The Bookshop Detective

by Jan Ellis

  Bending down, Joshua dug around in the trolley, then placed a faded plastic carrier bag on the table in front of Eleanor.

  “I’d like to know what you make of this.”

  Eleanor carefully opened the bag. Inside was another carrier bag and inside that was a heavy object wrapped in brown paper tied up with string. Removing all the layers, Eleanor was slightly disappointed by what she found.

  “Oh, it’s a Bible,” she said.

  Joshua leant back in the rickety plastic chair. “Well, I can see that, my dear. But what’s it worth?” He’d picked up the tiny dog that had begun to whine and was now anxiously scanning the green for predators.

  Eleanor smoothed her hands over the dark-green leather binding then carefully opened the cover, releasing the musty scent of old paper.

  “I’ll have to check, but I think this could be quite valuable.”

  “Hundreds, thousands?”

  “That depends on its age and condition,” she smiled. “As I say, I’ll have to check but at least £50.” She leafed through the pages, gazing at the illustrations. “It is beautiful,” she said, quietly.

  “Give me £20 and it’s yours.”

  “I can’t do that – it might be worth much more to a collector.”

  “I don’t have anywhere to keep it and £20 will be plenty. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it to the bric-à-brac stall across the way and see what they’ll give me for it.”

  The thought of such a handsome volume ending up on Graham’s bric-à-brac stall with cracked teapots and incomplete jigsaws was too painful to contemplate. “Okay – I’ll buy it.” How could she not?

  Joshua grinned a toothless grin. “I’ve got a whole house full of the damned things and I want rid of them. Hold this, will you?” He thrust the quivering dog into Eleanor’s hands and bent over the trolley again. “Here, look. What d’you think of these?” He put another pile of books on the table. “This lot will be interesting to you, I dare say. Printed by Williams & Makepeace, they were.”

  Eleanor looked at him blankly. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of them…”

  Joshua scratched himself vigorously under the armpit. “Well, you should’ve – you’re living in their building.”

  “Of course! How could I forget?”

  When she bought what was now The Reading Room from Young Mr Williams six years before he told her the place had been a publishing company part-owned by his father – imaginatively known as Old Mr Williams. The front of the present shop was where the books were sold. The rest of the building and part of her cottage were dedicated to the press: printing downstairs, proofing and hand-binding upstairs. There was still a connecting door between the two properties behind the Welsh dresser in the kitchen.

  When she moved in, Eleanor had found catalogues dating from when the business was set up and had been amused by the eccentric selection of titles for sale. Now half a dozen of these were placed in front of her. She picked up and examined an Edwardian lady’s guide to composing letters for every occasion, a survey of local waterfowl dated 1931 and an illustrated collection of Seafaring Tales for Children from 1900.

  “Again, I’ll have to check the prices for you,” she frowned, “but I don’t expect these will be terribly valuable.”

  “Let’s say £50 for the lot then, shall we?”

  Eleanor opened and closed her mouth, feeling as though she’d been outmanoeuvred. “Okay then. I’ll have to send you a cheque because I don’t have that much cash on me.”

  Joshua shook his head. “I don’t need the money – put it in the reverend’s pot.”

  “You want me to put £50 in the church fund?”

  “That’s what I said, isn’t it? I’ll take that off you, shall I?” He nodded towards the fur ball that had curled itself up in Eleanor’s lap and was snoring contentedly.

  “Sure,” she said, handing over the dog to Joshua who took the creature gently in one gnarled hand. Then something came over her that she would later regret. “If you’d like me to visit and go through the rest of your library, I’d be happy to take a look. If you wanted to know what your books might be worth, I mean.”

  Joshua started and examined her through his rheumy eyes. “Library? How do you know about my library?”

