The Pebblewick Chronicles - Part 2

The Pebblewick Chronicles

Chapter Two: Saturday

The Wedding Day

The following morning dawned bright and clear over Pebblewick, and with it came the long-awaited wedding day.

The bride and groom were not local to the village, though Pebblewick held a special place in their hearts. Several years earlier, while holidaying on the coast, they had discovered its picturesque harbour, winding lanes and, above all, the ancient beauty of St Bartholomew's Church. By the end of their visit they had made a promise to one another: if ever they married, it would be here.

Now the day had finally arrived.

Shortly after sunrise, the Reverend Horace Finch could be seen striding briskly along Harbour Street towards St Bartholomew's.

Reverend Finch was well into his seventies and had served as vicar of the church for so many years that most villagers could scarcely remember a time when anyone else stood in the pulpit on a Sunday morning. He was a tall, slender man with wisps of silver hair, kind eyes behind round spectacles and a gentle expression that inspired immediate trust. Normally he moved about with a slight stoop and an unhurried air. Yet whenever he found himself running late, he displayed a surprising burst of athletic determination that sent his cassock billowing behind him like a sail caught in a strong coastal wind.

This morning it was billowing magnificently.

Horace was, by universal agreement, one of the nicest men anyone could hope to meet. He possessed endless patience, a warm heart and a sincere desire to help everybody who crossed his path. Admittedly, there was always a chance that halfway through a conversation he might forget why the person had come to see him in the first place.

His greatest weakness, however, was names.

Faces, biographies and personal details presented no difficulty whatsoever. Horace could remember astonishing facts about almost anyone he met.

He might recall that a gentleman came originally from Birmingham, had recently retired from the insurance industry, owned a spaniel named Arthur and had a lifelong dislike of Brussels sprouts.

He simply might not remember the gentleman's name.

This frequently resulted in greetings such as:

"Good morning, Mr... er..."

Such difficulties became particularly hazardous during weddings.

Over the years, Horace had developed an impressive collection of conversational rescue techniques. Phrases such as "my dear fellow," "my dear lady," and "how delightful to see you again" had saved him from countless embarrassing moments.

Unfortunately, this wedding presented unusual challenges.

The bride and groom were visitors.

So were most of their eighty guests.

Horace had met the happy couple only twice and was fairly certain he knew which one was the bride and which one was the groom.

Their names, however, remained stubbornly elusive.

Fortunately, the people of Pebblewick were long accustomed to his absent-minded habits.

He regularly misplaced his spectacles while wearing them. He had a tendency to leave umbrellas in other people's homes. On one memorable occasion he spent an entire afternoon searching the village for his bicycle before eventually remembering that he had walked into town that morning.

Another time he announced from the pulpit that the church fête would take place "next Saturday", only for the churchwarden to quietly remind him that it had taken place the previous Saturday and that Horace himself had officially opened it.

None of this diminished the affection the village felt for him.

Horace loved Pebblewick dearly, and Pebblewick loved Horace in return.

Whenever a wedding, christening, funeral, harvest festival, village fête or small crisis involving the church roof occurred, Reverend Finch could invariably be counted upon to appear.

He might arrive a few minutes late.

He might forget someone's name.

There was even the occasional possibility that he had misplaced his bicycle in a completely improbable location.

But he would be there.

Eventually.

On this particular morning, however, Horace was determined that everything would proceed flawlessly.

He wanted to ensure the flowers had been delivered, the organist remembered the correct music, the church was properly prepared and, perhaps most importantly of all, that he managed to remember the names of the two people whose marriage vows he was expected to solemnise.

Would the wedding pass smoothly and without incident?

In Pebblewick, experience suggested it was rarely wise to ask such questions.

Time, as always, would provide the answer.

 A Quiet Saturday

I opened The Salty Page expecting a peaceful morning.

To be perfectly honest, Saturdays were often rather quiet in the bookshop. A few customers would drift in during the day, and several regulars would arrive to collect books they had carefully ordered earlier in the week.

The curious thing was that these customers usually spent days or even weeks eagerly awaiting the latest release, only to ignore it completely when it actually arrived.

The conversation was often identical.

“Is it in yet, Harold?”

“No, Mrs Watkins. Thursday.”

Then Thursday would arrive.

The book would arrive.

Mrs Watkins would not.

She would eventually appear on Saturday morning and cheerfully announce:

“Oh, I completely forgot all about it.”

Such are the dramatic excitements of the publishing trade.

I had just put the kettle on and begun arranging the display tables when the shop door flew open with alarming force.

In swept Molly from The Merry Teapot.

Molly was in her early thirties and, although merely an employee, most visitors assumed she owned the tearoom. This was largely because she knew where everything was, how everything worked and what everyone wanted before they had finished asking for it.

She possessed a cheerful round face, bright, lively eyes and thick brown hair that she invariably tied back while working. By lunchtime several rebellious strands had usually escaped and begun conducting a campaign of independence around her forehead.

Her usual uniform consisted of a crisp white blouse, a dark skirt and a pale blue apron embroidered with THE MERRY TEAPOT across the front. During particularly busy days, the apron inevitably acquired flour, tea stains and at least one unexplained smear of strawberry jam.

Molly was practical, cheerful and astonishingly difficult to rattle.

She could carry six full teacups through a crowded room without spilling a drop. She remembered customers' orders before they did and could politely explain to holidaymakers that no, despite repeated requests, The Merry Teapot did not serve iced caramel frappuccinos.

She knew most of Pebblewick's regulars by name and many by beverage preference.

Mrs Thistlewood always ordered Earl Grey with lemon.

Reverend Finch preferred ordinary tea and usually forgot whether he had paid.

Constable Moss always insisted on having two digestive biscuits with his tea, though one was supposedly being saved “for later.”

