“Yes, that’s it exactly,” Helen agreed. “I wanted to live in Badger’s Hole, eat at his table, sleep in the comfy beds and warm myself by the fire.”
The two friends were quiet for a while ruminating on memories from childhood and how nostalgia goes part and parcel with the Christmas season. As they made their way along High Street looking in the shop windows, they resembled the two childhood characters they’d been discussing. One pointed out a pretty scarf and one noted the dog coats for sale in Mr. Poindexter’s store.
“Are you going home to be with your children this year?” Martha asked. “You know how much Kate and I would love to have you with us.”
“Oh, I know, and thank you for the offer, but I’m going to spend it with my son, Timothy, and his family. The rest of my kids come to Concord the following week.”
“You’re hopping the big pond a lot lately,” Martha said, giving Helen a playful nudge in the side.
“Haven’t I been, though? Some days I wonder if it would be easier to move over there.”
Martha didn’t say anything. A sudden lump rose up in her throat. After a pause, she said, “Well, it would stink if you left, but I’ve always been a big believer that family always comes first.”
“Don’t be trying to get rid of me yet,” Helen responded with a laugh. “I love my home here, my friends and the jury is still out on Mr. Cousins.”
Martha teased Helen a bit. “Well, you’d better snag him soon, Helen, because the word on the street is Lovely Lana is back in town.”
“What?” Helen stopped dead in the middle of the cobblestone sidewalk. “Lana’s back in Marsden-Lacey?” she squeaked, her arms hanging limply on each side.
Martha hadn’t realized how well the mark would hit when she’d fired it off, but she played it for all it was worth.
“Yep, I talked with Celine Rupert yesterday. She said Lana was at Healy to visit everyone.”
Helen threw her hands up in frustration. “I leave this village for one week, one freaking week, and Lana, the cougar from Louisiana, rolls back into town. She’s a judge for the Bake-Off?”
“Yep, she is. I’m telling you, Helen, that dream of mine must have been prophetic. Something is in the air: Merriam is acting weird. Lana’s in town. And you have us running off to Warwickshire to meet,” Martha said with deliberate rottenness, “old Feathergay.”
“Farthingay!” Helen practically shouted with irritation.
“Oh, yeah, Fartingay,” Martha said, but unable to hold it in any longer, she burst out laughing.
“Farthingay! Farthingay!” Helen stamped her foot in irritation.
“I’m messing with you, H. I like to see you get all riled up. It’s bad of me, I know, but you never disappoint.”
Martha turned to walk away.
Out of nowhere, a huge clump of snow splattered against Martha’s head, stopping her chuckling and completely arresting her feet.
“Why you little…” she said, turning around only to receive another icy blast of the wet stuff directly in her face.
Helen doubled over in an all-out laughing fit. “I can’t move,” she said, holding herself. “You so deserved that!” she cried.
“You’d better high-tail it home, Ryes, because you’ve taken on the best snowball fighter the South ever saw,” Martha said, bending down to scoop up her retaliatory snow missile.
“The South? Ha!” Helen called, her position uphill from Martha on the quiet lane. The street lamps flickered into life, giving a soft glow to the newly fallen snow. “It hardly ever snows south of the Mason-Dixon Line, so quit talking and let’s see what you’re made of.”
A wicked smile stretched across Martha’s face, but froze instantly as another ball of snow whacked her from behind. She spun around to see only the brim of a hat quickly dart back behind the edge of a stone house. Whoever threw the snowball was short.
“Who’s there?” she called good-humoredly. A child’s face peeked around the corner. The owner was smiling broadly and Martha realized it was Piers’ young adopted son, Emerson.
“Helen, look who’s here. It’s Emmy! Come on out, Emmy. I call a truce until we get to say a proper hello.”
Emerson poked his head out and gave the girls a good assessment. Boys know instinctively that people participating in a snowball fight are rarely trustworthy.
“Hello, Mrs. Ryes and Mrs. Littleword,” he said still hugging the safety of the house’s protective shield.
