by Debbie Young
We turned to peer at the crowds through the shop window. Many were clutching dog-eared copies of old Minty books, presumably eager to have them autographed. Others had purses at the ready to buy her latest.
“You won’t make much money if they’ve brought books with them,” I said.
Hector raised his eyebrows and pointed to the central display table. Since I’d left the shop last night, he’d completely restocked it. Instead of the usual array of books by different authors, it was now entirely covered in copies of The Girl with Forget-Me-Not Eyes.
“None of them will have this one yet. You got the first copy last night, remember? I’d kept the rest of the consignment hidden in the stockroom so as not to spoil your surprise. I had enough printed to last till the summer, but looking at the crowds outside, I’m not so sure. So, I have to eat my words and thank you, Sophie, for putting the word out on Twitter. You were right, I was wrong, and I have to say I’m very glad of it.”
“But how did it get onto Twitter last night, Hector? I haven’t tweeted for days.”
At that point, Tommy emerged from the stockroom, trailing a long strip of bubble wrap, idly popping bubbles as he walked.
“And what are you doing here, Tommy? Why aren’t you at school?”
“It’s half term, miss. Surely you knew that?” I did, but in all the excitement, I’d forgotten. “I’ve been in the shop helping Hector this morning, stamping on the cardboard boxes as he unpacked them. The boxes he’d been emptying Mrs Minty’s books out of. And I’ve been helping him with the new window display, too.”
“But the shop’s not even open yet.”
“After all the fuss on Facebook last night, I thought you’d be having a busy morning, so I came round after breakfast to see if Hector wanted any extra help. He’s giving me a free copy of this new book for my mum if I keep it a secret.”
“What fuss on Facebook? What secret?”
“I’ll grab the last box of books,” said Hector, disappearing into the stockroom. “I think we’re going to need them.”
Tommy was looking so pleased with himself that I thought he might burst. “Hermione Minty’s secret identity. I told you I’d discover untold secrets about the village. And I did. Hermione Minty isn’t Hector’s mum at all. Didn’t you know?” He paused for dramatic effect. “It’s Hector.” He hugged himself with excitement. “Can you believe it? Hector is Hermione Minty. He asked me not to tell anyone, but I don’t think you count.”
I decided to interpret that as a compliment.
“You will keep it a secret, won’t you, Tommy? Please? It’s important.”
Tommy gazed at me incredulously. “Of course I will, miss. Hector’s my friend. And his mum is a nice lady. Hector said his mum likes pretending she’s Hermione Minty, and he didn’t want to upset her. I can understand that. I don’t like upsetting my mum, either.”
“And you mustn’t tell your mum about this.”
Tommy nodded. “It’s ok, I didn’t. But Hector did say I was allowed to tell her that he would be selling signed copies of Hermione Minty’s new book here today, and that he’d give me a signed copy for my mum. Besides, my mum read about it on her Facebook fan club page last night.”
“There’s a Minty fan club on Facebook?” My new online publicity campaign for Hermione Minty hadn’t got as far as Facebook yet.
Pulling my phone from my bag, I logged into Facebook and typed Minty’s name into the search box, which led me to a group page called ‘Hermione Minty Fan Club’, bearing the enigmatic profile photo copied from her Twitter account and a collage of her book covers. Posts about today’s book launch at Hector’s House had been commented on and shared by numerous enthusiastic readers.
Hermione Minty’s Facebook following, like the queue outside the shop, was growing by the minute. But who on earth had set up the Facebook account, if not me or Hector?
Then, in my head, I heard Twitter’s little blue bird laughing at me like a gleeful kookaburra. Clicking instinctively on ‘page info’, I found the name of the group’s administrator: Horatio Oz.
Swiping to Minty’s Twitter account, I discovered @HoratioOz had been busy there too, posting with the hashtag #HermioneMintyBookLaunch.
