspoon in his party voice. We were sitting in Ashford’s private dining room, a little awed by the size of the oak-panelled room, the silver and crisp white tablecloth. Candles flickered in two candelabra in the faint evening breeze from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the long mahogany dining table.

“We hope you will take away with you memories of one of a weekend none of you will ever forget,” he said from his position at the head of the table. “First, let me introduce myself. My name is Roger Witherspoon. I will be playing the lawyer in the novel. I’m the person who sent each of you a letter to inform you that you have been named in a rich man’s will and invited for its reading.

“In real life, I am Harry Ashford’s lawyer – so I hope my performance lives up to your expectations.”

No one laughed or even smiled. We were still a little

unsure of ourselves and too consumed about what was going to happen next.

“Why us?” asked Giorgio Zuccaro, the Hamilton steelworker, who was playing the part of a bookie, suddenly spoke up. All heads turned in his direction.

“I’ve asked all the others, and no one seems to know why they’ve been named in the will of the gran signor, he said, slipping completely into his role.

“Hear. Hear.” Austin Randall, the forester, already caught up in his role as the murderer, tapped the white linen tablecloth with his open hand for emphasis.

“That will become more obvious when we proceed with the reading of the will.” Witherspoon, who typically wore navy blue suits and dark blue ties with small white polka dots, felt uncomfortable in the canary yellow sports jacket and the red bow tie he had to wear for his part. He couldn’t imagine any lawyer looking like that.

Simmons, stroking his chin and his eyes bright with delight, sat back and observed the proceedings. His book had suddenly come to life, and he sucked in as much air as his lungs would hold, basking in the moment. He was full of himself at the best of time but this added a new dimension.

“Before we start, please rise and join me in a toast to your unnamed benefactor. You will notice that a glass of wine has been placed next to your nameplate for that purpose. Now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, raising his glass, “to our benefactor.”

Witherspoon, usually stiff and rigid in his views and dealings, didn’t like the free-and-easy character he had been asked to play. If Denyse hadn’t asked him, he wouldn’t have been caught dead. When everyone had resumed their seats, he took a deep breath and withdrew the will.

“I’ll go straight to the relevant paragraphs.” He sniffed two or three times and adjusted his dark brown-rimmed glasses. He had just been prescribed bifocals and still wasn’t

used to them.

“Welcome to Winners and Losers. It’s a very select club of winners.”He paused. “Some of you will leave here very rich, and some of you will not leave here alive. Each of you has been a failure in your life and blames it on either bad luck or not being given a chance.

“Each of you will be given that chance. If you succeed, you will leave here with one million dollars in your bank account and gain admittance to our select group of entrepreneurs.

“It’s your moment of truth. You can leave here now without harm. Or stay and put your life on the line.”

The upturned faces around the table followed every movement of his hands, full of expectation and real fear, and then at each other. The scene had somehow slipped slowly into reality.

Witherspoon rose and looked as though he was about to leave.

“This is insane,” said Arden Rowley, the Latin teacher, playing the part of a small store owner. He looked up that the large painting of St. Francis feeding the birds on the wall at the head of the table.

“Then, I assume you will be losing us.”

Rowley looked away. “Not on your life. I’m not a loser.”

Gillian Merryweather, the 30-something trust company clerk from Toronto, looked at the others for agreement. “It’s crazy. But I’m crazy enough to take a chance like this.”

Her outburst was not in the book. Simmons looked puzzled and started flipping through his book. Witherspoon looked at the faces of the others. They were looking away, not sure what to do.”

Lacey Dunes turned to Witherspoon. “We need more time. Is our benefactor, Mr. Ashford?”

“This is a fiction book. Miss Dunes. Not real life.”

Lacey tried to smile and looked away.

“Good.” Witherspoon cleared his throat. “I take it, then all of you are prepared to take up the challenge.”

“And what happens if four members of our group are murdered this weekend?”

“You four know who you are. And as your benefactor told you at the outset, you will not leave here alive.”

Witherspoon paused before announcing that their host and his family would be joining them momentarily.

Harry Ashford, dressed in a black tux and looking slim and alert, arrived with his daughter, Nina, followed by Bartholomew Quick, his accountant/executive assistant, and Father Théo, his chaplain. Witherspoon introduced Ashford, his daughter, and his associates and called on Father Théo to deliver a blessing.

A few minutes later, I was approached by Trudy Sherman, The Gazette reporter, who asked me to introduce her to Ashford.

“What is it?” Ashford looked up from his salad when he saw me approach. He wasn’t in a good mood, and the edge to his voice had a definite bite.

“Trudy Sherman from The Gazette.”

Ashford stood and shook her hand. “You have a beautiful name, Miss Sherman. How may I help you?”

Trudy could tell by the way Ashford studied her face that he didn’t recognize her. Admittedly, her hair was a different colour now, and her face was fuller. Trudy would have known Ashford anywhere. His face was puffier now, and flesh was starting to hang below his chin. The evil curve in his mouth, as she remembered it, was more pronounced.

“If you can make the time, sir, I’d like to do a brief interview.”

“What about? Not about books, surely.”

“Actually, it is.” She paused, not quite sure how to broach the subject.

“Go on,”

“It’s about your Book of Hours. I’d like to see it with your permission, of course, and talk to you about the book and your life at the Abbey.”

“Anything else?”

“Take a picture of you with the book.”

“Two others have also asked to see it,” I ventured.

“I don’t have a good feeling about any of this, Mr. Anderson.” Then, turning to Trudy, “how did you hear about the Book of Hours? It’s a well-kept secret.”

“An open secret among bibliophiles.”

“There are two others,” I jumped in, “who are taking part in the mystery weekend – Denyse Doyle, who works at the National Library in Ottawa, and Arden Rowley, a Latin teacher from Halifax – who would also like to see it.”

Ashford didn’t answer but turned and waved to Witherspoon. Quick, who had been talking to Witherspoon, watched us out of the corner of his eye.

“This lady,” he said, nodding at Trudy, “and two others want me to show them my prized Book of Hours. What do you think?”

“I know Denyse Doyle. She works in the archives section of the National Library. I can vouch for her.”

“I am only going to say this once, so listen to me carefully. If you’re okaying this, you’d better pray nothing goes wrong. And I mean nothing.”

For the first time since I knew him, I saw fear in Ashford’s dark grey eyes.

There was a stir as Julian Ashford staggered into the dining room. “The black sheep has arrived, ladies and gentlemen.” His slurred words bumped into each other.

“They usually keep me locked up when we have company but I escaped.” He laughed until the tears came and approached his father, sitting ramrod stiff and trying to stare down his son. “Of all people, you should know you

can’t keep a good man down,” he added, waving his finger at his father.

Ashford beckoned his butler, a six-foot, five-inch slim man with silver hair and an aristocratic countenance. Then, turning to Julian: “Go to your room and sober up.”

“To hell, I will.” Julian took a wild swing at his father and fell over Trudy’s empty chair. He was helped to his feet by the butler. “Someone will kill you one of these days.” The hate in his voice was unmistakable and bitter.

Giorgio Zuccaro, sitting next to Hazlett and me, pushed him down in my chair and held Julian there until he stopped struggling. Giorgio shook his head. He didn’t understand that kind of rudeness. “Be respectful of your father or return to your room. You are not fit to be any man’s son.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Zuccarro,” said Ashford. Witherspoon whispered in his ear. “Yes, Mr. Zuccarro. He is drunk and does not know what he is saying. In the morning, he will be contrite. But thank you for coming to my defence.”

“I understand, patrone. I am a father myself.”

Quick, who had been watching Julian’s performance, turned back to the stranger sitting beside him. A look of distaste flashed in his eyes.

I looked at Hazlett. “You look worried.”

Hazlett shrugged -- his answer for just about everything. “Julian blows much on his soup spoon.” Something else was clearly on his mind. “Someone is missing,” he volunteered a minute later, nodding at the empty chair.

“I noticed that, too. It belongs to a young lady from Montreal – Lacey Dunes. I hear she’s quite a dish.”

Hazlett ignored me. “And Miss Cassandra?”

“She came ahead. Fitzgibbon will be here in the morning.”

Hazlett had withdrawn into himself as he usually did when something did not make sense.

“Do you think you’ll be able to solve the murder before

we leave here Sunday?” I had asked him earlier.

“I already have. I can even tell you who the victim will be. Miss Doyle.”

“And the murderer?” He never failed to amaze me.

“Ashford’s lawyer, Witherspoon, who plays the lawyer in the book. Now, let me tell you something you may not know. The choice of characters playing these roles has a sense of irony about it.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The murderer and the victim. They are lovers – in fiction and, perhaps, in real life.”

“I think you sneaked a look at the book, Hazlett.”

“You know me better than that.” There are some things you do not joke about with him. His integrity was one of them.

“I don’t see how you can figure that out after such a brief acquaintance of the facts,” I said, trying to mollify him.

“All the clues are there.”

“I see it’s 7.15. I’ll make a note of it and tell Fitz. He’ll be interested in hearing how you figured it out so quickly. For sure, Simmons won’t.”

I wasn’t sure if Hazlett had heard me. His attention had drifted back to the tall, chubby, balding man with the deep, booming voice, sitting beside Quick.

“You seem quite interested in Quick’s friend.” I was curious. Hazlett had an uncanny ability to connect a crazy quilt of ideas and come up with conclusions that eluded most of us. Something was bothering him.

“I am not the only one. It would appear,” Hazlett said, nodding in the direction of Austin Randall, who appeared to be spellbound by the stranger.

“I see you’re wondering the same thing I am,” said a woman’s voice behind us.

“Trudy Sherman from The Gazette, Mr. Hazlett. I write about books, and I’m a big fan of yours. Perhaps we can

chat before we go back. I’d like to do a story on you.”

Julian reappeared, this time looking soberer. He nodded to his father and took his seat beside Cassandra, who seemed to shrink when his hand touched her arm.

“Don’t worry. I don’t bite. Just ask my sister.”

“He’s even scared of cats. When I was young, we all called him scaredy-cat.”

Cassandra’s eyes faded for a minute, and her left hand touched her ear-ring.”

“Something’s bothering you,” I said to Hazlett when Trudy resumed her seat beside Lacey Dunes.

“Something is not right,” said Hazlett, looking at Quick, who was saying something behind his hand to Ashford.

Whatever it was, it got pre-empted by Ashford, who rose and cleared his throat. “Let me welcome you all to the Abbey and wish you a happy and pleasant stay. We’re quite self-sufficient here and if you’re missing anything, just ask our staff. They’ll look after you.”

Ashford cleared his throat. “I have often wondered,” he added, “what happens at these mystery weekends and why they intrigue people so much. Well, this weekend, I’ll get to know firsthand.”

Hazlett snorted. Ashford looked at him and went on.

“To me, life is mystery enough but not, I’m told, as much as taking part in one of these weekends. I envy you the chase. Good luck and good hunting.”

Chapter Five

You could smell the coffee as we entered the Grand Hall for breakfast. Hazlett, who prefers tea, led the march to the long table in the centre of the hall. Two maids, dressed in navy blue uniforms and white aprons, left their posts on either side of the over-sized sideboard and began filling our cups from two large flagons. They brought teas to Hazlett and Ashford.

The table buzzed with anticipation. This was the big day when the book took over. Hazlett ignored the furtive glances in his direction and sipped on his tea. Another maid, a whey-faced 20-year-old from Goderich, with a pointed nose and a shrill, piercing voice, entered the room and whispered something to Witherspoon.

Witherspoon’s thin face darkened. He rose to his feet slowly, leaning forward with his outstretched hands spread out on the gleaming white tablecloth. The chatter died away slowly. Something was up. We all sensed it at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” he said with a noticeable quiver in his voice, but something has come up. Something important.”

The maid followed him out. Hazlett arched his eyebrows knowingly.

It had to be Ashford. Hazlett, who could read my mind instantly, put his hand on my arm. “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

The walls of the dark-stained oak panelled Great Hall, with its huge, three-piece window overlooking the blue Hu-

ron that stretched as far as the eye could see, gleaming in the morning sunlight.

The conversation returned slowly. Austin Randall, the forester, was talking to Giorgio Zuccaro in a low voice, and Lacey Dunes, who had been sitting next to Witherspoon, was speaking in an animated voice to Trudy Sherman, The Gazette reporter on the other side of the table. Arden Rowley, the Latin teacher, had slid into Witherspoon’s empty chair beside Lacey, who kept glancing anxiously at the door.

Witherspoon returned a few minutes later, his tall, match stick body tense and alert. Rowley started to rise but Witherspoon waved him down.

“There’s been a death,” he said in a low voice after what seemed an endless silence.

Simmons and Gillian Merryweather, the Northern Trust lady, kept on talking. After all, it was a mystery weekend, and Witherspoon was doing precisely what he was supposed to.

“I regret to inform you that Denyse Doyle had died. Her maid found her in her bed this morning.”

Hazlett’s cornflower blue eyes were fixed on Witherspoon’s face and the way his hands shook when he lifted them from Rowley’s shoulders.

“It would appear that she died in her sleep. But at the moment, we’re not sure.”

“Not strangled?” Simmons couldn’t help himself. After all, as the author of the book, he knew how she died. If Witherspoon had forgotten, he hadn’t. Neither had anyone else at the table.

Witherspoon looked at Simmons and shook his head wearily.

“But that’s not what I wrote.”

I turned to Hazlett, who put his finger to his lips.

“I’ve called the OPP and the coroner. That’s all we know at the moment. Sorry,” he added in a softer voice.

“This should give that police inspector something to think about,” said Lacey Dunes with a glance in Hazlett’s direction.

Gillian Merryweather reached into her paper bag and withdrew a muffin.

Arden Rowley smiled, touched Lacey’s arm and shook his head.

Lacey smiled and turned to look at Witherspoon. “You mean you’re on the level?”

“I think you’d better sit,” said Rowley, rising to offer his seat.

All talk stopped. Everything suddenly became surreal.

“How did you know?” I whispered to Hazlett.

Hazlett ignored the question and tested his coffee before raising his cup to one of the maids. “Everything is taking on a life of its own, and who knows where it will end.”

Breakfast was finally served. Witherspoon crumpled in his chair and stared at the plate of food.

We had just started eating when Cassandra Whitney joined us.

“You’ve missed the excitement,” I told her as she took the seat beside me. I was curious how Hazlett would react when he was introduced to her.

Cassandra’s full lips glistened in the morning sun, and her smile was as warm as the softness in her blue eyes.

Hazlett bowed ever so slightly and looked past her. “Perhaps we can chat later if you have time.”

Cassandra watched him go. “Is your friend always so abrupt?”

“Sometimes.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Simmons watching me. Anger and anxiety flickered in his dark, brooding eyes. I turned back to Cassandra, “He’s preoccupied.”

“Another woman, perhaps. I see he’s chatting up that young blonde with the low-cut blouse and short skirt.”

“I doubt that somehow. Hazlett has a reason.”

“What excitement? What exactly did I miss?”

I told her about Denyse Doyle’s death and that the OPP had been called.

“You mean she’s dead? I hope that didn’t side-track your friend.”

“He told me last night who was the murderer was and who the victim would be – as far as the book was concerned.”

Cassandra raised her eyebrows and smiled.

I sensed she didn’t believe me. “He’s quite intuitive.”

I was about to protest when she added: “What has he got against me then?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

She pushed back her long blonde hair and glanced in Hazlett’s direction. Then, almost in a whisper, “I have a confession.” Her bright blue eyes held mine for an instant. “My gift – if you want to call it that – does not extend to fictional events.” A haunted, frightened look darkened her face. “I do not like death.” Cassandra shivered and seemed to look through me. “Even the word can conjure up dark forces better left undisturbed.”

The talk suddenly stopped as Julian Ashford entered, knocking over a serving table filled with dishes and cutlery with an echoing clatter. He struggled to his feet and held on to the table to steady himself before finding a spot at the far end of the long mahogany table, where the rest of us were seated. One of the serving staff brought him a plate and coffee. Julian looked sheepish and glanced around from time to time to see if we were observing him. He played with the food on his plate without eating and tried to sip his coffee. “Where’s that hot-looking psychic everyone’s been raving about?”

“What now, Julian?” Witherspoon said after observing Julian’s entrance.

“I want her to tell my fortune.”

“She not here for that purpose, Julian. Besides, I’m not sure she does that sort of thing.”

I watched Cassandra but there was nothing in her manner to indicate how she was taking this.

“I don’t give a damn. So humour me, Witherspoon. You seem to have some drag around here at the moment. Perhaps if you ask her in that nice way of yours –“

“That’s all right, Mr. Witherspoon,” Cassandra said, standing and staring Julian down. “What precisely do you want to know?”

“I have a strange feeling I can’t explain. I’d like to know if you’re getting strange vibes, too.”

“You’re remarkably sensitive, Mr. Ashford. There is something …” Her voice seemed to break at this point, and she paused as if to regain her strength. “Someone – I don’t know who – someone will die a violent death in the next 24 hours.”

Hazlett was staring at her. He had heard her prediction, and so did everyone sitting close to her.

There was a stunned silence as her announcement sunk in and shouts of “Who? When?” and then, “You’re joking, right?” But we all knew she meant every word.

Like everyone else, I was so wrapped up by the drama that followed that I didn’t see Witherspoon get up and walk towards me.

Alex Fitzgibbon suddenly appeared in the doorway, waving at everyone as he took his seat at the table. “I apologize for coming late. I stopped to meet a new author in Stratford, who writes romantic murder mysteries. She’s on to something.”

“Had to drive from Stratford to Goderich. What did I miss?”

“One of the players,” said Simmons. “Denyse Doyle died from a heart attack. She was supposed to play the vic-

tim in the book but fate turned it into a real death.”

Witherspoon bent and whispered in my ear. “Mr. Ashford would like to see you and your friend immediately.” He looked like an undertaker greeting mourners. “His prized Book of Hours has disappeared, and he would like your friend to recover it for him.”

Julian bumped into Alex Fitzgibbon just outside the dining room. Fitzgibbon was carrying a package with holiday wrapping and invited Julian to have a drink with him.

“What’s in the package?” said Julian.

“A pigeon. A carrying pigeon, to be precise.”

Julian laughed and put his arm around Fitzgibbon.

Chapter Six

“Iwasn’t sure you’d come,” said Ashford, engaging Hazlett’s eyes. “Mr. Anderson tells me you’re on holiday.” Hazlett returned his look and waited for him to continue.

After a few seconds, Ashford cleared his throat. “Someone has stolen a very precious religious book from my library.” When he failed to get a response from Hazlett, he broke into a smile.

“Where are my manners?” he added, waving us to the two matching armchairs in his secret library on the second floor of the abbey. The smell of old leather and dust-laden first editions lining the library’s four walls reminded me of Mr. Chittick’s shoe repair shop. There was a small window on the left, with the books shelves built around it. The fluorescent lights provided most of the light.

“A 15th Century Book of Hours,” said Ashford, resuming his seat once Hazlett finally decided to sit down. A magnifying glass tied with a black ribbon dangled around his neck.

“Once owned by the Duc du Barry, if I am not mistaken.”

Ashford nodded. “Despite all the safeguards we’ve built into the library’s security system…. ” He then went on to detail the main points, which included three expert copies – as decoys – and laser beams to detect movement anywhere in the library.

“The copies were bypassed, I gather,” said Hazlett. “By someone who knew the system and who knew what they were doing – someone who knows art and how to get around your very elaborate system.”

Ashford nodded with new respect in his eyes.

“Where was the original?” asked Hazlett.

“In my safe.”

“Who knows the combination?”

“Only two people. Me and Mr. Quick, my accountant. In case you’re wondering, Mr. Quick has been in my employ for almost 20 years. He has been tested time and again and I have absolute faith in him.”

“I would like to see the copies.”

Ashford opened the cover of the glass case that contained a first edition of Dr. Johnson’s dictionary and the Duc du Barry’s Book of Hours. He withdrew one of the copies with reverence, as if it were the original, and handed it to Hazlett.

Hazlett scrutinized it, even smelling the paper and binding. “You’re right,” he said, handing the small book, about four inches by six inches in size, back to Ashford. “It is hard to believe anyone, including an expert on 15th Century books, would know this was not the original.”

Ashford smiled and nodded.

“Unless, of course, they knew in advance the book was

just a copy and knew exactly where to look.” A strategic pause. “Which brings us to Mr. Quick.”

Ashford’s grey eyebrows knitted. “Forget about Quick. I’d trust him with my life.”

Hazlett shrugged. “How did you discover that the original was missing?”

‘Quick discovered it. He was preparing cheques for the household staff and was putting the cheque book back in the safe when he noticed that the book had disappeared from the safe.”

“And the other copies?”

“The remaining one is on the middle shelf to your left,” said Ashford, nodding in the direction of a long row of leather-bounded first editions with gold lettering that gleamed in the overhead lights. Somebody knew that the faux Book of Hours was hidden among a hodge-podge collection of 17th Century books with warped covers and loose pages.

There was one, in particular, Ashford wanted him to read an account of an event at the abbey that was found hidden among the last abbot’s belongings.

Hazlett had to stand top-toe to check the shelf. I took over after he couldn’t find it and passed the book to him. He read 20 pages before looking up.

“It would appear that one of the brothers in the abbey, named Fra Constantine, was accused by a fellow monk of practising black arts. Constantine was defrocked by the abbot and turned out of the monastery with just the clothes on his back. A week later, he was found dangling from a rope strung over a branch of an oak tree not far from the abbey.

“There was a message addressed to the abbot, charging him of penalizing the wrong person and laying a curse on him because of it. In the monk’s words: May your soul never find rest, and may it walk the corridors of the abbey as long as it stands every full moon at the start of the summer and winter solstices.

“Which leaves us to the eve of the summer solstice,” said Hazlett.

“As you may have gathered,” said Ashford, “the copies of works of art on their own are also quite valuable.”

“Any others?”

“The only other one is hidden in a special compartment in the librarian’s desk. Let me show you.” Ashford sat at a dark brown desk of stained oak, inserted a key into a drawer beneath the typewriter pullout stand, and felt inside the hidden drawer.

“That’s strange. It was here two days ago.” His eyes were looking for answers. “Any ideas?” He didn’t wait for Hazlett to respond. “What are the chances of recovering it?”

“You will have it before the weekend is out.” Hazlett folded his hands as he always did when events took an unexpected turn.

Ashford raised his eyebrows. “You seem awfully certain.”

“We know the thief is here. Ergo, the book must still be here as well. And if all else fails, we can always consult a psychic.”

Ashford pursed his lips and made a pretense of examining the librarian’s desk again. “I suspect you do not like me, Mr. Hazlett, but I would deeply appreciate it if you would give this your full and serious attention.”

Hazlett tightened his mouth and looked away.

“So what happens now?” said Ashford, trying to retake control of the situation.

“A few more questions. Your secretary. Where is she?”

“He. The library secretary is a he. I believe you have already met Father Theo.”

“Has anyone shown any undue interest in the book?”

“Witherspoon was approached by one of the participants at the mystery weekend about getting permission to see it.”

“And?”

”I told Witherspoon it was up to him but I also warned him there would be consequences if something happened to the book. Even so, I suggested he only show that individual one of the copies.” He turned around to Witherspoon, who was standing behind Ashford’s chair. “What about it, Witherspoon?”

“Who was this person, Mr. Witherspoon?”

“Actually, two persons. Inspector – Denyse Doyle and Trudy Sherman. Denyse is from Ottawa, and Trudy Sherman is a reporter for The Gazette. But I understand there are others as well. I don’t think any of them are involved in this.” Witherspoon’s courtroom voice deserted him and sounded more like an uncertain witness. He smoothed his auburn-coloured hair in quick, nervous gestures, and for the first time, I noticed he was wearing a wig.

“How can you be so sure?”

“I know Denyse Doyle personally. She was a librarian at the National Gallery and their resident expert on old manuscripts. I don’t know much about Sherman, other than being the book editor at The Gazette in Toronto. Hardly occupations of book thieves.”

“But they do know something about books. Perhaps more than the others staying here this weekend.”

None of this was going down well with Ashford, who looked like an impatient toad getting ready to snap up a fly.

“Besides,” said Witherspoon in haste, stepping to Ashford’s side. “I haven’t given any of them permission. I didn’t intend to – until I had a chance to discuss it with you further.”

“Miss Doyle is dead,” said Witherspoon in almost a whisper.

“Dead? Why wasn’t I informed about this? Was she murdered?”

“We don’t think so,” said Witherspoon. “Most likely a

heart attack.”

What do you think, Inspector Hazlett?”

“I would prefer to wait for the coroner’s report.”

From the look in Ashford’s slate grey eyes, I could tell that it was not what he wanted to hear. He cleared his throat. “Do you think she could have been in cahoots with someone else?”

“What do you think, Mr. Witherspoon?” said Hazlett, who had been watching Witherspoon throughout his ordeal with Ashford.

“I’m not sure.”

“What do you mean?” snapped Ashford. There was always an edge to his voice.

“Anything is possible.”

I remembered Hazlett’s comment about the irony of Simmons’ book and real-life in selecting the murderer and the victim.

“Is it time to bring in the OPP?”

Hazlett studied Ashford for a few seconds before answering. “The coroner has been called. Let us see what he says before jumping like cats out of a bag.”

“Do you think it could be someone else?”

Hazlett brushed aside Ashford’s question with one of his own. “Who else knows about the theft of the book?”

“I’m not sure about anything right now,” said Ashford, turning to Witherspoon. “What’s going on?”

Raised voices pierced through the sound-proofed library walls that shuddered seconds later with the fury of something big and mean crashing against them. A few books were shaken off the upper shelves, falling on a large globe in the corner.

I opened the door at a nod from Ashford to find Quick sitting against the outside wall dabbing a bleeding nose with a handkerchief, and Julian striding down the corridor, stopping abruptly to grab Trudy Sherman. The latter had

been lurking in the shadows.

“Who are you?” We could hear Julian’s hoarse, drunken voice from even that distance.

“Sherman from The Gazette. I’m with the mystery weekend group.”

Trudy struggled to free herself from Julian, who was clutching her by the lapels of her jacket.

“You have no business here. I don’t like eavesdroppers, and I sure as hell don’t like you. Get the hell out of here before I kick that fat ass of yours down the hall.” Julian, who towered over Sherman, spun her around and pushed her on her way. Julian disappeared a few seconds later.

“What was that about? And what happened to you?” Ashford, who had been watching his son, now turned his attention to Quick.

“I’m not quite sure. I was searching for you, and when I came up here, I spotted your son listening at the door. When I asked him what he was doing, he told me it was none of my business and punched me. I fell against the wall.”

“What was so urgent?”

“Your company. The stock is going crazy. Heavy trading and the price keep going up and up.”

“Nonsense. You know that Quick, and so does my broker. What’s going on?”

“There’s gossip on the street that you’re planning another big move of some kind.”

“I’m not going to answer that, Quick, and neither should you if you’re asked. In the meantime, gentlemen, let us retire to my office, where we can be more comfortable.” He stood, and we followed him into his office.

Ashford sat down at his desk and glanced at some papers Quick had put on his desk. He looked up at Quick. “Call our market maker and find out what’s going on.” He looked at Hazlett, plainly in a foul mood. “You have a question?

“Actually, for Mr. Quick. I would like to know what he and Julian were fighting about.”

“I don’t understand.” The question caught Quick by surprise.

“I think you do, Mr. Quick.”

Ashford pounded his desk. “You’re just wasting our time.”

He sat back and glanced at the large portrait of his dead wife on the panelled wall behind us and lowered his head for a second. The side wall was decorated with pictures of his army group from the war and the incorporation papers of Ashfords in a large frame.

I thought I caught a glimpse of Lacey Dunes through the open doorway as she disappeared down the stairs at the end of the corridor. There was no mistaking that mini-skirt. I was about to draw Hazlett’s attention to it when we were all caught short by a crash inside the library and the sound of breaking glass.

We all turned at once. Somebody smashed the glass case housing the fake Book of Hours, and fire was licking the book’s contents and eating slowly across the blue Persian rug on the floor.

Chapter Seven

Everything became a blur of disjointed images. Witherspoon punched furiously at a bright red button Ashford had installed throughout the Abbey after his heart attack some years earlier. Three security guards trained their fire extinguishers on the blaze, which had spread to one of the book cases. Ashford lifted his Franciscan habit and was trying to stomp out the fire with his sandaled feet. In the process, the hem of his grey habit caught fire. Flames flashed up one side of his habit as he struggled to remove it. Nothing seemed to work.

