The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 9 - Thursday

Thursday

A Solicitor Calls

Everyone has heard of An Inspector Calls.

In Pebblewick, however, we found ourselves facing a rather different form of visitation.

A solicitor called.

On Tuesday, someone had contacted the London firm of Atkinson and Carmichael and enquired whether an appointment might be arranged with Mr Simon Atkinson. I had a fair idea who had initiated that particular chain of events.

Mrs Watkins had left The Salty Page on Tuesday afternoon with firm instructions that everything she knew should be passed directly to Constable Moss. Exactly how those instructions had eventually led to a prominent London solicitor being drawn into village affairs was a trail I had little desire to follow too closely.

Some mysteries are best left unexplored.

Life in Pebblewick had taught me that it was often safer to accept that something had happened and devote one’s attention to whatever consequences arrived afterwards.

Mr Atkinson, it seemed, had been remarkably accommodating.

Wednesday was impossible.

Thursday, on the other hand, suited him perfectly.

He informed us that he would travel to Pebblewick in person, and that his first destination upon arrival would be The Salty Page.

I found this mildly unsettling.

Bookshops are accustomed to receiving customers, delivery drivers, confused tourists, and people seeking directions to places entirely unrelated to books.

London solicitors carrying potentially significant information concerning recently deceased farmers appeared rather less frequently.

Thursday Morning

Shortly after ten o’clock on Thursday morning, Mrs Thistlewood and I were alone in the shop.

Her presence was, naturally, connected to the weather.

The sky was clear, the roads were dry, and therefore Mrs Thistlewood had volunteered for duty.

She was occupied sorting through a box of books that Scott had delivered earlier. Scott himself had arrived in excellent spirits, addressed me as Henry, and departed before I could make what would undoubtedly have been another unsuccessful attempt at correction.

Fortunately, there was only a single customer order in the delivery.

It belonged to Reverend Finch.

The title was a volume concerning headstones.

I held it up.

“Horace’s.”

Mrs Thistlewood glanced at the cover.

“Headstones?”

“He ordered it.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t ask.”

That was not entirely accurate.

I had considered asking.

Then I remembered that the customer in question was Reverend Horace Finch, and there was every possibility that he no longer remembered why he had ordered it himself.

“Are you going to telephone him?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m taking it to him.”

She frowned slightly.

“It would be quicker to telephone.”

“It would.”

“Then why—”

“Because if I telephone Horace and tell him his book has arrived, we’ll spend ten minutes establishing which book, another five discussing why he ordered it, and there remains a reasonable chance that he will arrive here without his wallet.”

Mrs Thistlewood reflected on this.

“Take it to him.”

“That was my conclusion as well.”

I placed the book aside.

At that moment, the bell above the door rang.

A man entered the shop.

Simon Atkinson

I recognised him almost immediately.

Simon Atkinson was a tall, broad-shouldered man whose appearance suggested a degree of order and efficiency that I had never successfully introduced into either my business or my personal life.

He appeared to be in his fifties.

His dark hair, once almost certainly black, was beginning to silver at the temples. He was clean-shaven, his features sharp and controlled, with the attentive expression of a man accustomed to listening carefully before deciding which facts truly mattered.

Everything about him looked precise.

His dark suit was impeccably tailored.

His shirt was immaculate.

His tie was restrained and tasteful.

Even his shoes appeared to have completed the journey from London without acquiring so much as a speck of dust, a feat that most visitors to Pebblewick failed to maintain for more than ten minutes.

A leather briefcase rested in one hand.

He paused just inside the doorway and surveyed the shop.

For a moment, The Salty Page seemed unusually untidy.

It was not.

It was exactly as untidy as it always was.

Mr Atkinson simply possessed the sort of presence that made everything nearby look slightly less organised by comparison.

After a brief inspection, he approached the counter.

“Mr Quibble?”

“Yes.”

He extended his hand.

“Simon Atkinson.”

We shook.

His handshake was firm without being aggressive.

“Thank you for coming.”

“Not at all.”

