Bells, Tails, & Murder: (A Dickens & Christie Mystery)

by Kathy Manos Penn

  “Dickens,” I said, “I bet you didn’t know that in the Pyrenees mountains, Pyr puppies are raised with herds of sheep and blend right in with their new families. From the time they’re pups, they protect their herds. All it takes is that deep, throaty bark to scare away wolves or anything else. Are you my protector?”

  “You know it, Leta,” barked my boy. “I’ve got the bark thing down, right?”

  “That’s for sure. I wish you weren’t quite so good at it, though. You realize you sometimes make me crazy with your barking, right?”

  “Sounds like a personal problem to me. Barking’s part of my winning personality, right along with my love of roaming and my ability to think for myself.”

  “Think for yourself?” I said. “Is that how you describe your tendency to ignore my commands? Your tendency to come only when you feel like it?”

  “Harrumph,” he huffed. “And your point is?”

  I laughed at his indignation. It was time to turn back. We’d done a brisk two to three miles out, only slowing down for Dickens to meet sheep and greet walkers who just had to hug him.

  As we approached the verge where my taxi was parked, we heard someone call, “Leta, Dickens, hi there.” I looked around to see Thom standing in front of the cricket pavilion with his bike. I wasn’t eager to go that way a second time, so I waved and motioned him our way.

  “Out for a ramble?” he asked as he scratched Dickens behind his ears.

  “Hardly,” I laughed. “Those long-distance walkers are hardcore. I think we may have gotten in five or six miles, which is a gracious plenty for us. I suspect they average fifteen miles a day. What are you up to? No cycling tours today?”

  “No, a family canceled at the last minute. I’m sure going to miss the tip I would’ve gotten, but I’m making the most of a day off by getting in a ride on my own. This is one of my favorite routes. Have you done any cycling since you’ve moved here?”

  I hesitated. “No. Maybe someday I will.” I could hardly bring myself to utter the next sentence. “I haven’t been back on a bike since Henry died on his; just haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.”

  “Oh hell, Leta,” Thom said, “I knew about the accident. I just never thought about how it would impact you getting on a bike. Sorry I brought it up.”

  “It’s okay. It’s been nearly two years, and I thought I might be getting closer to trying. But, with Peter’s accident . . . let’s just say bicycling isn’t high on my list right now.”

  “I can only imagine. On a different topic, I’ve spoken with Professor Bartholomew about the letter. He’s digging to see what he can come up with as far as value and whether there’s any talk in the collector community about Barrie letters. And, oh, you haven’t sent me a picture yet.”

  “Oh, it slipped my mind. Maybe later today after I go to the hospital. Have you heard Peter has regained consciousness?” I asked.

  “No. That’s great news. Any prognosis on his recovery?”

  “Hopefully, I’ll hear good news when I get there. Gemma was going to try to talk to him this morning to see what he remembered about being run off the road. When he first woke up, he couldn’t remember anything about the accident.”

  Thom looked surprised. “Is that typical with head injuries?”

  “On all the television medical dramas, it is, though I don’t know if that means it’s so in real life. But he may be able to give Gemma some information about the break-in the night before, even if not about the accident. All this stuff seems somehow related.”

  “Interesting,” he said. “You know, you never did tell me where you found Belle’s book. Was it just buried somewhere in her cottage?”

  “Believe it or not,” I said, “I found it on a bookshelf at the Olde Mill Inn.”

  “Blimey,” exclaimed Thom. “What on earth was it doing there? Who would have put it there?”

  “Heck,” I said. “I can only guess. Tell me what your young Oxford-educated brain thinks? How could it have gotten there?”

  He looked taken aback at my question. After a pause, he blurted, “Alice.”

  “Ah-ha,” I said. “And what makes you think that?”

  “Alice was in and out of everybody’s homes and a few businesses. Who else would have access to the Sunshine Cottage and the Inn, access no one would question?” He seemed to be putting it together.

  Hmmm. I never thought to ask Thom what he knew about Alice. It’s not like she cleaned his rooms above his uncle’s shop, and his name wasn’t in her notebook. He could have run into her at the Book Nook, though. And with his knowledge of rare books . . .

