The Bookshop Murder: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Flora Steele Mystery Book 1)

by Merryn Allingham

  Flora’s smooth forehead puckered. She was on to something here, she knew. ‘Why was Kevin so keen to come to England? To Abbeymead?’

  ‘Reggie Anderson told him some tale about the place. About the Priory. His uncle visited here when he was a child, apparently, and heard this story. It was a kind of legend. He told it to Kevin as a joke, but Kevin took it seriously. He was fed up with his life in Australia. To be honest, Miss Steele, I think he owed a lot of money there – he did say once when he’d had a few that he’d been gambling. Anyways, he decided the story was true and he could make his fortune by coming here.’

  ‘What was the story?’

  ‘I dunno. Not exactly, except that it mentioned some kind of treasure trove.’

  How desperately disappointing, Flora thought. It was like something from a child’s story book. Kevin Anderson had been telling porkies, she was sure. The gambling debts were likely to be true – probably he’d come to England to escape his creditors. But the story of treasure to be found? Almost certainly he’d been stringing this young woman along, no doubt in the hope she’d succumb to his charms.

  Out loud, though, she said, ‘Kevin was looking for treasure? How exciting!’

  ‘It would have been exciting, if anything had happened. But it didn’t.’ Polly had relapsed into dolefulness again. ‘He turned funny the last few days before he died. Didn’t turn up when we’d arranged to meet, and the next morning walked straight past the reception desk without a word. When I tackled him about it, he said it was none of my business. That was at first, but then when I did a little persuading… you know…’ She gave Flora a coy glance. ‘No, perhaps you don’t. Anyways, I got him talking eventually. He’d telephoned his uncle in Australia – Kevin needed more money to stay on in Abbeymead. When he mentioned meeting me, Reggie Anderson told him to get on with what he’d come for and never mind stray girls. Stray girls, I ask you! If Kevin didn’t get a move on, his uncle said, he wouldn’t wire him the money and his nephew would have to work his way back to Australia.’

  ‘The story wasn’t such a joke to Reggie then? He must have believed there was treasure to find after all.’

  ‘Seems like it.’ Polly snorted. ‘Sounded a bit Enid Blyton to me.’

  And to me, Flora thought. Aloud she said, ‘Still, a disappointment for you.’

  ‘A real let-down. Whatever Kevin was supposed to find, he didn’t. He went and died instead.’

  Polly’s heart didn’t seem to have suffered too much of a dent. Was she telling the truth when she said that she’d no idea what Kevin had to find? Or had Kevin confided in her and she’d decided to search herself, after conveniently disposing of him? Perhaps they’d broken into the All’s Well together and then quarrelled. There were so many possibilities.

  ‘Hey, I better go.’ The girl pushed her chair noisily back, dragging Flora from her reverie. ‘Thanks for the bun,’ she said, as Kate brought a newly dry cycling cape from the back of the shop.

  ‘She’s quite a character, isn’t she?’ Kate said, as the door shut behind Polly. ‘Not exactly the Brains Trust but very beautiful.’

  She was, Flora thought, on her way back to the bookshop. Beautiful and devious. Just how involved had Polly been in Kevin’s exploit? The girl had a native shrewdness that would make finding out difficult. But at least Flora had her theory confirmed. Kevin Anderson had been looking for something that was valuable, a good enough reason to kill him. Mentally she gave herself a thumbs up. So much for blackmail, Mr Crime Writer.

  But what treasure could Kevin have hoped to find in a library or a bookshop? There was only one kind and that was books. He was looking for a book or something in a book that would lead him to the fortune his uncle had spoken of. Buried treasure! Polly was right when she said it sounded straight out of Enid Blyton. If anyone other than that hard-headed young woman had said the words, Flora would have brushed them aside with a giggle.

  She had to take it seriously, though. It must have something to do with the Priory, she thought, or with the Templetons. That’s why Kevin had been asking Alice questions about the family and the house they had lived in for centuries. Kevin had asked Cyril Knight questions, too. Alice had mentioned how the retired gardener had been irritated by the young man’s pestering. And Cyril was closely connected to the infamous cake.

