The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 6 - Saturday

Saturday

A Postcard from C

What Saturday might have in store for me was a question I chose not to ask.

The previous week had demonstrated quite convincingly that life could answer such questions whether one wanted it to or not.

I left home shortly before eight.

My cottage stood on the outskirts of Pebblewick, beside the road leading away from the village. It was a modest little place, containing two bedrooms, a small back garden, and rather more books than any sensible person ought to own. On occasion, the books outnumbered the available seating.

There were only three houses along that stretch of road.

Mine was the first.

The second belonged to Doctor Heal.

Doctor Heal was in his early sixties and had been looking after the inhabitants of Pebblewick and the surrounding villages for more than twenty years.

And yes, his name really was Doctor Heal.

Visitors occasionally assumed somebody was making a joke when they first heard it. The people of Pebblewick had long since stopped noticing.

He was a tall, lean man with greying hair that was still surprisingly thick, although it had developed a habit of sticking up slightly at the back by the end of a long surgery. He wore narrow, dark-framed spectacles and usually dressed in a shirt and tie beneath a well-worn tweed jacket. The tie tended to become progressively looser as the day went on.

He had the calm, thoughtful expression of somebody who had spent much of his working life listening to people describe symptoms in considerably more detail than was medically necessary.

After years of knowing him, I had become accustomed to it, though newcomers often reacted as though they had stumbled into a joke. He divided his working days between surgeries in Pebblewick and the neighbouring village five miles away, with the result that nobody was ever entirely certain where he might currently be found.

The third house belonged to an art dealer.

He remained something of an enigma.

I knew his name, naturally, but very little else. Like most of Pebblewick, he lived almost entirely beyond the reach of village curiosity, which in itself was a notable achievement.

He never appeared in The Merry Teapot.

He never queued at The Codfather.

He never attended fêtes, fundraisers, harvest suppers, charity raffles, or any of the countless events through which Pebblewick monitored itself.

Most remarkably of all, Mrs Thistlewood possessed almost no information about him whatsoever.

That alone elevated him to near-mythical status.

The only reliable indication that he was home was his motorcar.

If it sat in the drive, he was probably inside.

If it did not, he probably was not.

Beyond those three houses the countryside took over completely.

The road stretched onwards between hedgerows and open fields, disappearing towards the next village.

Some of those fields supposedly belonged to Mr Milton-Price.

Others supposedly did not.

The precise extent of Mr Milton-Price's holdings had been the subject of debate for years, not least because Mr Milton-Price appeared to regard every visible acre of countryside as a matter still awaiting official confirmation.

I had wisely chosen never to involve myself.

There are certain disputes best appreciated from a safe distance.

The walk into Pebblewick took around ten minutes.

As I reached Harbour Street, I heard the cry of a gull overhead.

Another answered.

Then came a third call.

Only the third one was not a gull.

It was Hubert.

For the second consecutive morning, he was standing beside his touring bicycle, apparently engaged in detailed negotiations with several seagulls.

One squawked.

Hubert replied.

A second gull joined in.

Hubert answered that as well.

The discussion appeared lengthy and complex.

Exactly what was being negotiated remained unclear.

Hubert spotted me and waved cheerfully.

“Morning, Harold!”

“Morning, Hubert.”

I continued walking.

I was still unconvinced about the entire arrangement.

The troubling part was that the gulls seemed considerably more invested than I was.

I arrived at The Salty Page at half past eight.

Dorothy was due at nine for her first official morning as my newly recruited volunteer, and I wanted half an hour beforehand to ensure everything looked reasonably presentable.

I unlocked the door.

Turned the sign to OPEN.

Straightened a display of postcards.

Checked the till.

Moved a stack of books from one side of the counter to the other and decided that qualified as tidying.

Then I waited.

I expected a quiet morning.

Unfortunately, that was a thought I had entertained on several recent occasions.

Experience suggested it was unwise.

A few minutes later I heard familiar whistling approaching from outside.

Patrick Post.

Pebblewick's postman possessed a remarkable inability to deliver mail in silence. Wherever Patrick went, a tune accompanied him.

