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The Bookshop Detective

Page 9

by Jan Ellis


  “Love you.”

  “I love you, too. Now go back to sleep, darling.”

  Chapter 17: Ask the Expert

  Eleanor was standing in the queue at the bakery, pondering the merits of white crusty over a seeded loaf, when the vicar – Philip White – nabbed her.

  “I’m glad I’ve bumped into you,” he smiled. “I wonder if I might have a word?”

  “Of course, Vicar.”

  “Good! I have an hour before my next service, so perhaps I could walk you over to the bookshop and share some cake in your café?”

  “Certainly.” Walking back up the high street with a cleric by her side, Eleanor felt uncomfortable and could think of nothing to say. Whenever she met him, she always felt guilty for no reason. She supposed it was a Pavlovian reaction to the dog collar. As though reading Eleanor’s thoughts, Philip pulled up the top of his fawn sweater in an attempt to conceal the white band.

  Once in the bookshop, Eleanor showed him to a table and mouthed “cake” at Joe who was serving. “Have a seat, Reverend.”

  “Call me Phil, please.”

  It didn’t seem right to address a member of the cloth by his first name, especially when it was such an unexceptional one. Philip was younger than his thinning hair suggested and had one lazy eye that seemed perpetually raised, as though fixed on heaven.

  Eleanor sat opposite him and focused on the eye that was looking at her. “So, how can I help?”

  “As you know, the summer festival is almost upon us and it comes in the middle of a major fundraising campaign to bring in some money for the church roof.”

  Eleanor’s smile froze.

  Philip noticed and laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to ask you for a financial contribution.”

  Eleanor relaxed a little. “That’s good, as things are a bit tight at the moment.”

  “I understand perfectly. No, I’d like your help giving the event a final push. It’s only a fortnight away and I’m keen to ensure we have a good turnout.”

  “We do have a poster up,” she said, pointing towards the shop’s noticeboard, “but I’d be happy to slip flyers into books, if that would help. Is that the kind of thing you mean?”

  “Whatever you think best – you’re the expert at involving the community in local campaigns after all.”

  “Oh, you mean the business with Bill Widget last year? The promotional side was down to Joe’s girlfriend, Georgie – she works in publicity, you see.” Eleanor smiled at her son who was approaching with mugs of tea and two slices of Victoria sponge.

  Joe grinned. “I don’t know about that, Mum. I think it was a team effort.”

  “You’re right and your gran’s input was probably what swung it in our favour.” A vision of her mother lying in the road, her little legs kicking in the air as the police constable did his best to restore order passed through her mind. Philip appeared puzzled as Eleanor and her son chuckled at the memory. “I’ll tell you about it one day, Vicar. In the meantime, I’m happy to do whatever I can to support you.”

  “And there was something else.” Philip leant forward in his seat, brushing crumbs from his chin onto the floor where Bella happily hoovered them up. “The members of the committee have agreed to my suggestion that we hold our own version of the Antiques Road Show at the church.”

  “Really?” said, Eleanor, not quite knowing what it had to do with her. “How will that work, Vicar?”

  “Phil.”

  “Phil.” Repetition didn’t make it any easier and she was still distracted by the vicar’s roaming eye, which had alighted on the science fiction titles above her head.

  “It will run along the lines of the BBC television programme, so people can bring along their treasures to be valued by experts in return for a small donation to the fund. I thought it would be a bit of fun. We’ll have the usual bric-à-brac stall, too, of course, so if anyone finds interesting items there they can bring them to be valued. And if they discover their Ming vase is actually from Woolworths, they can take it home again or add it to the ‘For Sale’ pile. The chap who runs the auction house in Waterborough has agreed to come, but he says he’ll need backup.” Philip smiled hopefully. “So I wondered whether you might agree to be our second expert?”

  Eleanor was startled. “Me? It’s very flattering to be asked, but I don’t know very much about anything. Except books, of course.”