“Ah, come on over, Emmy. We promise to be ladies. It’s a firm truce,” Martha said.
“Keep an eye on them, Emerson, particularly that redhead. She always has an ulterior motive.”
Detective Chief Inspector Merriam Johns leaned around the corner of the same house Emerson had stepped away from only seconds earlier. The Chief’s eyes twinkled with humor and a challenge.
“That’s a terrible thing to teach a child, Chief Johns,” Martha countered. “Who left this young mind in your jaded hands?”
Johns patted the top of Emerson’s head. “Emmy and I were on our way to the Village Hall to see how the preparations are going for the Pudding and Pie Bake-Off. He’s helping me while his nanny finishes up. She’s in the competition, too.”
Helen came up to stand beside Martha. The wind was picking up with the setting of the sun, making the three adults shiver.
“Would you like to come to my cottage first, Emerson? I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies yesterday and I have some beef stew. This gruff old hound dog you’re running with probably hasn’t even thought to offer you food.”
Martha bent down to the boy’s level. She loved children and always knew when they needed something.
“May we, Chief Johns?” Emerson asked, excited by the chance at a sweet treat.
“Hound dog? I’ll have you know, Mrs. Littleword,” Johns countered, “that I intended to feed the boy. They’ve got left over meat pies tonight at The Traveler’s.”
Everyone knew the Chief was good at sussing out free food. He had to be. Polly, his mother, was usually too busy with her brewing business and he, himself, didn’t have time due to his work schedule.
During his rounds each week, he received many gratuitous treats. A fresh piece of pie at Harriet’s, a taste of the local pub’s new menu offerings, or the multitude of teas with dainty sandwiches, cheese quiches and homemade biscuits made by the older ladies of Marsden-Lacey were constantly being offered to the Constabulary’s top man.
Martha shook her head and gave Johns a woeful look. “Well, I’m offering real food and a yummy after-dinner dessert. Emmy wants to try my cookies, and you’re welcome to come, too, Panhandle. There’s plenty, but I’ve got to get going. Gus, Vera and Amos need their dinner and a stretch in the garden.”
“Come on and go with us, Chief,” Helen said. “Martha’s a pretty good cook herself. She could give the Pudding and Pie competitors a run for their money.”
Johns never passed up a free meal, so the four friends headed off to Flower Pot Cottage where a warm fire, good food, and three furry greeters waited hopefully for the return of their favorite person.
Chapter 4
London, 1634
THE CAT LAZILY SUNNED HERSELF in a puddle of summer sunlight. Bees hummed in the drowsy heat while gathering their pollen among the rich array of hollyhocks, roses, daffodils, and tall, white daisies. The garden was a wonderful place for a mature cat to while away the hours cleaning her coat or waiting for a hapless bird to flit too closely to one of her many hiding spots. She no longer had the agility to actually catch one, but a nice chase was good for the soul and justified a long nap later.
She’d been able to come and go between the house and the garden at her convenience most of her life. Her favorite place was upstairs in the deep chair belonging to the person she attended. They’d spent many long hours together. He called her Minerva in a playful way because of her cat-like wisdom. It was a name they both agreed upon.
Lately, with him gone, she’d spent more time outside
in this well-tended kingdom of her own. As a cat, she wasn’t privy to the reasons people came and went, but she knew Death when it arrived, and it visited the house only last week. Minerva lost her human of many years. The others called him Edward and it was lonely for her since his death.
With feline grace, the grey tabby lifted herself onto all four of her dainty paws. She sat for a few moments blinking her beautiful green eyes and then closing them against the glare of the July sun. The tinkling of the house’s front bell rang, catching her attention. Minerva, unlike some of her sisters, was a social cat when it came to visitors. She made haste toward the entryway, subtly trotting close to the wall as to avoid any of the servants who might trip over her.
A tall, thin man waited patiently there on a bench by the door. He was a stranger to her, but never the less, she gave him her standard Blount House welcome that she, as its mascot, always confirmed upon its guests.
