by L. A. Nisula
The cheese shop was small inside, with a battered old counter to the left as we walked in that had probably been there through several owners, and a low-beamed ceiling that was the sort of thing a visitor to the area would love and probably annoyed the locals, particularly if they were tall. There was a long, glass-front case displaying what seemed to be very good quality cheeses for sale along with a few other items, and several partially sliced loaves of bread behind the counter which told me that they did indeed prepare sandwiches for hungry patrons, and a chalkboard on the wall advertising their prices. What I did not see was someone to actually prepare the sandwiches, or to help customers in any way whatsoever. I turned to Mrs. Albright, but she looked as confused as I was. “Any ideas?”
“Normally there’s some sort of a bell...”
We walked along the counter until we spotted the bell by the till, an old-fashioned hand bell of the sort I associated with one-room schoolhouses and Christmas bell ringers. I picked it up and gave it a jangle, feeling a bit self-conscious and as if I were demanding someone pay attention to me right this moment. I told myself to stop being silly and gave it a second, harder ring, then put it back on the counter and looked expectantly at the door to the back room.
“They could be taking a delivery,” Mrs. Albright suggested when no one appeared, “or restocking something.”
I nodded. “We can wait a couple minutes and see if they come.” While we waited, I made a slow circuit of the shop, hoping to see something we’d missed. Not that it was hard. The shop was not very large, and most of the space was taken up by the counter and the area behind it for storing and preparing the food. The area for customers to walk in was small, almost the size of my sitting room in London. The walls were covered with shelves displaying a variety of the sort of biscuits and chocolates Mrs. Parnell had in her shop for people needing something for their tea. There was a small dining table in the middle of the room with a display of artistically arranged picnic hampers showing the sort of things one could order to take walking.
While I was looking at things I couldn’t buy, as there was no one to ring them up and accept my money, I heard the door open and another woman walked in. I looked around the picnic hampers and saw she was slightly older than I was, with dark hair and good cheekbones, wearing a plain blue dress of good quality with a matching hat, and carrying a basket, presumably for her purchases. She smiled at Mrs. Albright and moved behind her as if she were going to wait her turn, then looked around and realized there was no one behind the counter. “Is Mr. Elliott in back?”
“We don’t know,” Mrs. Albright replied. “No one’s been here to wait on us.”
“That’s odd. He’s usually here for the lunch crowds. There’s a bell...”
“We tried it,” Mrs. Albright said. “No one came.”
“Perhaps try it again?”
Mrs. Albright nodded in agreement, but neither one of them moved towards the bell.
When it became clear no one was going to try the bell again, I went back to the till and retrieved the bell and gave it a good ring, feeling rather like a lady in a farce ringing for servants that never heard her.
Perhaps that was it. One would suppose a shop owner would choose a bell that could be heard in the back of the storeroom, but perhaps they’d never tested it. I brought the bell over to the door I assumed led to the back of the shop and rang it again. Surely they would hear it from there. When there was no answer, I took a step through the door, feeling like an intruder, and called, “Hello? Is anyone here? You have some customers.”
Still no answer. I took another step into the back room and looked around. The room I was in was a sort of foyer, with a set of shelves to my left holding the sorts of things the shop probably needed to replenish on a regular basis: grease-proof paper, spare receipt books, what I guessed was a locked box of coins. Ahead of me was the door to the storage room, which seemed to take up the length of the back of the shop. I could see through to the door to the back yard, which was open, and a bit of the alley behind the shop, which was empty. They didn’t seem to be taking deliveries. To my right was a staircase ending in a closed door. I assumed that led to the living quarters above. I put my foot on the first step and leaned in. I could just hear the sounds of someone moving around. Footfalls and what was probably a chair being slid back. So perhaps they were having an early lunch themselves and had lost track of time. I gave the bell another good ring and tried calling out, “Is anyone here? There are some customers in the shop!”
There was no change in the sounds from upstairs, no pause that would suggest they had heard me and were going to come see what was happening. Briefly, I considered going up and knocking on the door, but that seemed too forward. Clearly, they must have heard the bell from the foot of the stairs. If they didn’t want our business, then that was that. I couldn’t force them to come and wait on us. I went back into the shop.
“Any joy?” Mrs. Albright asked.
“I think they’re upstairs. I can hear them moving around, but I don’t think they heard me.” I was hoping one of the others would go back and try calling as I had—surely it had been obvious to them that my voice didn’t carry particularly well—but no one else moved.
“I suppose we’ll have to try somewhere else,” Mrs. Albright finally said. She glanced towards the other woman, clearly hoping she would offer a suggestion.
She didn’t. “I suppose so. Well, it was nice to have met you.” And she walked out of the shop.
Mrs. Albright turned back to me. “She’s met the newcomers and now has to tell the rest of the village, no doubt. I suppose we’re bound to find something if we continue down the high street.”
There didn’t seem to be many other options, short of helping ourselves and leaving money on the counter or outright shoplifting, so I nodded and followed her out of the shop, leaving the bell in the middle of the display table by the hampers so they would know they’d missed customers if they ever made it back down to the shop.
