The Bookshop Detective Page 5

  “Let me see.” Daniel ran a finger over the black and white print of a square-rigged galleon. “Yup, that looks like her,” he said, smiling. “The artist was obviously at the beach at precisely the right moment with his etching kit.”

  “Very funny. It’s spooky, though, don’t you think? I might need to add some old ropes and cobwebs to the shop window. Or maybe sand and a treasure chest?”

  “The garden centre will be pleased to sell you another ton of sand, I’m sure.”

  “Hmm, I might use a bit less this time,” she said, laughing.

  “Sounds sensible. Let’s put these away, shall we?” Daniel took the book and notepad from Eleanor’s hands and placed them by the side of the bed. “I don’t want you having nightmares.”

  Eleanor snuggled up against him, relieved the tension between them had abated at last. “How could I possibly have nightmares when I’m safe in your arms?”

  Daniel switched off the light. “I’m not sure you’re terribly safe with me tonight.”

  “Goody,” she said, lifting her face to meet her husband’s kiss.

  Chapter 10: Past Times

  A day or so later, Daniel came home to find Eleanor kneeling on the floor of the living room surrounded by paper. “What have you got there?”

  “I’ve been having a clear-out.” Eleanor patted one of the battered cartons. “I expected them to be full of ancient invoices and shop paperwork from Frederick Williams’ time, but a couple contain old newspapers and magazines and they’re fascinating. Look – some of the Victorian ones are falling apart, but the papers from the 1920s are in good condition. The adverts are hilarious.” She spread out the pages on the low coffee table. “I definitely need some of this magic soap that washes all the fat from your body leaving you slender as a flower.” She pulled out another paper. “And I’m sure my puddings would benefit from the inclusion of evaporated milk. I might be able to use these adverts in the historical window display I’m planning.”

  Joining Eleanor on the carpet, Daniel leafed through the pile. “This paper is from the 1890s. Your predecessor clearly wasn’t a man who ever threw anything away.”

  Eleanor smiled. “I remember when I bought the shop that Mr Williams told me he used to sell vintage newspapers. They were in with the stuff he left me but, to be honest, I’d forgotten I had them.”

  “I can see why he threw them in with the deal.”

  “Don’t be mean,” said Eleanor, playfully slapping her husband’s arm. “There are plenty of people who trade in old papers and magazines or they cut out and sell the illustrations separately and make a mint. Which, I guess, explains why some of the pages are missing. Anyway, I ought to ring Frederick and tell him what I’ve found in case he wants them back.”

  “I thought you bought them from him?”

  “Technically yes, but I’d still prefer to double-check.”

  “That’s very honourable of you, El, but I doubt he’ll even remember they exist – those boxes must have been in the office for a very long time.” Daniel opened up one of the magazines. “There’s an interesting story here about a runaway mule. It looks like the owner unhitched it from the cart and the animal took its chance of freedom and legged it, causing chaos in the market square. Oh,” he frowned, “don’t read the last bit it will upset you.”

  “I already have and it did. The unlucky beast was caught and ‘soundly whipped’.” Eleanor sighed. “They were harsh times and people weren’t always treated more kindly than the animals.” She began riffling through the newspapers. “I’ve been reading the news and features and there’s a story that seems to have gripped the population here in the South West for some weeks.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s in a section entitled ‘50 Years Ago’ in a paper from 1922.” Eleanor turned over a Bovril advert. “It’s about a boy who was accused of stealing some jewellery. It clearly raised a lot of debate, with people arguing for and against the lad. The fact it was featured in a paper half a century after the event suggests it was quite a big deal.”

  “What happened to the little rascal? Did he end up being thrashed like that unfortunate animal?”

  “I don’t know. The page with the verdict on it is missing. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

  “Not really – it may have had a particularly exciting advertisement on it,” said Daniel. “Or perhaps it was used to wrap something like fish and chips.”