It rarely survived that long.

Molly also knew most of the village gossip, though unlike Mrs Thistlewood she exercised the admirable restraint of keeping much of it to herself.

Years in the tearoom had taught her to cope with coach tours, barking dogs, dropped crockery, missing teaspoons, crying children and customers who waited until food reached the table before announcing dietary requirements.

There were limits, however.

Eighty wedding guests appeared to be one of them.

Which was why, when Molly burst into the bookshop looking genuinely alarmed, I immediately knew that matters were serious.

“Harold!”

“Molly?”

“I need a book.”

I glanced around the shelves.

“You've certainly come to the right place.”

“A book about fancy afternoon teas.”

“That narrows things down.”

“It's for the wedding,” she said. “We're doing the refreshments.”

“For how many people?”

“Eighty.”

I stopped tidying the display.

“Eighty?”

“Eighty.”

“You do realise there aren't eighty people in your tearoom when it's completely full?”

“I am painfully aware of that fact, Harold.”

She explained that The Merry Teapot had agreed to provide sandwiches, cakes and tea after the ceremony.

Preparing the food itself wasn't the issue.

The difficulty was the bride's mother.

“Finger sandwiches,” said Molly.

“Reasonable.”

“Scones.”

“Expected.”

“Little cakes.”

“Naturally.”

“And everything must look absolutely perfect.”

“Molly, you run a tearoom.”

“I know.”

“You produce afternoon tea every day.”

“I know that too.”

“Then what exactly is wrong?”

Molly lowered her voice.

“The bride's mother.”

“Ah.”

At once, everything became clear.

I escorted her to the cookery shelves and searched until I found precisely what she needed.

Moments later I produced a copy of The National Trust Book of Afternoon Tea.

Molly opened it.

Almost instantly, her expression brightened.

“Harold, this is perfect.”

“I thought it might be.”

“Sandwiches, cakes, scones, table arrangements...”

“You're looking happier already.”

“I still have to feed eighty people.”

“Very well. You're looking slightly less terrified.”

Then she stopped turning pages.

“Oh no.”

“What now?”

“The cups.”

“What about them?”

“I only have sixty-eight matching cups.”

I considered the matter carefully.

“Will anyone notice?”

“The bride's mother will.”

“Ah.”

That explained it.

Molly snapped the book shut.

“I'll think of something.”

“I'm sure you will.”

After paying, she hurried towards the door.

“Eighty guests,” she muttered.

“You mentioned that.”

“Sixty-eight cups.”

“You mentioned that as well.”

“And only three hours.”

“You hadn't mentioned that.”

Molly paused and stared at me.

“I was trying very hard not to think about it.”

Then she disappeared up Harbour Street clutching the book like a lifeline.

For approximately five glorious minutes, peace returned to The Salty Page.

It did not last.

The Americans Arrive

The calm was shattered by the unmistakable rumble of a campervan descending Harbour Street.

Curious, I looked through the window.

A large campervan had pulled up outside the shop. Moments later, a man emerged wearing shorts, sandals, an expensive shirt and a Panama hat that appeared to have been purchased specifically for a grand British adventure.

His wife stepped out behind him.

The man was somewhere in his mid-sixties and possessed the remarkable quality of arriving several moments before the rest of him.

He was large in every sense of the word: tall, broad-shouldered and carrying the comfortable prosperity of a man who had enjoyed life's pleasures and saw no reason whatsoever to apologise for them. Silver-grey hair framed a cheerful face. A neatly trimmed moustache sat beneath an expression that seemed permanently poised between amusement and laughter.

A substantial camera hung around his neck.

An equally substantial watch sparkled on his wrist.

The bell above my door tinkled.

The couple wandered towards the local history section.

The gentleman examined several books before finally turning towards me.

"Howdy, partner!"

I instinctively looked over my shoulder.

Finding nobody else, I concluded that I must be the partner.

"We're from the United States," he continued brightly. "Touring Britain. Name's Hank."

His handshake was powerful enough to rearrange my knuckles.

"Harold Quibble," I replied once sensation returned to my fingers.

"This here's my wife."

His wife smiled warmly.

"Hello."

As we talked, Hank explained that he had spent many years building a successful business before retiring comfortably enough to travel wherever he pleased.

He was proud of his achievements without boasting about them. To Hank, money was chiefly useful because it enabled a person to visit interesting places, eat good food and return home with entertaining stories.

Retirement suited him wonderfully.

Everything fascinated him.

Churches fascinated him.

Castles fascinated him.

Fishing boats fascinated him.

A village pub with three hundred years of history could occupy him for an entire afternoon.

He and his wife had come seeking what Hank called "the real England."

Unfortunately, much of his vision of the real England seemed derived from detective dramas, period films and travel documentaries.

As a result, he expected every small village to contain an ancient manor house, a secret tunnel, a haunted inn, an eccentric aristocrat and at least one unsolved murder.

Pebblewick could currently offer him a lighthouse, a tearoom and a bookshop.

I hoped that would suffice.

Yet for all his confidence, Hank was impossible to dislike.

He was friendly, generous and genuinely interested in people.

"We're looking for books about Pebblewick," he said.

"I can help with that."

Soon I had assembled several slim local history volumes covering the harbour, fishing families, old photographs and coastal smuggling.

Hank examined them one after another.

His face lit up.

"We'll take the lot."

"The lot?"

"All of 'em."

I immediately decided that I rather liked Hank.

While I wrapped the books, he asked where they should go to experience the authentic Pebblewick.

"The harbour," I suggested. "You can't miss it."

"And food?"

"The Codfather serves excellent fish and chips."

Hank's eyes sparkled.

"Now you're speaking my language."

"One warning."

"Oh?"

"The gulls."

He laughed.

"Seagulls?"