  “Thom, how well did you know Alice?”

  “Not all that well. Mostly I saw her at the Book Nook when I worked late to change out displays or place orders. Since I’ve graduated and I’m available for more hours, Beatrix has made a habit of going home as soon as the book shop closes. Can’t say I blame her, but it was those nights I worked late that I’d see Alice. She cleaned once a week after we closed.”

  “Ever discuss rare books or collecting?” I asked.

  “Why do you ask?” he said.

  “Like you, I think it could have been Alice who took Belle’s Peter and Wendy book, but why? Would she know how valuable it was? I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Alice was stealing things like knickknacks from her clients. A rare book is a horse of a different color, though.”

  Thom frowned. “Um, as in it’s one thing to take a box of bric-a-brac to a flea market to hawk, but books are a step up?”

  “Exactly!”

  Thom confirmed my thoughts. “Hmmm. You know she used to sell used books in Manchester, right? Not in a shop, but in a flea market? She probably had some knowledge of books, but it’s hard to say how much.”

  “You’re right, she probably did. Good grief, I feel as though my brain is about to short-circuit. I’d best get home so we—or I—can get cleaned up and get to the hospital. I bet it would cheer Peter up to see Dickens, but that’s not gonna happen.

  “Thanks for listening. And again, I can’t wait to hear the update from your Professor. Enjoy the rest of your ride.”

  I was explaining to Dickens once again why he couldn’t visit Peter when my phone rang.

  Wendy didn’t miss a beat after I said hello. “Leta, can you feed Tigger?”

  “Well, hello to you too,” I said. “And sure, I can feed Tigger.”

  “Mum and I completely forgot about the poor thing. Guess we haven’t had him long enough. And while you’re there, can you grab a jumper for Mum, please? It’s freezing up here.”

  “OK. Your timing is perfect. I was on my way out the door to drive to the hospital. See you in a bit.”

  Tigger was understandably happy to see me and was full of grumbles. “Where are my new humans? I’m hungry, and I’m lonely. Please tell me they’re coming back.”

  I fed him and freshened his water bowl and told him Wendy and Belle would be back soon. He probably wasn’t accustomed to being on his own overnight, and now he’d been by himself two nights, the night Alice was murdered and again last night. Poor little guy’s world had been turned upside down.

  I locked up and drove to the hospital and was parking when my phone rang. It was Thom. That was quick, I thought.

  “Leta,” he said. “I’m working to dig up the information you requested, but I need a bit more detail from you. I don’t think I can explain to you what to look for, so is it possible for me to meet with you to look at the book again?”

  “I guess so,” I replied. “I’m hesitating because I’m at the hospital now and not sure when I’ll get home. How flexible can you be about time?”

  “Since the cycling tour was canceled, I’m free all day,” he said, “So why don’t you ring me when you’re on your way home and I’ll meet you at your cottage?”

  I agreed and hung up as I spotted Wendy in the waiting room. I gave her a hug and asked for the latest.

  “Peter’s getting stronger but still doesn’
t remember the accident. He was able to tell Gemma that the intruder from the night before wore a hoodie, but how helpful can that be? Seems as though every bad guy these days wears a hoodie, along with every school kid.”

  “Shoot, Wendy,” I said. “You’re right. Even I have a hoodie. Of course, I’d be easily identifiable because mine says ‘GRITS, Girls Raised in the South’ in bright bold letters. I daresay it may be the only hoodie of its kind in the UK.”

  “Leta, it never ceases to amaze me the things we have in common. I once had a sweatshirt with the GRITS logo. I think I got it on a beach trip.”

  We were laughing over that coincidence when Belle returned to the waiting room. The hospital would only allow one visitor at a time in Peter’s room in ICU, so Wendy and Belle were taking turns.

  “His broken collarbone is pretty painful, but other than that, he’s in pretty good shape and may get to go home tomorrow,” said Belle.

