It was a beautiful chamber, with high molded ceilings, intricately inlaid floors made from precious woods, and two stories’ worth of gold-tooled leather books. There was a long wooden table in the center of the room, polished to a mirror-like sheen, and tufted burgundy leather chairs. What a wonderful place to study, Maggie decided. Too bad my days of scholarship are on hold, at least for now.
Sir Owen looked up from a volume in front of him, the thin skin around his eyes crinkling when he smiled. “Miss Hope, how lovely to see you again—this time in the library. Is there, perhaps, a mathematical tome you need to find? For the Princess’s course of study?” He rose from the desk chair. “Most of the castle’s collection is in storage, I’m afraid, for safekeeping. I’m quite proud to say we have a small but quite important group of illuminated manuscripts, including the Sobieski Book of Hours. There’s also a fine group of incunabula dating from the period before fifteen hundred, including the Mainz Psalter, the second book ever to be printed with movable metal type. But of course they’re not accessible now.”
Oh, I would love to have the opportunity to see those books. If only. “Actually, Sir Owen, I was interested in finding out if you had any knowledge of what happened to Lady Lily’s books. They’re missing from her bookshelf.”
Sir Owen gave her a quizzical look.
“Louisa and Polly wanted them,” she improvised quickly. “To remember her by.”
“Yes, of course,” he said, forehead furrowing. “Well, the kind of books Lady Lily read, romances and such, aren’t really the sort we shelve here. However,” he said confidentially, “the Housekeeper, Mrs. Beesley, is a great aficionado of love stories, mysteries, and the like—and she has a lending bookcase in her parlor for the staff to use. Perhaps they’ve found their way to her?”
“Oh, thank you, Sir Owen,” Maggie said. “Thank you very much.”
After another trip through icy winding corridors, Maggie found herself at the door of the housekeeper’s parlor. She rapped at the door. “Come in!” called a high-pitched, thready voice.
Maggie opened the door and there was Mrs. Beesley, sitting at a plain wooden desk in a small, narrow room. She was younger than Maggie had expected, with brown hair in rolls, narrow shoulders, thin lips, and a serious expression in her eyes. “Yes? May I help you?” she said.
“Hello, I’m Maggie Hope, the Princess’s maths tutor,” she began. “You must be Mrs. Beesley.”
“Yes, please come in,” Mrs. Beesley said.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Maggie thought, stepping inside. “Well, I was talking to Louisa and Polly,” she began. “The Ladies-in-Waiting.”
“Oh, it’s hard to hear those names without thinking of our poor Lady Lily.”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “And that’s what brings me here, actually. You see, Louisa and Polly wanted a few of Lily’s books, to remember her by. There were some in her room apparently, and now they’re gone—”
Mrs. Beesley’s eyes narrowed. “Now, if you’re accusing me—or my staff—of pinching those books …” Her fingers worked at the handkerchief’s hem.
“No, no, of course not,” Maggie assured her. “No one’s accusing anyone of anything. I was just hoping to find out where they’d been taken, is all. No offense meant.”
“None taken,” Mrs. Beesley said stiffly, hands still now.
“Sir Owen said you’re a great reader,” Maggie said, “and that you have a sort of lending library? Is it possible the books might have gotten in there?”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Mrs. Beesley said. “The bookcase Sir Owen’s referring to is in the hallway. You’re welcome to take a look. Or borrow a book, if you’re so inclined, of course.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Beesley.”
The bookcase was a tall one, filled with penny dreadfuls and dime novels in lurid colors, along with a few romances, Gothic horror stories, and a few copies of the King James Bible. Sure enough, there was a wooden crate next to the case, filled with romance novels. Maggie bent over to rummage through them, taking out a few books, flipping the pages. Nothing. She went through book after book with Lily’s personal bookplates, trying to be charitable about the girl’s choices in novels. Pulp romance mostly, terrible stuff, but here and there was a novel Maggie recognized. But in terms of clues, there was nothing. No letters, no notes, no scribbles in the margins.
Well, what were you expecting, exactly? Maggie thought. The name of the baby’s father in calligraphy? The murderer’s identity written on a bookplate? She pulled out Gaston Leroux’s Le Fantôme de l’Opéra and flipped through it. Nothing.