"Pebblewick gulls."

"Is there a difference?"

"Ours are professionals."

His wife laughed.

"If you buy chips," I continued, "keep them covered. Don't wave them around and don't feed the birds."

"Why not?"

"Because once one gull knows you've got food, every gull within five miles will know before you've finished your first chip."

Hank chuckled.

"I think we can handle a few birds."

"That's what everyone says."

The books purchased, he moved towards the door, then paused.

"One more thing, Harold."

"Yes?"

"We like local legends. Famous people. Strange stories. That kind of thing."

"I see."

"Anyone important buried around here?"

"Not especially."

"Pirates?"

"No."

"Smugglers?"

"Possibly, though they were never famous for leaving good records."

"What about scandals? Murders?"

I glanced through the window towards St Bartholomew's.

"Well..."

Hank immediately leaned forward.

His wife sighed.

"Oh dear."

"What?" asked Hank.

"That's the look you had before you made us drive forty miles to visit the grave of the man who supposedly invented a pudding."

"It was historically important."

"It was custard."

Hank turned back to me.

"So there is a story?"

I hesitated.

Pebblewick was a quiet village.

But quiet villages have had centuries in which to collect secrets.

"There is the churchyard at St Bartholomew's."

Hank grinned broadly.

"Now we're talking."

"It's very old."

"Interesting graves?"

"A few."

"Good stories?"

I looked towards the church.

At that precise moment Reverend Horace Finch hurried past, looking more anxious than ever.

Behind him came a flower van.

Behind that came several cars carrying wedding guests.

I looked back at Hank.

"Today may not be the ideal day to explore the churchyard."

"Why not?"

"There's a wedding."

Hank smiled.

"Well, that's nice."

"Yes," I said. "And if I know Pebblewick, it's about to become considerably more interesting than anything buried in the churchyard."

Hank adjusted his Panama hat.

"We'll go down to the harbour first."

"Remember what I said about the gulls."

He waved cheerfully.

"Don't worry, Harold. Nobody's stealing my chips."

I watched him and his wife stroll away down Harbour Street.

Then I glanced upwards.

Three gulls were already following them.

I gave it five minutes.

The Wedding Guests Arrive

By mid-morning, Harbour Street was experiencing a level of traffic normally associated with a national emergency.

A steady procession of cars wound their way into Pebblewick carrying wedding guests from various corners of the country. One by one, they arrived in search of parking spaces in a village which had been laid out several centuries before anybody had considered the possibility of eighty wedding guests arriving simultaneously in motor cars.

The guests emerged looking suitably elegant for the occasion.

The gentlemen appeared in smart suits, polished shoes and expressions suggesting they had recently been informed to be on their best behaviour.

The ladies wore colourful summer dresses and an impressive variety of hats. Some were tasteful and understated. Others appeared to have been designed with the assistance of an ambitious florist and several yards of spare fabric.

A few seemed so expansive that it was difficult to imagine two of them passing through the church doorway at the same time without becoming temporarily entangled.

Rather than entering St Bartholomew's immediately, many guests lingered along Harbour Street.

There were cheerful reunions.

There were handshakes.

There were embraces.

There were photographs taken against the backdrop of the harbour and church.

There were lengthy discussions concerning parking arrangements.

And there was always somebody asking:

"Is this the right church?"

Considering that St Bartholomew's was the only church in Pebblewick, I felt the odds were encouraging.

Outside the church, Reverend Horace Finch stood in the doorway.

He looked worried.

Admittedly, this was hardly remarkable. He had looked worried for most of the morning.

Horace glanced one way along Harbour Street.

Then the other.

He consulted his watch.

Then he gazed down the street again.

A moment later he began pacing up and down outside the church gate like a man awaiting news of a distant naval engagement.

Something, or more likely somebody, had failed to arrive.

Several guests noticed his agitation.

One lady asked if everything was all right.

Horace replied that everything was perfectly fine.

Unfortunately, his expression suggested precisely the opposite.

Finally he stopped in the middle of the pavement, planted his hands firmly upon his hips and stared towards the far end of Harbour Street with the air of a man wondering how much trouble a wedding could get itself into before the ceremony had actually begun.

Then he saw someone approaching.

Coming slowly down the road was Mr Cecil Dashing.

At once, Horace's entire face transformed.

Both hands rose briefly towards heaven in what appeared to be silent thanks to Providence.

Then he pointed energetically at his wristwatch.

Mr Dashing did not alter his pace.

There was, as many people had observed over the years, a certain irony attached to Cecil's surname.

He was not dashing in appearance.

He was not dashing in movement.

Nor, as far as anybody in Pebblewick could determine, did he possess the slightest ambition to become dashing in the future.

Cecil was in his late twenties and served as organist at St Bartholomew's.

Having grown up in the village, he had left for university before eventually returning home. Shortly after his return, the position of church organist became vacant.

Cecil accepted the role and proved himself an exceptionally gifted musician.

Unfortunately, he approached punctuality with considerably less enthusiasm.

He never ran.

He rarely hurried.

Indeed, he regarded rushing as a condition suffered primarily by people who had organised themselves badly.

Tall, lean and perpetually slightly untidy, Cecil possessed dark hair that appeared to maintain only a casual acquaintance with brushes and combs. He wore a mildly crumpled suit and carried a worn leather music case beneath one arm.

Horace was now waving both arms in urgent encouragement.

Cecil continued towards him at precisely the same stately pace.

"Come along!" called Horace.

Cecil raised a hand.

"Morning, Reverend."

"The wedding!"

"Yes."

"It starts shortly!"

"I know."

"The organ!"

"I know."

"You're playing it!"

"I know."

For several seconds Horace simply stared at him.

Cecil smiled pleasantly.

"I've brought the music."

