Murder by the Book (Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries 4) Read online

  “But surely if it did get out, you’d attract more customers. People would flock to the bookshop, and from further afield. You’d not only sell more Minty books, but more stock in general.”

  I put a pot of tea in front of him, sat down and leaned forward.

  “Hector,” I began, “what’s the real reason you don’t want people to find out you’re Hermione Minty?”

  He sat up straight on his chair, looking as guilty as if I’d caught him with his fingers in the till. Not that it would have mattered, as the till was his.

  I narrowed my eyes, wishing I had Tommy’s magnifying glass to use as a jokey prop.

  “Aha, you are undone!”

  He glanced down at his flies.

  “No, not that sort of undone. I mean, I’ve caught you out. There’s something you’re not telling me. If it’s just a case of needing to take your books to other shops, I’m here to cover for your time spent away from Hector’s House. Or I could take them for you. I could be your rep. But I think there’s something else stopping you. I wish you’d tell me what it is.”

  Hector pursed his lips, stood up, and marched across to the other side of the shop, where he pretended to tidy an already pristine bookshelf. Then after a few minutes of frosty silence, he swung round to address me as if he’d been building up to it.

  “All right, then, have it your way.”

  I opened my mouth to congratulate him on making the right decision, but he put up his hand to stop me.

  “Before you ask, I’m not going to start touting my wares to other bookshops, or reveal all to The Bookseller. But I do think we might use social media to raise awareness and boost sales of my ebooks. After all, I use them to spread the word about events in the shop, and I know the shop’s got a good following. You’d need to set up accounts for Minty, of course, so it looks like she’s tweeting and Facebooking herself, but it’s not impossible.”

  “Not impossible? It would be easy-peasy, Hector. Of course, ideally she should be using social media to chat with her fans, not just telling them to buy her books.”

  He looked so horrified that I backtracked.

  “On the other hand, you could automate it, setting up some posts on one of those scheduling services that tweets every so often for you. I’ll do it for you, if you like.”

  “How about a compromise?” He had his serious face on. “I’ll allow you to give Hermione a bit of a shout-out on social media, provided you keep my identity and the shop’s completely secret. In any case, I’m all tweeted out keeping the Hector’s House account up to date. I can’t be doing with another one to monitor. I’m happy to delegate that to you. And to keep my distance from it.”

  I smiled encouragingly. I knew instinctively this was a positive step forward for Hermione Minty, for the shop’s financial well-being, and for us. This kind of teamwork, sharing success together, could only bring us closer.

  I went over to give him a grateful hug, despite his no-hugs-on-duty rule.

  “I’ll start the accounts up as soon as I get a moment at the weekend. Trust me. I know what I’m doing.”

  The shortest day was long past, but it was still getting dark so early that when I strolled home past the pub after work, it felt like night-time. The yellow glow from the village shop cut through the misty evening air like a lighthouse beacon. Although I didn’t need anything from the shop, I found myself pushing open its front door, drawn towards its promise of warmth and light.

  The jangle of the bell made Becky and Tommy break off their conversation at the counter and look round to see me.

  “Hi, Sophie,” said Becky, a slight edge in her voice. I wondered whether Tommy had said something to upset her. Not knowing much about her background, he could easily have said something awkward or embarrassing without meaning to. My instinct was to protect them both from each other.

  Tommy’s school backpack dangled from one shoulder, reminding me of a health-and-safety diagram about the causes of bad backs.

  “Haven’t you been home since you got off the school bus, Tommy? Your mum will be wondering where you are.”

  He glanced up at the clock behind the counter. “Is it tea-time already? No wonder I’m hungry.” He gave Becky an apologetic wave. “Sorry, Becky, I’d better run.”

  I held the door open for him to leave, closed it gently behind him, then returned to the counter, picking up a copy of the local paper as an excuse for visiting.

  “Are you OK, Becky?”

  Becky frowned. “Yes, thanks, Sophie. But Tommy was asking some awkward questions about Mum that I didn’t want to answer.”

  I was touched that she was already calling Carol ‘Mum’, though they still barely knew each other. I hoped that if I kept quiet, she’d elaborate about Tommy’s line of questioning.

  “You see, he saw this Christmas card from Mum’s secret admirer and assumed it was from my dad. We should have taken it down with the Christmas decorations, but Mum couldn’t bring herself to put it in the recycling.”

  She took a large glittery card down from the shelf behind the counter and passed it to me. On the front, a jovial snowman and snowwoman were holding hands and smiling sweetly enough to make me smile back at them. I opened the card to read the inside.

  Happy Christmas, Carol. Ted. Xxx

  “Who’s Ted?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I think Mum knows, but she won’t tell me. She just said, ‘Oh, no-one’. He must be someone, obviously, but he’s definitely not my dad. My dad’s name is Albert. At least, that’s what it says on my birth certificate, and I’ve got no reason to believe it’s not true, even though Mum gave me her own surname.”

  I paused. “Whoever he is, it sounds as if his love is unrequited.”

  I wondered why Carol hadn’t alluded to him when we’d been talking that morning about dates for Donald’s Valentine’s dinner.