Horace may have told me he had no time for social media while negotiating the dangers of the bush, but I remembered he had Twitter and Facebook addresses on his koala-shaped business card. He must have understood their power for publicity. How better to while away the wait for a long-haul flight at Heathrow than by giving his twin brother a helping hand online?
I turned back to Tommy, one more mystery left to solve. “How did you find out Hermione Minty’s true identity?” I asked Tommy, genuinely intrigued.
“When I came into the shop before it closed last night to buy a Valentine’s card for my mum, I saw Hector signing that book about flowers for you. I thought it was funny that he was signing it ‘Hermione’.” He stood up straight, shoulders back, like a policeman reporting for duty. “I caught him red-handed and made him spill the beans. He squealed, he confessed, he sang like a canary.” Hector must have been lending Tommy his DVDs of old black-and-white detective films. “And I didn’t even need to take his fingerprints.”
“Good work, Tommy.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, Hector said I deserved a reward for solving the mystery, so he gave me this book.”
He held up a copy of a book that I recognised from our post-Christmas sale stock: 101 Things for Boys To Do.
“Now I’ve got 101 new hobbies, I’m not sure I’ll have time for any more detective work. I hope you’re not disappointed, miss.”
When Hector came out from the stockroom, he had Nancy in tow. He leaned forward to whisper in my ear. “I forgot to tell you that I’d invited her to come up this morning. Horace and I thought it would take her mind off him flying back to Oz today.”
I was glad I’d left his flat after breakfast to go home to change before she had arrived.
Nancy stopped to kiss me warmly on the cheek, before settling down at the signing table.
I smiled at her. “Cup of tea, Mrs Minty?”
She beamed. “Ooh, I’d kill for a cup of tea!”
Tommy checked his Parka pocket for his diary, realised it wasn’t there, and sighed in defeat.
Hector followed me to the tearoom to get a glass of water for the signing table.
“I can’t believe you told Tommy the truth about Hermione Minty,” I hissed. “What on earth made you give in so easily after all these years of secrecy?”
Hector shrugged. “I can hardly believe it myself. That boy has a disarming directness sometimes. I guess he just caught me off guard. But don’t worry, I’ve sworn him to secrecy. Despite all his faults, he’s an honest enough lad.”
We looked across at Tommy, standing by the door, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other.
“It’s nine o’clock, Hector, shall I open up for you?” he called across to us, before unlocking the door without waiting for an answer.
The crowd spilled in like water from a burst main, pooling around Nancy and grabbing copies of The Girl with Forget-Me-Not Eyes as though they were on ration.
Glancing around the tearoom to check all was well, I spotted on one of the tables a sheet of paper on which Hector had clearly been training Nancy to emulate Hermione’s autograph. I grabbed it, screwed it into a ball, and stuffed it in the pocket of my jeans, planning to stick it on the fire when I got home so as to destroy the evidence.
“Why didn’t you tell us Hermione Minty was coming?” Julia called to me from the signing queue.
“We’re jolly lucky to catch her,” said a stranger, sparing me from answering. “She doesn’t usually do public appearances.”
“Last time I saw Hermione Minty was at Cheltenham Literature Festival three years ago,” said another.
“No, you’re thinking of Katie Fforde,” said her friend. “It was at the Hawkesbury Upton Lit Fest that we saw Hermione Minty. She was awfully good.”
&n
bsp; “Of course, she’s changed her hairstyle since then.” The pair of them gazed at Nancy approvingly. When she smiled back and gave them a little wave, they giggled like infatuated schoolgirls. I wondered who it was that they’d seen at Hawkesbury, as clearly it couldn’t have been Nancy, but I decided not to correct them. I didn’t want to put a damper on their excitement.
The only customer to bypass the signing table was Billy.
“I’ve just come from The Bluebird,” he said, elbowing his way through the crowd.
“Crikey, that’s a bit early even for you, isn’t it, Billy? Breakfast at the pub?” I hoped my trick of watering down the tearoom’s cream hadn’t made him resort to an alcoholic breakfast.
