A Simple Country Murder Read online

  I dragged my suitcases up the stairs, the stairway just barely wide enough to get them up. They bounced with every step, but it felt nice to have them up in the floor of the bedroom. I knew I had all the time in the world to unpack, but it still felt good to take my favorite blouses and skirts from inside, unfold them and hang them up where they could air out.

  Soon, far too soon, it was getting dark, and I realized I had not eaten a thing. I hurried downstairs, grabbed my purse from beside the till, and made my way outside. Thankfully, one of the outdoor market stalls was still open, and I purchased some bread and dried apples.

  “Are you new around here?” the man asked with a friendly smile. “I’m not sure I recognize your face.”

  “I am, yes,” I said with a smile in return. “Just moved in, actually.”

  “Did you really?” the man asked. He stretched his hand out over the table. “The name’s Williams. Tucker Williams.”

  “Helen Lightholder,” I said, shaking his hand.

  He grinned. “I’m certain my wife would want me to do something to welcome a newcomer to our small village…” he said, turning around and looking at all he had left behind his stall. “Ah, here we are. Please, take this as a way to welcome you.”

  He passed over a handsome looking mincemeat pie.

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly – ” I said. With all the rationing, this was like giving me a whole week’s worth of food.

  “I insist,” he said, pressing it into my hands. “Any time you need baked goods of any kind, we are here!”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Williams,” I said, almost breathless with appreciation.

  “You’re quite welcome, Miss. Have a good evening!”

  “You as well!” I said, feeling rather pleased with myself as I hurried back to my cottage with an armload of food.

  The bread and the dried fruits were delicious, but the mincemeat pie was the best I had ever had. I was eager to eat more, but knew it was best to ration myself, as I hadn’t had a chance to go and collect anything more. I would certainly have to visit the butcher, and find the place with the best produce.

  I began to make a list as night fell around the little town. Soon, all I heard outside was the sound of the wind through the trees, with the occasional conversation as men wandered by along the street, likely on their way home from the pub. There was something so incredibly normal about my actions that I was very nearly giddy about it. I was living my life again, and I was quite relieved to be doing so. Perhaps, just perhaps, all unpleasantness was finally behind me.

  The next morning, after having another slice of the mincemeat pie with some tea for my breakfast, I set about getting the shop into order.

  I took the rugs out to the back garden, throwing them over the line and beating the devil out of them with a broom that must have been older than the house. I filled a bucket I’d found in a closet upstairs with hot, soapy water, and set about scrubbing the floors of the shop, as well as the kitchen and the washroom in my flat.

  It wasn’t until late afternoon that my stomach finally protested and demanded that I eat again. I quickly changed and headed off into town, searching for some groceries I could enjoy for the next few days. Before leaving Plymouth, I had applied for a coupon book of rations for myself.

  It wasn’t hard to see which of the businesses fronting the near street belonged to the butcher. The parcels of fresh meat displayed in the window would have given the truth away, even if the hand-lettered sign out front had not done so. I met the butcher, who was a pleasant enough fellow, though I was not too keen on shaking his hand after seeing the stains on his apron, along with the sheep’s carcass I glimpsed hanging in the ice box. After exchanging the appropriate coupons, he sold me a few eggs and a little meat, which was not very much. A surprisingly small amount, in fact. Had the rations become even stricter? I had only myself to feed, though, and I knew I could make it stretch if I was wise.

  I found my way to the greengrocer, as well, this time having to stand in line. When I reached the register, I found that they had run out of tomatoes, but that didn’t matter much. I purchased potatoes, and fresh garlic, as well as any herbs and spices they had on hand.

  “I heard that Mrs. Rolling started a garden,” said one of the shop workers to another. “Said the buds from the green onions are easy to replant and harvest.”

  “She’s not the only one,” said the other worker, bagging up some beans for another customer. “It seems the Franklin family is doing the same thing. My mum was even talking about it. She said by this time in June, we could be eating like kings.”

  “If kings liked brussels sprouts and onions, perhaps,” said the first worker.

  As I carried my groceries home, I pondered their words. Maybe it would be prudent of me to start a vegetable patch of my own. Not only did I have more than enough space in the back garden, but wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to eat as much of what I grew as I wanted? I could learn to preserve vegetables and perhaps even dry certain fruits.

  The idea excited me, and I made a plan to locate a library nearby so that I could do some research.

  I put away my food inside the ice box in my flat, and decided that since it was now already evening, I might as well do some more work around the place. Everything felt clean and fresh, and with some rearranging, I knew that it would start to feel more like my own, and less like I had moved into someone else’s home.

  I wandered up into the attic, a place I had not yet been, and found it strewn with boxes, old and broken mannequins, and even the remnants of what looked like a piano with all of its keys missing.

  The more I explored my aunt’s little cottage, the more I realized just how meticulous and well organized she was. Everything had its place. All of the fabric she had for dressmaking was organized by color, and the buttons were put in boxes of varying value, from the silver and pearl buttons to the plastic and wooden buttons.