  “Now I’m worried that Tommy will tell everyone my dad’s called Ted,” said Becky. “Not helpful.” She paused.

  “I don’t suppose your real dad would be pleased to have someone else credited with being your father,” I said. I hoped that remark wouldn’t make Becky clam up.

  “Who cares what he thinks?” said Becky. “He never considered my feelings, or my mum’s. I’ve never even met him.”

  I was glad when she steered the conversation back to the mysterious Ted.

  “Mum says there’s no-one called Ted in the village, and she doesn’t really have a social life beyond Wendlebury,” said Becky. “Most of the things she does here are for women only, like the knitting circle and WI. The only romance she gets is in novels, women’s magazines, or on the telly.”

  I turned the card over to see if there were any clues to its origin. Ted had removed the price label, but it bore the own-brand logo of a supermarket down in Slate Green.

  “Perhaps it’s someone who came into the shop and took a shine to her?” Then I remembered the baker who had been enquiring about her after the nativity play. He’d been supplying the village shop with his almost inedible cakes on a trial basis since before Christmas. It came back to me now. I thought his name was Ted.

  I glanced along the aisle to an untouched tray of sturdy doughnuts, their watery icing seeping into the sponge. Wandering casually across, I picked one up with the metal tongs and dropped it into a paper bag.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” said Becky, taking the bag from me and folding over the top. From the weight of the bag, I suspected I’d end up putting the doughnut out for the birds, after a good soak so as not to break their little beaks. At least if someone bought his cakes, it might give Ted a bit longer to win Carol over.

  “When’s your next cake delivery due?” I asked casually.

  “Tomorrow, I think,” said Becky, flicking open the order book. “Mum’s birthday, by the way. I’m going to do the afternoon shift so she can go to the hairdresser’s as a birthday treat. It’s about time she had some treats after all she does for everyone else.”

  I was glad Beck
y didn’t see Carol solely as a free source of board and lodging.

  “I’ll pop in with a card and a present for her tomorrow,” I said. There’d no doubt be something suitable at Hector’s House.

  “Enjoy your doughnut,” she called after me, with a mischievous smile. “Don’t forget we stock indigestion remedies too.”

  6 Tracking Ted

  “Does the name Ted mean anything to you, Hector?” I asked as I cleared away the debris from Billy’s elevenses the next day.

  “In what context? Ted Hughes, Poet Laureate? Ted Allbeury, MI6 thriller writer? TED Talks, the online education distributor? Ted Baker, fashion designer?”

  “Ted the Baker rather than Ted Baker. Wasn’t that baker we met before Christmas called Ted? You know, the one who donated those delicious filled pitta breads for the buffet after the nativity play.”

  “And the leaden mince pies.”

  “Tommy liked them. He said they were very filling.”

  “Like ballast in a hot air balloon, perhaps.”

  Hector pulled open the old oak filing card index on his desk. His antique-dealer parents had salvaged it from Slate Green public library when it went digital, and it was one of the few items of theirs that Hector retained when he turned their antique shop into his bookshop. I loved the gleaming oak, smelling of furniture polish, that matched the shelves lining the shop.

  He pulled out a business card from the B section.

  “You’re right, Sophie, he was a Ted. Ted’s Treats, 12 The Rise, Slate Green. That’s an auspicious address for a baker.”

  He passed me a small card the colour and texture of wholemeal flour, and I took it gratefully.

  “Hurrah!”

  “And being called Ted is cause for celebration because…? You like teddy bears?”

  “More than I like his cakes.” My stomach still felt sore from last night’s doughnut. “But I liked him, and even better, he likes Carol. Did you know he sent her a big Christmas card with kisses? He must be keen.”

  Hector smiled indulgently. “Good for Carol.”

  “She’s pretending to Becky that she doesn’t know who it’s from. When Tommy saw it, he asked Becky if Ted was her father.”

  Hector rolled his eyes.

  “Do you think Becky’s father will ever come back to the village? I’d hate for him to come barging back in and spoil things for her and Carol now.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. There’d be a queue of people to thump him if he did, besides Carol and Becky.”

  “You can include me too. I’m so angry on her behalf for what he did to her.”

  “Billy would be at the front of the line. Bertie may have been his esteemed elder brother when he was little, but Billy never forgave him for what he did to Carol.”

  “But there must be twenty years between Billy and Carol.”

  Hector nodded. “Even more with Bertie. But in those days, there weren’t many single women of their own age in the village, as most of them had married or moved away, or both. My mum reckoned Billy rather fancied Carol himself. My mum would make a special trip to punch Bertie on the nose if she knew he was coming back.”

  “Goodness, is she that fierce?”

  Hector smiled. “She is when her maternal instinct is aroused. Remember, she was Carol’s mum’s best friend, and when she saw what the whole situation did to her friend – and indeed to Carol – she was incensed. As was your Auntie May.”

  I still remembered visiting Carol’s stroke-ridden mother with Auntie May, when I used to come and stay in Wendlebury in the school holidays.

  “Speaking of parents,” he said quickly, “I wanted to talk to you about coming to meet mine. Shall we fix up a date soon?”

  That cast all thoughts of Ted and Carol from my mind.