Hazlett, who had been watching the scene with a puzzled look, suddenly grabbed one of the extinguishers from a security guard and sprayed Ashford’s habit with foam.

“We need a doctor immediately,” he shouted.

“Leave that to me,” said Quick as he rushed for a phone. There were no windows in the library, and the dense air was suffocating in the overpowering smell of smoke.

“Over here,” Ashford shouted, pointing to the crew setting up fans at the back of the library. “We need a couple over here to push the smoke out.”

Ashford started coughing again, this time heaving and gasping for air. I led him into the anteroom and to one of the open windows.

The doctor, a young intern with a day’s growth of black stubble on his chin and an unmistakable note of irreverence in his voice, arrived 20 minutes later, along with two am-

bulance attendants, and immediately set about examining Ashford, who was still coughing violently.

“You need to go to the hospital,” said the doctor, struggling to remove the top of Ashford’s habit before using his stethoscope to check his lungs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Ashford, straightening his habit.

“That may be but you should go – just to be on the safe side.”

Ashford’s eyebrows bristled. “Get that out of your head right now. If a more thorough examination is warranted, you can carry it out in my private quarters – once this mess gets cleaned up.”

“What happened?” Nina Ashford’s voice rose above the din as she edged her way into the library. “It stinks in here,” she added, making a face.

“The library’s been booby-trapped and set off a fire. My habit also caught fire.”

“Why is the doctor here?

”Some fool called him. I’m all right.”

“You’re sure?”

“Don’t be tiresome, Nina. Right now, I’m more concerned about the health of my books.” Then, turning to Quick: “The fans need to be positioned better. These books cost a fortune, and if they’re damaged by smoke, you can kiss a couple million dollars goodbye.”

The smoke had nowhere to go and licked the paintings and bookshelves with a tell-tale smell. A single air duct in the ceiling didn’t seem to be working and the air, still acrid and blue, hung listlessly around them. Ashford began coughing again. We led him out over his protests.

The smell of smoke had seeped into my clothing. I smelled my sleeve and started coughing.

Hazlett knelt suddenly. I thought for an instant the fire had also overcome Ashford. But no, he bent down to feel

and smell the carpet.

Once the fire was out, we left the security staff to clean up and find a way to get rid of the smoke.

Cassandra appeared just as she had disappeared like a restless spirit looking for peace. “I felt something was wrong and came to investigate,” she said in a whisper-like voice.

“Who is this woman?” Ashford drew his habit around himself and stared at her.

“One of the individuals on the mystery weekend.” Witherspoon sensed trouble and wished Cassandra had not strayed into Ashford’s private wing, no matter what she sensed.

“What is she doing here?” Ashford emphasized the word “here.”

“Miss Cassandra is a psychic. She senses many things. Like the fire.”

Cassandra sent a knowing smile to Hazlett with her eyes. “I had a premonition something was about to happen. It would appear something has.”

“I don’t need some clairvoyant to tell me that.”

“I would not be so hasty. If we ask Miss Cassandra nicely, perhaps, she might tell us what happened to your book.”

“I haven’t time for this. Ask her to leave at once.”

Cassandra turned to leave, with Hazlett following her to the door.

Ashford’s eyes smiled. “I haven’t finished yet.”

“I have,” said Hazlett, following Cassandra towards the door. She stopped and turned and looked squarely at Ashford. “Restless spirits have been let loose in this house, Mr. Ashford, and they will be your death if you do not calm down.”

Ashford shook his head in disgust as Cassandra and Hazlett disappeared. I caught up with them about 20 minutes later. They were having coffee under a picnic table bright blue umbrella on the lawn just outside the Grand

Hall. A moat Ashford had built around the main buildings flowed nearby. I noticed she had replaced her makeup, and a smile sparkled in her eyes.

“We’ve been looking for you, Mr. Anderson,” said a woman’s voice behind me.

I turned to face Trudy Sherman, the book writer from The Gazette, and Arden Rowley.

“May we join you?” Rowley didn’t wait for Hazlett to respond but slid into the chair next to Cassandra.

“We hear there’s been a fire in Ashford’s private library and that a valuable book has been destroyed,” said Sherman, who sat next to Hazlett.

“There has been a fire in his library,” I broke in.

“OK. But what about the book?”

”About six or seven books were damaged but none of the most valuable books.”

“What valuable books are we talking about?”

I studied Trudy Sherman for a few seconds before answering. “I’ll keep you posted if there are any developments.”

Hazlett rose and bowed to Cassandra. “It is time my associate and I went back to work.” Then, with a slight nod, he rose and headed for the stairs to enter the abbey.

We walked away in silence. “Back to work?”

“To look for the book.”

“Where do we start?”

“That is where things may get a trifle sticky. I will need your help.” Hazlett’s requests for assistance are never quite requests, if you know what I mean.

“How?” I dreaded the answer even before I asked.

“Tell your client I would like to examine his room and the rooms of the others before dinner.”

***

“Absolutely not,” said Ashford, straightening up in his easy chair. I looked around his private suite – the shining

hardwood floors that reflected the early afternoon sun; the elegantly carved four-poster bed with a rose-coloured damask bedspread; and the massive flagstone fireplace at the far end of the room.

“By making that request, your friend is suggesting I’ve stolen my book and set fire to my library.”

“I know Hazlett is somewhat unorthodox and a bit prickly at times –“

“At times? Except for this time,” said Ashford, “I think your friend has crossed the line.”

“I know he has a few oddities but I’ve learned to give him the benefit of the doubt. He has an uncanny ability to connect different ideas and events and come up with some pretty startling conclusions.”

“I’m not surprised somehow. But I suppose it’s those women, including that bit of fluff he’s picked up with now.”

And then, in almost a whisper: “You’re not going to tell him what I’ve said, I trust.”

“I’ll be selective,” I assured him, knowing that I would probably end up telling Hazlett everything. “But what do I tell him about searching the rooms?” ***

“We will leave Ashford’s room last,” said Hazlett a few minutes later as we made our way down the long, dark, windowless corridor of the north wing where the Ashford clan was located. We stopped at Quick’s door. He had been waiting for us and opened the door before we had a chance to knock.

“Mr. Ashford warned me you would be coming. How can I help?”

“Just a few questions, and then we’d like to look around,” said Hazlett in an official office.

“I hope Mr. Ashford doesn’t think I’m involved in this,” said Quick. The brown eyes behind his wire-framed

glasses grew darker, and his round face was strained and apprehensive as his voice.

Not at all, Mr. Quick. We’ll be checking out the room of Mr. Ashford as well.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If you stole this book, where would you stash it while waiting to leave? In your room? Or the room of someone else?”

Quick nodded. He tried to smile but his eyes were still wary. “What would you like to know?”

“First, your candid opinion of Julian and his sister?”

Quick didn’t respond immediately. “I think Julian has led a charmed life and is a huge disappointment to his father – and I mean huge. Really huge. Miss Nina is also a disappointment but in a different way.”

I was taken aback by Quick’s choice of words. I had never heard him speak that way before.

“Your observation about Nina intrigues me. I only had a chance to talk to her once but I somehow came away with a different reaction. She struck me as quick, intelligent and ambitious – the kind of person Ashford would like as a daughter.”

“She’s the son he never had – and one of the reasons she disappoints him so greatly. He would have preferred that she had blossomed as a carbon copy of Anne-Marie, his dead wife.”

Hazlett nodded. “But not just for that, Mr. Quick?”

“You’re very perceptive, inspector. It all came to a head two nights ago,” added Quick in a hushed voice. “Mr. Ashford made an announcement designed to put the fear of God into Julian and Nina.” He paused, knowing he had our full attention. “He announced that he was throwing the succession of Ashfords open to everyone at the dinner.”

“Including you?”

“Including me. And Mr. Witherspoon.”

“How did Julian react?”

“Julian went berserk.”

“And his sister?”

“She’s a cool one, that one. She had an announcement of her own – that she was engaged to one of Canada’s top corporate executives. She trumped her father, and he knew it.”

“How did Mr. Ashford react?”

“Flabbergasted. Absolutely speechless.”

“What about you?”

“It caught all of us by surprise, I included. If you’re asking me if I think it’ll hurt my chances of succeeding Mr. Ashford, it could. But then again, I never really thought it was ever a real possibility. I still don’t.”

Quick’s voice was almost too smooth, and it made me uncomfortable in a way I couldn’t explain.

“I was thinking about something of a more personal nature, Mr. Quick.”

Quick’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what you mean, inspector.”

“Is that what you and Julian were fighting about earlier?”

Quick dabbed his nose with a white handkerchief without thinking. “Julian still thinks he will inherit everything when his father dies, and when I told him I would personally make sure he wouldn’t, he went ballistic.” He paused to think through his next comment: “There was always bad blood between us.”

“I noticed that you were quite concerned when Julian attacked his father last night. Do you fear for Mr. Ashford’s safety?”

“I would like to think it was just liquor talk but since he’s started dabbling in drugs, I’m not sure about anything Julian is capable of these days.”

“Quick glanced at his watch and made a face. “I have to

leave soon to pick up one of Mr. Ashford’s business associates at Stratford. If there’s anything else….”

“We will talk again.”

Quick had been sitting on a navy blue velvet sofa and rose slowly and brushed imaginary bits of lint from the sleeves of his suit jacket. “Feel free to take the room apart –if you think it will help.”

“And that,” said Hazlett as Quick disappeared, “is precisely what I intend to do.”

I had no idea what we were looking for. I didn’t think it was the missing Book of Hours but Hazlett wasn’t exactly forthcoming.

“There it is,” sad Hazlett, passing me a book bounded in reddish-coloured leather in gold lettering. It was one of 20 or 30 similarly bound books on a low bookcase near his bed. This one was a textbook entitled Principles of Auditing.

“Open it.”

It was an accounting book, except for one thing. The inside pages had been hallowed out, and a small black case hidden in the space brought a smile to Hazlett’s eyes.

“What is it?”

“Something that puts a new spin on everything.”

I withdrew the black case with care.

“Open it.”

Inside were a syringe and six or seven vials of a colourless liquid.

Chapter Eight

Hazlett didn’t leave me much time to think about it. He was at the door. I knew something was up – something big – even before I opened the door, I was still in my pyjamas and felt self-conscious.

“There’s been a death,” he announced, looking me up and down.

Excitement worked like a nervous tic on his face.

“Who?”

“Julian Ashford.”

“Murdered?”

“I’m not sure. The butler found him this morning behind the kitchen with his face down in a sink full of water.”

“Do you think he was murdered?” I ventured.

. “It is the second death in two days that appears, at least on the surface, to be of natural causes.”

“But what on earth was he doing in the kitchen in the middle of the night?”

“Exactly. Let us take the question one step further. If it’s not a fainting spell or from a drug Julian had taken, then we must ask ourselves why someone would want him dead.”

“What about the OPP?” I knew Ashford did not want them at the Abbey and wondered if anyone had told him about Julian.

“I’ll call the OPP shortly. I took the trouble to examine the body beforehand. Other than a few red marks behind his neck, there were no other signs. And no footprints in

mud in front of the sink someone tracked in.”

“Perhaps the butler did it.”

“Hazlett ignored me. He sat down on the edge of my bed, brushed back his greying hair and studied the landscape for a few seconds.

“Ashford needs to be told before the OPP gets here. Julian’s death will devastate him,” I quickly added in a business-like voice.

“Mr. Witherspoon is briefing him now.”

“Who else knows?”

“Only the butler. I asked him not to let anyone else know until the OPP get here. I had him cover the body to keep it away from curious eyes. They will know soon enough.”

“By the way, Hazlett, did you hear someone singing when you were examining the body?”

Hazlett gave me a strange look. “Get ready. The OPP will be here at any time, and if I know your megalomaniac friend, you will be very busy.” He paused at the door.

“Be careful, Winton.” He turned to go but someone knocking at the door beat him to it.

“Thank heavens I’ve found you,” said Witherspoon, still breathing hard after his climb up three flights, where our rooms were located. “It’s Mr. Ashford. He wants to see you as soon as possible.”

“We were about to go down to breakfast. Tell Ashford we shall see him after we have eaten.”

“Did he?”

“I’ll have breakfast sent in. Just tell me what you want.”

“We shall be down directly,” said Hazlett after one of his calculated pauses.

Just about everyone was at the dining room table when we arrived. Rowley was the first to speak. “Any word about Denyse?”

“It appears she had a heart attack,” said Witherspoon.

“She used to complain about indigestion from time to time and took something for it.” He twisted his face to keep from breaking into tears.

“What about her remains?” said Randall.

“She is at undertakers now and will be driven to Ottawa for burial with her family.” Now, if you will excuse me.” He rose, his head slightly bent, and headed for the stairs. ***

Ashford didn’t waste any time getting to the point when we met him a few minutes later. “I would like you to find out how my son died and who killed him.”

Ashford wore a white summer light blue suit and a pink pastel-coloured shirt, sitting in his bedroom chair.

“There is no evidence that he was murdered,” said Hazlett, still smarting from Ashford’s high-handed summons. It showed in his voice.

“I’m not prepared to debate the issue with you, and I am not prepared to accept any notion that he committed suicide.”

“No one is saying that. It could have been an accident.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Hazlett. That he was drunk. But you’re wrong. He was cold, stone sober. And brooding.” And in a lower voice: “He was also too much of a coward to commit suicide.”

“I gather you still had high hopes for your son.”

Ashford wasn’t expecting this. “Yes. Damme, yes. Quick thinks I’m a fool but damme, Julian is still an Ashford with Ashford blood in his veins. And blood will always tell at the end of the day.” He hung his head in thought. “He had enormous potential.”

Hazlett didn’t react. He just looked at him unblinking but I could tell by the look in his eyes, he was less sure now of his feelings about Ashford.

Ashford looked up and held Hazlett in a steady gaze.

“I want the killer brought to justice. I don’t care what it takes or what it costs. Money is no object.” His slate grey eyes burned like lasers. I shifted from one foot to the other, not sure what was going to happen next. “I gather there is something else, Mr. Anderson?”

“Your Book of Hours.”

“My son’s murder takes priority now.”

“There could be a connection.”

“I don’t –“

Witherspoon stuck his head through the doorway. “The Ontario Provincial Police are here. They want to talk to you, Mr. Ashford.”

“Stick with me,” he said, turning in my direction. “And keep those damn reporters from me.”

“Where are the officers now?” Hazlett’s voice seemed to change colour. This was more to his liking.

“They went out to check the body.”

“Except me,” said Cpl. Arnold Kean, who suddenly appeared unnoticed. He had a deep, barrel-chested voice that echoed off the walls and stood, legs apart, hands on hips. His baby face made him look much younger and was one of the reasons why he was advised to grow a mustache when he joined the OPP 10 years before.

He nodded at Hazlett, who introduced himself.

“So you’re Hazlett. I had a call about you on my way here from Supt. Belanger.”

“I called the superintendent as soon as I examined the body of Julian Ashford and offered my services.”

“I’m counting on it. You didn’t move the body in any way, I trust.”

“I saw what I needed to know without touching it.”

Kean saluted and headed for the door. “We’ll talk later.”

“Finally,” said Ashford, “we seem to be on the same side.”

“On the side of the angels, Mr. Ashford.”

“You were asking about the Book of Hours. I would hate to think there is a connection.”

“I am not sure – but the question begs to be answered.”

“Someone did discover where I had hidden it.”

“Book of Hours?” said Kean, who caught the tail end of our conversation.

“A precious religious book written centuries ago,” said Ashford.

The faint smell of a woman’s perfume wafted through the air. The portrait of his first wife looked down at us above Ashford’s four-poster bed. Her face seemed to smile at us in the flickering light of the votive candle below another portrait of her on the mantelpiece.

“Do you intend to report the loss of the book to the police?”

“Later, perhaps. In the meantime, let’s concentrate on finding Julian’s killer.

“I think we should talk about it now. It could have much to do with your son’s death. There is only one way to find out for certain.”

“There’s something else.” Ashford had been in meetings for far too many years not to see the signs.

Hazlett paused before responding. “I want you to take what I am about to say very seriously. I believe you are in danger, perhaps even next on the murderer’s list.”

“No one scares me, Mr. Hazlett. No one. Certainly not some faceless, gutless, would-be killer.”

“Not gutless, Mr. Ashford, and not would-be.”

“But why? The Book of Hours?” Ashford’s eyes flashed with sudden understanding.

“Perhaps it could be part of it but not, I think, the real reason.”

“What now?”

“I would like to examine the contents of your safe.

Something else may be missing that may give us a clue.”

Ashford led us to his secret safe, past the portrait of his dead wife. Her flashing eyes seemed to follow us as we headed towards the flagstone fireplace. The safe was hidden behind an outside shell of hand-shaped stones. Ashford triggered the opening mechanism by a series of taps on different areas of the stone facing.

“If you didn’t know the safe existed, it wouldn’t be something you’d discover by accident,” said Ashford, stepping back as the panel sprung open at the last tap to reveal a safe with two combination tumblers. Ashford twiddled with the dials for a few seconds with the door opened an inch. He checked the contents. “Everything seems to be here.”

“What were you really looking for last night?”

“I told you. Quick discovered the book was missing when he was returning the chequebook. As you can see, it’s not here.”

“That is not what I am talking about,” said Hazlett in a slow, deliberate voice.

“Have it your way.”

“Something else is missing if I am not mistaken.”

Ashford started to close the door. Hazlett reached out and held his hand. “What’s this?”

“What?”

“Those numbers – 1-6-7-5-7 – on the inside panel?”

“Nothing exotic. Just the serial number of the first bond issue we ever issued. I tried to buy it as a memento but someone beat me to it. So I wrote down the number in a place that would be a constant reminder – just in case it ever surfaced again. What did you think it was? The combination to my safe?”

Hazlett ignored his jibe. “No. But I do not think it’s the serial number of a bond either.”

Ashford held his gaze and smiled. “But you’re not sure,

are you?”

The door opened suddenly. One of the maids stood in the doorway, rubbing her hands on her apron. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ashford. I tried knocking but no one answered. I tried again, and the door just opened. By itself. Believe me, Mr. –“

“It’s all right, Matilda. Just tell me how I can help you.”

“It’s Miss Nina.”

“What about Nina?” Alarm rose in Ashford’s voice like the tail of a rattler.

“She’s not in her room.” Her voice shook as she broke into tears.

Chapter Nine

Kean

looked out the window and the incredible blue water of Huron Lake beyond the trees. He bowed his head. “Have you had a chance to examine Miss Doyle?”

“Her heart, I’m afraid. She had an attack and died within seconds.” He had a soft, soothing voice acquired from seeing too many patients with cancer.

“Were there any drugs in her system?” Hazlett asked suddenly.

“It may sound crazy but the stark look on her face made me wonder. I suspect she died in her sleep. I’ll be able to tell you more after we’ve completed the autopsy.” He turned to go and stopped at the door. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Inspector.”

Back at the Abbey, Cpl. Arnold Kean swallowed a mouthful of coffee and closed his eyes. “The forensic team is examining her room at the abbey and is just about done.

Did you know her?”

“We all just met for the first time yesterday,” said With-

erspoon.” But it did sense she had met Mr. Rowley earlier. He is a Latin teacher and one of the guests for the mystery weekend.”

Kean smiled for the first time.

“I sensed there was something between them.”

Kean’s forensic team opened the door and left single file. “We’re done and will get back to you if we find anything. Nice meeting you, Inspector Hazlett. You’re a bit of a legend, you know.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a patch of grey cloth. “It was clutched in her right hand. The coroner had to pry it open.”

***

We both thought it was Ashford at the same time. Hazlett ignored it. “Ashford, for all his faults, is the last person who would be involved in something like this. But he needs to know about it. And, perhaps, offer a suggestion about the grey piece of cloth.”

When I placed the piece of grey cloth in Ashford’s hands a few minutes later, he turned it over and over before returning it to Hazlett. “I notice,” said Ashford, “that it was cut, not ripped, suggesting it may have come from one of my habits and planted in an attempt to blame me somehow.”

“Agreed.”

“There is one thing you should be aware of. I’m sure it will come up at one point before this week is over.” He paused. “There’s an old story that dates back to the early days of the abbey. Basically, it says that the founding abbot still wanders the abbey’s corridors, and when he appears, someone in the abbey will die. It usually occurs at the start of a new moon on the summer and winter solstice. It will be tonight, in case you’re wondering.”

You could see Hazlett’s mind dancing. “That’s quite

a story. Has it ever occurred during the time you’ve been here? Or, in living memory?”

Ashford shook his head impatiently. “Never paid much attention to it.” Then, after a pause, “I recall the librarian, who worked for me when I first acquired the abbey, mentioned that the library included a hand-written book called Beware The Abbot’s Moon. She mentioned it was written in Latin.

I could see that Ashford was getting restless. “This is getting us nowhere. Rare books are missing, and we are doing nothing about getting them back.”

“Do you mind if we poke around your library a bit?”

“As long as you don’t steal anything. If there’s nothing else, I need to talk to Witherspoon.”

Hazlett rose and headed for the door. “To be honest, I have grave doubts whether you can even find the toilet,” Ashford muttered.

“Hazlett smiled back. “Let us waste our time in the library.”

We had no problem finding the book. It was filed alphabetically to accommodate Ashford, who prefers it that way. “There may be fingerprints on the cover, so be careful how you handle it.”

I took the handkerchief from my side pocket and used it to carry the book onto the desk and open it for him. Hazlett tried flipping the pages with his handkerchief. He suddenly stopped. “Pages 25 and 26 have been ripped out.”

He glanced at page 24 and looked up. There’s no reference to the Abbot’s Moon, except for one small reference on the bottom of the page to the effect that “evil walked the halls of the abbey during this time of the year, causing many deaths.”

“What do you think?”

I just shook my head. It was the way Hazlett liked to communicate.

“Find a bag and put the book inside it. Perhaps Corporal. Kean can have it dusted for fingerprints.” He glanced at his watch. “Time to do some hard thinking.”

Witherspoon had disappeared. Everyone, including Nina Ashford, was on edge. Julian was silent and sat with his head down and his eyes closed. Rowley broke the silence. “Any word about Denyse Doyle?”

“We’re still awaiting word from the OPP and the coroner,” said Ashford.

Trudy Sherman took out her pad and pen. “There’s talk about a ghost of a former abbot, who walks the corridors of the abbey.”

“An old wives’ tale,” said Ashford with a dismissive snort.

All eyes turned to Hazlett. He glanced at Ashford. “There is a story to that effect but it’s never been proven. If that’s what you’re asking. There’s a book in the library that talks about it.”

“It gives me the jitters, real or not,” blurted Lacey Dunes, glancing at Cassandra, who bowed her head.

She didn’t speak for almost a minute. “There will be another death, this time a violent murder.”

Trudy Sherman poised her pen. “Any idea who it might be?”

“I do have an idea but I could be wrong. Suffice it to say, someone else will die in the next 24 hours.” Cassandra went back to her scrambled eggs and black coffee.

Lacey Dunes drew in her breath. “I want to leave. Now. I can’t stand it here anymore.”

Austin Randall glanced at her. Her face had paled, and she avoided his eyes. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Lacey tossed back her blonde hair and tried to smile. “Didn’t sleep well. Tossed and turned all night with a bad stomach.”

One of the servers, who had been listening, smiled at her. “Do you need something for your stomach?”

Lacey shook her head. “I’ll be all right.” She dipped her spoon into her soup and twisted her face.

Fitzgibbon, who sat next to Ashford, shook his head. Simmons was brooding. Everything had taken an unexpected turn, and he was unsure how to deal with it.

“Is the bet still on?” Trudy Sherman lifted her pen and waited for an answer.

“Everything has changed,” said Fitzgibbon, glancing at Simmons and then at Hazlett. “I will go with whatever Mr. Simmons decides.”

Trudy Sherman was tapping her notepad with her pen. “What about a contest between Mr. Hazlett and Mr. Simmons in tracking down the murderer. Right here and right now. If there is another murder, as Cassandra says, it might be interesting to see who solves the murder first.”

Simmons looked at Fitzgibbon, who was studying Hazlett.

“If Mr. Simmons agrees, let there be no bet this time.”

For the first time in his life, Simmons was unsure of himself. He tried to smile and nodded to Hazlett.

Lacey Dunes shifted uneasily. All this talk about violence simmered beneath the surface during her relationship with Andrew. The crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes make her look older, as she did now. “I hate violence.” She glanced at Cassandra. “Can you tell us what will happen before we leave here?”

“A great deal of upset and uncertainty. In addition, stock market troubles will touch some people.”

Witherspoon patted his wig to make sure it was in place. ”You mention the stock market. Could you be more explicit?”

Cassandra ignored him. Ashford, who had distanced

himself from the conversation, sat back. He liked his own company and preferred the conversations in his head to those around him. He didn’t believe people like Cassandra but couldn’t help himself when it came to his possessions. “Three valuable books are missing from my library are missing. Will they be returned?”

Cassandra smiled. “That depends on you, Mr. Ashford. There is a dark cloud over your house. Only you can make it go away, and that will depend on the decisions you make in the next 48 hours.”

“That’s as clear as mud.

***

“I assume you’ve discussed this with Sgt. Kean already. “

“Yes, and he’s closed her file. One thing, though, it appears she had sex with someone after arriving here.”

It was the first time I ever saw Hazlett surprised. “Witherspoon,” he said under his breath.

We went for a stroll afterwards. Hazlett liked to walk and think. My role was to keep him company. “Ashford is going to think you’ve forgotten about his books.”

He shrugged. “His books are still here. There’s no rush. My concerns are elsewhere for the moment.”

“Out of curiosity, Hazlett, why are we outside. I know you don’t like walking or gardens.”

We turned the corner, just in time to see Rowley disappear behind a small grove with Lacey Dunes, who had slipped her arm in his.

Chapter Nine

“Y

ou’re sure no one’s been up here since the accident since forensics left,” Kean asked the caretaker as he unlocked the door for us.

The caretaker, an older man with a stoop, scratched his near-bald head and nodded. Like many people, he was nervous talking to the police. “I locked it as soon as they left this morning.”

“With your permission,” said Hazlett.

“Is this door usually locked?”

Thomas bit the bottom of his dark grey mustache and held his breath. People in authority usually made him more nervous than usual. “I have strict orders from Mr. Ashford to keep this door at all times.”

“Do you have a key,” Kean broke in.

“Has anyone else asked to enter the kitchen?” said Kean as he led the way inside.

“I am very positive. I am the only one with the keys to the household. Mr. Ashford was very particular about that.”

Kean studied the mud on the floor. “Looks like he came inside from outdoors.”

Hazlett bent down and studied the footprints carefully. “Or someone else.”

Kean bent down and studied the footprints for a few seconds. “Do you have some kind of magnifying glass we could use?”

Thomas crept over to one of the cupboards, where his

wife kept the spices and walked slowly back to Kean. “My wife uses it to make sure she’s using the right spices.”

Kean bent down and studied the footprints in the watered mud. “I hope they took pictures of all this.”

“I can tell you they did, Corporal. They were most particular about that in a way that reminded me of Mr. Ashford when he stresses things to me.”

Hazlett spotted a crumbed bag on the floor near the sink, where he put on his gloves and picked them up. He opened it carefully and made a face. Nothing but a few brown crumbs. But you never know, he thought.

“Nothing. But it may yield a few prints,” Hazlett said, extending it out to Kean, who had also donned a pair of gloves.

“All I see is a few brown crumbs. But I agree, you never know what else be there we can’t see or notice at this time.”

Hazlett reached into his pocket and handed him a small round object.

Kean rolled it over carefully. “Looks like a small bell.” He shook it and placed it close to his ear, and shrugged. He turned to one of the constables. “Take this and the bag to forensics and see what they find. Just be careful not to get your fingerprints on anything.”

One of the servants met them at the door. “There’s a call for you, Mr. Hazlett.”

It was Fowler. “I wanted to give you an update about Julian Ashford. He died from drowning. The marks on his neck suggest someone held him down in the water until he died if that’s any help.”

Kean, who had been listening on an extension, drummed his fingers on his knee. “What about drugs?”

