Murder by the Book

by Debbie Young

  As the daughter of a university lecturer in Scottish cultural history, I knew that was a myth invented in the nineteenth century, pandering to Queen Victoria’s enthusiasm for all things Scottish, but I didn’t bother to put him right. I was just glad he liked it.

  “Cool,” said Tommy politely, though I could tell he thought he’d got the better deal with his tablet.

  A creak at the entrance announced the arrival of Tommy’s little sister, Sina. The damp weather had made the wooden doorframe swell, and she needed to put her whole bodyweight behind the door to open it. Now she stood on the threshold, a long rope, possibly a discarded washing line, swinging from her hands.

  Hector appraised her. “Sina Crowe, in the bookshop, with a skipping rope.”

  Sina, on a mission, ignored him. “Tommy, Mum says you’ve got to come home for lunch now.” Her voice, high and light, belied her forceful character.

  Tommy stared at her in surprise. “How did you know I was here?”

  Without answering, she left as abruptly as she had arrived, yanking the door closed behind her. Waiting for Tommy to follow, she started skipping on the pavement outside the shop window, jumping steadily and gracefully over the swinging rope as she chanted aloud:

  “Ding, dong, dell,

  Pussy’s in the well,

  Who threw her in?

  Little Tommy Crowe…”

  Tommy frowned. “I’ll throw Little Sina Crowe down the well if she doesn’t look out. That doesn’t even rhyme.” Stuffing the rest of the tablet in his pocket, he headed for the door, turning back to speak to us over his shoulder before he left. “I think she must have been reading my detective book. I’ll dust it for fingerprints as soon as I get home with the talcum powder my gran gave Mum for Christmas. I’ll make Wendlebury Barrow a safer place before long, don’t you worry.”

  With the strength of a man and the enthusiasm of a boy, he slammed the door shut behind him.

  3 Abstinence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

  “Speaking of secrets,” I said to Hector, as I was dusting the bookshelves at closing time, “why exactly is it that you want to keep Hermione Minty’s identity secret? It’s not a crime to have a pseudonym. It’s hardly fraud.”

  “I have my reasons.” Hector kept his eyes on his computer screen. In the absence of any customers, he was proofreading the final manuscript of Hermione Minty’s next novel.

  With that avenue of conversation proving a cul-de-sac, I changed to a subject that had been bothering me while I was away.

  “You know, Hector, I’ve been thinking. We ought to help Billy cut down on his drinking.”

  Hector looked up at me, puzzled. “Why? His drinking habits aren’t our responsibility.”

  I washed the cream jug and turned it upside down on the draining board to dry.

  “They are a bit,” I said. “We’re enabling him. We’re leading him astray. By serving him your special cream with his tea, we’re actively encouraging him to drink more alcohol than he would without us.” Hector’s ‘cream’ was a heady milky hooch. “It can’t be good for him to start on the booze so early in the day when he comes into the shop for his elevenses.”

  Hector shrugged. “Old people get up so early in the morning that elevenses to us is like lunchtime to them. Plenty of people enjoy a sherry before lunch. There’s even a school of thought that says it’s good for them. I bet Joshua Hampton, next door to you, keeps similar hours. He’s probably supping his bedtime cocoa by nine o’clock at night.”

  I glanced down at my new watch, Hector’s Christmas present to me, and pursed my lips. That was true, but it didn’t let us off the hook.

  “It’s also illegal to sell alcohol without a licence,” I said.

  Hector leaned back on his stool and stretched his arms out.

  “Ah, but I’m not selling it. I’m not even advertising it. It’s just a free gift for certain customers, and it costs me next to nothing to make. If I stopped doing it, those customers might stop coming in. It would make an unwelcome dent in our tearoom takings from Billy for a start. It’s all about the bottom line.” He set the keyboard to one side and removed the drawer from the till to start cashing up. “You’re not the only one who’s been doing some thinking over Christmas. Only my thinking involved a calculator, producing evidence that we need to increase our takings. We need more income streams, not less.”

