A Spider on the Stairs Read online

  Gibbons thanked him and went off to pay another visit to Mr. Mittlesdon.

  Bethancourt had not accompanied Gibbons to the police station, knowing he would merely be left to kick his heels there while Gibbons worked.

  Left therefore to his own devices, he decided the most he could hope to contribute was to get in touch with some of his parents’ friends and bring himself up-to-date on York gossip. It was still, he reflected, Christmastide, which meant the Heywoods would be holding open house.

  Accordingly, he turned his steps toward the Heywoods’ home in Monkgate, ruminating on what kind of reception he might receive. Among his parents’ friends the Heywoods were known for their bonhomie, considered an oddity as it was not a quality generally found in his parents’ acquaintances. It perhaps explained, however, why Bethancourt had always been on good terms with them, even during his school days, when he had frequently run into them about the city, ofttimes when he should have been in his dormitory.

  There was only a glimmer of twilight left in the sky when he turned into Monkgate and found, as he had expected, the Heywood house lit up and obviously ready to welcome visitors. He stepped up to the door and heard the unmistakable sounds of a cocktail party in full swing. Smiling to himself, he lifted and then let fall the heavy brass knocker.

  Donald Heywood himself answered the door. He looked blank for a moment and then, before Bethancourt could say anything, exclaimed, “By all that’s holy, if it isn’t young Bethancourt! Come in, lad, come in. It’s a good few years since we’ve seen you—and how are your parents keeping this season?”

  Bethancourt was swept into the house, divested of his coat while he made polite responses to Heywood’s inquiries, and introduced to the rest of the gathering. He knew about half of them, though he was not surprised to find so many new faces: the Heywoods’ circle was an ever-expanding one. Bethancourt, having had a large, mulled wine pressed into his hand, joined the party happily, renewing old acquaintances and making new ones.

  A great deal of the conversation centered around the recent flooding, and Bethancourt was inundated with questions about the situation in the Dales. Eventually, however, he managed to work his way round to introducing the topic of murder.

  No one had yet heard of the death at Mittlesdon’s, though there was some mention of the serial killing.

  “All these killers want is publicity,” opined one man, a large, robust figure in an unfortunate plaid vest. “If the media would stop playing up to them and making a cause célèbre out of all their nasty perversions, why, they’d stop killing, I warrant.”

  Bethancourt regarded him bemusedly while Peter, the Heywoods’ eldest son, refuted this view.

  “Do you know Brian Sanderson?” asked a voice in his ear, and Bethancourt turned to see another of his parents’ friends, Daphne Stearn. She nodded toward the plaid vest.

  “Happy Christmas, Mrs. Stearn,” he said. “No, I don’t think I know him. Is he connected with those Sanderson’s Carveries one sees around town?”

  “That’s right,” said Daphne. “He’s the man himself. He’s made a fortune out of the business, and is very proud of it.” Her tone indicated that in her view it was nothing much to be proud of.

  “I see,” said Bethancourt neutrally. “He seems to fancy himself a student of criminal psychology.”

  Daphne snorted.

  “Well, Phillip here should know,” Peter Heywood said, turning to him. “Didn’t I hear you had taken an interest in police work? Do you know any of the Scotland Yard people who’ve come up to investigate the serial killing?”

  “One of them is a friend of mine,” admitted Bethancourt. “But he’s been spending most of his time on this Mittlesdon’s murder.”

  “Mittlesdon?” asked Daphne, surprised. “The bookshop?”

  “That’s right,” said Bethancourt. “A young woman was murdered there over the holidays.”

  “Good God,” said Peter. “At Mittlesdon’s Bookshop? That must be some kind of sacrilege.”

  “Had you heard about that, Brian?” asked Daphne. “Doesn’t your nephew work there?”

  “He does, he does,” said Sanderson, frowning. “He didn’t say anything about it over the holidays, though.”

  “They didn’t find her until Christmas morning,” said Bethancourt.

