Ellie nodded, wishing he’d given them more clues about this ‘strange residue’ left behind from the pen. She watched as Finn made his way to the door, the bag of food swinging from his hand.
“So. Have you figured it out yet?” Maggie asked as they stood in front of the large menu board.
Ellie shook her head, feeling a bit overwhelmed. “No, but neither have they.” Folding her arms, she rocked back on her heels and said, “I’ll come with you tomorrow. I’m not letting you go off playing Cluedo with a new hip.”
Maggie let out a soft chuckle. “Without you, you mean. And newsflash, like I’ve been trying to tell everyone, I don’t have a broken hip. I broke my hip, and now I have a new hip. Yes, it hurts, but you know what, I think I like it better than the old one, so whoever tried and failed the first time to steal the manuscript did me a favour.”
Ellie couldn’t help but smile at her grandmother’s resilience. “You don’t need wrapping up in cotton wool. Understood.”
“And never have.” She gave a defiant nod. “And I promise I’ll try my best to not break the other one, but if a third burglar comes along, no promises I won’t do the same thing again.”
“There’s a question. Do you think the first and second thieves were the same?”
“Oh, I know they weren’t the same,” Maggie stated.
“How can you know that?”
“Because after talking to the police, a small detail slipped into place after I heard them say something. Open University. And that connected with a memory I had of a book that was left open on my desk after the first manuscript-heist failed. A book that wasn’t on my desk before, has no connection—or so I thought—to the manuscript, but there it was. A book about early 20th-century history. Mark Mazower’s Dark Continent: Europe’s Twentieth Century.”
Ellie leaned in, intrigued. “But how can you know who the person was from the book? Did they come into the shop to buy a copy?”
“No, but I had two in stock, and Edmund Blackwood bought the other copy two Septembers ago,” Maggie replied, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of discovery. “It’s one of the recommended readings for anyone studying third-year history with the Open University. The police must have been talking about what Edmund’s family does when I overhead.”
“And you know who it is?”
Maggie nodded, though she seemed reluctant to give up a name. “I’ll talk to them tomorrow before I decide how to proceed. I could have my wires crossed.”
Given how crossed all the wires had been so far, Ellie had a feeling her gran was heading in the right direction. A dead author who’d left behind his final manuscript to three trusted people, a missing pen that left behind a strange residue, and an online university recommended reading book pointing to a burglar behind a broken hip. If this was the first act of a script Ellie had needed to read to fact-check for any historical details, she would have no idea where it was going, yet the details were something—something to take to Blackwood House tomorrow. Something to do. Better than nothing.
“So, someone killed Thomas Blackwood to get their hands on Edmund Blackwood’s final manuscript,” Ellie confirmed. “That makes sense to me. But what I don’t understand is how did anyone know he left it to you for a rumour to start in the first place? I don’t imagine you told anyone?”
She shook her head. “And I promised I never would. But Edmund told people. Not directly, at least. He left behind a game.”
“What kind of game?”
After a moment’s thought, Maggie said, “A game far too complicated to explain at this late hour.” She drummed her fingers on the stainless steel counter as she homed in on the giant plastic menu on the wall covered in stickers written in all colours of pen filled with what looked like years of price changes. “Hmm, to prawn toast, or not...”
As Granny Maggie stared at the menu as though that really was the most important question of the moment, Ellie glanced at the gold swishing cat clock on the counter. Too late to do anything meaningful, too early that the night wouldn’t drag as she waited for morning to come. She heard her foot tapping before she realised she was doing it. Maggie glanced down, an amused smile on her face before she returned to the menu.
Touché, Ellie thought. Granny Maggie had hooked her into a mystery, only this one wasn’t a placid Miss Marple. This was happening in her home village, in her gran’s bookshop, and there was something going on within the walls of Blackwood House. Funny, Ellie had always wondered what the inside of that creepy old house looked like—if her gran was as confident they would be welcomed inside, maybe she was about to find out after chips, prawn toast, and hopefully a good night’s sleep.
Chapter 10Penny of King Offa
Ellie got the salt and vinegar-soaked chips and the crunchy prawn toast, but she wasn’t fortunate enough to get the refreshing night’s sleep. As she scanned the pots of pens in Wiltshire Whimsy, one of the last shops around the bend on the other side of South Street, Ellie couldn’t swallow down the yawn threatening to split her jaw in two.
“Let me see that face properly because I know a Meadowling when I see one,” said the cheerful woman with the silk scarf holding up her ringlet curls bundled on top of her head. “Yes, that is where I know you from. You are Maggie’s granddaughter, yes?”
“Ellie,” she said, introducing herself with an outstretched hand. “You have a lovely shop. I don’t think I’ve ever been in here before.”
