by Blythe Baker
“Did he have dark hair?” Nathanial asked.
I looked over at him. “Yes, he did.”
“Nathanial, do you know who this man is?” Irene asked.
“I might,” Nathanial said, his brow furrowing. “But I certainly would regret it if it’s who I think it is.”
7
“Why would you say that?” Irene asked, walking over to her husband, a look of concern etched on her face.
Nathanial lowered his arm; he’d been scraping more of the concrete in between the rocks that were beginning to come loose on my fireplace.
Sidney stopped as well, regarding Nathanial with as much curiosity as Irene and I were.
“Well…” Nathanial said. “I realize there might be quite a few men in this world today who have scars on the back of their hands, and who wear glasses…but if it’s someone who lives here in Brookminster, then this was the sort of man that Mrs. Lowell never should have been involved with in the first place.”
“Why’s that?” Sidney asked. “Is he a dangerous sort of man?”
“In a sense,” Nathanial said.
“Oh, stop playing games,” Irene said, giving her husband a rather sour look. “Who is it? And what’s the matter with him?”
“His name is William Fenton,” Nathanial said. “And many of us believe he is cursed.”
“Cursed?” Irene and I asked together.
“Oh, come now, Nathanial. Surely you cannot be serious,” his wife said.
“Oh, but I am,” Nathanial said. “He works at the bookshop down by the watermill, and I have never met a man who is more prone to accident than he.”
“That doesn’t make him dangerous,” Irene said.
“Doesn’t it?” he said. “He managed to start a fire in his house when he sneezed while holding a candle, nearly burned the whole place down. And he somehow managed to get himself caught underneath an avalanche of books at his own shop, which very nearly killed him. He was in the hospital for two weeks with broken ribs and a sprained wrist.”
“So he’s a clumsy sort,” Sidney said, returning his trowel to the fireplace. “I don’t think that makes him dangerous.”
“You haven’t heard how he managed to get that cut on the back of his hand…” Nathanial said.
“How do you know this man so well?” Irene asked. “What did you say his name was? Fenton?”
“Exactly,” Nathanial said. “And he picks up the orders for his books at the same delivery house where I pick up our tea at the edge of town.”
“At Roddrick’s?” Sidney asked.
“That’s the one,” Nathanial said. “Still, I’m surprised that anyone would have been romantically involved with him, given that he’s about as jumpy as a mouse.”
“Does he not deserve happiness?” Irene asked.
“I never said that,” Nathanial said. “Just that I’m amazed that he was able to approach a woman. He can barely speak with his customers.”
“I still don’t understand why you would think a woman shouldn’t be with someone like him,” Irene said, clearly upset with her husband’s words. “That’s just preposterous.”
“I was only thinking of the woman’s safety, my dear,” Nathanial said.
I frowned. “You don’t think that one of his notorious accidents is what caused Mrs. Lowell’s death, do you?”
“I wouldn’t rule it out,” Nathanial said.
“Oh, Nathanial, that’s ridiculous,” Irene said. “Why on earth wouldn’t he have come forward with it, then? Even if it was an accident?”
“I don’t know,” Nathanial said. “Maybe he didn’t know how to confess.”
These thoughts troubled me all through dinner, but I didn’t voice my opinion on the matter. Nathanial and Sidney finished the patching of the fireplace, assuring me that it was as good as new now and would hold out. Irene hugged me tightly before leaving, in a very motherly sort of way, and even though she didn’t say it, I knew she wanted me to stay safe. She clearly disagreed with Sam Graves’ decision to let me help with the case, but I understood that she meant well.
I began to wonder if Sam knew about this William Fenton fellow. I also wondered why on earth Mrs. Lowell wouldn’t have asked Evangeline to call him by his real name. Was it so that he would remain discreet? And when Evangeline said they fought, she said it was about her mother’s feelings for her father. Was she feeling guilty about seeing another man so soon after his death? Perhaps she wanted to avoid gossip and speculation?
All these questions chased themselves around in my head as I lay down to sleep that night, and filled my dreams as I walked along a dark hall with Evangeline’s hand in my own, asking her to point out all the people her mother knew. It was too many to count, and there were too many possibilities.
When I awoke the next morning, I was quite flustered, and determined to check out this man for myself before bringing any information to Sam Graves…along with an apology. He would have wanted me to bring this information to him immediately, I knew, but I would have to explain that I told Nathanial, Irene, and Sidney about what Evangeline had said the night before, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I probably shouldn’t have done that in the first place.
He was not going to be pleased.
So, to make up for my actions, I would go and investigate this information, so that I could then tell him that my sources were my own and that he just had to trust me, thus protecting Nathanial and Irene from Sam’s scrutiny.
The hours ticked by in the haberdashery that day. I found myself glancing up at the clock far too often, only to find that the minute hand had barely moved. Business was slow, as well, tempting me to close up early so I could wander down to the bookshop and meet this William Fenton for myself.
I resisted the urge, however, and made it to the afternoon. After closing up, I quickly changed and headed out before half past three, eager to reach the shop before he closed it.
