The Chestertons
and the Golden Key
“Oooh, look!” Joan gasped. “Cece, do you know who that man is?”
Cece looked in the window reflection and saw a very big, very tall man who looked like a jolly elephant. A smile was beaming on his round face. He wore a large flowing cloak and a soft crumpled hat, and carried a walking stick. Beside him was a short woman with a beautiful coat all lined with fur. She had a sweet face framed by brown hair. Cece liked her right away.
“They look like nice people,” Cece whispered. “But I don’t know them. Do you?”
“I don’t know them, but I know who they are,” Joan whispered. She spoke into Cece’s ear. “That man is the famous writer G.K. Chesterton! He’s Clare’s most favorite writer! And he’s come to our town! We must tell Clare!”
The Chestertons
and the Golden Key
By Nancy Carpentier Brown
with Regina Doman
Illustrated by Ann Kissane Engelhart
TAN Books
Charlotte, North Carolina
To Mike, my Gilbert
N.C.B.
To my Joan and her sisters.
R.D.
To my Father, for his love of books,
and my Mother,
who made everything beautiful.
A.E.K.
© 2016 by Nancy Carpentier Brown and TAN Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the publisher.
Cover & illustrations by Ann Kissane Engelhart.
Cover & interior design by Regina Doman.
Summary: Young Clare has trouble writing a detective story until the famous mystery writer G.K. Chesterton and his wife come to town and befriend their family.
ISBN: 978-1-5051-1172-9
Published in the United States by
TAN Books
P.O. Box 410487
Charlotte, NC 28241
www.TANBooks.com
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About the Authors & Illustrator
I can NOT do it!” Clare Nicholl crumpled up her paper. She threw it over her shoulder, and stared out of the window at the green sea, tapping her pencil on the desk. I’m eleven-going-on-twelve, she said to herself, and I ought to be able to write at least one paragraph of my story. And yet, she looked behind her at the pile of crumpled pages, all I’ve got is a mess.
Clare sat in her corner bedroom in the seaside cottage where she lived with her mother and sisters. It should have been the perfect time to write the mystery she had been dreaming of all during the last week of school.
It was a perfect summer day, and the house was quiet. She had a stack of paper and two sharp pencils. But yet, she didn’t know where to begin. She couldn’t think of how to start.
She paced around the room and took a book off the shelf, and turned to her favorite story, “The Blue Cross.” It was by a man named G.K. Chesterton. There was a photograph of the author on the inside cover. “Mr. Chesterton,” Clare said to the photograph, “I suppose you never have any problems writing your stories!”
“The skates—the roller skates—they’re still here!” Cece Nicholl called to her big sister, her short brown hair fluttering as she jumped up and down. “Do we have enough money to buy them?”
Cecelia, or Cece, loved running and bicycling as much as any British eight-year-old could, but had recently set her heart on roller skating.
Her ten-year-old sister Joan brushed back her long braids as she unclasped her purse and dug inside. “Let me see.” She had made a secret resolve to save up her money for music lessons, but she knew how badly Cece wanted the skates.
It was a windy Saturday morning in June 1926, and the sisters were in town shopping for their mother. But they just had to stop at the toyshop in the center of Lyme Regis to see if the new roller skates had been sold yet.
“Don’t look now,” Joan said, glancing over her shoulder, “but those bothersome neighbor boys, the Hamptons, are coming over here.”
“Oh fiddlesticks!” Cece sighed.
Will and Ted Hampton walked up the street towards the girls, hands in their pockets. The girls pretended not to notice them.
“What are you girls looking at?” asked Ted, the older brother, who was nearly twelve and growing tall. He turned to look in the window, combed his fingers through his red hair, and quickly yanked Joan’s braid.
“Hey!” Joan exclaimed. As she pulled her braid over her shoulder in front, she noticed an older couple halfway down the block. If Ted misbehaves any more, I’ll complain so loudly that they’ll hear, she decided.
“Look, Will, roller skates! They’re exactly what we need!” said Ted, pointing to the window. “Think of how quickly we could get to school if we had those! They’d be great for racing!”
No! thought Joan. It was just like the Hampton brothers to spoil everything.
“But I’m going to buy them!” Cece said indignantly to the brothers. “I’ve been saving up my money. And they’re too small for you!”
Ten-year-old Will laughed. “Well, they’re too big for you! There’s no way those skates would fit your little feet.” He jingled the change in his pocket.
“No, we can make them fit,” Joan corrected Will. “All we have to do is buy a skate key. Then Cece can make them just the right size.”
“But I’ve already got a skate key: I found one the other day!” Ted said. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a black rusted object dangling from a string around his neck. He swung it in front of the girls so they could see the square hole at the base that would fit the clamps on the skates. “So there. First come, first served as they say!”
“And just where did you get that skate key anyway?” Joan asked Ted. “I bet you found it when you were digging for treasure in our back garden.”
“It doesn’t matter where I found it: it’s mine!” Ted said, combing his hand through his hair again. Joan wondered if he thought himself handsome. “And as for the skates, they’ll belong to the first person who buys them: fair’s fair.” He and his brother went into the shop.
