by Holly Bell
‘There’s still so much out there of all kinds that’s unknown that holds … who knows what?’
Did he mean … of a supernatural nature? Was Dale trying to tell her something? His smile was singularly sweet as he looked at her.
Amanda nodded cautiously. ‘Indeed.’ She glanced up at the wall clock.
‘You must get back,’ he said. ‘And so must I. I’ve left Mother at the helm and ….’
‘She didn’t mind you taking some time out?’
‘Oh, not at all. She’s taken a liking to you,’ Dale assured her.
‘Ah.’
‘Would you like to meet for another instalment sometime?’ he asked tentatively.
‘Yes, yes, I would. I’ve so enjoyed hearing about the little I have. But I think you’ve only scratched the surface.’
‘A taster,’ he agreed. ‘So you’ll text me? When you’re free again?’
‘I will.’
Whilst saying she had travelled a little with her grandparents, Amanda had carefully left out her adventures here in Sunken Madley: the magical battle she had fought, the forays into the past, and the murders she had been instrumental in solving, never mind her brushes with death.
Amanda noticed how graciously, with every indication of interest, he had kept offering the narrative back to her. There was something about him … a spark ... could it be magical? Still … as long as that appalling relative of his was around …
Chapter 14
The Book Launch
Thursday dawned. Amanda laid party clothes out on the bed before work at The Grange. She clocked off at mid-day and went home to get ready.
Tempest was idly watching her from a pillow. He understood why humans were so obsessed with clothing. Without it to differentiate between them, they all looked much the same to him.
Amanda had just zipped up her new dress. She was checking her reflection in the mirror when, inevitably, her grandparents arrived.
‘Got your invitation, bian?’
‘Yes, Grandpa,’ she smiled at him in the mirror.
‘Remember to take your Pocket-wand.’
‘Yes, Granny,’ said Amanda, picking it up off the bed.
‘I remember my mother would occasionally remind me to make sure I had a clean handkerchief before I went out, in case of … accidents.’
These had, no doubt, been accidents befalling other people, almost certainly at the hands of the young Senara.
‘Yes, well we don’t need to remember all that now,’ Grandpa intervened. ‘You look a fair picture, Ammee, love.’
‘Pity your inspector isn’t seeing fit to attend,’ commented Granny.
‘He has more important things to do than attending village parties for local celebrities. And he’s not my —’
‘Yes, dear, as you are so fond of saying.’
Amanda got her best cream coat out of the wardrobe and put it on.
‘Are you going alone?’ asked Grandpa, casting an eye towards one of her pillows.
Tempest, with an air of long-suffering, heaved his furry bulk off the bed, and stretched on legs growing like architectural cranes. He yawned, dropped silently to the floor and stalked towards the bedroom door.
‘Ready?’ Perran checked.
‘Ready,’ replied Amanda stoutly.
Senara nodded. ‘Have fun,’
‘Er, thank you.’ How odd. Granny never said, ‘have fun’.
***
John Bailey-Farrell opened the proceedings with a short but heartfelt speech of thanks. Mr Quillet from the local free paper, Barnet Briefing, had been invited just to get one picture to publish in the next edition. There was a flash from his camera and applause.
Next, at John’s insistence, Jane the rector took the floor to give a brief speech of blessing.
‘John, dear, I’m sure it needs no blessing from me,’ Jane had protested over tea with the cricketer at the rectory.
‘That’s kind of you, Rector, but I know it’s the sort of thing my mother would like. Just a word of well-wishing. Please? I’ve brought a copy of the book, so that you can confirm that there is nothing at all objectionable in it. I promise you there is nothing even a child could not read.’
Jane had not been able withstand so sincere and eloquent an appeal. She had indeed checked the contents and her speech reflected what she had found there.
‘Dear parishioners and visitors, may this book be blessed and go forth to inspire both young and old to pursue their dreams with the same integrity as its author.’