“We did do a drug scan and discovered indications of LSD and heroin. It would also appear that he had somehow ingested some Orelander. A pretty potent poison that might have caused him to vomit. Perhaps….”

“What can you tell us about the person who held him down in the water?”

“Nothing.”

“Any possibility we might get fingerprints from his neck?”

“Not sure.”

“We’ll have a team there in minutes. Leave everything else as is until they’ve had a chance to find out.”

“I’ll set the room to off-limits to anyone until your people finish.”

Witherspoon met them a few minutes later in the reception hall. “Mr. Ashford wants to know when his son’s body can be released for burial.”

“I’ll give orders to release the body as soon as the coroner finishes,” said Kean, nodding to one of the constables.

Trudy Sherman and Gillian Merryweather appeared from the dining room. They spotted Kean and Hazlett, who was about to leave and waved to them.

Trudy, who was used to talking to police officers, spoke first: “We understand we can’t leave here at the moment. Any idea when that can be?”

“For the moment,” said Kean in his official voice. “Hopefully, not long.”

“What about calls? I have a story I need to call in. Any new developments?”

“Calls are fine. No new developments, I’m afraid. But I’ll let you know when there are.”

They left a few minutes later. I followed Hazlett and Kean into the dining room, where he ordered a coffee and Cognac. He didn’t speak until he had finished.

“What’s wrong, Hazlett?”

He looked out the windows behind me and the lake in the distance. “There’s something not right. I can’t put my finger on it. With every death, there is always something that hints about the thief. There is none here or in the li-

brary, or so it would seem.

“What about Ashford’s missing books?”

“Perhaps it’s time to find out whether Ashford’s staff and our preliminary investigation have turned up anything.”

Kean’s eyes lit up when Gillian Merryweather suddenly appeared. “Still haven’t solved Julian Ashford’s murder?”

“Or his missing book,” said Kean.

“Ashford isn’t the only one who’s been robbed. Someone pinched my bag of muffins.” She sniffed. She was counting on those muffins to see her through the coming days. She had added marijuana to the mix before they were ready for the oven. They were her comfort food. And she hoped the police hadn’t discovered them.

Hazlett studied her face and nodded to Kean, who held up a light brown paper bag. “Would this be your bag by any chance?”

Gillian grabbed it and looked inside. The muffins were gone. “Where did you find it?”

“In the kitchen. It was close to the sink where we found Julian Ashford’s body.”

Gillian took a deep breath. If they examined my muffins, she thought, then they would have discovered the marijuana she added to her muffin mix. Gillian needed to think what to say in case they asked her about it. She looked up to see Kean studying her. “Where are my muffins?”

“The bag was empty when we found it.”

“We need to ask you a few questions,” Hazlett broke in. “It would appear that Julian died from eating your muffins.”

Gillian was about to panic and focused on the grandfather clock just outside the dining room door and the sound it made every time the minute hand moved.

A plant poisoned Julian,” said Hazlett. “We figure it was added your muffins.”

Gillian shook her head. It couldn’t be the marijuana, she thought.

“Oleander,” said Kean. “We figure to your muffins. “ He looked at Julian’s face. No reaction.

“Not in my muffins.” Her voice suddenly hardened. “For the record, I’ve never even heard of this poison before. And for all I know, the bag may not even be my bag.”

“Your fingerprints are all over the bag,” said Hazlett. “And there were no others.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. As I said, I never even knew this poison or the plant ever before, and I don’t take kindly to being accused of murdering someone I never knew ever existed.”

No one is accusing you of anything. But we’ll let this rest for the time being,” said Kean.

Gillian suddenly found herself standing. “Unless you have something else to ask me, “I’m leaving.” She walked to the doorway and turned. “You never did tell me what happened to my muffins.”

Kean watched her walk up the stairs. “What do you think?”

Hazlett was looking out the window and the lake and didn’t respond immediately. “She may not have killed young Ashford but she is guilty of something.”

“I think she’s guilty of killing Julian Ashford, and I’m going to check her out. I’d bet my hat on it.”

Hazlett looked at me. “Right now, I’d like to talk to the housekeeper and her husband.”

I went to find Tom Beasley and his wife, Matilda, who had worked for Ashford for about 40 years. Tom’s hair was white; his skin, tanned and wrinkled, and his deep blue eyes looked forever tired. The fire in the library had taken a lot out of him. He walked slowly, almost without noise, and sat down next to his wife.

Matilda looked ten years younger and did all the

talking for them both. “We haven’t completed a check of all the rooms but we discover a small book in one of the rooms.” She paused and looked to her husband, who nodded.

“It was Mr. Witherspoon’s room.”

“Was it in plain sight?”

She looked at Hazlett for a few seconds and shook her head. “It was in the pocket of one of his suits.” She reached into her apron pocket and held out Ashford’s Book of Hours.

“Thank you, Mrs. Beasley.”

“Should we continue?” said Tom.

Hazlett nodded. “But this time, extend your search to anything that looks out of place or unusual. “I’ll present your discovery to Mr. Ashford with your compliments. I’m sure he’ll be delighted.”

Ashford was on the phone when we entered. He hung up and pounded his desk. “I’m surrounded by idiots. Can anyone do anything right? What do you want, Hazlett?”

Hazlett reached into his pocket and laid the Book of Hours on Ashford’s desk. Ashford grabbed it and flipped through the pages. “Where did you find it?”

“Your servants, Tom and Matilda Beasley found it in their search.”

Ashford set his mouth. “It’s not the original if that’s what you’re wondering. Where did they find it?”

“In Mr. Witherspoon’s room, in the pocket of one of his suits.”

Ashford shook his head. The anger in his eyes turned to sorrow. “I’ll handle this.”

“If you want me to recover the original, then I’d like to hear what Witherspoon has to say. He may know a lot more than you think.”

Ashford pressed the buzzer on the right-hand side of his desk. He glanced out the large bay window and the shimmering waters of Lake Huron and drew in a long

breath of air.

Witherspoon appeared a few minutes later. His hair was dishevelled, and he was breathing hard. He stood in the doorway a few seconds before entering. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier. I was in the dining room.”

Chapter Ten

Witherspoon sat down in front of Ashford. who looked at him for a full minute before speaking -- an old trick to intimidate people and force them to tell him things not related to the matter at hand. He pulled out his desk drawer and slammed the Book of Hours on his desk.

It had darkened outside, and the rain beat against the large window on the left wall that overlooked the lake. Witherspoon shivered and waited for Ashford to continue.

Ashford looked at him straight in the eye. “It was found in your room.”

“I don’t understand. I did not take it. If you don’t believe me, have it checked for fingerprints. Witherspoon shook his head as though his life depended on it. “I’m also prepared to swear under oath that I had nothing to do with this.”

Ashford turned to Hazlett. “Ask for your friend, Kean, to have it checked for fingerprints. If Mr. Witherspoon did not take it, perhaps this book will tell us who did,” He smiled for the first time. “I truly hope that is the case, Witherspoon. I’d hate to lose you.”

Kean returned an hour later with a fingerprint expert.

“We’ll be able to tell you exactly who they belong to. It may involve fingerprinting everyone here before we’re done.”

Witherspoon was fingerprinted first. His fingers were not found on the book.

“That still doesn’t tell us why the book was found in your room, assuming your door is locked at all times.”

“I’m at a complete loss to explain it to you. It makes me feel uneasy that someone could enter my room while I’m sleeping. Not with what’s happening at the abbey these days.”

Surely, after all these years, he thought, Ashford should know by now that he would never do anything to hurt him.

Ashford held his head in his hands. He couldn’t fathom why this was happening to him and his family, And in a place, he had always felt at peace with himself and his surroundings.’

“We’ll get to the bottom of this,” said Kean. “Thieves and murderers always leave something behind. We’ll find whatever it is, and we won’t give up until we do.”

Ashford was shaking his head. “Assurances won’t get my books back or my son’s life. Haven’t heard a peep out of you, Hazlett. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“What I said at the outset. Find the murderer, and you’ll find the books. The books may be just a diversion.”

“There are many people out there who would risk their lives to get their hands on these books. Now, gentlemen, if you have nothing else to tell me, I have work to do.”

We left his office and didn’t talk until they reached the dining room. “It’s time,” said Hazlett, “for a pot of tea.”

Kean was about to turn up his nose but had second thoughts.

“We need to go back and review everything that’s happened,” added Hazlett, “and develop a timeline for everything that’s happened for each event. We’re missing something, and we need to get things right.”

“Right now, I need a stiff drink but I’m on duty. I’ll have a coffee if you don’t mind.”

“First item of business,” added Hazlett, “How did the thief get into the library?”

The dining room maid appeared with a large pot of tea and a coffee. The late afternoon sun reappeared and lit up the ceiling and the sideboard behind the table with its gleaming silverware.

“We need to talk to Witherspoon. He pops up in too many instances for it to be chance,” said Kean. “We need to get him by himself and find out what he thinks.”

Kean waved to one of the serving maids and asked her to tell Witherspoon he was needed in the dining room. He drummed his fingers on the table and took two large gulps of coffee.

Witherspoon popped is head inside the doorway. “Understand you want to see me. I hope it’s not about the book.”

.“We hope you can enlighten us about a few things,” said Kean, waving to one of the serving maids to bring another coffee and another pot of tea, “If I can help….”

Chapter Eleven

There was an uneasy silence at lunch as everyone focused on the soup the maid had served them.

“I don’t like this any more than the rest of you but I’m damned if I’m going to let anything upset or worry if the person next to me may be a murderer. You aren’t, are you?” Trudy Sherman said to Austin Randall, the forester.

Cassandra looked up and smiled. Randall flustered and concentrated on his soup. “My interest is the trees growing around the abbey,” he said without looking up.

Lacey Dunes, who had missed breakfast, entered, looking pale and nervous.

“Anything wrong?” said Randall, who sat opposite her. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Lacey tried to smile. “I didn’t sleep well. Tossed and turned all night with a bad stomach.”

One of the servers, who had been listening, asked her if she needed something for her stomach. Lacey shook her head. “I’ll be all right.” She dipped her spoon into her soup and made a face.

She ate the soup silently and slowly. When she finished, she suddenly stood.

“I, for one, plan to pack and leave here this afternoon. I don’t care how long I have to wait for the train as long as I’m out of here.”

“The OPP may have other ideas about that,” said Randall, without looking up. They’re not likely to let any of us

leave until they find out who murdered Ashford’s son and have found his missing books.”

“I don’t care if they put me in a cell, as long as I don’t have to spend another night in this house of horrors.”

“Before you go,” said Cassandra, “Be aware that the threat of death still lingers in this house. The spirits of the monks have been aroused.”

“You seem to be good at offering warnings to the rest of us,” said Trudy Sherman in a flat voice. “I hear you met Ashford’s son last night.”

“That is an unwarranted conclusion, Miss Sherman. What you heard was Mr. Witherspoon telling me he saw Julian Ashford in the corridor and that Julian wanted me to come to see him on what I perceived as a whim. I didn’t.”

All eyes turned to Witherspoon, who tried his best to ignore them. Then, finally, he looked up and faced them.” I did see Julian Ashford last night. He brushed past me, almost knocking me off my feet in the process.” He looked at Simmons, who was making notes. “Julian doesn’t ask. He ordered me to find Cassandra and send her to his room, saying he had something important to tell her. I sought out Cassandra and relayed Julian’s message to her. I even urged her to find out what he wanted and that there was no telling what he was likely to do.”

Cassandra was nodding throughout Witherspoon’s explanation. “As I said before, I did not. I am not in the habit of catering to the whims of spoiled young men.”

She rose and left with Fitzgibbon. An uneasy silence followed their footsteps.

“That’s a mug’s game and downright dangerous,” said Trudy Sherman suddenly. She pushed back her light brown hair and shook her head. “From what I see, I wouldn’t trust my life in the hands of a fool.”

Simmons rose. “Who’s coming with me? “

No one budged. Simmons rose, shook his head and

rose from his chair. “I can’t do this on my own but I will if I have to.”

“I think we’re all a bit hard on him,” said Lacey Dunes, running her tongue over her lips and smiled at Giorgio Zuccaro, who returned her smile.

“You don’t think that Simmons might be the murderer to make up for his book weekend,” said Gillian.

“That’s hard to say,” said Austin Randall. “He is a writer, after all, and knows a lot about books. Maybe he stole Mr. Ashford’s books to get even with his father, and Julian found out about it.”

“Are you also suggesting he murdered Julian to keep his theft secret?” said Randall.” I don’t think he was up to it.”

Gillian cocked her head and looked at Randall. “What makes you so sure?”

“During the war, I spent over three years in a Japanese POW Camp. I saw a lot of things I’d rather forget but can’t, including seeing your best friend get murdered in front of your eyes as well as some very tough blowhards. He’s not like them.”

“Do you think he will get himself in trouble?” said Giorgio.

“My guess is he’s all talk and little action, especially if there’s any danger.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Trudy Sherman.

“I believe Signor Hazlett will sort it all out. My money is on him. He keeps his opinions to himself and does not strike until he is certain of everything.”

“He certainly takes his good time about it,” said Sherman. “He hasn’t even found the missing books yet. For me, he’s a big disappointment.”

“All this talk is fine,” said Randall. “We’re talking about other people when it may well be one of us.”

Lacey Dunes looked at the others and shook her head.

“I don’t even want to think about it.”

Gillian Merryweather looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “I’m not so sure.”

“I, for one, am not going to laugh it off. If the tale of the abbot who walks the corridors of the abbey is true, who knows what may happen tonight,” said Giorgio.

Lacey sucked in her breath. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m going to leave here, even if I have to walk all the way to town.”

They had heard all this before from Gillian and made it clear they were not interested in hearing more.

“You heard what the constable said,” said Gillian, flashing a smile. “I’d rather spend the rest of the night in jail than here. At least I’ll know I’ll be safe.”

“Or have a convenient alibi,” said Trudy, “in case you’re planning some kind of wrong-doing.

Lacey ignored her. She got up and walked away. “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure.”

“For us either,” said Gillian “I’m going for a walk,” said Randall. “If anyone would like to join me, you’re welcome.”

Giorgio stood as though he was about to make a speech. “I think we all should. It will be good for all of us and take some of the heat out of all this talk. There are a lot of interesting trees on the way. I will tell you all about them if you wish.”

An hour later, as they approached the abbey, an OPP car stopped at the entrance. Lacey got out with her bags. She turned her face away from them as they passed her on the way inside.

“She belongs inside,” shouted Gillian at the constable. He smiled and waved at them as he drove away.

Lacey did not appear for dinner an hour later. Hazlett saw her empty chair and raised his eyebrows.

“In case you’re wondering about the empty chair,” said Randall, “Miss Dunes decided to leave the abbey but was picked up by the OPP and brought back. Perhaps she feels a bit embarrassed.”

Simmons emptied his last bottle of wine and threw it into the wastepaper basket beside his writing desk. He hadn’t done much writing. It just wouldn’t come.

His portable typewriter sat silently on the desk. He glanced out the window and the thick forest that edged the extensive grounds of the abbey.

Fitzgibbon took the room opposite, which had a view of the grounds and Lake Huron. He buttonholed Fitzgibbon to help him get his room changed so that he could have a view of the lake. Fitzgibbon had said he would see about it but nothing happened.

He looked at his watch. It was dinner time, and he wondered how he could put up with the stupid talk at the table. A few minutes later, he left his room, walking down the corridor to the winding staircase with its bay window and its view of the lake.

He was a bit unsteady and grabbed the bannister to keep from falling when he felt a hand on his back. He lost his balance and tumbled down the stairs, coming to rest at the landing.

He lay there, breathing hard. He couldn’t catch his breath and tried to yell for help. The words just wouldn’t come. He could smell the roast beef from the dining room. He tried to cry out again.

Giorgio appeared at the head of the stairs a couple of minutes later. He saw Simmons lying on the landing and scampered down the stairs.

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure. All I remember is feeling someone ‘s

hand on my back before I lost my balance.”

Giorgio helped him to his feet. “Can you walk by yourself?”

“I think so.” Simmons tried a step and grabbed Giorgio’s outstretched arm. He tried a few more steps. “Thank you. I think I can make it on my own.”

Giorgio gave him a pat on the back. Trudy Sherman saw them first. “What happened?”

“It seems someone tried to push him downstairs.”

“It can’t be one of us,” said Gillian. “We’ve been here a few minutes.”

Simmons took his seat and caught Casandra looking at him. “You were lucky. The rest of us may not be so fortunate, and there will be a next time.”

“I believe Cassandra,” said Gillian. “We need to band together if we hope to come out of here alive.”

“Maybe it’s the ghost of the abbot,” said Lacey Dunes.

“I don’t believe in ghosts or anything else for that matter,” said Austin Randall.

“Ghosts or not, this is getting creepy,” said Trudy Sherman.

They left an hour later. Fitzgibbon put his arm on Simmons’ shoulder. “You’re sure it wasn’t your imagination?”

“I’m sure of it. I wasn’t drunk if that’s what you were insinuating.”

“I wasn’t. It’s just that you didn’t seem yourself when your book went off the rails with Denyse Doyle’s death.”

Chapter Twelve

“It has to be either by a stolen or duplicate key or through an entrance that no one, including Mr. Ashford, knows about.”

Hazlett stood behind Witherspoon’s chair. “With your permission, we’d like to investigate if there is another way to enter and leave the library unnoticed.”

Ashford didn’t respond. The meeting was over, and we left with Witherspoon for the dining room, where Witherspoon sat opposite us. “You should be advised that Mr. Ashford had me get a new lock for the library earlier today. There is only one key, and he has it.”

They looked at me. “You seem to have a way with him, Mr. Anderson. We need to get him to agree for us to inspect every inch of his library. Maybe he’ll agree to it if you ask him.”

“What if he wants to be present,” I said with a bit of dread on the edge of my tongue.

“If that’s what it takes, all the better.”

Hazlett grinned at me. “You’re on your own.”

We decided to have a night cap in my room.

“Everyone’s getting antsy,” said Kean, “and I don’t blame them. What’s worse, we don’t seem to be any further ahead than we were yesterday.”

Hazlett, who had been silent throughout it all, stood up. “What about a masquerade ball in the reception hall, with musicians playing 18th Century dance music, dressed

in wigs and 18th Century dress?”

Kean’s eyes lit up. “It’ll also give up a chance to discover if there’s anything new in their rooms. If they’ve hidden something, they may think it’s safe to bring it out now.’

“We’ll need Ashford’s permission. I hear that Nina will be coming home tomorrow, which may be exactly what she needs right now. I’ll talk to him in the morning,” I said. ***

Ashford was in bed, reading the financial statements of one of his companies. At the end of his bed, a fire in the fireplace crackled and spit grey smoke up the chimney. He was sitting up, leaning on three pillows. His glasses were half-way down his nose, and he looked up when he sensed my presence.

“What do you want, Anderson?”

“We’re concerned about your library. We want to examine the inside to determine how the thief could get in and out without anyone noticing. We want your approval to conduct this search.”

“No. And don’t ask me again.”

“We’re doing our best to look after your interests, Mr. Ashford.”

“Find another way.” He could tell that I was not finished. “What else?”

“One of the guests, a Mr. Fitzgibbon, would like to thank you for your hospitality. He stands without. It will take only a minute or two.”

Ashford nodded.

I let in Fitzgibbon, who was wearing his brightest smile and a parcel under his arm. “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Ashford. I know you are an extremely busy man, and I promise to take only a minute or two.” He paused and held the package in his hands. “Thank you for allowing us to invade your wonderful estate. I, for one, will never forget it. And cannot thank you enough.” Another pause. “Please

accept this gift as a token of our appreciation.”

He handed the parcel to Ashford, who unwrapped it. An aluminum container peeped from the wrapping paper.

“It’s not a bomb, I trust,” Ashford said with a smile for the first time. He raised the lid.

“I read once that you loved Cuban cigars,” said Fitzgibbon. I had these especially flown in for you. I used the container to keep them fresh and from the air.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fitzgibbon. It wasn’t really necessary. I gave up smoking a few years ago when I was diagnosed with a heart problem. But thank you all the same.”

He passed the aluminum container to me. “Give these to your group, Mr. Fitzgibbon, and my sincere thanks for thinking of me.”

Fitzgibbon smiled all the way down the corridor and the stairs. Cassandra and Randall were talking to Trudy Sherman and Lacey Dunes. The conversation was quite spirited, and did not see Fitzgibbon enter.

“I come bearing gifts,” said Fitzgibbon.

That got their attention. I prepared a gift for Mr. Ashford to thank him for his hospitality from all of us. Cuban cigars,” he said, opening the aluminum lid. “He told me he gave up smoking for health reasons and asked me to thank everyone and to enjoy our gift to him.”

Fitzgibbon passed the container to the ladies first. Cassandra shook her head but Lacey reached in and asked if anyone had a light. So did Trudy Sherman and Randall, who provided the match and helped the others light theirs.

Fitzgibbon put the aluminum container on the sideboard. “It’s there for anyone who wants another.” ***

“I did find a few things about our friend, Gillian. Except for bopping the head of her husband with a fireplace iron, she had a clean slate. Not even a traffic ticket,” said Kean. “But I did find out from one of her early friends that

Gillian and Julian were a couple for a few weeks before he dumped her. Perhaps, the woman scorned?”

Haslett’s eyes lit up. “What about her husband?”

“He divorced her. First thing he did when he left the hospital. We tried to talk to him but he’s not interested,” said Kean as we entered the dining room.

“I also had the crumbs checked.” He paused with a smile. “I had the crumbs we found checked out also. There were traces of marijuana. That clinches it for me.”

Hazlett shook his head. “That doesn’t explain the Orelander that caused it all. I think we need to do a bit more digging.”

Randall was waiting for us when we sat down at the dinner table in the morning. He made a straight line to Kean, who appeared in the doorway a few minutes later. One of the maids brought in a plate of bacon and steak and placed it on the sideboard behind me. She was followed by another maid with eggs and fried potatoes. The sun streamed through the windows and set a lighter mood in the room.

“I have a request, Detective. I’d like to take a day-long hike in the forest, with your permission, of course.”

Kean stood and looked at him as he debated whether to grant his request. “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“I’m not trying to escape if that’s what you’re thinking. After the time I spent in that Japanese POW camp, I need to get away from people and things for a while. In the forest, I feel washed clean of it all. If you agree, I’ll be back before sundown.”

Hazlett, who had been listening, nodded at Kean. “I didn’t go through the horrific experience Mr. Randall did but I know how he feels.”

“I’d like to go with you,” said Fitzgibbon. Gillian Merryweather also brightened. “So would I.”

“Sorry. I need to get away by myself. I need the silence and the clean, wonderful smell of the forest to refresh my

mind and body. Perhaps next time, if there is one.”

Kean nodded. Randall smiled a thank you and went back to his breakfast in silence before leaving to get lunch and an extra cigar for his walk. Gillian Merryweather watched him leave and grabbed the arm of Kean’s jacket. “What about the rest of us? It’s almost as though we’re in prison. How does he rate an exception and not the rest of us?”

“You didn’t go through anything like what he did,” said Kean. “Instead, why not spend the day helping us discover how the thieves were able to enter the library, steal a valuable book, set a fire and leave without being noticed. Talk to all the servants, find out how Julian Ashford died or uncover new evidence that will help us get a better handle on things .”

“We seem to be blocked at every turn,” added Kean. “I was waiting to tell you this,” said Hazlett, opening a brown paper bag. “We found a torn women’s blouse in the garbage.” He passed it to Kean, who examined it. “Mind if I take this back with me?”

Acool

Chapter Thirteen

breeze brushed Randall’s face and made him feel alive for the first time since he came to the abbey. Looking back at it now, he wasn’t sure what to expect but it certainly wasn’t this.

He breathed in the freshness of the forest as he found a trail. His pace quickened. He was alive again, with nothing to fence him in. Ferns lined the path, and the smell of pine and spruce washed over him. The sound of birds flapping their wings made him smile as they settled in their nests.

An hour slid by before he knew it. He wasn’t sure how far he had come but it didn’t matter. He was alive now. Free again, with nothing to stop him. He made a vow to himself never to put himself in a position where he would feel cooped up again.

He heard something in the bushes and parted the leaves with his walking stick to discover a young grey squirrel scamper away into the darkness of a thick growth of alders. The ground suddenly became moist, and his shoes sunk into the black mud of the trail. He picked some ferns and used the fronds to clean his shoes when the path returned to dry earth. Ahead, a lone black crow sat watching him from the branch of a dead tree.

He heard voices somewhere overhead and stopped to listen as they died away. The wind had picked up, and black clouds were gathering on the horizon. He wasn’t dressed for rain and looked around for a leafy area where he could go in the event of a storm. A growth of large spruce beyond

the trail blocked the sun and would be a refuge in the event of a storm. Randall felt uneasy for the first time and started to whistle.

Around noon, he spotted a large boulder where he sat and unwrapped his lunch. He laid out the sandwiches, wrapped in wax paper, next to him, and unscrewed his thermos of coffee. The sun came out again, and so did the warmth. He laid his back against the boulder and closed his eyes.

He woke suddenly when he heard someone or something approaching him. It was one of the abbey people — a tall, thin man dressed in a black suit.

“My name is Fitzgibbon. I knew you were hiking in the forest and thought I’d join you. It’s a good change from being locked up in that golden cage.”

“How did you get permission?”

“I didn’t. I just left when no one was looking.” He glanced at his watch. “I see it’s getting onto two. I’m heading back. What about you?”

Randall shook his head. “I’m pressing on. I came to refresh myself. To feel free again. I found the abbey a bit smothering. I was cooped up in a Japanese POW camp for three bloody years. No offence. I came here to be alone.”

Fitzgibbon smiled. “I also served time in a POW camp but I put it behind me. Now, I want to be around people, hearing people laugh, dancing, and the sound of glasses being chinked.”

Randall stood and strapped on his backpack. “Well, I’m off.”

Fitzgibbon smiled. “Don’t get lost.”

The trail took him to another track going in the opposite direction he had just come. He made a mental note of where the new trail started and the old one and pushed on. He made his way around several whitish-grey boulders and into the darkness of the forest, using his axe to mark

his pathway by cutting out small chunks of bark from their trunks.

Randall wasn’t sure how long he had walked, but he discovered the sun was nearing the horizon when he emerged onto a clearing. Panic. The kind he experienced he had when he was young when his father died in a car accident.

He sat down on a nearby rock and withdrew his thermos to refresh himself. He was also getting thirsty. He stood and started to make his way back, his heart beating furiously when he couldn’t find the trail blazings he had made. He kept on going. He didn’t have an option. Then, quite suddenly, he picked up the markings an hour or so later. It was night now, and he used his flashlight to guide him.

Much later, he reached the two pathways. He stood, not sure in the darkness which one to take. The sounds of animals moving in the brush set him on edge. He tried to hurry down the trail, tripping over exposed tree roots and falling into a growth of alders. In the process, he lost his flashlight that stopped working when it hit the ground/ He felt uneasy using his hands to feel for it in the bushes. The gnarled fingers of the alder roots seemed to grip his hands, and he withdrew his hands in reaction.

He put his hands in the bushes again, and something sharp bit his hand. He withdrew his hand, pulling a thorn from his palm and sucking the blood from it. He reached for his walking stick and used it to part the branches. It struck the flashlight, which suddenly turned on again.

He was on his way again, and all was right with his world— this time holding his walking stick and hatchet in his right hand and his flashlight in his left.

It took another hour for him to realize that he had taken the wrong path. A raccoon passed him in front of him, opening its mouth and baring his teeth before strolling off into the bushes.

He realized that his best bet was to carry on and see where it took him, hopefully to a large clearing that would help rescuers spot him.

He kept slashing the thick growth in front of him and failed to see the trunk of a dead pine lying in front of him. His hatchet slipped from his hand as he fell headlong onto the path.

He cried out at the sharp, stabbing pain that gripped his left leg as he tried to stand. He knew then he had broken it.

Randall crawled the rest of the way on his side with no indication he would ever come to a clearing. The pain came in sickening waves, and he wanted to vomit.

One thing he learned as a POW: Never give up. You never know when things will change for the better.

His arms ached, and he felt sick to his stomach. When he could go no further, he lay down on his back and looked at the stairs. His heart slowed, and he closed his eyes.