  Eleanor could have kicked herself. What a nuisance to end the day with a tricky old man, with most of his teeth missing and slightly whiffy trousers. It was time to backtrack. “I don’t know anything about a particular library – it’s a turn of phrase. I was trying to be helpful, that’s all.” She took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. He was an elderly gentleman and there was no need to be cross with him. “I should have explained that The Reading Room is well known for its second-hand stock and customers sometimes sell us books they no longer want or have room for.” Or the owners have died, but she decided not to mention that to Joshua who must have been about a hundred and ten. He harrumphed and turned away.

  “Maybe,” he muttered, before placing the dog on the ground and heading off in the direction of the cider tent, the empty shopping trolley bouncing along behind him.

  Daniel, who had been watching the proceedings from under a nearby tree, came over to Eleanor’s table, an amused look on his face. “I see you’ve had a visit from our local tycoon.”

  “Very funny – that old chap looks as though he doesn’t have two pennies to rub together.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive.” Daniel picked up one of the books and began leafing through it. “I’m not kidding, you know. They say he’s a millionaire twice over.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “People.” Daniel shrugged. “It’s one of those things everyone around here knows about.”

  “A bit like the ghost ship, then?” Eleanor smiled. “In other words, the story about Joshua’s wealth is a rumour with no basis in fact?”

  “Not at all. It’s a fact he inherited pots of cash from his parents and never had children of his own, so he’s not had much cause to spend it. Ergo, he’s a squillionaire.”

  “That’s sad,” said Eleanor, thoughtfully. “To have tons of money but no one to enjoy it with.”

  Across the green, they watched as Joshua reappeared from the cider tent with a gleaming pint in his hand. Once settled on a bench in the shade, he lowered the glass to the ground so the dog could take a sip.

  “You’re right though – no one would guess he was a wealthy man from looking at him,” said Daniel, shaking his head at the sight.

  “He looks like a tramp in those battered clothes, not to mention the state of his hands.” Eleanor couldn’t help noticing that Joshua’s fingernails were in need of a scrub. “And I reckon he’s shaving with a blunt knife, bless him. He’s obviously not spending his money on male grooming products.”

  “He doesn’t spend it on anything – he’s notoriously mean. His house is falling down and he doesn’t possess a car.” Daniel thought for a moment. “I think his one and only extravagance is silly coats for that dog of his.”

  “Where does he live? I can’t think of many places around here suitable for millionaires.” Apart from the new house Freya was building for Bill, but neither of them wanted to discuss that.

  “He lives at Combemouth Manor, which is hidden down a long drive a little way off the Dunster road. It’s the oldest house in this part of Devon, I believe.”

  “It sounds intriguing.”

  “I don’t know about intriguing, but it’s a Tudor building with some unsympathetic Victorian additions: crenellations, turrets, that kind of thing. As well as being ugly, a building like Combemouth Manor is a money pit: its stone walls are held together on the outside by wisteria and ivy and inside by cobwebs. You can guarantee it will be freezing cold in winter and not much warmer in summer.”

  “I don’t think it sounds ugly.” A dreamy look came over Eleanor’s face. “I think it sounds charming.”

  Daniel laughed. “I suppose if you were willing and able to spend a couple of hundred thousand on it, the
house could be made quite attractive.”

  “What a pity we don’t have a few hundred thousand knocking around,” said Eleanor, smiling. “For a house like that, I might just give up the cottage.”

  Sighing, Daniel put his hands on his hips. “Forget it, El. It’s not going to happen.”

  “I’d love to take a peek inside though, wouldn’t you?”

  “Nope. Anyway, it’s not for sale.”

  “Shame. You know I can’t resist an old ruin.”

  “I hope you’re not referring to me?”

  Eleanor put her arms around Daniel’s waist and hugged him tightly. “As if! You’re in excellent condition for your age.”

  “Correct answer,” he said, bending down to kiss her. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Clarence inherited the lot one day.”

  “Clarence?”

  “The mouse hound.”