Mrs. Albright and I had more luck in the rest of the village. There was a small general store a bit further down the street, and even better, it had a hand-lettered sign in the window proclaiming their sandwiches the best in Eybry. Mrs. Albright pulled the door open, causing a small bell to ring, and went in. I followed.
The shop was larger than the cheese shop had been, but not by much. It was set up in a similar manner, only with a few free-standing shelves in the middle of the sales floor instead of the table. As our eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside, I could see there was one other customer in the shop, a man in a rather loud checked suit with a folder of papers under his arm, although as I got closer to the counter, it seemed that rather than buying anything, he was there to argue with the man behind the counter. They were both speaking in voices too low to be heard, but the man in the checked suit seemed to do a lot of gesturing to his papers.
The man behind the counter looked up as we came through the door. I had the impression he was glad of the interruption. “Welcome to Eybry, ladies. Joseph Burton, the owner of this establishment. How may I assist you?”
The man he’d been talking to looked annoyed that their conversation had ended but quickly covered his scowl with a strained sort of smile.
Mrs. Albright ignored the second man entirely. “We were looking for Mrs. Otway. She was supposed to meet us when we arrived this morning.”
Mr. Burton shook his head. “She hasn’t been in today. I thought she went over to one of the Slaughters yesterday, so unless she forgot something, she wouldn’t have needed to come here.”
“I can tell you she wasn’t in Chipping Campden this morning either,” the man in the loud suit offered.
Why she would have been there, I had no idea.
“Mr. Oswald Reynolds, of Mrs. Quimby’s Quality Tinned Goods.” His hand went reflexively to his pocket for a card.
“I doubt they’re buying tinned goods in quantity,” Mr. Burton said sharply.
“No, no, of course
not. Still pleased to meet you though, ladies. I’m the company supplier for this whole area. All the little shops.”
“And gives Sundur in Stow-on-the-Wold a better price than he gives me,” Mr. Burton muttered loud enough to be heard by all of us. So that was what the fight had been about.
“And as I told you, Mr. Sundur does twice the business you do.”
“Bigger village, more business. I can’t help that.”
I didn’t want to hear an argument about their business arrangements, so I interrupted. “The sign in the window says you have sandwiches.”
Mr. Burton gave us a genuine smile and used the question as an excuse to begin ignoring Mr. Reynolds in the most obvious way possible. “Indeed we do, miss. After the troubles with the pub... Well, the walkers need someplace to go when they come through, and the same with anyone working in the area who doesn’t want to go home. We also have a nice selection of meat pies and pasties. And for a small deposit, I can get you a flask of cold tea. Just bring it back next time you come this way. What would you like?”
I ordered a cheese sandwich, and Mrs. Albright asked for one of the pasties, and we got a flask of tea to share, then went back outside and found a bench in the square where we could sit while we ate. Mr. Burton had provided two tin cups with the flask, so we had quite a nice little picnic. The sandwich was indeed good, with a nice cheddar and a bit of pickle. The village of Eybry was quite pretty, the sort of place I would have been looking forward to exploring if I’d been certain we’d get into the cottage eventually. Along the high street, there was a post office, a tea shop, Mr. Burton’s shop, the cheese shop with its open door and no clerk, what looked to be a greengrocer down by the pub, and shop that was closed but seemed to be a haberdashery, which was always worth exploring. There were also a few villagers setting up what looked to be small market tables in odd corners of the street, perhaps to catch the eye of the walkers Mr. Burton seemed to be waiting for. What I did not see was someplace for Mrs. Otway to have gone.
By the time we’d finished eating, the village had become a bit more lively, with people coming in from both sides of the high street. A few of them had the look of local workers, but the majority seemed to be on walking holidays, with maps and rucksacks and stopping every few steps to look at a bit of architecture or a patch of flowers, in other words, exactly what I had been planning on doing had the cottage been ready for us.
I waited until Mrs. Albright seemed done with her food to say, “I don’t see anyone who could be Mrs. Otway here.”
“Neither do I, and no place where she could have come in such a hurry.”
“Then what do you think we should try next?” I assumed Mrs. Albright would have a better idea than I would as she’d been to Eybry before, and, even though she didn’t seem to know Mrs. Otway, she did know Mrs. Foster, which was more than I did.
“I suppose we could return the flask to Mr. Burton and see if he has any ideas. If not, we could try one or the other of the Slaughters. Both are close, and she could have had business in one of them.”
I didn’t have any better ideas, so we tidied up our bench and made the short walk back to Mr. Burton’s shop.
Before we even entered the shop, I could see Mr. Reynolds and Mr. Burton were still at the counter having what seemed to be a heated discussion, probably over discounts again. I had no desire to get in the middle of that problem. “He did say to bring the flask back when we were next here, so he’s probably not expecting it yet. There’s some tea left, we may as well take it with us while we walk.”
Mrs. Albright seemed to understand the direction of my thoughts at once. “So that Mr. Reynolds is still there? I didn’t think I saw him come out.”
“He probably would have tried to sell us some canned goods in quantity if he had.”
“Exactly. So Lower Slaughter it is, then. It’s marginally closer than Upper Slaughter.”
