A Spider on the Stairs (13 page)

“I appreciate that,” said Gibbons. “And I quite understand that it's uncomfortable to talk about these things with strangers. But there's no help for it, and it's really in your best interest in the end.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Rhys-Jones drew a deep breath. “Laurel wanted to take the post, but obviously I couldn't leave my job, nor did I want to.”

“People have endured long-distance relationships before,” pointed out Gibbons.

“Well, yes, and I suppose that's what I expected,” said Rhys-Jones. “But I wasn't very happy about it, while on her side Laurel seemed to feel that if I wasn't ready to marry her, well, then there wasn't much point in her staying. The upshot was that we had a terrific row and broke up. Laurel went to Bedfordshire, and I took up with Jody.” He sighed. “In retrospect, the feelings I was beginning to have for Jody probably contributed to the breakup, but I didn't see it that way at the time.”

“No, one never does,” murmured Bethancourt, half to himself.

“Surely,” said Gibbons, “it must have been rather awkward, since you were Miss Farraday's boss.”

“With anyone else but Jody, it would have been,” agreed Rhys-Jones. “But she was different. She—well, she took things in stride, sort of encompassing them all and sorting everything into its proper place so that it all worked together.”

He looked at his audience, as if hoping they would understand, but found only polite attention. He tried again.

“I can't explain it, because I don't understand it myself,” he said. “But somehow Jody made it work. It's not that we tried to hide our relationship at the shop, or that she tried to treat me just as her boss. But she never read anything personal into any instruction I had to give her at work, and she was always just as respectful of my position as she had been before.”

“And outside of work?” asked Bethancourt.

“Well, you know—” Rhys-Jones gestured, looking embarrassed.

Gibbons glanced at Bethancourt, who remained intent on Rhys-Jones.

“Yes,” said Bethancourt, “I expect we've all been there: the first flush of romance and all that. But then things settle down, just as they did with you and Miss Brooks. Day-to-day life begins sticking its nose in, so to speak.”

Rhys-Jones was nodding. “That's putting it very well,” he said. “It is always like that, isn't it?” He paused, running a hand through his hair. “Jody and I got on marvelously, but after things settled down, as you say, I, well, I don't know. I guess I began to miss something—an indefinable something. It was almost as if Jody, as affectionate as she was, always held a part of herself back. And,” he admitted, his voice lowering, “I began to miss Laurel.”

“Natural enough,” said Bethancourt. “And I expect some of Miss Farraday's more unique qualities began to seem a little less charming?”

Rhys-Jones looked sheepish. “A bit,” he admitted.

Bethancourt smiled. “Don't look so ashamed—we've all done it. And so, I might add, has the other half of the equation.”

Once again, Rhys-Jones glanced toward the stairs. “I suppose they do at that,” he said thoughtfully.

“Tell us a little more about Jody,” said Gibbons. “I'm interested in anything you can remember about her background, her interests, even her hopes and dreams. Because if we're to solve this crime, we must come to understand her.”

Rhys-Jones leaned back and let out a breath. “That's a tall order,” he said, “but all right. Look here, would you like a coffee or something? Laurel and I were just about to have our after-dinner mug. And would you mind if I took her up a cup and let her know we're likely to be a little while over this?”

“Of course,” said Gibbons. “And I'd love a cup. I'm sure Phillip here would as well.”

“Yes, thanks,” replied Bethancourt automatically.

Rhys-Jones bustled off in the direction of the kitchen, while Bethancourt leaned toward Gibbons and muttered, “What I could really use is dinner.”

“Shush,” replied Gibbons. “We're getting worthwhile information here. Why were you so interested in his relationship with Jody?”

Bethancourt shrugged. “I wanted to see how intense it had been,” he answered. “A tumultuous, passionate affair has been known to result in murder before now. But I don't think that's what we have here, do you?”

“No,” agreed Gibbons. “He could be lying, of course, but it all fits so very well. And Rhys-Jones doesn't strike me as that sort anyway; in fact, I think he's exceptionally self-aware.”