  I also found a box where she had kept all sorts of paperwork, including coupons. Then I found a coupon book without a name on it.

  “Hmm…that’s a little strange, isn’t it?” I said, lifting it out of the box. The light up in the attic was so dim that it was hard to read but, curiosity piqued, I picked up the box and carried it back down to the flat.

  I set it down on the table and turned the light on over it, taking a seat in one of the mismatched chairs.

  I opened the coupon book, and realized that something seemed strange about it. After a few moments of not being able to discern what precisely was different, I pulled out another one of the coupon books in the box, one with my aunt’s name on it, and compared the two.

  The one without a name had slightly different lettering. It was incredibly similar, but the letters were just slightly wrong. And they were inconsistent, as well. One letter C was slightly smaller than its companion three lines down.

  “Is this…a forgery?” I asked, squinting between the two coupon books. If someone was to glance as it quickly, it might not seem obvious.

  My eyes widened. What was Aunt Vivian doing with these? Not only was forgery illegal, but it was disturbing to think that someone I was related to was not entirely honest, either. If the government were to somehow find out, would they blame me for my aunt’s actions?

  I tucked the coupons away back inside the box, thinking it might be best if they remained forgotten. If I was going to reopen the haberdashery, then I was going to need to try to run the business as honestly as I could.

  I returned the box to the attic, feeling rather unsettled.

  Perhaps her business had started to fail, I told myself as I climbed back down from the attic, shutting off the lights. Maybe Aunt Vivian was desperate.

  Did that really matter? Desperation was never a good reason for dishonesty.

  I suppose you really never know another person’s secrets, do you? I thought as I closed the attic door.

  4

  The next few days were much the same. I would wake early in the morning, spend some time reading and having tea, enjoying the quietness of those first sunlit hours, and then begin my day. I found I needed that time to get my mind straight for the day, because as soon as my eyes would open, all of the horrors of the last few weeks came barreling down on me like a tidal wave, and I knew I couldn’t let myself remain in that dark, sad place.

  Physical activities certainly helped, so I set about cleaning up the haberdashery. As organized as my aunt was, I found she was also quite the hoarder. She saved every little thing, even thread that was only a few inches long. Broken buttons filled a drawer beneath the till, none of which could be fixed. What had she planned to use them for? She also seemed to keep every pair of stretched or torn stockings.

  As I examined them all, I began to wonder if she had intended to repurpose them, or if anyone would end up buying them out of desperation. The village of Brookminster was quite small, but the homes were in excellent shape, and it seemed to be a place where more middle class families lived…unlike the poorer homes and families I’d seen in London, many of whom had lost everything in the war.

  I decided to hold onto the items, in case I came across a note or an order for these mismatched or damaged pieces.

  I knew I was nowhere near ready to open the shop on my own, as I had never had much experience in running a business. Still, I would have to learn and soon.

  I pulled back my hair into a clip that my mum had given me for my twenty-fifth birthday, made with pretty blue, glass beads, tied up with thin wire. I wore it almost every day, as it did a wonderful job of keeping my dark hair out of my eyes. I put on some of my oldest, grubbiest clothing so that I could properly tackle the cleaning that day, and set about getting the windows, the shelving, and the till itself cleaned.

  I also cleaned
out the closet in the shop, and decided that the dining room table and all the mismatched chairs needed a fresh coat of paint, as they were so dented and scratched.

  For all the things that Aunt Vivian had on hand, she did not have any paint, so I was going to need to make a trip out for that. I headed out of the shop, still ready to take on the day.

  High Street seemed to be quite busy that afternoon; I saw a mother walking hand in hand with her three young children, and a man strolling past with his nose buried in the newspaper. Both said hello to me as I passed, though, which brought a smile to my face. This place was already so much more pleasant than the cities I was used to.

  I passed the butcher’s, the post office, and the bakery, which smelled like freshly baked bread, making my mouth water.

  I wandered past what looked like a tool shop before turning around and making my way back inside, realizing it was likely the best place to find what I needed.

  “Good afternoon,” said the man behind the counter. He had vibrant red hair and a broad smile. “What can I help you find today?”

  I walked right up to the counter. “I was hoping you might have some paint,” I said. “I’m looking to repaint some furniture.”

  “What an economic idea,” said the man with an even bigger smile. “Instead of buying all new furniture, you’re choosing to repaint. How ingenious! What color might you be thinking?” He stepped along the back of the counter toward a shelf at the end of the row.

  “Ivory might be nice,” I said. “I thought that anything with color might be harder to come by these days.”

  “You are correct about that,” he said. “An ivory, you say? Would you like something a bit brighter, like this?” He took a small, tin jar from the shelf and set it down. Pulling a screw driver from the front pocket of his apron, he popped the lid off. “Something with a pearly sheen? Or perhaps you would like something like this,” he said, reaching back and pulling another can from the shelf. When he got it open, it revealed a lovely, creamy white with just a shade more yellow in it.