  “Precisely! If people turn up with first editions or back copies of Punch that they’ve unearthed in the garage, you could do the valuation. What do you say? It would be jolly helpful to have you on the team and it would only take up a few hours of your time.”

  “Well, I couldn’t give out accurate valuations there and then, but if something looked as though it might be valuable I suppose I could do some research and get back to the owner later on.”

  “That sounds perfect,” said Philip, adding Eleanor’s name to a slip of paper he pulled from his pocket.

  “So, who else have you recruited?”

  “Oh, everyone has been very kind in offering to help. Maureen will be taking charge of catering and has agreed to be the judge of the cake-decorating competition, and Graham from the hardware shop will be manning the bric-à-brac stall.” Philip glanced across at Joe. “All I’m missing now are a couple of tall young men, preferably with a head for heights, to hang the bunting.”

  “I’ll be happy to help,” said Joe. “And I’ll bring Anton.”

  Philip sat back in his chair, sighing with obvious relief. “I reckon that’s everything covered.”

  To Eleanor it seemed as though one key figure was missing from the vicar’s list. “I imagine you’ve asked Deirdre to be involved?”

  “Oh, there was no need to ask. She’s our Treasurer and has kindly taken it upon herself to be Head of Logistics.” Philip scratched his head. “I’m not entirely sure what that entails, but I’m sure she will fill the role diligently.”

  “I’m sure she will.”

  “Well, I’d best be off. Thank you again, Eleanor.” Philip rose and took her hand, shaking it warmly in both of his. “Bless you.”

  Eleanor didn’t know what the appropriate response was to a blessing, so she ended up doing a clumsy half-curtsey as she opened the door and waved Philip goodbye.

  He’d only gone a few paces when she dashed after him. “Before you go, Vicar, could I ask you something?”

  “Of course,” he said, lowering his voice. “Would you like to pop around to the vicarage later for a chat? If it’s something of a personal nature, I mean.”

  Eleanor laughed. “Oh, it’s nothing like that. I wondered whether the name John Able meant anything to you?”

  Philip thought for a moment then shook his head. “I can’t say it rings any bells – should it?”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve been digging into some local history and it’s a name that has come up. I thought perhaps you might have some Ables buried at St Cuthbert’s.”

  “I can’t think of any offhand, but you’re welcome to come and look around the churchyard. I’m afraid I haven’t managed to commit the names of our permanent residents to memory yet.” With that, he said his farewells and went on his way.

  * * *

  After work, Connie popped over to the cottage to report back on Anton’s decorating. “He’s made a start and I have to say he’s making a lovely job of my walls – it’s a proper picture in the back bedroom. In fact, he’s doing such nice work I’ve asked him to spruce up my bedroom and the bathroom while he’s at it. I’m determined Joyce won’t find anything to complain about when she arrives.”

  “Your guest is very lucky to have a spruced-up house – not that it wasn’t immaculate anyway,” said Daniel.

  “It’s very nice of you to say so,” said Connie. “I take that as a real compliment from someone who knows as much about houses as you do.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Eleanor, turning to her husband, “according to Maureen, Anton trained as a bricklayer and plasterer before l
eaving Riga and he would be delighted to help out with some building work when the time comes.”

  “Great. I’ll pop over and see him in the morning.”

  Connie frowned. “What are you two in need of a builder for?”

  “Eleanor and I have come to an agreement over where to live and we could do with some help sorting it out.”

  “‘Come to an agreement?’ That sounds very formal.”

  “It wasn’t intentional,” said Daniel. “I’m not great with words.” He smiled as Eleanor squeezed his hand.

  “So, tell me what you’ve decided,” said Connie, nervously. “You’re not buying a house miles away and abandoning me, I hope?”

  “We’re not moving, Mum. Dan has had the brilliant idea of making use of the roof space.”

  “Oh.” Connie was plainly underwhelmed by this. “You mean you’re going to put a dormer window in the loft? Your father and I did that in the house in Chiswick back in 1973. I thought you were going to do something original.”

