Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

The Reluctant Secret

Lucas Walker peddled hard, the surrounding cottages zipping by, the rushing sound of the wind tousling his bleached hair and roaring in his ears. On his back, the bright orange paper-sack was now deflated, empty save for a single copy of the Dorsal Finn Herald.

There was a time when the last customer on Lucas’ paper round often left him both nervous and exhilarated. In truth, when Maud Postlethwaite had originally allocated the puzzle-loving Newshound to Mr Miller, Lucas had balked at the idea.

‘The guy has weird eyes, Maud,’ he’d protested at the time. ‘It’s like he can see right through me.’

‘There ain’t nowt wrong with his eyes, young ’un,’ Maud had replied. ‘’cept they might have seen a little too much, too young, maybe. An’ he can’t be blamed for that, now, can he?’

‘I suppose not,’ Lucas had sulked. ‘But the guy’s scary.’

‘How he looks isn’t how he is,’ Maud assured him. ‘I wouldn’t be sendin’ ye otherwise, would I?’

Lucas had seen enough sense in Maud’s final comment to swallow his fear and go and visit Mr Miller. The mysterious hermit lived in a rundown shack; the structure was squat and shambling—tumbling out onto the beach like a gravity-defying pile of driftwood.

If the shack was ramshackle, then old man Miller was equally so. Standing at six feet six inches he was an imposing figure. His wild, white hair and tobacco stained beard made him look like a deranged Santa. And he always wore a heavy, black trench coat. Even on days when the sun beat down on the tangled landscape below.

Then, of course, there was Wolfgang.

Wolfgang was a big, fierce-looking Wolf Hound. An ugly scar ran along the top of his muzzle and trailed into the corner of the mouth, turning it into an endless sneer. Wolfgang spent the day growling or barking (he didn’t seem to have a particular preference) and generally intimidating anyone who came near the house without Miller’s sanction. Wolfgang had his own rundown dog-house in what Miller referred to as his garden. In reality this ‘garden’ was a junkyard crammed with mounds of metal and plastic and paper, capable of hiding four misshapen old cars. There were piles of tyres which appeared too big to fit any vehicle Lucas had ever seen, as well as a boat that lay on its side like a village drunk after a night on Cinder’s Cider.

Based on these impressions, Lucas didn’t beat himself up too much when it came to his initial misgivings around Miller. But over time, Lucas had come to know the man as a stoic and thoughtful person who often seemed to have much on his mind. On occasions, Miller’s eyes would stare towards some imaginary horizon, pausing in mid-sentence as though a sudden thought had struck him mute. Even Wolfgang eventually overcame his suspicions, greeting Lucas with huge sloppy licks rather than guttural, threatening growls.

It was common for Lucas to stay in the junkyard once his paper-round had ended, sitting and eating cookies and listening to Miller’s terrible jokes and stories of his life; stories Lucas suspected as being exaggerated for his benefit. And, as an added bonus to the visits, when Miller went to organise cookies and lemonade in his shack, Lucas was allowed to check out Little Bertha.

It was a coy name for something that, in its time, had been quite dangerous. Little Bertha was, in fact, a WWII anti-aircraft gun, still mounted on its turnstile plinth and facing the ocean. The gun had been decommissioned after the war, once German aircraft no longer threatened shipping lanes or radar installations along the coastline. Its 20mm cannon had been gagged for decades by a concrete bung, and its firing pin taken and stored in a military museum somewhere inland.

Mr Miller had introduced Lucas to Little Bertha on his first visit three years ago, a way of showing that the old man’s bark was worse than his bite. And on that first visit a younger Lucas found himself sitting on the worn leather seat, staring through the webbed gun sight, mounted on the long, slim muzzle, and imagining the sky crammed with screaming Luftwaffe aircraft, as Little Bertha responded with her big booming voice.

These days Lucas remained awed by the pervading sense of history associated with the redundant weapon. Merely being in its presence was enough to stimulate his imagination of those terrible times.

But that morning, as Lucas navigated his way up the front path to Mr Miller’s front door, the big man broke tradition, and came out of his shack to greet him.

‘Hello, lad,’ he said pawing at this crazy beard.

‘Hello, Mr Miller,’ Lucas said. ‘Got your paper.’