‘Hear, hear!’ cried Dennis and led the applause as the rector went to shake John’s hand. Jane was called over to the refreshment tables and the cricketer, wreathed in smiles went to join Mrs Pagely and Ryan. They were holding copies of the books in front of the artfully arranged display stand. It was adorned with gold and silver balloons rising from behind a white cloth-covered table.
‘Amanda, help yourself to Cava,’ said the librarian, seeing her favourite reader and gesturing towards a table laden with champagne glasses. ‘Soft drinks and food over there,’ she added, pointing to another.
Mrs Sharma approached Amanda.
‘Are you all right, dear? The crowds not too much?’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Aunty,’ she answered her kind neighbour, whose mother had baby-sat Amanda when she was little, enchanting her with tales of India.
‘Good. We have an extra treat this afternoon of which the Raj will approve.’
‘Really?’
‘Contributed by Hugh and Sita,’ Mrs Sharma added, referring to Mr and Mrs Povey, who had bought Sunken Madley Manor barely a year before. After a brief trial period, during which Amanda had had some strange experiences restoring the Manor banister, the village had taken the kindly couple to its bosom. ‘Yes, they would not want this generally known, but between us, they gave me a fund for some smoked salmon and caviar. Over there.’
‘How generous! Oh, yes, that will definitely meet with Tempest’s approval!’
Refreshments flowed as villagers were coming and going, offering congratulations and good wishes. There were book purchases, requests for signings, and laughter.
Claire arrived, imbibed, snacked, chatted and had just made it to Amanda’s side when her phone rang and with a ‘sorry!’ to her friend, was gone.
Cling-cling-cling! Dennis was tapping on his glass with a pen. A medium hush fell.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, pray raise your glasses in a toast. To our local celebrity author!’
‘Our author!’ they chorused merrily and followed Dennis’s lead into ‘For he’s a jolly good fe –llow!’
John, smiling shyly, seemed quite overcome by this tribute and thanked one and all with a shake of his head. He grinned all the wider, seeing Amanda approaching.
‘Congratulations, John. May I buy a copy?’
‘I’d rather you had it as a gift.’ He had already picked one up from the table and was signing it.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, with a smile.
‘John!’ Dennis was eager to chat with the star of the show, and she excused herself.
‘Amanda, dear!’
‘Miss de Havillande.’
‘You’re looking quite charming, my dear, quite charming.’
‘Thank you. The dress is a present.’
‘From Claire, yes, the gel has excellent taste. Oh, there’s Joan. I must have a word.’
‘Well then,’ said a voice at Amanda’s elbow.
‘Sylvia. Are you enjoying yourself?’ She was just back from her afternoon stint of seeing the school children safely across the road. Her arrival also heralded that of some of the youngsters who had received an invitation.
‘Oh yes. A nice turnout. Good to see some of the kids here.’
Amanda looked around and received a ‘Hiya!’ from Ruth and Kieran.
Sylvia gave a firm nod of the head. ‘I like those two. Ever so polite, they are. A bit serious, if yo
u know what I mean. Old heads on young shoulders, if ever I saw them. But lovely, the pair of them. There’s Olivia.’ Joan gestured with her ham and Branston pickle sandwich towards the daughter of Joe Mazurek, the milkman. ‘Now she’s all right but honestly, look, that Becky Whittle.’ The buxom 15-year-old had just sashayed through the glass doors of the entrance and was gazing around with a predatory air. ‘Only here to ogle Jonathan.’
‘Oh I expect she’s here to enjoy the party too,’ protested Amanda temperately, thinking, after all, she could admire the assistant librarian at any time during opening hours.
‘Only reads that pulped fiction.’
‘Well, it’s all literature, Sylvia. At least she is reading.’
‘When I was young, we read proper books. Like Jane Eyre.’
Amanda had made her way through that particular classic when she was seven and concluded, after the last page, that Mr Rochester would have made a rather oppressive husband.
