Daniel’s face lit up with relief, and he gestured towards the string lights, warming the darkness outside The Old Bell. As they walked side by side towards the pub, Ellie took one last look at the dark silhouette of St. Mary’s Church before stepping into the welcoming light of the pub with Daniel by her side.
Someone had just tried to kill her in that graveyard, and it had scared her so much, she hadn’t been able to say it out loud.
Chapter 15The Night Visitor
Ellie settled into the worn leather armchair by the fireplace, the familiar comfort of The Old Bell wrapping around her like a warm blanket. She glanced towards the bar, where PC Finn Walsh sat, his eyes fixed on Sammy as she poured pints for Daniel. Ellie considered reporting the incident in the graveyard. Finn was out of uniform, and the way he gazed at Sammy suggested his mind was far from police work.
Sammy, the new landlady, was a stark contrast to Mrs Hawks, the fierce stalwart who used to run the pub. Young and laid-back, she moved behind the bar with an easy grace that made Ellie feel instantly at ease. As Daniel approached with their drinks, Ellie’s eyes wandered to the bookshelves, where several of Edmund’s novels sat proudly on display.
“I saw quite a few pen-stabbing re-enactments in the playground today,” Daniel said, handing Ellie her drink. “Edmund Blackwood continues to capture the attention of the village.”
She took a sip, pleasantly surprised to taste cider. “Then I’m not the only one preoccupied by the pen,” she replied, realising she’d been too shaken earlier to specify her drink preference.
As the cider’s warmth spread through her, Ellie found herself slipping into old habits. She kicked off her shoes, curling her feet underneath her on the chair. The hearthrug beneath was the same one from her childhood when she’d sit here reading while her mother charmed producers and directors. Mrs Hawks would always scold her for putting her feet up, but Ellie could never resist the urge to curl up with a good book.
Ellie leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “Do you know anything about the Blackwoods?” she asked Daniel, her voice low.
Daniel’s eyebrows raised slightly. “Well, young Emma Blackwood did her work experience at the primary school when I was freshly qualified. She was entitled and work-shy, if I’m honest.” He took a sip of his drink. “I think she works at the antique shop on South Street now.”
“With Amber?” Ellie asked, trying to place the name.
“Who?”
“The girl with the pink hair.”
“Oh, I’ve seen her around. Sounds like you’re settling in, getting to know people,” Daniel said, his eyes twinkling. “So, is this home again?”
Ellie hesitated. “Didn’t I say to ask me again in a week?”
“Then what?” Daniel pressed gently.
Ellie’s mind wandered to the bookshop keys and her desire to help set things right. But what then? Maggie had got into this state in the first place; it could happen again. She was getting older, and no amount of cleaning and tidying would change that.
“My gran’s struggling with the shop,” she said. “I can’t leave until there’s something long-term sorted out there.”
“It took my nan years to accept she had to slow down,” he admitted. “Clung onto her post office job until she was almost eighty, and then they forced her to retire.”
Ellie sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe... maybe my gran sells the shop?” The words felt strange as they left her mouth. She shook her head. “I’ll figure it out later. Right now, I want to know what’s going on with Edmund Blackwood and his missing final novel.”
“I might be able to help with that,” he said, draining half his pint before springing to his feet. “I think I can help with that.”
Ellie followed Daniel out of The Old Bell, the cool night air refreshing after the pub’s warmth. Across the green next door to her mother’s house, who would be hours into her beauty sleep, Daniel fumbled with his keys.
“Nan’s a deep sleeper, but we’ll try to be quiet,” he whispered as they entered. “It’s just in the front room.”
The inside of Daniel’s nan’s cottage was like stepping back in time. Floral wallpaper, doilies on every surface, and the faint scent of lavender swirled in the air. Compared to her mother’s modern, beige-themed decor next door, it wasn’t just a different time, but a different planet.
In the sitting room, Daniel gestured towards a bookshelf that took up an entire wall.
“Here we are,” he said proudly, “the complete collection of Edmund Blackwood’s works. Hardbacks, all first editions. Signed, too. Nan would always buy them on release day and then hunt Edmund down for a signature. She’d catch him anywhere—the pub, post office, café, even on the street. It got to the point where Edmund would just walk across the green and push a signed copy through our letterbox. Saved him the trouble of being ambushed, I suppose.”
Ellie ran her fingers along the spines, marvelling at the collection. “This is incredible,” she said, her mind racing with the possibilities this treasure trove might hold for solving the mystery of Edmund’s final manuscript. “It’s a complete archive. This could be worth a lot.”
“Nan would never sell them,” he said, leaning in to whisper, “but between us, I don’t think she’s read them in years. I think she just liked getting them because he was well known.”
“Why didn’t I ever hear about Edmund growing up?” she asked, genuinely puzzled. “My gran owns a bookshop. He’s someone I should know about.”
Daniel’s eyes lit up, a smile spreading across his face. “Ah, because we were born here,” he explained, reaching for a book on the shelf. He pulled out a volume titled The Murder of the Seventh Son and held it up. “This is about five years into what his fans online call ‘the dark period’.” Moving to the first set of books, Daniel continued, “These are the first dozen. From his debut, Gertrude’s Ghost up to The Haunting of Bleckley Park, they’re all classics.” He paused, his finger resting on one particular spine. “With a special shout-out to his sixth book, Mindless, a complete reinvention set in an asylum that divided opinions at first but has been called an all-time classic.”
Ellie’s eyes moved between the two halves of the collection. “What makes this half different from this half?”
Daniel pulled out two books, one from each section. “See this?” he said, opening the earlier work. “Written in full. Description, dialogue, all the stuff you’d expect to see. Now, look at this.” He opened the later book. “Bare to the bones, written almost like a script with few words. They read like he’s telling us his concept, and that became the book somehow.”
“It reads like two different people.”
“The decline was steady, but then it sped up the older he got. I heard Edmund liked to draft using a Dictaphone, and people speculated he would type that up and call it a day. And it went on and on and on, until four years ago, The Body Most Foul—like magic, back to his heyday. As good as they were, and the next one, and the next one, and people started accusing him of having a ghostwriter and of being dead, and then he actually did died. But people had given up hoping for a comeback years ago, so to get four books at the end to compete with his greats was a real treat.”
Ellie couldn’t help but smile at Daniel’s enthusiasm. His eyes danced as he talked about Edmund’s books like it was the most fascinating thing in the world to him.
“Sorry,” he said, catching himself. “I’m geeking out a little, aren’t I?”
“It’s cute,” Ellie replied, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Daniel’s cheeks flushed slightly. “No thirty-year-old man wants to hear that they’re c-c-cute,” he stuttered, his old childhood stammer making a brief reappearance.
Before Ellie could respond, a shuffling sound came from the hallway. An elderly woman appeared, draped in a floral nightgown, her candyfloss-textured white hair forming a halo around her head.
“Daniel? Is that you with a night visitor?” she asked, squinting in the dim light. “A girl? Oh, she’s pretty and all. About time someone made an honest man of you.”