  “Oh, that’s great news,” I exclaimed. “Shall I see if I can organize a schedule for a few of us to bring meals? I’m sure Toby, Rhiannon, Beatrix, and Libby will sign on.”

  Wendy laughed at my suggestion. “Leta, I know people do that in the States, but I’ve never known anyone to do it here.”

  “Well then, it’s time our friends learned some new tricks,” I replied.

  Belle piped up. “Sounds like a grand idea to me. Wendy and I can certainly cook, but we’ve got our hands full contacting Peter’s customers and trying to find someone to fill in for him at his garage. So far, the customers we’ve called have been understanding, but their patience will wear thin if they can’t get their cars repaired soon.”

  “No worries,” I said. “I’m on it. By the way, Tigger sends his regards and says hurry home.” I showed her a photo of him curled up in her chair in the sitting room.

  “Looks like he’s keeping my seat warm,” she chuckled. “I’ll be happy to get back to him.”

  We chatted a bit longer and then Wendy and Belle let me take a turn with Peter. “Boy, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” I said as I entered his room.

  His voice was weaker than usual as he replied, “I’m a lucky bloke. Could easily have been a goner. Thanks for looking out for Mum and Wendy.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I said. “They’d do the same for me. Rumor has it you may get home Sunday, and I’m pretty sure folks will be lined up to wish you well. Everyone wants to see for themselves that you’re going to be fine. Think you’ll be healed by cricket season?”

  “Since it won’t start until April, my collarbone should be fine. It’ll be getting back in shape that will be the challenge. Got to get back on my bike.”

  “Well, perhaps we can do that together. You can be my inspiration to face my fears. If you can get back up, surely I can,” I murmured.

  His eyes were at half-mast, so I took my leave. I told Belle and Wendy that Thom was coming by my house later to take a look at her copy of Peter and Wendy and the letter I’d found in it so that he’d have all the information he needed to continue his research.

  “Ladies, I haven’t told him about The Family at Sunshine Cottage, but do you want me to show him that book too?” I asked.

  Belle and Wendy looked at each other and then back at me. Said Belle, “If learning more about the books can help us figure out what happened to Alice, then I think we should. It’s kind of the lad to offer his assistance.”

  “Well, I’m clueless as to how exactly the books and letters connect to Alice’s murder and Peter’s accident, but I think they do. I just wish I knew what Alice was doing at the cricket pavilion,” I said. “And I sure hope Gemma is having better luck coming up with a theory of the case than I am.”

  In the parking lot, I leaned against my car and called Gemma. I was eager to speak with her and find out what progress she’d made, but I got her voicemail. Next, I called Thom. He said he could be at my house in an hour. If he was lucky, I might still be coherent by then. I was fading fast.

  “Finally, you’re home,” meowed Christie. “Can we sit in the garden, purty please?”

  “Why yes, little girl,” I said as I leaned down to rub her head. “Let me make a cup of tea, and we’ll both sit in the sun.” I’d already let Dickens out, and he was contentedly rolling in the grass.

  I was carrying my cup to the garden when I heard Timmy talking loudly. He was running towards the school bell by the front door when I intercepted him. “Timmy,” I exclaimed, “Would you like to meet Christie?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes!”

  “Then I’m glad I caught you before you could ring the bell. Do you know why?” I asked.

  “Um, no.”

  “Christie’s scared of loud noises, so when you want to see her, you have to knock on the door, okay?” I hoped he’d understand this new rule. I’d enjoyed hearing the bell all these months, but he was never going to meet the cat if he continued ringing it every time he came over.

  He looked a bit crestfallen. “Yes, Mrs. Parker,” he said. “Where is she?”

  I led him around to the garden, where Christie was sprawled on the warm stone patio washing her face. I cautioned Timmy to approach her slowly so she wouldn’t dart away, and I pleaded with Christie to stay put.

  “Is this the rascal who rang that awful bell?” she asked.

  “Yes, but give him a chance,” I cajoled. “He’s a sweet boy, and he and Dickens have become friends.”

  “Christie, he helps me feed Martha and Dylan,” said Dickens. “And, if you let him, I bet he’ll rub your little black belly.”

