The Unkindness of Ravens by M. Hilliard (readera ebook reader .txt) 📗

have, too. Unless this was an unpremeditated, opportunistic crime, the killer had to know a weapon was at hand, or had to bring it, and roaming around the building at night with something large enough to mimic death by bookshelf would raise some eyebrows.

“Professor Plum in the library with a lead pipe,” I muttered as I continued my journey through the attic. The floor, with the exception of the board I had discovered days ago, was surprisingly quiet. Someone could have sneaked up on Joanna from either direction. I had made it to the other stairwell entrance when I heard the voices. If I hadn’t been so attuned to any possible noise, I might have missed them.

The words were indistinct but the staccato rhythm and pitch screamed argument. I eased along the wall and peeked around the corner. I saw nothing but some light coming in through the partially open door at the bottom of the stairs. I held on to the doorjamb and leaned forward, unwilling to risk my floorboard luck running out and alerting the people below.

I heard a deep voice, the volume increasing each second until it became a frustrated shout.

“I’ve seen it! I know it’s here, somewhere in all these books and letters!”

It was Vince. Could he be that upset about a missing flash drive, or was it something else?

He lowered his voice again, and said something I couldn’t hear.

I barely recognized Millicent’s voice as she responded in a low hiss, but I caught the phrase, “blackmail by any other name.” Vince spoke again. This time I caught the name Joanna, but nothing else. The sound was fading—they were moving away from the door. I would have to get closer if I wanted to hear anything else. I shifted my feet carefully, and set one foot gently on the top step, keeping to the outside of the tread and still clinging to the doorknob with one hand. I still couldn’t hear anything. I would have to go further.

I was feeling for the next step when the door at the bottom swung wide, flooding the lower steps with light. I sucked in a breath, conscious of how my white shirt would stand out in the darkness. If discovered, I could brazen it out, but given that I had just heard the word “blackmail,” a long-standing motive for murder, I would rather not be discovered. I pulled my foot quickly back, now feeling instead for the top of the stairs. I found it and stepped up, careful not to move too suddenly and risk a noise. I kept my eyes on the lower landing, my urge to flee at war with my curiosity.

A hand appeared. Long-fingered and skeletal, its pale outline ended at a silver watch clasping a bony wrist. It moved slowly, feeling along the wall as if searching for something. I blinked at the weird apparition as it moved into the stairwell. A shadow fell on the landing, and as I watched, the inky darkness took on a grotesque, elongated human form. The shadow shifted, and with it the light, and I saw that the hand was not disembodied, but ended at the cuff of a black sweater. It was Millicent reaching in. I exhaled, but my relief was short-lived. She must be feeling for the light switch, and if she flicked it on and looked up, I was well and truly caught. Time to scram.

I eased back out of the stairwell, sliding along the wall until I was back where I started, with only my head peeking down. I reached up along the wall to steady myself as I turned. My hand brushed something. A small chime sounded. I froze for an instant, and then looked toward my right hand, now immobile. A short row of bells hung along the wall; their dull brass nearly invisible in the shadowy darkness. I heard a click, and the stairwell light came on.

I moved as quickly as I dared, trying to avoid knocking anything over. When I rounded the corner to the first half of the attic I paused and looked back. The light was still on and I was sure I heard footsteps, but that might have been my fevered imagination. I took off again, zigzagging around boxes and piles until I could grip the newel post and swing around and onto the stairs. I kept both hands on the stairwell walls to keep from falling, and when I got to the bottom, I pushed the door gently shut, keeping the knob turned until the door was in the frame to avoid the telltale click. It closed silently. All those years of sneaking around spying on my older sister had paid off.

I flew down the next flight of steps. Once again, I stopped short of the hallway and reconnoitered. Not empty as I’d hoped. There was a man standing at the opposite end studying the large leaded-glass window. He stepped back from it and looked up, and I took the opportunity to walk briskly across the hall to the stairs opposite. Once out of sight I was off again, covering the distance to the kitchen in record time. When I got there and shut the door behind me, I was panting and my heart was racing. I needed to get more exercise, perish the thought. Only so much of this was attributable to adrenaline. I took deep breaths as I made myself a cup of tea to take back to the reference desk, as was my usual habit. Time to act casual, and sort out what I’d learned.

Business remained steady, but slower than it had been that morning. People were still drifting in and out, pausing to gossip in the guise of expressing concern. I needed to get work done. I wanted all to be orderly and shipshape in my area of the library. I always did, but more so since finding Joanna. Like Caesar’s wife, she who finds the body must be above reproach. No matter,