Murder by the Book (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries 4)

by Debbie Young

  “I’m going down to remove those plates now, and then you’re taking Mum’s car back,” he said. “You did ask her whether you could borrow it first, I presume?”

  Horace pouted. “Maybe.”

  Hector headed for the stairs. Once he was safely out of earshot, I took his fireside chair.

  “Horace, I’m sorry if I got you into trouble.”

  Horace patted my knee. “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. We make our own luck in this life, and we make our own trouble. I am guilty as charged. But don’t worry, he’ll get over it.”

  Easy for you to say, I thought, as I watched Horace pad gently down the stairs barefooted, leaving the floral skirt, headscarf and jacket in a pool on the floor, like the residue of the melted Wicked Witch of the West. His vacated high-heeled shoes stood neatly beside his still-warm armchair. I wondered whether Nancy had missed them.

  15 Dead Writers’ Society

  “So who told Horace about Minty?” When Horace had departed, Hector’s tone remained cold. “I made Mum promise me ages ago that she’d never tell anyone, not even my dad, so she definitely won’t have told Horace. I have only ever told you, Mum and May.”

  And Celeste, I added in my head, but I didn’t want to remind him of her existence. He was gazing at me intently as if expecting me to confess.

  I hesitated. “Maybe it’s a twin thing? Perhaps when he was reading one of your mum’s Minty books, like you said he did, he recognised the pattern of the language, as if it was his own words? I mean, twins have that sort of bond, don’t they? Finishing each other’s sentences and that sort of thing?”

  For a moment, I almost convinced myself that it wasn’t my fault.

  Hector shook his head. “I don’t think so, Sophie. I don’t write the books in my own voice. I write them as a vibrant young woman. Hardly Horace’s voice either, I think you’ll agree.”

  I allowed myself a small smile. Perhaps Hector wasn’t going to blame me after all. Perhaps he realised the prospect of Horace knowing his secret identity wasn’t as big a problem as he’d thought.

  Auntie May used to say to me, “Nothing is as good as you think it’s going to be, and nothing is as bad as you think it’s going to be.” When she first said it, I thought she was being a killjoy, but the older I got, the more I appreciated her philosophy.

  My relief was short lived. “I don’t need Tommy’s detective skills to work out that the number of suspects is reduced to one,” said Hector, “what with May Sayers being no longer with us.”

  To set the record straight, I thought I had better confess.

  “OK.” I held my hands up in mock surrender. “It’s a fair cop. I didn’t let the cat out of the bag, but I sort of led the horse to water. And he drank.”

  Hector frowned. “Ignoring that rather mangled set of metaphors for a minute, I can’t believe you are telling me you actively told Horace about my pseudonym. You, of all people, Sophie. I really trusted you.”

  “No, no, that’s not how it was at all, honestly. I just happened to have a copy of Angel Heart lying about in my front room, and he picked it up and by chance opened it at a page where a woman is described who he says looks exactly like Celeste. Then he saw your dedication to her.” I paused to allow Hector time to apologise for not having removed his loving tribute to his ex, but he said nothing. “That was enough to make the penny drop.”

  Hector paled.

  “And when was Horace in your front room exactly? I thought the afternoon of, er, Hermione’s surprise appearance was the first time he’d been in the village since you moved here.”

  I clapped my hand over my mouth at my indiscretion. “He – he called round last Monday while you were at the library meeting. He said he just wanted to check me out.”

  Hector’s eyes blazed. “He did what? How dare he? The first girl I’ve been serious about for years, and he has to muscle in!”

  He strode across the room, turned his back to me, and stood staring out of the shop window, arms folded tightly across his chest.

  I wasn’t going to stand for that kind of language.

  “Conquest? That’s positively medieval, Hector! As if I’m some sort of inanimate brainless trophy for idiotic men to squabble over. Next you’ll be telling me that you’re going to challenge him to a duel with pistols at dawn, or play poker, with me as the prize.”