‘It’s a bit gloomy,’ she commented.
‘Well yes, but … what about Pride and Prejudice? That’s a nice happy, funny story.’
Amanda had read that too, when she eight. She had rejected Mr Darcy in favour of Mr Bingly as a spouse, or Colonel Fitzwilliam if he were not likely to be inconveniently away so often fighting Napoleon.
‘I expect she reads them at school,’ Amanda offered reassuringly.
‘Hm, well, let me get another glass of Cava. Would you like anything dearie?’
‘No, thank you, Sylvia.’ She had already sampled the delicacies and supplied Tempest with salmon and caviar.
With Sylvia’s departure, there was a brief moment of peace in which to look at John’s book, entitled No Rest for the Wicket. In the front, he had written.
To Amanda. Yours, John.
She looked up to see a wave from Ryan. They were too separated by the throng to speak. The chatter, the press of people, and the colours around her began to overwhelm Amanda. She retreated to a temporary space, wondering where Tempest might be. He had disposed himself comfortably on Irma Uberhausfest’s fake fur purple coat, cast on a seat in the readers’ section. A misshelved book distracted Amanda. She wondered if she should let Mrs Pagely or Jonathan know and looked around for one of them.
The assistant librarian happened to turn in her direction. She met Jonathan’s eyes. That was the moment. Suddenly, the ground seemed to shake, the light to dim, time hanging suspended.
‘Ammee!’ Little Amir Patel was tugging at her skirt. The spell was broken. Amanda looked down. ‘Reeed!’
She smiled at him, thinking she must have imagined the tremor. No one else seemed to be showing any signs of concern. Jonathan had once more been hidden by the crowd.
‘Of course.’ Amanda took Amir’s hand, and they walked towards the children’s library. Dr Patel was approaching to join them as Alex came up with a plate of cheese puffs.
‘Amanda, would you be an angel and take these over to John? They’re faves of his, and we did them specially, but I must cut up the cake.’
‘How about if Nani reads to you,’ the doctor asked Amir helpfully.
This altered arrangement being acceptable to young Master Patel, Amanda was released to deliver the delicacies, wondering what John had meant by ‘Yours’. Probably that’s what he wrote in everyone’s book, she decided.
More people were turning up. More, surely, than had RSVP’d. Mrs Pagely and Jonathan had their hands full, finding more glasses, plates, and seats, greeting long-lost library users, some of whom had requested new library cards.
Mrs Pagely did not want to turn anyone away. It was an opportunity too good to miss. Keeping up the reader numbers was essential, what with the number of libraries that had been closed throughout out the country.
Amanda retreated to the comparative peace behind the counter, catching her breath and looking up at the calm white of the ceiling. Granny’s words, ‘have fun’ came back to her. Whatever had she meant? Was it possible …? Perhaps, the inspector was going to turn up, as a surprise. She was looking towards the doors of the library, when her reverie was disrupted.
‘Amanda?’
Mrs Entwhistle made up with her lack of stature with sheer force of presence. A fluffy cloud of pale grey hair contrasted with a determined chin above a wiry frame.
‘Hello,’ Amanda replied politely.
‘I need a book.’
‘I’m not a librarian, Mrs Entwhistle.’
‘Almost. You’ve assisted in the past, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, but only —’
‘Now I’m sure you wouldn’t want to let an old woman down, not someone who was so fond of your dear grandparents.’
Amanda found herself unequal to the struggle.
‘How can I help?’
‘It’s a particular book. Obscure Observations – avian sightings by a Hertfordshire ornithologist written by Dr Hulberd Brayne. I’ve been trying to find a copy for years so I could have one of my own, but there isn’t one to be found.’ Mrs Entwhistle ended her sentence with a hint of pathos. ‘I first read it here, so I know there’s a copy, but it’s not on the shelf.’
‘Well, please, let me just check,’ said Amanda, going to the computer.
‘Are you saying I’m not capable …?’