He heard the sounds of trickling water as he closed his eyes. He opened them and prepared to move in the direction of the sound. It got louder, and he pushed himself harder, clicking on his flashlight and aiming it at the sounds of the trickling water.

He could make it our vaguely through the mesh of branches and the darkness. Minutes later, he sat up against the trunk of a large spruce and flashed his light into the darkness. A small stream. He was ready to shout as he dipped his hand into the water. He poured a small handful into his mouth and removed his backpack, and ate the remaining sandwich from his lunch.

A sound of a twig being crunched by someone or something in the darkness made his heart stop. Seconds later, the eyes of a wolf were looking at him and took off when Randall caught it in the beam of his flashlight. The flashlight had saved him but it was beginning to weaken.

Randall knew he had to gather some twigs and wood and start a fire. There were a lot of twigs on the ground and dry grass to light them, which he grasped, crawling on his side. He used the twigs to get the fire going before adding the branches and feeling pleased with himself for always packing a box of matches wherever he went.

He gathered more twigs and even more branches. His side and leg hurt with every move. He had to keep the fire alive at all costs and needed enough to see him through the night. He found one -- part of a branch he could use to fashion a spear with a sharp point. Randall knew from experience that if you find one wolf, you can be sure others will.

The fire lit up the immediate area and lifted his spirits. There was no sign of the wolves. He was dead tired and sat with his back against the trunk of the giant spruce and went to sleep.

Randall opened his eyes a couple of hours later when he sensed movement around him. He gripped the spear and a burning branch to scare them off.

They all appeared at once. Randall slowly placed his hatchet next to himself. As they grew nearer, he shouted at them and began singing at them in a loud voice until his voice became raspy and weak. He thought of his cigar. Maybe that would scare them off. He extracted it slowly from his picket. It had been cut in two. He lit one and waved it at them. They didn’t react until he started blowing smoke in their direction.

They eyed him without moving. One approached him and gazed at him across the fire. Randall pointed his torch at it. The wolf just looked at him and didn’t move. Randall threw his spear at him. It stuck into his side fur. It left yelping and disappearing into the darkness. The others moved closer.

Randall put more wood on the fire. He knew he’d be safe as long as the fire lasted and closed his eyes.

When he woke a couple of hours later, the fire had begun to die. All he had left were a few twigs, which he fed into the fire slowly.

The eyes of the wolves burned red as they edged closer to the fire.

The first streaks of dawn pierced the darkness. He just had to last another hour, he kept saying to himself. The wolves had become bolder and drew closer still. He could see the saliva dripping from the sides of their mouths.

A gun shot from some hunter in the distance echoed up the stream.

The wolves paused.

Another gunshot shattered the silence.

Chapter Fourteen

Kean drummed his fingers on his knee and shook his head. “That’s what I get for putting my trust in him.”

“I still think he’ll turn up,” said Hazlett. “For my money, something’s happened to him.”

“I doubt it,” said Kean. “He’s an experienced woodsman, and Randallknows his way around the forest.”

“I’ve seen his type during the war. It does strange things to you. I know I have my moments. I’d give him some slack.”

Trudy Sherman and Fitzgibbon were finishing breakfast when we entered the dining room. “If you’re looking for Randall, he hasn’t shown up yet,” said Fitzgibbon. “I saw him on the trail yesterday afternoon. I suggested coming back together but he wanted to press on.”

Kean set his mouth and shook his head. “I think it’s

time we set out a search party for our elusive forester.”

“If he’s had an accident, your best bet is to send up a helicopter and track him down,” said Trudy Sherman. Hazlett lit a cigarette. “I agree.”

An hour later, they were airborne, following the trail and turning back when the trail ended. On the way back, Kean spotted another trail.

“Let’s see where this leads. Randall may have taken the wrong trail back.”

The stream appeared first. “Go down the stream and see where it leads.”

Nothing. Kean ordered the pilot to turn back. Can we get down any lower?”

“It may be dangerous,” said the pilot, who looked as though he hadn’t shaved in a week.

“There,” said Hazlett, who spotted Randall first. “There’s someone lying face down in the stream.”

The pilot shook his head. “There’s no place to land.”

“Lower me by rope and ferry out a search party for us,” said Kean.

“The helicopter hovered over the site. Kean wrapped his body in the rope. The pilot hovered the helicopter as low as he could. Kean touched the ground with bent legs and freed himself, waving the aircraft on.

He tried to lift Randall from the water, checking for a pulse in his neck. It was weak, and his breathing began to strengthen once out of the water.

“Let me get you out of here.”

Randall’s eyes flickered. ”My left leg is broken.”

Kean put his arms under him and carried him to the large spruce, which Randall had used as a prop earlier. “Let me have a good look at your leg.” Kean ripped the left leg of Randall’s trousers with his knife. Randall winced as Kean touched his leg. “It’s not good,” said Kean, looking at Randall’s dirt-smeared leg, face and shirt. “Had to crawl on my

side to reach the stream and build a fire to keep the wolves at bay. Sorry about not getting back at sunset as I promised I would.”

“Don’t worry about that now.”

Randall closed his eyes and fell asleep in seconds. Kean sat down next to him to wait for the search party and closed his eyes, slapping his face to get rid of the black flies and mosquitoes that hovered around them. The smell of the forest gave him a feeling of peace.

Thirty minutes later, he heard the steady whirring of the returning helicopter. Kean stood and waved to them as they hovered over the site. Hazlett, wearing a leather harness attached to a thick rope, lowered himself to the ground, followed by a second person.

It was Dr. Fowler, holding his medical bag against his chest. “I see I am needed.”

“A badly broken leg,” said Kean. “There’s a lot of swelling, and it’s turning purple.”

Dr. Fowler gave him a shot of morphine and prepared Randall for an injection of penicillin.

“Perhaps we can make a stretcher from our jackets,” said Kean, spotting Randall’s hatchet and left to find a couple of straight limbs he could use as poles for their makeshift stretcher. A few minutes later, they strapped him to the stretcher and headed in the small clearing direction to deliver him for the search party.

They could hear the helicopter approaching and the sound of excited voices as the helicopter landed. ***

“I hate hospitals,” said Randall as the helicopter landed on the hospital grounds while Dr. Fowler checked his leg before they lifted him from the helicopter.

“Grin and bear it. The swelling down, thanks to the

penicillin, and the discolouration is all but gone. Your leg has been set and should nicely.”

“When can I get out of here?”

“We’d like to keep an eye on you for a couple of days just to make sure you’re on the road to total recovery.”

Hazlett popped his head inside Randall’s hospital room door a few minutes after. “Are you up for a visitor?”

“You’d better believe it but I’m not sure I’ll look forward to seeing that crowd back at the abbey.” He tried to raise himself on his right arm and smiled. “I’m a little confused about who found me?”

“Cpl. Kean. He’s a good man. You owe him a lot. He strapped himself to a rope and lowered himself to where you were.”

Randall tried to smile. “Corporal Kean popped by a few minutes before you but he didn’t mention it.”

“It was that reporter from The Gazette who suggested using a helicopter to track you down. And Fitzgibbon mentioned seeing you on the trail to help us get our bearings.”

Randall moved his leg and winced. “I don’t feel comfortable around that man. I know it’s irrational but after three years in a POW camp, you get strange ideas about people sometimes.”

A nurse entered and pushed back the curtains. The view of the waters of Lake Huron took away some of the pain.

“The war did a lot of bad things to a lot of us, Randall. I lost my first Lancaster crew when I crashed it into the Channel. “I was the only one who survived. It still haunts me.”

Randall studied him for a full minute. “I have faces from the camp that still bother me. I know exactly how you feel.”

Hazlett nodded and looked out the window. Neither of them spoke.

I met Hazlett a bit later, and we decided to lunch at a local pub. It was dark inside, and most of the tables were occupied. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung in the air. A young woman dressed in a low-cut blouse and fish net stockings shook her black head at one of the patrons as she escorted us to a table at the far end of the room. She took their order and left.

“You’re from the abbey, aren’t you?” said one of the men from the next table.

Hazlett looked up. “How may I help you?”

“A lot of rumours and talk of mayhem and ghosts.” A smile curled the corner of his mouth. “Mind if I join you?”

Hazlett nodded, and he took his seat next to Hazlett. “Haven’t seen a ghost yet, if that’s what you’re wondering. As you may know, young Ashford has died but the jury’s still out whether it’s murder or misadventure.”

Hazlett extended his hand. “You may be able to help us, Mr.—“

“Matthews. Bertie Matthews. You sound like a London Bobbie. Ask away.”

“You’re partially right, Bertie. I am an inspector from a small town called Glastonbury. My name is Winton Hazlett, and I’m here for a holiday with my old war friend, Bill Anderson.”

“Army?”

“RAF. Flew Lancasters.”

“I was in the army. I’ll remember it all my life. A lot of great memories and some very bad ones.”

Hazlett nodded. “And things you’d like to forget when you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat.”

Bertie lit a cigarette from the one he was smoking and offered one to Hazlett. “How can I help?” Bertie’s blue eyes and grey-stubble face tried to smile.

“I find the abbey quite confusing. Locked rooms, where people enter and leave at will and without being noticed.”

“My buddy may be able to help you.” Bertie waved to the other man at his table. “He was with me on the Dieppe Raid along with Sgt.-Major Ashford. He was taken prisoner but we were lucky to get back in one piece.”

“Winton, this is my old buddy, Eddie Byers. He works with me at the salt company. Ed, this is Winton Hazlett, a police inspector from England, who’s staying at the abbey. Winton flew Lancasters. He is puzzled about a few things I know you can help him with.”

Ed Byers waved to the waitress for another shot of whisky and a beer chaser. He downed the whiskey in one gulp and drained his beer glass seconds later. His dark brown eyes studied Hazlett for a few seconds. His face looked tired, and he lit a Sweet Corporal cigarette before speaking.

“I wasn’t always like this, as Bertie will tell you. I used to have my own construction company but lost it all to booze. An old story. How can I help you?”

Hazlett smiled and lit Ed’s cigarette. Ed waved to the waitress. “Another round.” He turned back to Hazlet. “You were saying?”

“Did your company ever do any work at the abbey?”

“We did all the renovations. Everything. Ashford was a crafty old bugger. He built a secret entrance to his library, where I had to build a voice channel to listen to what his guests were saying in the dining room.”

“Where was this secret entrance?”

”I built a false wall on the left side of the room. If you’re looking for it, just knock on the wall at various places, and it will automatically open for you.”

”Any other surprises?”

“He dismissed me because I made a remark he didn’t like. I told him we have a contract. He told me to sue him if I didn’t like it and reminded me he hired me only because

we were on the Dieppe Raid together.”

“Any idea who replaced you?”

“Some Toronto company. That’s all I can tell you. Except,” he added, “all building alternations have to be approved by the town. They should be able to help you, even show you the plans submitted for all alternations.”

Chapter Fifteen

Cpl. Kean was talking in his office to one of his constables when we entered the Goderich OPP office. He saw us out of the corner of his eye and waving us in as the constable left, nodding to us as we passed.

“I understand Randall may be released tomorrow morning.”

“We’ve got other news. Had lunch in a pub not far from here, where we met a contractor, who had been retained to remodel the abbey.”

Kean sat back and lit one of his terrible-smelling cigars.

“He told us how the thief entered and left Ashford’s library without anyone seeing them. There’s a false wall between Ashford’s office and the library that hides a space where the thief could hide until the commotion died down.”

“If you’re suggesting he stole his books, what would be the point”? He doesn’t need the insurance money.”

“Perhaps to alert any would-be thief that the book had already been stolen,” said Hazlett.

“Anyone for coffee?” Kean’s dark brown eyes were dancing possibilities.

“Tea, if you have it, Detective,” said Hazlett to the constable, who entered with two cups of coffee and a tea. “You’ve got an incredible view of the lake.”

“I gather that’s not all,” said Kean.

Hazlett sipped his tea, closing his eyes to savour the flavour. “It was suggested to us that we might find it profitable to look at any and all renovations and plans to the abbey at city hall. I understand it’s a requirement.”

“What are we looking for?”

“How the phantom abbot is able to disappear without a trace after being sighted, and how many rooms could be entered without notice. You have the authority to make it happen.”

“Drink your tea and let’s head for city hall,” said Kean, standing and reaching for his cap.

Margery Walters had spent the past 30 years in the town’s building permit department and was the town’s expert on new and home renovations. She wore granny glasses and brushed back her dark straight hair when she talked to builders and real estate lawyers. Her voice was soft and sibilant, and her lips thin and businesslike.

“How may I help you, Detective? It’s not often we have the honour of serving the OPP.” Her voice had a coquettish air as she sought his eyes.

“We’re looking for plans to the old abbey and of any renovations that were undertaken over the years.”

Margery ran her fingers through her hair and looked around. “Mr. Thompson, who handles this at the town, is off today. Could you come back later?”

Kean stepped up. “This is a police matter. We need to see these now.”

“Please wait.” She stepped away from her desk and went to the back of the room, where she talked to an older

man, who kept nodding as she spoke. She straightened her plaid skirt and pushed back her hair again before returning.

“I’ve talked to Mr. Rhodes, who heads our department. He feels, as I, that your request is highly irregular, constable.”

“Corporal.” Kean never took his eyes off hers.

“Sorry. We would be more comfortable if Mr. Ashford agrees. He’s very particular about these things.”

“Particular or not, I am asking you politely to provide them when I asked. If not, I will have a court order and four constables here within minutes to ferret out what I need.”

Margery returned to Adam Rhodes, who rose and went to one of the large olive green filing cabinets not far from his desk. He rubbed his hands and scratched his head as he searched through the files before finding three legal-sized files. Rhodes brought them to the counter. “I think you’ll find what you’ll need in these,” he said, turning to go back.

Kean called out to him. “We need a place to review them and a copy of any plans that might be of interest to us.”

“Follow me, Corporal.”

We followed him to his office. “If you need me, just open the door, and I’ll be happy to join you. I don’t know why there’s all of this sudden interest in the abbey. You’re the second person in two weeks who asked to see the plans.”

“Who was this?”

“I didn’t serve him. Ernie Thompson, my assistant, looked after him. And he’s not here today.”

Hazlett helped Kean unfold and smooth out one of the plans marked Abbey Renovations on Rhodes’ glass-covered desk. Kean opened the door and asked Rhodes if he had a magnifying glass. A few minutes later, Margery knocked at the door with one. “Just make sure you bring it back to me.”

Kean laid the magnifying glass on the plans. “What do we look for first?”

“The outside perimeter,” said Hazlett.

Kean moved the magnifying glass along the outside walls of the abbey. Hazlett moved it to the left side of the building. “What’s that?”

Kean bent down to study the markings. “I’m not sure.” He stood up. “See what you make of it.”

Hazlett took only a few seconds. “Make a note to investigate the front of the abbey when we get back. I suspect it’s a disguised door – a great place for anyone impersonating the ghost of the abbot to disappear in the event of discovery. I’d also check either side,” he added, handing the magnifying glass back to Kean.

Kean removed the plan and unfolded the drawings for the first floor, and bent down to look for any hidden passages or anything unusual. He sat down and passed the magnifying glass to Hazlett. “Maybe you can spot something I’ve missed here, too.”

Hazlett paused at every room and the walls of each room. He stood and shook his head. “Either it’s not recorded, or there’s nothing to see.”

Kean was already unfolding the plans for the second floor. “We know there are false walls separating Ashford’s office and his library. We’ll start there and work our way out in a circle from Ashford’s bedroom.”

He looked up and passed the magnifying glass to Hazlett with a smile. Hazlett found Ashford’s bedroom almost at once before moving the magnifying glass over the entire area. “I see another false wall – along the corridor that took him to the back of the abbey and to other rooms that led to the main stairway. What would be the point?”

“Never forget that Ashford is first, last and always a businessman. He always seems to know what his competitors are up to, which helps him prevent or reduce the impact of what they were doing. Now, we know why.”

Kean shook his head. “No wonder he didn’t want us

monkeying around in his library.” Kean looked at me. “He’s got to be told.”

“I’ll talk to him about it. But I suggest we not tell him until you finish your investigation.”

“What do you plan to tell him?” said Kean.

“I’ll tell him we’ve discovered a secret entrance between his office and his library and wanted to let him know in case he didn’t know.”

***

“How did they come by this information?” said Ashford, trying his best to control the anger in his voice. He was in a foul mood, and my news only added to it. “Ask them to join me. Immediately.”

Fifteen minutes later, we knocked on his door and entered. Ashford eyed us for a full minute before speaking. “What’s this nonsense about a hidden door between my office and the library?”

“We stumbled on it,” said Kean.

“So Mr. Anderson tells me but I don’t believe it.”

“We would be happy to show you,” said Kean.

“I have no time for this kind of nonsense. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve done damn little to find my books or the murderer of my son.”

We stood in front of his desk, not sure what to do. Kean shifted his weight to his left leg. “Is there any chance the thief who stole your books may have hidden them somewhere in your office? Your bedroom and office are the only two rooms we haven’t searched.”

Ashford rose and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window at the right of his desk and stared at the green fields that surrounded the abbey. He turned. “If this is your clumsy way of stealing my books, you had better think again. Do you share their nonsense, Anderson?”

I shook my head. I didn’t know what to say and looked to Hazlett for help.

“Here’s what happened –“

“Damme, man, can’t you talk in a straight line for once in your life? You can help me most by finding who murdered my son.”

“I agree,” said Hazlett. “We’ll never be able to hide your books here unless we search your office. It’s up to you. Unless we search your office, we’ll never really know for sure. Be assured your books are our prime concern.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Nina

Chapter Sixteen

Ashford was at the end of her rope. She had tossed and turned for almost three hours. Sleep just wouldn’t come. She knew what it was and tried to put it out of her mind – Drew Addington’s cultured voice telling her that his family insisted he break off their engagement.

“Why?” She could feel the aching pulse in her throat.

“They just don’t want to be dragged into the notoriety of a murder investigation and suggestions of black magic, and God knows what else.”

A few minutes later, he hung up when she started to cry and began to plead with him to change his mind.

“Sorry,” His last words still rang in his ears. Nina would show him and the whole Addington family up for what they were. She would marry someone far above the Addington’s station, someone with Loyalist roots and someone who adored her to pieces.

Nina rose and poured herself a large glass of Cognac. She needed something to get through the night and turned on the radio and hunted the dial for classical music. She turned to see Addington’s mocking face in the glass-framed portrait on her bedside table and threw her glass at it. The glass frame cracked and sent shards of glass all over the floor. She picked up the picture, squeezed it in her hand and burned it in the ashtray on the other side of her bed.

She then opened her window and threw the ashtray and its ashes out into the garden below. She rubbed her hand. Good riddance, she thought, but deep down, she knew she was fooling herself. It still hurt.

She needed something to calm her down and thought about the tranquillizers Dr. Fowler had prescribed for her a few months back when she was having panic attacks. She emptied the pills in her left hand and swallowed them all in one gulp of Cognac to wash them down. A few minutes later, sleep finally closed her eyes.

Matilda knocked on Nina’s door. No response. She knocked again, this time louder. No response. She opened the door and saw Nina lying on her side, with one arm hanging over the edge of the bed. She approached and jiggled the bed to wake her but there was no response. She shook her arm. Still no response. Matilda could hear her heart pounding, and she ran out into the corridor and made her way to Ashford’s office, slipping on the newly washed marble floor and skinning her knee. She knocked on his door before entering.

Ashford looked up. “What is it?” he said, looking at her skinned knee.

“It’s Miss Nina.”

“What about Nina?” Alarm rose in Ashford’s voice.

“I think Miss Nina is dead.” Her voice shook and broke into tears.

Ashford knocked on Witherspoon’s door and stuck his head inside. “Meet me ASAP in my daughter’s room.”

A minute later, Ashford felt her forehead. Cold as yesterday’s ashes. Nina’s face looked like a death mask, her delicate features, so alive with fire only hours before, seemed carved from pale white alabaster. Looking at his daughter, Ashford suddenly appeared old and very tired, as though the life force that made him such a terror in boardrooms was ebbing from his body.

“At least,” he said, straightening up, “she’s still alive. But barely. Her breathing is shallow. If she dies, too….”

His voice died on the gust of air that flowed through the room. His face worked as he struggled to control his emotions. Witherspoon could see that he was about to break into tears. The smell of wild roses from the bushes below lingered in the air.

“I’ve just called for an ambulance,” said Witherspoon.

“Someone.” Ashford paused as though he had lost his train of thought. “Someone is out to destroy my family.”

“Not your family, Mr. Ashford. You,” said Witherspoon.

For a second, anger flashed like chain lightning in Ashford’s eyes.

“But let’s concentrate now on making certain your daughter stays alive.”

“What’s happened?” Kean appeared in the doorway. “I hear Nina Ashford has been attacked.”

“Not attacked. Not sure what it is,” said Hazlett, who had joined the group by this time.

“The ambulance should be here in the next few minutes,” said Witherspoon.

Kean turned to a young, dark-eyed constable, who nodded and left.

“The hospital’s not far from here,” he said in his booming voice. “We can speed up the process. In the meantime, we need to talk.” Turning to Ashford: “Do you think this could be drug-related? She seems a bit young to have a heart attack. We’re checking that angle with her brother. We can’t imagine him – for that matter, anyone else – drowning himself unless he was on LSD or something like it.”

I could see Ashford’s face turn to Hazlett, hard and cold. Hazlett saw it, too and stepped in: “There is no evidence of foul play and no evidence of drugs either. As far as young Ashford is concerned, I believe his death was inspired by something else.”

No one saw Simmons enter. He pushed me aside and headed for Hazlett.

“What did you do to Cassandra?” he said, pulling Hazlett around by the lapels with a violent jerk.

“How should I know?” Hazlett took a step back and straightened his jacket.

“She’s disappeared. You spent the night with her. If you’ve done anything to her, I’ll make sure you never leave here alive.”

“Get a grip on yourself. First of all – and understand this – what I do and who I may be with – is not your affair. If you elect to talk to me again, I’d advise you to change your tune.”

I had never seen Hazlett so angry. His eyes flashed, and his knuckles turned white from clenching his fists.

“This is not in my plot.” Simmons turned and left as abruptly as he had entered.

“What’s this about?” Kean asked in a low voice and motioned Hazlett and me to one side.

“He is love-struck and sees me as the enemy. Just in case you are wondering, I am not.”

Kean smiled behind his mustache. “She must be something.”

Hazlett did not return his smile.

“What’s this mystery weekend all about?” said Kean trying to shift the topic.

I summarized the main details and carefully explained why he was there.

“Do you think there’s some connection between this mystery weekend, Julian Ashford’s death and his sister’s sudden illness?”

Hazlett shrugged. “So it might appear.”

“By the way, corporal,” I broke in. “I wouldn’t bring up the subject of drugs in front of Ashford. His son had an alcohol problem, and Ashford is quite touchy about anyone in his family and drugs.”

“So I just found out. But I must tell you on the QT. We’re screening both Julian and his sister for drugs. You think it’s a waste of time?”

Hazlett shook his head. “I am not suggesting that.”

Kean tipped the back of his cap and scratched his head. “Then what’s bothering you?”

“The real target is Ashford. That’s what Witherspoon thinks, but not in the way he thinks.”

“How do his children fit into your scenario?”

“They are part of a plan, to be sure. The question now –“

“We hear there’s been another murder,” said Trudy Sherman, The Gazette reporter.

“If you’re talking about Nina Ashford, she had not been murdered. She has come down with some kind of illness and is being taken to the hospital.

“What about it? Has there been a murder or not?”

“And who are you?” asked Kean. He didn’t like reporters and made a point of invading their space. “Who says there’s been a murder?”

“What about Julian Ashford? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“What about him? If you know something we don’t, perhaps, we should be asking you. As far as we’re concerned, we have no evidence that he was murdered.”

“And Nina Ashford?” said Trudy.

“She is alive. We’re waiting for an ambulance now.”

“You know, corporal, we will find out, whether from you or someone else,” said Trudy.

“You’ll be the first to know,” Kean said in a dismissive voice.

The ambulance and doctor arrived a few minutes later. The doctor pushed Ashford out of the way and went about listening to Nina’s heart with his stethoscope.

“A heart attack?” Ashford hovered at his elbow.

“Can’t say for sure but if I had to guess, I’d say yes,” said the young intern, with black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. His voice seemed to have a calming effect on Ashford, who took a couple of steps back. A faint whiff of wild roses flowed into the room every time the gossamer-like curtains billowed in the morning breeze.

Ashford stiffened at the sudden flurry of activity. “What’s wrong?” Anxiety rose in his voice like a winter wind before a blizzard.

“Her heart has stopped. Either give us room or leave,” the intern said, pushing Ashford out of the way. The two ambulance attendants scrambled to set up the electrical equipment to jumpstart her heart. No one said a word as she was attached to a heart monitor. We just looked, transfixed at the flat line on the green monitor.

“She’s back,” said one of the attendants, a short, young man with an intense voice as the monitor suddenly came to life. Less than a minute later, she was moved onto a gurney and was heading out the door.

“She’ll be all right,” said Kean.

Anger rose in Ashford’s voice, like a sudden clap of thunder. “You’re a doctor? If not, keep your opinion to

yourself.”

Kean set his mouth. He was about to say something but decided to ignore it.

Hazlett put his arm on Kean’s shoulder. “He is under incredible pressure.”

“Don’t make excuses for me.” Ashford paused to look squarely at Kean. There was no mistaking the challenge in his eyes. “Someone is out gunning for my family, and if you people aren’t able to get to the bottom of this –“

Ashford didn’t wait to finish but ran after his daughter, who was being wheeled down the corridor. Witherspoon shook his head. Who would have thought it?

“Go after him,” said Hazlett. Then, turning to Kean: “He is right about one thing. He wants action, and he is not getting it.”

“But we’ve just started --.”

“He doesn’t care. He will have to put our heads together.”

I caught up with Ashford as he was boarding the ambulance. I climbed in after him.

“I can’t believe this is happening. It’s like being in the middle of a nightmare. It’s all those people, your friend, Fitzgibbon, brought here.”

I didn’t respond. I thought I knew all of Ashford’smoods by now, including his hair-trigger temper, but this was new to me.

“If she dies, someone will pay for this,” he said in almost a whisper.

The ambulance attendant looked up and went back to Nina.

“What about those reporters? I don’t want any of –“

The monitor suddenly flat-lined and shattered the growing tension. Seconds later, Dr. Fowler was hovering over her and pressing down on her chest and applying CPR. He had her breathing again in seconds. Her heart kicked in

again on the monitor.

A medical team was waiting for them at the emergency entrance. Two minutes later, Nina disappeared behind the swinging doors leading to the Intensive Care Unit.

“I’m going in,” Ashford announced in an imperial voice and headed towards ICU, where a grey-haired nurse stopped him with a motherly face.

“Let them do their work. We’ll let you know immediately if there is any change.”

Ashford stood in front of the doors, arms crossed across his chest, and his head hung low. I wasn’t sure whether he was lost in thought or saying a prayer. I walked up to him and touched his arm.

“If she dies, it will be the end of me. Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve done will mean absolutely nothing,” Ashford said as I led him back to the waiting room.

An older woman wearing a green smock entered the waiting room. “Someone by the name of Hazlett is on the phone,” she said to Ashford. “He seems anxious to talk to you. I told him you were very busy.” It was clear she knew who Ashford was and held him in some awe. “He is very insistent.”

Ashford turned to me. “You talk to him.”

I picked up the phone on the arborite end table next to a dark green plastic-covered sofa. The smell of ether and antiseptic from the ICU reached even here.

“How are things?”

“Not good,” I told Hazlett. “Nina is in ICU with a heart specialist now, and a team of cardiologists is being flown in by helicopter from Toronto as we speak.”

There was a pause before he responded. “There has been a development here. Giorgio, the Hamilton steelworker, has been injured trying to play detective. He found a gun and was threatening it at anyone who came near him. Things are getting out of hand.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Ashford, who mysteriously appeared beside me.

“One of your guests is starting to crack. We need to wrap this up in a hurry.”

Ashford was nodding. “Do you think Kean is up to it? I have my doubts.”

“He’s had a lot to deal with and not a lot of co-operation from any of us.”

***

Nina woke just after dinner. She was groggy, and Ashford bent down and kissed her forehead and held her hand.

“What happened? All I can remember was taking a tranquillizer and falling into a black sleep.”