  “Ooh, fish and chips! I wish you hadn’t said those words.” Eleanor rubbed her tummy, which gurgled in response. “I’m ravenous and today is supposed to be one of my fasting days when all I can eat is lettuce and half a handful of blueberries.”

  Daniel stood up and pulled his wife to her feet. “I’ve said a hundred times you don’t need to lose any weight – you’re perfect as you are.”

  “Do you think so?” she asked, pinching the soft skin around her waist.

  “I honestly do.”

  “Well, in that case Dan, cod and small chips for me, please. Hold the mushy peas.”

  “Would you like me to fetch them so we can have supper here in the comfort of our warm kitchen, or would you prefer to freeze your socks off by the sea?”

  “Freezing by the sea, of course. It’s the only way to eat fish and chips. I’ll grab my coat.”

  Half an hour later they were huddled together on their favourite bench on the sea front munching their supper. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant evening: the low clouds had a yellow tinge and there was the hint of a storm brewing over the horizon.

  “I’ve been thinking about that story,” said Eleanor, licking her salty fingers.

  “About the donkey?”

  “It was a mule, not a donkey. But no – not about that. About John Able, the boy who was arrested. He was only eleven and the snippet I read suggested he was likely to be sent to prison.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’d quite like to find out what happened to him.”

  Daniel thought for a moment. “When did this all happen?”

  “Sometime in the 1870s, I think.”

  “Were they deporting ne’er-do-wells to Australia then? He may have made a new life in the Antipodes or begun a long life of crime here.”

  “I hope the answer isn’t the latter.”

  Daniel paused to wipe his mouth. “If he was stealing stuff as a nipper, I suspect he was a proper little villain.”

  Eleanor was shocked. “You can’t say that without knowing the circumstances, Dan.”

  “Theft is theft.”

  “You sound like Erika! In any case, I can’t believe a child of his age would steal for no reason.”

  Daniel shrugged. “I guess you’ll never know what happened.”

  “But I could try to find out.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Eleanor, popping the crispy bits of her chips from the bottom of the bag into her mouth, “but I reckon Jim might be able to help.”

  “Your journalist friend?” Daniel nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose he would be a good person to ask, but wouldn’t it make more sense to visit the library first?”

  “And put up with Dismal Deirdre droning on about what a fabulous local history selection they have all over again? Nope.” Eleanor shook her head. “I’m afraid that Combemouth Library will be absolutely my last resort until they bring in one of those bright young women from Waterborough.”

  The wind had changed direction, sending sand swirling around their feet, and the air had acquired a strange metallic tang that heralded a storm. From their bench on the promenade, they could see a dense clump of rain clouds heading straight for them.

  Daniel took Eleanor’s empty paper and scrunched it into a ball before deftly firing it into a nearby bin. “Goal!” Leaping to his feet he took her hand. “Ready to go?”

  “I am!” she said, as they turned and ran back towards home, the rain at their backs.

  * * *

  While she was waiting for
the kettle to boil, Eleanor decided to call Jim Rowe. Since marrying Dan, she’d neglected quite a few of her friends, especially the men she used to hang around with. There had also been a tricky period after Jim and Erika had broken up: they had gone out together for almost a year and Eleanor felt she couldn’t see too much of Jim out of loyalty to her colleague. The fact the relationship hadn’t endured had been hugely upsetting for Erika, and it wasn’t until she and Jim had found a way to be civil again that Eleanor really felt able to socialise with him.

  When Jim answered the phone, Eleanor asked if he would be free for a beer sometime. “It would be great to see you, but I also have a favour to ask.”

  “Sure, it’s been a while since we had a drink together.”

  “You’re right – I’m sorry about that, but I have been ridiculously busy.” Eleanor pulled a face, aware of what a weak excuse it was and glad Jim couldn’t see her cringing.

  “It’s okay,” said Jim, kindly. “I understand. So when and where?”

