The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Five

S ophie couldn’t stop thinking about the book, and had given it pride of place on her coffee table before she’d left for the village hall that evening. Fiona had said she couldn’t leave Mistingham until she’d discovered who had sent it to her, and Sophie got her point: it was an intriguing present, along with a scarily relevant message, and all the more so for being anonymous.

But Sophie’s circle of friends in the village was small, so her immediate – and obvious – thought was that Fiona was behind it. Perhaps it was a copy that had been collecting dust at home, and she’d concocted the ruse as a reason to keep Sophie here? But then, Fiona had already come up with a reason for her to stay – helping her move her notebook business into the old sweet shop. Sophie hadn’t told her why she was really going, and why would she think giving her a classic book and a conundrum to solve would make a difference?

No, Sophie dismissed Fiona as her secret book Santa almost instantly. Besides, she didn’t imagine it would take her longer than a few days to find out who it was. It wasn’t lost on her that Jane Eyre resonated with her own history. She had only read it once, a long time ago, and couldn’t remember the intricacies of the plot, but she knew Jane was an orphan who was unhappy and unloved, moving from place to place until she found Mr Rochester – though that wasn’t exactly smooth sailing either.

Mr Rochester sent her thoughts skittering to Harry Anderly. He was reclusive, lived in a crumbling mansion, and some of the more outlandish rumours about him in the village were straight out of the book that had ended up on her shop counter. But it took Sophie a nanosecond to decide that practical, distant Harry would be the last person in the whole of Norfolk to send her a thoughtful gift. He was barely civil enough to give her the time of day, and their recent meetings had been decidedly uncomfortable. It made no sense whatsoever.

Mistingham village hall was stuffy, even on this cold, rainy night, the fug created by wet jackets and damp dog hair. A garland of fake summer blossoms hung dejectedly from the ceiling, forgotten after an earlier event, and the mood was one of general disgruntlement. It was clear some of the villagers didn’t want to be here but felt they couldn’t relinquish their community duties. Sophie wondered if they were also worried that, in their absence, they would be assigned a task, and it was better to come here and actively excuse themselves.

‘Right then, everyone.’ Ermin tapped the wooden podium on the low stage with the corner of his iPhone, and the chatter faded to muttering as people broke off conversations about Christmas plans and fireworks found in gardens and the temperamental water main down by the stables, and turned their attention to the front of the hall.

‘The Mistingham Festive Oak Fest,’ Ermin said proudly. ‘Our famous Christmas event, always well-attended by locals and visitors alike, will have to be different this year, just as it was last year.’

A groan rippled through the hall, and Sophie cast her gaze around the room. She hadn’t been here for last year’s event, but she had heard about it. For decades, the festival had taken place on the green, beneath the spreading boughs of the beautifully decorated oak tree. Since Harry’s return to the village last spring, he had prevented the planning team holding any events close to the tree and, even though they had still called it the Festive Oak Fest, last year’s celebration had been a street festival, taking over the whole of Perpendicular Street.

There had been mulled wine, chips and candy floss, traditional games like Hook the Duck and Splat the Rat, and a motley crew of carol singers that, Fiona had told her, always stuck to the same set list: the same carols, in the same order, for at least the last decade.

‘Different?’ a silver-haired woman in the second row called out. ‘How do you mean, different?’

Next to Sophie, Annie and Jim Devlin exchanged a glance. They ran the amusement arcade, Penny For Them, had two young children, and had always seemed friendly. She thought that, given half the chance, they would help the organizers come up with entertainment a bit less Eighties than Splat the Rat.

‘Why different?’ old Mr Carsdale echoed from beneath his green felt hat. He sounded curious rather than annoyed.

‘Because, along with our necessary change of venue,’ Ermin said, ‘Winnie can’t organize it this year. With the post office moving to the hotel, she doesn’t have the capacity to do it.’

‘Sorry everyone,’ Winnie called from the back of the room. ‘I don’t want to do a bad job because I’m stretched too thinly.’

‘Don’t see how processing parcels and passport applications can take up much time,’ said a gruff voice Sophie didn’t recognize. ‘The festival’s a tradition, isn’t it?’

‘There’s no need to get into the nitty-gritty.’ Ermin flapped his hands, trying to quiet the mutterings that had started up. ‘The point is, we have a festival to put on in less than two months, and nobody at the helm. The purpose of this meeting is to assign a new organizer.’