“You swallowed a handful of tranquillizers, they tell me. They had a devil of a time to bring you around. But you here with me now, thank heavens.”

Ashford crossed himself and sat down on the edge of her bed. “What set you off to do something like this?”

“It was Drew. My former fiance. He called me as I was getting ready for bed to break off our engagement, telling me his family did not want to be connected to the scandal of a murder investigation. It’s not something you could do anything about.”

Ashford squeezed her hand again. “It just shows you that you don’t know your father. That’s my fault, I suppose. But we’ll correct that in the future.” He smiled again.

“Mr. Addington’s profligate father is in debt to me for 20 million dollars. His note comes due in two days. And I know he is not in a position to pay me. I suppose they thought I would give them an extension. I won’t, of course, and let them see what it like is to be left scrambling.”

Nina shook her head. “Just be nice to them and renew their note for another month. In their arrogance, they probably think you’ll renew it again. That’s when to pull the plug.”

Ashford laughed for the first time. There was an Irish twinkle in his blue eyes. “You’re a chip off the old block.” He stood. “Get well in a hurry. I need you back to help me.”

Chapter Seventeen

Everything went downhill from there, starting from the moment we stepped back into the cool, lingering shadows of the abbey. Hazlett was pacing the floor beneath the giant flags hanging from the ceiling – as he always did whenever he couldn’t make sense of things. Austin Randall was back at the abbey but confined to bed for a couple more days.

We were later summoned by Ashford, who motioned us to sit in the chairs in front of his desk. “I think you may be right, Cpl. Kean and Inspector Hazlett.”

Hazlett and Kean exchanged glances.

“Perhaps I am the real target.”

Hazlett understood it was a moment of truth for Ashford. “What changed your mind?”

“When I saw them wheel Nina into Intensive Care. I knew someone was making me suffer before they got to me and to show me they could get to me, just as easily.”

Hazlett looked at me. I could tell he was searching for something more. “Nina will pull through,” I volunteered, not sure how either of them would take my intrusion.

Ashford nodded and turned to Hazlett. “Tell me what

you want me to do.”

“Stay put in one place and have someone with you at all times, someone who will be at your side and sound the grand alarm should it ever be necessary.”

Ashford nodded but it was evident by the look on his face what he thought of Hazlett’s advice.

Muffled shouts drifted from the upper floor as we looked around to see Lacey Dunes skipping down the stairs. She blew back her bleached hair from her eyes with her breath and marched up to us. The shouts followed her.

“You’re going to have to something with the woman. She’s crazy and getting wilder by the minute.” Her blue eyes demanded and accused in a sharp, demanding look. “She’s now threatening to kill me.”

“That’s a lie.” It was Gillian Merryweather, who had been listening to us from her perch half-way down the stairs. She had just applied a new layer of cherry red lipstick, and her face seemed to glow.

Kean suddenly looked at me and smiled.

“What other lies have that tramp being telling you about me now?” she said, starting down the stairs, stopping in front of Lacey and slapping her across the face. Gillian’s handprint gradually faded to a reddening streak on Lacey’s upper cheek. Before anyone could intervene, Lacey drew back and knocked Gillian on the floor with a closed fist.

“Stop her. Stop her,” Gillian screeched in a highpitched, cracking voice. “She’s trying to kill me.”

Hazlett helped her to her feet. She glared at Lacey and disappeared up the stairs.

“You all saw her,” she said, rubbing the side of her face. “Where’s that OPP officer. I want her charged with assault.” She was sobbing now, her eye makeup smudged, and her

tears left dark streaks on her cheeks.”

“Before you do that, understand that you struck her, although with not so great a vigour.”

“You’re on her side.”

Hazlett stiffened. “Really, Miss Merryweather. You overstep yourself. I think you’re upset and do not know what you are saying,” Hazlett said in a calm, measured voice.”

She turned to me. “We are your guests here. Are you going to tolerate this?” she said in a reedy, gasping voice. “I don’t think it’s too much to expect that we won’t be murdered in our sleep. I’ll speak to Mr. Ashford about this. He’ll put a stop to this once and for all.”

“Mr. Ashford has enough on his plate right now, Lacey,” I said, stepping in front of her.

“You mean I’m not important enough. Maybe if I played up to him the way that evil woman –“.

“Listen, Miss – whatever your name is – if you’re not happy with the way you’re being treated here, take it up with Mr. Witherspoon. But may I suggest you think things through before you do.”

Gillian looked at Hazlett for a few seconds breaking into tears. She was a bit taller than Hazlett and rested her head at an awkward angle as she found herself in his arms. “What do you mean?” she said, pushing back and holding him at arm’s length.

“Your little performance with Miss Dunes. What was that really about?”

“Everyone here knows.”

“There is more, miss, to your story than what you tell.”

“People don’t like me because they say I say hurtful things.”

“Like what?”

“Like what I said about you a minute ago.”

Hazlett shrugged and smiled.

“But I only speak the truth.”

“Pardon, miss. Your perception of the truth. Like your version of what happened between your boyfriend and Miss Dunes.” Hazlett paused to underline what he was going to say next. “But that is not what it is really about, is it?”

Gillian lowered her eyes and thought for a few seconds. “No, it isn’t.” She lapsed into silence again.

I was about to say something but was warned off by a look from Hazlett.

No one said anything. We were still standing in the Grand Hall, and I suddenly became aware that my legs were tired.

“This is somewhat extreme, Miss. What makes you think that? What has she said or done to you to make you believe that?”

“You saw how she behaved.”

“I think there is more, miss. But you still prefer to dance around the floor with us.”

“I’m not dancing with anyone, least of all with you or that creature. She’s the last person I want to see here or anywhere else ever again.”

“I do not understand, miss.”

“She wears the mask of death.” And then. “I have said enough.”

“What was that about?”

I looked at her and Hazlett. I could sense that he had stumbled on something.

We looked up to see Lacey listening to us from the head of the stairs.

“She is a very violent woman,” said Lacey, lifting her head to see our faces. “Her husband divorced her when in a fit of rage she struck him with a fireplace poker. He almost lost his eye. He was taken to hospital and filed for divorce on his discharge.”

“So we hear,” said Hazlett. “What about the husband?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t want to press charges. He just never wanted to see her again.”

“I gather you learned all this from your friend in Montreal?”

“She’s insanely jealous and threatened to make him pay if he ever looked at another woman. He tracked down her former husband, who gave him quite an earful. All of it bad. She holds grudges and does bad things to people who cross her.”

“You’re sure you don’t have an axe to grind.”

Lacey shook her head and took a deep breath. “You saw how she struck me, hoping to disfigure me in some way. I’m uneasy about being in the same place with her.”

Hazlett, who was nodding throughout her spiel, caught her eyes in his. He had seen real fear in the eyes of his crew when his Lancaster crashed into the Channel. He didn’t see it in her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Lacey rubbed her upper arm and lit a cigarette. Her hands shook, and she bit her tongue. His dark eyes caught Hazlett’s. “You’re right. There is something more about Julian’s death which I neglected to mention to you.”

She rubbed her upper arm again. A blood spot appeared on the arm of her white blouse with a blue stitched collar.

“Not quite. Miss Lacey,” said Hazlett. “I see you have a cut on your upper arm. Do you mind telling us how you came by it?”

“I cut myself shaving my arm, and that woman’s attack on me opened it up, that’s all. She owes me a new blouse.”

“We don’t believe you, Miss Dunes. In fact, we’re awaiting a report from our forensic team about some blood spots found below a ladder to the roof. We think your blood will match.”

“In fact, we believe you were on the roof with Julian Ashford,” said Kean.

Lacey bowed her head and started to cry. “I did not kill Julian Ashford if that’s what you’re hinting.”

If she thinks she can weasel out of this by turning on the tears, she’s got another thing coming, thought Kean. “But you were on the roof with young Ashford.”

She nodded and rubbed her arm again. “Julian wanted me to go to the roof with him. He was high on LSD. I refused but he grabbed me by the hair and pulled me along with him. He forced me up the ladder first, and when we got to the roof, he wanted me to fly off the roof with him.”

She looked at Hazlet for understanding and sat down. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes again.

“Hazlett rose and poured her a cup of coffee. “This will help.”

Her hands shook as she tried to sip the coffee.

“He wanted me to fly off the roof with him. He let me go, and I started for the entrance, but he grabbed me. I struggled to get free of him, and he ripped the right arm off my blouse. He then threatened me with a knife. I managed to get loose again and climbed down the ladder before he knew what was happening. Then I went to my room and locked myself in.”

“That’s everything?” said Kean.

She nodded and wiped her eyes. Hazlett passed her his handkerchief. “You didn’t follow him to the kitchen and try to get even?”

“I just wanted to leave here and never come back ever again.”

Hazlett looked around at the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Simmons. Lacey was about to speak but Hazlett shook his head. Kean looked at Hazlett, who had also spotted it.

“Good,” said Simmons when he entered the Grand Hall. “The very person I want to talk to. Where is your friend, Kean? He should hear this as well. “He made a the-

atrical pause. “I think I know who our murderer is.” He smiled for the first time since entering the abbey. “My mysteries are essentially psychological. I like to delve into the minds of killers and what triggers them to commit murder.”

He paused to see how Hazlett was reacting. “I do have my moments. Just ask Fitzgibbon. I’m not always in my cups, even though I may look it.”

“You were saying you have an idea who the murderer is, Mr. Simmons.”

Simmons sat back in his chair. “Ask yourself who would benefit most from Julian Ashford’s death. Quick? Witherspoon? Or Nina Ashford? With Julian out of the running, she stands to gain the most. Her father likes her and wished she had been another son rather than a daughter.”

Hazlett sat back and seemed to study the coffee mug in front of him. “We’ll check on her whereabouts the night her brother had died.”

Simmons bit the edge of his mustache.” I sense you’re not exactly in love with my conclusion.” He shrugged. “Not the first time my suggestions were ignored.” He rose and poured himself a coffee. “Whatever the case, don’t hesitate to call on me if you think I might be of help.”

“We’re keeping an open mind for the moment, Mr. Simmons,” said Kean.

“And we would appreciate it if you’d keep your ears open and let us know if you hear something we should know,” said Hazlett.

Kean cocked his head. “Out of curiosity, Mr. Simmons, why are you doing this?

“I write mysteries. I’d like to be known as a solver of crimes in real life. It helps to sell books.

“Actually, you might be of help, Mr. Simmons. We’d like you to find out who’s posing as a monk. Cpl. Kean and I think it’s one of the crowd.”

“I may look like a drunk, Inspector Hazlett, but it hasn’t

stopped me from checking out who was missing when the abbot was seen. It’s also enabled me to pick up bits and pieces of gossip from the group that they may not be inclined to tell you or Cpl. Kean.”

“Such as?”

Arden Rowley and Denyse Doyle met in Toronto before coming here. I gather they more than just friends, which make one wonder if Mr. Witherspoon found out about it.” He stood, smiled, and headed for the stairs. “I need a drink.”

“What do you make of that?” I said. “I think he’s blowing smoke.”

“Not entirely, Bill. I think he knows something about our mysterious abbot.” Hazlett turned to Lacey. “Sorry, you got cut off when he arrived.”

Lacey tossed her hair and shrugged. “I told you about Gillian Merryweather for a reason. I don’t mind telling you that I’m scared about being around her. There’s no telling what she’ll do.”

“Would it help if we had an officer here around the clock?”

“It might.”

The conversation seemed to come to an end but no one moved.

Hazlett offered her a smile. “We were talking about Julian Ashford.”

Lacey nodded. “As you know, I met with him and left when he tried to force himself on me.” She paused. “I had a feeling that someone else might visit him. I was expecting Mr. Witherspoon. It wasn’t. It was Gillian. She knocked on his door, and he let her in. “I thought you might need a friendly voice to talk with. It wasn’t long before they were shouting at each other,” said Lacey.

“What about?”

“She offered herself to him, and he evidently refused. She called him a number of names. There were more shouts

before she opened the door. She was crying and shouted back at him: “One day, you’ll get yours. Sooner rather than later.”

“Did she see you?” said Hazlett.

“I’m not sure.”

Gillian was waiting for us when we returned to the Grand Reception waiting room. “Mr. Witherspoon told me you wanted to see me.”

“It’s about Julian Ashford’s murder. We understand you visited him and threatened him,” Hazlett began.

Gillian’s face hardened. The wrinkles around her eyes became more noticeable. “That bitch is spreading lies about me. It’s a bald-faced lie. Julian Ashford was not someone I admired. He’s rude and crude. A Lacey Dunes’ kind of lover.”

“Can you vouch where you were around 10 o’clock that evening?”

“I’m not saying another word, other than I did not kill anyone.”

“Our young friend is hiding something that she does not want anyone to know about. Did you not notice her eyes?” Hazlett said to me when Gillian left. “There was great fear in those eyes. Raw, irrational fear that you see in people who have been physically traumatized. I have seen it many times, and each time, I find it very unsettling. There is more to this young lady that neither of us understands.”

“So what do you think now?”

“I’m still not convinced,” said Hazlett. His mind went back to another young woman, who had murdered her lover, claiming he had tried to rape her, an elf-like woman who looked as though he wouldn’t kill a mosquito.

“We need to know she had a connection with young Ashford. Other than asking her friends in Toronto, we may

121

never know. “

“I know. I asked one of Gillian’s colleagues, who fought with her, and she didn’t know.”

Gillian Merryweather wasn’t the only surprise that afternoon.

“I’ve got something to show you,” said Kean when he rejoined us an hour later. “Something you’ve got to see for yourselves, and then you tell me. I’m not sure how it fits in our case at this point, other than a feeling that I know it does somehow.

“Are you going to show us?”

“Follow me,” he said, rising and beckoning us to join him. We followed him out of the abbey and around the back to the graveyard, where many monks were buried.

“One of the officers discovered it a while ago.” He pointed to the mound of earth among the tombstones.

A minute later, we were staring into an empty, freshly dug grave.

Chapter Eighteen

“What now?” Kean asked Hazlett. We were sitting in front of the painting of St. Francis in the dining room. It was late afternoon, and storm clouds were beginning to gather at the far end of the lake’s darkening waters. A soft breeze blew in the smell of wild roses.

A faint tap at the door and a young officer stuck his head inside. “There’s a young woman with blonde hair, a real looker, who claims she’s part of the group. She wants to talk to Inspector Hazlett.”

Kean smiled and nodded. “I think it’s that lady your young friend got so worked up about.”

Hazlett did not return his smile, and Kean, a quick study, filed a mental note to avoid commenting on Hazlett’s friends.

“I’ve come to warn you,” Cassandra said as she sat down in the chair opposite Kean.

“Thank you for your concern,” he said, holding his breath for a few seconds.

“Be very careful – all of you – over the next 24 hours. Death still stalks these halls and grounds like a hungry serpent. ” Her eyes pleaded her case and held us all in a magnetic gaze. “One more person will die before the sun sets tomorrow – unless you prevent it,” she added, looking at Kean.

An awkward silence followed. No one knew quite what to say. I thought of the grave we had seen barely an hour earlier and went cold all over. Kean wasn’t smiling either.

Whatever he thought, Hazlett’s face wasn’t giving anything away. He patted her hand again. “Thank you for your warning. I, for one, take them very seriously.”

Cassandra squeezed his hands and left a minute or two later.

Arden Ridley, the Latin teacher, appeared as if by magic. “The psychic lady told me you wanted to see me.”

Kean exchanged a glance with Kean. No one had mentioned it to her, even though Hazlett suggested having a chat with Rowley when we first met.

He looked at Kean and Hazlett. “How can I help?”

“Three things – Miss Doyle, the death of Julian Ashford, and the disappearance of Mr. Ashford’s Book of Hours.”

“So it was the Book of Hours. We thought as much. Old Ashford was pretty vague about it.”

“Before we get to that, we’d like to know if you heard or saw anything that might shed some light on the death of Julian Ashford.” Kean rose and sat next to him.

“Afraid not. I did go out for a few minutes. But didn’t see or hear anything that involved Julian Ashford.”

“But you did see something,” Hazlett broke in.

Rowley stared at him for a few seconds before nodding. Kean noticed that Rowley was about to ask something and put a finger to his lips.

“A hooded figure walking among the tombstones in the monastery graveyard. There was a full moon last night – so I could see everything quite clearly.”

“There was also a mist,” said Kean.

“I could still see the figure quite clearly.”

“Perhaps it was Mr. Ashford.”

Rowley shook his head. “At one point, the hood slipped off his head, and he had a tonsure.”

“Why were you walking outside?”

Rowley paused again before answering. “I was not alone.”

Kean raised his eyebrows.

“We were looking for something.”

“The Book of Hours?”

Rowley pointed to the empty seat opposite Kean and Hazlett. “May I?” He nodded in the direction of the carafe of coffee next to Kean, who pushed the pot in his direction. Rowley poured himself a coffee, lit a cigarette and sat back.

“Not the Book of Hours. I was with Lacey Dunes if that’s what you were wondering,” he said, looking up at Kean. “No great secret. And no, I wouldn’t have a clue where anyone would have hidden a book as valuable as this – inside or outside the building. A book like this needs a great deal of care.”

“Did you or Miss Doyle get a chance to see it before it disappeared?”

Rowley shook his head. “Witherspoon, Denyse’s boyfriend, was supposed to set it up – but she died before that could happen.”

Kean’s ears picked up with the reference to Witherspoon but dismissed it. “What about any of the copies?”

“Copies. I didn’t know there were any.” Rowley smoothed his short-cropped hair in an easy, practised gesture but it was evident that something was bothering him. You could see it in the faded look in his eyes.

“What about the hooded figure?” It was bothering Kean, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.

“Lacey was convinced it wasn’t Ashford because of the tonsure but I’m not so sure.”

Kean sat back in his chair and smiled.

“Because the figure disappeared into the abbey through a hidden door not far from the cemetery. If it weren’t Ashford, you’d better start asking who else knew about the door. And as far as I know, ghosts don’t need doors.”

“And Mr. Julian?”

“First I heard about him was in the morning when I

came down for breakfast.”

Rowley left a vacuum in the wake when he left us a few minutes later. “If the hooded figure were Ashford, what was he doing in the old graveyard and if it weren’t, who was it? And why? And does it have a bearing on Julian’s death or the theft of the Book of Hours? There is a connection. I’m convinced of it but the more I think about it, the more it seems to elude me. And what were Lacey Dunes or Arden Rowley looking for in the dark?” I remarked to Hazlett.

“Let’s see what light the good Père Routier might be able to shed on our little mystery.” At a nod from Kean, I left to track him down. I didn’t have far to look. He was sitting outside the dining room along with six or seven others, who had been rounded up by one of the OPP officers for interviews.

“Père Routier,” said Kean, who met him at the door and led him to the seat at the table next to him.

“Kean leaned forward. “We hope, Father, you can solve a problem for us.”

Père Théo Routier, who suffered from a food allergy, had just snacked on some peanuts and was dabbing his nose with a giant-sized blue handkerchief.

“Our previous guest talked about seeing a mysterious hooded figure last night in the monastery graveyard,” began Kean.

Père Routier smiled.

“It was suggested that it might be Mr. Ashford.”

Père Routier shook his head. “But I can tell you who it is – the ghost of the last abbot to preside over the monastery. He was murdered by a thief who made off with the monastery’s gold cross and tabernacle.”

“Surely you don’t believe this legend, Father. If it wasn’t Ashford,” said Kean, “then perhaps it’s someone masquerading as the ghost of the old abbot.”

Père Routier, his pockmarked face, thin and drawn,

studied Kean’s face before responding. “No. It is the abbot, for certain.”

“What makes you so certain, mon père?”

“For one thing – the freshly dug grave. According to the legend, the abbot always appears and digs a grave before an occupant of the monastery dies. It’s one of the reasons the monks sold it and left.”

“And that’s why you think it isn’t Ashford?” There was a hint of disbelief in Kean’s voice.

“What do you know about the Book of Hours?”

The book had become one of Kean’s obsessions. It was like a forgotten line of poetry or a song that keeps playing over and over in your head, and I knew he wasn’t about to ignore it until he had the answers he wanted.

“Nothing really. I know it’s missing – but that’s all.” And then. “But who can be sure. Mr. Ashford is a very complex man. He does not like to lose anything. Not his children and not his possessions.

“In case you don’t know, I will be celebrating a requiem mass in Mr. Ashford’s private chapel for his son. There will also be special prayers for the recovery of his daughter.”

Père Routier looked down at the table as if trying to recall something important he had forgotten. “I hope this helps,” he said finally.

“Be assured, Father, you have been.” Kean was unfailingly courteous to young ladies and priests.

“If Bartholomew Quick is there, Father, would you ask him to join us,” said Kean, watching the priest dab his nose for the 10th time.

Quick entered a few minutes later and walked to the head of the table, as though he knew that was where he was expected to sit all along.

“We have been thinking about the ghost of the murdered abbot,” said Kean with a strange smile.

“Oh, that.”

We waited for more.

“A great tale. Meant for tourists. You know, haunted castle kind of thing. We don’t have too many in Canada.”

“More than a tale, I fear, Mr. Quick.” Kean pronounced his name in an exaggerated way. “One of the persons we talked to said he saw this figure last night.”

Quick shrugged but didn’t comment.

“Another individual wondered if it might be Ashford,” said Kean

Quick shook his head. “Mr. Ashford wouldn’t be caught dead doing something like that. I knew he runs around the estate dressed up as a monk from time to time but don’t – I repeat – don’t let that throw you.”

Kean was nodding. “A couple of personal questions, Mr. Quick.”

“Shoot.”

“Are you a diabetic?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

Kean ignored his response and went on to the next. “We were also wondering,” he said, using the imperial we, “whether Mr. Ashford has reason to keep two sets of books.”

“Good God, no. He’s tough when it comes to money but he’s also painfully honest.”

Then, like a bloodhound sniffing a familiar scent, Kean added: “I have a feeling there is more to the disappearance of the Book of Hours than meets the eye.”

“There’s much about Mr. Ashford that doesn’t always make sense,” said Quick.

“Why the copies?”

“He’s a very cautious man. There’s also a bit of the magician about him. He practises sleight-of-hand tricks in all his dealings and is very far-seeing. That’s how he made all his money. The only thing I’ve ever seen that floored him was Julian’s death and Nina’s stomach problem. Both came

right out of the blue, and for the first time in his life, he feels completely lost.”

With his hair parted in the middle, Quick looked like a character out of a 1930s movie. He rose to go, and standing behind his chair, he added: “One thing. I don’t know if this helps at all. But I saw a lady coming out of Julian’s room last night and Julian calling after her.”

“Do you recall the time?” asked Kean.

“Around 11.”

That wasn’t the first thing on Kean’s mind when Lacey Dunes observed us a few minutes later. She had changed her blouse. It was more fashionable and looked very expensive.

Kean helped her to a chair beside him. “What is this vendetta between you and Miss Merryweather all about?” And then, in sotto voce. “Merryweather. What a curious name.”

“That’s not all that’s curious about her.”

“I think, miss, there is something beyond her curious name and her sense of being wronged that consumes Miss Merryweather, a private demon that needs to be exorcised.”

“I don’t know about that, Detective Kean. But she is not normal.” “How did it all start?”

“From the first moment she saw me. Are you suggesting that she may not be right in the head?”

Kean pinched his mustache and thought for a minute. “I’m not saying that exactly – but there is something ….”

“Do you think she could try to kill me? You saw how she behaved earlier.”

“And you, too, miss… what about her husband?”

“Former boyfriend. I met him in Toronto – after he walked out on her. She has no cause to come after me. I found out he also had a wife in Vancouver when we moved to Montreal.”

“On the subject of love, Miss Lacey, there is some talk

about you and Mr. Julian.”

“If only.”

“You were seen coming out of his room.”

“I was there. But not for what you’re thinking.”

Kean didn’t bite.

“He invited me to sample some hash he was raving about. When I got there, he was agitated and upset over something.”

“Did you find out why?”

“I didn’t wait around. Julian looked as though he was on a bad trip. I left.”

“That was it?” Kean sounded as though he doubted her.

“Look, officer. Most guys, including guys like you, make a move at some point, and he was like all the others. I suppose he thought money and hash would prove an irresistible aphrodisiac.” A pause. “I’ve had better offers.”

“Did he leave with you?” Kean again.

Lacey’s long blonde hair danced off her shoulders as she shook her head.

“We’re not getting anywhere,” said Kean, watching Lacey disappear into the adjoining room. “With every damn one of them, it’s hear no evil, see no evil and speak no evil.”

“And not just about Mr. Julian. Miss Lacey knows more than she is telling us. That much is certain but what intrigues me is her feud with Miss Merryweather,” said Kean, nodding in the direction of the doorway, where Giorgio Zuccaro was standing like a black cat. “Ah, the man of the hour. Perhaps he can provide the answers.”

“Answers to what?” asked Giorgio.

“To the death of Mr. Julian. No one, it seems, to have any idea why he went to the kitchen after midnight.”

“I don’t know what this ragazzo was doing in the kitchen but I do know how he got there.”

You could almost hear Kean thinking in the sudden

stillness.

“I heard someone shouting outside my door and when I looked out, I saw that tall, skinny lawyer with the grey face, Signor Witherspoon, dragging Julian along with him by the arm. They were yelling at each other so loud I could not understand.”

“What time was this?”

Giorgio stroked his black stubble chin. “Shortly before midnight, signor.”

“What did you think when you learned that Mr. Julian was dead.”

“I’m not sure what I thought, Signor Kean,” he said, giving Kean’s name a distinct Italian pronunciation.

“Do you think Mr. Witherspoon may have been involved in Julian’s death in some way?”

Giorgio stroked his chin.

“You are troubled, Giorgio. What is it?” Kean broke in. “I could not see very well from where I was standing but someone – someone dressed like a monk – came out of the shadows and started following them.”

In the silence that followed, I could see a sudden smile in Kean’s eyes.

“Anything else?” Kean wasn’t a believer.

“The hooded figure was carrying something.”

“Could you make out what it was?”

“Sorry, Signor Kean. The lighting is not good in this old place. It needs to be rewired.”

“What a load of malarkey,” said Kean, who began pacing the floor again after Giorgio disappeared. “Hooded figures in dark shadows. Some of these immigrants like to spin tales to make themselves seem more important. Well, I’m not buying any of it.” And then, in an afterthought: “Who’s next?”

Hazlett ignored his outburst. “I would say that is fairly obvious.”

Roger Witherspoon didn’t wait for us to begin. “How’s the investigation going?” he asked, folding his hands on the table.

“More questions than answers right now,” said Kean. “We’re hoping you can fill in some of the blanks for us.”

“Such as?” Witherspoon adjusted his red bow tie and tried to smile.

“We understand you, and Mr. Julian were trading punches on the night he was murdered.”

The question didn’t seem to take Witherspoon by surprise. He smiled and unfolded his hands. “A brawl would be more like it.” He touched his forefinger to the cut on his cheek. “This came from Julian’s ring. I had a devil of a time trying to defend myself.”

‘How did it start?”

“He called and ordered me to meet him in Lacey Dunes’ room. There was something urgent he wanted to discuss with me.”

“Lacey Dunes’ room? What time was that?” You could hear the surprise in Kean’s voice.

“Past midnight.”

“You’re sure?”

“Very sure. I was in bed when Julian called but that’s not something he was particularly concerned about. Julian can be very insistent. I dressed and went down, and Miss Dunes let me in. Julian was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking pot. The room was full of smoke. The jacket I was wearing still reeks of it.”

“What was so urgent?”

“He accused Bart Quick and me of plotting to take over his father’s company.” He adjusted his bow tie and tried to smile. “Of course, it’s utter nonsense, and I told him so.” A pause. “Didn’t Miss Dunes tell you about that?”

“Then what?”

”He said he wanted to confront me in front of an un-

biased witness. That’s when he stood and took a swing at me,” he added, touching the healing cut on his cheek again.

“At that point, Miss Dunes opened the door to her room and ordered us to leave. Julian refused but she grabbed him and pushed him out the door. I followed on my own steam.”

“Was that the last you saw of him?” Kean again.

“Not quite.” A pause. “I wanted him to see his father with me to settle it once and for all.”

“Did you?”