  Timmy sneezed and gently touched Christie with his fingertips, and when she responded by rolling and stretching, he laughed. “Oh, you’re pretty,” he said and sneezed again.

  “Timmy, you’re not allergic to cats, are you?” I asked.

  “No, Mummy says I’m getting a cold. I had to be good and ask nicely so she’d let me come out today.” Dickens bounded over and licked Timmy’s face. Timmy quickly abandoned the cat, and soon, he and Dickens were both rolling in the grass as Christie looked on disdainfully. “Such immature behavior,” she said, “but I guess boys will be boys.”

  Christie jumped to the patio table to check my plate for crumbs and then climbed into my lap. It wasn’t long before I heard Thom call, “Hello, anybody home?” He’d followed the sounds of Timmy and Dickens around to the garden.

  “Unlatch the gate and join us,” I said. “Meet my neighbor Timmy.” Thom greeted Timmy and gave Dickens a pat on the head.

  “May I interest you in a cup of tea?”

  “No thanks,” he said. “I can’t stay all that long. I’m putting together a new route for a bicycle tour and want to get home and finish up my notes.”

  “And where will this one be?” I asked.

  “I’m calling it the Intermediate Windrush Valley Tour,” he said. “It covers much the same area you and Henry cycled with me, but with more hills.”

  “More hills?” I groaned. “I couldn’t have done any more. The short steep ones like to have killed me as it was. It was a beautiful route, though. Will it still begin and end in Burford?”

  “Yes, same start and endpoint, but we often get groups asking for more of a challenge, so that’s what they’ll get,” said Thom.

  “Just thinking about it wears me out,” I said. “Well, let’s go inside and I’ll get the letter.”

  I gave Timmy a hug and sent him home. “If you feel better tomorrow, you can come back again, but if you want to see Christie, remember not to ring the bell.”

  I showed Thom to my office, and I went upstairs to get the books and letters from my hope chest. He was looking at my collection of children’s books when I returned. “You’ve got all the classics,” he said. “Beautiful Joe, Big Red, Old Yeller, Black Beauty, and of course The Cat in the Hat books. I read them too. The Tarzan books were my favorites, though, and I haunted the flea market until I had them all. I wonder whether today’s kids read these same books.”

  “That’s a good question,”
I said. “I’m pretty sure The Cat in the Hat books are still popular, but I’m not sure about the others. Anyway, pull up a chair.” I turned on the desk lamp. “Let me show you what I’ve been telling you about.”

  He studied the inscription in Peter and Wendy and used his phone to take a picture of it. When I handed him the letter, he handled it carefully and murmured he couldn’t believe he was holding something handwritten by J. M. Barrie. He snapped a picture of it too.

  I’d saved Belle’s special book for last, and Thom was speechless when I showed it to him. He looked at me and said, “May I?” and opened the book when I nodded.

  He looked at me in astonishment when he saw the inscription. As he slowly turned the pages, he said, “I can’t be sure, but I think these drawings were done by Ernest H. Shepard, the same man who illustrated the Pooh books. His name isn’t on the title page, but I’m almost positive this is his work.”

  “I wouldn’t have any idea,” I said. “See, that’s why you’re such an incredible resource. They are beautiful drawings, though, aren’t they?”

  “My God, this is an incredible find,” he said. “Do you recall the term Holy Grail from the book we read, The Bookman’s Tale? For some collector, this could be the Holy Grail, the ultimate acquisition for him or her. That would make it worth more to that one person than it would be to any other.”

  He took a few pictures and quietly, almost reverentially, closed the book. “I’ll send these pictures off tonight, but it may be a few days before I get a response on this. I mean, if this really is a one of a kind book, someone’s bound to know whether there’ve been rumors about its existence. What I do know is that collectors will come out of the woodwork if word gets out.”

  That last remark worried me, and I said, “Thom, remember please that the Davies family does not want to sell the book and they certainly don’t want any publicity. This research is more about finding a lead to Alice’s murder than stirring up demand. Can you continue to make inquiries under the radar without the book world beating a path to Belle’s door?”