He passed a copy of the Dorsal Finn Herald to Miller. The old man rolled it up before stuffing it into the pocket of his big trench coat.

‘Any chance of checking out Little Bertha?’ Lucas asked hopefully.

‘Not this mornin’, son,’ Miller said. ‘I’ve got things on.’

‘Oh,’ Lucas said without hiding his disappointment.

‘How about tomorrow?’ Miller said softly. ‘Gives me a chance to do some cookie bakin’.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ Lucas said, and was about to leave when he heard a small whimper. He saw Wolfgang trot out behind Miller. The great dog appeared sullen and shaky on its feet. It sat down next to its owner, leaning against the big man’s legs as though it needed support to remain upright.

‘What’s the matter with Wolfgang?’ Lucas asked.

‘Not sure,’ Miller replied not looking at the dog at all. ‘Might be worms.’

‘Nice,’ Lucas said wrinkling his nose.

‘I’m goin’ to take him to the vet this mornin’—see if we can’t cheer the fella up.’

‘Hope everything's okay,’ Lucas said as he went back to the front gate and tried to close it without it falling off its bracket.

‘Thanks, lad,’ Miller said. ‘You get yourself back here tomorrow and Little Bertha will be waitin’.’

The man watched Lucas head off the beach. Wolfgang whimpered again before lying down at Miller’s booted feet.

‘Don’t worry, boy,’ the man said to his hound. ‘The pain’ll pass. Just got to give it some time.’

***

‘Must admit I wasn’t expecting to see your cheery face so early,’ said Elmo as Lucas skulked into his friend’s bedroom, bringing with him with an air of abject misery. ‘Let me guess . . . you’ve won the lottery but they found out you’re under age?’

Sitting on his bed, Elmo adjusted the tuning keys on the stock of a very red guitar. It rested in his lap and the lead trailed from it, tumbling from the bed to the floor, where it coiled in a figure of eight before continuing its journey to a small square practice amp tucked in a quiet corner. From the grill, a small hiss emerged, broken sporadically by metallic pops as Elmo’s sleeve inadvertently caught the strings.

Elmo was large and gentle. Outside of Dorsal Finn’s hideous bottle green school uniform, he never wore anything other than a black T-shirt and jeans. Such was his sedate nature Elmo was usually more comfortable when people just got along with each other. He wasn’t a fan of the awkward silence, and the ability for people to bear grudges was a perpetual mystery to him.

To establish such a climate where convention could flourish, Elmo exuded calm; initiating a natural gift for diplomacy and peacekeeping.

In short he was able to inject perspective into an argument, diffusing the conflict to the point where both parties could find a common ground and use it to save face. And he was able to do this effortlessly. Some said that he got this talent from his parents who, rumour had it, spent much of their youth helping charities in Africa and South America. Either way, when it came to frustration and volatile argument, Elmo provided much needed tranquillity.

Lucas adjusted the sleeve of his Teenage FBI tee-shirt,

‘This is a song I wrote last night,’ he said, dolefully holding up a wrinkled piece of paper.

‘I’m right in suspecting it’s another emotionally bleak piece, my bleach-blonde minstrel?’ Elmo said.

‘What makes you say that?’ Lucas said briskly

‘Well,’ Elmo said. ‘I’m thinking about your recent songs and the lyrics seem consistent in their bleakness.’

‘I think that’s a bit unfair,’ Lucas protested, but Elmo held up a placating hand.

‘Let’s flash up a few recent titles from the “Lucas Walker Song Book”,’ Elmo said. ‘You remember the toe-tappers: “MY HEART IS AS EMPTY AS A CHEERLEADER'S HEAD”? Or “I CRIED SO HARD I SOAKED MY IRON MAIDEN TOUR SHIRT”? And, my all time favourite: “MY LIFE SUCKS WORSE THAN A VAMPIRE WITH GINGIVITIS”? I’m definitely sensing a theme, but tell me if I’m off. I can take it. These broad shoulders ain’t just to make my belly feel better.’

‘I can’t help it,’ Lucas said after a few moments. He sat down heavily on a black bean bag, embroidered with the words, Take the Weight off.

‘I’m guessing this goes beyond not grabbing a cookie and a date with Little Bertha?’ Elmo said.