  Eleanor sighed and rolled her eyes wearily. “Well, I’m sorry we’re not digging three floors down and installing a cinema and an Olympic-sized swimming pool.”

  “There’s no call for sarcasm.”

  “It might not sound exciting to you, Mum, but it is to us and it means we don’t have to move.”

  Daniel could see Eleanor and her mother starting to annoy each other and stepped in to keep the peace. “The thing is, Connie, we’ll have a new space the entire length and breadth of both the house and the shop. It’s not a massive change, but it will make quite a difference to how we live.” He put an arm around his wife. “We’ll finally be able to live together in the same place seven days a week and I can’t wait.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Connie thoughtfully. “I think that posh Kirstie Allspot off the telly would have come up with something a little more inventive than a dormer bedroom, but at least you aren’t moving away, which I am pleased about.” She stood up. “I’d better go back and see how Anton’s getting on. I left him putting a top coat of Mallorcan Sunrise on the walls.”

  “Nice choice – it should make Joyce feel right at home.”

  “You are comical, Daniel.” Connie chuckled. “Well, hasta la vista.” And with that she gave them both a peck on the cheek, gathered up her bag and coat, and headed off home to check everything was as it should be for her friend’s arrival.

  Chapter 18: Window Dressing

  The festival was almost upon them and Combemouth was decked out in its finery, ready to welcome the world. The vicar, with help from Joe and Anton, had been busy with the bunting, and triangles in pastel shades now flapped in the summer breeze along the high street. Malcolm, a keen gardener, had taken charge of the floral displays and made sure that all the window boxes and planters along the road were looking their best.

  By the beach, the promenade was decked out in red, white and blue ready for the sailing regatta and the “Bathing Beauty” competition. The latter was a popular event in which local chaps had to swim a quarter of a mile wearing Edwardian-style bathing costumes. There were prizes for Best Moustache, Saggiest Costume and Most Handsome Gentleman, and the winners were awarded cups by ladies from the local WI.

  Looking at the preparations going on around her, Eleanor decided it was time to put into action Stage One of her plans for Bill Widget’s launch. She had given the window display some thought and decided to use a musical theme.

  Once the space was empty, she pulled a length of shiny black fabric from her bag and began pinning it in position inside the window. She had decided that a dark, silky background would help to give the display a heavy metal vibe. Bill had kindly agreed to lend her one of his less valuable guitars and a keyboard to use as props. As Tryll Spigot’s on-stage gimmick in the 1980s had been lizards, Eleanor had also bought a few rubber reptiles from the pound shop which she scattered around.

  She picked up a box of Bill’s books and began arranging the fat paperbacks among the props. The black and white book covers looked great against the dark background and contrasted nicely with the ice-cream coloured bunting crisscrossing the street.

  When Eleanor had finished, she called her husband to come and take a look. “What do you think?”

  “Very striking,” said Daniel. “I think you’ve excelled yourself.”

  They were standing on the pavement chuckling when Deirdre appeared beside them. “Well now, isn’t that eye-catching.”

  “Thank you,” said Eleanor, warily. “It’s nice of you to say so.” Could heavy metal really be to Deirdre’s taste?

  Daniel wrapped an arm around Eleanor’s waist and pulled her towards him. “You definitely have an artistic bent, darling.”

  It was Deirdre who spoke next. “I had a very nice coffee with the first Mrs Pearce the other morning,” she said, addressing Daniel whose smile died on his face. “I expect she told you.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “Oh, she probably forgot to mention it given how busy she always is. I’m so impressed Freya finds time to attend our book club when she’s in town.”

  Eleanor felt Daniel tense beside her, the way he inevitably did when the subject of his ex-wife arose. “I’d better go back to work, El,” he said, giving her a peck on the cheek and nodding a farewell to Deirdre.

  “I must be going, too,” she said, as the conversation had died. She began to walk away, then stopped and turned towards Eleanor. “By the way, I’ve discovered something that might interest you about John Able.”

