The American nodded vigorously. “Important to know where you come from.”
Charles’s next words caught Ellie’s attention. “It’s not like you can change it, is it? You can’t change the past... what has been done... what you’ve done...”
Ellie watched as the American tourist’s expression shifted from enthusiasm to discomfort. He cleared his throat and asked Charles if he could take a picture of him with the bell. After a quick pose, the tourist hurried out, leaving Charles alone next to the displays.
Charles adjusted one of the pictures tacked to the board—a black-and-white photograph of Blackwood House, looking fresher and more open without its tower or surrounding trees. He seemed lost in thought until he suddenly spun around, startled by Ellie’s presence.
Ellie pretended to be engrossed in the nearest display—a collection of Roman artefacts found around the village. A stroke of fate.
“These are fascinating,” she said, hoping to draw Charles into conversation. “Can you tell me more about them?”
Charles seemed to relax, falling into his role as a historian. “Well, these were found during various excavations around Meadowfield. They’re quite common in this area, given our Roman history.”
“What about the coins?” she asked. “Have you heard of the Penny of King Offa?”
“That’s... odd,” he said, regarding her curiously as he pushed the glasses up the shiny bridge of his nose. “That’s actually the only coin missing from our collection.”
“Missing?” Ellie asked, her interest piqued. “As in stolen?”
“No, no. It’s the one we’ve never found. Why do you ask about that specific penny?”
Before Ellie could respond, Anne bustled into the room, her face lighting up at the sight of Ellie. “I can’t stop bumping into you!” she exclaimed. “Did your mother ever get off that kitchen counter?” Anne turned to Charles, her tone shifting to business. “Look lively, there’s another group of Across The Ponders heading past the pond. They’ll be here in under a minute.”
Ellie noticed Charles’s disturbed expression, recalling his earlier words to the tourist. What had he been referencing when talking about not being able to change the past? She had mere seconds before the next group arrived to find out before she found herself sandwiched in.
Spinning around following her instincts, she addressed Anne, “Long shot, but do you have an Open University brochure? I’m thinking of retraining. Maybe getting a second degree.”
“A second?” Anne laughed as though it was a—rightfully—ludicrous idea, preoccupied with preparations behind the counter. “Ask Charles about that, dear. He did it too.”
Ellie turned back to Charles. “Are you studying history with them?”
Charles stammered, “Y-yes, I am.”
“Do you know of a book?” Ellie asked quickly, naming the title left at the crime scene.
Charles’s face paled. He gulped, seemingly unable to form words. Suddenly, he blurted out, “I feel sick,” and rushed out of the room, leaving Ellie standing alone amidst the Roman artefacts.
Ellie’s mind raced as she processed Anne’s outburst. “That’s all she needs! That damn family!” Anne exclaimed, her usual composure slipping.
Remembering a previous conversation, Ellie probed further. “Anne, the other day you mentioned Charles having his ear twisted by his father. Could Thomas have convinced him to do something he didn’t want to do?”
Anne’s eyes widened, and she nodded emphatically. “Oh, he did all the time. Charles wanted to study at Oxford, you know. He got in, too, but his father wouldn’t pay for it.” She sighed, shaking her head. “Open University is several thousand pounds cheaper a year.”
Ellie felt a pang of sympathy for Charles. She recalled her own struggles with family expectations and the pressure to follow a certain path.
Anne continued, her voice tinged with regret. “It worked for me, but I regret recommending it to Thomas when he asked about it. Seeing Charles stuck in Meadowfield, studying online... it’s breaking him.” Her eyes softened as she spoke about Charles. “That boy is so quiet, so lonely. He needs to get out to find himself. I worry about him.”
Ellie knew the feeling, but she bid Anne goodbye and slipped out of the museum just as the next wave of American tourists began to flood in. The warm air outside felt like a relief compared to the stuffiness within. A group of locals gathered outside The Drowsy Duck, shaking their heads and chuckling. Following their gaze, she spotted a cluster of tourists posing for photos in front of the pond as cars drove past on the other side, on the only road—a through road—in Meadowfield that could be considered busy.