  I was trying hard not to get distracted by the fact that he’d said I was the first girl he’d been serious about for years. It had started to feel as if there were three people in this relationship: Hector, Horace, and me. No, four with the ghost of Celeste still hovering, and five with Hermione lurking in the background, taking notes of our dilemma for use in her next novel.

  Then Hector spun round and shot me a black look. “I need some air.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m going out. Can I leave you to lock the door behind you when you leave, Sophie? Can I at least trust you to do that?”

  He didn’t pause long enough to notice that I wasn’t going to dignify his unworthy jibe with an answer. Snatching up his jacket, he added, “All my life, I’ve been glad that Horace was spared when he was so ill, but now I think the sooner he’s despatched, the better.”

  “Despatching him? That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?”

  I tried to make a joke of it, as if he meant fratricide, rather than just wishing his brother back in Australia.

  Hector wasn’t listening. Car keys jangling in his hand, he headed for the door. “As for Hermione Minty, I think you’ve just made up my mind for me. I’m going to kill her off. I’ve had enough of her. Good riddance to the wretched woman.”

  In the silence that fell after he’d stomped down the stairs and slammed the door behind him, a wave of relief rushed through me. I felt as if he’d just ended an illicit affair. I hoped it wasn’t the end of us, too.

  I peered out of the front window, watching Hector drive into the distance in his Land Rover. Tommy, skulking by the wheelie bins lined up on the kerb for the morning collection, stared after him for a moment, then started writing something in his diary.

  Next day, Hector still hadn’t returned, so, feeling slightly sick, I opened the shop and ran it on my own all day, trying to look as if nothing was amiss.

  Towards the end of the afternoon, as I was washing up the tearoom dishes, Tommy sauntered into the shop. Diary still in hand, he watched my every movement closely, as if he was a public health inspector. I gave Billy’s jug, distinctively labelled The Grapes of Wrath from our Literally Gifted range, so that we always knew which one was his, an extra polish with a tea towel, before topping it up ready for the morning with an inch or two of hooch from the brown glass bottle that lived in the fridge.

  “I’ve had cough mixture in a bottle like that before,” said Tommy conversationally. “Is that medicine?”

  I looked up to find his gaze fixed on the hooch.

  “No, of course not, Tommy. It’s just a particular brand of cream that Billy likes in his tea and coffee.”

  I took it over to the sink and topped it up with filtered water from the jug in the fridge.

  “Then why are you putting water in it? What’s that do?”

  “It waters it down.”

  Tommy narrowed his cat-like eyes. “Really? That doesn’t look like water in that fancy jug thing. Are you sure it’s not some sort of a catapult?” He leaned forward over the counter and lowered his voice. “Does it turn it into poison?”

  Puzzled, I returned the bottle to the fridge. Then I realised what he meant. “Did you by any chance have a chemistry lesson at school today, Tommy? I think you mean catalyst, not catapult.”

  He gasped. “How did you know?”

  “Anyway, why on earth would I want to poison Billy?”

  “He might be blackmailing you. Or perhaps you’re a serial killer and this is your mode – your moody—”

  “Modus operandi. Honestly, Tommy, do I look like a serial killer?”

  He narrowed his eyes again while considering t
his. “You might be a master of disguise. Or covering for Hector.”

  I cursed the day I’d recommended the junior detective book to Sina for Tommy’s Christmas present.

  “Covering what for Hector?”

  “His guilt, of course.”

  “And what might his crime be, exactly?”

  “I don’t know. I’m still working on that one.”

  And with that, he left the shop.

  Just when I felt like hiding in my cottage and locking myself in for the night, I was obliged to go back to Hector’s House after tea and open it up again for the next meeting of the Wendlebury Writers.

  When I returned to the shop, I was strangely relieved to see Hector’s Land Rover was still missing from its parking space, though I kept an ear open for the sound of its return throughout the meeting. I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted Hector to do his usual trick of leaning out of the flat’s window as I locked up after the meeting to call me in for a late-night drink and a chat. Seeing him again so soon might compound rather than resolve our dispute.

