The Bookshop Detective

by Jan Ellis

  “Well, I don’t suppose it mattered when you originally bought the property and sorting out the shop was your main priority.”

  Eleanor picked up the official letter and studied it. “This is eight years old – will the permission still be valid?”

  Daniel checked the date and shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but it does mean the penpushers are unlikely to object this time around. I expect there will be a bit of a delay, but I don’t see why we can’t get going soon.”

  “Perfect!” Eleanor clapped her hands together gleefully then frowned as the small matter of money came into her head. “Hang on, though – how will we pay for the work? I have zero capital.”

  Daniel shrugged. “I’ll have to sell my place or maybe we could let it out. There’s always a queue of people wanting to rent sea-front houses for the summer season.”

  “That’s a much better idea – then if you grow tired of me and the cottage, you can move back to your place.”

  “As if I could ever grow tired of you, my darling,” he said, gathering her in his arms with a kiss. “You’d have to be boring and ordinary, and I can’t see that ever happening.”

  “In other words, I’m bonkers?”

  Daniel pulled a face, thinking for a moment. “Not bonkers exactly, but I’m never entirely sure what’s going on in your head.”

  “That’s the way it should be,” said Eleanor, laughing. “I’d much rather be a woman of mystery than someone totally predictable.”

  “You keep me on my toes, that’s for sure.” Daniel smiled. “Anyway, while we’re waiting to sort out my house and double-check the permission, there’s nothing to prevent us emptying the loft space. Then, once we’ve had the thumbs up from the council, we’ll need to find someone reliable to help out with the building work. I’ll do as much as I can myself to keep the costs down, but it’ll be good to have somebody else around to lend a hand.”

  “You’re an architect, you must know loads of people.”

  “I do, but quite a lot of them are busy at the moment.” He happened to know that the best builders were currently working for Freya at Bill Widget’s new property on the Top, but he thought it diplomatic not to mention the fact. “Anyway, all we need is some basic labouring at the moment, nothing specialist.”

  Eleanor thought for a moment. “I know who might be able to help.”

  “Who?”

  “Anton. Graham’s shop is pretty quiet at the moment and Maureen finds it hard to keep Anton occupied every day. And he’d probably enjoy a change from serving toasted sandwiches to hungry day-trippers.”

  “Just because he’s from eastern Europe doesn’t mean he’s a builder.”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said Eleanor, reaching for the phone. “I’ll give Maureen a call and see if she can ask him.”

  Chapter 14: Digging in the Archives

  With the excitement of the Big Attic Plan, it wasn’t until a few days after her drink with Jim that Eleanor found time to visit the newspaper office to discover what had happened in the case against the boy accused of theft.

  Once she’d explained what she was looking for, one of the friendly staff set her up at a desk and left her to it. Eleanor settled down in front of an ancient microfiche machine and scrolled through the pages until she found the report she was looking for.

  She felt like a proper researcher as she carefully scribbled down the facts in her notebook. The article said that on 23 March 1872 an eleven-year-old boy called John Able had been arrested after trying to sell a ring to a jeweller who had become suspicious when the lad couldn’t explain how he had come by it. The police had been summoned and John was dragged off to jail by his shirt collar.

  The boy’s mother, described as “a laundress and an honourable woman despite her profession”, had fainted when she heard the news and remained shut up in the house speaking to no one during the trial. John’s father was said to be away working on the construction of a new railway line and therefore not able to keep a steadying hand on the family, which included two further children.

  The case had aroused local interest because, then as now, Combemouth was a small town where not very much happened and because the boy was previously known as being exceedingly pious and well behaved.

  During the short time the trial lasted, the courtroom was full of supporters shocked by John’s arrest. It seemed to Eleanor that the boy did himself no favours by refusing to explain where the ring had come from, which reinforced the views of many – including the two magistrates overseeing the trial – that he was guilty as charged.

  Eleanor raised her eyes from the screen and stretched. Leaning back in her chair, she could see through the windows onto the street where mothers were pushing toddlers along in buggies and youngsters were chatting in groups. What a different life children enjoyed now compared to Victorian times. Frowning, she turned back to John Able’s story.

  It was plain that John’s unwillingness to speak was interpreted as arrogance and contempt, which only encouraged the magistrates to deal with him severely.

  On the second day of the trial, the audience was treated to the appearance of the vicar’s thirteen-year-old daughter who, it was claimed, John had forced to conceal the ring until he was ready to sell it. According to the reporter covering the case at the time, “This pretty child, speaking in a whisper, denied any involvement in the crime, wrung her hands and wept, giving every appearance of sorrow at the sad situation into which she had been led by the vicious boy.”

  “I bet she was a right little madam,” muttered Eleanor, under her breath. The girl – identified only as Miss B – was let off because of her youth and exemplary character, while John “being unable to satisfy the magistrates as to how the item came lawfully into his possession” was sentenced to one calendar month’s hard labour. He was, said the magistrate, to be grateful for such leniency.

  Eleanor sighed, wondering what happened to John after his prison sentence but doubting it would be anything good. Looking at the clock, she saw it was 12.30pm and she had arranged to meet Daniel in town for lunch. She quickly put away her things, thanked the archivist for her help and went out into the sunshine.

