Murder by the Book

by Debbie Young

  “Still, it must have been quite a jump from comic-book action to romantic novels.”

  “Yes, and I had to help him make the transition. I suggested some nice romantic plots to start him off. I’ve always read a lot of romance, so I knew exactly the sort of thing that readers like. I thought it would be good therapy for him, too – escapism from the stress of his daily life. Not his day job, I don’t mean.” So she was no fan of Celeste’s either. “The poor boy had got so thin with worry.”

  She leaned towards me, dropping her voice to almost a whisper.

  “I was incensed when Hector dedicated his first book to that woman. I could see the relationship would never last, and she didn’t deserve it. But of course, I couldn’t say so, because it might have driven him further into her clutches. I was very glad to see the back of her when she chose to leave, even though it did break his heart for a little while.”

  I didn’t want to dwell on the subject. “So is Hector effectively your ghost writer?” If Nancy was providing the plots and Hector the words, that’s what it sounded like to me.

  Nancy shook her head. “Only for those first few stories. I just fed him some happy endings.” Her eyes widened innocently.

  “To show him what a good relationship could be like?” I was impressed by her cunning.

  She leaned in again. “Yes, but I’m not sure he ever realised what I was up to. Please don’t tell him.”

  I decided to read Angel Heart after all. I might pick up some good advice.

  “Now he writes them all entirely on his own, but he always shows me his finished drafts before publication. He has a professional editor and proofreader, of course, but I’m touched that he still values my opinion.” A smile played about her lips. “You’ll like the next one. I think it’s his best yet.”

  “I’ll look forward to reading it,” I said politely, hoping I’d like it as much as she did. “Speaking of ill-fated relationships, did Carol confide in you about a certain someone threatening to return to the village?”

  Her smile vanished, making me wish I hadn’t brought the subject up. “Yes, and I’m very worried on her behalf. I don’t know how that wretched man can show his face here. The few people who remember the fiasco with Bertie will not welcome his return. Or else they’ll welcome him back with pitchforks and scythes.”

  I hoped she was joking.

  17 Booked Up

  After all the upheaval of the last few days, I wasn’t sure Hector would want to go to Donald’s Minty-themed Valentine’s Dinner with me. But Nancy’s supposed confession lifted his mood considerably, especially when she pointed out the financial advantages of being able to wheel her out for book signings and talks in other shops and literary events, providing useful publicity for Hermione Minty’s books while still keeping her real identity a secret.

  As for Nancy, she seemed to be relishing the idea. Within days of her revelation, she had committed to speaking at three Women’s Institute groups and four bookshops.

  Word quickly got round the village, and in the February issue of the parish magazine, alongside my column about narcissi and Narcissus, Wendlebury Barrow Village Show Committee announced that Hermione Minty would be guest of honour at the next annual show.

  Next time we went down to Clevedon for Sunday dinner, Horace seemed to think the pleasing outcome had all been down to his intervention, and Hector had the grace to let him get away with it.

  It was heartening, though still odd, to see the pair of them together. Hector even persuaded Horace to accompany us to a car boot sale, on condition that we joined him at The Moon and Sixpence afterwards.

  Consequently, we didn’t make it back to Wendlebury till the next morning, driving up at the crack of dawn to open the shop on time. But it was worth the hangover to feel that I’d bonded a bit with Horace, and that Hector and he were once more the best of friends.

  In truth, despite the fact that Horace’s impulsive nature had almost spelled the end of my romance with Hector – not to mention the sudden death of Hermione Minty – it was hard to say goodbye to him on 13 February, when he came up to spend a final evening in Wendlebury before he was due to head to Heathrow the following evening, ready to catch his flight in the early hours of the fifteenth.

  Meanwhile, bookings had been going well for The Bluebird’s Valentine’s Dinner, with every table reserved in advance. Donald had also sold hundreds of raffle tickets at a pound a time, a huge boost to his takings for the new year.