  “Poor little mite. It must be terrifying being that small.” Eleanor had a vision of the dog being carried off by a passing jackdaw, four tiny paws poking out from the sleeves of its pink fun-fur sweater as it disappeared overhead. “But Joshua can’t be all that mean,” she said, holding up two of the books for Daniel to see. “He let me have this lot for far less than they are probably worth. In fact, he seemed very keen to be rid of them. And he refused to take the money and told me to put it in the vicar’s collection box instead.”

  “Really? That doesn’t sound like Joshua Pinkham to me. So, you’ve bought more books?”

  “Only a few,” she said, sheepishly. “I had to have them because they were printed by Williams & Makepeace at what is now The Reading Room. And I know I don’t need any more books, especially now I’m supposed to be making space…”

  Daniel sighed. “But when did ‘need’ ever come into book buying?”

  “True. And the Bible really is a beauty. Let me show you…”

  Daniel stopped her, keen to get on. “You can show me at home, but first you have to see the specimens in the fruit and veg tent. Graham’s gooseberries are stunning, if you’re easily impressed by small hairy fruit.”

  Eleanor pinched his side. “Don’t be horrid – I think it’s lovely.”

  “I’m not being horrid, but the festival is relatively new to you. I’ve had giant marrows and crocheted tea cosies inflicted on me since birth.”

  “I thought you loved these traditional events?”

  He shrugged, leafing through the guidebook Philip had put together for the show. “You’re right, I do. So what would you like to see next? Cake decoration? Miniature gardens? Crafts?”

  “Tough call.” Eleanor tapped her chin as she mulled over the options. “But I think top of my list for this afternoon has to be the vegetable sculpture category.”

  “An excellent choice if I may say so. Let’s start there.”

  Chapter 22: Philip Has Visitors

  Eleanor had arranged to drop off her takings at Philip White’s house a day or so after the festival. She was hoping he might live in the vicarage, then remembered that the fine old house had been sold off and was now the offices for a team of solicitors. Instead, the vicar of Combemouth lived in an ordinary pebble-dashed bungalow in a quiet cul-de-sac.

  In front of the house was a neat square of lawn edged with marigolds and salvias in serried ranks, and a concrete birdbath on a stand in the centre. How annoying it must be having to pass the beautiful vicarage every day to return home to this rather dull place. I’m getting obsessed with houses, she thought, as she walked up to the front door and rang the bell. Through the frosted panel she could see Philip approach.

  “Eleanor – welcome. Come through to the office.”

  She followed the vicar down the short corridor to a room at the back of the house overlooking a long garden that swooped down towards the sea. “Wow, what a view!” Perhaps this place wasn’t so dull after all. Even more impressive than the vista were the photographs that lined the walls: Philip in a West African country wearing loud shirts surrounded by smiling youngsters. Another of him standing in front of a school building helping to dish out food from cooking pots, large ladies in brightly coloured wraps and head gear on either side of him waving ladles in the air. Philip in a desert landscape with a family, the smallest child holding one skinny cow on the end of a rope under a baobab tree and beaming at the camera.

  The vicar saw Eleanor admiring the images and walked over to join her. “Such noble people,” he said. “They have so little and yet they are so generous and filled with such a sincere faith.”

  “Were you doing missionary work out there?”

  “No, that would be a blessing. I was teaching for a Christian charity, which is where I found my true calling.” He pointed at an imposing woman in red and orange Kente cloth. “That’s my colleague, Myrtle. I’m hoping she’ll be able to visit us one of these days.” His voice softened and Eleanor was sure she detected a note of wistfulness.

  “Gosh.” Eleanor was lost for words at the discovery of the vicar’s exciting past. “Working there must have been fascinating.”

  “Fascinating and humbling, yes.” He smiled. “Make yourself at home while I fetch us a drink. Tea okay?”

  “Perfect, yes.” Eleanor sat down on a sofa completely covered in patterned cloth and let her eyes roam around the room, which she now saw was packed with memorabilia from wooden sculptures to African animals in polished stone. She was admiring a very fine hippopotamus carved out of soapstone when Philip returned with floral cups, mismatched saucers, a beige teapot and a plate of sensible-looking biscuits.

