Tea? Coffee? Murder! - The Snowman’s Secret (eBook)

Chapter One, in which a lot happens during Nathalie’s breakfast

“Morning, Nathalie,” said a familiar-sounding voice. It was early on Saturday morning and Nathalie had just slipped into the café of the Black Feather to get a coffee. She turned around and spotted Paige Starling — the owner of Paige’s Pages, a bookshop that had opened in Earlsraven a few months ago — at one of the back tables.

“Oh, good morning, Paige! The snow didn’t stop you, I see. For days, most people haven’t made it here until lunchtime.” Nathalie hadn’t expected to see any customers in the café at this time of day, otherwise she’d have at least put on jeans and a jumper instead of showing up in joggers and a loose T-shirt.

“I’m from the north. We don’t call that snow — not by a long chalk. When it gets to a foot deep, then I’ll worry about it.”

“You’re tougher than me, Paige — out in that thin coat.” Paige wore a denim jacket, embroidered below the shoulders with a cheerful floral pattern.

“Sit with me if you like,” said Paige. “I wanted to ask you about something anyway.”

Nathalie had planned on returning to her flat at the back of the building and snuggling up in a fleecy jumper to listen to Radio 4. For a second, she wondered whether she should make some excuse. On the other hand, she was quite nosy. Nathalie took a croissant from the basket on the long buffet and sat down next to Paige.

“What’s up?” she said, smiling.

Paige looked at Nathalie’s strained face. “You look a little tired, Nathalie. Would you rather go back to bed and I can talk to you later?”

“I’m fine. I only look like this because I spent the night in my new bed. I emphasise ‘spent’ because there was certainly no sleeping.”

“I think everyone feels that way with a new mattress,” said the bookseller, sipping her coffee.

“What’s on your mind?”

Paige began to straighten her plate, cup and cutlery, as if she could only order her thoughts if everything around her was also well ordered. She sat back. “Nathalie, I was wondering if we could work together. What do you think about a murder-mystery dinner? It might attract my clientele to your pub and vice versa. I could stage it at the Black Feather, or even in my shop, with you catering, if you thought that could work.”

Nathalie thought about it. She was keen on having functions in the pub, and had already staged a play and a themed party for pharmacists — both rather eventful! In the winter months Earlsraven was very quiet. Paige’s suggestion came at the right time.

“Sounds interesting,” Nathalie finally said. “If we hold it here, we could use this room and still keep the pub open for walk-ins.”

Paige looked around. “That would be ideal,” she said. “I was also thinking about readings and book launches. I’m sure I can get one or two authors to come to Earlsraven if I throw in accommodation.”

“I like that idea even better,” said Nathalie. She loved the first idea, but, in the short time she had now lived in Earlsraven, too many murders had already happened. She didn’t necessarily want to push her luck. “We should definitely think about that. Do you have specific dates in mind?”

“No — I still have to contact authors and find out who’s free and willing,” Paige replied.

“Okay. I’m up for it.” Nathalie held out her hand to seal the deal. “When you hear from the authors, let me know. Then we’ll figure out the best way to pull it off.”

They talked for a while about Earlsraven and the people who lived here. Nathalie spoke about the village and its inhabitants as if she’d spent her whole life here. She didn’t miss her old life in Liverpool one bit. When she inherited the Black Feather from her aunt, she’d been far from sure that she’d be able to live in the countryside in the long term. To her surprise, she’d found that the longer she was in Earlsraven, the less she liked the big city with its noise, commotion and crowds. And even though she could put her background as a statistician to good use running the Black Feather, she also enjoyed the different kinds of work that she had to do here. Planning events, like the ones Paige Starling was suggesting, would have been out of her comfort zone before.

*

“Ah, there you are, Nathalie!”

Interrupting her conversation with Paige, Nathalie looked to her right at the passageway that connected the café with the pub. There stood a thickly wrapped man, almost all that could be seen of his face was his nose, which peeked out from the space between his turned-up coat collar and woollen cap.

“Mr Jacoby?” she said.