‘It might be out on loan …. Hm … yes, it’s listed as on the shelf. You’re sure it’s not there?’
‘Positive. It must be in the stacks. Now be a dear and fetch it. It won’t take you a minute.’
Amanda had been into the basement once before. It had been a highly unnerving experience. Furthermore, Jonathan had been saying for ages that there was something very odd about the place. Actually, Mrs Pagely had said he’d wanted to talk to her about it. Amanda looked around anxiously, hoping to give the job to either of the official library staff. But they were nowhere to be seen in the crowd.
‘Amanda?’
Mrs Entwhistle was both entreating and insistent.
‘It’s very dusty,’ Amanda protested.
The lady produced a large lavender handkerchief.
‘Here, use this. You’ll be back in a jiffy, I’m sure, with your keen eyes. Of course ... if you’d rather not. I don’t want to be a nuisance. It can wait. It’s just,’ Mrs Entwhistle said wistfully, ‘I’ve seen what I’m almost sure is the purple-crested wippling pippet in my garden, and it’s the only book I’ve ever found that has a truly accurate description. These days … since my dear husband … my only real comfort …’
Amanda assumed her dear husband had departed for the great hideout in the sky. Claire could have told her that he’d taken off several years ago with Chastity Prooner, the landscape gardener who had failed lamentably to live up to her name. Mrs Entwhistle’s relief at the departure of her unpleasant spouse had resulted in a discreet soirée organised by Irma Uberhausfest, in which the volume of Bollinger consumed had passed into legend. However, Claire was not present to impart this choice information, and Amanda’s natural kindness overcame her reluctance.
‘Of course, Mrs Entwhistle.’ She accepted the handkerchief. ‘I’ll be right back.’
Amanda went to the old battered black and gold cashbox under the counter where the key was kept, and undid the green metal door. The light switch was just inside. She pressed it on and began careful progress down the stone steps, the soles of her shoes grating. High heels were hardly designed for such an expedition.
Steadying herself with a hand on the wall, she felt it pass from brick to chalky stone. The final flight confronted the dark of the cavernous space beyond. Amanda hastened to put on the light. It always seemed to be dim down there. But the sight that greeted her eyes was unmistakable. One of the tall racks had fallen, shedding its monstrous load onto the space of the aisle beside it. Spilt volumes of encyclopaedias, other hefty tomes and loose shelves were piled under the makeshift roof, formed by the toppled rack leaning at angle over its neighbour.
Amanda shook her head. Her
first thought was that this was going to be a job and a half for the librarians. Her second was that, hopefully, the book was not among this chaos. The third was that, of course, if it were, it would mean not having to get the stepladder to reach the top shelf if that was where it had been. No harm in having a quick scan to see if she was lucky.
Checking the obstacle course of literature radiating out from ground zero, Amanda approached the wreck. That was when she saw it. Amongst the tomes, the black designer, Edwardian lace-up boot with the impossibly skinny, angled heel … a bare leg, a dark sports-top-sleeved arm.
Amanda picked her way, half-sliding, and of necessity treading iconoclastically on the books until … a spread of long dark hair … leading back to the somnolent face of Samantha Gibbs. Balancing precariously on debris, Amanda felt for a pulse in the neck and wrist. Nothing. But the body was still warm.
She stayed still and looked around, listening … Was there someone …?
‘Hello?’ she called out.
Amanda had had that sense before … that she was not alone down here. She had had the vision even of the shelves coming crashing down as she ran through them … and now ….
Her chest was tightening. I must get help, she thought. And discreetly.
Amanda went towards the steps. No … if this was not an accident, whoever did it could still be here. To leave, they would have to pass her. There was only one thing to do. Taking out her phone, she checked for a signal. Dead.
Slowly, Amanda climbed the steps, her breathing increasingly laboured, watching the screen. Up and up she went until, with the door in sight, the signal bars appeared. She pressed dial and sank down onto the cold stone, with watchful relief.