His voice was calm, measured, and quietly authoritative.

Not the sort of authority Constable Moss possessed by virtue of wearing a uniform.

Something subtler.

Simon Atkinson gave the impression that if he entered a room and instructed the furniture not to move, the furniture would comply.

Across the shop, Mrs Thistlewood had stopped sorting books.

She was watching him carefully.

I knew the expression.

It was the look she reserved for anything interesting.

Simon placed his briefcase beside the counter.

“I understand Lawrence Milton-Price died on Tuesday morning.”

“Yes.”

“And that you were involved in the events following the discovery?”

“Only because Alf came to me.”

“Alf?”

“The young man who worked for Mr Milton-Price.”

A brief pause followed.

“I see.”

Nothing more.

No questions.

No further interest.

Instead, he continued.

“I would like to speak with Constable Moss, Doctor Heal, and yourself, if that can be arranged.”

Mrs Thistlewood moved immediately.

“I’ll find them.”

Simon turned towards her.

“Thank you.”

That was quite enough encouragement.

Within moments she had collected her handbag and departed through the front door.

I watched her leave.

Experience had taught me that when Mrs Thistlewood announced she was making enquiries, the village would shortly be interrogated until it surrendered the required information.

The bell rang behind her.

Simon and I were alone.

He looked around the shop once again.

I studied him.

Something about his request unsettled me.

He wished to speak to Constable Moss.

Doctor Heal.

And me.

Three people.

Every one of us had been present at the farmhouse.

Yet one name was conspicuously absent.

Alf.

The young man who had discovered Lawrence Milton-Price’s body.

The young man who had worked beside him.

The person who almost certainly knew more about the daily life of the farm than anybody else still living.

Yet Simon Atkinson had not asked to meet him.

I found myself wondering why.

The Others Arrive

A considerable period seemed to pass before Mrs Thistlewood returned.

In reality, no more than twenty minutes had gone by.

Time behaves strangely when one is confined inside a bookshop with a London solicitor and an unanswered question.

Simon seemed perfectly at ease with silence.

I was not.

I offered him tea.

He declined.

I offered coffee.

He declined that as well.

After that I exhausted the list of beverages considered socially acceptable before noon.

Eventually, the bell above the door sounded once more.

Mrs Thistlewood returned looking thoroughly pleased with herself.

That generally indicated success.

“Both Constable Moss and Doctor Heal will be here shortly,” she announced.

“You found them?”

“Of course.”

I wisely refrained from asking how.

Simon checked his watch.

“They were both available?”

“They are now,” said Mrs Thistlewood.

For a moment Simon regarded her thoughtfully.

I suspected that during his professional career he had encountered barristers, judges, accountants, and difficult clients.

Mrs Thistlewood was probably something entirely new.

Almost immediately, the bell rang again.

Constable Moss entered.

Doctor Heal followed close behind.

“You timed that well,” I said.

Mrs Thistlewood smiled serenely.

Constable Moss removed his cap as he approached.

Doctor Heal appeared much as he always did: tweed jacket, slightly loosened tie, and hair engaged in a perpetual disagreement with gravity.

Simon rose.

“Mr Atkinson?” asked Moss.

“Yes.”

“Constable Wilfred Moss.”

They shook hands.

“Thank you for coming,” Simon replied.

Doctor Heal stepped forward next.

“Doctor Heal.”

“Mr Atkinson.”

Another handshake followed.

For a moment we stood together in the centre of the shop.

A bookseller.

A village constable.

A doctor.

And a London solicitor carrying a leather briefcase.

Behind the counter, Mrs Thistlewood remained watchful.

Simon glanced towards her and then back to the rest of us.

I had the distinct feeling that whatever had brought him all the way from London was finally about to be revealed.

Yet one absence remained.

Alf.

And Simon Atkinson still had not asked for him.

The Meeting Moves

Before Simon could speak, the bell above the door rang once again.

This time it was Mrs Watkins.

She entered with the determined expression of a woman who had not merely heard about events but had already organised them.

