“It was broken. Snapped,” Ellie said, miming the motion of stabbing into Finn’s jacket. Maggie reached over and adjusted the angle so that her hand was thrusting upwards instead of straight ahead.
“It was up into his ribs,” Maggie added, miming her version of the motion, “which suggests to me the pen pusher was shorter than Thomas. What would you say he was, PC Walsh? About your height?”
Finn nodded. “I’m five feet ten inches, and I’d say we were eye-level when I gave him that ticket. Didn’t stop him trying to look down at me, though.” He held up a hand. “And let’s just leave the speculation to the detectives, ladies. Right now, it’s my job to gather the evidence until they arrive, and... oh, I don’t believe it. CSI is here before the DS.”
PC Walsh huffed and strode off towards the Crime Scene Investigation van cruising past the pond, and while he guided them into a parking space, Maggie tugged Ellie’s sleeve. She pulled her aside as the ambulance crew exited the bookshop, their unhurried pace a stark contrast to the pounding of Ellie’s heart.
“The pen, Ellie,” Maggie prompted.
“No ink, Gran. A pen thrust up into a man’s chest, and he’s been lying on the floor long enough that he’s bled out, but there’s no ink from a snapped pen?” She shook her head. “If I walked onto a set and saw that, it wouldn’t fall into the historical accuracy remit of my job, but I’d still call attention to it. I’d want to know why.”
Maggie leaned in, her voice low. “Do you think it’s important?”
“Why would a broken pen not spill ink?” Ellie continued, her words picking up pace. “Because there isn’t any. Not yet, at least. You saw the pen. Black, shiny, a little bulbous. Like a fountain pen, perhaps?”
“I think so.”
“A fountain pen you add cartridges to?” She paused, waiting for her gran to connect the dots that she had. “It was a new pen. A new pen bought recently, possibly somewhere in the village, and was used as a murder weapon?”
Maggie’s eyes widened in shock, but a grin slowly spread across her face. “Oh, my smart, observant Ellie. If it was bought somewhere in the village, we could find who it was sold to. Put an end to this mess before it goes further.”
“We?” Ellie shook her head. “Gran, you need to rest, and I’m here to help you do that and get this shop in order.”
“And now the shop is a crime scene and the manuscript I was entrusted with has been stolen,” Maggie countered, her voice tinged with determination. “There are more pressing matters going on right now than my hip.”
“The hip is still important.”
“Sod the hip!” Maggie said, almost grunting, her eyes clenched. “Edmund trusted me to keep that manuscript safe, and I have failed him.”
Ellie rested a hand on her gran’s shoulder. “So, it’s true? The rumour about Edmund Blackwood and his Last Draft?”
“I don’t know what people are saying, but I promised I’d tell you what I know,” Maggie began, but before she could continue, PC Finn Walsh approached them again, his expression serious.
“Detective Sergeant Cookson is on the way,” he announced.
Ellie’s eyebrows shot up. “DS Cookson as in...”
“As in, your father’s ex-wife got bored with being a desk sergeant and started chasing her career dreams of being a detective,” Maggie finished, a hint of amusement in her voice. “The same Angela Cookson.”
Finn leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And between us, she’s terrifying. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of her.”
Maggie chuckled as though being scared of her former daughter-in-law was a ludicrous suggestion, but Ellie’s expression remained grim; Angela had always scared her, her pressense in her memories akin to a storybook evil stepmother or wicked witch type.
“We are on Angela’s wrong side,” Ellie explained, “and I don’t think that’s going to change any time soon.”
She looked down the winding street towards Oliver’s café, her stomach tightening with apprehension. The thought of Angela Cookson’s imminent arrival brought a flood of complicated emotions.
Unlike Ellie’s mother, Carolyn, who had only spent one ill-advised night with Peter Cookson at The Drowsy Duck after the big karaoke finale in March 1993, Angela had been Peter’s wife. Until Ellie came along, that is, exactly nine months later in December of that year.
The little Swan baby who ruined it all.
Ellie hadn’t seen Angela Cookson since her teens, but Angela had developed a habit of avoiding her at all costs. In supermarkets, she’d pivot and push her trolley at the sight of her, or crossing the street when they happened to be out in the village at the same time. And she’d even gone as far as to ignore Ellie waiting to cross at a zebra crossing, almost mowing her down in the process. It had taken Ellie a long time to stop taking Angela’s coldness personally, understanding that her issue was with Carolyn, not her; Ellie hadn’t chosen how she came to be the world.
Neither had Carolyn or Peter after the karoke finale in 1993—when her mother had delivered, what Maggie always called, an ‘even ropier Bonnie Tyler’ after she won with her rendition of Total Eclipse of the Heart—but here Ellie was regardless.
But the prospect of Angela Cookson re-entering her life filled Ellie with dread. She’d managed to create a life away from Meadowfield, away from the complicated family dynamics brought on by her parents’ lack of good choice making. But that life had unravelled, and now she’d stumbled upon a murder scene, and with it, the thought of fleeing Meadowfield seemed to be slipping through her fingers.
“You’re not as excited about your investigations as you used to be, are you?” Maggie asked gently.
Ellie turned to her grandmother, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. She knew in an instant what her gran was referring to. Memories flooded back, transporting Ellie to her younger days spent in the cosy back room of Meadowfield Books. She could almost smell the musty pages of the hardback literature her gran had fed her, interspersed with the tiny pocket-sized paperback Agatha Christie novels.
Those compact mysteries had been her reward after trudging through the hefty classics. As much as Ellie had devoured the classics, she’d often rush through their wordy waffle to get to the concise fun Christie’s mysteries.
Maggie’s voice from back then echoed in her mind, asking every few chapters if she’d figured out the mystery yet. Ellie would present her theories with all the seriousness of a seasoned detective, weaving elaborate explanations for the crimes. No matter how outlandish her ideas, Maggie would always respond with that characteristic wry smile, telling her it was an ‘interesting’ theory before returning to her own book. More often than not, Ellie would be wildly wrong, but when she did hit the nail on the head, few victories had tasted as sweet since.
“Well?” Maggie urged.
“A local author, Edmund Blackwood, entrusted three people with copies of his final manuscript, of whom you are one,” Ellie began, her voice steady despite the heavy stone settling in her chest. “I’m going to assume you weren’t best friends with Edmund, or you might have spoken about him to me in your calls and letters.” She paused for confirmation, but Maggie’s expression didn’t falter. “So, that means there are two more copies of the manuscript out there with two people who aren’t necessarily closest to Edmund, but people he trusted? Because if people close to him were getting copies, Thomas would have had one and wouldn’t have tried to steal yours.”
Maggie nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“Edmund’s eldest son,” Maggie confirmed. “He has another, James Blackwood.”
“But it was Thomas who broke in to take the book, but someone who wanted to protect it... or they wanted it more for themselves, killed him, and took it?” Ellie’s voice lifted slightly at the end, turning her statement into a question. “And they took their murder weapon with them. A pen with no ink…”
“And the culprit?”
Ellie hesitated. “I’m at a slight disadvantage since I don’t know who the suspects are, but I’ve conducted historical research without knowing scripts, or even set time periods before so…” She brushed the air out through her lips, making a slight raspberry sound. “I’d guess the suspects are the people closest to Edmund, as in the people who were involved his daily life. People who would be upset to find out they weren’t included in this trusted trio?”
