I was about to point out that poets had brains, too, when a flurry of activity signaled a shift change. A trio of kitchen helpers swapped breakfast dishes for lunch items on the buffet table, and two sturdy middle-aged women relieved Kenneth and me of our tubs and our aprons. Bishop Wyndham attracted the most attention, however, when he entered the dining hall at the head of an eye-catching procession.
“Lori!” he called. “We’ve been invited to lunch!”
Eleven
The bishop led a slow-moving parade of five elderly men and women, none of whom were fully ambulatory. Two used walkers, two used canes, and one zipped into the dining hall in a snazzy electric wheelchair. The speed demon rolled ahead of the group to lay claim to an empty table, while the others tottered along at a snail’s pace.
I nodded at Christopher to acknowledge the lunch invitation, then turned to Kenneth.
“Join us,” I said. “Bishop Wyndham lives in Winchester. He’d love to hear your take on the town.”
“I wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgewise with that lot,” he said grumpily, eyeing the bishop’s shuffling chums. “They never stop talking. Besides, Mum asked me to come home for lunch.”
“Time spent with you is the best birthday gift you could give her,” I told him. “Mums miss their little boys after they send them off to boarding school.”
“I’m not—” He cut his angry protest short and grinned ruefully. “I suppose I’ll always be her little boy, won’t I?”
“There’s no escaping it,” I confirmed. “Mums are funny that way. Will you be back here again tomorrow?”
“I’m in it for the duration,” he said, “whether I want to be or not.”
“I’m glad you were here today.” I pushed my sleeves down and extended a hand to shake his. “When you make your momentous discovery, I’ll be proud to say that I once spent a couple of hours in Dr. Cartwright’s company.”
He blushed to his roots, mumbled an adorably tongue-tied good-bye, and left the dining hall. I watched him go, thinking of how much I missed my own little boys, then hurried over to help Christopher, whose companions were proving to be a handful.
Though the woman in the wheelchair was capable of independent movement, the others required our assistance. We steadied them as they seated themselves at the table. We parked their walkers in a corner, where no one would trip over them. We took their lunch orders—which were more like lunch demands, barked peremptorily without a “please” or a “thank you”—and we fetched the items they requested from the buffet.
Once we’d seen to their needs, we saw to our own. Christopher selected a bowl of split pea soup dotted with bite-sized chunks of smoked ham hock, and I helped myself to lentil stew, thick slices of crusty bread, and an enticing wedge of chocolate cake. Our lunchmates put their forks down and bowed their heads over their frail, folded hands while Christopher said grace.
It was a rare moment of tranquillity. Kenneth hadn’t overstated the group’s garrulity. When Christopher attempted to introduce them, they cut him off and introduced themselves, adding such a wealth of detail to their autobiographies that I could scarcely keep track of it all. We weren’t expected to contribute to the conversations that followed, either, which made for a strangely restful meal. While they talked—and talked and talked—we ate.
Sibyl Fordyce, the wheelchair champion, informed me that her granddaughter was due to give birth shortly, triggering a loud and vivid discussion of birthing techniques that drew aghast looks from diners at adjacent tables. Henrietta Hanson bragged that her daughter Rebecca was in charge of Shepney’s entire emergency operation, to which George Turner replied acidly that his son Joe didn’t take orders from Rebecca.
“Your gal doesn’t know the first thing about terriers,” Mr. Turner declared, “or rat catching.”
“I should hope not,” sniffed Mrs. Hanson.
Meanwhile, Leona Dodd kept up a running commentary on her meal, decrying its inferiority to a meal she’d enjoyed in the dining hall during the previous year’s flood. Her unflattering observations about the ingredients, the recipes, and the volunteer cooks were received with a mixture of irritation and resignation by the women overseeing the buffet, and she lost all credibility when she requested second helpings of each item on her plate.
Howard Bakewell made his mark by disagreeing with everyone about everything.
“You put up with this for two hours?” I murmured to Christopher, who was seated beside me.
