Murder in the Library and Other Stories

Mystery … Romance … Anne Boleyn … Humour … Ghost … Warning

Sandra Golding has had several stories broadcast on the radio, and published in women’s magazines

“ … one of our very best writers ”- My Story Magazine

CONTENTS

Murder in the Library 3

Out to Impress

Going Places

The Letter

Anne Boleyn

Romance in the Air

Close to the Edge

Beth’s Story

Be Mine

I Re-run Replica

Murder in the Library

The tea shop was fairly busy.

“Is anyone sitting here?” the tall attractive woman asked the man at a corner table by the window.

“No,” he replied with a smile. She sat down, putting her handbag on her lap, and studied the menu.

“A pot of tea please and chocolate cake,” she said when the waitress came up to take her order. She looked out of the window at the people strolling leisurely about in the warm May sunshine. The village clock was striking four.

She glanced at the man sitting at her table. He was about her age, late-thirties, dark-haired and had a permanent tan of the well-to-do.

Slipping off the jacket of her pale blue linen suit she draped it over the back of her chair and tucked her crisp white blouse into the skirt. She patted her short blondе hair into place. There was a steady murmur of polite conversation and the tinkling of teacups, and, what bliss, no piped music. The waitress placed her tea and cake on the table. The man pushed the bowl of sugar over to her.

“No thank you,” she said. “I don’t take sugar, but I love chocolate cake.”

They both laughed.

“I’m Clive Hamilton.”

“Susan Williams.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” said Clive, draining his cup. “Do you come from around here?”

Susan shook her head. “No. I’ve come down from London, just for the afternoon.”

“And what brings you to our fair village?”

“Actually I came down to see if Ducketts had any second hand books I wanted to buy.”

“Oh, do you collect them?” asked Clive.

Susan poured the tea. “No, I mean yes. It’s my job. I work for a bookshop in London, Hibberts in Charing Cross Road.” She took a sip. “Mm, lovely and hot. I go around the country seeing what I can buy.”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you buy anything from Ducketts?” His large brown eyes twinkled.

“Oh, no, they didn’t have anything we еspecially wanted. Do you work around here?”

Clive told her he worked from his house just outside the village, selling this and that. All he really needed was a telephone and fax machine. He lived alone expect for a couple, Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, who ‘did’ for him. Thursday was their day off and Mrs. Palmer always left him something cold for lunch and supper. He made it a habit of coming into the teashop on Thursdays.

As he chattered on Susan looked at his handsome face. He talked with confidence, smiling easily. His open necked sports shirt had an expensive cut about it and on his wrist gleamed a gold watch. Susan looked at him admiringly.

“And is Mr. Williams in the same business?” Clive was asking, his attention drawn to the wedding ring she kept twisting.

“No, we’re divorced.” Susan picked up a fork and toyed with the cake. Clive sat back and looked at her.

“You’re a very good looking lady, if I may say so.”

Susan smiled modestly. “Thank you.”

“Talking of books,” said Clive, “I have a library full of books at home. Came with the territory.”

Susan jerked her head up. “Have you?”

“Yes, I believe some are first editions. Ducketts often tell me I could be sitting on a gold mine. They want to come up to the house. Probably want a bargain for their shop.”

Clive studied her for a minute. “I say, why don’t you come and have a look? I’d be interested to know what they’re worth.”

Susan shook her head. “ I couldn’t possibly, but thank you very much.”

“Do come.” Clive’s voice was coaxing.

Susan hesitated. “Well, I’m catching the 6.22 back to London, perhaps another time.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to catch your train.” Clive pointed out of the window to a gleaming white Rolls Royce parked at the kerb. “My car’s outside and I’ll run you back to the station in good time.”

“I’m impressed.” Susan laughed nervously. “All right. Thank you. I’d love to. If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all.”

Clive insisted on paying her bill and they were soon gliding out of the village and purring along country roads.

“Don’t look so worried,” Clive chided, “you’re in safe hands.”

Susan tried to smile. She got him a sideways glance. “I’m sure I am,” she said, playing with the clasp of her bag.

After ten minutes they turned off at a sign marked ‘Private Property’, swept up the drive, pebbles crunching beneath the tyres, and pulled up outside a Georgian-style house.

Clive opened the front door and showed her into the large, spacious hall with its gleaming chandelier, plush red carpet and sweeping staircase. He lead her into the library. Susan’s first impression was the smell of leather. The walls were lined with leather bound books. Leather chairs and a leather settee were arranged round the marble fireplace. The handsome writing desk was inlaid with leather. Above the fireplace was a 19^th-century painting of a groom holding a horse by its bridle. They both sported a disapproving look.

