by Nancy Warren
He glanced toward the shop window, where Nyx was still curled up, looking particularly adorable, watching us through eyes only half open. If she was my familiar, as Gran had suggested, she was a lazy one. A couple walked by arm in arm and the girl said, “Oh, look at that cat. Could he be any cuter?” And, letting go of her guy, she slipped out her phone and took a snap. And, before my eyes, she tapped something and uploaded the photo, presumably to some social media site.
Ian, also watched. “You should put something with your shop name on it. That cat’s giving you a free advertising opportunity.”
“That’s a great idea.” I was the one who’d been to business college, while the cop was giving me marketing advice.
He said, “A break in at Cardinal Woolsey’s?” Okay, he’d taken off his marketing hat and put his copper hat back on.
“Yes. That’s what my assistant said. But Gran never mentioned it in our emails. I wondered if she didn’t want to worry me.”
“But you are worried.”
“I’m staying here, as well as running the shop, I’d feel more comfortable if I knew that whoever broke into the shop had been caught. That’s all. I’m not sure Gran ever reported it, but I imagine if there was one break-in in the area there might have been several?”
He glanced around the windows and at the door in a professional way. “It’s easy enough to break into, but the question is, why would anyone choose this place? You wouldn’t expect to find much in the till and the merchandise isn’t the sort of stuff that you fence.”
It was exactly what I’d thought. Who in their right mind knocked over a knitting shop?
“I don’t really deal in theft and burglary, but I’ll see what I can find out for you.”
“Unofficially?”
He looked at me, his eyes slightly narrowed, “Why does it matter?”
I didn’t want to draw attention to the shop for about a dozen sharp-toothed reasons. I said, “I suppose it’s silly, but if it gets out that we were broken into once, maybe the wrong sort of people would get ideas that there’s something here worth stealing.”
“Is there?”
“No. Most of our customers pay by credit card or debit and at the end of the day we take what cash there is to the bank. We only keep a small float in the till. And as you said yourself, the contents of the shop wouldn’t be valuable to anyone but a knitter.”
“Not the most larcenous of people, are they?” A pair of sweet-looking old ladies were even now entering the shop.
“Exactly.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can find out for you.” He leaned in toward me and his eyes twinkled disturbingly. “Unofficially.”
Once more I had the intriguing notion that he was flirting with me. It had been a long time since I had excited so much male admiration. The air in Oxford must be good for me.
A group of four more ladies went into the shop. I said, “I’d better get in. We’re having a very busy day.”
He didn’t follow me and I didn’t have time to pay him any more attention as the little shop was buzzing with customers. While some had come with knitting purchases in mind, it was clear that many others simply wanted to pay their respects to Gran. I definitely got the sense that there was some nosiness among knitters who wanted to know whether the shop was going to stay open.
Two estate agents came through, obviously more interested in the dimensions of the shop than what it sold. Both gave me their sincerest condolences as well as their business cards, and let me know that they worked in the area and would be only too happy to help if I planned to let the shop or if the family had thoughts of selling the property. My poor gran was barely gone and the vultures were pecking at her remains.
Even though I knew they were only trying to do their jobs, I felt suddenly protective of this little shop, and all its customers. The four ladies had driven in from another town after they saw on social media that the shop had reopened. They were part of a knitting circle and always shopped at Cardinal Woolsey’s. “We’re so pleased you’re open again. We’ve got to get started on our Christmas projects.”
Over the course of the day, I received condolence cards, baked cookies and cakes, even a jar of homemade jam. And each person had a story about my grandmother; perhaps she had taught them to knit, or helped their aged, arthritic mother find a project she could manage. She’d given advice on colors and patterns, ordered in specialty products, donated to various charitable causes. I had always known my grandmother as the kind and warm woman who had given me a home while my parents were off on digs, but now I saw her as a business woman in a small community, who had provided countless hours of pleasure to her customers. Her passing would leave a great many holes in a great many lives.
As one, the people who brought in cards and food and, most important of all, their memories and stories, wanted to be reassured that Cardinal Woolsey’s would continue to operate. I didn’t want to lie to these people, but I honestly didn’t know what I was going to do. I gave them the same stock answer that I had given to the detective. I was running the shop for now, and I would let them know when I had made a decision about the future.
One of the ladies who came in to express her sorrow did a double take when she saw Rosemary. She lowered her voice, even though my assistant was busy in the corner helping another customer. She said, “So you’ve hired Rosemary back?”
“Hired her back?” The surprise must have showed in my tone for she said, “She wasn’t here the last time I came to the shop and your grandmother said that she no longer worked here. I got the impression she’d fired her. She’s been here for years, so, something must have happened.”
Rosemary hadn’t said anything to me about not working here anymore. But then I remembered how strangely she’d acted when I first phoned her, and she didn’t have a key for the door. Hmm.
However, I didn’t know what I would’ve done without Rosemary today. She knew where everything went, knew about half of the customers personally, and seemed to be doing an excellent job. Still, I made a mental note to keep an eye on her.