  “You mean fewer,” I said, with the automatic response of a trained English language teacher.

  “OK, fewer. All ideas welcome, so don’t hold back. You could try getting a few more after-school pupils in for coaching, for a start.”

  Although I kept the tuition fees for coaching local children in the shop after school, their presence, and their mums’, led to significant extra sales in both the bookshop and the tearoom.

  “I’ll ask Ella whether she can put any more business our way from the village school,” I said. “I’m meeting her for a drink after work tomorrow. But why the sudden need? We were doing really well before Christmas. The shop was busy all day, every day, for weeks.”

  “Yes, but the Christmas shopping season comes only once a year, and next Christmas is a long way off. We’ve got a quiet time until Valentine’s Day at least, or even Easter, when the tourist trade will kick in. And all that time, internet retailers will be quietly winning over customers with deliveries to their doors of orders placed from the comfort of their own homes, often at prices lower than I can offer them. We need to be developing new moneymaking ideas, not abandoning old ones that are working. Besides, I enjoy Billy’s company. I’d miss him if he stopped coming in. Not that I’d tell him that.”

  I tucked the duster in my pocket and picked up the disinfectant spray and dishcloth to clean the tea tables, another of my end-of-day tasks.

  “He’d miss us too,” I said. “He’d probably still come in anyway. I bet he comes here for the company as much as for the drink. If cheap alcohol was all he was after, he’d drink at home on his own.”

  Hector walked to the door to turn the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’.

  “I suppose so. But are you sure you’re not just letting Tommy frighten you with his talk of detecting secrets?”

  I laughed. “Frightened of Tommy? Don’t be daft. I’m not the one with the secret to hide, Ms Minty.” Hector grimaced. “Besides, we don’t have to make Billy go cold turkey. How about I start by diluting the cream with ordinary milk? Within a couple of weeks, his tea will be alcohol free, and he’ll be none the wiser.”

  Hector slid a pile of pound coins into a plastic banking bag. “Promise you won’t make a citizen’s arrest on me in the meantime?”

  I thought back to Tommy’s advice: if she loved you, she’d take your side. I wondered whether Hector was thinking that too. “I promise.”

  He thumbed through a pile of five-pound notes. “And you won’t start watering the brandy in my flat?”

  I hesitated. “Actually, I was thinking of going on the wagon myself.”

  He stopped counting. “Why? Did you have a heavy time of it at Hogmanay? Too much Scotch in Scotland?” His voice was playful, but his eyes were anxious. He looked down quickly at the money in front of him. “Who were you with?”

  “Oh, no-one,” I said vaguely. “Just my parents.” I’ve never been any good at lying, though it’s not for lack of ideas.

  Slipping a rubber band round the banknotes, he stuffed them into the safe in the wall behind him and locked the door.

  “Well, all the more brandy for me.” He flicked off all the light switches except the one for the window display. “But if you change your mind, there’ll be a glass waiting for you by the fireside in my flat, and a welcome-home supper, if you fancy it?”

  Did he even need to ask, after we’d spent the last two weeks apart?

  I slipped into my coat and collected my bags.

  “Lock up the shop,” I said, “and I’ll race you up the stairs.”

  Much later that evening, when I returned to my cottage with my trav
elling bags, I noticed the curtains were still open next door. I could see my elderly neighbour Joshua dozing in his usual high-backed armchair, a blanket over his lap, in front of a blazing log fire. He usually closed the curtains at dusk. That he’d left them open suggested that he was either ill or dead or looking out for my return. I hoped it was the latter.

  Until that moment, all I had wanted to do was to unpack and dash back up to Hector’s, but I had learned since moving into my late aunt’s cottage back in the summer that in Wendlebury Barrow everyone looked out for each other. After years of living in anonymous urban flats, I was ready to embrace that philosophy.

  I unlocked my front door, set my bags down in the hall and unzipped my handbag to extract my Scottish souvenir for Joshua. Then I closed the door, stepped over the low lavender hedge that divided our front paths, and hammered at his door loud enough to compensate for his hearing impairment. I was relieved to see he immediately stirred from his armchair.