This did not seem to provide the reassurance Horace had been seeking.

When the organist finally reached the church gate, Horace greeted him with the relief normally associated with lifeboats arriving beside a sinking ship.

"Thank heavens."

"Am I late?" asked Cecil.

Horace fixed him with a long look.

"You're not early."

"Ah."

The distinction appeared to satisfy Cecil entirely.

With a gentle but determined hand placed between the young man's shoulder blades, Horace guided him towards the church entrance.

"Organ," said the Reverend.

"Yes, Reverend."

"Now."

"Of course."

A final nudge was required before Cecil disappeared through the doorway and into the church.

Horace closed his eyes briefly.

One problem had been solved.

Sadly, Pebblewick rarely permitted anybody to enjoy such victories for long.

Before the Reverend had even reopened his eyes, another vehicle turned into Harbour Street.

Unlike the others, it was decorated with white ribbons.

The groom had arrived.

Horace opened his eyes.

He looked at the car.

He looked towards the church.

Then he froze completely.

His lips began moving silently.

I recognised the expression immediately.

It was the same look he wore whenever confronted by a parishioner whose life history he knew in exhaustive detail but whose name had vanished entirely from memory.

Horace was trying desperately to remember the groom's name.

As the car door opened and the groom stepped out smiling, the Reverend remained rooted to the spot.

His lips continued moving.

"Michael?" he murmured.

A pause.

"No..."

"Matthew?"

Another pause.

"No..."

The groom was now walking towards him.

Several guests turned to watch.

Horace swallowed.

"Oh dear."

The wedding, it seemed, was about to begin.

And the man conducting it could not remember the groom's name.

The Bride and Groom

That was it.

Gary.

Gary Griffiths.

The groom's name returned to Reverend Horace Finch with such sudden clarity that he nearly applauded.

Without wasting a single second, he pulled a small notebook from his pocket and scribbled furiously:

GARY GRIFFITHS - GROOM

He underlined GROOM twice.

One could never be too careful.

There were, after all, only two principal participants in the ceremony. Confusing them would be unfortunate. Forgetting their names entirely might be considerably worse.

By the time the ribbon-decorated car rolled to a halt outside St Bartholomew's, Horace was waiting at the church gate wearing his most reassuring clerical smile.

"Gary! Welcome, welcome."

"Morning, Reverend."

"Everything ready?"

"I hope so."

"So do I," said Horace.

Gary looked at him.

Horace quickly smiled.

"Little joke."

Gary laughed, though perhaps a little uncertainly.

Together they walked up the church path and through the ancient oak doors.

The moment they entered, the church organ exploded into life.

The opening notes of Here Comes the Bride thundered around St Bartholomew's with tremendous enthusiasm.

Horace stopped.

Gary stopped.

Several wedding guests stopped.

Everyone turned towards the organ loft.

Cecil Dashing, having heard the church doors open, had evidently assumed the bride had arrived.

For several glorious seconds he continued playing before somebody managed to attract his attention.

The music halted abruptly.

An awkward silence settled over the church.

Then, from somewhere above, came the rustling of sheet music.

A moment later Cecil began playing something considerably less bridal.

Gary looked at Horace.

"Practising?"

"Exactly," said Horace. "Very conscientious young man."

From the organ loft came a spectacularly wrong note.

Horace cleared his throat.

"Shall we?"

Within a few minutes, another vehicle appeared at the far end of Harbour Street.

This one also carried white ribbons.

Immediately, guests lingering outside began moving towards the church.

The bride had arrived.

The car drew up beside the churchyard gate and the rear door opened.

The bride stepped out gracefully, followed by her father.

As was traditional, there then followed several minutes of organised confusion.

Her father helped arrange the train of her dress.

A bridesmaid adjusted the veil.

Someone handed over the bouquet.

Somebody else attempted to take photographs while standing in the middle of the road until persuaded to move before becoming acquainted with a passing motor car.

From the church doorway, Horace emerged to greet them.

He smiled warmly.

Then the smile faltered.

The bride's name.

He knew it.

He absolutely knew it.

He had known it yesterday.

He had known it earlier that morning.

He had known it approximately ten minutes ago.

What on earth was it?

Horace glanced anxiously towards the church tower as though divine intervention might arrive in the form of a helpful note descending from the heavens.

Nothing happened.

Then, just as panic threatened to take hold, inspiration arrived.

June Williams.

Of course.

June Williams.

How could he possibly have forgotten?

Horace immediately reached for his notebook and added another entry.

JUNE WILLIAMS - BRIDE

He underlined BRIDE twice.

Then, after careful consideration, added a further note.

MARRYING GARY GRIFFITHS

He examined the page.

There.

That seemed reasonably foolproof.

Even Horace would struggle to misunderstand instructions that explicit.

Notebook safely concealed once more, he hurried down the path.

"June! My dear, you look wonderful."

"Thank you, Reverend."

"Everything is ready."

June smiled.

"Is Gary here?"

Horace instinctively checked the notebook.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Gary is definitely here."

June blinked.

The certainty of the answer seemed oddly reassuring and slightly alarming at the same time.

Her father offered his arm.

The church doors swung open.

This time, Cecil Dashing waited patiently at the organ.

Horace looked up towards the loft and gave him a deliberate nod.

Cecil nodded back.

A moment later, the opening notes of Here Comes the Bride filled St Bartholomew's for the second time that morning.

This time there was actually a bride attached to them.

June took her father's arm and began walking slowly towards the church.

Inside, the congregation rose.

The rustle of clothing echoed softly around the old building.

Horace moved into position at the front.

Gary stood waiting beside him, looking nervous, excited and slightly overwhelmed.

Above them, Cecil played magnificently.

For a brief shining moment, everything was exactly as it should be.

The bride entered the church.