Later, I was helping two women choose colors for a sweater when one put her hand on her friend’s arm and gestured with her chin toward the door. “Oh my, he can knit me a twin set any day.” I glanced back to see Ian Chisholm had entered the shop. He looked particularly manly surrounded by baskets of wool and every other customer in the shop at that time was female. I could actually hear the buzz as the women noted his presence.
I doubted he was aware of it: he had the tag from a skein of knitting wool, and glanced around, helplessly. I excused myself, walked over. “Is that your Aunt’s wool?”
“Yes. How do you keep track of all this stuff?” He looked baffled at the numbers of baskets and wool-stocked shelves confronting him.
“There’s a trick to it,” I said. “Let me take a look at that.” I checked the tag. The wool he was looking for was the same blue that sweet old vampire had used to knit my sweater. In fact, she had used the last of our stock. I told him I could order it for him and have it here within the week and he said that was fine. I went behind the cash desk and retrieved the special order book.
I felt a bit silly asking him for his phone number. He hesitated, as we both knew that I had his business card. “I’ll give you my personal mobile number.” I may have blushed a little as I wrote it down. Especially when he said, “That number will reach me day or night.”
When we closed the shop that evening, I had to hold the door open and usher the last customers out. In all the times I had helped my grandmother in the shop, I never remembered a busier day. Rosemary pushed a hand through her hair and said, “Phew. I was run off my feet.”
“I think a lot of people came in to pay their respects.”
“And they all spent a bit of dosh,” she reminded me.
“That they did. And that reminds me, I need to get the cash to the bank.” If there had been a break-in, then thieves must work in the area.
“I can do that f
or you. I always used to do the night deposit for your grandmother.”
I didn’t want to trust her with a bag of cash. Besides, there was an unsavory looking character hanging around outside the shop. He looked to be in his late twenties, with a tattoo of a pit bull, I think it was, up the side of his neck. He was smoking a rolled up cigarette and kept glancing into the shop. His face reminded me of a pit bull’s, even without the tattoo. I didn’t want Rosemary walking past him with the deposit. I said, “I’ll do it myself, tonight. You get on home.”
She shrugged and said, “Please yourself. See you tomorrow.”
Even if my grandmother had fired her, we both knew I couldn’t have managed today without her help. “Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She gathered her bag and left. When she got outside, the pit bull guy walked up to her. Was he panhandling? But soon it was clear they knew each other and walked off together. It looked as though they were arguing. I didn’t need special powers to figure out that this must be Randolph.
I went to the cash register and began counting up the money, and reconciling it with the sales. It was part of the job I’d always enjoyed. I wasn’t good with wool, or knitting, but I was very good with numbers. I knew that Gran would be pleased when I told her how well we’d done today and especially how many people had spoken so kindly of her. I only wished I knew how to get hold of her. Rafe had a mobile. Perhaps we could set Gran up with one as well.
After making certain pit-bull tattoo boy was gone, I carried the deposit up to the bank unmolested and returned to the shop. Nyx woke from her latest nap and meowed pathetically. I felt let down, too, after that wonderful day. Now the shop seemed quiet and empty and dark. I took Nyx upstairs and fed her a tin of the tuna she liked. I’d try and find my grandmother. How hard could it be? I’d seen the vampires go down that trapdoor. I decided to investigate.
CHAPTER 13
I left my sweater on, hoping I’d get a chance to show it off to Clara. But I changed my skirt for jeans and found a flashlight. Having finished her tuna, Nyx seemed inclined to accompany me and, truth to tell, I was glad of the company. I had no idea what lay beneath that trapdoor, but I knew there were tunnels underneath Oxford and subterranean tunnels made me think of rats.
Theoretically, vampires were more dangerous, but I was frankly more frightened of rats.
In fact, when I walked through the shop and into the back room to where that trapdoor was, I hesitated. I had been given no invitation to, “drop by anytime,” and yet here I was thinking I would be welcome. My hand went to my mouth and I began to gnaw my thumbnail. Nyx tapped her paw on the door. It made me smile, and also realize that if they were busy, or still sleeping, I could come back up.
“Here we go,” I said and reached down and pulled up the lid of the trapdoor. I peered down into inky darkness. If I hadn’t seen a dozen vampires climb down there one by one I would have believed there was nothing down there. I clicked on the flashlight and trained the light into the gaping hole.
There were stairs there. Very old looking wooden stairs, but what they led to I couldn’t tell without climbing down. Once more, I was reminded that the vampires hadn’t invited me to come visiting, but then they had seemed so friendly at the knitting club and surely Gran would want to know how I’d made out on my first day running the shop without her.
I held on with one hand and, using the flashlight to guide me, I began to walk down the stairs. When my head was below the level of the shop floor the atmosphere changed. The air smelled thicker, musty and slightly damp. I had no idea what I’d find once I got to the bottom of the stairs. Stacked coffins?
I reached the bottom of the staircase and found myself on the stone walkway of a tunnel. I looked over the edge and saw water moving very slowly several feet below my feet. I couldn’t see light whether I looked behind or in front of me. I shivered, wondering if I should go back upstairs, but Nyx trotted on ahead of me and I refused to act more scared than a kitten.
The stone walls of the tunnel were dry. The cobbles were uneven beneath my feet but perfectly sound. I could hear my own breathing and the scuff of my feet on the ground. Fortunately, there were no sounds of scurrying.