The bookshop was on the same road as Mrs. Lowell’s rental cottage was, just further along. I was amazed that I’d never seen it, though it wasn’t often that I made it this far to the other side of the village. It was a charming establishment, with large front windows of leaded glass, and books stacked high on shelves that could be seen inside. The door was also mostly windowed, with a hand-carved sign on the front declaring; Fenton’s Fabulous Fictions (And Non).
I pulled open the door, and walked inside.
A bell sounded somewhere near the back of the shop, which was entirely obstructed from my view as the shelves were so high and densely packed. The precariousness of the shop itself very nearly convinced me that what Nathanial said about Mr. Fenton being accident prone was true.
I saw painted, wooden signs hanging alongside the shelves, directing me toward history, poetry, and biographies. As I turned around the corner of a shelf, I found more pointing to fiction, adventure, and children’s.
There were other people in the labyrinth of the store, hidden away behind shelves, their noses buried in all manner of books. There was soft music playing from some unknown source; Mozart, I was very nearly certain.
“Ah, good afternoon.”
I almost jumped out of my skin at the sound of another person’s voice. I wheeled around and found myself staring at a thin, dark haired man with round spectacles. He wrung his hands together in front of himself, but there was a kind smile on his face.
“I thought I heard someone come in,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. I noticed a pinkish, silver scar across the back of his hand that stretched from the joint at his thumb all the way to the knuckle below his little finger.
And it was on his right hand.
“Uh, yes,” I said.
“First time customer?” he asked.
“Yes, yes I am,” I said.
“Very good,” he said. “Well, my name is William Fenton. If you need any help finding anything, I – I would be happy to locate it for you. I have a little bit of everything here. E – even
some first editions at the back.”
“How wonderful,” I said.
He nodded, looking down at his shoes, wringing his hands once more. “W – well, I’ll be off, then. Just let me know if you need any help.”
“I certainly will,” I said. “Thank you very much, Mr. Fenton.”
He nodded, bowed ever so slightly, and turned, hurrying away back through the maze of shelves and stacks of books.
He was certainly nervous…I thought. Just like Nathanial said.
He was kind, though, and even in his unease, there was some charm there, something rather endearing. If he would smile, I would have thought him to be rather good looking.
I slowly started down the same path that Mr. Fenton had, careful to keep my footsteps light so as to not disturb the other shoppers, but also to not alert Mr. Fenton to my approach.
As I rounded another row of shelves, the end of the back counter came into view, and I glimpsed the edge of Mr. Fenton’s elbow as he organized a stack of books.
I ducked behind the next shelf, moving quietly parallel to where he stood. Between a few of the cookbooks that were arranged by cuisine, I could just see him standing behind the counter, books stacked precariously behind him, likely waiting to be sorted. They stretched far over his head, well out of my line of sight.
If he bumped those they would likely fall right upon his head.
I plucked a Yorkshire cookbook from the shelf and flipped it open in my arms, pretending to scan the recipe there for a redcurrant cobbler.
Through the shelf, I could see him opening the front cover of the book, reading something, and then scrawling a note down on the pad beside him. He then closed the book and moved it to his other side, atop another stack of books that was quickly becoming too tall.
As he flipped open another book, he winced, pulling his finger away from the page. Examining it closely, he squinted, his nose wrinkling, before shoving the finger into his mouth.
Paper cut, I thought. He truly is accident prone.
I watched him for some time, the cookbook still propped open in my hands, noting just how often he managed to harm himself. At one point, he dropped a book on his foot. And at another, when he was trying to set his pen down, it went flying instead and hit him square between the eyes.
It was almost amusing, except I felt sorry for the fellow.
A quarter of an hour later, an older woman with golden hair that was fading to white approached the counter, two thin books in her hands. “Good afternoon, William.”
“Well, hello there, Mrs. Charles. How are you this fine day?” he asked, holding out his hand for her books.
“I’m quite well, dear, thank you,” the woman said. “And…how are you doing?”
There was weight to her question; Mr. Fenton had noticed it, too.
He licked his lips, setting the books down on the counter as gently as if they were living. “I…well, I’m doing well enough, I suppose.”
The woman made a pitiful, sad sound, and stepped closer. “Are you really?” she asked. “I can imagine that with all that has happened, you would need some time to heal…yet here you are, back at work.”
“Well, it’s certainly better than sitting home all alone,” he said. “It helps keep my mind occupied.”
“That’s good to hear,” Mrs. Charles said.
Do they mean Mrs. Lowell? I thought. If they do, then this truly is Evangeline’s Mr. Smith.
Mrs. Charles reached across the counter and laid her hand on William’s. “I know that you miss Abigail,” she said in a murmur. “We all do. She was such a sweet young girl, and what happened to her was utterly tragic. It wasn’t fair that you two had your happiness ripped from you so soon.”
William bowed his head, only nodding in response.