“Good,” she said. “You’re all here.”

“Apparently,” I replied.

She turned directly towards Simon.

“Mr Atkinson?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Mrs Watkins.”

Simon inclined his head politely.

“How do you do?”

“I’ve arranged the church hall.”

A brief silence followed.

Simon looked at me.

I looked at Mrs Thistlewood.

Mrs Thistlewood looked entirely unsurprised.

“You’ve arranged what?” I asked.

“The church hall.”

“Why?”

Mrs Watkins gave me the patient look generally reserved for people who had failed to grasp something perfectly obvious.

“Well, you can’t hold a proper meeting in here.”

I glanced around the shop.

“Why not?”

“There isn’t enough space.”

“There are only four of us.”

“Six,” she corrected.

I counted.

Simon.

Constable Moss.

Doctor Heal.

Mrs Thistlewood.

Mrs Watkins.

Myself.

She was correct.

I disliked that fact.

“The church hall is much more suitable,” she continued. “There are tables, chairs, and a kettle.”

The kettle seemed to occupy a position of considerable importance in her reasoning.

“Does Reverend Finch know about this?” I asked.

“Of course.”

That did not necessarily mean very much.

“With Horace,” I said carefully, “there is occasionally a difference between being informed and being aware.”

Mrs Watkins ignored the observation.

“It’s all arranged.”

Simon regarded her with quiet fascination.

“You arranged the hall for us?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“You didn’t know when I was arriving.”

“I knew it was Thursday.”

Apparently, that had been sufficient.

“I’ve set out chairs around one of the tables,” Mrs Watkins continued. “There’s tea, coffee, and I found some biscuits in the kitchen.”

“Do they belong to the church?” I asked.

“They do now.”

Constable Moss coughed suspiciously.

I suspected he was concealing a laugh.

Simon glanced around The Salty Page one final time.

“The church hall may actually be the better option,” he admitted. “I have several matters to discuss and a number of documents that may require examination.”

Mrs Watkins smiled with unmistakable triumph.

“Exactly.”

It occurred to me that agreeing with Mrs Watkins only encouraged her.

“Then we’ll use the church hall,” I said.

“Good.”

She was already heading for the door.

“Everything’s ready.”

Of course it was.

Within the space of less than an hour, Mrs Thistlewood had located a constable and a doctor, while Mrs Watkins had acquired a hall, organised seating, and secured refreshments.

Simon Atkinson had arrived in Pebblewick expecting to administer the affairs of a deceased client.

Instead, he was discovering that Pebblewick had already formed a committee.

Yet one question continued to trouble me.

Alf.

Simon had specifically requested Constable Moss.

Doctor Heal.

And me.

Mrs Thistlewood and Mrs Watkins had effectively appointed themselves.

But nobody had asked for the seventeen-year-old who had worked for Lawrence Milton-Price.

Nobody had requested the one person who might know the most.

And with every passing minute, I became more curious about why.

The Will

The church hall was exactly as Mrs Watkins had promised.

Chairs had been arranged neatly around one of the long tables. A kettle stood ready in the corner. Cups had been laid out beside it, accompanied by a plate of biscuits that may or may not originally have been intended for our use.

Nobody asked.

In Pebblewick, some questions only complicated matters.

We took our seats while Simon Atkinson placed his briefcase carefully on the table before him.

Mrs Watkins sat down as though she had been formally invited.

Mrs Thistlewood did exactly the same.

Neither woman had been.

Simon appeared to recognise that pointing this out would merely prolong proceedings, and so he wisely chose not to.

Instead, he opened the briefcase.

Inside were several files arranged with the sort of precision that suggested they had never once been hurriedly shoved into a drawer and forgotten about.

Naturally.

After a moment's inspection, he selected one particular file and placed it in front of him.

LAWRENCE MILTON-PRICE

Seeing the name written in bold lettering produced an odd sensation.

For as long as I had known him, he had simply been Mr Milton-Price.

A fixture of Pebblewick.

Like the harbour wall, the church clock, or Mrs Watkins's opinions.

