Philip led Eleanor across the green to a quiet area where a rather dapper gentleman in a white suit and Panama hat was seated under a blue and white striped awning by the side of the church.
“That’s Mr Cheetham from the Waterborough Auction House.” Philip waved a hand in greeting. “He’s on furniture and objets d’art.”
Eleanor covered her mouth, doing her best not to giggle at the auctioneer’s unfortunate name.
“This is your spot over here,” said Philip, indicating a table where three people were already waiting patiently with books in their hands. “You’ll be needing this for the takings,” he said, handing Eleanor a large biscuit tin. “Good luck!”
“I’ll do my best,” she said, grasping the tin and walking over to her table.
It was mid-afternoon and the sun was blazing down but the huge umbrellas erected by the organisers in case of rain did equally good service as parasols, so Eleanor had a nice cool spot for her valuations.
Soon her nerves calmed and she began to enjoy looking at people’s books. She had dads bringing in their Beano albums, elderly ladies with much-used copies of Mrs Beeton’s cookbooks, and endless streams of youngsters with battered copies of Harry Potter. She oohed and aahed over everything and took notes of interesting editions, promising to advise the owners of values later in the week.
After an hour or so the rush was over and Daniel came across with a cup of tea and some of Maureen’s shortbread. “How’s it going? Found any treasures, yet?”
“Lots! Though only treasures that are worth something to their owners.”
“How much longer are you on duty? I’d like to have another stroll with my wife at some point.”
“I’m supposed to stay at my post until half past – can you manage without me until then?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.” Shading his eyes against the sun, Dan searched the green. “In any case, I need to find Dad and see how he’s coping with Joyce.”
“She doesn’t still have him locked in a tango, does she?”
“Nope – I think Maureen rescued him from the dance tent but Joyce was in hot pursuit.”
“A tug of love – how thrilling! Come back and tell me if there’s any romance going on, won’t you?”
“I will,” said Dan, with a wink.
* * *
Half an hour later, Eleanor had valued a set of Mr Men stories, an original Jackie magazine and had promised to research the price of a signed 1906 edition of The Mayor of Casterbridge. It was time to put away her notepad and find her family. Peeking inside the cash box, she reckoned her “customers” had added about £30 to the vicar’s appeal fund, which she hoped he’d be pleased with.
She was about to call it a day when she heard wheezing and saw a new customer heading her way.
“Am I too late? I do hope not.”
Trundling towards her across the grass was an elderly gentleman tugging a tartan shopping trolley. Eleanor vaguely recognised the man as one of the old boys who sat together by the bandstand, leaning on their sticks as they watched the world go by. Joshua, she thought his name was. Breathlessly, he sat down opposite Eleanor and looked her up and down. By his feet was a Yorkshire terrier – not much bigger than your average guinea pig – whose ears twitched nervously. Given that the dog was dressed in a fluffy pink coat, the twitching could have been due to embarrassment.
Bending down, Joshua dug around in the trolley, then placed a faded plastic carrier bag on the table in front of Eleanor.
“I’d like to know what you make of this.”
Eleanor carefully opened the bag. Inside was another carrier bag and inside that was a heavy object wrapped in brown paper tied up with string. Removing all the layers, Eleanor was slightly disappointed by what she found.
“Oh, it’s a Bible,” she said.
Joshua leant back in the rickety plastic chair. “Well, I can see that, my dear. But what’s it worth?” He’d picked up the tiny dog that had begun to whine and was now anxiously scanning the green for predators.
Eleanor smoothed her hands over the dark-green leather binding then carefully opened the cover, releasing the musty scent of old paper.
“I’ll have to check, but I think this could be quite valuable.”
“Hundreds, thousands?”
“That depends on its age and condition,” she smiled. “As I say, I’ll have to check but at least £50.” She leafed through the pages, gazing at the illustrations. “It is beautiful,” she said, quietly.
“Give me £20 and it’s yours.”
“I can’t do that – it might be worth much more to a collector.”
“I don’t have anywhere to keep it and £20 will be plenty. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it to the bric-à-brac stall across the way and see what they’ll give me for it.”
The thought of such a handsome volume ending up on Graham’s bric-à-brac stall with cracked teapots and incomplete jigsaws was too painful to contemplate. “Okay – I’ll buy it.” How could she not?
Joshua grinned a toothless grin. “I’ve got a whole house full of the damned things and I want rid of them. Hold this, will you?” He thrust the quivering dog into Eleanor’s hands and bent over the trolley again. “Here, look. What d’you think of these?” He put another pile of books on the table. “This lot will be interesting to you, I dare say. Printed by Williams & Makepeace, they were.”