Lucas said nothing.

‘You could always talk about it,’ Elmo suggested, reaching over and placing the guitar on a stand at the foot of his bed.

‘I have talked about it,’ Lucas said sulkily. ‘Is your memory that bad?’

‘Not to me, duh-brain,’ Elmo said. ‘To her!’

‘Little Bertha?’ Lucas said bemused. Then his face adopted a look of utter horror when Elmo’s words finally made sense. ‘You mean, talk to Bea? Are you joking?’

‘See this face?’ Elmo said dead pan. ‘Observe, there is no joking parked here.’

‘I can’t tell her,’ Lucas said, his mouth pulled out of shape at the thought of telling Beatrice how he felt about her. About how she was always on his mind and when he was with her the world seemed to go super slow-mo as his heart raced. ‘How can I tell her that she makes me feel happy and sad at the same time?’ Lucas asked his friend.

‘It’s a backward statement,’ Elmo smiled, ‘but Bea’s bright—she might get it. But, what do I know about such stuff? I’m still dealing with the idea that there’s not gonna be a sequel to the DREDD movie. ’

‘It doesn’t help that we’ve not had any mysteries to solve recently,’ Lucas muttered.

‘Can I remind you that this is a good thing for anyone who isn’t you?’

‘You need to have distractions in life.’

‘Where’d that come from, the back of a packet of cheap snacks?’

‘I think it did,’ Lucas admitted. ‘But the fact remains that I can’t tell Bea. So I need to think about something else.’

‘It’s gonna eat you up like a giant hamster if you’re not careful, bro,’ Elmo cautioned. ‘Besides that, we’re too young to be burdened with misery. You’re gonna have to do something about it sooner or later.’

‘Later is good,’ Lucas whispered. ‘Yeah, later will be just fine.’

***

Though it no longer looked it, the hut was over forty years old. Its weathered wooden panels—buckled by the relentless assault of the elements—had been stripped away, gutted back to the frame by the money-no-object philosophy that signified the Blue Thunder Foundation. The warped, wooden slats had been replaced by weather-proofed timber and the once-boarded windows were now glazed, mirrored panes that reflected the bright sunlight overhead. Standing beside the hut was a flagpole—a thin white streak against the azure sky—with a pennant flapping fervently at the top. The material was emblazoned with the image of a white cloud—a lightning bolt punching through its base. The emblem of the Blue Thunder Foundation was nothing if not potent.

The mayoral Rolls Royce pulled up outside the hut, and through the tinted glass, Codd observed the front door. The double slats were painted bright blue and folded outwards as twin lines of young people trooped smartly through. As the head of each line met the kerb, they stopped and shouted ‘hutt’ in unison and both lines aborted their march. At another command, the rows of youths turned to face each other, forming a corridor of smart blue uniforms leading to the entrance.

‘No red carpets, Gideon,’ Frobisher said beside the Mayor. ‘Just a welcome from the young. How much grandeur could one hope for?’

‘Quite,’ said Codd sounding impressed. Though, inside, he knew that this word didn’t somehow cover the awe he felt.

Nor the disbelief.

***

‘Thomas,’ Beatrice seethed at her brother, ‘have you ever thought of putting one foot in front of the other, sort of rapidly? It’s called walking. It gets you from one place to another. Sometimes on the same day!’

‘It’s all right for you, Bea,’ Thomas whined from several yards behind. ‘You don’t have to enrol at this thing.’

‘I’ve heard they’ve got smart uniforms,’ Patience cajoled. ‘A little too blue for my taste, but I’m sure you’ll look great.’

‘Uniforms?’ Thomas said speeding up a little. ‘Blue ones? Like in Thunderbirds?’

‘If it makes you move any faster they’re exactly like Thunderbirds,’ Beatrice said .

‘Do you get a hat as well?’ Thomas asked.

‘Not sure about a hat,’ Patience replied causing Beatrice to nudge her in the ribs with an elbow. ‘Ow! Oh, yes, of course they have a hat! Fancy forgetting that! My ribs thank your sister for the subtle reminder.’

‘Come on then, Thomas,’ Beatrice said with faux urgency in her voice. ‘You don't want all the hats to disappear, do you?’