  “Ah, well, that’ll account for it,” said Sanderson. “I haven’t seen Tony since Christmas Day. I’m sorry to hear there’s been a crime there, though—I’m quite an aficionado of Mittlesdon’s. Always popping in to see what new things he’s got.”

  “Brian thinks it makes him look intellectual,” whispered Daphne in Bethancourt’s ear.

  Bethancourt repressed a smile and answered Sanderson. “I understand Mr. Mittlesdon was quite distressed over it.”

  “But what happened?” asked Peter. “Surely the shop was shut.”

  “Nobody’s sure yet,” said Bethancourt. “I believe the working theory is that an ex-employee somehow gained access. But whether she was killed by someone currently working at the shop or by someone she brought with her is unknown.”

  Other people were being drawn in by the conversation, no doubt attracted by the mention of murder. It resulted, as Bethancourt had hoped, in a general discussion of crime in York and of Mittlesdon’s Bookshop. He fell back into a listening mode, while Daphne Stearn continued to enliven the observations of the rest of the party with her peppery commentary in his ear.

  All in all, he quite enjoyed himself, although at the end of the evening he was not sure how much useful information he had gathered. Thanks to Daphne, he could now identify several other matrons who had lost weight on his aunt Evelyn’s diet, and knew rather more than he wanted to about the indiscretions of some of York’s leading citizens. But he hadn’t really discovered much that would help the case. As in his school days, Mittlesdon’s was still looked on as a reliable place to purchase both rare manuscripts and used books. If anything, the wealthier class of York seemed to feel the bookshop’s reputation had grown, and there was talk of how Mervyn Mittlesdon had done very well for himself. In any case, there had certainly not been any scandals recently associated with the shop or its employees.

  But, reflected Bethancourt as he at length emerged from the party feeling rather tipsy, it was very difficult to tell exactly which aspect of the bookshop needed investigating. Had the murder in fact had anything to do with the business of bookselling? Or was it entirely to do with Jody Farraday’s personal life?

  Gibbons was currently involved in trying to work out the same question. He had found Mittlesdon at home in his house in Victor Street, but he seemed to know little about any of his employees’ personal lives.

  The house was in a quiet, pleasant neighborhood, one in a row of midsized Victorian terraces. In the normal way of things, it would have ample room for Mittlesdon, his wife, and his son when the latter was home from university, but at the moment it had a crowded feel. Or at least that was the impression Gibbons had, when he arrived to find a bustle of activity going on in the kitchen while a more sedate party occupied the drawing room, occasionally interrupted by the babysitters and their charges from upstairs.

  Mittlesdon made introductions in a slightly flustered manner and then ushered Gibbons into a small office.

  “There,” he said, closing the door behind them and seating himself behind the desk. “That’s better, I think?”

  He looked anxiously at Gibbons, as if the detective might have some objection to this arrangement.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Gibbons, sitting in the only other chair, a straight-backed one by the door. “I’m sorry to interrupt your holiday party, sir.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” Mittlesdon waved a hand. “This sad business must come first, of course.” He hesitated. “Might I ask how things are coming along?”

  “Well,” said Gibbons, “we’ve made a very tentative identification of the body. There’s still plenty of room for error there, but my working theory is that she was an ex-employee
of yours named Jody Farraday.”

  Mittlesdon looked considerably surprised.

  “Jody?” he echoed. “Oh, I don’t think it could be she, Sergeant. As I understood it, she left York altogether when she left the bookshop. Indeed,” he added, “I should be very sad to hear anything had happened to her—she was a very lively young lady, very well liked among the staff.”

  “It may not be her,” said Gibbons. “On the other hand, it’s not impossible that she had returned to York recently. And I understand there is a considerable physical resemblance.”

  Mittlesdon thought that over, looking a little bewildered.

  “Jody was a very tall girl,” he said. “I suppose her most striking feature was her hair—it was a bright red. But natural, not dyed. Or at least so the other women at the shop said—I know little about such things myself.”

  “Just so,” said Gibbons, hiding a smile. “In the event it is her, I should like to know anything you can tell me about her background or her family.”