  Most of the meeting passed me by in a blur, as the members discussed, topically, the many forms of romantic writing, and whether and how they chose to tackle it themselves. I only really tuned in when Dinah admitted that she was having a stab at a romantic novel herself, as she finally felt in the right place in her life. Knowing looks and indulgent smiles ricocheted around the table. We were all pleased that her latest romance, first evidenced back at the village show in the summer, was still going strong.

  I gazed at Hector’s empty stool behind the counter, wondering whether Dinah’s romance would outlive my own.

  “So is she going to honour us with a visit or not, Sophie?” said Dinah.

  I jumped. “Who? Your girlfriend? You should know. I’m sure she can if she likes. She seems very pleasant.”

  Dinah tutted. “Please try and keep up, Sophie. We’re talking about Hermione Minty.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, Hermione Minty. I mean, no, sorry, I’m afraid she can’t visit us at all.”

  “What, not soon, or not ever?” Julia asked.

  “Yes, can you be more specific, please?” Dinah’s pen was poised over the minutes book.

  “Not ever, I’m afraid. The thing is, Hector told me that she’s dead.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath all around the table. Jacky was first to speak.

  “Hermione Minty dead? Surely there must be some mistake. There’s been nothing in the papers to suggest she’d been unwell.”

  “Nor on social media, either,” said Karen. “She seemed hale and hearty enough on her Twitter account last time I looked.” She pulled her phone out of her bag and swiped to her Twitter app. “Mind you, she’s been a bit quiet for a couple of days. Even so, that’s rather sudden.”

  I tried to look sad. I didn’t need to try very hard. “Maybe she’d scheduled those tweets ahead of time. Or she might have been ill for longer than it seems, and has an assistant keeping her Twitter timeline full, as a smokescreen to allow her to spend her declining days in peace.”

  “What a brave lady,” sighed Jessica. “Always putting her readers first.”

  Considering Hermione had only joined Twitter a couple of weeks ago, that was a generous tribute.

  “Or her bottom line,” said Jacky, the shrewdest businesswoman in our group, as she ran her own commercial dental practice.

  “What do you mean?” asked Bella.

  Jacky waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t you realise sudden death is a great boost for an author’s profile? Existing fans will start rereading her books to catch up on any they’ve missed, while new readers will be drawn to them out of curiosity, lured by headlines and obituaries, to see what all the fuss is about.”

  Dinah sniffed. “All the same, dying suddenly is not something even the most money-motivated author would do on purpose.”

  Jessica perked up. “Perhaps she knew she was ill and wanted to depart at the height of her powers, so as to maximise the benefit for her literary heirs.”

  “Did she have many children?” asked Julia.

  “A couple of daughters, I think,” said Jessica thoughtfully. “Both grown-up, of course.”

  I had no idea where that came from.

  Dinah pointed to the shelf of my Auntie May’s books. “I remember May Sayers’ books sold out here the day after her death, and Hector had to restock twice before her funeral.”

  “They still sell very well even now,” I said. “You’d think everyone in Wendlebury would have her complete works by now, but we still get people coming in every week to buy various books as gifts for friends and relations. Her commentary on the Cotswold Way is a favourite with tourists and walkers passing through.”

  “Still, it’s unfortunate timing for us, just when we’d started building such a good relationship with Hermione Minty,” said Dinah, tapping her minute book to bring us back to the agenda. “I heard she’d even had a meeting here with Hector just yesterday to plan her visit.”

  “Oh Sophie, what was she like?”

  “Did you get to meet her?”

  “Lucky you!”

  I chose my words carefully. “To be honest, I only saw her very briefly in passing. The meeting took place in Hector’s flat, for the sake of privacy.” All of this was true. Well, sort of. “But I did think she looked a bit peaky. I wasn’t entirely surprised when Hector told me the bad news.”

  “I wonder why she never mentioned her ill-health on her website?” said Jacky.

  “She was a very private person,” I said, confidently. “She didn’t like people to know her whereabouts, never mind her state of health.”