‘You think they’ll have vehicles?’ her brother said hopefully.

‘Vehicles?’ Patience said puzzled.

‘Yeah, like a big digging machine for burrowing underground or a submarine for rescuing divers from the seabed or something like that?’

‘They have hats,’ Patience reminded him evasively. ‘That’s got to be better than a dirty old digger, hasn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Thomas frowned. ‘How can a hat be better than a digging machine?’

‘You get to take a hat home with you?’ Patience offered.

Beatrice looked up at the gulls as though willing them to take her away from the ordeal of her brother's inauguration. But the birds proved to be noisy, unhelpful allies.

‘Who’s that?’ Patience said. Her voice was small and warbled slightly as though she had become breathless.

‘Who’s who?’ Beatrice said following her friend's gaze.

Across the main road dissecting the shop frontages from the promenade, Beatrice espied the figure of a boy walking towards them. He appeared to be the same age. Even over such a distance, Beatrice could tell that he was tall and slim, moving with poise and grace she’d never before noticed in a boy.

The teenager’s hair was blonde, almost white, and his tanned face made his eyes a deep vivid blue which mirrored the smart two piece suit he wore. But despite his stature, Beatrice was drawn to the wheelchair the boy pushed ahead of him, and the figure slumped in it.

It was an elderly woman, easily as old as Maud and Agnes Clutterbuck, the town librarian. But this woman had succumbed to time, her frame buckled and bent as the chair housing her. Her fingers were like twisted and knotted sticks and a tartan blanket covered her legs, but not enough to hide the big Velcro slippers poking out from beneath the hem.

The girls continued to observe the two figures, both lost in thought as they crossed the road separating the promenade from the shop fronts. Their reverie was shattered by the sound of a horn and the screech of brakes. Instinctively Beatrice and her companions jumped back onto the kerb, startled and shaken as a small van sped by them, its driver shouting curses from his cab. Beatrice saw an image of a blue, horizontal horn with multitude of delicacies pouring from its open mouth and recognising it as the logo of Cornucopia Catering, a company based in Ashby-on-Sea. They were an establishment of repute and Beatrice held them in high esteem.

‘Sorry,’ Beatrice offered the retreating vehicle. Relief and embarrassment coursed through her.

‘See?’ Thomas said. ‘I’m not meant to get there. This is a doomed mission, I keep telling you!’

‘Just keep walking, hero,’ Beatrice muttered grabbing hold of her brother’s arm and dragging him along behind her. ‘I’m embarrassed enough as it is.'

‘You got some trouble there?’ the boy said giving both girls a wide, friendly smile.

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ Beatrice said returning the amity. ‘My brother isn’t keen on going to the Blue Thunder ceremony.’

‘Not keen to get run over either,’ Thomas grumbled.

‘I see,’ the boy said. ‘I guess most kids are reluctant at first. We’re not tried and tested like the scouts or anything like that.’

‘I don’t think he’d like the scouts either,’ Beatrice said. ‘It’s all a little too much like reality in Thomas’ world.’

‘I did reality once,’ the youth said. ‘Didn’t like it that much either.’

He laughed at the puzzled frown this induced in the two girls. Thomas however appeared to relax in Beatrice’s grip. She let him go.

‘I’m Marcus,’ he said stepping out from behind the wheelchair and offering his hand. Beatrice shook it tentatively hoping that Marcus didn’t notice that her palms were sweating slightly.

The girls introduced themselves, the formality of it broken by the occasional sleepy snort or grunt from the woman in the chair.

‘Nice to meet you both,’ Marcus said. ‘And this is my grandmother, Mabel Alice Macbeth. I can say this because she is sleeping. If she heard me mutter the name Mabel, things could get pretty ugly, pretty fast.’

‘Not a fan of her name then?’ Patience said, her eyes not leaving Marcus’ face. Beatrice noticed that her friend’s usually unblemished olive skin appeared flushed about the cheeks and neck. ‘Shame,’ Patience continued. ‘It’s a derivative of Annabel, which is from the Latin Amabilis, meaning lovable or dear.’

‘Can’t see why grandma wouldn’t like something like that,’ Marcus considered.

‘It was also the name of one of the dogs from the Blue Peter TV show,’ Patience added after a small pause.