“Don’t tell me my nose gave me away,” he said, laughing, though it sounded quite muffled.

“Honestly, the bottle of wine in your hand gave you away. The only person around here with wine at this hour is a wine merchant.”

“You should become a detective,” Jacoby said.

Nathalie smiled. In the last few months, she and her cook Louise had helped the police to convict several criminals, but she tried not to make a big fuss about it. It would have made Constable Ronald Strutner, who was responsible for Earlsraven and the surrounding area, look bad if it had become generally known that he was not the astute investigator most people thought he was.

“Because you’re a loyal customer, I’d like to give you a little Christmas gift on behalf of my wine shop,” said the man, and handed her the bottle. “This is a 2007 Mosel Riesling from my own cellar — your aunt loved this one. It’s a cracker. Quite rare now. Thank you, by the way, Nathalie, for continuing to buy the wine from me. A new owner could have changed suppliers.”

“My Aunt Henrietta knew what she was doing. You know, you should come round one evening — and we’ll share this bottle because it sounds too expensive for me to drink without appreciating it properly. You can educate me about wine!” Nathalie thanked him and wished him a Merry Christmas. What a kind village this was.

She nodded to Paige. “I’d better start work. I’m sure we’ll see you before the holidays, right?”

“Absolutely,” said the bookseller, waving as Nathalie headed for the kitchen.

*

But Nathalie would have one more encounter before she could start work that morning. Evan Joyce — the singing artist-poet who lived in an artists’ commune nearby — was looking for her. Against her better judgement, Nathalie felt a little jolt of excitement at seeing him and his mischievous smile. She quickly calmed herself and presented a professional exterior.

“Mr Joyce. You’re up early.”

“Best part of the day, I’ve decided. No more loafing about till 11am. And I wanted to catch you.”

“Oh yes?”

“I’ve taken what you said on board. About being serious about using my talents to find work? I have a proposal. No, not that. Not yet anyway.” Nathalie groaned and he laughed. “I was having a quick look at the Black Feather website …”

“Ah,” said Nathalie, who knew their website needed some work.

“Well, I don’t want to be rude … but … it’s abominable. Really, really rubbish.”

“Don’t hold back, Evan.”

“Okay. It’s one of the worst I’ve ever seen. It’s like it was designed in 1990 by cats.”

“Right. And you could do better?”

“I could do better than better. It’s not my first love, but I’m a pretty decent web designer. I think I could create something quite magical, that reflects the history and folklore and myths around this lovely old building. And add a secure booking system and shop — you need the sensible stuff too. What do you say?”

“Well, I say that I’m still reeling from that quite exceptional insult.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It hurts ’cause it’s true though. And I have been putting off dealing with it … So … why not? I like what you’re suggesting. It has to be practical too, though.”

“Of course. I know what I’m doing, I promise.”

“Can you draw up a plan?”

“I can and I will.”

“All right. Do that and let’s talk again in a few days.”

*

Louise Cartham was standing in the doorway of the office as Nathalie, looking even more tired than she had before her coffee, headed back to her flat.

“Let me guess,” said Louise. “First night in the new bed, eh?”

“Does it show?” she said, smoothing out her T-shirt.

Louise laughed. “I only said that because I saw the bed being delivered yesterday,” she said. “You look lovely as usual. And well rested.”

Nathalie groaned softly. “Yeah right. Paige Starling has already given the game away.” She tilted her head and looked at Louise. “Aren’t you cold?”

Even though the temperatures had dropped well below freezing since last week, Louise had turned up for work every day wearing a thin summer jacket.

Louise shook her head. She was currently wearing her grey hair — which contrasted with her youthful-looking face and flashing eyes — a little longer than usual. “After winter in Siberia, an inch of snow and a few degrees below zero doesn’t worry me.”

Louise was hinting at her former activity as an agent in Her Majesty’s service. Nathalie knew very little about that time, and Louise liked it that way, though she did like to tease with the odd cryptic reference to her adventures.

“I’m fine, but maybe we should give the poor guy out there a blanket.”

Nathalie frowned. “What guy?”

“Well, I was...