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows.

The guests smiled.

The music soared.

Even Horace felt a quiet sense of relief.

Discreetly, he glanced once more at the notebook hidden in his hand.

GARY GRIFFITHS - GROOM

JUNE WILLIAMS - BRIDE

He allowed himself a small smile.

At last, everything was under control.

What could possibly go wrong?

This was Pebblewick.

He really should have known better.

Meanwhile, at the Harbour

While the wedding was getting under way at St Bartholomew's, Hank and his wife were discovering that my warning regarding the Pebblewick gulls had, if anything, been a considerable understatement.

Rather surprisingly, they had not even purchased any chips.

On this particular morning, the gulls seemed perfectly capable of generating their own reasons for concern.

Hank and his wife were apparently sufficient.

The first gull swooped low over Hank's Panama hat.

"Whoa!"

A second appeared from behind and swept so close to his wife that she immediately ducked.

"Hank!"

"Did you see that?"

"I certainly did!"

Another gull began circling overhead.

Then a second joined it.

Within moments, the American couple were proceeding along the harbour beneath what could only be described as organised aerial surveillance.

One gull launched a dive-bombing attack on Hank.

He ducked.

His Panama hat slipped over one eye.

A second gull swept past his wife at head height.

Rather than looking alarmed, Hank appeared delighted.

"This is fantastic!"

His wife stared at him.

"We're being attacked."

"No, no," said Hank. "I think this is just what they do over here."

"What?"

"The British seaside experience."

Another gull swooped.

Hank ducked again.

"See?"

His wife remained unconvinced.

"You think being attacked by birds is part of British culture?"

"Could be."

"I don't remember reading about it in the guidebook."

"Guidebooks don't tell you everything."

For what must have felt like an eternity, they continued their exploration of the harbour beneath circling wings and suspicious cries.

Hank kept taking photographs.

His wife kept ducking.

Eventually they began making their way back up Harbour Street.

The gulls accompanied them for most of the journey.

Then, quite suddenly, as they reached the road leading towards St Bartholomew's Church, the birds abandoned the pursuit and drifted back towards the harbour.

Hank looked behind him.

"They've given up."

His wife carefully straightened her hair.

"Thank goodness."

Hank adjusted his Panama hat.

"Friendly little things."

His wife stared at him in disbelief.

"Hank, one of them tried to land on your head."

"Probably curious."

Behind them, the gulls settled upon rooftops overlooking the harbour.

They were patient creatures.

Sooner or later somebody would emerge carrying fish and chips.

And when that happened, business would resume.

Mrs Watkins Remembers

Back at The Salty Page, the morning was proving considerably busier than the quiet Saturday I had anticipated.

Cars were arriving.

Wedding guests were wandering through the village.

The bells of St Bartholomew's were ringing.

The gulls were terrorising Americans.

In other words, it was a fairly ordinary day in Pebblewick.

Then the bell above my shop door tinkled.

Mrs Watkins entered.

Mrs Watkins was in her early sixties and had spent most of her life in the village. She was one of my most loyal customers and, beyond any doubt, one of the most enthusiastic readers I had ever met.

She was a small, neat lady with carefully arranged grey hair, bright red spectacles and the purposeful stride of somebody who always seemed to have important business to attend to.

Even when she didn't.

Before retiring, she had spent many years working as a receptionist at the local doctor's surgery.

The occupation had endowed her with an astonishing memory for people.

She remembered names.

She remembered birthdays.

She remembered engagements, weddings and anniversaries.

She remembered whose children had gone to university and whose had returned.

Given sufficient notice, she could probably have informed you who had missed a medical appointment in 2004 and precisely what excuse they had offered.

What she could never remember, however, was when her books were due to arrive.

This was particularly unfortunate because she adored reading.

Detective fiction was her speciality.

Murders.

Mysteries.

Missing heirs.

Poisoned vicars.

Country houses full of suspicious relatives.

If a novel contained a thunderstorm, a locked room and a body discovered beside an antique writing desk, Mrs Watkins considered it money well spent.

Whenever one of her favourite authors announced a new title, she would place an order immediately.

Then the enquiries would begin.

"Is my book in yet, Harold?"

"Next Thursday, Mrs Watkins."

Two days later:

"Any sign of it?"

"Still next Thursday."

Wednesday afternoon would bring a telephone call.

"Harold, I'm just checking about my book."

"Tomorrow, Mrs Watkins."

"Oh, excellent. I'll be there first thing."

Thursday would arrive.

The book would arrive.

Mrs Watkins would not.

Friday would pass.

And then, usually on Saturday morning, she would stroll into the shop looking mildly puzzled.

Which was exactly what happened now.

"Morning, Harold."

"Good morning, Mrs Watkins."

She approached the counter.

"I've come to collect my book."

I looked at her.

Then at the parcel behind the counter.

Then back at Mrs Watkins.

"The book you've been waiting three months for?"

"That's the one."

"The book you telephoned me about twice last week?"

"Yes."

"The book that was published on Thursday?"

Mrs Watkins frowned thoughtfully.

"Was it Thursday?"

"It was."

"Oh."

I reached beneath the counter and handed it over.

Her face brightened immediately.

"Wonderful. I've been dying to read this."

I glanced at the parcel.

It had spent the last two days waiting patiently for her.

"I'm quite sure the feeling is mutual."

Mrs Watkins laughed and examined the cover with obvious satisfaction.

Like many dedicated mystery readers, she firmly believed she could solve crimes more efficiently than the detectives in her novels.

"It is always the person you least suspect," she once informed Constable Wilfred Moss.

Wilfred considered this carefully.

"Wouldn't that make them the person you most suspect?"

Mrs Watkins had peered over her spectacles.

"Don't complicate things, Wilfred."