  On Valentine’s Day, I left Hector’s House a little earlier than usual to go to help Donald set up. Hector had promised to join me at 7pm for the meal. Ella met me at The Bluebird, and together we laid out the tables in a fancier way than for the usual pub grub menu.

  What a difference our extra touches made to the ambience. The addition of a tiny potted pink primrose on each table for two, donated, along with a discount voucher, by the Slate Green Garden Centre, really lifted the mood of the room. I was astonished how generous the centre manager had been. We had more than enough for every table, plus one for each place setting at the big round table that Donald had set aside for singletons, at Ella’s thoughtful suggestion. Even after we’d put a few primroses on the bar, there were some spares.

  “Have one each to take home, as a little thank-you for all your hard work, girls,” said Donald.

  “Don’t you want to keep them to put in your window boxes?” I asked, not wanting to take advantage.

  “They’re already full of herbs, Sophie. If I had my beer garden finished now, I could put them out there, but that’s going to take a couple of months, and the flowers will have faded by then. Go on, you have them.”

  We added a tall, tapering red candle to every pot for an extra romantic touch. Carol had dug out from her trunk of old material a spool of machine-made lace, which she’d allowed us to cut into strips to make small runners for the centre of every table. While Donald wasn’t looking, Ella made a circuit of the pub, sprinkling on to the upholstery oils of rose, lavender and sandalwood that she’d brought from home. She swore by aromatherapy as the key to jumpstarting a romantic evening. As the central heating kicked in before opening hours, creating a heady atmosphere, I hoped she hadn’t overdone it.

  Once we’d laid out all the cutlery and glasses on the tables, Ella and I perched on bar stools for the welcome cup of coffee that Donald had brewed for us, while his wife was hard at work in the kitchen, preparing fifty covers of the set meal.

  “Ella, I never asked who your date is,” I said, poring over the checklist of table bookings that Donald had left on the bar. “Are you still seeing that fitness instructor from the leisure centre?”

  Ella grinned. “I’m doing much more than seeing him.”

  I noticed her table was in a discreet corner of the bar, and I made a mental note to check him out at least from a distance when they arrived.

  “I see Kate’s down here too, with her husband,” I said. “That’s nice. In fact, I know most of the names here.”

  My heart sank when I saw Ted’s name ‘plus one’. I was happy for him that he’d found someone else to bring, but disappointed on Carol’s behalf.

  “You’ll probably know all of the faces too. And speaking of faces, I’m going to go and put mine on while it’s quiet. There’s still half an hour before anyone’s due to arrive.”

  She grabbed her make-up bag and hairbrush from her handbag.

  “I’ll whip home and slip into something more comfortable,” I called after her as she headed to the Ladies’. I’d meant to bring a smart dress to work that morning, but had forgotten. “See you shortly.”

  As I passed the village shop, Carol caught my eye and beckoned me inside. I glanced at my watch, not wanting to be delayed. Chats with Carol were never quick.

  “You’re open late tonight, aren’t you? You’re usually closed by 6pm.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Well, I didn’t think it was worth going home before I go to The Bluebird. I just wanted to say I’ll see you later. Bec
ky’s told me I’ve got to go up to the pub to present the raffle prize. She said Donald thought it would be a nice way to thank me for donating the chocolates and the lace. I suppose it’s a good way of reminding everybody to support the village shop. Every little helps.”

  She took off her customary full-length apron to reveal a flattering midnight blue jersey dress underneath, far smarter than she’d usually wear to work.

  “Gosh, that’s pretty. That colour really suits you. Are you sure you’re only going to present the prize?” I winked at her, hoping that she had a date after all.

  Her face fell. “Sophie, I cannot tell a lie. I’m afraid I’ve agreed to meet Bertie there. Just once, just quickly, and then I’m going to tell him that there’s no way we can get back together. We were barely ever together at all, apart from, you know, Becky…”

  “Does Becky know you’re meeting him?”

  “Goodness, no,” she said quickly. “Please don’t tell her. It had got to the point where I thought that if I didn’t meet him face-to-face, he’d never stop pestering me. And perhaps I owe him that much.”