I nodded, so Mrs. Albright led the way down the path out of the village. “Have you ever tried Mrs. Quimby’s Quality Tinned Goods?”
I shook my head.
“Don’t bother. You can’t tell the tinned peaches from the tinned tomatoes. I wouldn’t be surprised if the only difference is the labels. And they’re not even cheap. Mrs. Renwick down the street from us insists on using them in her pies, and no one can ever tell what she’s made. Mrs. Parnell said she once served the vicar one of her pies with gravy, and later learned it was meant to be a cherry pie. And he said he thought it was an excellent fish pie, so I suppose the lot of them were confused. Really, why would she have served gravy with fish pie?”
“I’m afraid to ask what she thought it was.”
“So was I. You would have thought the color, but then Mrs. Quimby’s Quality Tinned Goods do all rather look the same as well. Would you like some more tea?”
I accepted the flask and firmly resolved never to eat any sort of pie that I didn’t know the full provenance of.
Chapter 3
THE WALK TO LOWER SLAUGHTER did not take as long as I’d feared it would, and in a little more than half-an-hour we had left the country lane that was bordered by fenced in pastures and grazing horses and started walking past a row of cottages. The front gardens again became smaller and closer, and then I could see we were approaching the river again and beyond that, the village proper. There was a water mill just ahead of us, with what I took to be a miller and his assistant loading sacks into carts. They both looked up as we approached, gave us a curious sort of stare, then went back to work.
“He might have seen something. Mrs. Otway would have had to approach the village from this way if she came from Eybry.” Mrs. Albright didn’t wait for me to answer but crossed the footbridge and went to speak to the miller.
As Mrs. Albright approached, the miller stopped his work and nodded in her direction. “Good morning, ma’am. Can I be of any assistance?”
“I hope so. We’re trying to find Mrs. Otway. Has she been by here?”
“Not today. We’ve been out here all morning with the wagons coming and going.” He turned to the man who was assisting him, who shook his head then turned back to us. “She’d have had to pass by here if she was coming from her place or from the village. And you’re coming from Eybry?”
We both nodded.
“Then you could try in Upper Slaughter. She might have gone the other way round to get there. Not sure what she’d have gone for, unless Mrs. Grant needed her for some reason. Or you could try back at the church in Eybry. There’s some sort of a charity meeting there, but I don’t think that’s until teatime. Could ask the Missus if you want the exact time. Still, she might have gone early to set up.”
It didn’t seem particularly thoughtful to go to help set up for a meeting when you were expecting to meet someone with their key, particularly as we were arriving hours before said meeting. If that was where she’d gone, Mrs. Otway could easily have waited for us to arrive from the station then gone to help set-up afterward. She’d known we would be there around eleven.
Apparently, Mrs. Albright had come to the same conclusion, as she said, “I think we’ll try Upper Slaughter first.”
“Then you could take the shortcut through the field just down there.” He pointed to a path that crossed the bridge. “If you follow the garden wall there, you’ll see the gate to the fields directly on the other side. Just be sure to close it.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Albright said as we started in the direction he’d indicated.
“If I see her, I’ll let her know you’re looking for her,” the miller called after us. He watched to be certain we were taking the right path then went back to his wagons.
Mrs. Albright didn’t seem put out by the idea of walking to yet another village, so I tried to remind myself that I was in England now, and that the distances were nothing like what I had been used to back home as we set off for our fourth village of the day.
Had the circumstances been different and I’d been out for a bit of a ramble and not tramping through
the countryside trying to find the key to my lodgings, I would have quite enjoyed the walk to Upper Slaughter. The path the miller had pointed us to did indeed lead to a field, with an old-fashioned gate that was a bit of a puzzle to open, as you had to be sure to close one side of it before you could open the other, presumably to force forgetful walkers to be certain the animals couldn’t get out and go for a ramble of their own. The field itself belonged to a flock of sheep. The ewes were lazing about or grazing quite intently and paying only scant attention to us. They’d probably seen every sort of walker pass. The lambs still found us fascinating, particularly one little fellow who stood by the path bleating as we walked by in a way that suggested he was saying, “Yes, I do know I’m the most adorable thing you’ll see all day. Go right ahead and admire me.” It would have been the perfect place to pause and sketch a bit, or just lean against the gate and watch and think of all the lovely things I could do with their soft, curly wool, but then we’d never find the key, so I contented myself with looking as we walked.
When the path left the field, the way blocked by another puzzling gate watched over by two ewes who seemed to find our struggle with the gate amusing and would no doubt laugh over it once we’d gone, it continued on along the tree-lined riverbank for another ten minutes or so, then wrapped around a garden wall. Mrs. Albright seemed to know where we were going, so I followed her away from the river, and down a lane similar to the one we had followed to get into Eybry, until we reached the town square. “Now what?” I asked.
“Why don’t we split up and make it go faster? I’ll take one side of the street and ask anyplace that looks likely, you take the other.”
I was all for anything that would make the process go faster, particularly as the tea and sandwich had been two villages ago, which seemed like quite a long time past. “Which side would you like?”