The idea that his entire life could now be compressed into a solicitor's file seemed strangely unsettling.

Simon opened it.

“Mr Milton-Price first contacted me in 2000,” he said. “He wished to make a will.”

“Why you?” Mrs Watkins asked immediately.

Simon looked at her.

“I was recommended.”

“By whom?”

“I don't remember.”

Mrs Watkins looked faintly disappointed.

For perhaps the first time in her life, she had encountered a person who genuinely regarded that as a complete answer.

Simon continued.

“The will was drafted and properly executed. Over the years Mr Milton-Price provided further instructions, and there was one significant amendment made last year, which I shall come to shortly.”

He rested a hand upon the open file.

“Before we discuss the contents, there is one point I should make clear. The terms of the will cannot simply be carried out immediately.”

“Why not?” Constable Moss asked.

“Because there are a number of matters that must first be established.”

“What sort of matters?”

“The extent of the estate, for one. Ownership of the land must be confirmed. We need to identify every beneficiary named in the will, establish whether they are still alive, and determine where they can be found.”

That sounded perfectly reasonable.

It also sounded likely to take a very long time.

Especially the part about the land.

My thoughts wandered briefly back to the maps spread across the farmhouse table.

The pencilled boundary lines.

The measurements.

The annotations.

The occasional question mark.

Lawrence Milton-Price might have died, but his arguments with neighbouring fields appeared determined to outlive him.

What Happened on Tuesday

Before Simon was prepared to discuss the contents of the will, he wanted a complete account of the events that had followed Lawrence Milton-Price's death.

Constable Moss provided most of it.

Alf had arrived at the farm as usual on Tuesday morning. When Lawrence failed to appear, he had gone looking for him. Finding the back door unlocked, he had entered the farmhouse and discovered him in the sitting room.

After that, panic had taken over.

Alf had fled.

Rather than seeking help immediately, he had wandered around the harbour for several hours before eventually ending up outside The Salty Page, waiting for me to arrive.

I explained everything that followed.

The conversation outside the shop.

Our journey back to the farmhouse.

The telephone calls.

The arrival of Constable Moss, Doctor Heal and the ambulance crew.

Doctor Heal then described his visit on Monday afternoon.

“Lawrence telephoned me the day before he died,” he explained. “Nothing particularly unusual. He wanted me to look at an ongoing complaint.”

“Was he seriously ill?” Simon asked.

“No.”

Doctor Heal shook his head.

“An elderly man with the ordinary collection of complaints that accompany advancing years, but nothing that caused me immediate concern.”

Simon listened carefully.

Every so often he made a note in the file.

Unlike Mrs Watkins, who generally interrupted the moment a question entered her mind, Simon appeared content to wait until somebody had finished speaking.

When the account was complete, he rested his pen on the table.

“So there is nothing to suggest that anybody else was present at the farmhouse when Mr Milton-Price died?”

“Not that we've discovered,” said Constable Moss.

“And no indication of forced entry?”

“No.”

Simon nodded slowly.

He appeared satisfied.

Or perhaps as satisfied as a solicitor could reasonably be while discussing the death of a client.

"Very good," he said. "That clarifies a number of matters."

He turned another page.

“Now then. The family.”

Augustus Milton-Price

The room became noticeably quieter.

Until that moment, Lawrence Milton-Price had seemed almost entirely alone.

The existence of relatives made him feel unexpectedly larger.

“A brother?” Mrs Watkins asked eagerly.

Simon nodded.

“An elder brother. Augustus Milton-Price.”

Mrs Watkins sat back with obvious satisfaction.

“I knew there was another one.”

“You told me there might have been,” I reminded her.

“Which is practically the same thing.”

It was not.

I had long ago learned, however, that arguing degrees of correctness with Mrs Watkins rarely produced useful results.

Simon continued.

“Under the terms of the will, Augustus Milton-Price is the principal beneficiary.”

“And if he's no longer alive?” Constable Moss asked.

“The will provides for that situation.”