“And almost obnoxiously fair,” added Bethancourt. “It's positively annoying, the effort he goes to in order to be objective about his own feelings.”

Gibbons was amused. “Seeing a lack in yourself, are you?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” replied Bethancourt with offended dignity. “My mind was entirely occupied with the case. And my stomach.”

“You get very cross when you're hungry, did you know that?” said Gibbons.

“I am not—wait, here he is,” said Bethancourt, breaking off as Rhys-Jones reentered the room, bearing a tray full of coffee mugs.

“I'll just run this up to Laurel,” said Rhys-Jones, setting down the tray and selecting a mug already mixed with milk. “I won't be a minute.”

He was as good as his word, returning quickly, although he sighed as he resumed his seat and picked up a mug for himself.

“She's settled in,” he said. “But I'm going to have to explain all this to her—I'm not looking forward to it.”

“It doesn't sound like she has much to be upset about really,” said Gibbons.

Bethancourt gave him an incredulous look.

“The man dated someone else for months and never told her,” he said. “Of course she's going to be upset.”

Rhys-Jones sighed again. “It's worse than that, actually,” he said. “I told her I'd spent the entire time she was away missing her.”

“Did you really?” Bethancourt raised a brow.

“It seemed like the right thing to say at the time,” said Rhys-Jones defensively. “I was trying to get her back, you see.”

“How did you end things with Miss Farraday?” asked Gibbons.

“I didn't,” said Rhys-Jones. “It all happened rather suddenly, really. As I told you, I had begun to have second thoughts, and it was just about then that Jody began talking about relocating somewhere else. At first it was just the kind of daydreaming we all do from time to time—you know, wouldn't it be nice to have a cottage in Cornwall and so on. But gradually it dawned on me that she really wanted to go. And then I heard that Laurel was back in town.”

“Bedfordshire University didn't work out?” asked Gibbons.

“No, it didn't,” said Rhys-Jones. “Laurel said it hadn't gone well from the start, but she finished out her term and then made
arrangements to come back to York. Anyway, I was rather taken aback by the sudden turn of events, and to be honest, I hadn't quite screwed my courage to the sticking point to tell Jody I didn't think we were going to make it together. But I knew when I heard about Laurel being back in town that I wanted to ask her if we could try again. And then, while I was stewing around about it all, Jody came to me and said she understood I didn't want to leave York, but it was time for her to go and she hoped we could still be friends.”

“So everything was wrapped up nicely,” said Bethancourt, a hint of envy in his tone.

“Well, yes, I reckon you could say that.”

“Except,” put in Gibbons, “the part about explaining it all to Miss Brooks.”

“Yes,” said Rhys-Jones gloomily. “Except for that.”

“In any case,” said Gibbons, “if you could give us a few details about Miss Farraday? Where was she born, for instance?”

Rhys-Jones frowned. “I don't know that she ever mentioned it,” he said. “I have the impression that it was somewhere hereabouts, I mean somewhere in Yorkshire. I do know that she talked about moving round a lot as a child. It was just she and her mother, no siblings or father.”

“Did she mentioned any schools?” asked Gibbons.

“I expect she told one or two stories about things that happened in school, but you know how that is—no one ever mentions the name of the school. Well, not unless they're boasting about attending Eton or something.”

Gibbons accepted this and was about to ask another question when Rhys-Jones suddenly said, “Wait a bit, though, didn't she say something . . .” He frowned in concentration, trying to bring back the memory. “Yes, she was talking about living at a campgrounds one winter when she and her mother were going through a thin time. And she said her mother was teaching her at home.” He looked back at the detectives.

“So she was homeschooled as a child?” asked Gibbons, trying not to sound disappointed; homeschooled children had no old school friends to give insights into their character and relationships.

“I don't know if that was always the case, if she was entirely homeschooled or not,” answered Rhys-Jones. “Although I did get the impression that a great deal of her higher learning was self-taught. She never went to university, at least not officially.”

“What does ‘not officially' mean?”