  “Wow. Ok. Yes, thanks.”

  I got out my diary, realised it was last year’s, and chose a new one from the stationery rack.

  “I’ll confirm it when I go down to see them this weekend,” he said, ringing my purchase up on the till.

  Then I chose a birthday card and a book of baby knitting patterns for Carol’s birthday, wrapped the present up, and determined to take them to her before she departed to the hairdresser’s.

  “I found it here on the counter when I came out of the toilet,” said Tommy, looking hungrily at the cake in front of him. He went to dip his finger in the lavish pink icing for a taste, but I slapped his hand away.

  “But you said Becky left you in charge while she took the baby home to get him some dry trousers. What were you doing in the toilet?”

  When he started to tell me in graphic detail, I interrupted.

  “I didn’t want a description. I meant, why did you abandon your post?”

  “I had to go to the toilet, of course.” Tommy looked at me as if I was an idiot.

  “Yes, but anyone could have come in and raided the till while you left the shop unattended.”

  “Come to think of it, I did see a white van drive off as I came back out.”

  “There you are, then.”

  “But I think it was only that baker guy. You know, the one with the van without any markings.”

  I groaned. I must have just missed Ted.

  “But I wanted to speak to him. He’s the man who sent Carol that Christmas card.”

  “He’s sent her a birthday card too now.”

  Tommy held up a ripped envelope.

  “You’ve opened her birthday card?”

  “I thought it might be an important message. Or a clue. Which it is. Look—” He held up a card showing a glittering illustration on the front of a giant bouquet of roses. “It says his name. Ted. Ted Love.”

  I took it from him and opened it to read the inscription.

  “Love, Ted. Love comma Ted. He means love from Ted. Love’s not his surname.”

  Tommy grabbed the card back.

  “But look at his writing. He’s a madman. My detective book says that only mad people write everything in capitals.”

  “Or people who want to make sure that the recipient can read their message. It looks perfectly normal to me, Tommy.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to reveal his true identity by signing his usual signature. Maybe he’s got a soo – a poo – a fake name, like an author.”

  “A pseudonym.”

  “Yes, one of them. Like in a ransom note. Perhaps he’s secretly Henry Minty.”

  “You mean Hermione?”

  “Is that how you say it? I thought it was a funny way to spell Henry.”

  “But whatever makes you think Ted is Hermione Minty in disguise?”

  “Well, somebody has to be. My mum says no-one knows who Minty is, but that he lives in a village in the countryside. It says so on his books. So I’ve told her I’m going to track down this Minty person because Mum wants to meet him. She loved that book you made me buy her for Christmas. I’ve never seen her sit and read a book before, but now she’s mad about books. Well, Hermione Minty’s books, anyway.”

  I should have felt more pleased. “But Wendlebury Barrow is just one village out of hundreds in the country.”

  “Yes, but it’s got to be one of the most important villages, hasn’t it? I think it would be a very good place for a writer person to live. I mean, your auntie was a writer, and she lived here, didn’t she?”

  I looked at him for a moment, trying to gauge whether he was joking, but quickly realised he was deadly serious. To Tommy, born and raised in the village, with very little opportunity to travel beyond it other than on the school bus, Wendlebury probably felt like the centre of the world. He wasn’t like me, or indeed my Auntie May, a seasoned traveller who had lived and worked abroad, while keeping her cottage here as a bolthole.

  Not everyone in the village had such broad horizons. Some of the elderly had lived here all their working lives, never going far enough away to need passports, and the very young hadn’t yet escaped the gravitational pull of the village. But soon enough, they’d leave for university or vocational t
raining or college or jobs elsewhere. Only a few of them returned, and only when they were earning enough to get on the housing ladder, which for many meant never.

  I realised I was exceptionally lucky to have inherited May’s cottage. My rental days were over. Whether Wendlebury Barrow would eventually become the centre of my universe remained to be seen. But while Hector was around, for now I was happy to be the moon to his Earth – and think of the effect the moon has on the Earth’s tides.

  Tommy coughed theatrically, dragging me back to our conversation.

  “Tommy, you do know, don’t you, that Hermione is a girl’s name? You know, like Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter books.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “Surely you don’t think those romantic novels were written by a man?”

  Tommy was undaunted. “You’re being very sexist, miss. He might be a soppy man.” He pulled out his trusty diary from his Parka pocket. “I’m making a note of that. Pretending to be a baker could be a cunning disguise to put us off the scent. That’s why his cakes are so bad. He’s not really a baker at all. And that’s why he hasn’t got anything written on his van.”

  I groaned. “Listen, let’s forget about Ted for the moment. Before Becky gets back, you need to check the till to make sure no-one filched all the money while you were in the toilet. You don’t want to get her into trouble. And while you’re doing that, I’ll buy another envelope so we can seal the card again so it isn’t obvious you’ve already opened it. You don’t want to spoil Carol’s birthday, do you?”

  Tommy had the decency to look contrite.

  Just as I’d sealed the envelope and carefully written Carol’s name on it in anonymous capitals, who should pull up outside but Ted? Tommy and I lapsed into a guilty silence as Ted got out of his van and walked into the shop.