You always knew when he was approaching.

What you never knew was whether he actually had any post for you.

Although deliveries occurred daily in theory, Pebblewick often experienced letters in clusters, as though the postal system occasionally remembered we existed and hurried to make amends.

Most of my correspondence was entirely predictable.

Bills.

Invoices.

Statements.

Publishers' catalogues.

Letters explaining why books I wanted were unavailable.

Occasionally an author would write personally to inform me that their latest masterpiece was precisely what the reading public of Pebblewick had been waiting for.

Patrick appeared in the doorway.

“Morning, Harold.”

“Morning, Patrick.”

He was whistling something frustratingly familiar.

Without breaking stride, he deposited a small bundle of letters on the counter.

“Not much for you today.”

“That sounds encouraging.”

“Couple of letters.”

“Bills?”

“Probably.”

“Thank you for maintaining the suspense.”

He grinned.

Then something caught my eye.

A postcard.

That was unusual.

I picked it up.

The picture on the front showed rolling green hills beneath an impossibly blue sky. A flower-covered stone cottage nestled among the landscape, while mountains rose peacefully in the distance through a veil of summer haze.

It looked like the sort of place where nothing unpleasant had happened in centuries.

I turned it over.

There was no extended holiday message.

No observations on local cuisine.

No complaints regarding hotel breakfasts.

Only a single sentence.

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

I read it twice.

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

Just the letter.

C.

I frowned.

The only person I could immediately think of who was currently away was Miss Cartwright.

Her book on teaching in the next century still sat behind the counter awaiting the new school term.

Cartwright began with C.

But why would Miss Cartwright send me a postcard?

And what possible surprise could she have for me?

“...and they say it'll stay dry until Monday.”

I looked up.

Patrick was still talking.

“Sorry?”

“The weather.”

“Ah.”

“They say it'll stay dry until Monday.”

“That's good.”

“Though Ted reckons it'll rain this afternoon.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Who is Ted?”

“My brother-in-law.”

I nodded politely.

This appeared to settle the matter completely.

My attention returned to the postcard.

C.

Perhaps it was not Miss Cartwright after all.

I began mentally reviewing every acquaintance whose name began with that letter.

Captain Haddock.

Unlikely.

Captain Trelawney.

Equally unlikely.

Neither seemed the type to sign a postcard with a solitary initial.

Cecil Dashing?

Possibly.

Although Cecil was more inclined to arrive unexpectedly and announce a surprise in person.

Caroline Evans?

No.

I had seen her only yesterday.

Then there was...

The bell above the door rang.

“Good morning, Mr Quibble.”

I looked up.

Dorothy stood in the doorway.

Dorothy’s First Morning

Saturday had only just begun, yet Dorothy seemed determined to master the entire bookshop before lunchtime.

As it transpired, she required remarkably little instruction.

By the time I arrived, she had already compiled several pages of notes detailing the location of virtually everything in the shop.

Fiction.

Crime.

History.

Travel.

Children’s books.

Local interest.

Even the postcards and bookmarks had been carefully catalogued in her notebook.

I glanced through the pages.

“You’ve been busy.”

“I didn’t want to forget anything.”

“I’ve owned the shop for years and I still forget where things are.”

She looked at me uncertainly, trying to decide whether I was serious.

I chose not to assist.

The only task she genuinely needed to learn was the till.

I showed her how to ring up a sale, take payment, calculate change and print a receipt.

Dorothy watched with the concentration of somebody studying for an examination.

Then, inevitably, she opened her notebook.

She recorded every step.

I demonstrated the process again.

She added another note.

After that, I invited her to try it herself.

She completed the entire transaction flawlessly.

I found myself unexpectedly impressed.

Mrs Thistlewood may have recruited a member of staff for my bookshop without obtaining my approval, but she appeared to have selected somebody extremely capable.

Indeed, I was beginning to suspect Dorothy might prove a considerable asset on Saturdays.

Whenever the shop fell briefly quiet, we talked.

I learned a little more about her, while she asked questions about the books, the business and the countless small routines that kept The Salty Page running.

Then the customers began arriving.

Or, more accurately, Dorothy’s admirers did.

