by Mona Marple
“We do?” Tom asked.
“Follow me,” Sandy instructed, leading him back on to the High Street and across the village square. Gus’ butchers was still in darkness, exactly as Tom had described it from earlier. Sandy peered in the window at the empty counter and the meat-cutting machinery.
Gus, like her, was a committed small business owner, and his shop was open no matter the day or the weather. Sandy had questioned him once on his decision to open on the weekdays when many of the village shops closed.
“I can open and maybe sell some meat or close and definitely sell none.” He had explained with a shrug, and the simplicity of his words had helped her make the decision to extend her own opening days.
“I have an uneasy feeling about this,” Sandy said.
“The whole thing’s not right,” Tom admitted.
“Do you have a key?” She asked.
Tom shook his head. “I don’t know if anyone else does.”
“Hmm.” Sandy contemplated. “How do we get to the back?”
“This way,” Tom said, leading her past Father Fields’ small cottage and down Church Street, the tiny lane that separated the church from the vicar’s cottage. At the back of the cottage was a small unlaid path leading to the backs of the houses and shops that looked out over the village green, including the butchers. The path was unlit and as the two of them walked down it, their eyes adjusted to the growing darkness.
“It’s this one,” Tom said, indicating the back of the first building after the vicar’s cottage. Sandy looked and was surprised to see a light on at the back.
“What’s that room?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” Tom admitted. “I don’t make a habit of coming around here.”
“Come on, let’s take a look,” Sandy said, and they walked carefully through the back gate and down the path to the building. Sandy hesitated a moment and in that moment Tom pushed past her and looked in the lit-up window, diving back immediately and turning to the back door, trying the handle desperately and then slamming into it with all of his weight.
“What’s wrong?” Sandy asked as the door gave way on Tom’s third slam into it.
“He’s in here,” Tom called, bursting into the building. Sandy watched as Tom darted into the room with the light on. Gus was lying on the floor, unconscious. An empty bottle of whisky lay by his side.
“Shall I call an ambulance?” Sandy asked, kneeling down next to Tom.
“Not yet.” Tom said, as he gave Gus a shake.
“I don’t think you should -”
“I’ve seen him like this before.” Tom murmured, then moved close to Gus’ face and shouted at him, “Wake up!”
To Sandy’s surprise, Gus rolled over, sat up slightly, and promptly threw up on the floor.
“Is he -” She began to ask.
“Drunk. Bloody drunk!” Tom said, shaking his head.
Gus groaned, then opened his eyes. “What are you - you two - doing here?”
Sandy didn’t know whether to be angry or disgusted with him. “What are you doing here, that’s the question. You’ve been missing since yesterday, where have you been?”
“Having a party.” Gus said with a shrug, indicating the room. Sandy saw to her surprise that every nook and cranny of the room was stashed with alcohol. Glints of tall cans flashed in between cupboards, another bottle of whisky stood atop the large fridge, a crate of cans was shoved underneath the cutting table. Sandy had never seen a sadder room in her life.
“Doesn’t look like much of a party.” Tom said.
“Another squatter was ran over last night.” Sandy said. “You threatened to kill them all, and then one of them was ran over.”
“Woah.” Gus said, and Sandy saw the genuine surprise on his face. “Another murder?”
“No.” Sandy said, her voice stern. “He’s just woken up actually. So, whoever ran him over, he’ll be able to tell us.”
“Where were you last night?” Tom asked.
“You don’t think it were me, do you?” Gus asked, attempting a bitter laugh and descending into a coughing fit instead.
“You disappeared.” Tom said. He was sitting on the cold stone floor of the building, watching his brother-in-law carefully.
“I just had a drink. And then another. And then another. I needed to sleep it off.”
“Why not just go home?” Sandy asked.
“I promised Poppy I’d cut down.” Gus admitted. “The problem is, the more I think I can’t have it, the more I want it. So after a few last night, I thought I’ll have a good blow out, get it out of my system, like.”
“He’s telling the truth.” Tom said. “He’s an awful liar. If he’d done it, I’d know.”
Sandy nodded her agreement. She had seen the surprise on his face.
“Which one of them was it?” Gus asked.
“It was Derrick, the boy who works for me.”
“Ah no.” Gus said, burying his head in his hands. “He’s a good lad. Never seen him react badly. Even when that woman was screaming at him, he just let her have her say.”
Sandy’s ears pricked up. “Woman?”
14
“I’ll give you a lift.” Tom offered as they left the Sanders house. Tom had fetched his car and together the two of them had bundled Gus into the back seat and drove him home.
Poppy had kept them waiting for ten minutes before she opened the door, in which time the lights had been turned on and she had changed into a dress and let her hair fall free around her face. The woman’s devotion to her husband made Sandy smile to herself.
“Oh, Gus.” She had said, allowing Tom to help the man to the settee. Tom and Sandy had looked at each other, and left Poppy to work her magic on helping her husband recover from the hangover from hell.
“She’s a special lady, your sister,” Sandy said as she climbed into the passenger seat of Tom’s car.