“Was it only two hours?” he murmured in return.
Despite his telling response, he continued to display the patience of a saint. He smiled, nodded, and shrugged off interruptions that would have driven me up a wall. I wanted to give him a standing ovation when he managed to ask if anyone knew who the king in The King’s Ransom was. Unsurprisingly, his question ignited a firestorm of dissension as the quarrelsome quintet proposed five different answers, then argued over which one was correct.
Was “the king’s ransom” a corruption of a French phrase that had nothing to do with kings? Was it a corruption of a Latin phrase? Did it refer to the inn’s original owner, a man named Robert Leroy, whose very existence was called into question by the indefatigable Mr. Bakewell? Or was it a snide tribute to King John II of France, who was held to ransom by the English crown during the Hundred Years’ War?
“The answer is lost in the mists of time,” Leona Dodd intoned, raising her voice to drown out the others.
“You ought to know, Leona,” Mr. Turner shot back with a rumbling chuckle. “You’ve been lost in the mists of time for the past decade.”
“Look who’s talking!” Mrs. Dodd retorted. “You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.”
The sniping became so overheated that an innocent bystander must have lodged a noise complaint at the information desk, because Rebecca Hanson marched into the dining hall to break up the fight. As she folded her arms and glowered at the combatants, it struck me that the elder Mrs. Hanson was about to receive the same type of scolding she’d given her daughter in days gone by.
“What’s all this, then?” Rebecca asked, sounding like a censorious constable. “Making a ruckus? Disturbing the peace? Annoying every living soul within fifty yards of you?” She clucked her tongue in disgust. “A fine way to behave before the bishop.” Old Mrs. Hanson opened her mouth to speak, but Rebecca silenced her with a raised finger, a gesture she’d no doubt learned at her mother’s knee. “Bishop Wyndham is your guest of honor! Is this how you honor him? By acting like a pack of hooligans? You should be ashamed of yourselves.” She swelled with indignation as she continued, “I want to hear an apology from each of you. When you’re done saying sorry to the bishop, I’m taking you back to your room. You’re not fit to be seen in public.” She turned her gimlet gaze on her mother. “You first, Mum.”
Christopher graciously accepted the mandatory apologies, and the five geriatric rowdies were escorted from the dining hall under Rebecca Hanson’s reproachful eye.
“Hasn’t it gone quiet?” I said, when Christopher and I were alone. “Can I get you a headache tablet? Or a cold compress for your forehead?”
“A cup of tea will suffice,” said Christopher, refreshing himself with a sip from his cup. “Tell me about your morning.”
“It was less challenging than yours,” I said, digging into my chocolate cake. “I was paired up with a shy young man who yearns to become a paleontologist.”
“Kenneth Cartwright.” Christopher nodded. “I put in a good word for him when he applied for Winchester. After he was admitted, his parents asked me to keep an eye on him. I do so, but from a discreet distance. I wouldn’t want Kenneth to regard me as a spy.”
“He’d make a good spy,” I said. “I spent half the morning trying to get him to talk. It was worth the effort, though. You won’t believe what he told me about—” I broke off as Rebecca Hanson sat in an empty cha
ir across from us.
“I’m sorry for sending you into the lion’s den, Bishop Wyndham,” she said. “I thought you’d be a good influence on my mother and her pals, but they’re beyond influencing.”
“We all become set in our ways,” Christopher said with characteristic graciousness.
“They’ll have to become unset before I let them eat in the dining hall again,” Rebecca declared.
“While I have you here, Mrs. Hanson,” said Christopher, “I wonder if I might put a question to you?”
“Ask as many questions as you like, Bishop Wyndham,” she said.
“I have only one,” he said, smiling. “Do you know why the inn is called The King’s Ransom?”
Rebecca winced apologetically. “I wish I did. I’ve heard a dozen different stories, but I’ve never bothered to find out which one is true.”
“Maybe Mrs. Dodd was right,” I said. “Maybe the answer is lost in the mists of time.”