Simon consulted his notes.

“Augustus had three children.”

Mrs Watkins immediately leaned forward.

“Jack Milton-Price. James Milton-Price. And Jane Milton-Price.”

She looked very pleased.

“One was a girl.”

“You did say that,” I admitted.

Simon wisely ignored us.

“If Augustus predeceased Lawrence, then his share passes equally to his children.”

“And if they're dead?” asked Doctor Heal.

“Then their respective shares pass to their descendants.”

The implications slowly settled around the table.

Nobody knew where any of these people were.

Nobody knew whether Augustus was alive.

Nobody knew whether Jack, James or Jane had children of their own.

For all we knew, some distant member of the Milton-Price family might currently be living in Australia, Canada, or somewhere equally far removed from Pebblewick, entirely unaware that a substantial coastal farm was potentially heading in their direction.

“The family tree will need to be established properly,” Simon continued. “We must determine precisely who is entitled to inherit.”

That sounded suspiciously like a great deal of paperwork.

Simon appeared entirely comfortable with that prospect.

The Farm

The will itself, it transpired, was remarkably detailed.

Simon produced several additional sheets of paper.

The farm was not simply described as the farm.

That would have been far too straightforward.

Fields were listed individually.

Boundaries were described.

Rights of access were noted.

Purchases made over many decades had been carefully recorded.

Several fields possessed names.

Some I recognised.

Others sounded more like minor historical disputes than pieces of land.

Simon ran a finger down one page.

“Mr Milton-Price was extremely particular regarding ownership.”

“That doesn't surprise me,” I said.

“Nor me.”

Simon allowed himself the faintest smile.

“Whenever additional land was acquired, he insisted upon having the documentation amended and updated.”

My thoughts returned immediately to the maps spread across the farmhouse table.

The measurements.

The pencil marks.

The disputed boundaries.

The circles and annotations.

Lawrence Milton-Price, it appeared, had been documenting the ownership of fields long after most people would have considered the matter settled.

“Did he own everything he claimed to own?” Mrs Watkins asked.

Simon looked at her.

“That is one of the matters I intend to determine.”

“There were arguments about some of it,” Constable Moss observed.

“Yes,” Simon replied diplomatically. “I understand there were differences of opinion.”

“Differences of opinion,” said Moss, “is one way of putting it.”

Simon closed the relevant papers.

“I am a solicitor, Constable. Differences of opinion have been supporting my profession for centuries.”

Even Mrs Thistlewood laughed at that.

Alf

Simon then turned to a separate document.

“There was one important amendment made last year.”

The atmosphere around the table shifted immediately.

“What sort of amendment?” I asked.

“One concerning Alf.”

For the first time that afternoon, nobody spoke.

Simon glanced down at the document.

“Lawrence Milton-Price instructed me to create a financial provision for him.”

I stared at him.

That had not been what I expected.

“Specifically,” Simon continued, “money is to be set aside so that Alf may continue working on the farm for a number of years following Mr Milton-Price's death.”

Mrs Thistlewood looked genuinely surprised.

“He did that?”

“Yes.”

“So Alf keeps his position?”

“In principle.”

I was beginning to realise how much meaning a solicitor could conceal inside two simple words.

“In principle?” I repeated.

“The estate must first be administered,” Simon explained. “The eventual owners will naturally have their own legal rights and responsibilities. However, Mr Milton-Price's intentions are very clearly stated.”

I remembered Alf standing in the farmyard on Tuesday morning.

Someone's got to do it.

Then walking away to feed animals that neither knew nor cared that their owner had died.

Lawrence Milton-Price had understood something important.

He had known the boy's future might become uncertain.

And, in his own rather practical way, he had attempted to prevent that.

“So he cared about him,” said Mrs Thistlewood quietly.

Simon folded his hands.

“I can only tell you what instructions he gave.”

It was a solicitor's answer.

But everyone around the table understood what it meant.

The Farmhouse and the Paintings

“The farmhouse,” Simon continued, “is treated separately from the rest of the estate.”