Throughout the morning, there was a steady procession of young people making their way into the shop. Some came alone. Others arrived with their mothers. Nearly every one of them offered some variation of the same greeting.

“Congratulations, Dorothy!”

“Good luck with the new job!”

“Heard you’re working here now!”

News travelled fast in Pebblewick.

I strongly suspected Mrs Thistlewood had managed to generate more publicity for Dorothy’s first shift than I had managed for the entire bookshop during the previous several years.

Some of the visitors purchased books.

A few of the mothers bought books as well.

Others settled for postcards or bookmarks.

Quite a number purchased absolutely nothing.

Nevertheless, every one of them stopped to wish Dorothy well.

She served every paying customer herself.

She rang up the purchases.

Accepted payment.

Counted the change.

Printed receipts when necessary.

And thanked each customer warmly as they departed.

I scarcely had to intervene.

By late morning, I was beginning to wonder whether Dorothy required my assistance at all.

Business, meanwhile, was unusually brisk.

Certainly far better than a typical Saturday morning.

Several times I caught myself looking at her and thinking that perhaps Mrs Thistlewood had known exactly what she was doing.

I dismissed the notion immediately.

There were certain precedents I had no desire to encourage.

As lunchtime approached, the flow of visitors gradually subsided to the usual trickle.

I was sorting a stack of books behind the counter when another customer entered.

She required no introduction.

She was a woman in her early forties, neatly dressed and quietly attractive, with shoulder-length chestnut-brown hair that curled slightly at the ends. Warm brown eyes and an open, friendly face gave her an immediate air of kindness. Most striking of all was a familiar, slightly nervous smile.

I had seen the same smile on Dorothy.

A pale blouse, dark trousers and a light summer cardigan completed the picture, while a handbag rested beneath one arm.

There was something instantly approachable about her.

Yet it was not her appearance that revealed her identity.

It was the way she looked across the shop.

Her gaze settled upon Dorothy behind the counter, and her entire face illuminated with unmistakable pride.

Dorothy looked up.

“Mum.”

That settled the matter.

The woman approached with an even broader smile.

“Mr Quibble?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Elizabeth. Dorothy’s mother.”

“I thought you might be.”

She took my hand in both of hers.

“Thank you.”

“Oh—”

“Thank you so much for giving Dorothy this opportunity.”

“It’s really—”

“You’ve no idea how pleased she was when Mrs Thistlewood told her.”

I glanced towards Dorothy.

Dorothy instantly discovered something of overwhelming importance in her notebook.

Elizabeth continued.

“She came home and talked about nothing else. She was up early this morning. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so eager to leave the house on a Saturday.”

“That is encouraging.”

“She loves books.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“And this will be wonderful for her. Meeting people, learning about work, having responsibility. I really can’t thank you enough for giving her this chance.”

There was one small complication.

The truth was that I had not really given Dorothy the chance at all.

Mrs Thistlewood had quietly arranged everything before I had the opportunity to object.

I looked across at Dorothy.

She stood behind the counter with her notebook beside the till, serving customers with growing confidence and looking very much as though she belonged there.

Then I looked back at Elizabeth’s radiant face.

“You’re very welcome,” I said.

Sometimes the truth was perfectly accurate without every detail being supplied.

The Postcard

Deciding that Dorothy and Elizabeth deserved a little time together, I left them in charge of the shop and crossed the road to The Merry Teapot.

That, at least, was my official reason.

The real reason sat tucked safely inside my waistcoat pocket.

The postcard.

There was only one person in Pebblewick whose opinion I trusted on matters both practical and mysterious.

Molly.

The morning rush at the tearoom was beginning to fade when I arrived. By all accounts, it had been a busy one.

Several fishermen had stopped in for breakfast after returning from the sea. Like Captain Haddock the previous day, they had enjoyed an unusually successful haul and had come ashore in remarkably cheerful spirits. Fishing, it seemed, was going exceptionally well that week.

The fish might have disputed the point.

A number of Pebblewick's football players had also called in for tea and breakfast. They were equally delighted with themselves. The team had won several matches in succession, a run of form so unfamiliar that some members were beginning to suspect they had finally worked out the purpose of football.