Sadly, Pebblewick rarely provided opportunities to test her theories.

Most local crime involved missing flowerpots, boundary disputes and gulls stealing sandwiches.

Mrs Watkins nevertheless remained optimistic.

She tucked the book beneath her arm.

"Anything interesting happening today, Harold?"

I glanced through the shop window.

Outside, a wedding guest was attempting to reverse a large vehicle into a parking space that appeared designed for a bicycle.

Two other guests were providing entirely contradictory instructions.

Outside the church, Reverend Finch had emerged once again, clutching his little notebook like a military commander consulting battle plans.

Further down Harbour Street, Hank and his wife were approaching while casting suspicious glances at the sky.

And on the roof of The Codfather, three gulls were watching them with professional interest.

"There's a wedding," I said.

"Oh yes."

Mrs Watkins nodded.

"I'd forgotten about that."

I looked at Mrs Watkins.

Then I looked at the book she had forgotten was waiting.

Then I looked back at Mrs Watkins.

Somehow, I wasn't surprised.

A Sudden Turn

While I was serving Mrs Watkins, we could both hear voices and laughter drifting across Harbour Street from the direction of St Bartholomew's.

Mrs Watkins turned towards the window.

"Is it over already?"

"I'm not sure."

Then the organ began playing.

Mrs Watkins listened for a moment.

"That sounds fairly conclusive."

"I believe it does," I said.

She joined me at the window.

There are many things that the people of Pebblewick do exceptionally well.

We make excellent tea.

We produce highly respectable fish and chips.

And, whenever circumstances permit, we are remarkably skilled at standing beside windows and observing other people.

Outside St Bartholomew's, wedding guests were beginning to gather in the churchyard.

Clusters of relatives and friends stood chatting beneath the summer sunshine. Some were taking photographs on their telephones. Others were exchanging congratulations while trying to determine the identities of cousins they had not seen for several years.

Then the official photographer assumed command.

He was a compact, energetic gentleman carrying enough cameras, lenses and equipment to document a royal coronation.

"Family of the bride over here, please!"

People shuffled obediently into position.

"No, sir, slightly to your left."

The gentleman moved right.

"Your other left, sir."

More shuffling followed.

"Perfect. Everybody smile!"

The photographer fired off a succession of photographs.

Then the doors of St Bartholomew's opened.

Out stepped the newly married Mr and Mrs Gary Griffiths.

A cheer went up immediately.

Confetti filled the air.

Guests applauded.

Cameras flashed from every direction.

Gary and June stood arm in arm, both beaming with happiness. June laughed as Gary took her hand, and for several wonderful moments the churchyard was filled with celebration, applause and cheerful disorder.

Even Mrs Watkins smiled.

"Lovely," she said.

"It is."

"Her dress is beautiful."

"Yes."

Mrs Watkins narrowed her eyes.

"I don't like that hat."

I followed her gaze.

"Which one?"

"The green one."

There appeared to be at least four green hats in view.

I decided not to enquire further.

Then came the scream.

It cut through the churchyard like a knife.

The laughter stopped.

The applause ceased.

The photographer lowered his camera.

Gary and June turned towards the church.

For several long seconds, nobody moved.

The churchyard fell silent.

Then a woman burst through the church doors.

I recognised her immediately.

It was Hank's wife.

The cheerful American woman I had met earlier that morning looked completely transformed.

Her face was pale.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

She stumbled forward.

"Somebody help!"

Several wedding guests hurried towards her.

"What is it?"

"What's happened?"

The woman struggled to speak.

She turned back towards the church doors.

"It's Hank."

The crowd fell silent once more.

A guest stepped forward.

"What about him?"

For a moment she could barely get the words out.

Then she said them.

"Hank's dead!"

Nobody moved.

The words seemed to hang above the churchyard.

Beside me, Mrs Watkins let out a small gasp.

I stared across the road in disbelief.

Hank?

The cheerful American who had been standing in my bookshop barely an hour earlier?

The man who had enthusiastically purchased every local history book I had placed before him?

The man who had survived an encounter with the Pebblewick gulls and considered it entertainment?

Dead?

It seemed impossible.

Only later did the full story emerge.

After escaping the attentions of the gulls, Hank and his wife had wandered towards St Bartholomew's.

Seeing a traditional English church wedding taking place, Hank's curiosity had immediately taken over.

He and his wife had only ever seen such weddings on television.

Hank had apparently declared that observing a real one would form an important part of what he called "the authentic British experience."

So they had quietly entered the church and slipped into two empty seats at the back.

Nobody questioned them.

With eighty wedding guests present, most people simply assumed they belonged to the other side of the family.

During the ceremony, Hank appeared to enjoy himself enormously.

He admired the church.

He whispered observations to his wife.

He watched the vows with genuine interest.

According to his wife, he had even become slightly emotional during the service, though had he been alive to defend himself he would undoubtedly have claimed that something had merely flown into his eye.

And now that same wife was standing in the churchyard announcing that he was dead.

I found myself staring across the street, trying to make sense of it all.

The entire wedding celebration had dissolved into confusion.

Guests were gathering in anxious groups.

Several people hurried towards the church doors.

Reverend Finch looked as though somebody had informed him that the Book of Common Prayer had been replaced by advanced mathematics.

Nobody seemed quite certain what to do next.

I was so absorbed by the scene unfolding outside that I completely failed to hear the bell above the door of The Salty Page.

It was only when I turned to speak to Mrs Watkins that I discovered I was alone.

"Mrs Watkins?"

No answer.

I looked around the shop.

Nothing.

Then I glanced through the window.

A small figure with short grey hair and bright red spectacles was striding purposefully across Harbour Street towards St Bartholomew's.

Mrs Watkins was moving at a speed I had not seen her achieve in years.