  “Well, well,” said Mittlesdon, clearly still startled by the idea that the victim might be a onetime employee. “Let me see. I believe Jody was with us for two or three years. And a very good worker she was, too.” He adjusted his spectacles and directed his gaze to Gibbons. “Most people think there’s not much to do at a bookshop,” he said. “They think we spend all our time sitting about and reading. But that’s not the case at all, not at all. In fact, there’s a great deal of work to be done, quite apart from the special orders. I’m always grateful when we take on someone who’s willing to work hard.”

  Gibbons nodded patiently. “And how did you come to hire Miss Farraday?” he asked.

  Mittlesdon frowned in thought. “I seem to remember that she started early in the autumn,” he said slowly, working it out. “Yes, I believe it was that September, or just possibly October, when she joined the staff. It was after Kennedy left us at any rate.”

  “Kennedy?” said Gibbons.

  “Yes, Broderick Kennedy, a very intelligent young man,” answered Mittlesdon. “He was at university here, and stayed the summer in York after he graduated. But then he went on to a new job in Leeds in his field—computer science, it was.”

  “Which meant you had an opening at the shop,” prompted Gibbons, trying to steer the conversation back to Jody Farraday.

  “That’s right,” agreed Mittlesdon. “I believe Gareth found her. At least, he had me interview her.”

  “Gareth,” repeated Gibbons. “That would be Mr. Rhys-Jones, the shop manager?” When Mittlesdon nodded, he continued, “So as manager, he would vet job applications before passing them on to you, would he?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes—and he’s much better at it than I am,” said Mittlesdon. “Picking them out, I mean. He seems to have a knack for it.”

  “So you wouldn’t know exactly how he came to choose her?” said Gibbons, refusing to be diverted from the point.

  “Well, no,” admitted Mittlesdon.

  “What about her family?” asked Gibbons. “Did she come from York originally?”

  But here Mittlesdon was of no help at all. He did not remember Jody ever referring to any family in the area, although she seemed familiar with the city.

  “Of course,” he added, “we would have an emergency contact on file for her, but I don’t remember now who that might have been.”

  He seemed aware that he was failing to provide any useful information, because he suddenly sat up straighter and said, “But perhaps my son could help us—I’ve noticed the younger people seem to pick up all kinds of information about each other. I’ll just call him in, shall I?”

  “By all means,” said Gibbons. “Did he know Miss Farraday well?”

  “Better than I did, at any rate, although she was somewhat older than he. Still, several of the younger members of the staff sometimes go for a drink after we close up the shop.”

  “Does your son work at the shop, then?” asked Gibbons, annoyed that he had overlooked someone with such obvious access to the shop keys.

  “He helps out in the summer,” answered Mittlesdon. “He’s away at Cambridge most of the time these days, but of course he’s worked at the shop ever since he was old enough.” He opened the door and called out, “Matthew! Matthew, could you come into the office for a moment?”

  In a minute, Matthew Mittlesdon appeared, looking very much like a typical college student. He took after his mother rather than his father, being leaner and browner than Mittlesdon and with a luxuriant mop of wavy hair.

  “Jody?” he said, sounding shocked when told the news. “That’s very sad. I liked her—everybody did. I do hope you find whoever did it.”

  “Do you remember anything about her family?” asked his father.

  Matthew shrugged. “I don’t think she ever mentioned anyone to me,” he answered. “I’m fairly certain, at least, that she didn’t have family hereabouts.”

  “Was she from the area originally, do you know?” asked Gibbons. “Or do you recollect how she came to be taken on at the shop?”

  Matthew perched himself on the edge of his father’s desk, looking thoughtful. “I think she was a friend of Tony’s,” he said. “At least, I seem to remember that he put her up for the job. But it’s Gareth you should be talking to—it was an open secret that they were seeing each other.”

  “It was?” demanded Mittlesdon. “I never knew that. It doesn’t seem like Gareth at all.”

  “No, he’s usually more circumspect,” agreed Matthew with another shrug. “But Jody was like that—she brought things out in people you never knew were there.”