According to Molly, they had spent most of breakfast discussing their recent triumphs.

Each retelling improved the victories considerably.

By the end of the conversation, they were probably only a goal or two away from winning the World Cup.

By the time I arrived, however, both fishermen and footballers had departed. The last few customers were making their way towards the door, and the tearoom had settled into that short, peaceful lull between breakfast and lunch.

Molly was clearing a table when she spotted me.

"Morning, Harold."

"Morning, Molly."

Her eyes flicked towards the door behind me.

"Shop closed, is it?"

"No. Dorothy's looking after it."

Molly stopped in mid-motion.

"Dorothy?"

I had forgotten that village news did not travel instantly, even in Pebblewick.

"Mrs Thistlewood appears to have recruited me a volunteer."

"Without asking first?"

"Naturally."

Molly nodded knowingly.

"That sounds exactly like Mrs Thistlewood."

I slipped a hand into my waistcoat pocket.

"That's not actually why I'm here."

I produced the postcard and laid it on the table between us.

"I was hoping you might help me identify something."

Molly studied it.

"What is it?"

"That," I said, "is the question."

Turning it over, I slid it towards her.

"Do you know anyone called C?"

"C?"

"That's all I've got."

She picked up the card and read the message aloud.

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

A thoughtful frown appeared.

"Cecil?"

"My first thought."

"Caroline?"

"Saw her yesterday."

"Captain Haddock?"

"I doubt he signs his correspondence using his maritime title."

She smiled.

Then paused.

"What about Miss Cartwright?"

"That was my leading theory."

Miss Cartwright had become a familiar presence in The Merry Teapot since arriving in Pebblewick. On most school mornings she stopped in on her way to the village school.

Sometimes tea.

Sometimes coffee.

Toast if she was early.

A hurried takeaway cup if she was late, which seemed to happen rather more often than she cared to admit.

Molly knew her usual order. She knew which table she preferred. She knew that some mornings she carried enough exercise books to suggest the entire school had submitted essays overnight.

What she apparently did not know was Miss Cartwright's first name.

"She's away, isn't she?" I said.

"I know that much."

"Any idea where she's gone?"

Molly shook her head.

"None at all. She said she was going away during the holidays, but I don't remember her saying where."

I glanced again at the picturesque scene on the front.

Neither of us recognised it.

Miss Cartwright had been teaching in Pebblewick for only eighteen months, yet she had already joined that curious category of people known exclusively by their surname.

To the children, she was Miss Cartwright.

To the parents, she was Miss Cartwright.

To Molly, who served her breakfast several times a week, she was Miss Cartwright.

And to me, she was Miss Cartwright.

Somehow nobody had ever progressed beyond that.

We were still discussing possibilities when the door opened.

Doctor Heal stepped inside.

"Morning, Molly. Just a quick coffee, please."

"The usual?"

"Please."

Doctor Heal's quick coffees were something of a village legend.

The coffee was usually quick.

Doctor Heal rarely was.

He moved towards the counter while Molly prepared it, then suddenly noticed the postcard lying between us.

He stopped.

"Oh," he said casually. "Have you had a card from Catherine?"

Molly and I stared at him.

He stared back.

A silence settled over the room.

"Catherine?" I repeated.

He glanced at the postcard.

"Yes."

"Catherine who?"

Another pause.

Doctor Heal wore the cautious expression of a man who had unexpectedly stepped into deep water.

"Cartwright."

"Miss Cartwright?"

"Yes."

Molly looked at me.

I looked at Molly.

After eighteen months, our schoolteacher had finally acquired a first name.

Catherine.

Molly looked genuinely astonished.

"She comes in here most mornings and I never knew that."

Doctor Heal smiled.

"Well, now you do."

"How did you know?" I asked.

He hesitated.

Then he recognised the danger of the question.

"I know most people's names in the village, Harold."

Which was perfectly fair.

It was also exactly the sort of answer given by someone determined not to answer any further questions.

Molly placed his coffee on the counter.

"There you are, Doctor."

"Thank you."