  Cyril Knight was likely to know the story of this supposed treasure, whatever it was. He hadn’t just worked at the Priory for years, he’d lived in the village the whole of his life, and if Flora remembered Violet’s words rightly, his mother had been a district nurse. Someone who, by the nature of her work, would inevitably hear any tales that were going. If Kevin had confided to Cyril what he’d discovered, in exchange for details of the legend Polly had mentioned, Kate’s father could have decided the treasure would be best with him and taken his own action. He was definitely next on her list of suspects.

  She was tempted to call on Cyril immediately, but then thought of Jack. She should tell him what Polly had said and suggest they visit the old chap this afternoon. Jack’s idea of working together left a lot to be desired, but they were supposed to be partners in this. And she had enjoyed her day with him. She wouldn’t mind spending a few more hours in his company, if only to see his face when she mentioned buried treasure.

  Nine

  Before she left for Overlay House, Flora needed to shop. The larder had looked particularly bleak when she’d stowed away the Frosties cereal this morning and now that the rain had stopped and the skies cleared, it made sense to get it done.

  The greengrocer was first on her list. He’d had a fresh delivery that morning of potatoes and local cauliflowers, far superior to anything growing in Flora’s back garden. Without her aunt’s expertise, the vegetable patch was struggling. Boxes of Kentish apples had arrived, too, their shiny redness asking to be bought.

  ‘How are you, Miss Steele?’ the moustached owner asked, deftly twisting a paper bag full of apples and landing them in her empty basket.

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Houseman.’

  ‘And that shop of yours? Doing better, I hope, now the kerfuffle is over.’

  Flora gave the ghost of a smile. ‘As good as can be expected.’

  ‘It’s a heavy burden for a young lady to shoulder,’ he said. ‘Always thought that.’

  ‘The bookshop was a gift from my aunt,’ she reminded him.

  ‘I know that right enough. But sometimes gifts can turn into millstones, no matter how well they’re meant. You’re still young and you’re not married. You should be out in the world going on adventures.’

  It was very much what Flora thought herself, but to agree with him would smack too much of disloyalty to Violet.

  ‘There are plenty of adventures to be had in Abbeymead,’ she said lightly, then realised that she’d spoken the truth.

  A quick goodbye and she hurried on to the butcher’s. The butcher himself was new to the village, having bought his shop a mere five years previously, and knew little about Flora, other than she was a regular customer. He never regaled her, as so many of his compatriots did, with stories of how she had looked on her first day at school or how she’d eaten so much at the Sunday school party when she was eight that she’d been terribly sick.

  ‘Two lamb chops and four slices of luncheon meat, please,’ she said briskly.

  ‘How’s that book place of yours goin’?’ the butcher asked, taking a large cleaver to a joint of meat. The All’s Well, she thought, seemed a topic of fascination for her fellow shopkeepers. ‘Found any more dead bodies?’ A broad smile spread across his cheeks, shining beneath the artificial light.

  ‘No,’ Flora said brusquely. ‘But you seem to have.’ She gazed pointedly at the animal carcases hanging from a row of hooks behind the counter.

  The butcher hastily wrapped her chops and luncheon meat. ‘I’ve some nice chickens coming in at the weekend,’ he said in a conciliatory tone. Flora ignored him, taking the parcel he handed her and marching out of the door and on to t
he baker’s. She shouldn’t get so upset, she knew, but it seemed as though there was no escape. The All’s Well would always be the shop where a dead body had been found.

  The bakery was situated at the far end of the high street, and her watch showed it was already long past twelve. Before she made her way to Jack’s house, she would need to take her shopping home and, at this rate, she’d be lucky to get any lunch at all. Kate’s iced bun would have to suffice. Briefly greeting a nurse she knew from the doctor’s surgery and one of the waiters she recognised from the Priory, she sped along the road.