  When he opened the door, his enormous smile of welcome made me glad I’d come to see him. He reached out his hands to clasp mine with a surprisingly firm grip. Instinctively, I reached up to kiss him on the cheek, as if greeting my old grandpa. I was so lucky to live next door to him.

  As he ushered me through to his front room, I noticed how few Christmas cards stood on his mantlepiece. As a traditionalist, he wouldn’t be taking them down until Twelfth Night the following Friday. I supposed most of his friends and contemporaries must have predeceased him. This would have been his first Christmas without a card – or anything else – from my late Auntie May.

  I settled back on his ancient chintz sofa, suddenly feeling very tired. After all, I’d been up since before dawn to catch the earliest flight from Inverness. That seemed like weeks ago now.

  “Welcome back, my dear, I am glad to see you,” Joshua said, making a slow detour to close the front curtains before settling back into his fireside chair. He clasped his hands contentedly across his chest. “It has been awfully quiet without you next door.”

  I laughed. “Am I usually so noisy? I’m sorry!”

  He shook his head. “I suppose not, but it did feel strangely silent in your absence.”

  It must have given him a feeling of security to know I was within shouting distance if he had an accident. Although he was still independent, it wouldn’t take much to knock him off his feet. The next-door neighbours on the other side were in a huge detached old manor house, their extensive garden muffling any sound between their house and Joshua’s.

  “I confess I have missed you and your light and cheery presence,” he said.

  I’d never thought of myself as light and cheery before, but I wasn’t about to argue. “I’ve missed you too,” I said automatically, although I realised as I said it that it was true. I leaned across to pass him a small cardboard box patterned in Royal Hunting Stewart tartan. “I brought you back some Edinburgh Rock. A little taste of Scotland that I thought you might enjoy.”

  He looked doubtful. “Rock? I’m not sure my teeth are up to rock.”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry, it’s not solid, like the sticks of rock you buy at the seaside. This is melt-in-the-mouth stuff. You could still enjoy it without any teeth at all.”

  Although I meant to be encouraging, after I’d spoken I realised I might have sounded rude. But Joshua was unabashed. He set the little box down on the side table beside his armchair.

  “Good idea, Sophie, I shall enjoy it at bedtime. That’s one of the many joys of growing old: being able to eat as many sweets as you like in bed without brushing your teeth, which just sit in the glass on the bedside cabinet and smile at you.”

  I admired Joshua’s positive attitude.

  “So what’s new with you?” I asked, trying not to look at his mouth. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

  Joshua had been invited to his cousin’s in our nearest town, Slate Green, for Christmas Day. I was sorry he had no children or grandchildren to spend it with.

  “Very pleasant indeed, thank you. More turkey than I could shake my walking stick at. And you?”

  “Lovely, thanks. Mum and Dad were glad to see me, as I hadn’t been there since before I moved to Wendlebury in June. A visit home was a bit overdue. But I’m glad to be back. This is my home now really.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it. Is all well at Hector’s House today? And with Hector?”

  Joshua didn’t miss much. He must have realised that Hector would collect me from the airport and take me straight into work at his bookshop. I hoped Joshua didn’t guess what else I’d just been doing with Hector.

  “Yes, thanks.” I changed the subject before he could probe any further. “Tommy Crowe was in the shop today, at a loose end as school doesn’t start until tomorrow. You’ll never guess what he had for Christmas.”

  Joshua shook his head. “Probably some new invention that I won’t understand, one of those Former Boxes or whatever they call them.”

  I smiled. “No, not an Xbox. I don’t suppose his mum could afford one of those even if she wanted to. Something much more traditional: a detective kit. Sina gave him a book about how to be a detective, and his mum gave him a magnifying glass, a fingerprint kit, and goodness knows what else. All he’s missing is the deerstalker cap and pipe.”

  “Has he detected anything yet?” Joshua’s eyes twinkled, knowing how mischievous Tommy Crowe could be.