The mutterings fell to a deadly silence. Clifton whimpered and Sophie stroked him. The last thing she wanted was to be volunteered to organize a street festival by her dog. In the quiet, the rain and wind made itself known, battering against the outside of the fogged-up windows, reminding them what a filthy night it was. Sophie thought of the soft pyjamas she would get into after her short walk home, the hot chocolate she would make, her new book waiting for her to open it, using the gold ribbon to keep her place as she lost herself in the story.

Around her, every head was lowered, avoiding meeting Ermin’s gaze. Sophie realized that, in all likelihood, the person who had sent her the beautiful book, along with an unsettlingly cryptic message, was in this room right now.

‘Does someone really need to organize it, if we’re just doing the same as last year?’ The bored-sounding teenage voice could only be Indigo, Natasha’s son. ‘Winnie can give you a list and you can just reorder everything, lights and food and games and stuff, right?’

Ermin shuffled his feet. ‘That would, of course, be a sensible starting point. But we did wonder if – ah, I mean, the villagers I’ve spoken to – if this would be a good chance to …’ He glanced to the back of the room, ‘… to re-evaluate the plan, slightly. Moving it from the green to Perpendicular Street does come with its own complications.’

‘You mean like making sure the council put a proper diversion in place, so you don’t end up with furious drivers stuck in the village with nowhere to go?’ Natasha suggested. ‘The bar truck was next to the cordon, so I got some proper abuse last year.’

‘And some of it has got a bit tired,’ Simon said carefully. Sophie’s landlord and the owner of Batter Days, he was a quiet, generous man with sandy hair and a slim frame.

‘I didn’t even recognize the rat I splatted last time,’ someone agreed. ‘Thought it was a hairy cowpat.’

‘Right. Yes.’ Ermin raised his voice. ‘We want a revamp of the Festive Oak Fest, with someone who can really give it some attention, add that extra oomph, and make the most of its new location. Mistingham has so many local producers, people with skills and talents to show off, that I honestly think it could be something rather magnificent, despite the constraints. If we could—’

He was interrupted by a loud thwack as the hall door slammed against the indoor wall. A tall figure appeared in the doorway, highlighted by the outdoor light, the rain sparkling in hectic shards behind him.

‘Shit,’ said the man, and recognition prickled down Sophie’s spine. ‘That was the wind, not me,’ he announced to the room. ‘I wasn’t trying to make that sort of entrance.’ He stepped inside, shut the door behind him and pulled down his rain-slicked hood, and Sophie was treated to another view of Harry Anderly, with his mess of soft brown hair and his strong features, the tip of his nose pink from the cold.

‘Harry!’ Ermin’s shocked greeting sent nervous titters rippling through the audience. ‘I just … I didn’t—’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Harry said. His gaze drifted across the space, and Sophie noticed May sitting at the end of a row. She waved and gave him a full-wattage smile. The look he gave her in return was both affectionate and annoyed. ‘It was suggested to me by a friend that I should come tonight. I want to reiterate that the oak tree is old and fragile, so Mistingham Green is still out of bounds, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want the festival to be a success.’

The silence that followed was profound. The villagers stared at him, as if he was a rare creature who’d escaped from a zoo, and Sophie wondered if everyone was thinking what she was – that he’d come to check up on them, make sure they didn’t disobey his orders.

It sent up an indignant flare inside her, something he seemed to inspire every time they were close. Then her earlier thought returned: someone in this room had sent her the copy of Jane Eyre . Someone here was behind her gift from The Secret Bookshop. If she was involved in the festival, then she would have to speak to a whole lot of villagers: she could look them in the eye, ask questions, and see how they responded.

If she suggested the event had a book-related element, perhaps a stall promoting Christmas reads like A Christmas Carol , The Polar Express , The Night Before Christmas , could she use that as a reason to ask around, find out about people’s relationships with books: what they loved, where they bought or borrowed their reading material from? Could taking an active role in the festival help her solve her mystery?

She slowly raised her hand, stretching her arm above the rows of heads.

‘Sophie,’ Ermin said warmly. ‘What’s your question?’

‘Oh! No,’ she said. ‘I thought, maybe—’

‘ Sophie ,’ Winnie called out. ‘Yes! You would do a marvellous job. You have those kind of eyes.’

Sophie blinked as heads swivelled towards her, everyone probably wondering how her unremarkable brown eyes could signify that she’d be great at organizing a festival.

