Scents And Sensibility
FUN SHORT STORY WRITTEN BY H.JOHNSON-MACK
Bookseller Cassie’s mind is full of romance, villains and characters. Will it help or hinder her in tracking down a thief?
Cassie cast an anxious glance at the summer sky stretched above the Hertfordshire hill.
“Those clouds don’t look too clever, Luna,” she fretted to the cross-breed spaniel skipping round her feet as she fixed the final hook of her awning in place. “You know what they say if it rains today, don’t you?” Luna blinked at her, making her chuckle. “That’s right – On Saint Swithin’s Day, if it does rain, for forty days showers will remain. That wouldn’t be good for our income!”
Luna followed faithfully as she moved around the pitch for her mobile bookshop business, Other Worlds Inside. It was a fun life, travelling round to fêtes, fairs and other events, but it could be tough if she failed to sell much.
Still, she was living her dream and thanks to a resurgence in the love of books with help from celebrity endorsements and shows like Between The Covers, her little moving bookshop was doing well.
“Hey, Poppy.” Cassie grinned at the golden-haired young woman who’d paused by her pitch, envying the willowy figure wrapped in a rainbow dress. “How’s things?”
“So, so.” Poppy’s hand see-sawed to emphasise. “My new Meadow range is going really well.”
“Ooh, I might have to treat myself.” Cassie loved Poppy’s organic creations of scented candles and soap. “But why the long face?”
Poppy flopped into the spare deckchair next to Cassie’s.
“You know Jack, who helps me make the candles? Well, I’ve fancied him for ages and keep dropping hints for him to take me out. But he’s either completely blind to the crazy soap girl, or he’s just not interested. Either way, it’s depressing.”
“I can imagine.”
“Where’s Finn, by the way?”
Cassie sighed as an image of the absent hunky metalworker and fellow fête trader she’d been seeing sprang to mind.
“At his parents’ anniversary bash. So I won’t have his striking stall next to mine to draw people my way.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Poppy stood, straightening her dress. “We need to sign in with the organisers before the fête officially opens. Coming?”
Clicking on Luna’s leash, Cassie tried to match Poppy’s graceful strides as they headed for the aptly named St Swithin’s Church at the tip of a sloping walled enclosure, its twisted trees and long-dreaming residents treated to a glorious view of rolling fields and wooded copse that stretched out below.
“I can’t believe Jack hasn’t noticed you,” she said frankly. “You look lovely, and let’s face it, you always smell good.”
Poppy gave a dramatic sigh, reminding Cassie of a modern Alice in Wonderland minus the headband. It was a secret habit of hers that she’d had since childhood, comparing people to storybook characters.
“I’m scared to find out, that’s what it is. I’ve been let down before, you see – plus I need Jack to finish my candles to a professional standard. What if he doesn’t share my feelings and it ruins our working relationship?”
Cassie chewed her lip, considering.
“Hmmm. How about you give him a hint, with a gift of a specific type of soap or something?”
“Like a rosemary product that means Remember me?”
“Exactly. Then if he’s not interested, you could just say you were thanking him for his help, and no harm done.”
As they’d reached the church with its square, crenelated bell tower, Poppy had no time to answer. Instead she accepted the welcoming hand of the vicar waiting in the arched, shaded interior, who introduced himself as Leonard Wilson.
“We’re keeping an eye on those threatening clouds,” Cassie remarked conversationally as she waited to sign the register and pay her pitch fees.
“Ah, yes.” The vicar’s smile was benign. “Our saint’s fable won’t be far from folks’ minds today, though the forecast is for sun. Let’s hope it shines on our Swithin’s fete, eh? It’s the biggest fundraiser of the year.”
“Amen to that!”
The high, croaky voice belonged to an elderly lady teetering on a stool beside a stand packed with beautiful handmade crocheted baby clothes and gifts.
“This is Ada King,” Reverend Wilson introduced her, “our most prolific supporter and volunteer. That’s why she gets a stall away from the elements.”
“More like he knows I’ll guard his treasure like an Alsatian,” Ada chuckled, setting aside a holdall bulging with multi-coloured wool to slip down from the stool and wave the others to where a broken stained-glass lady sat regally in a slim display case. “Pretty, ain’t she? A piece of medieval mastery, that. Now how about a tea or coffee before the punters arrive?”
Cassie parted from Poppy with a promise to drop by her stall later on then returned to her van, balancing a takeaway latte by its protective sleeve. There was something about Ada King that made her twitchy, despite the vicar’s warmth toward her.
When she realised what it was, Cassie had to laugh. Of course! The latest book she was reading for her online Victorian literature course was Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities, and in her mind, Ada had become the embodiment of the revolutionary Madame Defarge, crouched with her knitting (or in Ada’s case, crochet) beside Le Guillotine.
