Beach Hut Surprise: Escape to Little Piddling this summer — six feel-good beach reads to make you smile, or even laugh out loud

by Libertà Books

  "You certainly can't miss a cuckoo clock," Jac said vaguely, flicking back through the newspapers, looking at the Society columns. "Here she is leaving. Middle of April. The ladies of the Piddling sur Mer Waifs and Orphans Relief Committee wished their President, Mrs Dumaine, bon voyage for her forthcoming journey to the spa of St Moritz where it is hoped she will rapidly recover her health and bloom. So she left because she was unwell, not because she wanted to trip through the Alpine meadows in search of lonely cowherds and a spot of yodelling."

  "She may have been after some yodelling, as you put it," Henry said, with a grin that did something disturbing to the base of Jac's spine. "The word in the family is that she was a bit of a goer in her time, although I've never heard anything to substantiate it. Could just be the general Edwardian naughtiness that the Prince of Wales embodied, and all that happened was that she flirted with the Mayor or goosed the Town Clerk at some civic reception after a glass or two of wine."

  They carried on working through the papers with an occasional sneeze, the discovery of some advertisements for the brewery and for Dumaine's High Class Wines and Spirits, and several long-dead spiders.

  Jac finished her pile first and found herself watching Henry's fingers turning the crumbling pages. Long fingers, a signet ring with what looked like a bird rising out of long grass, or rushes, on his left hand.

  "It's a phoenix," Henry said, flipping over the last page. "On the ring."

  "Oh, sorry, didn't mean to be nosy."

  He shrugged. "No problem. It's a bit bling, I admit, and my father won't wear it, so Grandfather gave it to me. Apparently my French ancestor adopted it after arriving in England to symbolize the family rising from the ashes."

  They replaced the papers on the shelf, dusted themselves down and went out. Henry dropped some coins in the charity collecting box on the counter by way of payment, as none had been asked.

  "Fancy having lunch at Dumaine's? On me—I want to celebrate the new wine."

  "Um… Yes, thank you, I would like that. But I need to check on Andy, see if he minds manning the bar." She really ought to stop feeling so suspicious of Henry. There was no reason to and what she was experiencing was probably just good old-fashioned jealousy. Henry had a flourishing business, his winery was taking off—thanks to his hard work and studying—and she was a cow to be resentful. What on earth would he want the brewery or the Tap for? Neither was the slightest threat to him.

  Andy was more than happy to polish glasses behind the bar. It was just coming up to half-twelve when Henry opened the door of his wine bar for her and already more than half the tables were occupied. He waved at the person behind the bar and made for a small table set in the angle of the wall with a Reserved label on it.

  "The owner's table, best view in the house," he said, pulling out a chair for her. "What do you think?"

  "I like it," Jac said honestly. The big room had pale wood floors and wood panelling painted aqua covered three quarters of the walls, with chalk white plaster above. The tables had crisp white cloths, the long, curving bar was a deeper honey tone than the floor, and the art work scattered throughout on walls and shelves was a quirky mix of semi-abstract landscapes and obviously old pieces.

  The staff were very French-waiter, in black trousers and waistcoats, large white wrap-around aprons, white shirts and black ties. One, a skinny redhead, came and gave them menus and a drinks list, came back with a carafe of water, grinned at Henry and shot off to another table to clear it.

  "The new late Spring menu," Henry said, frowning at the card. "What do you think of the dandelion?" he pointed to the same motif she'd seen on the wine label. "I was thinking like this: just opening, for Spring, fully open for Summer, a dandelion clock for Autumn and the rosette of leaves for winter."

  "Good," Jac decided. "Really crisp and fresh line drawing; and clearly related to your wine branding. Who is the artist?"

  "A designer called Rose Redmayne. She set up recently in Piddling Magna with an actual shop—she was working online up to then. All kinds of interiors stuff, upcycled furniture and so forth, alongside her design work. She's got a beach hut down here, I think.

  "She did the interior here and your wine label? I'm impressed."

  "I had a go myself first off, fancied myself a bit of an artist, but I know my limitations."