Her newly purchased crime novel remained firmly tucked beneath one arm.

I sighed.

For decades, Mrs Watkins had read about murders, mysteries, unexplained deaths and amateur detectives.

Year after year she had hoped that something genuinely mysterious might happen in Pebblewick.

Apparently, now that one finally had, she had no intention whatsoever of missing the opening chapter.

Eighty Becomes a Handful

The wedding guests began looking uneasily at one another.

A death at a wedding was unfortunate enough.

The possibility of remaining in Pebblewick to answer questions once the police arrived appeared to settle the matter entirely.

Nobody actually announced they were leaving.

They simply started vanishing.

One couple suddenly remembered they had an extremely long drive home.

Another guest recalled a prior commitment involving an elderly aunt.

A family of five developed an immediate and pressing concern about motorway traffic.

Within minutes, Harbour Street was echoing with the sound of slamming car doors.

Engines started.

Indicators flashed.

Wedding hats vanished into passenger seats.

The photographer packed away his cameras with a speed and efficiency that suggested long experience of unexpected events.

People who had spent half the morning trying to find somewhere to park now managed to leave Pebblewick in record time.

Eighty guests became sixty.

Sixty became forty.

Forty became twenty.

And twenty very quickly became a handful.

I watched from the window of The Salty Page as yet another car disappeared up the road.

Remarkable.

It had taken some of them nearly an hour to arrive.

It was taking less than ten minutes for them to leave.

Across the street, the newly married Gary and June Griffiths stood outside St Bartholomew's looking utterly bewildered.

Their wedding photographs had been interrupted.

Their guests were evaporating.

And there was apparently a dead American inside the church.

It was not, I suspected, quite the wedding day they had imagined.

Then the door of The Merry Teapot opened.

Molly stepped outside.

She had clearly been expecting to see eighty hungry wedding guests making their way towards her tearoom.

Instead, she was greeted by the sight of a steady procession heading in precisely the opposite direction.

She stopped.

A car drove past.

Then another.

Molly looked towards the church.

Then towards the departing vehicles.

Then back at The Merry Teapot.

I could almost see her counting.

She had prepared sandwiches for eighty people.

Scones for eighty people.

Cakes for eighty people.

Tea for eighty people.

She had even managed to solve the crisis involving the twelve missing matching cups.

And now most of the people intended to consume those refreshments appeared to be fleeing the village.

Molly crossed Harbour Street and marched directly into The Salty Page.

The bell tinkled overhead.

“Harold?”

“Yes?”

“Why are all the wedding guests leaving?”

“There has been a slight complication.”

Molly folded her arms.

“What sort of complication?”

I hesitated.

“One of the guests appears to have died.”

Molly froze.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“The American gentleman who was in here earlier. Hank.”

Her face fell immediately.

“The big cheerful one?”

“That’s him.”

“Oh no.”

There was genuine sadness in her voice.

It turned out that after leaving my bookshop, Hank and his wife had called into The Merry Teapot.

They had absolutely loved it.

According to Molly, Hank had stood just inside the doorway for several seconds simply taking everything in.

The little tables.

The china cups.

The cake stands.

The scent of fresh baking.

Molly herself bustling about in her pale blue apron.

Finally he had turned to his wife.

“This is exactly what I was hoping for.”

His wife had smiled.

“You’ve been saying that everywhere we’ve gone.”

“Yeah,” said Hank. “But this time I mean it.”

Molly had taken to them immediately.

They admired the china.

They inspected the cakes.

They asked whether British people really stopped for afternoon tea or whether it had all been invented for tourists.

Then Hank spotted the scones.

Molly could still remember the expression on his face.

“Are those homemade?”

“They are.”

He moved closer.

“With real cream?”

“Clotted cream.”

“And strawberry jam?”

“Of course.”

Hank looked at his wife.

“We’re coming back.”

“We’ve only just got here.”

“I know. We’ve got sightseeing to do first.”

They had decided to continue exploring Pebblewick and return later.

Before leaving, Hank had pointed at the scones.

“Save us a couple of those.”

“I’ll keep two aside.”

“That’s a deal.”

Then he had smiled, waved, and headed out into the sunshine.

Now Molly stood silently in my bookshop.

“I kept them for him,” she said quietly.

For once, there was nothing particularly amusing to say.

I looked towards the church.

“I’m sorry, Molly.”

“So am I.”

For a few moments neither of us spoke.

Outside, the atmosphere along Harbour Street had changed completely.

The excitement of the wedding had evaporated.

People stood in little clusters talking quietly.

Others glanced anxiously towards the church doors.

Even the gulls seemed less noisy than usual.

“He was so cheerful,” Molly said eventually.

“He was.”

She nodded.

Then, as practical people often do after dwelling briefly on sadness, her mind returned to the next immediate crisis.

Her expression suddenly changed.

“Harold?”

“Yes?”

“I’ve made eighty scones.”

I nodded.

“I know.”

“Not including Hank’s two.”

“Ah.”

“And sandwiches.”

“Yes.”

“And cakes.”

“Yes.”

“And I borrowed twelve cups from the church hall.”

“I remember.”

She looked out at the increasingly empty street.

“What am I supposed to do with afternoon tea for eighty people?”

I considered the problem carefully.

Outside, another wedding guest accelerated away from Pebblewick.

The village population appeared to be decreasing by the minute.

Then I shrugged.

“I wouldn’t worry.”

“Why not?”

“If word gets around that there are free scones available, you’ll have eighty people again by lunchtime.”

For the first time since entering the shop, Molly smiled.

The thing about Pebblewick was that people might run away from a mystery.

But nobody ever ran away from fresh scones.

The Aftermath

Eventually, Gary and June Griffiths left St Bartholomew's.

Their wedding day had not concluded quite as they had imagined.