  “What are you doing tomorrow evening?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “Fancy a pint at the King’s Head? My treat.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Great – I’ll see you then.”

  “Oh, and what’s the favour about?”

  “I want your advice on how I might investigate some local history.”

  “Sounds intriguing!”

  “It is, Jim, and I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

  Chapter 11: Some Local Knowledge

  When they were seated in the saloon bar at the pub, Eleanor told Jim what the favour was. “I want to follow up on a newspaper story I’ve come across, but I’ve no idea how to go about it. I thought you might be able to advise me where to start.”

  “Do you know the name of the paper and the approximate date?”

  “It’s the North Devon Echo and I know it happened in the early 1870s.”

  “That’ll be easy enough,” said Jim. “There are various options – you might want to check out the newspaper archives at the British Library.”

  “That’s in London! Is there nothing closer?”

  “The Echo merged with my own newspaper many years ago, but I know the Gazette keeps some old copies in binders and on microfiche in the office. If you can cope with their ancient technology, you might find what you need there.”

  Eleanor pulled out a notepad and pen. “Where are they based?”

  “Behind the town hall in Waterborough. Or you could register with the British Newspaper Archives and search online.”

  “I ask myself what would a proper sleuth do and it’s got to be the musty files behind the town hall.”

  “And what was the story you’re interested in?”

  “Oh, it was a snippet about a local lad who was arrested. I’m curious to know what happened to him, that’s all.”

  Jim nodded, then swallowed the last of his beer. “Fancy another one of those?” he asked, indicating Eleanor’s almost empty glass.

  “Sure, why not.”

  As Jim went up to the bar, Eleanor’s eyes drifted around the pub’s cosy front room. Just above head height, the walls were covered with photographs and antique prints. On a shelf a foot or so below the ceiling was a collection of nautical paraphernalia from quadrants to glass buoys. In pride of place at the end of the bar was a brass bell and a fully rigged sailing ship in a bottle. It would, she thought, be a nice look to recreate in her seafaring window display.

  Jim came back and set the drinks in front of her. “So what’s this new interest in sleuthing all about, then?”

  “Sleuthing and seafaring.” Eleanor laughed. “I’ve lived here nearly seven years but I’m still ignorant about the place. I mean, Combemouth wouldn’t exist without the sea but I know virtually nothing about the old fishing trade.” She took a sip of her drink, which felt pleasantly cool against her throat. “As the local bookseller, I feel I should be more knowledgeable generally.”

  “I’m not sure how much there is to know. Combemouth was a traditional fishing town like lots of others along this stretch of coast.”

  “Just fishing? Did anything more exciting go on?”

  “I guess shale and manufactured goods were transported between Bristol and the rest of the world.”

  Eleanor thought for a moment. “I’ve also been thinking about doing a display based around a ghost ship that Maureen and Daniel both say they’ve seen, which probably sounds a bit mad!”

  “Not to me,” said Jim, shaking his head. “Which ghost ship were you thinking of?”

  Eleanor laughed. “You mean there’s more than one?”

  “There could be. Some people describe a vessel that sounds like a Tudor galleon – all high wooden sides and cannon like the famous Mary Rose. Others describe something more like a schooner.”

  “Which is? You see how ignorant I am!”

  “Schooners are fast, high-masted sailing ships. They were very popular trading vessels in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. If you’d been sipping your pint of Old Wallop on the quay in 1890, that’s what you might have seen sailing by. As well as these, of course.” Jim half-turned and tapped at one of the photographs on the wall behind his head. “These guys were local fishermen and they went to sea in much smaller three-masted boats called luggers.”

  Eleanor studied the photograph of five men in oilskins gathered awkwardly around a pile of nets, as though aggrieved at being asked to pose for the photographer instead of getting on with their work. One man, who appeared to be in charge, stood to one side in a loosely fitted suit and a white shirt with a starched collar. He held a hat in his left hand while his right was placed jauntily on his hip.