  And it was becoming harder and harder to be suspicious of the man, Jac thought, studying the menu. She wasn't even sure why she had felt suspicious in the first place; it was just some niggling little instinct telling her there was more to Henry Dumaine than met the eye.

  She gave herself a mental shake and made a decision, about lunch, at least. "I think I'll have the baked crab and green salad. That should go well with your new wine."

  "I'll join you." Henry waved at the redhead who came over, pulling a pad and pencil from one of his waistcoat pockets. Clearly Henry was going for old-school methods.

  They ordered and the waiter brought the wine over immediately.

  "So where are we?" Jac asked, taking a sip. "Oh yes, this really is good. Not much further forward, really. We know Bertram's disappearance was a surprise to everyone and, unless people were being exceedingly discreet, no one suspected suicide."

  "It doesn't mean it wasn't," Henry pointed out. "It's pretty scary, the number of times you hear about people who are in absolute despair and who manage to hide it."

  "Don't forget I met him just before he vanished," Jac pointed out. "He was furious and jumpy but he wasn't depressed or despairing as far as I could see."

  "Yes, well, he'd been dead for over a hundred years when you encountered him," Henry began.

  The waiter, who was just putting their plates on the table, recoiled. He shot off and came back warily with salad, then a basket of crusty bread and some unsalted butter. "Is there anything else I can get you?" he asked with a sideways look at his boss, clearly expecting an exorcist to arrive at any moment.

  "No, thanks, Jim."

  Jac waited until he had retreated to a safe distance. "I can't see why that would make a difference. Anyway, he wasn't dead in his reality, nor in mine, come to that." She took a mouthful of the crab, which had been baked in the shell with cheese and breadcrumbs, and gave a whimper of pleasure. "God, that's good. I vote against it being suicide. So that leaves murder, accident, kidnap or deliberate disappearance."

  "Unless we imagine the distant cousin in Australia organising his disappearance, I can't imagine who'd want him gone. And as the Australian didn't put in an appearance and claim the inheritance, then that is vanishingly unlikely."

  "Rabid teetotallers?" Jac suggested. "Although I'm sure they were, and are, law-abiding and even if they weren't, surely they'd smite him with tightly rolled copies of the Pledge, or lecture him to death, rather than make him mysteriously vanish."

  She grinned at Henry, inviting him to share the ludicrous idea, but he was staring back at her, with no sign of a smile. Something in his expression made her grope for the wine bottle.

  It seemed he had the same impulse. Their fingers brushed, stilled, locked together.

  Henry broke the silence. "Like to come up and see my family portraits?"

  "Love to," Jac said lightly. "Thought for a moment you were going to mention etchings."

  But Henry was already on his feet, his fingers still entwined with hers. He waved to Jim the waiter, then made for the door at a gratifyingly brisk stride.

  "You have been driving me insane for weeks," he remarked conversationally, as they crossed Brewery Square.

  "I have?" Jac did her best not to pant. She needed to because of the pace, of course, nothing to do with lust…

  "But every time I saw you, you glared."

  "I did?"

  "And I couldn't think of an excuse until we were packing the first consignment of the wine and I realised it would be only neighbourly to take you a sample. And then you screamed."

  "Well, sort of."

  They'd reached the front door of Brewery House. Hen
ry fumbled with his keys.

  "And I didn't mean to glare, I was preoccupied. I just didn't see you, I expect." Liar.

  Henry unlocked the door with a vicious jerk of his wrist. "Right."

  "But I'm seeing you now," Jac said as the door slammed behind them.

  "Is that a yes?" Henry was already half out of his shirt.

  "That's a yes."

  Chapter Three

  The front door was a solid piece of Victorian carpentry and thank goodness for that, Jac thought, half an hour later. The door mat was an equally solid piece of coir matting and, between that and the panelling on the door, she suspected that her back, her bum and various other bits of her anatomy bore interesting impressions from what had just occurred.

  And thank goodness for men who carried condoms in their pocket. "But we haven't…" she'd managed, with what was left of her common sense after five minutes of pressed-to-the-door kissing.