  I sighed. “To be honest, Carol, I don’t think you owe him anything at all. But if this will allow you to draw a line under the whole relationship and move on, then it’s not my place to discourage you.”

  It was unfortunate that her timing was so bad, just as dear Ted had hooked up with someone else. Goodness only knew how long it would take her to find another suitable beau. Perhaps she never would.

  “Where are you meeting him? Surely not for dinner at a romantic table for two?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll have cheese on toast when I get home. But first I’m meeting him in secret, out the back, in the courtyard, beside the well. You may think that sounds silly, but that’s where we used to do our courting. In those days, you could still smoke in pubs, so hardly anyone went out there in the winter. It was a good private place to meet, with dark corners and shady sheds to hide in. Quite romantic in its own way.” She sighed wistfully. “Though I confess, I shan’t be sad to see it all bulldozed and replaced by Donald’s new beer garden.”

  “I’m not sure there’s room for a bulldozer in there. I can’t see how they’d get one round the back. But I do know he’s getting the well filled in with concrete tomorrow. Ella and I were having fun lobbing old bits of rubbish down it just now. I can quite see why Tommy’s so fond of it.”

  “Yes, bless him.”

  “Apparently, Donald’s going to keep the little wall around the well in place, but put a false bottom in there above the concrete filling, with a bit of water in it, so that it still looks like a traditional well. I bet children in the play area will be pestering their parents to throw coins down it.”

  “Another extra income stream for the pub, then.” I had to admire her business acumen, usually so well hidden. She’d done a remarkable job keeping the village shop afloat in these days of online ordering and deep-discounted grocery superstores.

  “Thank you for your support, Sophie,” said Carol, reaching across the counter to take my hands. “I think this is all for the best.”

  As she let go, I caught sight of my watch. “I’m sorry, Carol, I must fly. I’ve just got time to dash home and change before I’ve got to be back at the pub to help Donald dish out the welcoming Mint Juleps. You’ll know where to find me if you need me.”

  “Yes. Enjoy your special evening, Sophie. You’ve worked hard for this. I hope you and Hector get your just desserts.”

  Used to her creative use of English, I took that as a compliment, not a threat.

  “Mint-flavoured, of course,” I replied.

  Opening the wardrobe, I couldn’t decide which of May’s extensive collection of exotic dresses to wear. She’d brought so many back from her trips abroad during her travel-writing days. It was the sartorial equivalent of a luxury box of chocolates, with so many textures, colours, and weights, all sumptuous and rich.

  Eventually I pulled out a slender sheath dress of dark brown velveteen, lined with the palest ivory silk, a sliver of which peeped above the scooped neckline. Only as I was dashing out the door did I realise I had subconsciously chosen a frock that made me look like an After Eight.

  I grabbed my handbag, almost knocking over Donald’s primrose, perky and lush against the crumbly black potting compost. As I was about to leave, the front door of Joshua’s cottage creaked open. A rustling of plastic suggested he was putting rubbish in his wheelie bin. I felt awful leaving him to spend Valentine’s Night alone with his memories of his late wife, and of my Auntie May, his childhood sweetheart and companion after his wife died. I grabbed the primrose and swung my front door open quickly to catch him before he had time to get back inside.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day, Joshua,” I called cheerfully, reaching across with the pot plant in my hand. “This is for you.”

  His face lit up. “And a very Happy Saint Valentine’s Day to you too, my dear.” He took the flower pot and held it up to my security light to see it better.

  “Pink to make the boys wink, eh, my dear? How kind of you to think of me. I must give you something in return.”

  Thoughtfully, he appraised my dress, visible under my still unbuttoned coat, and set down the primrose on top of his wheelie bin. One hand to his aching back, he stooped down to the wooden tub of spring bulbs by his doorstep and broke off a single snowdrop at the base of its stalk. After hauling himself back upright, he reached across the hedge to slip the slender green stem into my hair, the tiny flowers resting above my right ear. When he tenderly touched my cheek, I realised what a loss he must have been to Auntie May, and she to him, when she left him in her youth to travel the world.

