I found myself smiling as I walked down the corridor. Maybe they were even celebrating. We hadn't seen Giles since we'd unmasked Barrymore Sprocket as the killer. So Michael probably got to tell him the good news. I'd join them, and bask in my share of the credit. He would probably be incredibly grateful and thus glad to see me as well.

And catching up with Michael while he was with Giles wasn't a bad idea. We couldn't make up very satisfactorily with a third party around, but then we weren't likely to continue the quarrel, if he hadn't cooled down. I could probably find a way to run up a truce flag without Giles even realizing what was happening.

But when I reached Giles's office, it was empty, too. No, empty was the wrong word for anything so full of books and other objects. Temporarily unoccupied, I thought, with a smile. And even in my current antimaterialistic mood, I didn't lump in books with mere clutter. Right now, a room this filled with anything else would repel me, but Giles's office was still inviting. I sneezed a few times-the book dust again.

The harsh fluorescent overhead light was off, so the light came from a single old-fashioned lamp on the paperstrewn desk. His chair was pushed back, as if he'd just stood up. An ancient radio, nearly hidden among stacks of books and papers on the credenza behind the desk, played something I vaguely recognized as Mozart, though I couldn't have named the piece. Probably the college station's regular Sunday night cla.s.sical program.

But where was Giles? And was Michael with him? Surely Giles wouldn't have gone far leaving his door unlocked and his light and radio on. He had far too many valuable books on the shelves, not to mention all the a.s.sorted antique objects littered among the books-the familiar academic clutter, all the coins, potsherds, and ancient weapons Giles collected, but in an off-hand, casual manner, quite unlike the fervor with which he acc.u.mulated books.

I sneezed again. More dust in the air than usual, apparently.

Odd. Most of the shelves looked the same as they had this morning, but one entire bookcase had been recently dusted. The one containing his golden age mystery collection-including the R. Austin Freeman books.

And for some reason, that shelf looked different than it had the last time I'd looked at it-was it only earlier today? I closed my eyes and tried to visualize what the shelf had looked like-the muted colors of the cloth bindings and the slightly frayed and faded dust jackets.

When I opened my eyes again, I realized what was different. Right in the middle of one shelf, among all the muted and faded colors, was a vivid red dust jacket I didn't remember seeing this morning.

I bent to look at it.

The Uttermost Farthing, by R. Austin Freeman.

Closer up, I could see that it wasn't brand new, but it was in much better condition than the other Freeman dust jackets. Its color, behind the plastic cover, was intense and unfaded, its edges crisp and sharp. Was it a much later book, or perhaps a reproduction?

In either case, it hadn't been there before. I'd have noticed that intense red. Especially since it would have been at my elbow this morning, when I was contemplating Giles's collection of Freeman books. I remembered that there had been at least one gap in that shelf, and now it was completely filled. I'd certainly have noticed the t.i.tle, thanks to its a.s.sociation with the murder, and I think, despite my wariness of the protective plastic cover, I'd have pulled it out and examined it.

As I did now.

Copyright 1914, so it wasn't a newer book. And close up, I could see the minute signs that it wasn't brand new. Not a reproduction. Definitely a much healthier twin to the half-burned book Horace had found in his grill. In fact, a near-mint-condition copy of the book's first edition. I felt a brief pang of sympathy for the book, which showed all the signs of having survived more than ninety years on this planet unread, and for that matter, rarely opened. I thought briefly of my own less rarified library. I tried to take reasonable care of books, but still, some of my books showed signs that I hadn't always given them kid glove treatment. My complete Sherlock Holmes bore light flecks of the spaghetti sauce that had been a staple of my diet during the lean years right after college. My collection of paperback mysteries included more than one that had accompanied me, literally, into the bathtub. Occasionally, when I reread The Lord of the Rings, I would turn a page and dislodge a few glittering flakes of the rock candy I'd been eating obsessively during that long ago Christmas week when I'd first read them. They were probably less valuable, those books, but I had the irrational notion that they were happier.

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 mola.s.ses-smooth tones cla.s.sical 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 a.s.sist 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."

"d.a.m.n," he said, his face falling slightly. "If I'd known you were that clueless-d.a.m.n."

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 cla.s.sical 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."

I winced. Yes, Giles knew me too well-a lot better than I knew him. He'd played me perfectly.

"Annoying traits," Giles said. "I always found Michael remarkably cultured for an American, but I never could fathom what he saw in you." And what I heard in his tone made it all the more insulting-not hate, or anger, but puzzlement and vague distaste.

Not to mention the ominous past tense. I suddenly remembered the open door of Michael's empty office. Why was the door unlocked if Michael hadn't been here? Was Giles up to something in Michael's office?

Or had Michael already been here and run into Giles and his lethal little antiques. Surely if he'd done something to Michael, I'd have found- I shoved the thought away.

"Not to change the subject," I said. "But just how do you think you can get away with killing me?"