  “Oh, I’m really rather fond of that second one,” I said.

  “As am I,” the man said with a smile. “Wonderful choice. I shall have this bagged up for you in no time.”

  I left the store a few minutes later, still reeling from the price of a paint can. How had it become so expensive? I stared at the bag in my hands, wondering if it was worth it. I supposed paint was likely considered a luxury item now, though, and was not a necessity.

  I pulled the sweater I wore more tightly around my shoulders as I headed up the road; the weather seemed to be as unpredictable as it always was in the spring. The sun disappeared behind some clouds, and the wind came in through the valley, brushing its way between the houses, down the street, and right through to my bones.

  A pleasant, warm aroma met me as I walked, the lights from the nearby shops spilling out into the quickly darkening streets. I looked up to see a worn, wooden sign swinging from above the doorway of one of the shops. A bright blue teacup in chipped, old paint was framed by the words The Traveler’s Teacup.

  The idea of a warm cup of tea on this now quite cool afternoon sounded pleasant, so I pushed open the door, emitting a pleasant ring, ring from the bell over my head.

  It was a wonderful little place, with round tables covered in mismatched floral patterned cloths. All of the chairs were different colors, and the whole back wall of the tea room was a large shelf filled to the brim with teacups. Two of the tables were occupied; one beside the window where a young couple sat with their heads together, whispering and smiling at each other, and the other with a trio of older ladies who were chattering away together, sipping their tea.

  “Hello, come in, come in,” said a voice on the other side of the low-ceilinged room. I followed the sound and found a plump, tall woman with cornflower blonde hair waving at me from a table she was clearing. She couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than I was, maybe mid-thirties at the oldest. “Have a seat wherever you like, I’ll be there shortly to take your order.”

  I picked a table beside one of the other windows. I could just see the sky through the panes, watching the clouds roil and churn. A storm was certainly coming, and from how quickly the clouds were moving, it was likely to be a strong one.

  “Well, hello there. My apologies for taking so long,” said the blonde woman, arriving at my table. She grabbed a small pad of paper from inside her apron, and a pen from somewhere behind her head; perhaps it had been tucked in her bun? “What would you like?”

  “Well, I’m not even sure what you have,” I said. “What could I order?”

  She reeled off the available choices before concluding with, “Our rather comforting green tea seems to be the popular choice today. I also have some scones from lunch, as well as some little tea cakes that my son helped me bake.” She grinned at that. “Anything sound appetizing?”

  “Everything, really,” I said. “I’d love some Earl Grey.”

  “Anything to eat?” she asked.

  “A scone would be nice, thank you,” I said.

  “Coming right up,” she said with a kind smile, and hurried away.

  She wasn’t gone more than three or four minutes before coming back to the table with a pretty pewter tray in hand. “Here we are,” she said, setting it down in front of me. There was a beautiful, small teapot sitting on it, along with a matching cup and saucer. She had even brought a small ceramic pitcher with cream, and a glass bowl with about a dozen sugar cubes in it.

  “This is wonderful,” I said. “Thank you very much.”

  “You’re very welcome,” said the woman. She tilted her head to the side, regarding me closely. “I must apologize, but I don’t believe I have ever seen you around here before. Are you visiting family? Or perhaps just passing through?”

  “No, actually, I just moved into the flat over the haberdashery up the street,” I said, gesturing up to the eastern side of the street.

  The plump woman’s face filled with delight, and she seated herself in the chair across from mine. “Did you really?” she asked, her grey eyes widening. “I wondered when someone would snap that shop up. It is in a prime location, after all,” she said with a nod. Then she held out her hand to me. “My name is Irene Driscoll. My husband and I are the owners of this little tea house.”

  I shook her hand, finding myself rather liking this incredibly friendly woman. “Helen Lightholder,” I said. “Vivian Caldwell was my aunt.”

  “Your aunt?” Irene said, her eyes widening even further. “You don’t say? Well, I am certainly glad that the shop stayed in the family.”

  That piqued my interest. “Did you by any chance happen to know my aunt well?” I asked.

  Irene reached across to the teapot and began to pour my tea for me. She poured without thinking, and it was quite clear that it was second nature to her. “No, I did not. She was quite pleasant when I did interact with her, though.”

  “I see,” I said. “I didn’t know her all that well myself. I lived in Plymouth for most of my life, and barely ever saw her.”

  “Oh, well, I am sorry for your loss,” Irene said. She looked around, glancing at a clock on the far well. “Perhaps this is a bit impertinent of me, but would you care to stay for dinner? I know that my husband and I would love to welcome you to our little town, and I assume that you aren’t really all that familiar with everyone yet?”

  “No, I’m not,” I said, my smile growing. “I would like that, thank you very much for the offer.”

  “Don’t even mention it,” she said. “You finish your tea, and I’ll let my son know to set another place at the table for dinner.”