“How so?” asked Doctor Heal.

“It passes to the eldest surviving beneficiary entitled to inherit under the will.”

“So Augustus, if he's still alive?”

“Yes.”

“And otherwise?”

“We establish who is.”

Straightforward in theory.

Potentially extremely complicated in practice.

Simon then turned another page.

“There is one further matter.”

Mrs Watkins immediately brightened.

“What?”

“An art collection.”

The room fell silent.

Mr Milton-Price and art were not two subjects I had ever expected to hear mentioned together.

Simon continued.

“The collection was originally assembled by Lawrence's grandfather and expanded over successive generations.”

“Paintings?” I asked.

“Principally.”

“And valuable?”

“That remains to be established.”

Simon consulted the document.

“The collection is currently held in secure storage and is to be professionally valued by Mr Constable.”

I blinked.

“Mr Constable?”

“Yes.”

The room became quiet again.

Mr Constable lived two doors away from me.

He was an art dealer.

He rarely appeared anywhere.

Most days I wasn't entirely certain he was home.

Yet there he was, suddenly appearing in Lawrence Milton-Price's will.

“You know him?” Simon asked.

“He lives two houses from my shop.”

For perhaps the first time since arriving in Pebblewick, Simon looked genuinely surprised.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“What happens after the valuation?” Constable Moss asked.

“The collection is to be sold.”

“And the proceeds?”

Simon produced another sheet.

“Distributed amongst a number of named charities.”

Of course they were.

Lawrence Milton-Price appeared to have anticipated everything.

The farm.

The farmhouse.

The fields.

Alf.

The paintings.

Even the eventual beneficiaries of their sale.

Death had arrived unexpectedly.

His paperwork, however, had been fully prepared.

Finding the Family

At last Simon closed the file.

“Which leaves us with the immediate problem.”

“The relatives,” said Constable Moss.

“Precisely.”

Simon looked around the table.

“Does anyone know where Augustus Milton-Price may be?”

Nobody answered.

Mrs Watkins eventually shook her head.

“I saw him years ago. At family funerals. I wouldn't recognise him now.”

“Assuming he's still alive,” I said.

Simon nodded.

“Precisely.”

He then repeated the names.

Augustus Milton-Price.

Jack Milton-Price.

James Milton-Price.

Jane Milton-Price.

Constable Moss copied them carefully into his notebook.

“And any children they may have,” Simon added.

Moss nodded.

“I'll make enquiries.”

That sounded ambitious.

Finding one missing relative would be difficult enough.

Finding an entire branch of the Milton-Price family could take considerably longer.

For a while nobody spoke.

Around us, the church hall seemed unusually quiet.

Somewhere there was an elder brother who might still be alive.

If not, there were three children.

Perhaps grandchildren.

Possibly more.

There was a farm whose boundaries still required investigation.

A farmhouse waiting for an heir.

Money set aside for Alf.

And an art collection sitting quietly in storage, waiting to reveal its value.

Simon carefully returned his papers to the briefcase.

He had travelled from London expecting to administer the estate of a deceased farmer.

Instead, he had uncovered a family mystery.

And, I suspected, Pebblewick was only just beginning to discover how complicated Lawrence Milton-Price's legacy really was.

After the Meeting

The meeting lasted well over two hours.

By the time Simon finally closed his briefcase, the biscuits had almost disappeared, the tea had gone cold and I knew considerably more about the affairs of Lawrence Milton-Price than I had ever expected to know.

We made our farewells outside the church hall.

Simon shook hands with each of us.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more.”

Constable Moss nodded.

“I’ll start making enquiries about the family.”

Doctor Heal glanced at his watch.

“I should get back to the surgery.”

Considering he had already surrendered more than two hours of his working day to the affairs of a dead patient, I thought this reasonable.

Simon headed towards his car.

Doctor Heal set off in the direction of the surgery.

Constable Moss went his own way, the names Augustus, Jack, James and Jane Milton-Price safely recorded in his notebook.

That left me.