  The bakery, unfortunately, was crowded. News must have circulated there were doughnuts today, she thought, resignedly joining a queue that stretched beyond the open shop door. She didn’t want doughnuts, but why hadn’t she learned to bake bread? Violet had tried to teach her more times than she could count, but she’d been too impatient. All that mixing, folding, resting, proving, before you even wrestled the thing into the oven.

  In two minds whether to abandon her shopping and try later on her way back from seeing Jack, she was hovering in the shop doorway when she heard a high-pitched voice that she knew, cutting across the general hum of conversation. Vernon Elliot’s. He was at the front of the queue, having almost reached the counter. Flora caught only snatches of what he was saying, although the women immediately behind him seemed to be hanging on his words. She thought she spotted Elsie, her bloodthirsty pensioner, standing close by.

  The mention of All’s Well had Flora’s lack of attention transformed. Straining to hear what he was saying, other words bounced into her ears: bad business, disaster, time to sell. At that point, Elliot’s voice dropped and she lost whatever else he was saying. It was the women who had been listening avidly, their heads nodding like energetic donkeys, who began talking more loudly. Strange happenings, ghosts, they said, sounding entranced by the words. The old story, Flora thought, her heart feeling like lead.

  A woman in the queue two in front looked round at that moment and, seeing Flora behind her, gave her neighbour a nudge. The pair of them began to shuffle from one foot to the other, as though by doing so they could erase the comments they’d heard. Their discomfort appeared to transmit itself to Vernon Elliot himself, because he, too, looked around and saw Flora. She watched as he hastily turned back to the bakery assistant and placed his order.

  Flora was left bewildered. It was horribly clear that Elliot had been talking about her, talking about the bookshop and spreading rumours that her business was dying on its feet. But why on earth would he do that? He might not like her, but neither had he reason to dislike her. As far as business was concerned, she was no competitor, so why slander her? It made no sense.

  It did make her straighten her shoulders, though. She stood her ground in the queue, holding her head high, refusing to be intimidated. As every customer passed her on their way out of the shop, including Elliot, she was careful to smile cheerfully, until she, too, could grab a chunky farmhouse and flee, the loaf tucked upright in her shopping basket like a soldier ready to defend.

  Jack pushed back the battered leather Chesterfield he’d bought from a London flea market and stretched his arms high above his head. He felt good. He’d written an entire chapter this morning, the words flowing through his fingers and onto the typewriter keys in a way they hadn’t for weeks. A tiny nugget of confidence had started to grow that he might actually finish this project, though he preferred not to think of the looming deadline. It had been the books, he thought, the ones Flora had delivered a few days ago, that had pushed him back to his desk. One in particular, The Juno Rebellion, had been key. He’d flicked through the others, too, the ones he’d collected earlier, including the book on poisons, but had found nothing riveting. Nothing to interest Flora.

  She had been strangely quiet – he’d heard nothing from her since yesterday’s visits to the Priory and Katie’s Nook. He realised with a jolt that he’d been hoping to, and wondered why. He should be grateful for the peace – it was what he craved after all, and what Flora most definitely disturbed.

  Shuffling the typed pages into a small pile, he patted them with something that approached hope, and went downstairs to make himself the usual ham sandwich. Really, he should be more adventurous, but eating meat every day was still a novelty after so many years of rationing. He had swiped a smear of piccalilli across the buttered slices of bread when there was a bang on the front door. It was a bang he recognised.

  ‘I can’t believe what’s just happened,’ Flora announced, and darted past him into the drawing room he never used.

  He followed meekly behind, bemused by her sudden eruption into his life again. ‘Why don’t you come into the kitchen?’ he asked. ‘It’s a lot more comfortable.’

  She turned to face him and he saw her doubtful expression. She must be remembering the horsehair sofa and reckoning that one of his kitchen chairs could be worse.

  ‘It really is,’ he promised, leading the way back to the kitchen.

  Once ensconced in the room’s warmth, with a cup of tea and a sandwich that Jack had whipped up in seconds, Flora’s shoulders visibly untensed.

  ‘Tell me,’ he encouraged.

  ‘Vernon Elliot,’ she said with loathing. ‘He was slandering me. Slandering my shop. Telling people that it was going bust, suggesting it was dangerous.’