“Zara Williams,” Zara said, accepting Ellie’s handshake; she had a ring on each finger with a different gemstone in each gold band. “And thank you for the compliment, lovely. My shop has been here years now.” She planted a hand on her hip as she calculated the figures. She had a way of speaking where each syllable was enunciated so crisply and clearly, giving her speech a rhythmic and measured quality. “It must be coming on nine years now, but you do not recognise me, do you?”
Ellie squinted at the woman with the kind face and bubbly personality, waiting for something to click, but only able to offer an apologetic shake of her head.
“That’s alright, flower, that happens all the time when you get to your fifties, trust me,” Zara said with a forgiving chuckle. “To be honest, I dealt more with your mother. I used to run a little wedding decorating business before this place. I never did know if you picked those table decorations. I just could not fathom a young girl like yourself wanting to have a white and beige wedding.”
“My mother says ‘colour is for clowns’. And, Zara. I…” Ellie struggled for the words. “I’m sorry, that’s not a time I like to think about. Of course, I remember you. And you’re right, I don’t think we had many conversations.”
“You were ever so shy,” she said, offering a solemn nod as Ellie saw the realisation dawning in her widening eyes as she remembered the second half of the story of that wedding. “I… Yes, I suppose… Oh… I…” She cleared her throat as though wishing she hadn’t mentioned anything. “Hey! I heard you worked in television now. Congratulations! How is that going?”
Zara’s face brightened, but it dropped when Ellie didn’t return it.
“Worked, as in past tense,” Ellie said, and she’d decided that morning that if she wanted to get through a day in Meadowfield as easily as she could, she wouldn’t shrink away from the tough conversations. Tough conversations were still tough, though. “It was my dream job, actually, and I… I suppose when it came down to the cull, my name didn’t stand out enough.” Hearing the words from her own mouth stung. “I’m sure I’ll figure it out soon. That’s life, right?”
“That’s the spirit. You fall down, you get back up,” Zara said, brightening up. “You know, I had a cousin who worked in a banana factory, and he lost three fingers on each hand when the big machine sucked him up.” She ran her fingers into imaginary machinery before snatching them back to hold them close to her chest, shaking her head. “Just sucked him right in there, and—you know, in my head, that almost sounded the same as your situation, but out loud, that’s quite a bit different, isn’t it?”
Ellie nodded, though she couldn’t help but smile. “A little.”
“It’s a wonder I’ve got to nine years in this shop, isn’t it? I scare away the same amount of customers I serve with my yapping, but you know how quiet it can get down this end of South Street. There is something about that bend in the road that scares tourists away, and, it’s not every day I have a returning Meadowling in here, and—here I go again!” Zara cut herself off with a shake of her head, making the little curls poking out of the scarf jiggle. “How about you tell me how I can help you? I watched you walk up and down these aisles three times when I was trying to remember where I knew your face. You seem quite taken with the pens? If none of those take your fancy, I have some more in some pots here on the counter.”
Glad to be talking about what she went into Wiltshire Whimsy for, Ellie followed Zara Williams back to the counter, who despite seeming to think all of her thoughts out loud, Ellie was immediately endeared by. It was true that her mother had dealt with most of the arrangements for the wedding. Ellie had been mentally checked out, which had been an omen to Granny Maggie, at least, but not to Ellie until it was almost too late. She couldn’t recall what the table decorations Zara had made looked like—she must have seen them, but they hadn’t made it to the wedding reception.
Ellie’s eyes swept across the vibrant interior of Wiltshire Whimsy, taking in the kaleidoscope of colours that adorned every surface, from ceramic hedgehog salt and pepper shakers, fox-shaped cushions, and owl bookends. Bright, hand-painted mugs featuring whimsical designs sat next to artisanal chocolates wrapped in shimmering foil. The shop was a far cry from the muted tones her mother favoured, and Ellie couldn’t help but wonder if Zara’s style had evolved over the years or if Carolyn had reined her in during the wedding planning.
Ellie hesitated for a moment, weighing her words carefully. “I’m actually looking for a specific kind of pen. A refillable fountain pen that might have been bought recently without an ink cartridge. Do you have anything like that?”
Zara’s brow furrowed in thought. “Hmm, the only fountain pens I have are these.” She motioned to a pot of jewel-toned fountain pens with marbled handles, which were a similar shape, but none were black. “I do have some others that just came in. I do not know what I was thinking ordering them, but…” She rummaged behind the counter and pulled out a bag of white pens with ‘I Love Meadowfield’ printed in red on the side.
“That’s definitely not them,” Ellie said, suppressing a smile. “But I love them. I’ll buy one. And one of these pads, please.” She picked up a leather-textured notebook that looked like it had been plucked straight from Jane Austen’s era. “Nice thick paper.”