“Joanie,” said Cece, as she peered through the window to watch the boys stroll up to the counter, “can we please get the skates before they do?”
The boys bent over the counter, and then huddled together, counting their shillings. “It doesn’t look like they have enough,” Cece said hopefully. “Maybe there’s still a chance. Do you have enough money to buy the skates?”
“Not quite,” Joan said with a sigh. Cece had talked of nothing else for the last two days but those skates. It would be a crushing blow to her if the vexing Hampton boys bought them first.
“Oh, what will we do?” Cece cried, “I simply must skate! Otherwise I’ll never get to be a champion skater and win the Olympics!” That was her latest dream.
“Perhaps you’ll be given money for your birthday, and we can buy them,” Joan said. As she gave a regretful glance at the skates, she noticed something in the reflection of the window.
The couple she had seen before were now standing down the street from them. The man was looking at them, and whispering to his wife, who nodded with a smile. And Joan suddenly knew who they were!
“Oooh, look!” Joan gasped, but then quickly added, “But don’t make a s
how of it! Cece, do you know who that man is?”
Cece looked in the window reflection and saw a very big, very tall man who looked like a jolly elephant. A smile was beaming on his round face. He wore a large flowing cloak and a soft crumpled hat, and carried a walking stick. Beside him was a short woman with a beautiful coat all lined with fur. She had a sweet face framed by brown hair. Cece liked her right away.
“They look like nice people,” Cece whispered. “But I don’t know them. Do you?”
“I don’t know them, but I know who they are,” Joan whispered. She hoped the couple could not hear her.
She spoke into Cece’s ear. “That man is the famous writer G.K. Chesterton! I’ve seen his photograph in the paper tons of times. He’s Clare’s most favorite writer! And he’s come to our town! We must tell Clare!”
All overcome with the news, Joan and Cece dashed home. They ran into the kitchen where their mother was baking a meat pie for supper. “Where’s Clare, Mother?”
“She’s in the back garden. Goodness, Joan, you’re excited!” said Mother.
Their little black-and-white dog Pepper began to bark. Pepper was certain everything that happened should involve him. He tried to get Joan’s attention by bouncing into the air all around her.
“Down, Pepper! Down, Pep!” Joan said, her braid flying as she rushed to the kitchen door. “Though this is awfully exciting,” she said to Pepper, who wagged his tail furiously.
The sisters and Pepper rushed into the garden behind the cottage. There they found Clare reading under a flowering tree. She was bundled in a blanket against the sea breeze. Pepper dashed forward, nudging Clare’s book to lick her on the cheek. Then he ran in circles, barking and jumping.
“Clare!” said Cece, nearly tripping over Pepper. “Clare, we saw someone you love desperately!”
“No, that isn’t it at all!” Joan shouted over Pepper’s barks. “For goodness’ sake, you silly dog, be quiet!”
Finally Mother appeared at the back door with a bone to distract the pup. He promptly took it to his usual spot and began burying it.
“You’ll never guess who we just saw,” Joan told Clare, “—besides those awful Hampton boys, I mean—anyway, guess whom we think we just saw—on High Street, by the toy shop? Mr. Chesterton! Mr. G. K. Chesterton!”
“What?” said Clare, throwing her book to the side as she grabbed Joan’s hands. “Where? How? Are you sure? I was just reading a book of Mr. Chesterton’s—just this minute!” Clare nearly shouted. “Give me that, Pepper!”
The pup had seized the book she had dropped and was dragging it away. Snatching it back and hugging him, she said to her sisters, “Tell me everything!”
So Cece and Joan poured out the story of spotting the famous writer G.K. Chesterton in their town. “What was he doing here, do you think?” Joan asked.
“What most folks do in the summer. He must be visiting the seaside. Oh Joan, do you think we could still find him?” Clare asked.
She wiped the smudged pencil off her fingers onto her dress. “Oh, I must go to town this instant and look for him!”
“But not in that frock!” Joan said, pointing to the smears. “If we’re going to call on a famous writer, we must be properly dressed!”
So the three sisters rushed inside and changed into their Sunday sailor dresses as quickly as possible. Clare brushed her short hair and Joan re-braided her own. Cece took off her red hair bow, and tied on a blue one, because Mother always said blue suited her. Joan remembered that they should wear bonnets in order to be proper. So they took their straw hats from the stand in the front hall and put them on.
Clare told their mother that G.K. Chesterton had been seen on the streets of Lyme Regis, and Mother had agreed that they could investigate. Pepper, wagging his tail furiously, was quite certain he should go along with the girls to town, but Mother was certain he should not. She held his collar as the girls rushed out the door, shouting their goodbyes.
The three sisters hurried down East Cliff Road and up to High Street to the toy shop. The street was empty. The Hampton boys were gone, although the skates were still there in the toyshop window (Cece ran to check and had to be dragged away). But there was no sign of Mr. Chesterton.
“What do we do now?” Joan whispered.
“We could search all the shops,” Clare said.