  18 The Silent Tree Falls

  Having run all the way to the pub so as not to be late after my exchange with Joshua, I made straight for the Ladies’ to touch up my make-up before taking my place to greet diners on arrival with a tray of Mint Juleps. As I passed the side door, I heard a funny noise outside, from the direction of the courtyard. I opened the door and stepped outside to investigate, the frosty flagstones squeaking beneath my feet. It didn’t sound like Carol.

  “Who’s there? Surely no-one’s smoking out here on Valentine’s Night?”

  Wary of interfering with Carol’s clandestine meeting, yet also concerned for her safety - and for the smooth running of Donald’s Valentine’s Dinner - I tiptoed into the shadows. As I entered the unlit courtyard, a rustling noise was coming from the back of a tumbledown shed due for demolition.

  “Billy, is that you?” It looked a bit like him. I took a few steps forward. “Billy?” I said it louder now, to make sure he could hear me.

  The figure stepped forward slightly, and Billy’s eyes peered up at me from under a battered cloth cap.

  “I ain’t that little sod,” came a gravelly reply. “And don’t you go telling him I’m here, neither.”

  Daring myself to take a step closer, I realised it wasn’t Billy but Bertie. Though there was a strong family resemblance, he was a shadow of his younger brother’s stocky self. Billy was still able to wield a scythe and dig graves in the churchyard. Bertie looked as if he’d have trouble lifting a pint of beer, though he certainly smelled like one.

  “Nor no-one else, neither. There’s only one person I want to see here tonight, and it ain’t you, May Sayers.”

  I feigned ignorance.

  “I can’t tell anyone you’re here because I don’t know who you are.”

  He grumbled to himself for a moment, picking up a discarded cigarette end from the ground.

  “You don’t need to tell no-one nothing in any case. It’s none of your business.”

  If Carol was entertaining even the slightest idea of giving him a second chance, the sour smell wafting across from his unwashed body would surely repel her. I wondered whether I could change his mind about staying in the village and get rid of him before she arrived.

  “If you need a place to stay tonight, try calling at the vicarage. The vicar’s
got connections with the local hostel down in Slate Green.”

  “I don’t need no bloody vicar. And if I wants to get to Slate Green, I knows the way, thank you very much.”

  “But you’ve missed the last bus. And you can’t stay here. These sheds are going to be demolished in the morning, when the lorry comes to fill the old well with concrete.”

  He took a step towards me.

  “What do you take me for? I’ve got no intention of spending the night in some old shed. As soon as I’ve attended to my business of the evening, I’ll be moving into somewhere a lot warmer. So you keep your beak out of it, missus.”

  I hoped that warmer place would not be Carol’s fireside, or, perish the thought, her bed.

  Hearing voices in the street as guests for the Valentine’s Dinner approached the pub, I remembered my duties and scurried back inside.

  Returning to the fragrant warmth of The Bluebird was as comforting as stepping into a hot bubble bath, not least because of Ella’s earlier generosity with the essential oils. Even though I’d had no physical contact with Bertie, I felt soiled by my encounter, so went to dart back into the Ladies’ to wash my hands and spritz on a little perfume.

  The Ladies’ was now occupied, so after a quick look round to make sure there weren’t any men approaching, I darted into the Gents’ opposite. Both were single cubicle rooms, the mirror image of each other, so it wasn’t as if I was invading anyone’s privacy, although subsequent visitors might wonder why the Gents’ was smelling of Auntie May’s Chanel.

  To disperse the evidence of my perfume, I stood on the toilet seat to release the catch of the small high window. As a gust of icy air blew in, I thought I heard a splash, and for a moment I assumed my mobile phone had fallen down the loo again. But the splash had come from a different direction, from beyond the open window, and my phone was safe in my handbag, beside Auntie May’s travel-sized perfume atomiser.