  ‘Are you sure? Why would he do that?’ It sounded to Jack as though Flora might have mistaken whatever conversation she’d overheard.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, biting into her sandwich, ‘but I heard him in the baker’s not an hour ago. He was at the head of the queue and lording it over everyone, the way he does, more or less telling them my shop should be avoided.’

  Jack was puzzled. ‘It’s an odd thing to do, unless it’s some kind of payback for our invading the Priory yesterday. Elliot wasn’t at all happy to see us there.’

  ‘It’s a spiteful thing to do. He must know the bookshop is teetering on the edge.’

  ‘That might be the point,’ he said gently.

  ‘You mean he wants me to go bankrupt? What a truly horrible man he is.’

  ‘There I can agree with you. Is that what you came to tell me?’

  ‘Actually no. Something much more positive. I have news – in the shape of Polly Dakers,’ she said proudly, and proceeded to recount her conversation with the receptionist that morning.

  ‘Treasure trove,’ Jack spluttered, spilling tea across the Formica table.

  Flora beamed at him. ‘I knew you’d like that.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Yet a young man took it seriously enough to travel thousands of miles to come here. And fall further into debt as a result. And,’ she emphasised, ‘his uncle, who claimed the whole idea was a joke, was still willing to wire Kevin money so that he could carry on looking for this mythical treasure.’

  Jack shook his head and munched steadily on. He took his time before he said, ‘What on earth has this to do with Anderson searching the library at the Priory and breaking into your shop? That was your theory, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It’s more than a theory. I’m convinced of it. Kevin was looking for something connected to this story. That’s why he asked Alice all those questions. Why he asked Cyril Knight as well, the two longest-serving retainers at the Priory. We need to ask some questions ourselves. Find Cyril and grill him.’

  ‘I’ve a book to write,’ he protested, annoyed that his time had been annexed arbitrarily. ‘Or haven’t you noticed?’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Flora said, in a tone of mock distress. ‘Am I unwelcome? Have I disturbed your writerly inspiration?’

  She was enjoying teasing him, Jack could see, and he couldn’t honestly say he was filled with inspiration. A workmanlike job on this book was all he was going to manage. He was intrigued, too, with the way this real-life mystery was developing.

  ‘When do you want to go?’ he asked, putting aside his reluctance.

  ‘Now,’ she said promptly.
‘When we’ve finished these very tasty sandwiches.’

  Ten

  Cyril Knight lived in a row of terraced cottages tucked behind the grey stone bulk of the village church. It was evident he worked as hard in his own garden as he had at the Priory. A straggle of roses still bloomed even in October and a splendid display of chrysanthemums and winter pansies filled several flower beds. The house might need a lick of paint, but its garden was a haven.

  ‘Cyril takes a pride in his home,’ Jack remarked.

  ‘Make sure you say that. We want him on our side.’

  She greeted the old man with a smile, as he opened the door. ‘Hello, Mr Knight. I hope we’re not disturbing you. We’d love to have a chat, but if it’s not convenient, we can come back later.’

  She felt Jack fidget beside her at the mention of ‘later’. He was thinking of his book, no doubt, and Flora felt a twinge of guilt, but work would have to wait.

  ‘Now’s fine,’ Cyril said, adjusting a pair of corduroy trousers that, even with braces, seemed in danger of pooling to his ankles. He’d lost weight since Flora had last seen him and she wondered if worry over his daughter was the cause. He certainly looked poorly, his face pale and drawn.

  Coughing badly, he led the way into the cottage’s small sitting room.

  ‘You’re unwell, Mr Knight.’ Flora was concerned for the old chap. ‘We really shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Don’ matter. Mostly I’m fine – had a few bad moments back in the past, but I’m on the pills now and they keep the old ticker goin’ ’cept I don’ like these last ones I been takin’. Given me a fuzzy ’ead. Though mebbe it’s just this darn cold. Had it for days and now it’s gorn to me chest.’ He waved them towards two fireside chairs. ‘Sit yourselves down.’