Shaking herself, Cassie got busy with last-minute touches to the shop, ready for the great British public (and any overseas visitors) to fall in love with her varied book collection.
It was a good morning, with plenty of enthusiastic readers wandering round the pitch, even without Finn’s metalworking to attract attention. Cassie was kept too busy to miss him that much, though she resolved to call him as soon as the event finished.
As the vicar had predicted, the clouds dispersed to leave behind a painter-perfect sky that enticed Luna outside to lie on the grass by Cassie’s deckchair. She couldn’t quite believe it when her watch proclaimed it was noon, though a tummy grumble made her long for the vegan rolls she’d packed for lunch.
She finished wrapping a hardback in her trademark brown paper and string, business card tucked beneath the knot, her parting smile to the customer fading when she noticed Reverend Wilson hurrying by, clearly disturbed.
“Everything OK?” she called out instinctively.
Brought up short by her words, the vicar paused beside the van. Miserably he shook his head.
“The stained-glass lady,” he muttered. “She’s missing.”
“What?” Cassie instinctively lowered her voice, as if their words would cause a panic if they were overheard.
“Yes – and what’s more, Ada King has also disappeared.”
It took a little time to arrange for her next-door trader to keep an eye on the van in a lunch-time cover deal, so by the time Cassie got to the church, Reverend Wilson was nowhere in sight. But to her surprise and relief, Ada was perched on her stool again, industriously weaving away with her crochet hook.
“Why the wide eyes?” she wondered.
“The vicar told me you’d gone missing.” Cassie flushed as Ada burst out laughing, drawing the eyes of nearby fete-goers.
“So you came to see if I was all right?”
“That, and whether the glass lady
had been found.”
Ada cocked her head, surveying Cassie through a shrewd gaze.
“On a mission for Saint Swithin’s, are we, chick? Going to uncover the whereabouts of their prize?”
“Well, I have been accused of thinking I’m Nancy Drew,” Cassie confessed, recalling Finn’s assessment of her on the day they’d met. She wished he were here now, facing down this strange woman with her.
“It’s a game I play,” she added as the silence lengthened and Ada continued to stare. “I have a habit of assigning story characters to interesting people I meet.”
“Do you, now? So, who have you pegged me as, Miss Mock-Drew?”
Cassie’s flush returned full-flame at this. But before she had to stumble through an answer, she was saved by
a wonderful trio of women who descended on Ada’s stall exclaiming over the exquisite work.
While she was distracted, Cassie slipped away to where the glass lady
had been displayed.
Hmm. No obvious clues that she could see, only a bit of round black plastic which she absently pocketed.
The case was also missing – but that could have been removed by the vicar, if not the thief. Trying to pick the lock or break the case would be almost impossible to achieve without being seen and apprehended.
Cassie sighed. It was a puzzle. The glass, though precious to St Swithin’s, was surely no great prize unless you collected religious artefacts.
Plus, you’d have to know it was here to steal – which would suggest that the perpetrator was someone who was familiar with this place.
Could it be Reverend Wilson? No! His face was far too open for secrecy or lies.
Though might he have been thinking of the insurance pay-out he could claim on the piece?
She watched surreptitiously as he paused by Ada King’s stall with a man sporting a rugby player’s physique, murmuring gravely to her before they moved on. Wilson seemed genuinely concerned, his hair in disarray as if he’d been clutching it.
She flushed again as she caught Ada’s sharp eyes once more fixed on her.
“Find any clues?” Ada wondered with a laugh in her voice as Cassie obeyed her summons to approach. She touched a fingertip to Cassie’s cheek, not unkindly. “You could never be a poker player with that giveaway. Why are you staring so strangely at our Reverend?”
So much for trying to be unobtrusive.
“It did cross my mind that it might be an insurance scam,” Cassie explained, rather sheepishly. “But he looks too worried to be responsible.”
“Unless he’s a very good actor,” Ada pointed out, chuckling when Cassie’s face fell. “Don’t look so chagrined, chick. I happen to know he’s so distressed about the disappearance because he’s let the insurance policy lapse. See that man there?” She added, nodding to the muscular man, “He’s off-duty police. And I’ll tell you what I told him – look out for a modern Fagin character with mischief on his mind.”
Cassie circled the walled grounds with Luna, lost in gloomy thought. Some sleuth she was! A face that gave everything away, clutching at straws for possible motives. No wonder Ada King found her so amusing. Oh well, enough of trying to solve mysteries; she’d concentrate on deciphering A Tale Of Two Cities instead, as the relevant course essay was due in soon.
“Psst!”
Turning, Cassie saw Poppy waving madly at her from the back of her scented stall. She unveiled a basket laden with soap and bath bombs, wafting it under Cassie’s nose.
“What do you think of this? I’ve picked Rose for love, and Forget Me Not for obvious reasons.”
“It’s divine,” Cassie sighed, breathing in deeply. “Is it for Operation Jack?”