  Henry had rummaged in the discarded clothing and produced a foil packet. "Been living in hope," he said.

  After that, very little conversation had taken place.

  She prodded him in the ribs. "Hoping to breathe here."

  "Ough. Sorry." Henry rolled off and gave a faint yelp as he landed on the original, cold, red and blue floor tiles.

  "Nothing to apologise for." And he really hadn't. That had been… Jac's brain failed to come up with a word and just carried on fizzing gently.

  Henry hauled himself to his feet, pulled on his jeans and held out one hand. "Tea? Coffee?"

  Bed? Jac's libido said hopefully and, given that she suspected her entire central nervous system was fused by overload, with wild optimism.

  "Coffee." She took his hand and staggered up, blinked at the crumpled clothing around her feet and wondered vaguely where her underwear had ended up.

  Henry reached up and removed her bra from the antler-encrusted hall stand, then pointed to where a pair of regrettably sensible white pants hung off the door knob. "I'll put the kettle on," he said and headed down the hall to the end, the rest of his clothing under one arm.

  He was dressed by the time she joined him and the kettle was making encouraging noises.

  "The front door mat was not where I intended making love to you," he said, apparently intent on spooning coffee into the cafetière. He was clearly unimpressed by celeb endorsements for more quick and convenient methods of coffee making.

  He sounded cool and casual, but Jac noticed that the tips of his ears were pink, which was endearing. She did a startled double take. Endearing was not a word she'd have ever imagined using about Henry. Hot, yes. Infuriatingly competent, yes. Superior, yes. Suspicious, yes.

  "You had been planning this for some time?" she said, trying for cool too, distracted by the fact that he had expensive knobbly brown sugar lumps. See, even his sugar is superior. "I have to say, I didn't miss the bed. Didn't notice its absence, to be frank."

  He looked up, his sudden smug male grin somehow endearing, too. "Since I saw you up a ladder in dungarees fixing hanging baskets a month ago."

  "Dungarees?" Surely the least erotic garment known to woman, short of a Mr Bunnykins onesie.

  "I found myself imagining taking them off," he admitted. "And then you became a challenge."

  "So I'm just a notch on your bedpost—I mean, doorpost—am I?"

  "No!" Henry protested, clearly aware that he had narrowly missed being disembowelled with sugar tongs.

  Sugar tongs? Who has sugar tongs? Someone who's inherited grandparents' antiques, that's who. Rich people.

  "I was hoping for something a bit less one-night-standish." He had the sense to move away and get the coffee mugs. "I thought you looked interesting. Brave, too, taking on the brewery."

  He'd managed to say that without sounding patronising, Jac decided, mellowing again. Brave was probably a tactful substitute for insane, but if that was what he thought, he was probably right.

  "I found myself liking you," she admitted. "Somewhere about July 1899. I admire a man who can admit he's frightened of spiders and I have to own up to admiring the rear view going into the newspaper offices. Oh, and I like the way you've decorated the wine bar. I could never fancy a guy who is all black and chrome or has bicycles hanging everywhere."

  "Bicycles?" Henry dropped a third sugar lump into his coffee, apparently without realising.

  "Six months in London with a hipster. I gave up when I couldn't stand the beard-trimmings in the basin every morning and the gear-oil drips."

  "Ah. I promise not to grow a beard and I fall off bikes." He took a gulp of coffee, looked startled, went to pour it away and make fresh. "And I can't take much credit for the design at Dumaine's. I told you about the interior designer from Piddling Magna, didn't I? I knew what I didn't want, but couldn't explain what I did, so I kept sending her Pinterest stuff and waved my hands about a lot and she came up with that."

  Jac wasn't too sure she quite believed that. Now she'd had time to look around the kitchen, she liked the way old and new, efficient and interesting, had been combined. There was a back door which must be the one next to what was now her own front door and another with an emergency crash bar and notices about fire doors and not obstructing.

  "Can I see the rest of the house?"

  "Sure, top up your coffee." He led the way up the two steps back to the hall. "The original formal sitting room is at the front this side and the dining room's opposite. I only really use those when I'm entertaining. The old study is my office." He opened another door behind the dining room and Jac saw a vast old desk with some very new IT on top and shelves of books and files.