  * * *

  Once they were settled with two bowls of pasta, Daniel asked Eleanor how she’d got on. “Did you find the report?”

  “I did. John Able was sentenced to be whipped then packed off to prison for one month’s hard labour. Sending the child to work on a treadmill seems incredibly harsh, especially as there was no evidence he had actually stolen anything.”

  “I wonder how he came by the ring, then? And, more importantly, how did treadmills work?” Daniel grinned. “I imagine they were like gigantic hamster wheels, but probably less fun.”

  Eleanor put her fork down and frowned at her husband who was plainly not taking the story as seriously as she thought he should.

  “Hamster wheels are light and at least Hammy can stop and have a nap and a nut when he wants to. These were massive things that powered machinery in the prison. Inmates had to walk inside them for ten minutes at a time for eight hours with short breaks in between. An entire day on a wheel!” Eleanor poked a breadstick in the air for emphasis. “Can you imagine how boring that must have been for an eleven-year-old? And, as if that wasn’t enough, the magistrates recommended that John be sent to a reformatory school afterwards for a year. Don’t you think that’s harsh?”

  Daniel tried to look serious, though he now had a vision of a massive hamster in his head. “Perhaps they wanted to make an example of him. Was there a crime wave at the time? Marauding hordes of under-twelves ransacking the town?”

  “It’s not funny, Dan. That boy’s life was probably ruined.”

  “You’re right – I’m sorry. I’m only concerned that you’re taking this a little too much to heart. I know what a big softy you are when it comes to children and animals. I don’t want you upsetting yourself,” he said, spearing penne with his fork.

  “I’m fine, really.
” Eleanor shook her head.

  Daniel squeezed her hand across the table. “If you want to get to the bottom of it, maybe you should read around the John Able case and see what else was going on in the area at the time. That might help to explain why the magistrates were so tough on him.”

  “Perhaps I’ll do that, although there probably isn’t much more to discover.”

  * * *

  In the dark hours before dawn, Eleanor awoke in a sweat, her heart pounding. She sat up in bed, waking Daniel who stroked her gently on the back. “Are you all right, darling? What’s the matter?”

  Eleanor wanted to speak but was half-locked in her dream and the words wouldn’t come. Instead she turned from Daniel and soon fell into a heavy sleep, a sound like distant weeping in her ears.

  The next morning, the dream was gone and when Daniel asked Eleanor at breakfast what had caused her to wake with a start at 3am, she had no answer, although a sense of unease remained. “Probably too much cheese before bed,” she replied.

  Dan looked at her thoughtfully. “I think it was more than cheese – you were in a panic about something. Are you worried about the shop? The attic conversion?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  Daniel frowned with concern. “There must be something if you’re having nightmares.”

  Eleanor stirred her tea, fragments of the dream now swimming into her head. “You’ll think I’m silly if I tell you.”

  “No I won’t – and there’s nothing wrong with being silly either. What’s up?”

  “I’ve had that boy on my mind – locked up and probably brutalised by the system. I guess that’s what has upset me.”

  “Ha! I knew it would. Forget what I said about reading more about the case, El. It was a long time ago and there’s nothing you can do about it. What you can do is concentrate on making kids’ lives better in the here and now.”

  She nodded. “The bookshop brings lots of enjoyment to the local children and their worn-out mothers, I know that.”

  “Precisely – especially Harold’s weekly Jackanory sessions with the little ankle-biters. So will you try to put the lad in the hamster wheel out of your mind?”

  “Still not funny, Dan.”

  “Sorry,” he said, turning to place his coffee mug in the dishwasher. “I’m off for a run, then I have a meeting with the managers of the school to finalise designs for their new classrooms.”

  Eleanor rose and kissed him. “Have a good day.”

  “You too. And try to put the crime report out of your mind.”

  “I will,” she said, nodding. And so she would, but first she planned to do what Daniel had suggested and see what she could find out about the background to the case. If she was lucky, she might also discover how John’s future turned out. She quickly texted Erika to say she’d be in late, asked Joe to cover for her, then drove to the newspaper office in Waterborough.

  Once in the archives, she began to regret abandoning her staff and dashing over there. She didn’t even know what she was looking for and was easily distracted from the densely printed news items by notices of “ripe fat cattle” up for auction, advertisements for Fry’s Chocolate and details of “desirable residential properties” for sale on the coast. There was certainly nothing about a junior crime wave, the print was tiny and her eyes were stinging.

  Deciding to take a break, she bought a muffin and a coffee and had elevenses sitting in the park where pink and white cherry blossom swirled around her like confetti. Squinting up at the bright blue sky, she determined to stay in the musty archives for an hour longer then give up and go back to the bookshop.

  After half an hour, she had come to the conclusion that John Able’s prison sentence was perfectly normal for the period and she was wasting her time expecting to find clues about what he did at the end of his sentence.

  “How are you getting on?” The nice archivist who had helped Eleanor the previous day noticed her gloomy expression and came over.

  “Not too well. I know what happened at John Able’s trial, but not what he did when he left the reformatory school.”