  Dinah sighed and crossed “Plan Minty visit” off her agenda. “Oh well, it can’t be helped. We’re lucky we got her endorsement for our Christmas book while she was still compos mentis.”

  “Now she’s dead, it’ll probably sell well next Christmas too,” said Jacky brightly. “And her new novel is bound to be a runaway bestseller. I heard it’s due out in a couple of weeks, though I can’t remember its title. Sophie, can you please order me a copy tomorrow when the shop opens?”

  “And me, please.”

  “Two for me.”

  “Me too.”

  I fetched the order book, jotted down their names, and left it on the counter ready to action when we opened up next day. I thought it would lighten Hector’s mood when he came back in.

  If he came back in.

  16 The Mint Unwrapped

  “Mum cried when I told her about Hermione Minty being dead,” said Tommy next afternoon after he’d come home from school. “She said it was a shame she wouldn’t be able to write any more books.”

  “That seems a reasonable conclusion, Tommy,” I said, pouring myself a cup of tea. “Though my friends at the Writers’ group last night were saying she’ll probably sell more now that she’s died.”

  “That will make Hector happy. He really likes selling books, doesn’t he?”

  I nodded. Tommy was silent, which was generally more cause for alarm than Tommy being noisy. I could see that he was thinking hard and building up to some wild statement.

  “So if books sell more after authors die, I suppose that makes it tempting for people who run bookshops to murder authors? Because then they’ll make more money?”

  I nearly choked on my tea. “I don’t think so, Tommy. Booksellers are by and large law-abiding.”

  “But Hector was telling me the other week that some of the best authors are dead.”

  “He was talking about the authors of classics – people who were writing over a hundred years ago. They’re bound to be dead by now. All authors have to die eventually.”

  Tommy looked around the shelves as if scanning for clues. He pulled out a book at random.

  “What about this one?” He held up a copy of Great Expectations.

  “Well, yes, obviously Charles Dickens is dead.”

  He crossed the room to the fantasy section and picked up a Terry Pratc
hett.

  “Sadly, yes, he’s dead too, though he died far too young.”

  Tommy held the books side by side to compare the author photos on the back. “They look pretty similar to me.”

  He stuffed both books into a space on the dictionaries shelf and wandered over to the travel section. He held up May Sayers’ Cotswolds guide.

  “She was your auntie, wasn’t she? Do you sell a lot of her books?”

  I nodded.

  “And she’s dead.”

  I could hardly disagree. He gave me an ‘I told you so’ look.

  “It’s put me right off writing books when I grow up,” he said. “It sounds far too dangerous.”

  At that point, Hector, looking slightly sheepish, entered the shop for the first time in two days. He didn’t look me in the eye, or even say hello but glanced around as if checking that everything was in order.

  “What’s dangerous?” he said to Tommy, clearly glad to have an ice-breaker that excluded direct contact with me.

  “Being an author,” said Tommy. “All these dead authors. I mean, look at them. It’s like the shop’s a graveyard.” He looked around and shuddered. “OK, I’m out of here. See you later, miss. See you, Hector.”

  After Tommy’s departure, Hector turned to me, still smiling, though I could see he was forcing it a bit.

  “I – I’m sorry about dashing off like that the other night, Sophie.” He swallowed hard. “I went down to Clevedon to sort things out with Horace. I thought I ought to make the effort to see a bit more of him while he’s at home. To be honest, it was a bit awkward at first, after our row.”

  I bet it was.

  “But Mum made me realise that Horace’s intentions were of the best, and by the time she’d convinced me, it was too late to drive home, so I stayed over. Then she made us go out for a pint last night to make things up, which turned into more than one, so I ended up staying another night at Mum and Dad’s. It was just like old times, sharing a bedroom with my brother.” He chuckled a little self-consciously. Then he put his hand to his temple. “Still feeling a bit groggy, to be honest. But I’m sorry, I should have texted you rather than take it for granted that you’d keep the shop running for me without being asked. I knew I could depend on you, though.”