‘Sometimes you can have slightly too much information about something, can’t you?’ Beatrice said.

A small, yet firm, voice interrupted them,

‘What Mabel means to me, dear, is a lifetime of mediocrity.’

‘Ah, Grandma, you’re awake,’ Marcus said cordially.

‘So it would seem,’ Macbeth said after clearing her nose with a big, watery sniff. ‘It’s this infernal chair,’ she explained to the children standing in front of her. ‘The rocking motion on the cobblestones plays havoc with me wee tummy. It’s either nod off or vomit.’

‘Nodding off is good,’ Patience said pulling a face.

‘I would agree,’ the old woman said patting her blanket. ‘Vomit stains the tartan something terrible.’

‘Doesn’t it just?’ Patience said nodding emphatically. ‘I remember one time—I had this chiffon skirt, and I went baby sitting with little Nora Foster, and she was stuffing her face with a bar of chocolate the size of her head and—’

‘What brings you to Dorsal Finn,’ Beatrice interjected before Patience steered the conversation further into bizarreness.

‘The Blue Thunder Foundation,’ Marcus said taking up duties behind Macbeth’s chair. ‘Grandmother is a patron.’

‘We’re going to the same place,’ Beatrice said. And inside she felt happy at the thought of spending more time in the company of Marcus Macbeth.

‘Then we should walk together,’ Marcus suggested.

‘You youngsters will walk,’ his grandmother said sourly. ‘I shall continue to bounce along like some deranged rabbit, and try to keep down my breakfast.’

***

In Dorsal Finn library, Agnes Clutterbuck pushed a small trolley stacked with several neat piles of books.

As she approached the section marked Historical Fiction, the wily librarian hummed a happy tune in her mild Scottish accent. As she tapped a silver, thistle-shaped ring against the trolley’s tubular metal frame, the leaden air was lifted by light little chimes. The quilted material of her trademark purple body warmer creaked in time with slow casual movements, and her glasses, hanging from a fine silver chain around her neck, danced in the air as she leaned forward to place a Diana Gabaldon novel on a lower shelf.

As she stood upright her hearing aids whistled, and Agnes tutted and adjusted them by poking an index finger in each ear and wiggling it around until the squeaks died down. In Dorsal Finn, Agnes’ hearing aids were already things of renown. They had never been the same since she had tried to repair them with a sewing needle and a piece of fishing line. These days the apparatus had received a variety of bizarre signals ranging from weather reports from Melbourne to tactical communications between a SWAT team and their command centre in New York.

Agnes was at home in the library. Her parents had moved to Dorsal Finn over three-quarters of a century ago and Agnes had spent her very first day in the town wandering through the library’s dusty halls, the heady smell of ancient paper heavy in the air. The peace the aroma brought with it as potent as any of her mother’s kind words of comfort. Agnes had never felt more at home. Her parents had passed away some time ago but the library was evergreen; as much a part of her as her departed kin. In fact, the library was now her permanent place of residence. With some negotiation, she’d secured a lease on the small derelict flat situated on top of the building for as long as the library had existed. Agnes had always wanted to live there but just didn’t have the motivation, or the permission for that matter, to renovate the property.

As much as she adored her home there was always a nagging doubt that came to her mind when she was in the Historical Fiction section. There was an irony in that the errant thoughts that popped into her head were indeed history, but they were as far from fiction as you could get.

Agnes paused for a moment and scratched her thin nose in an attempt to quell an itch that was threatening to build up in her nostrils. She used the time to suffocate ill thoughts of the past.

‘We really must stop thinking about such things,’ Agnes chided herself as she transferred a copy of Wuthering Heights back to its place on the bookshelf. ‘You were the one who told Maud to draw a line under that evening. Now here you are stepping over it again. Back to work, Clutterbuck! Less thought more haste, to muddle an adage for my own ends.’

The librarian chuckled to herself. She was about to go back to her duties when, as so often happens in the town of Dorsal Finn, fate decided to pay a visit.

She went to the bookcase on the far wall, the bookcase that held a secret, as well as tomes on shelves. Agnes reached the unit as the massive, sonic pulse that had punched outwards from Cochran’s fishing boat reached dry land.