  He set the tray down on a table and poured out the tea before handing Eleanor a teacup on a chipped saucer. “So what have you got for me? Your table seemed to be very busy with bookworms!”

  “I think it went fairly well,” said Eleanor, handing him the biscuit tin she’d been using as a cash box but hadn’t yet emptied. “But I doubt it’s enough for more than a couple of roof tiles.”

  Philip held the tin in both his hands for a moment and closed his eyes, as though trying to guess the value of the contents from its weight. When he opened his eyes, he caught Eleanor looking at him curiously. “I was saying a silent prayer to thank all those kind people who donated.”

  He really was a good and holy man, Eleanor thought, now wishing she’d managed to persuade her “customers” to part with a bit more cash.

  Philip took the top off the tin and tipped the contents onto the tray next to the plate of Rich Tea biscuits. “This is super,” he said, prodding the pounds and pennies into separate piles and adding up the meagre offering. “You have done jolly well: there’s £37.42 in the tin and a cheque for £50 from your good self. That is very generous, Eleanor.”

  “Don’t thank me, Reverend. The £50 was for books I bought off one of your parishioners. He refused to take a penny for himself, instead insisting that the money should go to the church fund.”

  Philip beamed. “You must tell me who our benefactor is so I can thank him or her personally – unless the money was given anonymously, of course.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, I don’t think it was meant to be a secret. I didn’t know the gentleman’s surname, but my husband tells me it’s Pinkham.”

  “Joshua Pinkham donated £50 of his own money to St Cuthbert’s? Good heavens,” said Philip, crossing himself. “Well, well. Our Lord truly does work in mysterious ways.”

  “He’s not a regular worshipper, then?”

  The vicar laughed. “No, he keeps well clear of the church as a rule. Although he did come and see me the other day about something, as it happens.”

  * * *

  Philip had been surprised to hear a knock at the vestry door a week or so before. It wasn’t often he had callers in the middle of the day and it was one of the many things he missed from West Africa. There, life was lived outdoors and people were constantly in and out of each other’s homes. It was quite normal for families to look after friends’ children and it took him quite a while to figure out who were blood
relations and who were simply neighbours. He had grown used to people coming and going all day and using his kitchen as an unofficial meeting room or somewhere to complete homework. In Combemouth, he was always delighted when his parishioners called on him, but he was quite taken aback to find Joshua Pinkham on his doorstep.

  “Mr Pinkham! Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Come in and make yourself comfortable.” Philip ushered Joshua to a seat and sat down opposite him on a peeling wooden chair.

  Joshua looked around at the dark wood of the walls. The lower shelves were packed with books but the top one held a motley selection of hats, spectacles, odd gloves and scarfs, all abandoned in the church. He frowned, thinking they appeared like so many relics.

  On the other side of the room was a collection of West African art, including a stilt man wearing a horsehair headdress and a skirt made from raffia. On the wall was a photograph of the latest bishop in his regalia, who looked out across this display as though perplexed to find himself in such exotic company. It was an incongruous collection of things to find in an English country church.

  When his guest seemed reluctant to speak, Philip rose to his feet. “Let me put the kettle on.”

  “No need. I shan’t stay long.” Joshua was not a man to waste words and when he was ready to speak he came straight to the point. “Vicar, I shall be three score years and twenty next month, which means my time on this earth will be well and truly up.”

  Philip leant across and gently stroked Clarence’s head where it emerged from the gap in its owner’s bobbly brown cardigan. “I think you are taking the words of the psalmists a little too literally Joshua, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I know what I know, and I’ve lived ten years longer than I should have done.” Joshua shook his head vigorously. “My father, his father and his father before that all dropped dead on their eightieth birthdays.” He emphasised the words by tapping the vicar’s desk firmly with one gnarled finger. “Now, tell me why I should be any different?”