“I wouldn’t take Leona Dodd’s word for it,” said Rebecca, rolling her eyes. “She’ll say anything to make an impression.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Horatio Best may be able to help you. East Sussex is his specialist subject.”
“Where might we find Mr. Best?” the bishop inquired.
“At his bookshop,” said Rebecca. “He opened it about six months ago. He calls it his dream project. It’s on the high street, opposite the village hall.”
“Best Books,” I said, turning to Christopher. “We passed it yesterday, on our way to the inn.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, nodding. “Between the sweet shop and the accountant’s office. I assumed the name was a form of advertising.”
“It is,” said Rebecca with a small chuckle. “Horatio isn’t a shrinking violet. He’ll be the first to tell you that no one knows more about our little corner of England than he does. It’s not a hollow boast, either. He taught history for twenty years at Battle Abbey School.”
“A preparatory school overlooking the ground where the Battle of Hastings was fought,” Christopher explained to me.
“In 1066, when the invading Normans defeated the Saxons, killed King Harold with an arrow through the eye, and altered the course of English history,” I said, reaping the rewards of assisting my sons with a recent school project.
“Full marks,” said Christopher, as if he sensed how pleased I was with my erudition. “You are correct in every particular.” He turned back to Rebecca. “Thank you, Mrs. Hanson. Battle Abbey School is a fine institution. I look forward to meeting Mr. Best.”
“I should warn you that he’s a bit . . . eccentric.” She shrugged. “Well, he’d have to be, to open a bookshop in Shepney.” She glanced at the wall clock above the buffet table and jumped to her feet. “Sorry, must dash. The volunteer who’s covering for me has a hair appointment in five minutes, though what good a perm will do her in this weather is anyone’s guess. Thanks, both of you, for helping us out today. If it weren’t for decent folk like you, Shepney would be up a flooded creek without a paddle.” She reached across the table to pat Christopher’s hand. “You are hereby exempt from volunteering again, Bishop Wyndham. You, too, Lori. You’ve both sacrificed enough.”
“Nonsense,” Christopher protested. “Service is a privilege, not a sacrifice.”
“You’re still exempt,” she reiterated.
She patted his hand again, then scurried out of the dining hall. Christopher took another sip of tea, and I renewed my attack on the chocolate cake.
“It seems we’ve found our local historian,” he observed.
“An eccentric bookstore owner,” I said. “Sounds about right.”
“I’m rather fond of eccentrics,” he said.
“So am I,” I said, “as long as they’re not armed and dangerous.”
“They seldom are,” said Christopher. “They can be obsessive, but their obsessions are usually harmless. I wonder how eccentric Mr. Best is.” He rested his elbows on the table, tented his fingers over his teacup, and looked thoughtfully at nothing in particular. “I wonder if he would tell ghost stories to a child.”
“There’s one way to find out,” I said, licking my fork and wishing I had the nerve to lick my plate. “Let’s ask him.”
Twelve
Christopher and I deposited our dishes in a plastic tub, collected our things from the cloakroom and the locker room, and set out in search of the eccentric Mr. Best. The dreary, wet day we’d left behind when we’d entered the village hall was still dreary and wet when we emerged from it. Raindrops pelted the glistening cobbles and dripped from Christopher’s hat brim as we crossed the high street and let ourselves into the bookshop. I couldn’t tell how he felt about Mr. Best’s dream project, but for me, it was love at first sight.
There was nothing corporate about Best Books. The place smelled of rain and old bindings. Its pine shelves looked as though they’d been hammered together in someone’s garage rather than ordered en masse from a factory, and the wall posters behind the checkout counter touted local events instead of the latest best sellers. A flint-eyed professional would have frowned upon the uneven lighting, but I thought it added to Best Books’ allure. While some parts of the shop were as bright as day, others were best explored with a flashlight.
The bookshelves were arranged in bays on either side of a center aisle that required some agility to negotiate as it was scattered with cardboard boxes filled with books. Books covered the wooden tables at the front of the shop, and the wide floorboards beneath the tables were all but hidden by bags of books.