“Umm, and I was going to put a card in with something like Get the message? written on it. Do you think it’ll work?”
Cassie shrugged.
“Possibly, if he understands the meaning of flowers. But if you’re prepared to risk giving him this, why not be more obvious?”
Poppy’s cheeks paled.
“On second thoughts, perhaps I shouldn’t give him anything.”
Cassie pulled her into a hug.
“You’re a lovely girl, Poppy, and if Jack can’t appreciate that, he’s not the man for you. Personally, I’d rather know for sure one way or the other, but that’s me. Do what makes you the most comfortable.”
Poppy nodded, hastily shoving the basket under the covered table as Jack himself appeared.
“Hi,” she blurted a shade too brightly, earning herself an odd glance. “You remember Cassie?”
Jack nodded and after exchanging greetings, Cassie excused herself, saying she needed to get back to her van.
“Wow, Luna,” she muttered to the faithful spaniel at her heels. “Let’s get back and hide amongst our books, shall we? There’s far too much drama going on out here for me!”
Things quietened down a little as people stopped for lunch, so Cassie was able to not only enjoy hers but lose herself in literature for a while.
Two Cities proving too heavy for place and mind, it was Jane Austen’s Sense And Sensibility she devoured, delighting as always in the chalk-and-cheese characters and lyrical phrases surrounding their immortal world.
Were Elinor Dashwood and Edward Ferrars the Georgian equivalent of Jack and Poppy? Though Poppy could be Elinor with her prudence, she couldn’t quite see Jack getting taken in by a woman like Lucy Steele. It wasn’t until she’d handed over a copy of Black Beauty to a girl too excited to wait for it to be wrapped that she remembered the plastic circle she’d found. Now she wasn’t thinking so hard, it dawned on her what it was, and exactly what it implied.
As soon as customers allowed, she closed the van then plunged through the reanimated fête crowds to the church and Ada’s stall. When she saw the black eyes on the Amigurumi toys, exact replicas of the plastic circle she’d retrieved from the flagstones, she knew her suspicions had been correct.
Seeking out the vicar, she asked if they could speak privately. With a nervous glance at Luna, he led them to his little office.
I know who the thief is,” Cassie explained breathlessly, presenting the incriminating piece of evidence on her palm to corroborate her words. “Ada King! It had to be someone who knew about the lady. Also, this was left at the scene – one of her toys’ safety eyes.”
“What? Nonsense!” Wilson scoffed. “Ada is a staunch church supporter – I’d trust her with my life.”
“Bless you for that, Reverend.” Both spun round as Ada herself ambled in. “But she’s right about one thing. I do have the lady.”
The vicar’s eyes popped as she drew the piece from her holdall.
“It’s not quite what you think. I hid it here for safekeeping, after seeing that shady character prowling around.
“He seemed to be up to no good so I thought I’d take precautions, particularly given what I knew about the insurance. And I was right, wasn’t I? He’s since been arrested for lifting wallets from unsuspecting pockets.”
Reverend Wilson turned a deep shade of red. Cassie bit her lip. Ada chuckled.
“Never mind, lovely. If I had been the thief, you’d have saved the day.”
“But it was you who did,” said Cassie. “How could I have got it so wrong?”
“You didn’t,” Ada pointed out. “I just had more information than you, and more years’ experience in my dish to be able to spot a bad ‘un.”
The fête was all but over, the field emptying as the afternoon advanced and murky clouds gathered overhead.
It had been an odd day, Cassie reflected as she methodically dismantled her awning. Ada King was indeed a famous fictional character – but rather than the bloodthirsty Madame Defarge, she was a Miss Marple or the inimitable private detective Miss Silver, complete with yarn accompaniments!
She tucked the toy dog Ada had gifted her on the dashboard. She’d offered Cassie crochet lessons, so she’d be seeing the old lady again. It was a pleasing thought.
Poppy paused by the van, her features wreathed in delight.
“Guess what?”
“Jack said yes.”
“Yes! He did!” Poppy bounced with Alice-like glee. “We’re going out tonight. I wanted to thank you, Cass, as I probably wouldn’t have taken the plunge without your advice.”
Cassie’s smile was satisfied as she waved goodbye, clutching a lily-scented candle. She was doing well today for gifts! The smile soon faded when she felt the first drop of rain, swiftly followed by two, three more.
“The sun’s deserted us, Luna,” she moaned, lifting the spaniel into the front seat of the van. “But who really believes these old weather fables, anyway?”
Her mind flitted over all the fascinating people she had met during the course of the day, and her mouth curved upward once more.
“I think we’ll let Austen’s Marianne Dashwood have the last word on this strange St Swithin’s Day, and reflect that, If I could but know his heart, everything would become easy,” she told Luna.
“And on that note, let’s get inside out of this rain and phone Finn…”
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