If only books could talk, I could ask them. And I could ask this book what it had seen. I had the sinking feeling it would tell me it had witnessed a murder.
“He pulled a switch,” I said aloud. Giles had been telling the truth for the most part. He’d only lied about one thing—the worn, inferior copy was the one he already owned, and it was Gordon who’d found the infinitely more desirable mint copy I now held in my hands.
Well, lied about two things, I realized. He’d also killed Gordon. After all the trouble I’d taken to prove he hadn’t.
I walked over to the desk, still holding the Freeman book, and reached for the phone to dial 911.
“I’m, sorry, Meg, but I can’t let you do that.”
I turned to find Giles standing in the doorway, holding a gun. One of his elegant little antique dueling pistols.
Chapter 45
I wondered, briefly, if I should grapple with Giles. Try to take the pistol away from him. Or maybe just run away. After all, the gun was over a century old; what were the odds it still worked, or that Giles was a good shot, or even that he had enough nerve to shoot me?
Not good enough. Something about the look in his eye stopped me. He looked more capable than the usual Giles. And a lot less sane. Or perhaps I was seeing Giles clearly for the first time. He stepped into the office and inched along the side, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on me.
The Mozart piece ended just then, and the announcer told us what it was and who played it, in the molasses-smooth tones classical radio announcers cultivate, especially the late night ones.
That’s the ticket. Calm, soothing, rational.
“Giles,” I said. “Be reasonable. Let’s talk.”
He shook his head.
The announcer’s voice changed and cracked slightly, revealing his youth. Of course, now he was talking about something a lot more newsworthy than Mozart.
“A spokesperson for the Caerphilly Police Department reported that state and national authorities have been called in to assist with the search for a fugitive suspected in the murder of local antique and book dealer Gordon McCoy,” he said.
Giles chuckled.
“Chief Burke stated that the fugitive was to be considered armed and dangerous,” the announcer said.
“Barrymore Sprocket,” I said, nodding. “He stole the yard sale proceeds, and everyone thinks he’s the killer. Let’s just leave it that way.”
He shook his head.
“You’d never do that,” he said. “I know you better. You couldn’t live with yourself until you told the truth, even though it would make you look foolish, after all the time you spent trying to prove I didn’t do it.”
“And succeeding,” I said.
“Don’t think I’m not grateful,” he said. “But I just can’t let you undo all that effort.”
“Giles, you’re not a cold-blooded killer!”
“No, I’m not,” he said. “I didn’t mean to kill Gordon. I struck him in a moment of anger, that’s all. And ran away.”
“Accidentally carrying the mint condition copy of The Uttermost Farthing.”
He nodded.
“And then you came here, switched the books, and returned to our yard sale with your battered copy. Why? You’d gotten clean away—why not stay away?”
“I had to put a copy of the book back,” he said. “After all, you knew he had it. Other people might have overheard.”
“I knew he had a book he thought you wanted,” I said. “I didn’t know it was The Uttermost Farthing. I don’t recall him ever mentioning the name. I might not even have remembered R. Austin Freeman if the burned book hadn’t reminded me. If the subject ever came up, you could have picked any book at the yard sale and claimed it was the book he wanted to sell you; I’d never have known the difference.”
“Damn,” he said, his face falling slightly. “If I’d known you were that clueless—damn.”
Dad, who read far too many mysteries for his own good, was fond of saying that murderers frequently gave themselves away by their efforts to cover up their crimes, but I decided Giles might not appreciate the observation, so I held my tongue. The radio had gone back to its classical program, and more calming Mozart filled the silence.
“At least I knew precisely how to get myself cleared,” he said, after a few moments. “I knew if I just made sure all the incriminating evidence came out right at the start, so you could hear it, you couldn’t resist trying to prove me innocent.”
“My well-known weakness for rescuing strays of all kind,” I said, with a sigh.
“Well, yes, along with your tendency to think you know best and the rest of us just have to come around to your opinion.”