Strange Capers by Joan Smith Page B

Southeastern Counties. When I opened the cover, I saw it had been marked with the Thornbury stamp, which marked most of the books in the library. I had interrupted her at her work and she hadn’t had time to notice the stamp.
    I reviewed in my mind the details surrounding the purchase and subsequent history of the Folkestone book, and moment by moment became more intrigued. Mickey Dougherty had brought the book to her attention. He had behaved very peculiarly, too, when he saw her coming out of the used-book store. She had told him she had bought a Bible, and he had said something ambiguous about the “riches” to be found in the Good Book. Was there some clue to “riches” in the Folkestone book? Was this why Rachel so carefully guarded it from Aiglon?
    Soon an even worse notion occurred to me. Was this why she didn’t want Aiglon to sell Thornbury—and why she was trying to drive down the price so she could buy it herself? This seemed too farfetched to be real, and most unreal of all was that Mickey Dougherty should have let Rachel know of the existence of the book. Why hadn’t he bought it himself and found whatever riches were to be found?
    As I stood holding the book Rachel had thumped onto the table, other recent and mysterious details occurred to me. Details like Rachel’s gathering stones in the rain in my waterproof coat and pattens. She must have been scrabbling about in the mud to have gotten the coat hem soiled. It wasn’t so long a coat that the hem dragged, especially with the pattens raising the wearer an inch from the ground with their metal bars. In my mind’s eye, I saw those little metal bars, about two inches long and four inches apart, one placed at the toe and one at the heel of each patten. That was the pattern I had seen imbedded in the earth at the ruined chapel! That’s where Rachel had gone that night—the very night of the day she had bought the Folkestone book and whisked it into her drawer when I went to her room. I was on thorns to see that book and to discover what secret it held. Was it still in her dresser drawer? Certainly it must be somewhere in her room.
    I remembered, too, that Mickey Dougherty had paid us a surprising call that evening just after Aiglon’s arrival. Rachel had been dismayed to see him. They had held a brief “business” conference in the study, after which they had both emerged, smiling. Some agreement had been struck between them then. Mickey was to get a part of the spoils, probably for his help in doing whatever had to be done to recover the treasure. The next question to think about was what the nature of the treasure or riches could possibly be. But before I had time to consider this problem, Aiglon appeared in the doorway.
    He carried a decanter of wine and two glasses, and behind him his own footman bore a platter of fruit, cheese, biscuits, and bonbons.
    “Dinner is served, ma’am,” said the footman with a bow, and walked in to deposit the treats on the table. Though we had just left the dining room, they were entirely welcome.
    “Shiftwell was kind enough to pick up these things for me in town today,” Aiglon explained. “My hopes for the kitchen were not high after his report on dinner last night, and I took the precaution of getting in emergency supplies. I shall try to banish the memory of that cod’s rebukeful gaze.”
    Shiftwell nodded in acknowledgment of his part in the affair and departed, leaving the door open behind him.
    Aiglon poured two glasses of wine and handed me one. “There is a disreputable French writer called the Marquis de Sade, whom I trust is unknown to you. I fear Rachel has been dipping into his works. She remembers my aversion to cod heads. I had some violent nightmares due to that particular portion of that particular fish when I was a child. Imagine her remembering it after all these years and serving it to me. She really is the limit. To us,” he said, lifting his glass and touching it to mine.
    We drank a