Agnes’ aids picked up the pulse. It filled her head with a whirling, dizzying sensation that left her reeling, her hands clawing at the bookshelves for support.

Through the swirling haze, Agnes watched in horror as the bookcase shuddered violently, shrugging several tomes to the floor before teetering forward precariously. Just as she feared that the solid wooden frame would topple over and squash her flat beneath its weight, the dizziness left her and the bookcase appeared to regain its balance too. It fell back against the wall with a heavy thud, leaving the librarian staring at it as she panted.

‘Oh, dear,’ she said meekly. Her vision had cleared, aided by sweeping a hand up to put on her glasses. Now she could see the damage immediately. It wasn’t bad enough that there were books scattered throughout the aisle, it wasn’t bad enough that a huge gaping hole could be seen in the wall behind the exposed bookshelves.

To top all of this off, the whole event was made worse by the slow rhythmic voice she could now hear. It was a voice that she had not heard for quite some time. There was a reason for this, of course. She had thought the measures she had taken in the not too distant past had made things right. But Agnes had always doubted the effectiveness of these measures. Now she knew for sure just how ineffective they truly were.

With a trembling hand she delved into the pocket of her body warmer and fished out her cell phone. Then she called one of the others who knew of her reluctant secret.

Maud Postlethwaite answered on the third ring.

***

As Beatrice and the others approached the renovated scout hut, the maudlin sound of a bugle hung heavily on the air. Beside the flagpole, an impressive sea of blue uniformed kids stood with heads bowed; hands clasped in front of them.

‘Cheerful,’ Patience said in a low voice. ‘What’s next, Adele?’

‘It’s a dirge to those young people who have been lost to us,’ Marcus explained sombrely. ‘Such a waste of youth. A waste of life.’

‘Amen to that,’ his grandmother said dropping her chin to her chest in silent prayer.

As she watched, Beatrice was surprised to see the Marcus’ deep blue eyes mist with tears. There was something so profound in this she found her heart skipping and her chest tighten. Any embarrassment turned quickly to sympathy.

‘It sounds very sad,’ she said.

‘On the contrary,’ Macbeth said. ‘It’s as much about life as it is death. Do not mourn those who have passed on; celebrate what they gave to life.’

‘That’s my grandma,’ Marcus said, his mood lightening once more. ‘Ever the optimist.’

Even concentrating hard, Beatrice found Marcus’ statement hard to believe.

‘We have to do our bit for the celebrations,’ Marcus said interrupting Beatrice’s thoughts. ‘I have to set up the food.’

He patted a canvas box secured to the handles of the wheelchair.

‘Cool bag,’ he explained.

‘What do you have in there?’ Patience asked.

‘Something he made earlier,’ Macbeth said softly. Beatrice could hear pride in the old woman’s voice.

‘Just a few canapés,’ Marcus said with some embarrassment.

‘A few very good canapés,’ Macbeth said. ‘The boy is far too modest.’

‘So you cook too?’ Beatrice smiled. ‘I’d love to try one.’

‘Then I shall save a canapé for you,’ Marcus said with a bow.

‘Why would you want to save her a can of peas?’ Thomas asked.

‘Thomas, can you just try not to be so stupid—just for today?’ Beatrice chided.

‘You're a curious lad who doesn't worry about asking questions,' Macbeth said to Thomas. ‘The Blue Thunder Foundation will respect that.’

Beatrice felt her face flush in embarrassment. Her acceptance of Thomas’ quirks was at an all time low and Macbeth had quietly chastised Beatrice’s intolerance.

‘I’d rather be watching, Dr Who,' Thomas said openly.

‘And why not?’ Marcus said nodding. ‘That's a great show! But wait until you hear about The Blue Bolt.’

‘The Blue Bolt?’ Thomas said with immediate interest.

‘Yes,’ Marcus continued. ‘Once the enrolment and the initiation ceremony are done, you'll get a welcome pack—complete with a Blue Bolt DVD and comic book. If you like superheroes then you’ll love The Blue Bolt!’

Thomas’ face morphed into a gleeful grin. He began to march on ahead, stopping only to address Patience and his sister,

‘Come one you two, I don’t want to be late!’

Beatrice looked after him incredulously as he continued on his way.