A slow approach is best, as any cat knows, to give the human a chance to become aware of its presence. The next step is a nice mew of ‘hello’ and, if all goes well, a hospitable feline will perform a rub with her tail held high. Minerva advanced.
“Good morning,” the man said with warmth and appreciation. He bent down and stroked the silky fur while the grey feline purred appreciatively.
“You are a beauty, my sweet one. Would you let me hold you?” the man asked.
Minerva sat regally beside his leg, two front paws neatly placed together slightly touching, while her tail wrapped protectively around them. She waited until she was certain of the goodness of his aura and gently jumped up into his waiting lap.
“I had a cat once when I was a boy,” he murmured lovingly. “She lives with my mother in Warwickshire.”
Minerva relaxed under his gentle scratches and light petting.
Soon, a plump woman with an apron covered in flour, sauntered down the long, low hall. It was the cook, Saphy, and no one, not even Minerva, impeded her daily routine.
“My mistress is not at home. She’s left London because of the plague. What is your business?” she asked brusquely of the young man who shifted his gaze back and forth between Saphy and the cat.
“My name is Harry Dudens. Master Blount and I worked together. He asked that I bring certain documents, plays actually, back to Mistress Shakespeare. They were ones she loaned to him through Mr. Hemmings and Mr. Condell. I spoke with Mistress Blount about it last week.”
Saphy indicated by a wave of her hand, that he should come with her into another room off the hall.
“The papers my mistress left for you are tied up in a bundle. Let me find them. They should have a red ribbon...” On the table sat stacks of documents of every order imaginable. Books lined the bookshelves and the young man took a quick opportunity to read the titles. Marlow’s Hero and Leander, Shelton’s translation of Don Quixote, and Mr. William Shakespeare’s Comedies, Histories and Tragedies sat side by side with other works known to have been published by the Edward Blount’s Black Bear Booksellers in St. Paul’s Churchyard.
“These must be what you came for,” Saphy said, holding out to him a dusty pile of manuscripts. The man reached across the bureau and took the heavy load of papers from the cook. He glanced down at the top of the bundle, noting the first play. It was called Cardenna. Not recognizing it as one of Shakespeare’s, he quickly thumbed through the rest. Seeing The Tempest and Measure for Measure, he knew this was the right group.
They showed signs of age and human handling. Stains from smeared ink blots, ash, and, perhaps, even food and drink were there for anyone to trace the manuscripts’ interaction with humans.
“Thank you, madam. Please tell your lady thank you, as well,” Harry said. “Do you expect her back soon? I would like to talk to her about the other books in the library.”
“Oh, I doubt she will return. The plague is so terrible this time and having lost her husband and with little money to live on, she’s released most of us. I’m the only servant she’s offered a place at her sister’s home.”
Harry looked down at the cat sitting so quietly beside his foot. “Are you taking the cat with you to the country?”
Saphy gave the cat a guilty look, followed by a resigned one. “No, but maybe the auctioneers can find her a home.”
“Consider it done,” Harry said. He knelt down to the cat and explained her options. Not being a foolish animal, she followed him complacently from Blount House and into the busy street. He picked her up and together they disappeared into the throngs of London’s humanity. Minerva never looked back. Cats are survivors and not known for sentimentality.
Two days later, Minerva and Harry were traveling through Warwickshire when they stopped along the way to have a bite to eat in a pub. Not accustomed to trotting long distances, Minerva was carried most of the trip comfortably in Harry’s pack. He put her down saying not to wander far and that he was meeting a man inside.
The busy pub was filled with people from all walks of life. Harry found a table and waited. In a short time, a well-dressed gentleman threaded his way through the crowd of patrons and sat down on a stool across from Harry.
“Harry Dudens?” he asked without ceremony.
Harry nodded. “Master Allen?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man replied, and, obviously, not wishing to stop long at this local watering hole, he got on with his business.
“Do you have Shakespeare’s foul copies?”
