The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Thirteen

S ophie had made a list in the very middle of her snowflake-covered notebook, because the middle always felt like the safest place to write things you didn’t want other people to discover. So far, it read:

Fiona

Ermin

Harry

May

Birdie

Dexter

Lucy

Annie

Winnie

She was sure Annie hadn’t given her the book, and she’d discounted Harry and May from the beginning, because until a few weeks ago she hadn’t known either of them that well, so they had no reason to give her anything, let alone a cryptic message about finding what she was looking for.

She had put a circle around Fiona, who was still her most likely suspect, even though that felt weak. Fiona was her closest friend in Mistingham, and it made sense that she would want Sophie to stick around, but it didn’t seem like her style: she was straight down the middle, not one for subterfuge or subtle hints.

Sophie turned to the page where the gold bookmark rested and read a couple of pages of Jane Eyre , as she had started doing whenever she was home and had a spare minute. She found Rochester’s description of Thornfield Hall, and couldn’t help thinking of how Harry saw Mistingham Manor.

… you see it through a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the gilding is slime and the silk draperies cobwebs; that the marble is sordid slate, and the polished woods mere refuse chips and scaly bark.

‘What do you think, Clifton?’ Her dog was standing on the arm of the sofa, looking out at the horizon. The sun was setting, the sky a pale peach, and Sophie was glad she had plans that evening. Fiona and Ermin had invited her to the pub, and she was going to make the most of it: the socializing, of course, but also being in the heart of the village, surrounded by people who might have a motive to secretly give her a book. She was going to do some drinking, some talking, and some investigating.

Stepping from the cold, dark night into the Blossom Bough was like walking into a warm, welcoming hug. The lighting was soft, with twinkly white bulbs running along the back of the bar, providing sparkle all year round and, no doubt, soon to be joined by some more festive adornments. The walls were cream, the tables and chairs walnut, the booths and benches covered in a velvety cherry red fabric. There was no music playing in the background, no television mounted on the wall, but tea lights glimmered on all the tables, to the soft chink of glasses and hum of people enjoying a Saturday night with friends.

The one, incongruous object was a life-sized cardboard cutout of Elvis Presley wearing a garland of fake cherry blossoms. The landlady Natasha was a huge fan, though Sophie couldn’t remember the story about where the cutout had come from.

She pushed her way to the back of the pub, and found Fiona and Ermin at their favourite table, their mini schnauzer Poppet sitting underneath. Sophie set Clifton down and he greeted the other dog, his playmate on the days Ermin looked after him.

‘Hello.’ She shrugged off her coat and gestured to their half-full glasses. ‘Top-up?’

‘If you’re offering,’ Ermin said. ‘I’m having the local IPA.’

‘And I’ve got Merlot,’ Fiona added.

‘Sure.’ Sophie went to the bar, sliding between two old men sitting on stools, their Norfolk accents thick as they spoke in low voices. ‘Sorry.’

‘Not at all, lass,’ one of them said. ‘You take your time.’

‘All right?’ Natasha asked when she’d finished serving at the other end of the bar. ‘Need a break from the street festival?’

She was, Sophie guessed, in her mid-forties, a natural blonde with blue eyes, and only a couple of inches shorter than Sophie. She’d been running the pub for over a decade, since she’d broken up with her husband and moved from North Walsham to the coast. Her nineteen-year-old son Indigo worked here when he wasn’t with his friends or at art college in Norwich.

‘We’re just getting started,’ Sophie admitted, ‘but I do want to talk to you about running the bar stand.’

‘I’m always glad to help out. Any chance I’ll get to do more than bog-standard mulled wine this year? I’ve got some other winter warmers I’m keen to sell.’

‘Let’s talk about it, but I can’t see how having some variety would be a bad thing.’

‘You’re breaking out of the mould, then?’

Sophie laughed. ‘Mostly because Harry and I don’t know what we’re doing.’ Except that the idea she’d had in Birdie’s garden was taking shape, and she needed to speak to Harry about it. If they were going to make changes, they needed to make them soon.

‘So Harry’s real then, not made of stone like one of the creepy old statues in the manor grounds?’

‘Oh, he’s definitely real,’ Sophie said, then worried she’d sounded salacious. ‘Anyway, let’s get together and decide what we’re doing.’

‘You’re on. Now, what can I get you? I’ll have a mob on my hands if I stand here chatting too much longer.’

Sophie gave the other woman her order, then carried the drinks to her friends, navigating around tables, extended feet and dogs slumped happily near their owners. It was a beautiful pub, popular with tourists but unmistakably a country haunt, and Sophie had been in here more than once when a shooting party came in for a quick snifter on their way back to a six-course lunch at a country estate, crowing about the number of pheasants they’d shot.

‘Grand, thank you,’ Ermin said, as Sophie set the drinks down.

‘You’re welcome.’ The three of them clinked glasses, the red wine sloshing in Sophie’s glass.

‘How are you getting on with the book?’ Fiona asked, once Sophie was settled.