“No. Julian started screaming at me, telling me he didn’t need me to see his father… and then took another swing at me, knocking me to the floor and disappearing down the hall before I could stand up and get my bearing.” Another pause. “That was the last I saw him.”

Kean looked at Hazlett, who had been studying Witherspoon intently throughout the interview.

“Is that it?”

“A moment, Witherspoon.”

Witherspoon leaned forward. “Certainly.”

“About Miss Doyle.”

“What about Miss Doyle?”

“To be more precise, Mr. Witherspoon, your personal relationship with Miss Doyle.”

Witherspoon opened his mouth as if to speak but sat back instead.

“You asked Mr. Ashford for permission for Miss Doyle to see his Book of Hours. Now his priceless book is missing, and Miss Doyle is dead.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Do you think there is a connection?”

Witherspoon tightened his folded hands until the whites of his knuckles appeared. “I should hate to think so.” He looked up at Kean. “What about the coroner? What does he say about her death?”

“We have an appointment to see him this afternoon. Ju-

lian’s death has put Miss Doyle’s death on the back burner, I’m afraid,” said Kean.

Witherspoon nodded. “I wish I could be more help.”

Kean watched him go. “There’s something he’s not telling us, and I am to find out.”

Chapter Nineteen

Randall surprised everyone, including Hazlett. Here he was, sitting upright and holding out his cup for a refill.

Cassandra and Fitzgibbon arrived seconds later, followed by Trudy Sherman and Witherspoon.

Cassandra hugged him. “You look like a new man. The fates are on your side.” She kissed him on the cheek, and Fitzgibbon hugged him.

“We thought you’d be laid up for at least a month.”

Ashford arrived with Bart Quick and took the chair at the head of the table without a word. One of the serving maids served him breakfast. He ate the same thing every morning: oatmeal, two eggs and toast. The table was silent.

Hazlett and I sat on each side of Randall. “You’ve got incredible resilience,” said Hazlett.

Randall smiled at him. “Can’t wait to go for another outing – if Detective Kean agrees. What about you two?

I’m sure he wouldn’t object if you two came with me.” The scratches on his cheeks widened with his smile. “What about it?”

“Do you think it’s wise trying to walk on a broken leg?” said Hazlett.

“We’ll talk to Kean when he arrives. And besides, my cast and my crutches should make it fairly easy. After be-

ing cooped up for two days, it’s exactly what I need right now.” He turned to me. “It would also do you two a world of good.”

When Kean arrived about an hour later, he shook his head. “After what you and the rest of us have gone through, it’s a wonder you ever want to do this over again. But if Hazlett and Anderson go with you in case something happens, you’re free to go.”

We left an hour later. The sun had dried the grass, and a light breeze shivered the leaves in the trees. We walked for about an hour. The crutches slowed down Randall but he tried to keep up and was breathing hard. He tapped Randall on the shoulder. “It’s time for us to turn back. We’ll go a bit further, rest a bit and then turn back. We’ll find a big rock for us to sit on.”

It seemed forever for Hazlett before we came to a small clearing with large boulders to sit on. Hazlett took off his shoes and socks and rubbed his feet. “There’s a shining object in the alder bushes,” he said, pointing to a small alder growth.

Randall sprung up and walked slowly to the bushes. He used one of his crutches to part the alder branches to discover a small shiny object. “Looks like someone’s earring.”

Randall looked at his watch. “I’m getting tired and hungry. Let’s head back.”

Hazlett stashed the ear ring in his room three hours later and met us in the dining room. Randall ordered shepherd’s pie and cleaned his plate with a piece of bread.

“Walking gives you a great appetite.” He said when he noticed the others were looking at him. “Can I help you,” he said to Trudy Sherman, who had stopped eating to look at him. There were questions in her eyes but she shook her head. “But I am curious about one thing. There’s talk you found some kind of object.”

“It’s mine, I’m afraid,” said Hazlett. “Found it in the

bushes?”

“But what is it?”

“Some kind of earring,” said Randall. “Then, why on earth would you bring back something like that?” said Lacey Dunes.

“I wanted to bring it back as a souvenir from Canada. I know everyone will be curious, especially the story behind it.”

“I’d junk it,” said Gillian Merryweather. “No way. It will be the talk of the town.”

Witherspoon approached me as we left the dining room. “Mr. Ashford would like to see you. It’s not about the abbey or the murder of his son.”

Witherspoon left quietly after I sat down opposite Ashford. There was tension in the air. Ashford folded his hands in a steeple, and I took a deep breath.

“In everything that has gone on this week, it appears that my competitors have decided it might be a good time to stage some kind of coup and take Ashford’s down. I’ll need your advice if and when it happens, Mr. Anderson. Just wanted to give you a heads up.”

“I’ll be here.”

Witherspoon walked me down the corridor. “Something’s brewing. You probably know more than I do. He likes to play everything close to his vest. Has he said anything to you?”

“Just to stick around in case, he needs me.”

Witherspoon disappeared as I approached Hazlett’s door. I knocked. No response. I knocked again. This time louder.

I left to find Matilda, who returned with me to open the door. Hazlett was lying on the floor. I grabbed the phone and called Dr. Fowler.

Matilda helped me lift him to his bed. I found a washcloth, ran it under the cold water tap, and placed it on his

head. That’s when I spotted the blood on the back of his head. ***

Dr. Fowler looked up and folded his stethoscope. ”He may have a concussion and needs to be x-rayed to find out if there is other damage.”

Hazlett, who was sitting up now, felt his head and grit his teeth. “See if that earring is still here. I left it in the bathroom.”

I glanced inside. No earring or anything else. I shook my head. “Sorry.”

“I’m not.” Hazlett brightened. “That earring was thrown there on purpose. And the person, who threw it away to get rid of it, was sitting at lunch with us.”

Dr. Fowler, who was taking Hazlett’s pulse, looked up and smiled. “At least, your blood pressure is perfect.”

“It crossed my mind when I saw you on the floor that there is some kind of connection. I just don’t know what.”

“Well, what about it, inspector? Shall I call an ambulance?”

Hazlett made a face. “No. But I am happy to have someone drive me to the hospital for an x-ray.”

There was a knock, and Dr. Fowler looked up. Kean stuck his head in first. “I heard the Inspector had been attacked. When you’re up to it, we’d like to check the room for prints.”

Dr. Fowler helped Hazlett to his feet. “We’ll have him back here, providing he checks out all right.”

***

Cassandra and Fitzgibbon were in deep conversation and looked up when we brought Hazlett down the stairs. “What happened?” Cassandra looked as though she were about to cry. Fitzgibbon reached out and took her hand. “I

knew something was going to happen. I could feel it in my bones as soon as I got up this morning.”

Fitzgibbon rose from his chair. “Is the inspector okay?”

“Someone broke into his room and knocked him unconscious,” said Kean. “His room is off-limits to everyone.”

Fitzgibbon put his arm around Cassandra and rubbed her back. Alan Simmons had been listening to the conversation on the stairs. He kept biting his sandy-coloured mustache and looked as though he hadn’t shaved or washed in days.

“Kudos to the person who tried to kill him.” Simmons took a step forward, missing the first step and tumbling the rest of the way. He made an effort to rise but fell. Fitzgibbon went to his rescue, helped him stand and led him into the reception hall.

“I want to die,” said Simmons as they moved towards the reception hall. Cassandra put her arms around him but he shoved her off. “I’m not one of your cast-off gloves. I just want to get to hell out of here.”

“So do we all,” muttered Fitzgibbon under his breath.

“Who died,” said Trudy Sherman, who appeared in the doorway.

“You missed the excitement,” said Fitzgibbon. “It appears someone tried to rob the inspector and knocked him out. They’ve just taken him to hospital.”

Trudy looked at Kean. “When is this all going to end? It’s getting more dangerous here by the hour.”

“The way things are going, I’d say before the end of the week.”

Kean looked up to see Roger Witherspoon descend the stairs. “Mr. Ashford would like to see you all in the dining room.”

“Now what?” said Lacey Dunes.

“He’s probably going to confess that he’s the ghost that haunts this place,” added Trudy.

They filed into the dining room and took their seats at the table. Ashford arrived a few minutes later. “Mr. Ashford would like to make you an offer,” said Witherspoon.

“Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen. I am interested in getting my books back and am prepared to pay the person who stole them one hundred thousand dollars for their undamaged return. The offer goes off the table tomorrow morning.”

Chapter Twenty

Kean wasn’t happy. Why did Ashford have to make such a stupid offer like this? The book is priceless, and the person who stole it most surely knew its worth to the dollar. Hazlett returned from the hospital in less than an hour and bunked in the room next to mine. It had an unlocked door between the two rooms.

“Kean has finished checking out your room and has found some prints, I understand.”

“Why have I been moved to this room?”

“Dr. Fowler felt it better if you stayed next door to me, just in case your condition turns for the worse. In the meantime, you should rest for the next couple of days and have your meals in your room.”

“That’s quite a mouthful,” said Hazlett. “But I won’t guarantee I’ll stay cooped up here for very long.”

I didn’t tell him about Ashford’s offer, and when I went down for lunch, the table was buzzing about a handsome young stranger who was having a meeting with Ashford.

“There’s talk he’s engaged to Nina Ashford,” said Trudy Sherman.

“Is she still in hospital?” said Lacey.

“Like everything else around here, nobody tells you anything. What about it, Corporal?” Trudy added.

Kean shrugged his shoulders.

“What about Ashford’s offer? Have any of his books reappeared?”

“Not that I know of.”

Giorgio, who had recovered from his outburst the previous day, struggled to get to his feet. “It’s clear that the OPP is not going to let any of us go until Mr. Ashford’s books are returned. I don’t know about the rest of you but I have a family to feed.”

“I agree, Corporal. You tell us you need to finish your investigations and that this will happen before the weekend. Can we count on that?”

“I think you can count on that. The attack on Inspector Hazlett has provided us with new information. We are closing in on the thief by the hour.”

***

Drew Addington took a deep breath as Witherspoon deposited him in Ashford’s office and departed. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes had passed since he had sat down in front of Ashford’s desk.

Witherspoon entered 10 minutes later. “Mr. Ashford is on the phone and apologizes for keeping you waiting. He should be here presently.”

It was another 10 minutes before Ashford shook hands and sat down at his desk. Drew stood and waited until Ashford waved him down.

“I gather you’re here to renegotiate your family’s loan.” He passed a legal-sized document to Drew and waited for him to sign it.

Drew scanned the document. “I notice that the loan rate is one per cent higher. “

“The risk is also higher in my analysis. If you don’t wish to renew on the new terms, I understand and wish you luck.”

Drew knew he was handsome. It always got him things others could not. He pushed back his black curly hair and touched his gold cufflinks. He didn’t know what to do. It struck him that if he found better terms elsewhere, his family could always pay off Ashford’s loan. He flashed a smile, took out his gold-nib pen and signed both copies, sliding the first copy to Ashford.

“I was hoping I’d see Nina before I headed back.”

“She is not feeling well and is in hospital.”

“Will I be able to see her?” Drew tried to control the anxiety in his voice but couldn’t. He felt like vomiting and tightened his lips. Somehow, Drew knew he was the cause and looked away. He felt his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

“I’ll let her know you were inquiring about her.”

The tone in Ashford’s voice suggested that he knew everything. Drew wanted to curse his mother for putting him in this position. He rose, looking out the window at the bright blue water of Lake Huron.

Witherspoon led him to a phone in his office. He needed his mother, the force in his family, to tell him what to do. She was ready with advice after he told her what had happened.

“Send her ten dozen roses and one each card, write: Get well soon, and when can we get married?”

“I feel foolish.”

His father came on the line. “It doesn’t matter how you feel. The future of your family hands on you and how you’re able to win her back. Did Ashford sign the note?”

“Yes, but at a higher rate.”

“You fool. He’s playing with you and with our family.

You’ve always been able to charm your way into anything. Use that charm now.”

Witherspoon’s office was located next to Ashford’s. He was from Atlantic Canada, and his office was decorated with lobster traps, complete with nets and green balls. The buoy was painted in his father’s colours. He looked out at the intense blue waters of the lake.

“I couldn’t help hearing, Mr. Addington. But I understand that Nina will be released sometime later this afternoon. You might want to stick around. In the meantime, perhaps you’d like to have coffee and cake in our dining room or my office. We can have it brought here. If you go to the dining room, I should warn you. There’s a reporter among them.”

Drew nodded and tried on one of his best smiles. It was four o’clock when Nina arrived. She avoided the others by slipping through the back entrance and climbed the back stairs to her room, where Matilda helped her undress and fall into bed. She glanced at herself in the makeup mirror and shook her blonde hair. Matilda had lit an essential oil that gave off a fresh citrus scent.

“Mr. Witherspoon asked me to tell you that your friend, Mr. Addington, has been waiting to see you all day.”

Nina glanced at the massive display of 120 yellow roses on the right side of her bed. She tossed her hair and smiled.” I thought they came from my father.”

“What should I tell Mr. Addington, miss?

Nina smiled for the first time. “Tell him I’m not up to seeing anyone at the moment. Perhaps, tomorrow.”

Matilda smiled back. “You have a wonderful way with men, mistress. I was never so fortunate.”

Drew heard the news an hour later and shook his head. He didn’t have a good feeling about any of this but he knew he was no longer calling the shots and had to do whatever

he needed to get what he wanted. Drew blamed his mother for getting him into this pickle. He would do whatever was expected of him but would let her know later that she was the one who put the family into jeopardy.

“I’ll see to a room for you, Mr. Addington,” said Witherspoon, who left and return a few minutes later with Matilda. She led him to a room on the third floor at the end of the corridor.

When Witherspoon mentioned it to Kean, he laughed and winked at Hazlett. It was one of the rooms Ashford could enter and hear any telephone conversations Drew might have with his family. ***

Drew decided to have supper in his room. He wasn’t prepared to share why he was visiting the abbey with the crowd Ashford allowed on his premises. He must be getting senile, he thought, as the telephone rang. It was his father. “I understand the old buzzard has raised the interest rate on our loan.” Daniel Addington’s voice was gruff and angry. “You failed us. Did you sign the renewal?”

“Yes. I had to. If we can get the loan elsewhere, we can pay Ashford off for good.”

“He knows we’re in hard straights. He must be in league with the devil. He always knows my financial situation. If I could get the money elsewhere, I would.”

“I have a feeling it’s all about my conversation with Nina – about breaking off my engagement.”

“Your mother thinks money grows on trees. Do what you can.”

Drew looked out the window at the edge of the forest and the darkness beyond and wished he was anywhere but where he was now. “Perhaps if I see old Ashford tomorrow and ask for a lower rate, he might reconsider. You never

know,” he said in desperation.

“Focus on his daughter. Tell her whatever you have to. Set a date for your wedding. Whatever it takes.”

Drew was of two minds and still thought asking Ashford was worth a try. Witherspoon would know. He would speak to him first thing in the morning. ***

Nina wasn’t sure how to answer Matilda’s question, mainly because she hadn’t made up her mind. “If he inquires, tell him I will not be seeing any guests until at least tomorrow.”

Drew got the news just before lunch and buttonholed Witherspoon about seeing Ashford again.

“He’ll be coming to lunch.”

“It’s private family business, and I prefer not to broach the subject with him at lunch.”

“I’ll let you know. But now I have other things that need my attention.” Witherspoon touched his shoulder. “I’ll do what I can.”

Lunch was barely over when Witherspoon approached Drew, nursing a vodka and watching Giorgio and Lacey play horseshoes. “Mr. Ashford can see you now.”

Five minutes later, Drew was sitting before Ashford. He was occupied with his barber, who was trimming his white hair. “I thought we finished our business yesterday.”

“My father wondered if you would consider reducing our loan rate?”

Ashford took a deep breath and mentioned something to his barber, who was lathering his face. “Tell you what. Tell your father if he wants to reduce the rate on his loan to ask me face to face.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Stephen Kripps paid the taxi and climbed the front stairs of the abbey. Witherspoon, who spotted him getting out of the taxi, opened the door and shook his hand.

“Mr. Ashford expected you this morning.”

“I’m here now.”

“Unfortunately, he’s busy now.” The hint of superiority in Kripps voice was not lost on Witherspoon. “I’ll let you know when he’s free.” Witherspoon never felt comfortable around Kripps, who wore a high-priced suit, a blue-striped shirt with a white collar, and brown hair greying at the temples, cut in the latest fashion.

“Anyone I know?”

“Drew Addington.”

“Why is he here?”

“I think to see Miss Nina.” Witherspoon looked up to see Drew descend the stairs and nodded in Drew’s direction. “Ask him yourself.”

Kripps shook Drew’s hand. “I’m glad to see you here. It saves me a trip. Is there a place where we can talk privately?”

They walked into the dining room. Kripps sat at the head and Drew at his right. One of the serving maids spotted them and brought them coffee.

“Why are you here, Drew?”

“To renew a loan my father has with Ashford. He’s raised our rate, knowing we’re in a tight spot at the mo-

“Well, his days of lording it over us are coming to an end. That’s all I can say at the moment, other than we may be able to be of assistance to your family. Are you with us or not?”

Drew shook his hand but felt uneasy for some reason he couldn’t explain. He knew he should be rejoicing but something in the pit of his stomach held him back. Maybe it was Nina. What would happen to her? Kripps smiled and stood. “I had best see Ashford.”

Matilda had left a note for him on his bed when he returned. He sat down and smiled as he read her message: “Miss Nina will be alone between seven and eight.” ***

“It’s open.” Said Bart Quick, pushing his adding machine to the right of his desk.

Kripps opened the door and stuck his head in. “Steve Kripps, Bart. ”We met last year at the CMA convention when you were subbing for Ashford. Do you have a minute?” Quick nodded, and Kripps sat down on the chair to the left of his desk.

“First, let me say that this conversation is strictly between you and me. Agreed?”

Quick nodded again. “As long as you understand that I am devoted to the success of Ashfords.”

Kripps paused briefly before adding: “Understood. But what if I could promise you a piece of Ashford’s empire?”

Quick sat back and crossed his arms, his thick eyebrows raised. He crossed his arms. “Keep talking.”

“We have advance information that your boss is planning to take over a major player in the pulp and paper industry. The acquisition would make him the biggest player in Canada. You, of course, already know about this.”

Quick didn’t respond.

“All we need is a signal from you when Ashford’s cash position is strained. That’s all we need to drive Ashfords to the ground.” Then, after another pause: “You would be given first choice to cherry-pick his best assets.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“We could make it happen, with or without you. It’s just that with you on our side, the risk is practically zero. Are you with us or not?” What in the hell is he thinking about? I thought he was smarter than this. “We’ll need your answer in 24 hours. And just in case you get cold feet and run to your boss about this, I’ll tell him you came to me with this proposition. And we both know you’d be out the door 10 minutes after I told him.”

Quick stood to signal the interview was over. “As I said, Mr. Kripps, I’ll have to think about it.”

Kripps left, and Quick headed for Witherspoon’s office to see if he could get an early appointment with Ashford. He was about to turn the corner when the door opposite opened. Hazlett came out first, followed by Kean and Randall, who suddenly stopped.

“What is he doing here?”

Kripps glanced at him and hurried down the corridor, disappearing down the stairs.

“It’s not our business,” said Kean.

“Mr. Ashford needs to know I worked for a pulp and paper company in Timmins before the war. Kripps and his friends bought out the company and sold it off piece by piece, leaving 400 workers without a job. He’s bad news. Mr. Ashford should be warned about him.”

“I think Mr. Ashford is quite capable of looking after himself,” said Kean. “Right now, I’d like to have lunch.” ***

Kripps looked around Witherspoon’s office at the lobster traps and the 18th Century paintings. “I see we have

similar tastes. I am very fond of 18th Century paintings and literature.”

Witherspoon somehow doubted it. “Mr. Ashford rewards loyalty. He prizes it most of all in his people and those he does business with.”

Kripps was about to say something but stopped himself.

“As I said, I’ll convey your respects to Mr. Ashford. He may wish to see you. You can never tell with him. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, why not join us for lunch. I’m about to go down now.”

All the interest at lunch was on Drew Addington. Gillian arranged to sit next to him. Lacey left and returned a few minutes later, wearing a very low-cut blouse and a mini skirt. It caught Drew’s eye for a moment before turning to talk to Giorgio.

“Are you here to see, Nina Ashford?” said Gillian, opening her blue eyes wider and touching his hand as she passed him the salt.

“I hope so.”

“She’s still in the hospital as far as we know. Nobody tells us anything. We’re here for a mystery weekend, and it’s turned out as a real-life murder mystery.”

Drew looked at Cassandra and regretted he wasn’t seated next to her. She glanced at him and smiled. He nodded and looked away. A minute or two later, he looked at her again.

Lacey Dunes winked at him from across the table. ”If you’d like a tour of the grounds, I’d be happy to show you. I’m sure you’d enjoy it.”

The chair at the head of the table was empty. “I gather that’s Mr. Ashford’s seat,” said Drew.

Giorgio nodded and went back to his soup.

Kripps, who was sitting next to Witherspoon, glanced out the window behind the other side of the table. The

painting of St. Francis behind the head of the table looked down on them.

Alden Rowley was the last to enter and sat down next to Alan Simmons, who was distracted by Cassandra. She was looking at Drew Addington. Rowley tried to distract him. “Any word about Ashford’s precious book?”

Randall was about to say something to Kripps but was stopped by Hazlett. “There will come a time. Just not now.”

At the end of the meal, Kean stood. “I have an announcement to make. Two of my constables will be here this afternoon to take fingerprints of you all. I expect your co-operation. It will go a long way to solving the murder of Julian Ashford.”

“Does that include me?” said Kripps. I’ve just come.”

Kean eyed him for a few seconds. “I said, everyone.”

“I’m going to call my lawyer. I am not under suspicion for anything, and you have no good reason to fingerprint me.”

Kean’s mouth tightened. “Who knows if you’ve been here without our knowledge? I understand you’re a business competitor of Mr. Ashford, and, for all I know, you may have had your hand in his son’s death.”

Kripps stood and threw his napkin on the table. “I’m outta here.”

“Not until we can verify your whereabouts four days ago.”

***

Drew Knocked on Nina’s door at seven o’clock. No response. He knocked a second and a third time. Still no response. He turned the handle of her door. His heart was pounding. He entered and looked around her bedroom. She wasn’t there, and there were no traces of the flowers he had sent. Nothing. He backed away and hit the door. He felt more alone more than he had ever felt in his life. He left and

headed straight to his room. He didn’t know whether she was really at the abbey.

He dreaded calling his father but he knew he had to. He lifted the receiver and dialled the number.

His mother answered. “What did that tramp say for herself? “

He could hear his father grab the phone. “Don’t listen to her, Drew. She’s been drinking again, and she’s not a good drinker. What happened?”

“Her maid left me a note this morning. It stated that Nina would be alone between seven and eight o’clock. I went to her room. No Nina. In fact, her room looked as though it had not been slept in.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Kean’s car wheeled into the driveway, and he immediately spotted where we were sitting on lawn chairs at the entrance. The afternoon sun was hotter than usual, and the air was still. The wind had shifted, and there was no breeze from the lake. The mosquitoes were out in force, and Kean was waving his hands around as they hovered about him. He took off his cap. ”Let’s go inside.”

The reception hall was at least 10 degrees cooler. The flags above us billowed in the breeze from the air conditioner.

Kean took several pages from his inside jacket pocket. ”Some unexpected surprises.” He passed the pages to Hazlett.

Hazlett checked them carefully and passed them to me.

“It appears that our prim and proper Gillian Merryweather is not as proper as she says she pretends. Now we can understand why she was so worked up about losing her lover to Lacey Dunes.”

“Do you plan to talk to Gillian?”

“That’s the rub, Hazlett. She’s not suspected of anything, and to all intents and purposes, she a model citizen.”

“I couldn’t imagine it. Gillian was certainly not bashful about making herself known to Kripps.”

Hazlett could tell what I was thinking. “Should we warn him?”

“I shouldn’t worry about him,” said Kean. “He has a spotted record in the financial world and knows how to look after himself.”

“This comes as a surprise,” said Hazlett. “I thought it would have been Lacey, not Gillian Merryweather.”

“Lacey’s pretty straight. No record of any kind. A serial lover. And that’s not a crime. She gets hurt a lot and is very naïve about men. And very territorial.”

I rang for one of the serving maids.

“I can’t drink on duty,” said Kean, “but I’ll make an exception in this one case and won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

“What about our ear-ring?” said Hazlett.

“We weren’t able to get a clear print if that’s what you’re asking. But we did see similar indications from three people. I think we’re very close to solving everything, except for rescuing Ashford’s books. We’ve searched every room and haven’t turned up anything. Any suggestions?”

“When I get in this position,” said Hazlett, “I go back and retrace my steps from the beginning. It often turns up two or three things we missed the first time out.”

Hazlett offered Kean a cigarette and sat back as he blew a blue smoke halo across the table. “Let’s start with the library and the theft of Ashford’s books. The one thing we

missed out where everyone was at the time of the robbery.”

“What about Addington and Kripps? They came after the theft and the death of young Ashford?” I ventured.

”We assume they did not come earlier. That may or may not be the case.”

I was dispatched to collect the group together for questioning. I found Lacey and Giorgio walking up the driveway with Cassandra and Fitzgibbon.

“Detective Kean and Inspector Hazlett would like to speak to you again in the dining room.”

Fitzgibbon looked at Cassandra. “What’s it about?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Is this a command performance?” said Lacey. “Giorgio and I have had a few drinks and are walking it off.”

“I’ll order coffee for you.” I turned to Fitzgibbon. “I guess it’s you first, Mr. Fitzgibbon.”

Fitzgibbon sat down opposite Hazlett and Kean. “What now, Detective?”

“We’re reviewing our facts and hope you can refresh our memories,” said Kean.

Fitzgibbon relaxed. “Go ahead.”

“Can you tell us your whereabouts the day of the library fire and book theft?”

“That’s easy. I was at a meeting at Kitchener with a new and upcoming author. You can check if you wish.”

“What time was that?” said Hazlett.

“Around four o’clock.”

“Where did you stay that night?” said Kean.

“At the Hamlet Inn in Shakespeare.”

“Do you recall the time when you arrived at the abbey?” said Kean.

Fitzgibbon lifted his eyes and paused for a few seconds. “I believe it was around 11 o’clock.”

“Just a gut feeling that he knows more than he’s telling us,” said Hazlett after Fitzgibbon had left.

I showed Cassandra in and left. Kean offered her a coffee but she shook her head and sat down, her hands folded on her lap and looking at Kean straight in the eye. “I understand you want to know my whereabouts on the first day of the gathering. Like Mr. Fitzgibbon, I was a late arrival.

“I understand you can see the future,” said Hazlett. “What do you see now?”

“A dark figure will attempt to kill an authority figure who unmasks him.”

Kean took a deep breath and looked at Hazlett. “If I read you correctly, are you telling me that someone will attempt to kill either Inspector Hazlett or myself?”

“I see veiled, a dark face. I’m sorry, I can’t be more helpful.”

Lacey Dunes still showed the effects of too much wine, lifting Kean’s necktie with her forefinger as she sat down. Kean’s face reddened, and he put his tie back in place.

“Where was I when the library was set on fire? I’d rather not say anything other than I was having a chat with a friend. It was not in the library.” She giggled. “Is that it?”

“What about your relationship with Julian Ashford?” Hazlett broke in. “If memory serves, you visited him in his room to sample some new drugs the night he died.”

“That’s right. And that’s all. Julian may have had other ambitions but I put him in his place. He yelled at me to get out of his sight.” She looked down for a few seconds. “I was glad to go.”

Giorgio shook hands with Kean and Hazlett. “You want to know where I was as well. I was with Signor Ashford’s chauffeur. He drove me around town, even down to the beach. On the way back, the car suddenly stopped. It was a loose spark plug. I tightened it, and he drove me to the abbey. He is a very kind man.”

“What about the evening when young Ashford was murdered?”

“I was in my room, watching TV and talking on the phone with my wife and sons. I have high hopes for them. I described the abbey and how Signor Ashford lives. I would like them to know what happens when you study hard and work hard. They can live like this, too, if they put their minds to it.”

Giorgio emphasized his points with his hands. “I am sorry to get so carried away.”

“Did you know Julian Ashford before you came here?”

“I am a poor man, inspector. People like me do not travel in the same circles as Julian Ashford.”