I headed back towards Harbour Street and The Salty Page.

Mrs Thistlewood came with me.

So did Mrs Watkins.

I had not invited either of them.

Apparently, this was no longer necessary.

The two women followed me down the road, already discussing everything Simon had told us.

I walked slightly ahead.

There are occasions when a man needs time to think.

There are also occasions when Mrs Thistlewood and Mrs Watkins are walking behind him.

The two rarely coincide.

Back at The Salty Page

Once we were back inside the shop, the conversation continued.

Mrs Thistlewood and Mrs Watkins settled themselves near the counter and began going over everything Simon had told us.

The brother.

The children.

The fields.

The farmhouse.

Alf.

The art collection.

And, inevitably, Mr Constable.

Every so often one of them lowered her voice.

This would have been more effective if the other had not immediately raised hers.

I left them to it.

There was little point trying to stop them.

Besides, I had books to sell.

Unfortunately, I had very few people to sell them to.

The afternoon passed quietly.

In fact, only one customer came into the shop.

Patrick Post.

For once, he was not carrying his red postbag.

“Afternoon, Harold.”

“Patrick.”

“I need a book.”

I looked around the shop.

“You’ve come to the right place.”

“I thought I might have.”

Patrick was planning a walking tour.

Nothing heroic, he assured me.

He wanted several days of decent walking, preferably somewhere with good scenery, sensible footpaths and enough villages along the way to prevent him having to survive entirely on sandwiches.

“Got anything?”

“Clearly.”

I found him a walking guide from the appropriate shelf.

Patrick took it, opened it and studied several of the routes.

“This’ll do nicely.”

He seemed genuinely pleased.

There are few things more satisfying to a bookseller than somebody entering a bookshop wanting a book and leaving with one.

It happens less often than you might imagine.

I rang up the sale.

Patrick put the guide away and then seemed to remember something.

“Oh, by the way. Clifford’s been asked to dig Milton-Price’s grave.”

“Clifford?”

“My brother.”

I knew Patrick had a brother, although Patrick normally spoke more often about his brother-in-law Ted.

“Wasn’t Clifford the gravedigger?”

“Years ago.”

Clifford had been Pebblewick’s gravedigger before retiring.

Apparently, retirement from grave digging was not necessarily permanent.

“They asked him to come back for this one,” Patrick said.

“Why Clifford?”

Patrick shrugged.

“Knows the churchyard better than anyone.”

That seemed difficult to argue with.

“Do they know where Mr Milton-Price is being buried?”

“With his family.”

That made sense.

Lawrence’s parents were already buried at St Bartholomew’s.

Reverend Finch had conducted their funeral services years before.

Now Lawrence Milton-Price would join them.

“Funeral arranged, then?”

“Looks that way.”

Patrick picked up his walking guide.

“Clifford says he remembers digging one of the family graves before.”

“Does he?”

“Oh yes. Remembers most of them.”

I looked at Patrick.

“That must make for an unusual memory.”

“He says you remember the difficult ones.”

I decided not to ask what made a grave difficult.

Patrick headed towards the door.

“Thanks for the book, Harold.”

“Enjoy the walking.”

“I intend to.”

The bell rang and he disappeared into Harbour Street.

Behind me, there was silence.

I turned.

Mrs Thistlewood and Mrs Watkins were both looking towards the door.

I should have known that Patrick’s news would not pass unnoticed.

“Clifford Post,” Mrs Watkins said thoughtfully.

“The old gravedigger,” Mrs Thistlewood added.

“Yes,” I said.

Neither woman moved.

I knew that look.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything,” Mrs Watkins replied.

“You were about to.”

She looked offended.

Mrs Thistlewood looked thoughtful.

I returned to the counter.

Lawrence Milton-Price had a solicitor in London.

A missing brother and three children nobody could find.

A complicated collection of fields.

A provision for Alf.

An art collection in a bank safe.

An art dealer living two doors away from me.

And now a grave waiting beside his family at St Bartholomew’s.

It had been a busy day for a man who was dead.