He picked it up rather eagerly.

I looked at the postcard.

Then back at him.

"You recognised it very quickly."

Doctor Heal took a careful sip.

"I recognised the picture."

"Where is it?"

"The Lake District."

Molly leaned closer.

"Whereabouts?"

"Grasmere."

I blinked.

"You can tell that from a photograph?"

"Yes."

The certainty of the answer was mildly irritating.

I turned the card over once more.

"So Catherine Cartwright is in Grasmere?"

"I believe so."

"You believe so?"

He took another sip.

"Yes."

Molly looked at me.

I looked at Molly.

Together, we looked at Doctor Heal.

For the first time, he seemed aware that his quick coffee had somehow become an interview.

"How do you know she's there?" I asked.

A pause followed.

Doctor Heal examined his cup with great concentration.

"She mentioned it."

"When?"

"Before she went away."

Molly folded her arms.

"She tells me about school inspections, troublesome pupils, broken umbrellas and the weather, but somehow Grasmere never came up."

Doctor Heal smiled politely.

"Perhaps the subject simply never arose."

Neither of us appeared convinced.

He glanced towards the door.

"I really should be getting back to the surgery."

"You only arrived two minutes ago."

"Patients, Harold."

Unfortunately, that was a difficult argument to challenge.

He placed the cup down, thanked Molly and headed for the exit.

"Doctor?"

He paused with one hand on the door.

I held up the postcard.

"Do you know what the surprise is?"

For the first time, a genuinely amused smile crossed his face.

"No, Harold."

He opened the door.

"But knowing Catherine, I expect you'll discover soon enough."

Then he was gone.

Molly and I watched him cross the street.

Only when he disappeared from view did I look down at the postcard again.

I have a surprise to share with you. C.

At least one mystery had been solved.

C was Catherine.

Catherine Cartwright.

She was somewhere in Grasmere.

What remained unexplained was why she had sent the postcard to me.

And why Doctor Heal seemed to know rather more about Miss Catherine Cartwright's holiday than either Molly or I thought he probably should.

I was just about to make my way back to the shop when the door opened and a man stepped inside.

He looked to be somewhere in his seventies, though it was difficult to judge. A long overcoat hung from his shoulders despite the warmth of the summer morning, its collar turned high about his neck. Beneath a trilby hat pulled low over his brow, only fragments of his face were visible: weathered skin, deep lines etched by time, and a neatly trimmed grey moustache.

It was an odd appearance for such a pleasant day.

The stranger offered neither greeting nor explanation.

Instead, he crossed the tearoom in silence, selected a table in the far corner, and sat down. From beneath his arm he produced a newspaper, unfolded it carefully, and raised it before him like a shield. Within moments, all but a sliver of his face had disappeared behind the rustling pages.

Molly glanced at me.

I glanced at Molly.

Then, deciding that even mysterious old gentlemen were entitled to a cup of tea, she straightened her apron and went across to take his order.

I watched him for a moment longer.

Pebblewick was not the sort of place where strangers went unnoticed. It was a small village, the kind where most people knew everyone else, and those they did not know were usually known by Mrs Thistlewood.

Yet now and again someone arrived who seemed determined to remain an enigma.

It appeared that Pebblewick had acquired another.

A Little Tern for Hubert

When I returned to the bookshop, I found Dorothy entertaining a most enthusiastic visitor.

Hubert stood beside the counter, bicycle helmet tucked beneath one arm, his face alight with the sort of excitement usually reserved for lottery winners, shipwreck survivors, or people who had just discovered buried treasure.

For Hubert, this was remarkable even by his own standards.

The moment he spotted me, his eyes widened.

“Harold!” he cried. “You’re back!”

“I generally am.”

“You’ll never guess what I saw this morning.”

“A seagull?”

“No!”

The answer delighted him so thoroughly that he nearly bounced on the spot.

Apparently, while conducting one of his regular conversations with the harbour gulls earlier that day, he had noticed an unfamiliar bird skimming low across the water near the promenade.

At first he had dismissed it as one of the younger gulls.

Then he had taken a second look.