  Which, thought Gibbons, was a very interesting observation, given the circumstances.

  By the time Gibbons made his way from Victor Street back to the other side of the Ouse it was getting late, but he thought he could still fit in one more call. The temperature had dropped and he shivered a bit as he waited to cross the street.

  “And where the devil has Phillip got to?” he muttered to himself. As if in answer to this plaint, his mobile began to vibrate agitatedly in his pocket and he pulled off his glove to dig it out.

  “Hello,” said Bethancourt cheerfully. “Are you still at the station?”

  “No,” answered Gibbons. “I’m on my way to Rhys-Jones’ flat—it’s over on Granville Terrace, which is somewhere off of Lawrence Street, or so I was told.”

  “I know Lawrence Street,” said Bethancourt. “It’s actually just a continuation of Walmgate. I’ll meet you there, shall I, and we’ll ferret out Granville Terrace together.”

  “All right,” said Gibbons. “I’ll wait for you before I ring the bell.”

  But he found Bethancourt waiting for him instead when at last he reached the place. In truth, Gibbons, normally accustomed to working long hours without a break, was finding his return from the sick list more arduous than he had anticipated. He was also beginning to want his dinner, and to think it would have been wiser to have stopped for a meal before conducting this interview.

  “There you are,” said Bethancourt, pitching his cigarette into the gutter. “I was just beginning to wonder if you’d got lost along the way. I’ve found the house—it’s just up the street there.”

  “Good man,” said Gibbons. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Rhys-Jones had changed from the flannels and dress shirt he had worn that morning to a pair of jeans and a rugby shirt. The casual clothes looked better on his lanky frame, and caused Gibbons to upgrade his opinion of Rhys-Jones’s looks from “bookishly attractive” to simply “attractive.”

  He seemed surprised to see them, but did not demur at Gibbons’s request for another interview.

  “Of course, of course,” he said, motioning them in.

  The door opened directly into the sitting room of a modest flat, furnished with one or two good pieces and filled out with functional, inexpensive stuff. There were, as might be expected, a great many books: one entire wall had been shelved right up to the ceiling, and was fil
led to capacity with books of every description, from lavish art books to dog-eared mass-market paperbacks. In addition, there was a pile of books on one end table and another on a corner of the dining table.

  Sitting on the sofa was a slender, dark-haired woman, who threw a questioning glance at Rhys-Jones as he shut the door and hurried forward to perform introductions.

  “These are the police detectives,” he told the woman. “This is Sergeant Gibbons and Mr. Bethancourt. This,” he added, turning to the two young men, “is Laurel Brooks, my fiancée.”

  Laurel rose to shake hands with them, saying, “Gareth has been telling me about the trouble over the holidays—I’ve only just come back into town this evening.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Gibbons. “I believe Mr. Rhys-Jones mentioned you were away. Having Christmas with the family, was it?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “We all do our best to get home for the holidays.”

  “That’s nice,” said Gibbons genially. “And where’s home?”

  “Essex.” She smiled as she said it, but it did not reach her eyes; she clearly understood that this was an inquiry into her movements, no more and no less.

  “Well, do sit down,” said Rhys-Jones.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Gibbons, but he turned back to Laurel. “Could I ask you to excuse us, miss?” he said politely. “We have a few questions to ask Mr. Rhys-Jones involving details of the crime, which we would prefer to keep as confidential as possible. I’m sure you understand.”

  Both Rhys-Jones and his fiancée looked alarmed, but Laurel had little choice but to acquiesce.

  “Of course,” she said uncertainly. “I’ll just go into the study.”

  She and Rhys-Jones exchanged worried looks as she made her way out of the room, but Bethancourt thought he could detect a slight expression of relief on Rhys-Jones’s face as he watched her go.

  “Please,” he said, turning back to the detectives and gesturing toward the sofa and chairs.

  This time Gibbons took the seat offered. He was still wearing a pleasant smile, but Bethancourt, knowing him as he did, could see the cold calculation in his friend’s eyes.