Simmons was entertaining Gillian Merryweather in the reception hall. He was drinking vodka from a flask and was in an argumentative mood. Gillian was holding his right hand and brushing the left side of her hair with her hand.

“Here comes Ashford’s lackey. What does the old buzzard want now?”

“Actually, Detective Kean and Inspector Hazlett would like you to join them in the dining room.”

“Can’t you see? I’m busy now?”

“It’s not a request, Mr. Simmons. It’s either here or at OPP headquarters.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Gillian, rising to help Simmons up and steadying him as they followed me to the dining room.

“What the hell do you want now? If you’re asking me about Julian Ashford, sorry to disappoint you, I never saw him before he drowned in the sink. In fact, I never had a chance to talk to him the only time I met him.”

“Where were you when the library fire broke out?” said Hazlett.

“I don’t remember. I wasn’t in a mood to go anywhere. Besides, I’m a writer, and I’m the last person to set fire to books.”

Kean looked at Gillian.

“I can’t remember, Detective. Rowley and I went for a walk around the grounds. Honestly, I’m not sure when exactly the fire broke out.”

Arden Rowley was next. His voice was as stiff as his body. “I know you think I had something to do with the theft of the Book of Hours.”

Kean straightened. “Let me stop you right there, Mr. Rowley. No one is accusing you of anything. You’re a bit of a lone wolf and haven’t mixed very much with the others. You seemed genuinely disturbed over the death of Denyse Doyle. I gather you were close to her.”

“She was a bibliophile, the same as me.”

“The person who stole the Book of Hours would be someone like you. If you had to choose someone else, who would it be?”

“There’s Fitzgibbon.”

“We agree but he wasn’t here when the book was stolen.”

“Do you mind if I make a suggestion?”

Hazlett smiled. “Go ahead. We need all the help we can get.”

“Maybe it was stolen by someone who is not part of the mystery weekend group. Someone who knew how to get inside the library and who used the gathering as a smokescreen.”

Hazlett looked at Kean, who was smiling, too, and nodded at each other at the same time.

Chapter Twenty-Three

TomBeasley, Ashford’s caretaker, didn’t feel comfortable sitting in the dining room. His wife was standing behind his chair and kept whispering in his ear.

Kean offered him a cigarette. Tom took it and put it behind his ear. “We need your help, Mr. Beasley. Did you happen to hear or notice a car, either the evening before or early the following morning the day the library was set on fire?”

Tom nodded. “It was the night before but when I checked, there was nothing. No car. And nobody trying to enter the abbey. I wasn’t surprised. Locals who come out from time to time with their girlfriends and drive off. We lock the abbey up every evening at nine o’clock.”

Hazlett looked up at the ceiling and seemed to whisper to himself.

“Back to square one, I guess,” said Kean.

“I’m not so sure,” said Hazlett. “Perhaps someone was left off, found his or her way and knew how to enter the locked library, as we did, but in the middle of the night and stole the Book of Hours and its copies, and then set fire to hide his escape in the confusion.”

Kean shook his head. “I think he or she would have been noticed, uproar or no uproar.”

“You forget about the secret door that links the library to Ashford’s office.”

“I couldn’t fit in there, and not too many other people could either.”

Tom and Matilda listened open-mouthed to the exchange.

“Not a word of any of this to anyone, Mr. and Mrs. Beasley. We can’t risk having the thief slip through our fingers at this stage.”

Hazlett sipped on his tea and watched Kean get ready to go. “If you need me, I’ll be back at the office. I’ll have a couple of constables ask around if any strangers hired a car recently.” ***

Ashford was in a good mood. Nina looked better than ever and couldn’t wait to start work. She was moved to her dead mother’s bedroom, next to her father’s. Only Matilda knew. With Julian gone, Ashford couldn’t take chances.

Quick seemed anxious to see him. He smiled, knowing what Quick was going to tell him. Witherspoon led Quick inside and was about to leave when Ashford stopped him. “I think this involves you as well, Mr. Witherspoon.”

Ashford had taken three or four of his favourite books from his library and had just opened a new book about O’Carolin, the blind Irish composer and harpist.

“I’ve something to tell you, Mr. Ashford. Something important,” he said, reciting his conversation with Kripps.

“So did I,” said Witherspoon.

“Damme, gentlemen. You do me proud. I already knew.”

Quick was about to ask how but knew Ashford had his sources. He smiled instead.

Í want to thank you both for your loyalty. It will not be forgotten at Christmastide.” He paused to study their faces. “Now, gentlemen, we are not only going to save Ashfords but teach these gentlemen an expensive lesson they will not soon forget.”

“I must tell you,” said Witherspoon, “they’ve recruited some very powerful businessmen and their resources and

are ready to strike when they think Ashfords is most vulnerable.”

Ashford was nodding. “Any suggestions?”

“We could mislead them by telling them you’re strapped for cash when, in fact, we have a full war chest.”

“Except for one thing.”

Witherspoon and Quick leaned forward. “Ask them for a cheque for 100,000 dollars as goodwill in case things do not go the way they believe they will. Otherwise, tell them no deal.”

“I doubt they’ll go for that.”

“They’re too far into the water to back out now. Always remember, gentlemen, if someone ever threatens you, it’s often exactly what would frighten them.”

***

Kripps offered his hand to Quick. “Do we have a deal?”

“I’m not sure, Mr. Kripps. I’m taking a lot of risk in the hope you and your associates will honour what you’ve promised if I help you.”

“You’ll get what’s coming to you. You have my word on that.”

“What if something goes wrong? Then I lose both ways. No. I need a down payment.”

Kripps’s eyes narrowed, and his face hardened. He made it clear he didn’t like what he was hearing. “What do you have in mind?”

“One hundred thousand dollars.”

“That’s a bit steep. How about 10,000 as a gesture of goodwill.”

“That’s not enough should I lose my job. It’s 100,000 dollars, or count me out. You know, and I know my information is worth much, much more than that.”

Kripps turned and opened the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Kean returned two hours later. “You’re right. No one has rented a car in town for almost a month.”

“We’ve been operating almost entirely on the book theft. Let’s shift it to Julian’s death,” said Hazlett.

“What are you suggesting?”

“There was some mention that Julian was on the roof before he died.”

Kean shivered. “I don’t like heights.”

“Neither do I. I get dizzy just thinking about it. Strange talk, I grant you, for someone who flew Lancasters over bombing runs over Germany for three years and surviving a crash in the Channel.”

“But it was clear that he was drowned in the kitchen sink. I think we’d be wasting our time.”

“You never know.”

“I’ll call for a couple of constables to help us.”

An hour later, they climbed the wood ladder that ended at the roof. The view was incredible. They could almost see forever, past the grounds and even the town. Hazlett could practically taste the smell of flowers carried on a breeze from the lake.

I helped steady Hazlett as we went over every inch of the tarred roof. Kean’s two constables, who seemed to glory in heights, checked for anything that looked out of place.

“I don’t think after being up here that Julian would last two minutes. So we can cross the roof off the list.”

“Let’s get below,” shouted Kean, leading the way down the ladder. They stepped down the ladder slowly, still feeling queasy in their stomachs. At the bottom, Kean pointed to three small dark dots behind the ladder and knelt to inspect them closely with his flashlight.

“I’m not a betting man,” he added, “but I’d bet a month’s pay they’re blood spots.”

Hazlett, who also examined them for a few seconds, nodded.

In the corridor, Kean raised his thumb to Hazlett and left a few minutes later, still feeling a bit queasy. ***

Ashford, wearing an Irish tweed jacket and grey trousers, appeared at dinner two days later. Witherspoon had taken Kripps to the train station, and everyone seemed at ease for the first time in days. Randall was talking to Cassandra, who appeared sullen and uncommunicative.

“Any word about your daughter?” said Lacey Dunes.

“We hope she’ll be back with us tomorrow evening for dinner. She’s recovered nicely.” He cleared his throat. “I am raising my offer to 200,000 dollars for the safe return of my Book of Hours. No questions asked.”

“Any progress on the murder of your son?” said Rowley.

“No definite word yet but I understand that the OPP expects to wrap up everything within the next day or two.” He raised his glass. “But for today, let us toast the health and happiness of each other.”

The silver gleamed under the large chandelier above the table, and the white tablecloth seemed whiter than usual. The table came to life with chatter suddenly. Lacey Dunes was laughing at something Austin Randall had whispered in her ear. Simmons was staring at Cassandra, who picked at the roast beef. It made her nervous, and she mentioned it to Fitzgibbon. He turned to Simmons and whispered: “Unless you sober up, you will never leave here alive.” ***

Nina watched TV when her father opened the door to her room and flashed him a smile. “I’m bored. I’ll go crazy if I don’t get out of here.”

“Then let me tell you exactly what I’m planning. Then you make up your mind.”

Nina lay back on her pillows. She always loved her mother’s room – her bed with its canopy and gossamer curtains that whispered promises. Her mother was celebrated for her beauty, and her father almost went insane when she died of cancer. A large picture of her mother on the opposite wall smiled at her and captured the attention of everyone privileged to visit her there. Her mother’s makeup mirror and desk still contained her favourite perfumes and scents. It was as though she were still alive.

“I’m listening, father.”

“A group of financial people are banding together to take over Ashfords. It includes the family of your friend, Drew Addington. I have made plans that will not only prevent them but leave them near bankruptcy before it’s over.”

Nina’s eyes were focused on every gesture he made. “So, when do I make my grand entrance? And when do the fireworks start?”

“Tomorrow morning. Just before I pull the plug later in the afternoon or the next day, depending on how it plays out.” He paused, not sure how to say what he wanted to tell her. “I was wrong about you. Things are moving faster these days, and they’ll be moving faster 20 or 30 years from now. It’s going to require vision, nimbleness and, above all, fast-thinking as well as toughness to survive and grow in the years ahead.”

Nina was about to comment but he stopped her with his upheld palm.

“When I saw how you turned the tables on young Drew Addington and your suggestions on how to make him and his family squirm, not to mention major health problems without babying yourself, I know Ashfords will be in good hands with you at the helm.”

Nina put her arms around him. “It’s time for you to rest.

She put her hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up.” Her father started coughing. “You need to see a doctor. I don’t like what I see, and I don’t want no for an answer. You’ve got a fever, and you need to be on top of your game.”

He nodded to her. “That doctor who saved you when your heart stopped. Get him.”

She helped him to his bed and called the hospital. Dr. Fowler appeared a half-hour later and examined Ashford’s ears and chest, and took his temperature. “You’ve got the flu that’s going around and need an antibiotic. “ He reached into his bag and produced a bottle and gave him 30 pills. Take three a day. At the end of ten days, you’ll be up dancing again. You’ll start feeling better in a few hours.”

He turned to Nina. “How about you?”

“Feeling great.”

He smiled as he followed her out. “I did not mention this to your father, but your father is not in good shape. He needs rest. A lot of rest for a month or two.”

Witherspoon was waiting for her when she returned. “Your father tells me I’m to take my marching orders from you. But first, let me bring you up to date. The group that intends to take us over is still shorting our stock. Your father was going to tell us when to start buying.”

“Let him sleep.” She glanced at her watch. “After he’s rested a bit, we’ll talk to him then.”

She sat down beside her father and kissed his forehead. Mathilda entered to tell her that Drew was asking to see her father. “Tell him, perhaps, tomorrow.”

A breeze fluttered the curtains. Nina needed a drink. She liked the taste of Cognac and picked up the receiver.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Kean was in court on another matter when Hazlett arrived at his office the next morning. Kean came back in a bad mood. The judge threw out the charge because his constable lost the evidence he was ordered to bring to the courtroom. He lit one of his foul-smelling cigars and was in no mood to talk.

“What about the cuff link?”

“The cuff link turned out to be an ear-ring. My guess it makes the earring we found in the kitchen.

“And the blood?”

“The blood did not belong to Julian, and we have nothing to compare it with, short of getting samples of everyone’s blood.” He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a piece of paper with the results and handed it to a constable. “See if you can get a match for this.”

“Understand perfectly,” said Hazlett. “It goes back to the reason why Julian was murdered – and did not commit suicide. It goes back to the red marks we found on his neck. In my mind, it rules out suicide. It appears we’re looking for a woman.”

“When none of our guests admit they ever knew him, it’s pretty hard to find a motive,” Kean sighed.

“Yet there is one. A stranger may have engineered the book theft but no stranger would have got Julian to the kitchen.”

The phones were ringing, and there were shouts from the squad room. One of the constables opened the door,

breathing heavily. “There’s a bank holdup in progress, and in another part of town, a young girl was struck by a truck. She’s now in hospital, and her parents are out for blood.”

Kean put down his cigar and stubbed it out. “You’ll have to excuse me, gentlemen. If I don’t get back tonight, I’ll be at the abbey first thing in the morning.”

A magician was advertising his disappearing trick at a nearby parking lot. Hazlett stopped to watch and started clapping when the magician’s assistant, a young woman dressed in tights, opened the door of the wood box in which the magician placed himself. He had disappeared. A few of the spectators went to the box and knocked on the back wall. It was solid wood. The assistant closed the door and knocked before opening it. The magician stepped out and bowed amid the clapping.

There was a glint in Hazlett’s eye and a smile.

“How did he do it?”

Hazlett smiled again. “The people who went to check the box were probably his associates. I’m willing to bet he was in the box all the time behind a fake wall. We see what we want and expect to see. I think it’s time to talk to Mr. Witherspoon again.”

Witherspoon was in his office with a pile of legal papers in front of him. He looked up when he saw Hazlett in the doorway.

“We need to talk with you again.”

“Can it wait? I don’t have a lot of time right now. I’m on a special assignment for Mr. Ashford that’s very time-sensitive. I hope you understand.”

“It’s about Julian. A simple, one-minute question. Did you happen to see Julian go to the kitchen the night he died, and was anyone with him?”

Witherspoon shook his head. I didn’t see him do anything. I had no idea he went anywhere.”

“Do you think someone may have helped him? One of

the monastery group, perhaps?”

“I wasn’t in any shape to know what he did after I left him.”

“Yet someone did help him,” said Hazlett as we made our way downstairs. “Perhaps by someone he didn’t even know. He wasn’t in any shape to remember if he knew them or not.”

***

Drew Addington was having drinks with Alan Simmons when we entered the dining room. “We were talking about the fickleness of women,” said Simmons with a slight slur to his voice. Drew looked as though he had lost his best friend.

“My wife died nine years ago. Cancer,” said Hazlett. An uneasy silence followed. Simmons drained his glass and reached for the wine bottle as Drew stood, nodded to Hazlett, and left without a word.

He had to call his father and didn’t know what to say to him. He knew his father was disappointed in him about Ashford’s daughter. Other than abducting her, there was little he could do. He called the hospital and was told Nina had been discharged.

His father answered his call. “Haven’t been able to do much,” said Drew. “I hear that she has been discharged from the hospital but no one seems to know where.

Daniel Addington did not attempt to hide his anger. “She’s at the abbey, you fool. What’s wrong with you?”

“If she is, it’s a mystery to everyone I’ve talked to.”

“Her maid, who has tried to help you in her way, follow her. She’ll lead you to her.”

He left his room, made his way down the carpeted corridor and descended the curving staircase to the main floor before passing Matilda on her way up the stairs. He waited until she turned the corner and raced up the stairs, just in

time to see her open the door to a room near the end of the corridor.

He ran down the corridor and stood in front of the door that Matilda had just entered. His heart was pounding. He listened at the door. All he heard were muffled voices. He opened the door and found Ashford talking to Quick. He closed the door and ran down the corridor as fast as he could.

Kean returned in time for breakfast. “Did you locate the owner of the lost earring?”

“Sorry,” said Hazlett. “We don’t have your authority to enter anyone’s room.”

“Make an excuse. All we need is to check the rooms of the women.”

We climbed the stairs to the second floor to start the check. Kean looked into Gillian’s room while Hazlett checked and Trudy Sherman’s room. Nothing.

Next was Lacey’s room. There it was. The missing earring. It matched the one they found in the kitchen.

“I don’t believe it,” said Kean when Hazlett put the missing ear-ring on his palm.

“I have the same feeling but I’ve been fooled before.” Hazlett looked disappointed. “We need to talk to her.”

They went down to breakfast to hear what the others were talking about. Simmons was drunk, and Cassandra moved to the other end of the table to speak to Ashford.

“You will be undergoing a great trial over the next 48 hours.”

Ashford’s eyes twinkled. “And what would that be, pray?”

She glanced at Fitzgibbon. “I see great dissent, folly and great loss, either for you or your rivals.” Witherspoon studied Ashford’s face and felt good inside. Ashford was

known as a sly old fox in financial circles, and no one had ever tried to knock him off his pedestal, mainly because of his unpredictability. He always seemed to have an extra ace up his sleeve.

“That’s all I can tell you.”

Witherspoon knew then Ashford would leave his rivals wondering what had happened to them.

The others looked at each other but said nothing. An uneasy silence followed Cassandra’s prediction. Fitzgibbon whispered something in her ear and glanced at Ashford.

Drew looked at Ashford and wondered what would happen if he called in their loan and what Kripps and his group had in store for Ashford. From what he was able to glean from his talk with Kripps, his group would launch some kind of coup that would ruin Ashford forever. The only good thing was his family would not force him to marry Nina Ashford. It would serve her right. He wondered where she was and what would happen to her when her father could no longer provide the standard of living she was used to.

“What do you think of that,” said Kean after breakfast. “Sounds like some kind of financial war has been declared. If there is, I’ll put my money on Ashford. He hasn’t survived all these years as king of the hill without a lot of challenges along the way.”

Hazlett was focused on Randall, who had risen and limped out the door. “A word, Mr. Randall,” said Hazlett. Randall paused at the doorway and smiled. “Inspector?”

“That shiny object you found in the woods. It turned out to be a woman’s ear-ring. We found its match in the kitchen.” Kean showed him the ear-ring. “Did you ever see it before?”

Kean shook his head as we watched Randall head for the front door. He stopped and waved to us. “Just a short

jaunt in the garden.”

Nina admired herself in the mirror. “It’s time I made an appearance. I’m sure Drew must be pulling his hair out now, not sure what to do about me or his family’s debt to her father.

“And what if he proposes to you again, Miss Nina?”

“I’ll let him stew a bit more. And then when he feels he’s making progress, I’ll give him my answer.”

Matilda made her way to Drew’s room. She knocked but no response. She unlocked the door to find him lying on his bed, unshaven and talking to Simmons, who was sitting in a wicker chair beside him, drinking wine and trying to sing La Donna e Mobile.

“Mr. Addington.” Matilda stood in the doorway, her hands folded on her white apron. “I think you might like to know that Miss Nina will be returning home this afternoon and will be attending dinner with her father.”

Drew raised himself on his right elbow. “Is this for sure? Last time, she didn’t show up.”

“She will this time. Her father is excited about her homecoming and will want her sitting beside him.”

Drew sat up and stroked his chin. “I guess I’d better shave and shower. Anything else, Matilda?”

“That’s it, sir. I thought you would appreciate knowing.”

“I won’t forget this.” He turned to Simmons. “So should you. You’re starting to smell.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“NinaAshford,” Lacey suddenly exclaimed in a loud voice.

Nina didn’t respond. She sat bolt upright next to her father, tight-lipped and wearing a white satin dress, hands folded on the table and staring down the table.

“I’m not a ghost,” she said to grey-faced Drew Addington, who managed to get himself sitting next to her.

He didn’t quite know what to say. His hands started to shake, and he hid them under the table before anyone noticed.

Trudy Sherman reached for her notebook and began scribbling furiously.

“I was released from hospital late this afternoon, and when my father told me he would be making an unusual announcement, I thought it might be fun. So far, it’s not been much of a hoot.”

Cassandra looked at Fitzgibbon, who, I felt, was hiding something but certainly not seeing him take Cassandra’s hand and nuzzle her ear with a whisper.

Nina smiled and turned to look at Drew. “It’ll be interesting to see what happens next.”

Drew started to rise but was pulled back by Giorgio. “Hear her out.”

He settled back, his face suddenly hard with uncertainty.

“What about it, Drew?” Nina’s tone suddenly changed, revealing a cold, cruel streak I had not noticed before. For the first time, everyone’s eyes moved from Nina to Drew and then back to Nina.

Ashford sat back with a faint smile that jiggled at the corners of his mouth.

Nina smiled. “Your family must be shamed to see you sitting at the same table at such a notorious household.”

Drew tried to control himself. “For the record, I called you back that night to tell you I didn’t give a damn about what my family thought. But you didn’t pick up.”

Trudy paused her pencil and looked at Drew, who appeared as though he meant every word, and at Nina’s lofty countenance.

“If you thought I was in shock, I wasn’t,” she said. “I was celebrating. I did have a bit too much to drink, toasting farewell to you and mistook my medications when I went to bed.”

Trudy looked up. “What about you, Mr. Addington? If she’s not interested, I am.”

Drew’s face reddened. Nina was not amused and whispered to her father. “You said you had an interesting announcement to make.”

“Not quite yet. I want to introduce you to Mr. Kripps first. Just bear with me.” He stood, and Witherspoon rapped his water glass with his knife, and the table suddenly went quiet.

“We have an exceptional guest with us here today.” Before continuing, he nodded to Trudy Sherman. “You may be interested in interviewing him. He’s a major player on Bay Street. Stephen Kripps.” He looked at Kripps and smiled. “Please stand.”

Fitzgibbon led the clapping as Kripps stood, red-faced and trying to put on a smiling face.

“We are very honoured to have Steve with us tonight.

He’s a very busy financier these days and one of Canada’s leading businessmen. I hope he can spare the time to chat with me in the morning.”

Kripps nodded and took his seat. You could almost see Kripps grit his teeth.

“And now,” said Ashford, raising his water glass, “I would like to make a special toast to you all. It was not what any of us quite expected, and I want to thank you all for your patience in helping the OPP arrest the person who killed my son. He will do that in the morning, I understand.”

Everyone, except Kripps, clapped loudly. “Bravo,” shouted Giorgio. The table toasted Ashford. The sound of tinkling glasses grew louder. Ashford smiled and nodded to Witherspoon again. Witherspoon stood and waited until the talking subsided.

“What Mr. Ashford didn’t tell you is his surprise, and I’m sure you all will thank him for his thoughtfulness.” He paused as the sounds of a string quartet setting up floated in from the reception hall. ”There will be eight musicians who specialize in 18th Century music and four enthusiasts to instruct you in the art of 18th Century and have you dancing to the tunes that were most popular back then.”

Everyone looked at him with their mouths open. A few minutes later, we could hear the music and the clapping of the four dance teachers. Alan Simmons drained his third glass and tried to stand. He lost his balance and fell on the table, rattling the plates and tipping a large soup tureen. Cassandra and Fitzgibbon pushed back their chairs. Cassandra, who was wearing a black evening dress, used her napkin to wipe away bits of food and water. She glared at Simmons and left with Fitzgibbon for the reception hall.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” said Lacey, standing and beating the table to the sound of the music, “but I want to dance. Who’s coming with me?”

Rowley stood and took her arm and escorted her to the reception hall. Kripps ignored Gillian’s request, while Fitzgibbon stood to leave with Cassandra. Randall was talking to Trudy, who kept on writing in her notebook. Simmons had followed the others into the reception hall and waved his hands, trying to copy the other dancers.

Fitzgibbon reappeared with Cassandra 15 minutes later as Nina disappeared with her father. Drew watched her go up the stairs, more unsure than ever about what he should do next. He thought about Kripps and his talk of a new order that his family might be part of. When called home, his father greeted the news with a smile and a lighter tone to his voice. “Watch but don’t take part in anything Kripps suggests, at least for the moment. Don’t write Ashford off. He has a record of outfoxing many others over the years. I’d put my money on him. But use your judgment.”

Ashford spent the rest of the evening with Quick and Witherspoon. “Timing will be everything, gentlemen. The first thing they’re likely to do is short Ashfords’ stock and drive it down as much as they can before covering their position and using the profits to make an offer for our stock. Otherwise, they won’t have enough money to take us over. If they are led to believe that my resources are strained over a reported takeover I was planning, and they’ll think they have us over the barrel. And when they think our stock hit bottom and are starting to convert their positions, we’ll drive the stock so high, it will cost them a fortune.”

He asked Witherspoon to close curtains to keep the sunset from his face. “That’s where you come, gentlemen. Mr. Quick will inform them that I have made a secret bid for the pulp and paper company I was rumoured of buying and that my resources are too low to fend off a takeover. Mr. Witherspoon will contact our market maker and tell him to

start buying Ashfords stock at any price after he thinks it has reached rock bottom.”

Witherspoon rose and went to Ashford’s liquor cabinet. “I think this calls for a celebration.”

Ashford’s eyes lit up, seeing the bottle of Irish whiskey in Witherspoon’s hands. “You always know when it’s the right time to do the right thing, Mr. Witherspoon.”

There was a creek from a floorboard from someone walking outside. Ashford put his finger to his lips and motioned to Witherspoon to open the door.

Kripps was standing there. He looked at Ashford, knowing he had been caught red-handed. “I was just about to knock, hoping we could have our meeting tonight. I’d like to leave sometime early tomorrow if possible.”

“Not a problem, Steve. We were just sharing some Irish whiskey and talking about tomorrow. Please join us. There’s no law that says we can’t talk business while we sip on one of the world’s greatest whiskeys.”

Witherspoon poured him a generous glass and put the bottle on a stand next to Kripps.

Kripps cleared his throat and took a sip of the whiskey. “We’re thinking about making an offer for Kettle Creek Gold Mines. Could we count on you if its stock rises on the news and prices us out of the market?”

“When do you expect this to happen?”

“Next week. Not sure when. But we’ll keep you posted, just in case you might want to buy some.” Kripps’ cheeks were flushed, and he used his hands to add to his request.

“Before I answer, what is in it for us?” said Ashford.

Kripps lit a cigarette and leaned forward. “We’re prepared to make you chairman and give Ashfords 10 per cent of our stock.”

Ashford nodded and looked at Quick and Witherspoon. “I’d like to see their financials before agreeing.”

Kripps left, whistling as he closed the door behind him.

Ashford motioned to Witherspoon to check if Kripps were walking away.

“He’s gone. I wonder if he heard our earlier conversation?”

“If he did. He would not have wasted his time about Kettle Creek Gold Mines,” said Ashford.

“Just one more thing before you take your leave, gentlemen. Make sure he gives you the 100,000 dollars he promised before he leaves.”

Nina had been listening in the adjoining room and came to her father’s office when they left. “I’ll find out from Drew if he’s also approached him.” Then, after a thoughtful pause: “Are we any closer to finding out who killed Julian?”

“I have a hunch that Anderson’s friend, Hazlett, already knows. I suspect he’s gathering evidence before confronting the killer. I know whom I suspect.”

“What do you want me to do tomorrow?”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hazlett watched Fitzgibbon load Cassandra’s and his bags in the trunk of his car. Fitzgibbon wiped his forehead in the hot morning sun, rolled up his sleeves, and returned to pick up the aluminum container containing his cigars and his copies of Simmons’s book. Hazlett approached him. “You’re a bit early. As you know, we have a final meeting with Corporal. Kean at 10 o’clock.”

Hazlett looked at Fitzgibbon’s sunburnt arms. “Your arms look pretty badly burned. You should put something on them to ease the soreness tomorrow.”

Fitzgibbon eyed him suspiciously. “Thank you for your concern. A couple of hours from now won’t make all that difference.”

“Actually,” said Hazlett, still holding the handle of Fitzgibbon’s car, “I’d like to have a quiet chat with you away from all the others.”

Fitzgibbon raised his hand to shield himself from the sun. “Let me get Cassandra. She may also have some insights I don’t have.”

“I’d prefer just you and me, Mr. Fitzgibbon. Women don’t always think the way men do.”

They drove down the lane, passing Kean’s car. Hazlett waved to him and got a wave back.

“What is this really about, inspector? We aren’t exactly pals.”

“Bill Anderson speaks very highly of you. And I’ve al-

ways been curious about book publishing.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve written a book,” said Fitzgibbon as he stopped the car at the edge of a lookout, a favourite spot for young couples in the area. “It’s a beautiful sight. Good for the soul.”

Fitzgibbon lit a cigarette and offered one to Hazlett. “Is this what you had in mind, inspector?” He rolled down his window to let the smoke escape. “I hope this will not take long. I’d like to get back to Toronto as soon as possible.”

