Page 76 of A Spell of Midlife Mayhem

‘Okay. Well, I might come for a flying visit in a few weeks if I can squeeze enough space into my work calendar.’

I chuckled. ‘That’d be great, Rach.’

***

AT CHIRTLEWOOD, THE police allowed us to reopen the library.

I stood at the doorway, looking in. It gave me the chills that someone I knew, even slightly, had been murdered in there two days before.

Or maybe the room itself was chillier than before.

‘Have you talked to Charlotte or any of the others about Ronald?’ I asked Lydia after she came upstairs to swap places with Penny, who had been patrolling with me.

Lydia nodded. ‘They didn’t see or hear anything. Charlotte gave a quite vivid account of what she and the earl were doing at the time, though.’

‘I got the abridged version, thankfully. She took me to the Apothecary’s Potions and Scrolls yesterday. The man there told me that no one had offered to sell him a witch’s spell book. I left my number in case someone turned up with it.’

‘Hold on. Charlotte went with you?’

‘Yes, she showed me the way. The earl and Maisey came too.’

‘That’s amazing! They’ve never done that with me.’

What should I say to that? Did Lydia think I was boasting that I had a better relationship with the Chirtlewood ghosts than she did, even though I’d only been there a few days? She might feel upset or slighted by that.

Instead, she smiled. ‘I think Charlotte must really like and trust you.’

A warmth spread through me. Spontaneously, I gave Lydia a hug, which she reciprocated.

‘Wow. What was that for? I’m not complaining, mind you.’

I separated. ‘For being you. I like and trust you too. I’m sure we’re going to be good friends, Lydia.’

‘Me too, Heather.’

***

IN THE MID-AFTERNOON, I summoned enough courage to enter the library rather than experience the chill and foreboding from the doorway. It seemed to lift as I circled the room, as if I were dispelling residual evil vibes by my presence. Was this another manifestation of my witchiness? I’d have to ask Aunt Ruth about it. Or maybe Lydia could tell me.

For a while, I stood in front of the shelf where the volume Ronald had been studying belonged. A few dust motes had gathered in the space. I couldn’t bring myself to grab the duster and remove them. With the spell book stolen, it seemed appropriate that the space be marked with dust.

I eyed the shelf space thoughtfully. How had the killer taken the witch’s spell book from the house? It was a large volume. Someone would have to slip it into a backpack or under a coat to hide it—it would be too obvious stuffed under a sweater. But I couldn’t remember anyone wearing a coat that day. It was summer, after all. Neither could I recall any visitors with a backpack. Usually, we ask visitors to leave their bags behind the ticket counter so they don’t accidentally knock over or damage some valuable piece of art when they turn around.

I had an epiphany. Maybe the witch’s spell book had not left the house at first. That meant it was either still here, or someone came back for it later when things had settled down a little and no one would notice them taking it away.

None of the visitors that morning had returned, though. I was sure of that. The only people here after the police let us back into the house were Lydia, Penny, Melissa and me. Surely, it wasn’t any of my colleagues?

So, maybe the spell book was still in the house, and the murderer would return for it at a later date. They must have hidden it somewhere on the same floor as the library. The killer would have climbed over a rope cordoning off the display area of a room and found a hiding place behind furniture or in a cupboard or dresser drawer.

I needed to search for it. This had to be the answer to the missing book. It remained in the house, hidden somewhere on this floor, and I’d search for it until I found it.

Lydia was talking to some visitors in the earl’s bedroom. She might be a while, because they kept asking her questions and she was a fount of knowledge. She wouldn’t disturb me.

I headed for the countess’s bedchamber.

No one else was in there. A chill breeze swept over me when I entered, similar to air conditioning when I entered the airport building after walking across the tarmac in Singapore. Only this wasn’t air conditioning—Chirtlewood House didn’t have that. It was chilly ghost air.

Charlotte might be here, or she might have left not long ago.

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