Susan made her way to the French windows at which hung long brocade curtains woven in gold and silver thread. Beyond the windows was a terrace leading on to well laid out grounds.

The room faced west and the setting sun of the early evening cast long shadows over the lawn. Some late spring daffodils had already dozed off and the birds were having final day’s squawk.

“I’m afraid I can’t offer you more tea,” said Clive opening the cocktail cabinet. “Would you like a drink?”

Clive came up to her. Just then a door slammed somewhere in the house. “That’s funny, that was the front door.” Clive frowned and strode out of the room.

Before long he was back. “That was the Palmers. They were on their way to the pictures, but she forgot her specs so they had to come back. They’ll be off again when she finds them.”

“Perhaps I will have that drink after all,” said Susan. She wandered over to one of the book shelves and examined a first edition.

“Come and sit here,” said Clive patting the settee. He had set two glasses down on a table. Susan settled herself beside him and took a gulp of whisky.

“Why don’t you take off your jacket,” suggested Clive as he gently eased her out of it.

Susan took another gulp. She was feeling hot and her crisp white blouse had long since wilted. Putting the glass down, she drew herself to her feet and walked back to the book shelves. She was still gripping her handbag. She looked at the books without seeing them and wondered if she shouldn’t have come, if it wasn’t all a mistake.

Susan cleared her throat. “Do they have a car?”

“Who?”

“The Palmers?”

“Heavens yes. I’d never get anyone to stay unless I provided transport.”

“Perhaps they could give me a lift to the…”

Just then the front door slammed again. The Palmers were off to be entertained.

Susan felt frantic. Her feet were like lead. She was breathing heavily. She couldn’t speak and couldn’t move. In a haze she saw Clive coming towards her. He was speaking but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

The shrill ring of the telephone made her jump.

Clive snatched up the receiver. “Yes. How much did you get? Clever boy. I’ll be in touch. Bye.” He hung up and turned and faced Susan. “Business is booming, I’m glad to say.”

Suddenly Susan calmed down. “What business did you say you were in?”

Clive stared at her. “I thought I told you. This and that.”

“I know what business you are in. You’re a peddler in human misery and suffering.”

“What on earth are you talking about, my dear?”

Slowly Susan opened her handbag and drew out a gun. She leveled it at Clive.

At a stroke his confidence had gone. His face was ashen, his shoulders sagging.

“I’m going to kill you,” said Susan. “You killed my daughter and now I’m going to kill you.” She fought back the tears. “Victoria was eighteen, for God’s sake only eighteen. She died from an overdose of heroin.” Susan jerked the gun at Clive. “Heroin she bought from you!”

Clive stared at her, frowning. Susan could see he was puzzling it out, their meeting like that.

“You see I’ve been down to the village before,” she said “gossiping with the locals, learning your habits. I went to the tea shop last Thursday. I asked someone to point you out.”

“You’re mad, quite mad.” Clive’s lips were dry. Susan could smell the fear. “Now be a good girl and give me that..”

She pulled the trigger once, twice and he slumped to the floor, dying instantly. Susan dropped her arm and looked at his motionless body.

Through a blur of tears she could see Victoria. Victoria when she was learning to walk, staggering all over the carpet like a drunk. ‘Vicky, come to Mummy, darling,’ she had encouraged with her arms open wide. Now she could see Victoria blowing out the candles of her birthday cake and in her first school uniform – the blazer far too big, the sleeves hanging down over her hands. Look, there she is, in the school play and there she is coming last in a race on sports day. Now here she is going out on her first date – she’s so excited – and off to her first job, how thrilled she is to be earning her own money; the first week’s gone on clothes and make-up.

Just the three of them, John, Victoria and her. They had called her Victoria because John had proposed on Victoria Station. He used to joke that it was a good job he hadn’t proposed on St. Pancras Station. John would be home from work now, would have read her note.

Perhaps it was their fault Victoria took drugs. Perhaps they hadn’t loved her enough or had loved her too much. Why should Victoria have needed drugs anyway? She was such a happy girl, her whole life ahead of her. Now she was gone, gone for good and nothing would ever be the same again.

Susan raised her arm, turned the gun towards herself and pulled the trigger.

( Sandra Golding is identified as the author of this Work)