Despite the locals’ amusement, Ellie knew the village benefited from these visitors. With the Heatherwood Haven soap tourism having dried up years ago, these coach tours were a lifeline for many local businesses. All the shops that usually kept erratic hours were now wide open, eager to capitalise on the temporary influx of freshly converted currency.
She found Charles sitting cross-legged under a tree by the pond, eyes closed, head rested against the bark, his knees drawn in close. Ellie started to make her way towards him, intending to continue their conversation from the museum. Before she could reach him, however, Emma appeared, striding purposefully from the street leading up to Blackwood House.
Ellie slowed her pace, watching as Emma charged right at her brother. Suddenly, Emma’s voice rang out, sharp and angry. Though Ellie couldn’t make out the words, the fury in Emma’s tone was unmistakable.
Charles sprung up, and as Emma continued her tirade, he shoved past her. Emma stumbled back, clutching her injured arm, her face contorting in pain for a moment before she continued on towards South Street.
On the corner of South Street, Meadowfield Books waited for her, rid of the recent police presence. She should have been rushing at the door with the key outstretched, but she couldn’t help but watch as Charles lingered on a bench on the other side of the small car park next to the pub.
A quiet, lonely boy who felt stuck. She could relate to that feeling all too well. But driven to kill? The thought sent a chill down her spine. If Charles was indeed the murderer, she needed to prove it. However, one thing was certain in Ellie’s mind after how he’d reacted to the mention of one of the books on his reading list: Charles had been the one to break into the bookshop first, and her grandmother had figured it out.
Which led to another troubling question. Why was Maggie, who had sworn she wanted to find the truth, lying to Ellie of all people? The deception stung. She trusted her grandmother, a woman who’d always been there for her. Her grandmother, her confidant, her history teacher, her encouragement, and the idea that Maggie might be withholding crucial information left her adrift.
Lost in her thoughts, Ellie barely noticed Sylvia rushing past until the woman called out to her.
“Ah, there you are!” Sylvia exclaimed, slightly out of breath. “Don’t forget you promised to meet for breakfast at the café, Eleanor! It’s on me.”
Ellie blinked, disoriented as she was pulled from her musings. “Ellie is fine, and I’m on my way there now. And it’s on me. I owe you and Willow for last night. You saved my life.”
“All in an evening’s work,” she proclaimed, hurrying off as though stopping was out of the question. “I’ll be right over. I just have to go and help Amber with a little drama currently unfolding at her shop. I did warn her, after the mess of my mural, hire a Blackwood at your own risk!”
Chapter 17The Breakfast Club Arrest
Ellie stepped into The Giggling Goat café on South Street, the familiar scent of freshly baked pastries and coffee wafting through the air—just what she needed after that strange visit to the museum. Oliver worked at lightning speed behind the counter in his black apron, while a woman with sleek black hair waited at the end of the bar. In the corner, Willow Thompson sat alone, nursing a steaming cup of tea, her long dark hair cascading over her shoulders. She was too engrossed in her folded paperback to notice the new arrival.
“Ah, good morning, Ellie!” Oliver announced brightly as Ellie approached the counter, where loaves of all flavours waited in neat rows like loaf soldiers. “I’ve been awaiting your review of my cherry and lemon loaf with bated breath.” He paused to twist the espresso pump before bashing it into the bin and refilling it without spilling a crumb; an expert barista, by Ellie’s eye. “You hated it, didn’t you? Because right now, you look like you’re trying to think of a way to tell me how much you hated it without hurting my feelings.”
Oliver had a twinkle in his eye that let her know he was only half-serious, but that didn’t help her feel better about the fact she couldn’t remember where she’d set the box down after Oliver thrust it upon her in the street yesterday. She had a habit of putting things down and forgetting about them—out of sight, out of mind.