“It was different,” he said earnestly. “Smaller. Much smaller. Fast wings. Very elegant.”

He demonstrated the wingbeats with both hands.

Dorothy wisely stepped back.

“And the gulls noticed it too,” Hubert continued.

“The gulls?”

“They went quiet.”

I stared at him.

“The gulls went quiet?”

“For a moment.”

That, I had to admit, was the most astonishing part of the entire story.

I had lived in Pebblewick long enough to know that silence was not generally a condition associated with seagulls. As a species, they appeared fundamentally opposed to it.

Hubert had watched the bird for as long as he could, but it had disappeared before he could identify it.

Then inspiration had struck.

“I said to myself,” he explained proudly, “‘Hubert, where would you find a book about birds?’”

“A library?”

He looked at me with deep disappointment.

“A bookshop.”

“Of course.”

“So I came here.”

Fortunately, Dorothy had been equal to the challenge.

She nodded towards the small nature section at the rear of the shop.

“I found his answer in one of my cataloguing notes.”

Naturally she had.

Hubert, meanwhile, had worked his way through several titles before discovering a field guide devoted to British coastal birds.

Now he snatched the book from the counter and began turning pages with mounting anticipation.

“Here!”

His finger landed triumphantly on an illustration.

“There. That’s it.”

Dorothy and I leaned closer.

Hubert tapped the page with all the satisfaction of a detective revealing the culprit in the final chapter of a mystery novel.

“Little tern.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely.”

He studied the illustration again.

The bird pictured there was delicate and pale, with sharp wings and an altogether more respectable appearance than the average Pebblewick gull.

“I’ve never seen one here before,” Hubert said.

“Perhaps it lost its way.”

“No, no.” He shook his head firmly. “Birds know where they’re going.”

I briefly thought of Reverend Finch attempting to find the church fête with a map and decided that birds perhaps possessed certain navigational advantages over a portion of Pebblewick’s human population.

Hubert read on for another minute, murmuring appreciatively.

“Wonderful.”

Then he closed the guide with a decisive snap.

“I’ll take it.”

That was the second surprise of the morning.

The first, naturally, had been the little tern.

Hubert approached the counter and reached into his pocket.

Before I could move, Dorothy stepped confidently behind the till.

“I can do it.”

And she could.

With calm efficiency she rang up the sale, accepted the payment, counted out the change, and handed over the receipt with the assured manner of someone who had worked in the shop for months rather than hours.

“Thank you,” Hubert said.

“You’re welcome.”

He tucked the field guide carefully beneath his arm.

Then he glanced towards the door.

“I’ll keep watching.”

“For more little terns?”

“For more birds.”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“The gulls will know.”

Of course they would.

Hubert departed clutching his new book and immediately tilted his head towards the rooftops.

A seagull cried somewhere above Harbour Street.

Hubert called back.

Dorothy watched through the window.

“Does he really talk to them?”

“He believes he does.”

Almost as if on cue, another gull answered from further away.

Hubert stopped walking.

He listened carefully, nodded once, and then continued along the pavement with the expression of a man who had just received important intelligence.

Dorothy turned to me.

“And do they talk to him?”

“I have made a conscious decision not to investigate the matter.”

She laughed softly and returned to her notebook.

I looked around the shop.

I had been gone for less than half an hour.

In that short time Dorothy had managed the bookshop, solved Hubert’s ornithological mystery, located precisely the volume he required, and completed a sale without assistance.

Mrs Thistlewood might have hired her without consulting me.

I was beginning to suspect, rather annoyingly, that she had hired exceedingly well.

Cake and a Familiar Stranger

By late afternoon, the steady rhythm of trade had begun to ebb away.

Dorothy had spent most of the day behind the counter, while I had spent most of mine discovering that she possessed a far greater talent for bookselling than either of us had anticipated. She had served customers with confidence, tracked down elusive titles, sold postcards, coped admirably with Hubert and his inquisitive tern, and, with characteristic diligence, filled several pages of notes about almost everything that had occurred.

I had a growing suspicion that by the following Saturday she would understand the workings of The Salty Page better than I did.

Glancing at the clock, I made a decision.