"There's still a dangerous fugitive at large," he said, nodding toward the radio. "The police will find me, dazed and half conscious on the floor of my office, and learn that their fugitive wrested the gun away from me, shot you with it, and then coshed me over the head before fleeing with whatever cash and small valuables we had. Now put the book down."

I glanced down, and realized that I was unconsciously holding The Uttermost Farthing in front of my heart.

"It won't work," I said.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because I won't let you get away with it," Michael said, from the doorway.

Giles and I both started. I felt a flood of relief at seeing Michael alive and well. And then almost immediately wanted to kick myself for the missed opportunity. By the time it occurred to me to jump Giles while he was still off balance, he wasn't.

"Michael," Giles said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but you can't talk me out of this. Step over beside her."

"So you can shoot us both?" Michael said, without moving. "Is that what you want? Our blood on your hands?"

"Not to mention all over your books," I added.

"The police are on their way," Michael said. "I called them just now. Even if you shoot us both, they'll catch you."

Giles was glancing back and forth between the two of us. He narrowed his eyes and focused on Michael for several beats. Then he shook his head.

"No," he said. "You wouldn't stop to call the cops when you saw she was in danger. You'd just dash in and try to bluff me into giving up."

I resented his underestimating Michael's intelligence. At least I hoped he was underestimating it. Michael looked calm and confident, but then, he was an actor. He got paid to look calm and confident.

"Do you realize what you're doing?" Michael began. "Gordon was an accident. But if you shot us, there would be no way you could pretend it was an accident. Not to the police and not to yourself."

He was talking in a calm, soothing voice and, I hoped, distracting Giles. Good. Because while I hoped Giles was wrong, and Michael had sensibly called the police before barging in to rescue me, I wasn't counting on it. I waited till Giles was completely focused on Michael, and then I made my move. Unfortunately, Giles wasn't as distracted as I thought.

"Oh, no you don't," he exclaimed, grabbing the antique sword with his left hand, before I could get more than one step closer to it.

And then he focused back on Michael. He didn't exactly turn his back on me, but he clearly wasn't watching me closely.

Bad decision. Just because I didn't have a weapon didn't mean I wasn't dangerous.

When Michael, who was a far more astute judge of my character than Giles, made a sudden feint to distract him, I tried again. I flung the contents of Rose Noire's little perfume vial at Giles's face. As I hoped, he flinched when the liquid hit him, and then the eucalyptus and menthol made his eyes water. He didn't drop the sword or the gun, but he didn't react quickly enough when I scrabbled at the book stand behind me.

You'd think an English professor would remember the old adage about the pen being mightier than the sword. The twenty-pound abridged edition of the Oxford English Dictionary made just as good a weapon as a saber. And a lot tidier; no messy blood to deal with.

Giles dropped both sword and gun and keeled over when the dictionary hit his head. A stack of books cushioned his fall-not that I particularly cared at the moment-and Michael tied him up with a long telephone cord while I called 911 with my cell phone.

"I did already call," Michael said. "I'm a lot more practical than Giles thinks, you know."

"Yes, I know he already called, Debbie Anne," I said into the phone. "But tell the chief to hurry. We have the real murderer this time."

"You see?" Michael said.

"I never doubted you," I said. "But I couldn't pa.s.s up the chance to let the chief know that we caught his murderer."

"We did, didn't we?" Michael said, with a smile. "As a team, we're not half bad."

And then, since Giles was not only tied up but still unconscious and the police wouldn't show up for at least a few minutes, we seized the chance to end our quarrel in a much more satisfactory fashion.

Chapter 46.

Chief Burke must have been in the next county. Most of the Caerphilly police force, two state troopers, and several dozen rubberneckers had arrived before he did. The tiny, book-filled office started to give me the creeps-or maybe it was the presence of the man I'd considered our friend before he almost became our murderer-so I convinced the cops who had arrived to let Michael and me wait for the chief on the building's front veranda. We were standing arm in arm behind a huge white marble pillar, peeking down at the growing crowd, when the chief finally pulled up and began climbing the long front stairway.

"Did you catch Barrymore Sprocket?" I asked when he arrived at the top.

"Yes," the chief said, sounding rather grumpy as well as out of breath. "Spotsylvania County picked him up half an hour ago. We'll look pretty silly when we have to tell them he's the wrong man."

"He's not the wrong man," I said.

"He didn't kill Gordon McCoy," the chief said.

"He did take Gordon's wallet, not to mention our cash box, and he knocked Dad out and tied him up," I pointed out. "Which means he's wanted for grand theft, a.s.sault and battery, and interfering with the scene of a crime, right? Just because he's not the killer doesn't mean he isn't a criminal."

"I suppose," the chief said. "Thank goodness those bulletins always say alleged anyway."

"And when you put the bulletin out, I was alleging like mad that Barrymore was the killer," I said. "Not your fault."

"Hmph," the chief said, and turned to go inside.

"You forgot to ask him about the money Sprocket stole," Michael said.