“So are you,” Tom said, staring straight ahead as he spoke. “Nobody else is trying to solve this case like you are.”
Sandy shrugged. “Anton Carmichael came to me for help, and I turned him away. The least I can do for him, and Derrick, is make sure the right person is punished.”
“You really think you know who it is now?” Tom asked.
Sandy nodded. “I was never totally convinced of it being Ignatius Potter or Gus Sanders. This time, I’m sure.”
“Well, I’m sure Anton’s looking down and thanking you,” Tom said.
Sandy nodded and forced herself to look out of her window as tears welled up in her eyes. She remembered Anton’s appearance in the bookshop, how he had looked so carefully at the poetry collection that she had since removed and taken home with her. She rarely liked poetry but had committed to reading the book for Anton.
“Do you think they’ll be ok?” Sandy asked as they pulled into the hospital car park.
“Poppy will make sure they are,” Tom said, flashing Sandy a winning smile. “Do you mind if I come in with you? I want to make sure you get home safe. I’ll stay in the waiting area.”
“Sure,” Sandy said, liking his company, liking the feel of his presence near her. “Thank you.”
**
Derrick’s room was on the fourth floor, and it was a hub of activity.
Sandy could see through the window that Cass and Olivia were in the room, Olivia holding hands with Derrick and chatting. Cass turned around, spotted Sandy, and waved. She got up from her chair and appeared in the corridor.
“Isn’t it amazing?” She exclaimed, watching the scene in the room through the window like Sandy and Tom were.
“How’s he doing?” Sandy asked. Derrick’s eyes were open and he was staring at Olivia as she chatted to him.
“He’s tired. Even more tired since we turned up. Olivia’s telling him everything that’s happened. Everything she’s eaten or felt like eating but didn’t! He’s just listening to it all.”
“What are the doctors saying?”
“Not much, you know wh
at doctors are like. But if I read between the lines, I think he’s over the worst of it now and could make a full recovery.”
“That’s amazing,” Sandy said, grinning.
“Oh, Mrs. Deves, this is Sandy Shaw,” Cass said as a short woman with curly hair and freckles pushed open the door to Derrick’s room. “She’s the one Derrick works for.”
To Sandy’s surprise, Mrs. Deves sobbed as soon as she saw Sandy, then grabbed her with both hands and forced her into a hug.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Deves whispered, her breath rasped with tears. “Thank you for giving my boy a chance.”
“He’s an amazing young man,” Sandy said, meaning every word. “I’m lucky he gave me a chance!”
“He’s coming home straight from here.” Mrs. Deves said, pulling back from the intense hug. “I’ve got my boy back.”
“He’s excited to get home,” Sandy said.
“I’m never letting him out of my sight again.” Mrs. Deves said. “Well, apart from when he comes to work, of course. I always taught him to help at home.”
“He’s like a machine washing dishes,” Sandy said, wanting the woman to know how impressed she was with her son.
“Least I did something right then.” Mrs. Deves whispered, watching Derrick through the glass. Sandy pretended not to hear the remark, suspecting it hadn’t been said for her ears.
“You go in, Sandy,” Cass said, giving her arm a squeeze.
“Oh yes, go on love.” Mrs. Deves agreed.
Sandy smiled at them and opened the door. The room was dark, with various machines flashing lights. Olivia turned to see Sandy and stopped talking. She had been in the middle of telling Derrick something about whether or not toast should have crusts.
“I need the toilet,” Olivia said, sounding young. “Can you stay with him, Auntie Sandy?”
“Of course,” Sandy said, averting her eyes as Olivia placed a delicate kiss on Derrick’s forehead. Only when the door closed did she look up, and stand to plant her own kiss on his cheek.
“Hello.” He said, his voice croaky and dry.
“Hey, you. We’ve been so worried about you.” Sandy said, trying not to allow her voice to choke up. “You need to take more care crossing the road.”
He flashed a weak smile at her. “Mum’s here.”
“I just met her. She’s very proud of you, Derrick. We all are.”
“Fastest pot washer in the West.” He said, struggling over the length of the sentence. Sandy laughed.
“Did you see who did this to you?” She asked.
Derrick shook his head, his breathing still laboured from speaking.
“You must have seen something.” She pressed, desperate for anything to confirm that she was right about the identity of the killer.
Derrick shook his head again.
“Ok, let’s talk about something else. Should toast have crusts or not?” Sandy teased, but Derrick’s expression was serious.
“I saw.” He said, each word an effort.
“If I ask you questions, can you nod or shake your head for me?” Sandy asked.
“Yeah.” Derrick agreed.
“Was it a woman?” She asked.
15
When Sandy returned to Books and Bakes the next morning, she was met by a very concerned Bernice and Coral, who each stood behind the counter with their arms folded when they noticed her outside the door.
“This looks ominous,” Sandy said, letting herself in and hanging her yellow mac on the coat stand.
“We’re worried about you,” Bernice said.
“You disappeared yesterday,” Coral said.
Sandy groaned. “I’m sorry, you’re right.”
“You were digging around into the murder weren’t you?” Coral asked. “You need to be careful, Sandy. You could make yourself the next target.”