“I think we’ll close early.”

Dorothy looked immediately concerned.

“Have I done something wrong?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve survived your first day.”

A smile spread across her face.

“I enjoyed it.”

“Then you definitely deserve a reward.”

“What sort of reward?”

“Cake.”

Her smile widened considerably.

It was comforting to discover that some methods of staff motivation remained universally effective, even when the staff in question happened to be volunteers.

Together we straightened the shelves, brought in the pavement sign, and locked the shop for the evening. Then we crossed Harbour Street and made our way to The Merry Teapot.

Molly looked up from behind the counter as we stepped inside.

“Finished for the day?”

“Dorothy has successfully completed her first shift.”

Molly smiled warmly.

“Congratulations.”

“I thought that deserved cake,” I said.

“Definitely.”

Dorothy approached the display cabinet with a degree of concentration normally reserved for bomb disposal experts and tax inspectors. She examined every sponge, tart and slice with great care, giving the selection far more attention than Hubert had devoted to his bird book that morning.

Eventually she settled upon an impressive portion of chocolate cake.

I chose Victoria sponge.

We carried our plates to a table by the window.

Only after I sat down did I notice the man in the corner.

The mysterious customer from that morning.

He was still wearing his long overcoat, although the collar had been folded down now. His trilby rested on the table beside him and, without it shadowing his features, I could see him properly for the first time.

Grey hair.

A lined face.

A neatly trimmed moustache.

There was something distinctly familiar about him.

I stared for several moments before recognition finally arrived.

I knew him.

Or, more accurately, I knew of him.

Mr Constable.

The art dealer.

The man who lived two doors away from me.

I had occupied the same stretch of road as Mr Constable for years, yet during the previous forty-eight hours I had probably seen more of Hubert than I had seen of my own neighbour in the previous six months.

Dorothy noticed where I was looking.

“Do you know him?”

“He’s my neighbour.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“You didn’t recognise him?”

“Not immediately.”

“You live two doors away from him.”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mr Constable.”

Dorothy glanced towards the corner and then back at me.

“Constable?”

“Yes.”

“Is he a policeman?”

“No. That would be Constable Moss.”

She frowned.

“So Constable Moss is a constable.”

“Yes.”

“But Mr Constable isn’t.”

“No.”

She considered this carefully.

“That’s confusing.”

“You’ll get used to Pebblewick.”

At that moment Molly arrived carrying our tea.

I nodded discreetly towards the corner.

“The mysterious gentleman from this morning.”

Molly followed my gaze.

“Oh. Mr Constable.”

I blinked.

“You knew who he was?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask.”

This was, irritatingly, an entirely reasonable answer.

“He’s the art dealer who lives near you,” she added.

“I’ve just worked that out.”

Molly looked impressed.

“Well done.”

Across the table, Dorothy made a determined effort not to laugh.

I ignored both of them.

“What’s he doing here?”

Molly shrugged.

“Having tea.”

“I can see that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

There were moments when conversing with Molly felt remarkably similar to conversing with Mrs Thistlewood. The crucial difference was that Molly generally provided superior cake.

I looked back towards Mr Constable.

For years he had been one of Pebblewick’s quieter mysteries.

He rarely ventured into the village.

He never seemed to attend church fêtes.

He was seldom seen in The Codfather.

And perhaps most remarkable of all, Mrs Thistlewood appeared to know almost nothing about him.

Yet there he sat in the corner of The Merry Teapot, calmly drinking tea and reading a newspaper as though there were nothing remotely mysterious about him.

Perhaps there wasn’t.

That, after all, was the peculiar difficulty with Pebblewick.

Sometimes the enigmatic stranger in the corner of a tearoom was not an international spy, a retired jewel thief, or a fugitive aristocrat living under an assumed name.

Sometimes he was simply Mr Constable.

The art dealer.

The neighbour.

The man who lived two doors away.

I took a bite of my Victoria sponge.

One mystery solved.

Unfortunately, Catherine Cartwright’s postcard was still resting in my waistcoat pocket.

Pebblewick, it seemed, preferred to resolve its mysteries one at a time.