If I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have missed the old, wooden door set into the wall.
The door looked ancient, with a metal handle that appeared untouched by human hands for centuries. I’d have guessed it to be some sort of storage vault but, knowing my knitting friends were down here somewhere, I decided to start here. It was just after seven in the evening and I hoped I wasn’t rousing them too early as I banged on the door with my fist. I waited. Nothing happened. No one answered.
Nyx stood beside me looking up expectantly.
I was about to turn back when I got the strangest feeling I was being watched. Next thing I knew, the door opened soundlessly on well-oiled hinges.
Rafe stood at the door, eyebrows raised. He did not look particularly pleased to see me. “Lucy, this is a surprise.”
He’d probably been perfecting this brand of sarcasm for half a millennium and he was very effective with it. I immediately felt that I was acting inappropriately and trespassing, which was rich, given that their home was beneath the shop that now belonged to me. I reminded myself that I was, in essence, their landlady and as such perfectly in my rights to tour the premises. “I was hoping to speak to my grandmother.”
I could tell he was about to fob me off when I heard Gran say from behind him, “Is that Lucy?” And then she was there, behind his shoulder, saying, “Come in, my love. Tell me all about your first day. I so wanted to pop up and see how you were doing, but Sylvia told me I couldn’t.” Her lips pursed and I imagined harsh words had been exchanged.
There wasn’t much Rafe could do once I’d been so enthusiastically invited in. With the barest lifting of his shoulders he stepped back and opened the door wide. I stepped in expecting to see stacked coffins and perhaps old barrels and coils of rope, dust and dirt and, if I’m honest, rat droppings. The sight that met my eyes was enough to make my jaw drop.
I’d attended Phantom of the Opera in London’s West End with my grandmother back when I was a teenager, and if the vampires had used the same set designer I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised. Their lair was voluptuous, with red velvet settees and deep, comfortable-looking chairs and two couches set in a circle. The light came from crystal chandeliers and ornate lamps. On the walls were tapestries that could have hung in the Louvre.
While I was looking around, Sylvia came in wearing a silk designer robe in black and gold. She yawned and sank into one of the ornate chairs, looking right at home.
And the paintings! I’m no expert, but the heavy framed artworks looked original and expensive. I walked right up to one that did look familiar. “Is that a Van Gogh?” It depicted a vase of sunflowers, but not one I recognized.
Rafe came up behind me. “Yes. I picked it up in Paris, years ago. His work wasn’t popular at the time, but I thought he had something.”
“You thought he had something,” I said faintly.
“If you’re interested in Impressionists, I have a private collection at my house.”
I turned to him in surprise. “Your house? But don’t you live here?”
“No. I have a place near Woodstock, but I’ve been spending more time here lately.”
Sylvia made a sound like she was clucking. “For one very obvious reason.”
I glanced at her and waited for more, but Gran said, “Now, Sylvia. Leave them be.”
I glanced swiftly at Rafe but he appeared oblivious. He ushered me toward the seating area. “Come, your grandmother’s been most anxious to hear about your first day.” I wondered if they’d needed brute force to keep her out of the shop in broad daylight. Knowing Gran the answer was probably yes.
Through an archway I glimpsed a very modern looking series of stainless steel refrigerators. I had a feeling that the blood bank was kept here.
Incongruously, a big-screen televisi
on sat in one corner and on top of a gorgeous antique desk was a top-of-the-line computer. As I walked to the conversation circle, my feet sank into the most luxurious of Persian carpets. I didn’t see rows of coffins but there were several arches leading from this main chamber and I imagined the bedrooms lay back there.
Nyx brushed against my ankles. I bent down and picked her up, thinking she might feel frightened. Perhaps I was the one feeling a bit frightened. I hadn’t brought the garlic or the holy water or the crucifix with me. All I had by way of vampire deterrents was the silver cross on a sterling chain around my neck. I suspected, against a nest of hungry vampires, one silver chain and one feisty kitten wouldn’t be much protection.
But there was Gran, looking much more like my grandmother than a vampire. And so pleased to see me. “Come and sit down,” she said.
She led me forward to a deep red velvet couch. The color of blood, I realized, as I sank into it. “Rafe? Have we refreshment we can offer Lucy?”
“Of course,” he said, his urbanity restored. He walked to a beautiful and intricately carved cabinet and opened the door. There was a set of crystal glasses, and a single bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. I began to feel less frightened as Rafe and I exchanged a glance. They stocked her favorite sherry, which suggested that my grandmother had been a visitor here when she was still human.
He poured me a glass and brought it over. Gran said, “I’d love to join you, but my stomach hasn’t been quite right since my change.” She lowered her voice on the last word and in a different context I thought she could’ve been referring to the menopause. But this had been a more dramatic change of life.
I raised my glass in a silent toast and sipped the thick, sweet liquid. Then I set the glass down and turned to her. “We had the most amazing day. So many of your customers came in and told stories of you, of how you taught them to knit, or ordered something special for them. In a couple of cases a mother and daughter came in together and you’d taught them both. Your customers loved you.”