  “You might want to search for him online using one of the family history websites.”

  Eleanor nodded at the young woman. “I’m beginning to realise I’ll have to put in a few more hours’ work if I’m going to get to the bottom of things.”

  “Exploring family histories can be a time-consuming hobby.”

  “And they’re not even my own relatives.” Smiling, Eleanor packed up her things and left.

  As she was trotting down the stairs wondering how she would ever find time to pursue John’s case further, she passed a familiar figure on the way up – it was Dismal Deirdre.

  “Fancy seeing you here, Mrs Pearce,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “What brings you to the newspaper archives?”

  Eleanor hugged the bag with her notebook close to her chest, oddly unwilling to reveal her mission to the librarian. “Just doing a little research. What about you?”

  “I’ve come to put up a poster for the summer festival. Would you like one?”

  “Oh, the vicar has already sent one to the shop.” Eleanor did her best to be agreeable; Deirdre was helping the vicar so she obviously had some good points when she wasn’t being irritating. “Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m pleased to see you’re pursuing your historical interests, although I am sorry you didn’t find everything you required in Combemouth Library. If there’s anything specific you still require I can easily put in a request for an inter-library loan.”

  “There’s no need, really. I’m investigating something quite different at the moment and I’m glad to say I found what I was looking for right here.”

  “Did you now?” said Deirdre, clearly intrigued to know what Eleanor’s new interest might be and what the archives had to offer that her well-stocked shelves didn’t.

  “Well, I must dash,” said Eleanor, looking at the clock. “I can’t keep my customers waiting.”

  Chapter 15: An Exciting Proposition

  About once a month, Erika was asked to serve customers on her own while Eleanor got down on her hands and knees and rummaged through the shelves to check whether it was time for any of the second-hand books to go to the charity shop.

  To Eleanor it made perfect sense in a proper, traditional bookshop to sell second-hand titles as well as the publishers’ shiny new stock. To begin with, she’d kept the new and old books in different places. Then she’d tried putting them together and discovered that customers liked the combination of old and new. She now had regulars who preferred to buy a 1960s Penguin paperback with a moody line drawing on the cover rather than a modern edition with a lurid image from the TV tie-in. It was a fairly eccentric arrangement and it made stocktaking hell, but it added to the quirkiness of the shop and her customers loved it.

  Eleanor was completely absorbed in her task when Erika put her head around the bookcase and whispered, “There’s someone here to see you, boss.”

  Looking up, Eleanor was surprised to see a pale figure in a long black coat and dark glasses walking across the floor. It was their local celebrity himself.

  “Mr Widget, what a surprise,” she said, scrambling to her feet and brushing dust from her hands.

  “Call me Bill, please.” He removed the shades, his eyes crinkling into a smile.

  “What can I do for you? Sorry – stupid question!” Eleanor laughed. She didn’t know why Bill made her feel flustered. He had been around town for nearly a year and they knew each other reasonably well, but there was something about having a famous person in the shop that still made her nervous. “Are you looking for something special?” Since Bill had been spending more time in Combemouth, Eleanor had beefed up her selection of music titles and was quite proud of it. “I have copies of Twang if you’re looking for biographies of fellow musicians.”

  “I’m not sure I would ever call Ivan Twang a musician,” Bill rubbed his chin, thoughtfully, “though I might h
ave borrowed one of his riffs in 1972. And I seem to recall he copped off with my lady after the Spigot’s first Melbourne gig.” He looked at Eleanor and shrugged. “Forgive and forget, eh? Actually, I’m not here to buy a book, duck.” Bill took Eleanor’s arm and drew her to one side. “I’ve popped in to ask you something.”

  “Ask away,” she said, nervously, wondering what on earth it could be. She sat down on the comfy sofa she had set up at the front of the shop and Bill took the place next to her.

  “You might have heard that I’ve written my autobiography. I didn’t want to, but this chap from London made me an offer the manager couldn’t refuse.”

  “Yes, I read about your book in the trade press. Well done you!” Eleanor was too polite to add that she’d read it in an article criticising publishers for paying millions for memoirs by “celebrities” barely out of their teens. Happily, Bill Widget did not fall into that category.

  He looked sheepish. “Well, when I say I’ve written it, I talked into a machine for weeks on end and a grand young lass wrote it down. She asked me lots of probing questions about my dim and distant past then cleverly put the words in the right order.”

  Eleanor nodded. “You mean you had a ghost writer. That’s quite common in celebrity books.”

  “So they tell me. And there I was thinking those young folk off the telly who seem as thick as two short planks could actually write! Seems like cheating to me, but I do what my manager tells me to do. Anyway, I’ve read the manuscript and it’s really quite good, even if I do say so myself. There’s all kinds of stuff in there I’d almost forgotten. You know: early gigs, old girlfriends, parties, fights, more girlfriends, tours, more fights.”

  Bill laughed nervously. “The present Mrs Widget won’t approve of a few of the earlier chapters, but I’ll deal with that problem when the book comes out. And I’m all Brenda’s now,” he added with a wink. “If I’ve learned one thing from my guru, it’s that you must focus on the positive and not worry about the past – que sera, sera as they say.”