She shot a glance at Ermin, who leaned forward. ‘Fi told me,’ he said in a loud whisper. ‘There are no secrets between us, but I have promised to keep my mouth shut. Fi says you’re doing some kind of … treasure hunt?’

Sophie raised an eyebrow at her friend.

‘I’m not sure those were the words I used,’ Fiona said. ‘I just told him you were investigating, keeping things on the down-low.’

‘On the down-low,’ Sophie murmured, trying not to laugh. ‘I just want to find out who sent me the book, why someone thinks I need instructions about how to live my life. How do they know I’m missing anything? But if I shout about it, or ask everyone en masse at a village meeting, then whoever sent it might go to ground and I’ll never find out – otherwise, why didn’t they put their name on it to begin with? So, I’m trying to be stealthy.’ It sounded ridiculous, bandying about phrases like go to ground and stealthy. She was as bad as Fiona.

This was a small village and it was a thoughtful gift, but it was the anonymity that was baffling her; the fact that someone had chosen her, but didn’t want to reveal themselves.

‘Who’s in the frame?’ Fiona asked. ‘I swear on the future of Hartley Country Apparel that it isn’t me or Ermin.’

‘Scout’s honour.’ Ermin crossed his finger over his chest in a gesture that Sophie didn’t think had anything to do with scouts.

‘I did wonder,’ Sophie admitted. ‘After what we talked about the other day.’

‘You mean you waltzing off to Cornwall like some kind of nomad?’

‘ Fiona ,’ Sophie hiss-whispered.

Ermin held his hands up. ‘As I said, there are no secrets between us. But Fiona would sell your car or take Clifton hostage if she thought you were serious. She wouldn’t do something so baffling as to send you a book with a cryptic message.’

‘Great to know you’re looking out for me,’ Sophie said, laughing. ‘I am going, though.’ It was her plan and she wasn’t deviating from it. After Christmas, after the festival, after she’d found out who was behind The Secret Bookshop, she’d be off.

‘We’ll see.’ Fiona sipped her wine, not sounding concerned.

‘Anyway. Back to Jane Eyre .’ Sophie took her notebook out of her bag, opening it on the list she’d written. ‘This is where I’ve got to.’

‘Blimey.’ Ermin rubbed his forehead. ‘This looks serious. Let me go and get another round in. Same again?’

‘Yes please,’ Sophie and Fiona chorused as they leant over the notebook.

‘Annie is a serial killer fiend?’ Fiona said when Sophie had told her everything she’d found out – who she thought wasn’t in the frame and who was still a possibility.

Sophie laughed. ‘Is that what you’re taking from this?’

‘It’s surprising, that’s all. But you’re right, she’s an unlikely culprit.’

Everyone, according to Fiona and Ermin, was an unlikely culprit, and Sophie felt as though she hadn’t moved from square one. She started scoring neat lines through all the names.

‘What’s this, then?’ said a voice behind her. ‘Festival planning?’

Sophie turned and smiled at Jason Brass, who tonight had swapped his ice-cream parlour for the pub. His dark hair was impeccably styled, his cheeks were rosy, and he was holding a full pint glass. He and his husband, Simon, were kind and fair, and Sophie was lucky to have them as her landlords. Still, if Jason got wind of her mystery, she could kiss goodbye to her stealth approach.

‘That’s right.’ She casually leaned her arm over the page. ‘How are you, Jason?’

‘All good.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘I was thinking of doing baked Alaska for the festival. Wintry flavours – cranberry and cinnamon, mince pie, that kind of thing. I reckon something a bit different will go down a treat.’

‘That sounds delicious. Let me speak to Harry, and we’ll pop by and see you.’

‘Harry Anderly.’ Jason shook his head. ‘Bit hypocritical, helping out with the festival when he’s the one who’s fucked it up.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘The oak tree is really fragile, apparently, so—’

‘The oak tree has been there for hundreds of years. It’ll take more than a few fairy lights and some music to fell it. His dad always encouraged use of the green, but Harry’s the opposite.’

‘You’ve known him a long time?’ Sophie asked.

‘Yup,’ Jason said. ‘He was quiet at school, friendly whenever I spoke to him, but I wasn’t surprised he went off to London as soon as he could. There was something about him – a kind of restlessness, like he knew he could achieve big things as long as he wasn’t here. I’m more surprised that he’s come back.’

‘Maybe now Sophie’s teamed up with him, he’ll reveal his inner workings,’ Fiona suggested.

‘He’s not a grandfather clock,’ Ermin said with a chuckle.

‘Best leave you to it.’ Jason raised his pint and sauntered to his table, joining a man and two women Sophie didn’t recognize. Simon would be busy in Batter Days, and she wondered how much they got to see of each other when their businesses had such contrasting opening hours.

‘The coast is clear,’ Fiona said in a loud whisper, pulling the notebook towards her and tapping the edge of the page. ‘What about Harry?’

‘Are we talking about the festival now?’ Sophie tucked her hair behind her ears.

‘I’m talking about Jane Eyre. ’

The pub door opened, admitting an Arctic blast that slunk menacingly around the room.