  "Then there's what must have been a breakfast room at the back. I use that as my snug. It's got the TV. And I had a downstairs loo put under the stairs." He nodded towards what Jac had imagined was the cellar entrance.

  "Four bedrooms?"

  "Yes. Originally they all had dressing rooms; I had those converted into shower rooms so everything's en suite."

  "Flash."

  "I have two sisters. When the family comes to stay, that's not flash so much as essential."

  "So where's the cellar door?" Jac wondered out loud, trying to visualise the overall plan.

  "You've got that, surely? I assumed it was in your share of the back garden."

  "No. I thought you'd got it. So who owns it then?"

  "Whoever's got the door, I guess," Henry said. "It wasn't on my deeds."

  "Or mine. Perhaps there isn't one."

  "Odd if there isn't, in a house of this period." He shrugged. "Come and meet Hermione, my three times great grandmother, she of the Piddling sur Mer Waifs and Orphans Relief Committee."

  Hermione hung in splendour over the fireplace in the dining room. At first glance, she looked like a typical Edwardian matron, corseted to within an inch of her life, stern and upright. Jac went closer and studied her face.

  "You know, I think the rumours might have been right. I think she was a bit of a party girl, Hermione. Pretty too, under it all. And look at the glint in her eye. I wonder if the artist had tight trousers."

  "You are right. Those are definitely come-to-the-chaise, if not come-to-bed eyes. And that mouth has a sort of pout to it. If you want to see why she might be ogling artists in tight trousers, turn around and see her husband."

  "D'A George Albert Cornelius Dumaine," Jac read. "He looks as though he'd rant about the immoral lower classes, insist on attending church three times on Sunday and pinch the parlour maids, if not worse." She went to peer more closely at him. "And I wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of him. If Hermione was off to Switzerland for some extramarital yodelling with a strapping goatherd, I wouldn't blame her in the slightest. I realise that he's your esteemed ancestor and so on, but doesn't he put people off their dinner?"

  "Oddly, no. I think he has an 'eat, drink and be merry or you'll end up like me' effect. Do you want to see the bedrooms?"

  "Is that an offer to admire the shower fittings or another opportunity to study your etching
s?"

  "The latter." Henry sent her a heavy-lidded, smouldering look.

  "In that case, lead the way, Mr Dumaine."

  What a difference a month makes, Jac thought, giving the bar in The Brewery Tap a quick polish after serving six pints of the new wheat beer to some earnest real ale enthusiasts who were making appreciative noises and talking about clarity and citrus top notes at the corner table.

  Andy had come up trumps with the wheat beer and he was making great strides with a pale ale and an alcoholic ginger beer which were both selling well, although he was still tweaking the recipes.

  At his suggestion, Jac had set up an A-sign on the pavement outside advertising "Are you a Piddler? The Notorious Prime Piddle here! We challenge you to finish a pint."

  That was bringing in the punters and an art school mate of Andy's had created an end-of-the-pier-style backdrop of jolly Edwardian drinkers and buxom bathers at the back of the room for the brave Piddlers to take selfies against. By the time they had had fun with that, an encouraging number were ordering something more drinkable, plus a sandwich from the selection that Andy was knocking up in the miniscule kitchen.

  Jac and Henry were no further forward with the Mystery of the Vanishing Brewer as Henry liked to call it, but whenever they got together to talk about it, a discussion of historical research turned into something else altogether.

  Living so close and yet completely separately had its advantages, Jac concluded. They had less opportunity to get on each other's nerves than if they were cohabiting, the freedom to stumble about bleary-eyed and bed-haired in the morning without a man underfoot was welcome and yet there was only a fire door and a few stairs between them.

  "What can I get you?" Jac smiled at the curvy brunette with the freckles who was leaning on the bar and studying the portrait of Bertram Bascombe with surprising intensity. How old was she? Eighteen or nineteen, Jac guessed, and she hardly looked the type to be fascinated by Edwardian brewers.