Horatio Best clearly had no interest in selling toys, games, puzzles, greeting cards, calendars, tote bags, T-shirts, or collectible bookmarks. His shop was packed to the rafters with nothing but new and used books. Paperbacks sat beside hardcovers on shelves labeled by topic, with fiction to the left, nonfiction to the right, and children’s books cleverly placed on lower shelves, where young readers could reach them.
The shop wasn’t packed to the rafters with customers, but it was exceedingly busy. Men, women, boys, and girls reached over, around, and in some cases under one another for volumes that caught their eyes. Some chatted excitedly about a find, some stood in silence while skimming a chapter or two, and a few small children sat on step stools, their noses buried in colorful picture books.
“I could spend all day here,” I said, lowering the hood on my rain jacket.
“Indeed,” said Christopher, removing his hat. “It’s the sort of place that invites burrowing.”
I heaved a contented sigh and murmured, “Exactly.”
We waited for a lull at the checkout counter to ask the purple-haired young woman behind it if we could speak with Mr. Best.
“You’ll find him in History,” she said. She pointed toward the rear of the shop. “It’s the oversized section, all the way at the back.”
“Is Mr. Best with a customer?” I inquired, not wishing to intrude on a business transaction.
“Oh, no,” the young woman said easily. “Horatio always hangs about in History.” She laughed. “He says it’s his natural habitat. And you may as well call him Horatio. You’ll find he insists on it.”
We thanked her and wound our way up the center aisle, taking care to avoid bumping into customers and tripping over boxes. It was much harder for me to avoid giving in to temptation. The thought of my bulging suitcase was the only thing that prevented me from bringing an armload of books back with me to the inn.
The sound of a distinctive voice reached us as we approached the last bay. It was an attractive voice, deep, resonant, and unabashedly theatrical—the voice of a born storyteller. When I peered into the bay, I saw that the voice belonged to a short, round-bellied man whose attire could be described as eccentric. In addition to a black frock coat and loose-fitting gray pinstriped trousers, he wore an intricately knotted neck cloth, a green-and-gold striped waistcoat, red so
cks, and a pair of monogrammed black suede bedroom slippers.
The man had a broad, flabby face, a bulbous nose, a wide mouth, and small, pouchy eyes. Though his gray hair was sparse on the top of his head, the rest of it flowed to his shirt collar in flyaway waves. He held a decaying leather-bound book in one hand, leaving the other free to gesticulate gracefully as he held forth on the subject of Queen Boudicca’s revolt against the Romans.
A young couple stood listening to him with the strained expressions of polite hostages who wished desperately to escape their captivity without giving offense to their captor.
“There you have it,” the plump orator concluded. “I do hope I’ve answered your question.”
“I don’t remember what our question was,” said the young woman, turning her bewildered face toward the young man. “Do you, Jake?”
“Yes, I do, Linda,” the young man said hastily. “And Mr. Best—”
“Horatio, please,” Mr. Best insisted.
“And Horatio answered our question,” Jake stated firmly, his eyes boring into Linda’s.
“Yes, yes he did,” said Linda, nodding rapidly as she and Jake backed out of the bay. “Thank you, Mr., er, Horatio, but we really must be going.”
“Adieu, adieu,” said Horatio, raising a pudgy hand in farewell. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” He caught sight of Christopher and me hovering in the aisle. “But journeys end in lovers meeting! Come in, come in!” He eased his considerable bulk into a high-backed leather armchair and motioned for us to perch on a pair of four- legged wooden stools. “Horatio Best, at your service. I am the proprietor of this establishment, and though I cannot claim an intimate familiarity with every tome under its roof, I will try my best to point you in the right direction. I believe I would be correct in saying that you, madam, are a stranded traveler.”
“Does it show?” I asked, wondering if I looked as unkempt as the French tourists who’d spent the night sleeping on floors and sofas.
Aunt Dimity and the King's Ransom Page 10