“It’s about Julian’s murder.”

“What about his murder? I thought you guys had it in the bag.”

“Actually, it’s about Cassandra.”

“What are you trying to say, inspector?”

“It was something Nina Ashford about her brother –that he was scared of cats. I was looking at Cassandra at the time and saw a strange look in her eyes and the way she played with her earrings.”

Fitzgibbon looked out the window. “A wonderful view.”

“It got me thinking. None of the other women wear earrings, except for Ashford’s daughter.

It was the same earring, let me add, that we were to find in the forest, probably deposited there when you went walking into the woods and encountered Randall. The same earring that was stolen from my room.”

“You think you’ve got it all worked out.” Fitzgibbon did not attempt to hide his sarcasm.

“That wasn’t the only mistake you made.”

“I don’t make mistakes.”

Maybe, he won’t be so sure of himself, thought Hazlett, if I tell him someone saw him and Julian Ashford together before he went to the kitchen.”

The sun grew warmer, and the breeze from the lake had died. The flowers in the field around them looked wilt-

ed and tired.

“Just because I was with him doesn’t mean I was also with him to the kitchen.”

Hazlett smiled. No one saw him but he knew now he had him, he thought. That and the cigar container.

“There was only one person who could get him to come to the kitchen, and that was Cassandra.”

Fitzgibbon didn’t respond.

“That and the cigar container, which you used to hide Ashford’s Book of Hours. I congratulate you on your cleverness. When I saw you come back to collect the container, I knew for absolute certainty that you not only killed Ashford’s son but stole his Book of Hours.

“I have only one question,” he added. “How did Cassandra get him to eat the brownie poisoned with Orelander?”

Fitzgibbon continued to look out the window in silence.

“And one more question. Where did you hide the aluminum container?”

Fitzgibbon slid his left arm and reached down into the door pocket, and felt for his gun. He raised it and pointed it at Hazlett. “You should have left well enough alone. Now, get out of the car.”

“If anything happens to me, I can assure you that you will be suspected and hunted down. So will your associate, Cassandra. She and Simmons were distractions to accomplish your real objective.”

“You’re partly right. Ashford destroyed my business and caused my wife to miscarry. She couldn’t handle it and drowned herself and took my son with her– all because I published a book about Ashford’s early years in business and some of his shady business practices before he became a business giant.”

“Yet he did not know you. Your name was on the list

of individuals who would be coming to the mystery weekend.”

“I had a different name then.”

“I’m curious about one thing. Where did you hide Ashford’s books now?”

“You’re sitting on the container,” he said with a laugh. “They’re under your seat.”

Hazlett had a fondness for smart people, despite his love for peace and order.

Fitzgibbon’s eyes narrowed. “Now, for the last time, get out of the car.”

Hazlett got out of the car slowly. “Do you mind if I take a look at the book?”

“Reach under the seat.”

Hazlett felt the aluminum container and held it in his hands.

“Don’t open it. I can’t afford to have anything happen to it. Not out here. Put it back where you found it.”

Hazlett took his time, pushing it into an indented pocket of the carpet beneath the seat.

“Fitzgibbon pushed the barrel of his gun in Hazlett’s back. “We haven’t got all day. Now walk to the edge and turn your back so that you’re facing me.”

Fitzgibbon turned. He thought he could hear a car moving towards them. “Get back into the car and put your head down.”

A dark blue sedan wheeled up next to them. It was an elderly couple who waved to Fitzgibbon. The wife helped her husband out of the car and helped him to the lookout station. Fitzgibbon gritted his teeth. It was the last thing he needed. The couple walked up the ramp to the lookout and took pictures. His nerves were on edge. He knew he couldn’t kill the old couple without triggering a massive search, and if he let them go, they could identify them to

the OPP, especially if they hear that a British policeman was found dead from a fall at the lookout.

They left about 20 minutes later and drove down to the rocky shoreline below. Fitzgibbon watched them park their car and take more pictures, including one of the lookouts from below. He stepped back. This wasn’t what Fitzgibbon exactly had in mind and returned to his car. He offered Hazlett another cigarette.

“That old couple could finger you if they are questioned by the OPP should my body be found here or below.”

“They won’t need to. Your body won’t be found here or even near here.”

“You’re sweating Fitzgibbon and not really sure what to do.”

A few minutes later, the old couple returned and parked their car beside them. The wife, plump with a round face and silver, left her husband in the car and tapped on Fitzgibbon’s window.

“Could we impose on you or your friend to take a picture of my husband at the lookout and me? If you’re not up to it, perhaps he might oblige us.”

“I would love to,” said Hazlett, getting out of the car and waiting for them to pose on the lookout.

“If you try anything, I’ll kill you and them and take my chances. Understood.”

“All I ask is that they leave here unharmed.” Hazlett grabbed the left arm of the man and helped him navigate the ramp. He could feel the sudden breeze on his forehead and smell the flowers in the field for the first time. The darkness of the forest that edged the field nearby beckoned but he wasn’t sure he could make the run to hide in it without being shot and leaving the couple to Fitzgibbon’s mercy.

“It’s a wonderful sight,” said Marge, helping her husband out of the walker and to the wood railing of the

lookout. “The lake has such a wonderful hue. It takes your breath away.”

They returned to their car a few minutes later and drove away. When they were out of sight, Fitzgibbon ordered Hazlett out of the car. “Just as before. Go to the edge of the cliff and turn and face me.”

Hazlett looked down. A passing boat was heading for the shore. “You may want to wait a bit.”

“What’s happening?”

“Come and see for yourself.”

Fitzgibbon could hear the motor as the boat got closer. He walked to the edge of the cliff beside Hazlett. Fitzgibbon looked down. A second later, Hazlett knocked the gun out of his hand and kicked it a few feet away. Fitzgibbon threw Hazlett to the ground and reached for his gun. He stood up and pointed it at Hazlett.

Fitzgibbon glanced down at the pier where the boat was moored. The occupants of the boat were piling into a car next to the dock. The car went up the road and disappeared a short time later.

“Now, go to the edge of the cliff and jump down. If you don’t, I swear I will kill you where you stand and take my chances.”

Hazlett walked to the edge of the cliff. He breathed in the beauty of the lake and turned. He closed his eyes and saw an image of his crew, their dead bodies floating around him in the cold waters of the Channel.”

He opened his eyes and stared at Fitzgibbon.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ashford picked up the phone. “Frank. It’s Harry Ashford. Are we set to go?”

Frank Mullins had a hoarse voice but as a market maker, he was the absolute best. ”I’ll call five minutes after the market opens.”

Ashford turned to Quick. “Did you get your cheque?”

Quick grinned, producing an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and waving it at Ashford. “It’s for 100,000 dollars. Remind me never to play poker with you.”

“Then leave here now and take it to your bank and cash it. And tell them you want the money in your account before noon. Just be back here before the market opens.”

Quick and Witherspoon filled him in on Quick’s conversation with Kripps at eight o’clock. “You could almost feel the greed in his eyes in his laughter. He bought it all.”

Nina entered and sat down beside her father in their makeshift war room. “Did the guys get their money?”

Ashford nodded and broke out in a laugh.

“Then let the battle begin,” she laughed. She was dressed in a navy blue business suit and a pale pastel blue blouse. Her makeup reinforced her business look, and she stood and rubbed her father’s shoulders. “How was your arthritis last night?”

“Fine. Fine.” Ashford looked up at his daughter. “There was no hint of rain last night, and I managed to get seven

hours of solid sleep. I’m ready to go big game hunting.”

He turned to Witherspoon. “How about that OPP officer and that English police Inspector? I’d like to see them before the shouting begins.”

The sun from Ashford’s large floor-to-ceiling window lit up Witherspoon’s face. “Neither is here at the moment. Inspector Hazlett left a short time ago with Fitzgibbon, the publisher, and Cpl. Kean has not yet arrived.”

“Leave word with Anderson that I would like to see them as soon as they arrive. I’ll have their heads if they fail to arrest Julian’s killer and are unable to return my stolen books.”

“Before I forget, Drew Addington slipped a note under my door, stating that he hears of some kind of coup being planned against our company,” said Nina. “That says something about him, I think.”

Ashford nodded. “It does, indeed. Ask him to see you and tell him and his family not to take sides. Nothing more.”

Nina left to track down Drew. He was still at breakfast, and his face lightened as soon as she entered the dining room. She waved to him. “We need to talk.”

Lacey Dunes brightened. “Three-to-one she’s forgiven him.”

Nina ignored her comment. Gillian, who had been chatting with Drew, folded her hands on her lap. Cassandra, who had been looking at her watch every two minutes, looked anxious. She had seen Fitzgibbon drive off with Hazlett and didn’t have good feelings about it. Randall looked at Nina and Drew and smiled.

“Did you read my note?” said Drew as they sat down in the reception hall.

“I did, and thank you. I told my father, and he told me to tell you he appreciates what you did and to tell you that your family would be unwise to take sides.”

He looked into her eyes and took a deep breath before

hugging her.

“If I were you, I would relay my father’s advice to our family as soon as we finish talking.”

“My father already told me your father is a sly old fox, and he’s betting his money on him.”

He reached out for her hand but she moved it away. “We’ll talk later when we have the time.”

His face brightened. “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

Nina returned to the war room; her father was on the phone with his market maker. His eyes were dancing as he replaced the receiver and noticed her for the first time.

“More than 500,000 shares of our stock have been shorted already, and we’ve just begun. Our stock is down 10 dollars a share. It’s Christmas all over again.”

“What are the brokers saying?” said Nina.

“They’re going with the flow and adding to the downturn. They can’t keep up with the panic calls from their clients.”

Witherspoon paused in the doorway. “We’re getting flooded with calls from all the big newspapers and news agencies. Trudy Sherman, the reporter from The Gazette, is hounding me for a comment and an interview with you.”

“By all means. Let Sherman know we’re available any time for her.”

Witherspoon left to find her and returned a few minutes later with her. She was carrying a tape recorder along with her pad for notes.

“There’s a run on your stock, Mr. Ashford. Everybody is asking why. There’s also talk about a group of rich investors who are trying to put you out of business.”

Ashford didn’t respond immediately. He tried to look concerned. “We’re not sure,” he began. “Our earnings are meeting all expectations and then some. We recommend that our investors stay put and ride it out. As far as this so-

called group, I can’t comment. It’s news to me.”

Trudy was leaving to call in her story when the phone rang. It was Frank, their market maker. Your stock is down another 12 dollars a share – that’s 22 dollars in just two hours.”

Witherspoon returned with a broad smile. “Nobody can quite believe what they’re seeing or hearing. A lot of panic out there. Some of our friends are dumping their shares as well, adding to the rout.”

By noon, Ashfords had lost 28 dollars a share and showed no signs of a rally.

“Frank tells me that our friends, who started all this, are still shorting. At some time, they’ll need to cover their shorts. We need to get there first and buy like no tomorrow. We’ll be buying thousands of shares at distressed prices.”

“Put in an order for one million shares just before closing. We’ll see how the market reacts in the morning before updating our strategy if need be.”

If it’s still declining, put in an order for another 500,000 shares. That’s when the panic will set in with our friends as they scramble to cover themselves and drive our stock price may be even higher.”

Drew met Nina again that afternoon. “My father asked me to thank you for your sage advice. We hold Ashfords, as you know, and even bought more to support your father.” Then, after a pause: “Do you have time to share a cocktail with me?”

“Perhaps tonight. But right now, I’m swamped.”

“Then what about tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.”

***

Trudy was the last one to come to lunch. She looked as though she had no sleep. Her hair was not brushed, and she wore no makeup. Trudy sat down and sighed. “Any sign of

Kean or Hazlett yet?”

All eyes turned to Cassandra, who was talking to Randall at the far end of the table. “Inspector Hazlett left with Fitz before breakfast. They did not tell me where they were going.”

“Corporal Kean hasn’t shown up yet either. Something’s afoot,” said Giorgio.

Alan Simmons was sober for a change. He was sitting next to Lacey Dunes, who was feeding him coconut cream pie from her fork. Simmons spotted me. “You’re friendly with Kean and Hazlett, Anderson. Have they gone into hiding to avoid telling us they’re unable to pin the murder of Ashford’s son on any of us?”

“Neither gentleman has confided their whereabouts to me. The last time I saw either of them was yesterday, and, as far as I know, they both planned to be here well before lunch. I’m as curious as you are.”

Trudy Sherman stood. “My paper wants an update on Julian Ashford’s murder. I was hoping to have something to tell them. All I can report is that neither policeman turned up to arrest the killer as they said they would. I’ll wait another hour to see if they turn up and what they have to say.”

Ashford put his feet up on his desk and smiled at his daughter. “Had three calls, one after the other, beginning with Kripps, asking what was going on. I told them I was hoping someone would tell me that I was in panic. I could hear their laughter in the background.”

“What are they saying about the sell-off in our stock?”

“They pretend they didn’t know and asked me if I knew.”

Bart Quick knocked and entered. “Had a call from Kripps to thank me.”

“He may be singing a different tune tomorrow. He called me as well to gloat. None of us should take his calls

tomorrow. He and his pals will be facing insolvency or bankruptcy.”

“I’m having all my calls screened. So should you and Mr. Witherspoon. Before you leave, Mr. Quick, check the stocks of everyone concerned and short their stocks if there is any sign of weakness. We’ll buy them back when they hit bottom.”

Nina watched her father. She had learned a lot today and how he never wavered for a second but she also something was bothering him. It was Julian. He needed closure.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hazlett opened his eyes. Kean was pointing the barrel of his revolver against Fitzgibbon’s head.

“If you do not drop your gun immediately,” I will put a bullet through your head.”

Fitzgibbon dropped his gun and raised his hands. Kean kicked it close to Hazlett, who picked it up as Kean handcuffed Fitzgibbon from behind.

Kean put Fitzgibbon in the back seat of his car. “We’ll drive back to my car while you keep your eyes on him.”

“Before we go,” said Hazlett, “I have a present for you,” he added, reaching down beneath his seat and felt for the aluminum container. He grabbed it in his hands and held it up.

“Is this what I think it is?”

Hazlett nodded.

“Then let’s get to hell out of here,” said Kean, starting the car. “If he tries any monkey business, use his gun on

him.”

Kean drove along the winding road to where his squad car was parked and stopped Fitzgibbon’s car behind it. “I’ll radio to have it towed away.” He hauled Fitzgibbon out and pushed him into the back seat of the squad car. “First stop. OPP Detachment, where he can be locked up. You can take over from there.”

Twenty minutes later, Kean escorted Fitzgibbon into the detachment. “I want him in a cell by himself. He tried to kill a fellow policeman and doesn’t deserve anything.”

Constable Wilson, a young man with a brush cut and long arms, pushed Fitzgibbon down the cellblock hall. He unlocked Fitzgibbon’s cuffs, pushed him inside and locked the door.

“Would you have something to eat? I haven’t had anything since last night.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up,” said Wilson as he walked away.

“I forgot to ask him something,” said Hazlett. “I’ll just be a minute.” He returned five minutes later, shaking his head.

*** Kripps showed up an hour later. “I need to see Ashford. Now.”

“I’m not sure he’ll want to see you after the stunt you and your associates tried to pull,” said Witherspoon.

“You told him or Quick did, didn’t you.”

“He told us. Mr. Ashford has a way of knowing things in a way none of us understand.”

“How?”

“We’re not sure. And for the record, Bart and I are strong believers in loyalty. So does Mr. Ashford.”

Witherspoon lit a cigarette and offered one to Kripps, who shook his head.

“Can you at least ask him? Tell him we’re prepared to talk about a deal. And what about my 100,000 dollars?”

“Do you want me to ask him or not? If you don’t, you won’t stand a snowball’s chance.”

“Just ask.”

Witherspoon knocked and entered Ashford’s office. Ashford was talking to Nina and didn’t look up.”

“Mr. Kripps is here, Mr. Ashford. I told him I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk to him. He says he’s prepared to talk about any kind of deal you want to make. He also wants his money back.”

“Please ask Mr. Quick to join us, Mr. Witherspoon. And show our good friend in.”

Witherspoon was smiling when he returned to his office.

“Good news?”

Witherspoon nodded. “He’ll see you now.”

“What mood is he in?”

“I’m not sure.” Bart Quick met us at the door. “What’s this about?” he said, eyeing Kripps. Witherspoon flashed him a smile and knocked, opening the door for Kripps and Quick to enter.

Kripps sat down in the same chair and never felt so nervous in his life. “I’m here, Mr. Ashford, on behalf of my associates and myself, and to apologize in our attempt to take over Ashfords and ask if it were possible to help us climb out of the hole we dug for ourselves.”

Ashford remained silent and just looked at him. Kripps moved uneasily in his chair. He slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and started to open the package when he was stopped by how Ashford looked at him. He slowly returned the package to his pocket.

“Give me one good reason why I should. You conveniently forget the call you and your confederates made to me yesterday and your laughter before you replaced your

phone receiver.”

“What can we do to get back into your good graces? Tell me, and we’ll do it.’

“I knew you and your friends would be visiting me. I’ve given it some thought, and here are my conditions.”

“First, Ashfords will take over your company completely, and you will operate it for me and answer only to me. I will be the chairman and you, the president.”

Kripps nodded, feeling there was more.

“I also want 51 per cent ownership of the companies operated by your associates and act as chairman for each of them.” Then, after a pause: “You and your associates will continue to operate them profitably. If I find they’re underperforming, you and your friends will be replaced. Take it or leave it. The offer expires today,”

Kripps sat back. It was better than he expected. “I understand. Do I have your permission to call and ask them to either agree or disagree? I will do this now and get back to you in a few minutes.”

Kripps returned a half-hour later. His hair was dishevelled. He sat down and started lighting one cigarette after another.

“We had a holdout. Let me quote what he told me: There’s no way in hell that I’ll allow Harry Ashford to control 51 per cent of my company.

“After tomorrow, it won’t be for 51 per cent but 60 per cent. It’s entirely up to your holdout. Be sure to get everyone’s acceptance in writing and have it back to me tomorrow.”

“I don’t know about the others but for me, it’s a lesson I’ll never forget. It’s saved us all from bankruptcy.”

Witherspoon appeared. “A message for you, Mr. Kripps. The person would like to talk to you on the phone in my office.”

Kripps hurried down the corridor to Witherspoon’s of-

fice. “I’m in,” said Emerson. “He’s got us over the barrel, and he knows it.”

Ashford smiled when Kripps relayed the news. “I thought that might be the case.” Then, after a pause: “I’d like to head back to Toronto and get their signatures on our agreement and bring them back to you tomorrow.”

Nina watched him go. “You don’t seem happy, father.”

Ashford looked at her. She could see the tears forming in the corner of his eyes.

“Money is a cold comfort most often.” He raised his head to look at the ceiling, where he had a picture painted of his wife. “You can have everything but not able to have the one thing you want most.”

Nina knew he was talking about Julian. Perhaps the OPP will have answers and give us closure.”

Kripps felt released as he walked down the corridor. At least they all would be given a crack at Ashfords down the road, only this time from the inside.

As he started down the stairs, he found himself having trouble swallowing. A cold sweat and suddenly wanting to vomit made him feel dizzy, and he fell headlong down the stairs.

Randall heard the noise and rushed out of the dining room, followed by Rowley and Trudy Sherman. “He’s having a heart attack,” said Randall. “Someone call for an ambulance.”

Trudy bent down. “A shot of Brandy wouldn’t do him any harm. I know him. His name is Kripps. I interviewed him once when I was on the business beat.”

“Has anyone called for an ambulance,” Randall shouted at the circle of faces around him.

“I will.” Trudy ran off in the direction of the reception hall, returning a minute later. “They’re on their way.”

Witherspoon appeared at the head of the stairs a minute later. “I heard shouts. What’s happening?”

“Your guest, Kripps, is having a heart attack,” said Trudy. “I’ve just called for an ambulance. I hope it arrives in time.”

Lacey Dunes arrived with a glass of Brandy for him.

“Feed it to him slowly,” said Randall.

Witherspoon ran down the stairs and knelt beside Kripps while taking off his suit jacket and folding it before putting it under his head.

Lacey got to her feet after helping him sip the Brandy. Kripps closed his eyes. “Try to breathe normally. An ambulance is on its way.”

Witherspoon stood. “Mr. Ashford needs to be informed.” He ran up the stairs two at a time and rang down the corridor until he opened the door to Ashford’s office, breathing hard.

“It’s Kripps. He’s had a heart attack and fell down the stairs. An ambulance has been called.”

Ashford shook his head. “I’ll come down with you.”

The news seemed to sap his energy and strength. Nina helped him to his feet. “I’m coming with you.”

A few minutes later, Ashford knelt beside Kripps. He took his hand and rubbed it. “We’ll be with you until the ambulance arrives, and Mr. Witherspoon will stay with you and make sure you’re looked after properly. I’ll call my cardiologist in Toronto and have him in Goderich in two hours. Don’t worry. You’re in good hands.”

Tom Beasley, the caretaker, saw Kean and Hazlett coming up the stairs and opened the door to them. Kean stopped as soon as they entered. “What’s this?”

Randall looked at Ashford, who was focused on Kripps, spoke first. “One of Mr. Ashford’s business associates has had a heart attack. We’ve called an ambulance.”

Kean took off his cap and rubbed his forehead. “You have a house of surprises, Mr. Ashford.”

Ashford didn’t respond. He looked at Nina, who

helped him up. “Ask Mr. Quick to bring down one of my injections. He’ll know which one.”

Quick ran down the stairs and knelt beside Kripps. He produced a syringe and was about to give him an injection.

“What’s this?”

“Morphine. And if you want to live, you’d better have it. It will help you.”

The ambulance arrived 10 minutes later. Two men jumped out with a stretcher. One of them took off Kripps’ jacket and was about to give him an injection.

“We just gave him an injection,” said Quick. “We keep two shots here should Mr. Ashford suffer a heart attack. We do so on the advice of his cardiologist. He has already had one attack, and it nearly killed him.”

The attendants lifted Kripps on the stretcher. Tom held the door open for them as they carried him to the ambulance. Witherspoon left to sit in the ambulance with him.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, let us adjourn to the dining room. The moment of truth has arrived,” said Kean.

“Does that mean we’ll be able to leave?” said Randall. “It does.”

The table gave him a loud cheer. Trudy took out her notepad and tape recorder. Ashford had to be helped to his chair at the head of the table.

“It all started with the theft of Mr. Ashford’s books.” He nodded to Hazlett, who produced the aluminum container containing the books. He passed it to Ashford, who opened it and looked at Kean.

“If you’re going to thank us, the person who rescued the books for you is Inspector Hazlett.”

Ashford smiled and relaxed for the first time. “And to think I didn’t accept Mr. Fitzgibbon’s gift to me.”

“It was hidden in a second aluminum container below the first one. Out in plain sight for everyone to see,” said Hazlett.

“The inspector can even tell you how it was stolen and how the thief escaped unnoticed,” Kean went on.

Everyone turned towards Hazlett.

“There is a fake wall between Mr. Ashford’s office and his library. The space between the fake wall and his office is just large enough for a slim person could hide and escape later.”

He went on to explain that he and Kean had discovered this when they inspected the plans and subsequent updates over the years. “We also learned we were not the only ones to ask about the plans of the abbey in recent weeks. The question for Corporal Kean and me was who. We pretty well had an idea why and decided early on that the person who killed Julian Ashford was also the person who stole the books.”

Simmons was shaking his head. “It’s not the way I would have plotted it. “ He looked at Hazlett as if for support.

Kean ignored him. “It was also the inspector who figured out how Julian was murdered.”

“It was ear-rings,” said Hazlett. ”It was Nina Ashford’s comment about her brother being scared of cats and the reaction in Cassandra’s eyes and the way she felt her ear-rings at the time. That and the fact of being the only woman to wear earrings.”

“The silence was deafening. Everyone looked at Cassandra. She looked at the table and didn’t look until Trudy Sherman nudged her. “Where’s Fitzgibbon, Cassandra?”

“I don’t know. All I see is darkness when I see him.”

“It’s Fitzgibbon,” isn’t it?” said Trudy.

Hazlett nodded. “What clinched it for me the ear-ring we found in the forest. It was stolen from my room.

“That’s pretty slim evidence,” said Simmons, trying to look smart.

“I met with Mr. Fitzgibbon this morning. We drove

down to the beach to get away from everything. He admitted to me, after questioning, that he had stolen the books, which he hid in the aluminum container containing the Book of Hours. He also admitted that he had murdered Julian, abetted by Cassandra.

“But why?” Trudy Sherman again.

“He blamed Mr. Ashford for killing his business and causing the death of his wife and his son. He wanted Mr. Ashford to suffer the way he did and know what it was like to lose a son.”

Ashford looked spellbound. “I had no idea I was so hated.” There were tears in his eyes, and Nina put her arms around him.

Cassandra was crying. “I knew he was suffering over something and had no idea what it was.” She took a deep breath and tried to settle herself by clutching the table. Her face had turned whitish-grey. The sadness in her eyes was unsettling, even to Hazlett, who grew accustomed to hearing about the deaths of fallen comrades. She folded her hands.

“What was your role in all this?” said Simmons, who looked and thought he had just lost his best friend.

“He got me to make a batch of brownies for him and include one with Oleander, a deadly poison, in case you don’t know.”

“It was no problem getting him to try it. I told him it was a new way to get high. He became ill almost immediately and started to vomit in the sink. That is when I left him.”

“Where is Fitzgibbon now?” said Trudy.

“Under lock and key in one of our cells,” said Kean. “He tried to kill Inspector Hazlett to prevent the inspector from exposing him. I arrived just in time to prevent it.”

“I liked Fitzgibbon,” said Randall. “He was a great entertainer but I also sensed a dark side.”

“Is he all right?” said Cassandra.

“He’s in jail for the moment,” said Kean, who was struck by the suddenness in the room. “If you want to see him, I can arrange a cell next to his for you.”

Cassandra nodded. She tightened her lips and bowed her head.

“I have to admit, he was the last person on my list,” said Simmons, pausing to make sure he had everyone’s attention. “It was Fitz who got me interested in acting as an amateur detective while I was here. He thought it would be great publicity for my book.”

“What about the grave that was dug in the abbey graveyard?” said Randall.

“My doing, I’m afraid,” said Simmons.” It was another one of Fitz’s ideas. For him, it was a great way to sell books. He is a bit of a showman.”

Trudy Sherman had been scribbling everything he was saying. “I have a question, Mr. Simmons. Did you also act as the old abbot some of us saw one night?”

Simmons shook his head. “Not me.”

She turned to Ashford. “Then who?”

“Perhaps, Mr. Fitzgibbon,” said Arden Rowley.

All eyes turned to Hazlett, who smiled at Kean. “I asked Fitzgibbon that when he was taken to his cell. He says it wasn’t him.”

Ashford was drumming his fingers on the table and glancing at his watch. He had an announcement to make and needed Nina there when he would announce that she would take over as CEO of Ashfords.

He turned to Witherspoon. “See what’s holding her up.”

Witherspoon left immediately. Ashford kept looking at his watch and grimacing. He was never good at waiting.

“Something’s up,” said Trudy to Drew Addington, who suddenly looked anxious.

Witherspoon arrived, breathing hard five minutes later and whispered something to Ashford, who rose. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. “Duty calls.”

Ashford knew the news was bad. He could read it in Père Routier’s eyes. Père Routier reached out for Ashford’s arm.

“It’s Nina, Mr. Ashford. “She died in her sleep. Probably of a heart attack.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jim Carr began his adventure with words as a teacher of Latin Grammar for five years after studying the language for seven years. He has a degree in Classics and English. He has written a Latin Grammar – Lingua Latina, Latin for Beginners

A lengthy career followed this in print journalism on two different newspapers as a reporter, columnist and editor. He left to become a communications specialist for a number of national and international corporations and institutions.

He returned to journalism in retirement and acts as associate editor of Spa Canada magazine and freelancing for other publications.

He has written an ebook about outstanding Thai resorts and their spas, called Spa Magic. His three mystery novels, Gravediggers, Death Star and Rogues Retreat. His book of short stories, Betrayal, and a wartime romance, There’s Always Tomorrow, are available as ebooks and as print books on Amazon, Kobo, Barnes And Noble and iBooks.