‘Time for us to be moving too,’ Marcus said. ‘If you're happy for us to do it, we’ll show Thomas where he needs to be for enrolment. Then we’ll see you at the ceremony?’

‘I’d be ecstatic if you’d be able to do that,’ Beatrice agreed. She was really looking forward to tasting Marcus’ cookery. Suddenly the event was very interesting.

‘Then see you both after the ceremony,’ Marcus concluded. ‘The canapés will be served in the hut once the speeches are done.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ Beatrice said, feeling a little light headed.

‘Me too,’ Marcus conceded, his piercing blue eyes never leaving Beatrice’s for one, solitary moment.

***

Maud Postlethwaite moved through the reception area of Dorsal Finn’s Library as fast as her weary body would allow. She wasn’t alone. As soon as Agnes had hung up, Maud had called the two other people who were privy to the reluctant secret nestled behind the walls of Dorsal Finn library. Behind her were two men, Dennis Hodges and Albert Smythe.

Dennis was a big framed man with a thick, black and neatly trimmed beard. He had lived in Dorsal Finn all his life, and before his job as handyman at Bramwell Hall, spent a fair few years of his adult years drunk on Cinders Cider and sleeping rough because he could never quite remember where he lived.

His home was actually a small fisherman's cottage in Gull Crescent; the place where he was raised by his mother, Jemima. His father, a trawler man, died at sea during a storm when Dennis was only twelve years old. As an only child, and the only link his mother had to his dead father, Dennis was deterred from following a life at sea. His mother insisted he was to learn a trade that would keep him land based; such was her fear of losing him.

Dennis took in basic, unskilled jobs in the town. One of them, moving barrels for The Salty Seadog Inn, led to his love of Cinders Cider. Within a month he’d lost his job for the very same reason.

As the years went by, Dennis’ antics were as much a part of the ethos of Dorsal Finn as anything else; there was an acceptance of his lifestyle, especially once his mother died. When he worked, he worked hard and well. For a long time he approached play with the same ethic.

Age was catching up with him these days. At fifty five he was starting to see changes in how quickly he could recover from his excess. So he’d reined in his drinking, limiting it to a few times a week and on the days when he wasn’t working at Bramwell Hall.

In contrast, Albert Smythe was a short, rotund man with a balding crown. What hair he did have was neatly clipped. As Maud’s beau, he was a man of quiet tastes and his movements were considered and delicate. He had a wide and deep knowledge of the world, having travelled it extensively in his youth when he was in the armed forces—where he was the batman for several high ranking officers. After the army he became butler to The Pontefract family, Dorsal Finn’s patrons, where his skills of refined service were always respected. But his love for Maud was resolute and meant everything to him; defining his actions. And when she asked for help he responded, without question. What had happened before and what was happening now were all fuelled by his devotion to Maud and his desire to make sure she was safe. This extended to Agnes, her dearest of friends.

The Sorry—Library Closed sign pressing against the glass door was the first indication things were amiss. A bedraggled-looking Agnes peered through the glass when Maud rapped a knuckle against the pane and it was clear that all was not well.

‘Maud,’ Agnes said as she gave her friend the kind of hug reserved for someone she’d not seen for an eon. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

‘Well, I wasn’t plannin’ on ye going it alone like last time, Agnes Clutterbuck,’ Maud said into the librarian’s shoulder. ‘But if ye squeeze any harder, I’m not goin’ to be much use to man nor beast.’

‘Sorry,’ Agnes said relinquishing her embrace and stepping back. She nodded gratefully to Albert and Dennis who stood patiently behind Maud, like two aged sentinels waiting for instruction.

‘So what’s goin’ on?’ Maud asked.

‘I’ll show you,’ the librarian said turning and escorting her friend to the Historical Romance section.

The bookcase was now cleared of books. Beyond the frame, Maud could see a dark diagonal scar in a wall painted in magnolia.

‘Well this old thing doesn’t want to keep quiet no longer,’ Maud said approaching the bookcase and peering into the gash in the wall. She pulled out her cell phone and punched in the numbers.

‘What are you doing, Maud?’ Agnes said in surprise.

‘We old uns need t’ be lookin’ at this in a different way,’ Maud said. ‘An’ sometimes that needs younger eyes.’