‘Harry didn’t send me Jane Eyre ,’ Sophie scoffed, as the door banged closed. She remembered how naturally he’d responded when she’d mentioned the title to him; there’d been no hint of guilt or embarrassment.

‘Harry’s dad owned the bookshop in town,’ Fiona said. ‘That place was full of weird and wonderful editions. He didn’t just buy in new stock, but had little corners full of hidden gems, pockets of gilt-edged hardbacks, folio editions from decades ago. If anyone could get their hands on a book like that, it’s Harry.’

Sophie pictured his study, his shelves full of modern paperbacks and hardbacks. There had been a mix of genres, but nothing that looked old: no sets of leatherbound books with matching spines and debossed lettering.

‘No way did he send it,’ she reiterated, then sipped her wine.

‘You’re right.’ Fiona sighed. ‘A man like that isn’t capable of giving someone such a thoughtful gift.’

Sophie bristled. ‘I only said that because I didn’t know him at all when it turned up on my counter. I still don’t know him that well, but I think it’s harsh to say he isn’t capable of being thoughtful.’

‘A man who wouldn’t come home when his father had to move into a care home, who treats that manor like it’s on a separate island to the rest of us – a far more exclusive island, I might add – and destroys decades of tradition by keeping his land cordoned off from the rest of us, even though it’s literally in the centre of the village, and has been used for events as far back as I can remember?’ She nodded decisively, her point made.

‘We don’t know about him and his dad, love,’ Ermin said gently. ‘What their relationship was like.’

‘Bernard Anderly was one of the nicest men you could ever hope to meet,’ Fiona said. ‘There was absolutely no reason for Harry not to come home and at least visit him, even if he couldn’t look after him himself.’

‘Fiona …’ Ermin started.

Sophie tried to remember what Harry had said about it, that evening in his study. He’d alluded to things not being easy, had said he couldn’t come home, but hadn’t gone into detail. And why should he?

‘He’s warmed up a lot since we’ve been working together.’

She could almost feel Fiona change tack, abandoning her disgruntlement in favour of curiosity. ‘Warmed up? In what way?’

‘Just … that he took the lead with Winnie, even though she was incredibly unforgiving. He’s working really hard to repair the manor, doing consulting at the same time, and … all those rumours about him being a reclusive ogre, they’re nonsense!’

‘Reclusive ogre?’ Sophie jumped as Jason appeared once more and put his pint glass firmly on their table. ‘We’re back to Harry, are we?’

‘Fiona and Ermin don’t believe he’s capable of being friendly.’

‘He hasn’t exactly got involved in village life,’ Jason said. ‘He’s been back … nearly two years, I think. Hard not to read something into that.’

‘That’s true, Jason,’ Fiona said.

‘I haven’t got a clue what he’s done in the past,’ Sophie said. ‘I only know that he’s been great with me – recently, anyway.’ Her thoughts slid to the day before, when she’d wiped mud off his forehead, and he’d told her he was glad they were working together.

‘Harry Anderly being nice sounds like urban legend stuff,’ Jason said with a grin.

One of the old men who had been sitting at the bar wandered past on his way to the toilet. Unashamedly listening in, he added, ‘Harry Anderly thinks he’s above the rest of us, with his fancy London job and his big old house with the sea views. What a tosser.’ He shook his head dismissively, and Sophie felt indignation flare, hot and bubbling, in her chest.

‘That is not true.’ It came out much louder than she’d intended.

Jason folded his arms. ‘Prove it.’

‘What?’ She blinked. ‘How can I?’

‘Call him. Invite him for a pint here, now. See what he says.’

Sophie looked at her watch. It was half past eight. ‘Oh, he won’t …’

‘Won’t what?’ Jason asked. ‘No harm in trying, is there?’

Sophie turned to Fiona and Ermin for help, but they stayed quiet, and she knew they were curious too; that they wanted Harry Anderly to step through the door of the Blossom Bough, like some kind of mythical creature, and have a pint with them. But she had seen a different side to him, and if everyone else got a chance to see it too …

‘Fine.’ She took her phone out of her bag, then put her notebook securely inside, before it got taken by someone and flicked through.

She found Harry’s number, her thumb hovering over the screen for a moment. Then she pressed it, sucking in a breath as she listened to the ringing noise, and—

‘Hello? Sophie? Are you OK?’

‘Harry, hi. How are you?’

There was a pause, then he said, ‘I’m good. You’re all right, are you?’

‘Yeah. Yes. I’m just … I’m in the pub, with Fiona and Ermin and Jason. We wondered if you’d like to come and have a drink with us. If you’re free, of course. You might be super busy, or … I don’t know. Doing things. You could bring May too?’ She kept her gaze on the scuffed wood of the table.

The silence might have gone on for a decade, or a second, but Sophie refused to look at the other people around the table. Then she heard Harry say, ‘May’s working, but I’m free. Give me fifteen minutes, and I’ll be there.’

‘You will ?’ She looked up, her shock mirrored on the faces of her friends.

‘Fifteen minutes,’ he said firmly. ‘Don’t go anywhere, OK?’ Then he hung up.