  “Not that I know of, but he’s determined to track down unsolved crimes in the village. He seems to think there are plenty to choose from. I hope he’s not going to be disappointed. I should think all he’ll find will be parking offences and littering, rather than anything more serious.”

  “Or smuggling,” said Joshua, to my surprise. “Or forgery. Or drug abuse. I could name a few guilty parties there for starters. Not that I’m going to give Tommy any tip-offs.”

  I must have looked startled, because Joshua was quick to comfort me.

  “Nothing to worry about, my dear. To each his own. Everyone’s welcome to their own devices in our little village.”

  “Surely you’re not condoning crime?”

  Joshua sat back in his chair and gazed up at the bright ceiling light, the bulb dazzling beneath its old-fashioned fringed silk shade. I suppose your eyesight needs extra help as you get older.

  “Not condoning, my dear, just acknowledging that some activities conducted locally go beyond the letter of the law yet remain unpunished. Distilling spirits, for example.”

  He returned his rheumy gaze to me, as if checking my reaction.

  “Yes, but it’s not as if Hector’s selling it, or evading tax on it. He gives it away, just as he would home-made cakes, if he ever made any.”

  Only after I’d spoken did it occur to me that Joshua might not have been referring to Hector.

  “Taxation isn’t the only reason you need a licence. There are also matters of health. Wood alcohol can damage your eyesight.”

  Watching Joshua staring unblinkingly beneath the glare of the ceiling light, I wondered whether this was the voice of experience. I swallowed.

  Joshua leaned back. “Of course, it was different in the days when we had a village bobby on the beat. You couldn’t get away with much then. I remember when young Billy” – he meant old Billy, but, to be fair, Joshua was older than him – “found a beautiful wooden catapult in his Christmas stocking. Our bobby caught him shooting pebbles at the vicar’s cat on the village green. So he snatched the catapult straight out of his hand and snapped it in half across his knee. That taught Billy not to do it again.” He smiled wryly at the memory. “Of course, we’ve got a policeman living in the village now, but that’s not the same thing as being on the beat. I hear he spends most of his off-duty time indoors with his eyes fixed on his television.”

  He closed his eyes, not speaking for so long that I wondered whether he’d nodded off. I glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly nine.

  Suddenly his eyes snapped open.

  “But don’t let thought
s of local crime worry you, Sophie. I’m sure you’ll sleep safe in your bed tonight. Especially with Tommy Crowe on the look-out.” That twinkle again. Had he guessed that I’d promised to spend the night with Hector after I’d unpacked? I was glad he’d now drawn his curtains so that he wouldn’t see me sneak back up the High Street. Joshua may be old, but he could teach Tommy Crowe a thing or two about detection.

  4 Wagons Roll

  “Not you too,” said Donald, exchanging weary glances with Ella across the bar. All I’d done was ask for a mineral water.

  Since returning to Wendlebury, the only alcohol I’d drunk had been a couple of glasses of brandy at Hector’s and a drop of Joshua’s sloe gin “for warmth”, as he put it. But I had resolved to stay dry when I caught up with Ella at The Bluebird.

  “At least I didn’t say tap water,” I said, frowning. “I’m not being mean, I’m just not drinking alcohol.”

  After the chaos of the first day of term at the village school, Ella had other ideas.

  “Well, I’m having a glass of wine, Donald, whatever Sophie’s drinking,” she said. She turned to me, all wide-eyed innocence. “Why don’t you have a white wine spritzer, Sophie? A little drop of wine in a long glass topped up with soda water doesn’t really count as an alcoholic drink.”

  Donald nodded encouragement.

  I frowned. “I thought the bubbles got you drunk faster?”

  Ella waved a hand dismissively. “No, no, you’re thinking of champagne. I’m not suggesting you drink champagne. Not on a January budget.”

  I gave a tiny nod of assent. “Just a small one, then.”

  “I wish a few people would stump up for champagne,” Donald said, tonging a few ice cubes from an insulated plastic bucket into a long glass. “My takings always slump in January, what with everyone being spent out after Christmas, and not wanting to repeat their New Year hangover.”