“There won’t be any more targets,” Sandy said. She was certain of that.
“How do you know?”
“It’s simple - the murderer wanted to get the squatters away from the Manor. And they’ve done that.”
“I’m sure someone who has already killed would do it again to stop them being caught,” Bernice mumbled.
“Look, I appreciate your concern, I do, but I’m safe.”
“Sandy, you think everything is nice like you are, but you need to be careful,” Coral said. Sandy had always been naive. She remembered the time the fair had come to town when she and Coral had been teenagers, and their mum had taken them to see the rides. Money was tight so they couldn’t go on anything, but Sandy hung over the rails watching the tame rides race by. She had realised at one point that people from her school had also been there, riding the dodgems and the waltzer, and then climbing off and throwing up. She had laughed to Coral about how the rides were too gentle to make people be sick, and would always remember the absolute shock she had felt when Coral had told her they were being sick because they were drunk, not just because of the ride itself. Underage drinking had shocked Sandy and for weeks afterward, she had wondered how she could not see something so obvious.
“Ignatius Potter has been charged.” Sandy said. “Do you really believe he’s the killer? Because if you don’t, it’s down to the rest of us to find out who the real killer is.”
Bernice shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think it’s Ignatius Potter.”
“Well, neither do I,” Coral admitted. “But that’s for the police to worry about.”
“The police aren’t worried about it,” Sandy explained. “That’s the problem. I’ve spoken to DC Sullivan. His case is closed. He’s probably on his way back to the city after he’s taken Derrick’s statement.”
“Derrick’s awake?” Coral asked, clasping a hand over her mouth.
Sandy nodded. “That’s why I didn’t come back yesterday, I heard from Cass that he had woken up so I went to visit him.”
“How is he? Can we visit?” Bernice asked.
“He’s tired, but I think he will be okay. I met his mum.”
“What’s she like?” Coral asked. “I can’t imagine what kind of mother would let their child become homeless.”
“She didn’t let him,” Sandy said. “He crept out one night and the first she knew where he was was when he rang to tell her he’d got a job and would be going home soon.”
“Wow.” Coral breathed.
“Now, come on, we’ve got work to do. I appreciate your concern, but I have to finish this. I’m too close to give up.”
“You know who did it, don’t you?” Coral said, always able to interpret her little sister’s expressions or tones of voice.
“Yes,” Sandy said. “I do.”
**
Sandy spent the whole day upstairs, tending to the books and setting up the new till she had ordered so she could serve book customers away from the cafe.
She was glad of the peace and quiet, which allowed her to plot how she would confront the killer.
Whenever nerves crept into her mind, she thought back to Derrick’s laboured breathing and his mother’s sobs. She had to sort this - for them.
To keep her busy, she sorted through some of the boxes of new stock that had arrived over the last week and had been sat neglected in the upstairs storeroom. Sandy bought new second-hand stock from house clearances, auctions and even online auctions. A fresh supply of books was one of the best ways for her shop to encourage repeat customers.
The boxes in the storeroom had been purchased a fortnight ago from a house clearance 100 miles away. She had given up a Sunday to travel across and view the books, offering the elderly homeowner a fair price and refusing his offer to help her trudge the books down his path and load them into the boot of her Land Rover.
Opening new boxes of books was one of Sandy’s favourite things to do and something she had been less able to do when the books had been cramped into the small portion of the cafe area downstairs.
As soon as she opened the books, the smell hit her. The man had been a keen historian and these
books had a history of their own, being sourced over a period of decades from around the world. They were unusual, specialist titles, and they would sell well.
Sandy had learned that the more unusual a book was, the better it would sell. She couldn’t compete with the prices that the supermarket chains offered new releases for, so rarely stocked those items. Instead, she could spend the time and energy on finding valuable collections or large discount deals, and focus on those.
She gave each book a wipe with a dry tea towel as she pulled them from the boxes, then wrote out a price sticker and stuck it over the ISBN on the back cover.
As much as her team were excellent bakers and great salespeople, pricing books was a job only she could do. She had spent countless hours learning the skill by studying what her competitors priced their books at and even attending bookseller conferences, long before her dream of owning a bookstore had become reality.
“Excuse me?” A voice called from the till. Sandy stood up, noticing again how she had to use her hands to push her bottom up and gain enough momentum to stand, and walked out of the storeroom to see Father Fields with an arm full of books. “Ah, hello Sandy, can I pay up here now?”
“You’ll be my guinea pig to see if the till works.” Sandy said with a laugh. “Let’s give it a whirl.”
“I’m game,” Rob said, placing the pile of books on the counter.
“Treating yourself?” Sandy asked, spotting more books on watercolour painting and an old Bible amongst the pile.
“I am,” Rob admitted. “And it’s always good to support a local business, of course.”
“Of course.” Sandy agreed. She was thrilled for any locals to consider it their civic duty to buy books from her shop. “I’d have thought you’d have had a Bible already, Father.”
“Very amusing.” He said with a smile. “I like the old ones, they’re so beautifully made.”
Sandy nodded. “So many people like to collect things, don’t they.”