  Jim shifted along so Eleanor could move in closer. “It’s very atmospheric. Do we know who these people were?”

  “Probably not – names tend not to be recorded.” Jim peered at the photo. “On the other hand, the photographer might have kept a record at his studio. I can’t imagine the business is still going, though.”

  “Could you pass it to me? I’d love to get hold of a copy.”

  While the landlord wasn’t looking, Jim unhooked the photograph from the wall and handed it to Eleanor who turned it over to read the label on the back. “Dipton Photographic Studios,” she said, writing it down in her pad. “This could be the perfect thing to add a touch of authenticity to my shop.” She smiled. “I’ll look them up.”

  Chapter 12: Connie Brings News

  Tuesday was not one of the days when Connie worked at the bookshop, but she and Harold often dropped in to The Reading Room to check up on things if they happened to be passing. Seeing that the shop was quiet, Connie was able to persuade her daughter to take a break. Over coffee in the shop’s café area, Eleanor made the mistake of mentioning the issues she was still having with Dan about where they should live.

  “I do think you’re being unfair on the poor boy not letting him move in with you,” said Connie, whose sympathies lay firmly with Daniel.

  Eleanor took a deep breath. “It’s not about being fair or not, it’s about the practicalities. And I’ve never said he couldn’t move in. The fact is the cottage is too small for me, Dan and Joe – plus Emily when she’s visiting her father – and we haven’t seen anywhere else we like enough to buy.”

  “I really don’t see why you can’t fit in the cottage – there would have been a family of ten and half a farmyard crammed in there in the olden days.”

  “That might be a bit of an exaggeration, Mother.”

  “But then you were just the same as a child,” said Connie, ignoring her.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’d never allow your sister into the Wendy House because you wanted to have it all to yourself.”

  “That’s not fair!” Eleanor was aware of squeaking like her seven-year-old self, but couldn’t help it. “I was trying to save my dolls. Whenever I let Jenna in, she’d make them play at ‘school’ for hours. Poor Teddy always ended up
in detention because he was like me and couldn’t remember his twelve-times table.”

  “There you are, you see,” said Connie, leaning towards her gentleman friend. “My younger daughter was never keen on sharing.”

  “I’m sure both your girls were delightful children,” said Harold, keen to avert a row. “Now then,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “has your mother told you the exciting news?”

  “No,” said Eleanor, frowning. “Let me guess. She’s got a job as a lap-dancer? Taken up kite-surfing? Robbed a bank?” Since finding Harold, Connie had enjoyed a new lease of life and her daughters never knew quite what she was going to do next. Recent adventures included a thousand-mile overland trip to the South of France in Eleanor’s antique campervan to visit Harold’s daughter.

  “The news isn’t about me,” said Connie, sniffily.

  “I’m very relieved to hear it. I’d rather not see your face splashed across the papers again for a while longer.” The previous summer, Eleanor had found herself reluctantly heading up a campaign to block a marina, cliff-top aquarium and dodgy statuary – including a generously proportioned naked woman dubbed “Busty Bertha” – all planned by Freya for Bill Widget, then newly arrived in town. Eleanor and her mother had been thrust into the limelight – in Connie’s case that meant a profile of her on page three of the local newspaper.

  “If you’re referring to my part in the campaign, that was many months ago. And I wasn’t ‘splashed’ – Jim did a nice in-depth feature about me for the Chronicle.” Connie had caused quite a stir by lying down in the road during a protest march, which had provoked a spontaneous sit-down by her supporters, all of whom had to be persuaded to get up and leave by one long-suffering PC.

  Although Eleanor could laugh about it now, the planning protest had caused a great deal of tension between her and Daniel who took the side of his ex-wife. The situation had become so bad at one stage that Eleanor had feared their relationship might not survive it.

  Happily, things were eventually resolved and Freya had been allowed to design Bill the more restrained building on the moor where Eleanor walked the dogs.