Rhys-Jones smiled. “I gathered she would sometimes sneak into lectures and sit at the back. She had a very inquiring mind—she liked learning. When she first came to the bookshop we got into a discussion about economics and I gave her a copy of
Wealth of Nations.
She devoured it in a single night, and was full of nothing else for the next week.”

“So she was particularly intelligent,” said Bethancourt.

“Oh, yes,” said Rhys-Jones. “Yes, very much so. Jody was very quick.”

“Was she pursuing some kind of career?” asked Gibbons.

“No,” said Rhys-Jones with a shrug. “She just liked to learn.” He considered for a moment. “Jody was very much in the here and now,” he said. “And she moved about a lot—said she began to feel stifled if she stayed in one place too long.”

“So where did she go when she left here?” asked Gibbons.

But Rhys-Jones didn't know. “I don't think she had a particular destination in mind,” he said. “She headed south, and that was all I ever knew.”

“What about other friends?” asked Bethancourt. “I mean, aside from the bookshop. Did she know anyone else in town?”

“There was Rachel,” answered Rhys-Jones. “I can't recall her surname, but she and Jody were childhood friends. Or at least that's the impression I had.”

“She lives here in York?” asked Gibbons.

Rhys-Jones nodded. “Over by the hospital, in Ratcliffe Street. I
was at her flat several times with Jody. And Rachel was in the shop not so very long ago, so I think she's still in town.”

Gibbons noted these particulars down while Rhys-Jones continued.

“There were some other people—friends of Rachel's, I believe—a couple named Dave and Marlene, and another woman . . .” He paused for a moment, frowning in thought before snapping his fingers as his expression cleared. “Donna, that was her name. And then there was that odd chap—I only met him the once—Will something-or-other—he was another childhood friend.”

“And where did Jody herself live?” asked Gibbons.

“Mostly in a flat in George Street,” answered Rhys-Jones. “She was subletting it whilst the owner was gone, on condition she would take care of his cats. After that, I believe she found a room to rent out near the university. I never went there, but I remember the other place well enough.”

Gibbons noted down these addresses.

“Now, I want you to think carefully about this next question,” he said. “We've heard from several different sources that it would not be too difficult for an employee to come by a set of keys to the bookshop. Would you say Jody might have had such an opportunity?”

Rhys-Jones looked stunned. For a long moment, he simply stared at Gibbons.

“Mr. Rhys-Jones?” prompted Gibbons.

“I . . .” began Rhys-Jones. “It's just that I can't believe I didn't see it before now.” He reddened. “I know you'll think me an awful dolt, but it never even occurred to me at the time, although it seems perfectly obvious now.”

“What seems obvious?” asked Gibbons impatiently.

“Well, Jody and her keys. She had a huge collection of them, you see—some kind of odd security blanket, I always thought. I used to tease her about them sometimes. But I swear it never occurred to me that she might have added the keys to the bookshop
to her collection—I can't think why. But of course she must have, because, as you say, it wouldn't be at all difficult to do.”

Gibbons was frowning a bit. “What exactly do you mean by a huge collection?” he asked.

“She had a big ring,” said Rhys-Jones, sketching a five-inch diameter in the air. “It was jammed with keys of all descriptions. Some of them were clearly useless—she even admitted as much, said she just liked the look of them—but most of them were ordinary enough. And then she had a couple of shoe boxes with more keys in them.”

“But how did she keep track of which key opened what?” asked Gibbons.

“Oh, in most cases she didn't know, or had forgotten,” said Rhys-Jones. “Although,” he added, “I always thought she knew well enough what some of them were to—and there were a few master keys amongst them. Not that she would ever have used them to trespass or anything—she just liked knowing she could if she wanted to.”

Gibbons's expression said that this was past all understanding, but Bethancourt's hazel eyes had narrowed and he was nodding.

“Freedom,” he said. “The freedom to come and go as one pleases. Yes, I can see that.”

“I suppose,” said Rhys-Jones.

“But you're wrong about her never using them,” continued Bethancourt.