“I never said I went inside, girlie. I only passed by, and before you so rudely interrupted, I was about to tell my young friend here that the concrete lorry’s just arrived.” He turned to Tommy. “If you want to go and watch them pour the concrete down the well, you’d better get down there quick, or you’ll miss all the action.”
“Ooh, I’m off, then! I want to make a handprint before it dries.”
“Like film stars do in Hollywood?” I asked.
“Like my cat did on next door’s patio.”
As Tommy scampered off to make his mark, I headed to the tearoom counter, bracing myself for an onslaught of customers, once the crowds had scored their signed copies. They’d need liquid refreshment to restore themselves after all the excitement. As I set out cups and saucers on the counter, Bob and his colleague approached, their boss’s book tucked under Bob’s arm.
“Got any takeaway cups, please, Sophie?” asked Bob.
“Sure,” I smiled. “I think you deserve a drink on the house after your masterful crowd control out there.”
Bob grinned. “No cream for us, though, thanks. Not while we’re on duty.”
His colleague looked puzzled but said nothing. I was relieved to know that the law was happy to turn a blind eye to Hector’s little hobby. Or at least, Bob was.
I raised the glass dome from a plate of jam tarts. “Go on, have one for the road,” I said. Perhaps that wasn’t the smartest phrase to use in the circumstances.
As they left the shop, Billy got up from his favourite table, where he’d been waiting patiently for me to serve him. He slipped off his jacket and left it over the back of the chair to save his place. He’d clearly had an egg for his breakfast again, or most of an egg, anyway. I was confident that his jacket would keep people away from his table.
I wondered why he was approaching the counter to place his order rather than bellowing it across the room, as usual. When he started fiddling with his hearing aid, I realised that all the background noise might prevent him from making out what I was saying unless he was close enough to lipread.
To my surprise, he leaned towards me over the counter and began to speak in a very low voice.
“Sophie, love.” I couldn’t remember him ever using my name before, never mind any terms of endearment. For the sake of hygiene, I moved the plate of cakes from in front of him to the other side of the counter.
“Yes,” I said tentatively, assuming he’d come out without his wallet and was after a freebie. There was no way I was going to start a tab for him.
“I gather you had the misfortune to meet my big brother last night.”
I nodded, unsure what he wanted me to say.
He forced a laugh, as if trying to make light of the matter.
“So it was you, then. I thought it must have been, going by his description. Do you know, the silly old fool thought you were your old auntie. He told me how well he thought May Sayers had aged. Ha! She were twice your age last time he set eyes on her, and that were more than twenty years ago.”
I struggled to check his mental arithmetic but quickly gave up.
“Of course, he was just playing for time telling me that before we got down to business. But he won’t be making that mistake again. I think he’s gone for good after what I had to say to him last night. He won’t be bothering Carol any more, and he certainly won’t be bothering your old auntie, God rest her soul. He’s destined for the other place.”
“What, Slate Green?” I asked, pleased to think he might have taken my advice about the hostel, rather than trying to cadge a bed with Carol or Billy.
“I honestly can’t tell you where he is now, girlie.” Back to his usual manners, then. “But I’ve no doubt he won’t be seen no more about the village, not after the home truths I told him.” He sighed. “I don’t know how he could think I’d take his side after what he did to Carol, even if I am his brother.”
He fell silent, perhaps remembering happier times when they were carefree boys in the village together, doing no greater mischief than the kind Tommy Crowe got up to now.
“You sit down, Billy,” I said gently. “I’ll bring your tea over. And some cream.”
After the upset he’d been through the night before, today the cream would count as medicinal.
Just as I’d set his order on the table, there was a loud crash at the door as Tommy burst in with even more than his usual energy. His eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed, and he was so puffed out from running that he could barely speak.
Barging past browsing customers, he took the unprecedented step of coming round behind the tearoom counter to join me. Seizing a tumbler from the draining board and filling it with water from the tap, he downed it in one, refilled it, and only then paused to explain himself.