Harry pulled out the entire set of plays he’d picked up only two days earlier from Blount’s home and handed them over to the man sitting across from him. Master Allen took his time looking over the documents and appearing satisfied that they were indeed what he wanted, he said, “I’ll take all five of these. In turn, I’ll pay you the agreed upon price. Each play will be copied. The copies will be given to Shakespeare’s heirs. Do we have an understanding?”
Harry nodded his agreement. Allen took out a leather pouch handing the entire thing to Harry. Standing up, he walked out.
Being an intelligent young man, Harry didn’t count his new found wealth in public. Instead, he wrapped what was left of his fish in some old paper and paid for his meal. With the purse tucked in his breast pocket, he went outside to collect Minerva.
“I’ve got you a nice bit of fish, my girl.”
He scooped her up and stuck her in his knapsack.
By the end of that year, Harry owned a small shop selling books in Skipton, Warwickshire, while Minerva spent her days sunning herself in their back garden.
As for Master Allen, he kept the original foul copies he purchased from Harry that day in the pub. Later, he sold fresh copies to willing buyers. The plays went on to become famous, and the copies he made found their way into other theatre troupe’s repertoires fueling the world’s interest and love for Shakespeare.
Those fresh copies he produced would be burned in various fires throughout history and some were simply tossed out as unimportant documents. Not so, for Allen’s originals. They became buried within his ponderous collection, sleeping unmolested for centuries and accumulating dust until the time they would be found.
Chapter 5
Marsden-Lacey, England
Present Day
SNOW COVERED AND FREEZING, HELEN, Martha, Chief Johns and Emerson maneuvered through Flower Pot Cottage’s front door. Everyone was so encumbered with coats, scarfs, and wellies that it took some time for all the excitement to die down. Martha’s menagerie of pets, Amos, a Maltipoo of about five pounds, and Vera and Gus, the two resident cats, greeted everyone.
As people came through the door, three furry four-footers hustled past them to take care of their own business. Helen started the kettle while Johns got to work building up the fire. Emerson followed Martha around the kitchen and answered the bark that announced the pets were ready for re-admittance into the warmth of the house.
“Come and sit by me, Emerson,” Martha encouraged the child. She put down a mountainous pile of cookies arranged on a plate, and Helen br
ought in a tray of cups.
“I’ve got a treat for you, Emerson,” Helen said, with a smile. “My children used to love hot chocolate. Do you?”
“Oh, yes! Senior Agosto makes it for me, but only if it’s been a particularly rough day.”
“Well, today, it’s a treat because we don’t get to see you much. Sound good?” Helen asked.
With a cookie already being chewed upon, Emerson’s good manners wouldn’t allow for a verbal response only a vigorous nod making his blonde curls bounce upon his head.
“Chief, which would you prefer, hot chocolate or tea?” Helen asked, while putting a tea bag in her own cup.
Martha came trotting back into the room. She’d put the stew on to warm.
“I’d love to try the chocolate, Helen. It’s been ages since I’ve had it,” Chief Johns said, reaching for a cookie.
“It might be a bit too sweet, Chief. You know us American’s, we like our sugar.” She handed him the cup and stood ready with the whipped cream.
“Want some?”
The Chief nodded with enthusiasm much like Emerson before him, and with the blood beginning to circulate better and fingers starting to thaw from holding warm cups, the conversation turned to the Marsden-Lacey First Annual Pudding and Pie Bake-Off.
“What does the competition support?” Martha asked.
“The proceeds are for sending our secondary school’s student choir to Disneyland Paris for a choral competition. I’ve signed up, along with three of my constables, to participate as a team and Emerson’s nanny, Miss Rupert is also on a team.”
“Helen, we should take part,” Martha said excitedly. “How many people to a team?”
“Four, and I know someone who is looking for two more volunteers.”
“Who?” Martha asked.
“Mum and her boyfriend, Mr. O’Grady.” Johns didn’t look thrilled, but he continued, “They’re a handful and Mum is terribly bossy. Somehow, that poor old Grady puts up with it and keeps coming around. Man must be a masochist.”
Pudding, Poison & Pie (A Marsden-Lacey Cozy Mystery Book 3) Page 2