Only a few hours earlier they had stood at the altar exchanging vows in a church they had loved since their first visit to Pebblewick.

Now they were leaving behind abandoned wedding photographs, half-finished celebrations and a tragedy nobody could have anticipated.

One by one, the few remaining guests followed them.

Cars departed quietly.

Doors closed softly.

Voices were hushed.

Before long, Harbour Street had become strangely still.

The silence lingered only briefly.

Then a police car arrived.

An ambulance followed soon afterwards.

Two police officers stepped from the police car and made their way towards St Bartholomew's, where Reverend Horace Finch stood anxiously at the church gate.

Horace greeted them immediately and began explaining the events of the morning.

A few paces behind him stood Mrs Watkins.

I was not entirely convinced that the officers had invited her to assist with the investigation.

Knowing Mrs Watkins, I considered it far more likely that she had simply attached herself to proceedings and proved impossible to detach.

Horace led the officers into the church.

Mrs Watkins followed a few seconds later, maintaining a respectful distance while ensuring she missed absolutely nothing.

Meanwhile, the ambulance crew unloaded their equipment and disappeared through the church doors.

Then there was nothing to do but wait.

From the window of The Salty Page, I watched.

Molly watched from the doorway of The Merry Teapot.

Several other villagers watched discreetly from various windows along Harbour Street.

Pebblewick had returned to one of its favourite pastimes.

Waiting and observing.

Time passed slowly.

The church doors remained closed.

The harbour gulls wheeled lazily overhead.

Even Harbour Street seemed reluctant to make a sound.

At last, the two police officers emerged.

They stood together near the gate.

One consulted his notebook.

The other nodded.

For a few moments they spoke quietly before closing their notebooks and putting them away.

Apparently they had heard enough.

There was no mystery.

No suspicious circumstances.

No indication of anything requiring a lengthy police investigation.

Constable Moss would not be questioning half the village.

Mrs Watkins, I suspected, would be deeply disappointed.

A while later, the ambulance crew emerged.

Their expressions told the story before anybody spoke.

They packed away their equipment, climbed into the ambulance and drove off.

Hank remained inside the church.

Eventually another vehicle arrived.

Two men stepped out and quietly entered St Bartholomew's.

Some time later they emerged again.

This time they were accompanied by Hank.

The contrast with the wedding could not have been greater.

Only a short while earlier, those church doors had opened to organ music, applause and showers of confetti.

Now there was only silence.

No laughter.

No photographs.

No celebration.

People simply stood quietly and respectfully as Hank was taken away.

His wife remained standing alone outside the church.

The sight was a sad one.

Only that morning the two of them had arrived in Pebblewick full of excitement.

They had come in search of what Hank called "the real England."

They had explored the harbour.

They had survived encounters with the village gulls.

They had purchased books about local history.

They had discovered The Merry Teapot.

They had reserved two scones for later.

They had slipped into the back of a church because watching a traditional British wedding seemed like an experience not to be missed.

Now she stood alone in a village she barely knew and would almost certainly never wish to see again.

After a time, she began walking slowly back towards the campervan.

Nobody stopped her.

Nobody asked questions.

Nobody attempted conversation.

Even Mrs Thistlewood, who had somehow materialised near the post office, remained unusually quiet.

The village seemed to understand that some sorrows are best left undisturbed.

Unfortunately, the gulls possessed rather less sensitivity.

As Hank's wife approached the campervan, one swooped low overhead.

A second followed.

She ducked instinctively and hurried the final few yards.

It struck me as a particularly poor farewell.

She climbed into the driver's seat and closed the door.

Several moments later the engine started.

The campervan pulled away from the kerb.

It travelled slowly along Harbour Street.

Then it disappeared around the corner.

The gulls watched it go.

After a few moments they returned to the harbour.

Life, as it always does, was already moving on.

Some time later, the bell above the door of The Salty Page tinkled softly.

Mrs Watkins came in.

She looked very different from the woman who had rushed enthusiastically across the road earlier that day.

The excitement had vanished completely.

Her crime novel remained tucked beneath one arm.

"Well?" I asked gently.

Mrs Watkins shook her head.

"The police say it was a heart attack."

"Oh."

"The ambulance crew said there was nothing anybody could have done."

She stood quietly beside the counter.

For perhaps the first time since I had known her, Mrs Watkins seemed unable to think of anything to say.

Eventually her eyes drifted down towards the murder mystery under her arm.

"It's not much like the books, is it, Harold?"

"No."

In her novels there would have been clues.

There would have been suspects.

There would have been mysterious motives and dramatic revelations.

A detective would have appeared, asked clever questions and gathered everyone together for a final explanation.

By the last chapter everything would be neatly resolved.

Real life rarely offered such comforts.

Mrs Watkins sighed softly.

"I think I'll go home."

"Probably a good idea."

She nodded and turned towards the door.

Then she paused.

"Harold?"

"Yes?"

"I don't think I'll read this today."

I looked at the crime novel.

For once, the appeal of fictional murder seemed rather diminished.

"I don't blame you."

She gave me a small smile.

Then she left.

I remained behind the counter for some time after she was gone.

The bookshop felt unusually quiet.

Across the road, Molly stood in the doorway of The Merry Teapot.

Somewhere inside were sandwiches, cakes and more scones than Pebblewick could reasonably consume in a week.

Including two that had been carefully set aside for Hank.

I glanced at the clock.

It was still earlier than I would normally close on a Saturday.

Nevertheless, I walked to the door and turned the sign around.

OPEN became CLOSED.

I decided that Pebblewick had provided quite enough excitement for one day.

Besides, tomorrow was Sunday.

I looked towards St Bartholomew's.

With Reverend Horace Finch involved, experience suggested that almost anything remained possible.