  Eleanor froze. “How did you know I was investigating John Able?”

  “You mentioned it when we ran into each other at the archives – don’t you remember?”

  “No, I don’t. In fact I’m pretty sure I didn’t mention his name at all.”

  “Really? Oh, perhaps it was your mother who told me.” She tapped a skinny hand to her cheek. “Or was it Jim Rowe? The library has so many visitors, it is terribly hard to remember who told me what.”

  Eleanor was incensed, sure that neither Jim nor her mother would have said anything. There was only one possibility: the wretched woman must have quizzed the young archivist about her research.

  “It is rather fascinating,” said Deirdre, looking pleased with herself.

  Despite her irritation, Eleanor was keen to know what the librarian had found out. “Go on.”

  “From my extensive research it would seem that your Mr Able was transported to Australia.”

  “Transported?” Eleanor was stunned. That would explain why she could find no records of him coming back to Combemouth. “How do you know that?”

  Smug was the only word to describe the expression on Deirdre’s face. “As a librarian I have access to a great many online journals and international sources. I did a little digging and came across a Devon man called John Able who had been transported and died in Perth in 1910. I’ll print out the details and drop them off if you wish?”

  Nodding, Eleanor said thanks, but her head was in a spin. This was her case to solve – how dare Deirdre meddle in it?

  Chapter 19: Festival Time

  The Combemouth Summer Festival and Country Fair kicked off on Saturday and the vicar’s hard work and prayers were rewarded by dry sunny weather. Most of the activity was scheduled to take place in marquees on the large green in front of St Cuthbert’s Church. Every bit of wall was decked out with bunting and someone had added a few Union Jack flags left over from the Queen’s birthday celebrations.

  By mid-morning a small crowd had gathered around a temporary stage ready for the grand opening. Eventually, the vicar jogged up the steps onto the wooden platform in chinos and a bright shirt that almost concealed his dog collar.

  Philip White hadn’t been in town very long and some of the traditionalists – including Eleanor’s father-in-law – had yet to grow used to his modern ways. He had already caused consternation amongst the Sunday morning regulars by introducing a screen onto which he projected uplifting images of smiling childre
n gathered around wells in a scorched landscape.

  When there were hymns to be sung, these were alarmingly modern and unfamiliar. The parishioners found it no comfort that the words bobbed jauntily along the bottom of the screen, which Philip had placed directly in front of the altar. The change led to some rather un-Christian comments from sections of the congregation, including Malcolm who couldn’t help complaining about the vicar to his son who stood beside him on the green.

  “I know it’s an unfashionable view, Daniel, but the whole point of religion is to make you suffer. At least, that’s how it was in my day. And here’s this young chap trying to make it – well – entertaining.” He shook his head crossly. “It’s not right, you know.” Malcolm’s own parents had been Scottish Presbyterians and “fun” had never played any part in their worship.

  Daniel laughed. “It sounds as though Philip is making you suffer plenty, Dad.”

  “I suppose so. And I don’t mean to be unkind – he’s a good man and I know he’s trying his best to involve more youngsters, and lots of people do enjoy the ‘happy-clappy’ approach. It’s not my cup of tea, that’s all.”

  Right on cue, Philip clapped his hands together and addressed the crowd.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the Combemouth Summer Festival! Here to pronounce us officially open is our very own rock god…” He crossed himself theatrically then put his hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Begging your pardon, oh Lord,” he said, raising a few embarrassed titters from the crowd. “Here is rock star and showman extraordinaire, the legend that is our very own Mr Bill ‘Fingers’ Widget, a man whose music has brought joy to generations of fans across the globe.”

  The assembled crowd cheered and clapped as Bill came forward, smiling and waving. In the background, the sound system was playing a CD of Tryll Spigot’s Greatest Hits and the youngsters near the front of the stage began to bounce around, strumming air guitars and headbanging to the music.

 

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