“Have you heard what is happening to Evangeline?” Mrs. Charles asked. “I spoke with Lucille, who is friends with the officer’s sister who has taken her in for the time being…”
“I did, yes,” he said. “I wish there was something I could do to help, but…it really isn’t my place. Not anymore.”
“But it should have been,” Mrs. Charles said firmly, squeezing his hand. “You were planning to marry her, William. You had the ring, didn’t you? And it was robbed from you, just like that – ”
“Mrs. Charles…” William said, laying his free hand over hers, stopping her. “I understand your concern. And I appreciate it. I truly do. But she’s gone, and there is unfortunately nothing that I can do about it.”
Mrs. Charles’ face fell, but she gave him a tight smile. “You’re right…” she said. “I’m very sorry, my dear.”
“As am I,” he said. “As am I.”
From there, she paid for her books, and he packed them up in some thick brown paper, but not without cutting himself on the edge of it once again. Freshly bandaged, he passed her the books.
“You take care, William,” she said. “And if you need anything, come and see Patrick and me, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mrs. Charles,” he said.
He waved at her as she started toward the door, but as soon as her back was turned, his face fell, and it was as if he had aged twenty years.
My heart stirred. It was clear that he loved Mrs. Lowell, as strange as Evangeline’s testimony about him had been.
He wanted to marry her…I thought. I wonder if that’s what he and Mrs. Lowell had been fighting about before she died…
The bell signaling the front door chimed above Mr. Fenton’s head, and he glanced up at it, as if the sound alone had brought him back to reality.
He set the stack of books he’d been sorting aside, and started out from around the counter…when a woman in a bright pink coat appeared around the corner.
“Mr. Fenton! I was hoping I would find you here.”
8
I spun around, burying my nose back in the cookbook, the recipe not having changed even once since I opened the book, as another customer strolled past me.
I pretended to be engrossed with the measurements of the currants, mouthing the ingredients as I read the instructions.
The customer continued on past, and as soon as she had disappeared around the corner, I turned on my heel and peered between the shelves.
My eyes widened as I saw the dark-haired woman leaning on the counter, familiarly close with Mr. Fenton…who looked all too uncomfortable about the situation in which he found himself.
“Oh, William, it’s been far too long since I’ve seen you,” said the woman in a rather whiny, high pitched voice. She cooed to him as if he were an infant.
“Y – yes, I suppose,” Mr. Fenton said, taking a deliberate step backward. He bumped into the teetering books behind him, which wobbled threateningly.
He threw his weight against it.
My shoulders tensed.
The tower stopped sliding toward him, and his shoulders sagged as he stepped back away.
When he turned, the woman was still there, practically lying across the counter.
I could just make out her profile. She was a rather feline looking woman, with a small, button nose, a curling smile, and pouting lips.
“I’ve missed you,” she said in what reminded me of a purr.
“H – Have you?” Mr. Fenton said, pulling a handkerchief out from his front shirt pocket. He dabbed at his glistening forehead. “Is there, um…Is there something I can help you with, Miss Harmon?”
Miss Harmon chuckled, resting her hand on her chin as she grinned up at Mr. Fenton. “I’m much better now that I can see you, of course.”
Mr. Fenton did his best to avoid looking at her. He busied himself with the list he’d been making before Mrs. Charles had walked in. “Well, if you decide you need my help, then please don’t – don’t hesitate to ask me – ”
“I am asking, you foolish man,” she teased, laying a finger against his chest. She twirled absentminded shapes across the buttons of his shirt. “I was hoping that you could help me with my loneliness…”
The woman’s demeanor changed instantaneously. She stood up straight, withdrawing her hand, and sneered at poor Mr. Fenton. “Abigail, Abigail, Abigail. Is there nothing else to discuss these days?”
I blinked. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard.
His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, and his face fell sheepishly.
She made a noise of disgust, rolling her eyes rather dramatically. “All I ever hear about anymore is Abigail. Or that daughter of hers. What was her name? Amanda or something?”
“Evangeline,” he said, a great deal more curtly than he had before. “Listen, Tessa…I have a great deal of work to do today, so…if you’ll excuse me…”
He deftly moved around her, averting his eyes, and headed off into the bookshelves.
Miss Harmon stared after him, her eyes narrow slits, chewing on her tongue. Her sour expression disappeared just a moment later, though, and a sneaky smile spread up the side of her face. Her hips swayed as she threw her purse over her shoulder, and strutted away from the counter in the opposite direction from the one Mr. Fenton had gone.
With nothing more than a hunch, I slid the cookbook back on the shelf, and decided that Miss Harmon might be the better person to follow. Her utter disdain for Mrs. Lowell’s death was such a surprise.
I headed out of the bookshop just after Miss Harmon had disappeared through the exit, her pink coat fluttering in the wind caught by the door.
She started down the street, her hips swaying as if she had someone to impress.
I followed at a relatively safe distance, keeping her in sight, but ensuring that she would not be suspicious if she were to turn around and see me. I was certain she hadn’t seen me in the bookshop, so she wouldn’t even recognize me.
It was clear that something was going on between her and William Fenton. At least, it certainly was one way.