So they walked down the street, looking in each store. “We must think like detectives,” Clare said. “We must think like Father Brown. Where would he go to find Mr. Chesterton?”
“If Mr. Chesterton’s come to visit the seaside, he might be staying in a hotel. But which hotel?” Joan asked.
Clare thought. Then she pointed back down the street towards the toy shop. “Is that where you saw him?” she asked.
Her sisters nodded. Clare looked long at the street. Then she pointed to the Three Cups Hotel.
“That’s where he’s staying,” she said.
“How do you know?” Joan asked.
Clare felt just as she thought Father Brown must have felt, on the trail of the famous criminal Flambeau. “I just know,” she said. “Come on! Let’s go inside!”
They walked through the big brass doors of the hotel a little timidly. They had never been in this hotel before, and it seemed very fancy.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” whispered Joan.
“We must look for clues,” said Clare.
“Ooh!” Cece pointed to a brass hat stand at the entrance. “Joan! Isn’t that his hat?”
“Yes!” said Joan. “And that could be his cane!” The battered cane hung next to the hat, looking like a sword in a scabbard.
But even with the clues, the sisters did not exactly know what to do next. So Clare kept walking forward on the soft carpet of the foyer, until they saw the door to the tea room.
Inside, beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen were having afternoon tea.
“Clare!” Joan said. “There he is.”
Clare looked. “Oh,” she breathed.
Mr. Chesterton was a large round man, sitting in an enormous stuffed chair. Next to him sat a lady in a blue hat. (“The same nice lady!” Cece said.) They were sipping tea and chatting.
“He drinks tea like a gentleman,” said Joan approvingly. “See how he holds his little finger just so.”
“Of course he does,” Clare said. “After all, he’s a famous writer.”
“Clare,” whispered Joan. “What next?”
Clare was so excited that she could hardly breathe. She swallowed a few times.
No words came to her. Her feet wobbled, and she tried to step forward.
But instead of walking forward, her feet started stepping backwards. Then her feet turned her all the way around, and before she knew what she was doing, Clare was hurrying out of the hotel.
Her sisters followed, confused. “What are you doing?” “Why are we leaving?” they whispered. But Clare couldn’t speak: she was so upset. She broke into a run, sniffling.
This was not what I wanted at all! Clare’s heart was pounding in her chest. She had wanted to say hello to Mr. Chesterton. She wanted to ask him if he would be her friend. If he would teach her how to write mysteries. If he could tell her how to start her story. All the things she’d wanted to say had burst into her head, but then they had all just seemed silly.
Mr. Chesterton had tons of fans, and they probably bothered him everywhere he went. Why would he want to be friends with an eleven-year-old girl who couldn’t even write two sentences of a mystery?
Maybe he would frown, and say he was too busy. Maybe he would be angry with her. She couldn’t bear that. And so, she had turned and run away, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
Mother was working at her sewing machine when the girls returned. Her feet were busy pumping back and forth, and the machine whirred as she stitched a dress for a customer.
“Oh, what should I do, Mother?” Clare asked, throwing her arms around her mother’s back. “I have just gone all the way there, a
nd I’m certain the man is Mr. Chesterton—”
Mother continued to sew, but her stitches were slower.
“And Joan and I—I mean—Joan and me are certain it’s Mr. Chesterson, too—!” said Cece loudly, coming in.
“Chester-ton, Cece! And don’t interrupt, and it is ‘Joan and I’—and he was with his wife, Mother, although I didn’t even know he was married, and I couldn’t say a word. Oh, what is wrong with me?” Clare threw herself onto the sofa.
“So you didn’t talk to him?” Mother asked, her feet going slower and slower.
“No,” Clare sniffled.
“Whyever not?” Mother asked, her hand on the spinning pulley, slowing it down.
“Oh Mother,” said Clare, “I just couldn’t! And now I’ll never be able to ask him how to write a book!” She began to snuffle again.
Mother stopped her sewing and drew Clare into a hug. “I didn’t know you were writing a book, my darling. But why don’t you invite them to come to tea tomorrow?” Mother smoothed down Clare’s windblown hair. “That way we’d all get to meet Mr. Chesterton and his wife, and you could talk to him about your story.”
“Oh, I can’t wait till tomorrow, Mother!” Clare said, wiping her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I might die before then! Couldn’t we ask them for today? I’ve got to know now if he’ll be my friend, if he’ll help me with my mystery. And he’s here right this minute, and I feel like I’ll burst!”
“Perhaps you should write out what you want to say,” said Mother. “That might be easier than saying it out loud.”
“Yes! That’s it, Mother!” said Clare, swooping up and kissing her on the cheek. She opened a drawer, got out a piece of stationery and a pen, and threw herself down at the desk. She dipped the tip in the ink, and paused.
“I don’t know how to start. Can you please help me, Mother?”
“You could start, ‘Dear Mr. Chesterton,’ ” suggested Mother, “and then just tell him that you’d like to invite him to tea.”
Clare leaned over, and began to write. She found herself writing as fast as she could.
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