“Are you ok, Tommy?”
“I’m ok. I’m fine.” He lowered his voice. Why did everyone have to speak in whispers today? “But the dead body down the well isn’t.”
He paused and stared at me, wide-eyed.
“What?” I hissed. “Really? This isn’t another one of your games, is it, Tommy? Not like the business with Hector and Hermione Minty?”
He scowled. “That was no game, miss. And nor is this. There’s a real live dead body down the well at The Bluebird. I’ve just seen it. I thought it was Billy at first, because it did look at a bit like him, but I know it can’t be him now because he’s here.”
My heart was pounding so fast that it was hard to keep my voice to a confidential whisper. “Does Donald know about it?”
“He does now,” said Tommy. “I’ve just told him. He sent me back here to see if Bob was still here.”
“You’ve just missed him. Run back and tell Donald to dial 999. But first, how did you discover it?”
Tommy straightened his back proudly. “It was me. When I got there, the concrete men hadn’t started. They were still messing about talking to Donald out the front, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to have one last go at throwing things down the well while they weren’t looking. Donald had tidied everything up so there wasn’t much to chuck. All I could find was a dirty old shoe. Just the one shoe.” He raised his hands in disbelief. “I mean, who leaves a single shoe behind without noticing? Honestly, my mum complains about me losing stuff at school, but at least I’ve only ever lost both shoes.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Then I wondered whether it might have belonged to this dirty old guy who I saw in the yard last night. He asked me whether Billy still lived in his house. I mean, everybody knows Billy lives in the house he was born in. This guy didn’t seem very smart. Though he did look a lot like Billy.”
I thought it better not to alert him to their relationship.
He heaved himself up to sit on the draining board, but I didn’t dare scold him for fear of disrupting his flow.
“So I lobbed the shoe down the well, obviously, and then – ” he raised his finger with professorial authority – “it was then that I realised that something wasn’t right, because when the shoe landed in the well, there was no splash.”
Still not entirely convinced that this wasn’t an elaborate piece of mischief, I couldn’t resist a joke.
“Well, you know the old saying, Tommy, about if a tree falls in the forest and no-one’s there to hear it, does it make a sound? Perha
ps it also works with wells.”
I grinned feebly, but Tommy bulldozed on undeterred.
“But I was there to hear it, miss, so it should have done. And it landed with a thud, like on something solid. I thought at first that maybe Donald had just thrown a load of junk down there since I was chucking in stones last night, so I leaned over and looked down just to make sure he hadn’t got rid of anything worth keeping, like old horseshoes or something. I collect old horseshoes.” He brightened for a moment. “I’ve got loads in my bedroom. I thought they’d come in handy if I ever get a horse.”
“So what did you find? Not a horse, surely?”
“This weird old man, all crumpled up with his head all over sideways.”
I clapped my hands over my mouth to suppress a shriek. “So did you call the doctor?”
Tommy shook his head. “No point, Donald said. There wasn’t anything a doctor could have done. He said the man was at such a funny angle, he must have broken his neck when he fell, and his body was all stiff too, so it was rigor – rigor something – rigorous exercise?”
He screwed up his face quizzically.
“Rigor mortis.”
“And did Donald recognise him?”
“Never seen him before in his life, he said.”
I felt a chill spreading over me. “No, if it’s who I think it is, Donald wasn’t the landlord at The Bluebird last time this person was in the village.”
I glanced across to Billy’s table, where, poignantly, he was wrapping himself round tea and toast with his usual enthusiasm. I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to him.
“You’d better get back up to the pub and tell Donald that Bob’s already gone,” I said, remembering Tommy’s original mission. “He’ll have to phone 999 and wait for the police to do their stuff. I expect they’ll send a SOCO team – you know, scene of the crime officers – so there’ll be no concreting today.”
Tommy’s eyes widened. “Wow, really? I can’t wait to help them. Do you think they’ll let me help them?”
