The most interesting letter of those I read was one that took Godfrey to task for abandoning the gentler, more traditional mysteries he wrote at the beginning of his career in favor of “bloodthirsty, needlessly violent trash.” Godfrey’s note on this one was a terse “no response.”
I laid the folder aside and was about to pick up another one when my office phone rang.
“Good, you’re still here,” Melba said when I answered. “Peter wants to see you right away. I told him about the boxes.”
“I’ll be right down.” Sighing, I hung up. I wasn’t in the mood for a talk with Peter, but then I realized it was a good opportunity to do a bit of sleuthing.
I picked up the letters that came with the boxes and called to Diesel. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”
I paused long enough to lock the office door behind me before following Diesel down the stairs. I found him in Melba’s office on top of her desk.
“It’s okay,” Melba said, flashing me a guilty look. “I let him get up there.”
“I guess there’s no point in arguing. You’ll keep an eye on him while I talk to Peter?”
“Of course.” Melba rubbed the cat’s head. “You go right on in.”
I knocked on Peter’s door and then opened it.
“Ah, Charles,” he said, rising from his chair. “Do come in.”
I took a seat, and Peter resumed his.
“Melba tells me that you have received a shipment of the late Mr. Priest’s archival material.” Peter tented his fingers together and regarded me owlishly.
“Yes, the boxes arrived today.” I leaned forward and handed him the two letters. “It’s all very well organized, so he must have been planning this for some time.”
Peter read through the letters quickly. He laid them on his desk. “No doubt. Given the colossal ego that man possessed, he would have assumed the college would accept his papers without demur.” He sniffed.
“I agree,” I said. “But he certainly had no idea he was going to die so soon, and in such a brutal fashion.”
“One cannot pretend to feel sorrow for such an unmitigated bastard, despite the distasteful manner of his death. The drivel he wrote will sell even better now, though he won’t be able to reap the benefits.” Peter smiled with grim satisfaction.
I never suspected our library director possessed such a deep streak of vindictiveness. He really had hated Godfrey.
“His sales will jump, for a while at least,” I said. “You’re probably right about that. But I wonder who will benefit.” Oddly enough, this was the first time I had stopped to think about the matter. Who would inherit Godfrey’s wealth? Justin?
“One can only hope he made suitable provision in his will to enable the college to house and process his collection of papers. Otherwise they will have to remain as they are.” Peter lifted his chin in a determined manner as he regarded me. “I trust we are in agreement on that point.”
“Certainly,” I said. I had more than enough to do as a part-time employee. I would far rather catalog rare books than process Godfrey’s papers, despite my curiosity.
“Excellent.” Peter beamed at me.
“Barring some provision in Godfrey’s will, do you think that letter is sufficient for the college’s ownership of the collection?”
“I should think so,” Peter said. He picked up the letter and read it again. “He states his intentions perfectly clearly, though it is a great pity he did not mention any pecuniary bequest to accompany it.”
“All this is going to generate a lot of publicity for the college and for the town,” I said.
“Sadly, I fear you are correct.” Peter frowned, his distaste evident. “Why the man had to come here to get himself murdered, I simply do not understand.”
Peter colored faintly, perhaps having realized the fatuousness of that remark. I decided to ignore it.
“The whole thing is very odd,” I said. “There are a lot of things I’m curious about. For one thing, that call Godfrey made to say he was too ill to attend the dinner in his honor last night. It seems a little too pat.”
Peter didn’t respond. He just stared at me.
“I wonder if it was Godfrey who really called?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?” Peter said, his fingers tapping on his desk.
I shrugged. “Just a thought. When Melba called me, she said Godfrey had called the president’s office to inform him. Then I guess someone from his office must have called you.”
Peter’s fingers ceased their rhythmless tattoo on his desk. “Actually, that is not quite accurate.”
“Why not?”
“Melba, I’m afraid, somehow misunderstood.” Peter paused for moment. “She quite often does because she fails to listen properly, and I have spoken to her severely on the subject several times.”
I waited, and after a moment he continued.
“You see, I was the one who spoke to Godfrey and who in turn informed the president’s office, at his request.”
NINETEEN
That was definitely odd. Why would Godfrey call someone in the library, rather than the president’s office?
“When I spoke to him,” Peter continued, “he complained of a rather nasty stomach virus. He regretted the inconvenience—or used words to that effect—and asked me to pass along the word. As I did.” His fingers resumed their tattoo upon the desk.
“Out of curiosity,” I said in a diffident tone, “do you remember what time that was?”
“Around five-thirty, I suppose,” Peter said after a moment’s thought.
“Has anyone from the sheriff’s department spoken with you yet?”
“Whatever for?” Peter paled slightly. “One would not wish to be involved in something so sordid as a murder investigation.”
“No, one wouldn’t,” I said, a wry twist to my voice. “But unfortunately one already is.” I was beginning to lose patience with the man. He was being overly fastidious, in my opinion. “You might have been the last person—barring the killer, of course—to speak to Godfrey. The deputy in charge of the investigation needs to know that.”
“I see.” Peter reached for a glass of water on the credenza behind his desk and took a long swallow. He set the glass down with a hand that trembled. “Then one must do one’s duty.”
He was still pale, obviously unsettled, but apparently willing to follow through. I dictated the number of the sheriff’s department and told him to ask for Deputy Berry. He laid the pen aside and said he would call.
“Very well,” I said. “Shall I leave these letters with you?” I pointed to his desk as I stood.
“Yes, for now. I shall have Melba make copies of them for you. One imagines that the college’s legal counsel will want to keep the originals.”
“Of course. Well, if that’s all, I’ll get back to work,” I said.
Peter nodded, and I turned for the door.
“Oh dear, I almost forgot.”
I turned back. “Yes, Peter?”
He made a moue of distaste. “I received a call from the president’s office, shortly before you came, informing me that there is to be a memorial service for Godfrey this Saturday afternoon at two in the college chapel. I suppose I shall have to attend, though one could easily think of far more pleasant things to do on a Saturday.” He sighed.
“It would be the proper thing to do,” I said. “I’ll have to attend, too.”
Peter didn’t reply. I don’t think he heard me, because he had turned to look out the window behind his desk.
I left his office, shutting the door gently behind me. He was an odd duck, no two ways about it.
Diesel still sat on Melba’s desk, watching her as she worked at her computer. The keys clicked at a rapid pace, and the cat appeared mesmerized by Melba’s flying fingers.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Come on, Diesel, back upstairs.”