‘I don’t think I’d do a good job by myself ,’ she said, feeling the blush warm her cheeks as she raised her voice, ‘but I’d be happy to be involved. If there were a few of us, perhaps, then it would be—’

‘Well!’ Ermin said. ‘This is grand! And a lot easier than I’d hoped.’

‘I can’t do it on my own,’ she reiterated.

‘You won’t be on your own.’ Ermin clasped his hands in front of him. ‘Harry just said he wants the festival to be a success, so—’

‘Hang on.’ Harry took a step forwards. ‘That doesn’t mean—’

‘Harry knows the village better than anyone .’ This was Mary, Winnie’s sister, her voice rising emphatically above the chattering that had started up again.

‘And as he’s decided that the oak tree is no-go, he’s best placed to organize something that will fit all his rules and regulations,’ Jason said. He was Simon’s husband, and ran Two Scoops, the ice-cream parlour. Where Simon was quiet and measured, Jason was permanently outspoken, not afraid to say what everyone else was thinking, and right now his hostility was barely concealed.

‘It does make a lot of sense.’ Fiona’s eyes were gleaming with satisfaction.

‘Oh no,’ Sophie whispered, lifting Clifton onto her lap. ‘No, no, no. That’s not what I meant at all.’

‘One person won’t be enough,’ Ermin said, ‘not with our more ambitious plans, but to have two young, competent people at the helm stands us in great stead for a top-notch Oak Fest. This really is a much better outcome than I’d hoped for.’

‘I didn’t agree to this,’ Harry said loudly. ‘I just came to—’

‘Check up on us?’ Mary asked sweetly.

‘Of course that’s not why I’m here.’

‘Then it stands to reason that you came to offer your help,’ Winnie said, continuing the tag team with her sister.

Harry’s jaw tightened, and Sophie noticed his hands curl into fists at his sides.

‘Harry.’ May stood up and went over to him. She rested her hand on his arm, reached up and whispered something into his ear. If it was possible, his jaw clenched even more tightly, but when she stepped away, he gave a jerky nod.

‘I could offer some assistance,’ he said grimly, as if he’d just agreed to push all the older residents into the sea rather than help put on a sparkly Christmas festival. Sophie found herself empathizing with him all over again. She wanted to melt into a puddle of despair on the floor.

Fiona joined her husband on the stage, sporting a look of such unfettered delight that Sophie wondered if, actually, she should do her midnight flit immediately – tonight – and leave Mistingham for good, anonymous book-gifter be damned.

‘What a wonderful outcome,’ Fiona said. ‘To have such a strong team in charge this year. Residents who I know are hugely committed to Mistingham—’ she paused long enough for Sophie to glare at her ‘—who will do everything in their power to make this the best Oak Fest we’ve had. Please, everyone, give it up for Sophie Stevens and Harry Anderly – and, when they come to talk to you about your contribution, please be as helpful as you can. A successful event benefits us all.’

There was a smattering of applause, a few cheers shot through with relief from people who had dodged bullets, who hadn’t opened their big mouths and put themselves forward for entirely stupid reasons. Who hadn’t ended up in such an impossible, unenviable position.

While everyone gathered their coats and chatted with their neighbours, Sophie held Clifton against her chest and skimmed her gaze over the crowd. May looked pleased as punch that Harry had shown up and walked straight into Ermin’s trap, Fiona was talking animatedly with Birdie, knitter of tiny goat jumpers, and Dexter was laughing with Mary, his arm around his daughter Lucy’s narrow shoulders.

Then she looked over at the door. Harry had stepped aside, letting people out into the unforgiving night, and his eyes were trained perfectly on hers. He looked part shocked, part accusatory, as if she had somehow tricked him into organizing the festival with her.

It was the worst possible outcome. Working with the world’s grumpiest man, on an event everyone cared deeply about, that he’d forced them to compromise on because he was a prominent landowner who was precious about a tree. He would be even less cheery doing this than he was hitting fence posts with a hammer.

It was going to be torturous, and it was all the fault of the mysterious book. If it wasn’t for the beautiful hardback of Jane Eyre with its fancy gold foil, she would never have considered offering up her time. And now she wasn’t just helping to plan the festival, she was 50 per cent of the planning team.

And the other half, standing in his dripping coat with his pink-tipped nose and his hard-as-diamonds gaze, his dogs with stupid names and his baffling indulgence of a goat who had knitted jumpers , for God’s sake, was not going to make things easy for her. She could tell that already, without a shadow of a doubt.