Eleanor looked at him blankly. “I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of them…”
Joshua scratched himself vigorously under the armpit. “Well, you should’ve – you’re living in their building.”
“Of course! How could I forget?”
When she bought what was now The Reading Room from Young Mr Williams six years before he told her the place had been a publishing company part-owned by his father – imaginatively known as Old Mr Williams. The front of the present shop was where the books were sold. The rest of the building and part of her cottage were dedicated to the press: printing downstairs, proofing and hand-binding upstairs. There was still a connecting door between the two properties behind the Welsh dresser in the kitchen.
When she moved in, Eleanor had found catalogues dating from when the business was set up and had been amused by the eccentric selection of titles for sale. Now half a dozen of these were placed in front of her. She picked up and examined an Edwardian lady’s guide to composing letters for every occasion, a survey of local waterfowl dated 1931 and an illustrated collection of Seafaring Tales for Children from 1900.
“Again, I’ll have to check the prices for you,” she frowned, “but I don’t expect these will be terribly valuable.”
“Let’s say £50 for the lot then, shall we?”
Eleanor opened and closed her mouth, feeling as though she’d been outmanoeuvred. “Okay then. I’ll have to send you a cheque because I don’t have that much cash on me.”
Joshua shook his head. “I don’t need the money – put it in the reverend’s pot.”
“You want me to put £50 in the church fund?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it? I’ll take that off you, shall I?” He nodded towards the fur ball that had curled itself up in Eleanor’s lap and was snoring contentedly.
“Sure,” she said, handing over the dog to Joshua who took the creature gently in one gnarled hand. Then something came over her that she would later regret. “If you’d like me to visit and go through the rest of your library, I’d be happy to take a look. If you wanted to know what your books might be worth, I mean.”
Joshua started and examined her through his rheumy eyes. “Library? How do you know about my library?”
Eleanor could have kicked herself. What a nuisance to end the day with a tricky old man, with most of his teeth missing and slightly whiffy trousers. It was time to backtrack. “I don’t know anything about a particular library – it’s a turn of phrase. I was trying to be helpful, that’s all.” She took a deep breath and silently counted to ten. He was an elderly gentleman and there was no need to be cross with him. “I should have explained that The Reading Room is well known for its second-hand stock and customers sometimes sell us books they no longer want or have room for.” Or the owners have died, but she decided not to mention that to Joshua who must have been about a hundred and ten. He harrumphed and turned away.
“Maybe,” he muttered, before placing the dog on the ground and heading off in the direction of the cider tent, the empty shopping trolley bouncing along behind him.
Daniel, who had been watching the proceedings from under a nearby tree, came over to Eleanor’s table, an amused look on his face. “I see you’ve had a visit from our local tycoon.”
“Very funny – that old chap looks as though he doesn’t have two pennies to rub together.”
“Appearances can be deceptive.” Daniel picked up one of the books and began leafing through it. “I’m not kidding, you know. They say he’s a millionaire twice over.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
“People.” Daniel shrugged. “It’s one of those things everyone around here knows about.”
“A bit like the ghost ship, then?” Eleanor smiled. “In other words, the story about Joshua’s wealth is a rumour with no basis in fact?”
“Not at all. It’s a fact he inherited pots of cash from his parents and never had children of his own, so he’s not had much cause to spend it. Ergo, he’s a squillionaire.”
“That’s sad,” said Eleanor, thoughtfully. “To have tons of money but no one to enjoy it with.”
Across the green, they watched as Joshua reappeared from the cider tent with a gleaming pint in his hand. Once settled on a bench in the shade, he lowered the glass to the ground so the dog could take a sip.
“You’re right though – no one would guess he was a wealthy man from looking at him,” said Daniel, shaking his head at the sight.
“He looks like a tramp in those battered clothes, not to mention the state of his hands.” Eleanor couldn’t help noticing that Joshua’s fingernails were in need of a scrub. “And I reckon he’s shaving with a blunt knife, bless him. He’s obviously not spending his money on male grooming products.”
“He doesn’t spend it on anything – he’s notoriously mean. His house is falling down and he doesn’t possess a car.” Daniel thought for a moment. “I think his one and only extravagance is silly coats for that dog of his.”
“Where does he live? I can’t think of many places around here suitable for millionaires.” Apart from the new house Freya was building for Bill, but neither of them wanted to discuss that.
“He lives at Combemouth Manor, which is hidden down a long drive a little way off the Dunster road. It’s the oldest house in this part of Devon, I believe.”
“It sounds intriguing.”
“I don’t know about intriguing, but it’s a Tudor building with some unsympathetic Victorian additions: crenellations, turrets, that kind of thing. As well as being ugly, a building like Combemouth Manor is a money pit: its stone walls are held together on the outside by wisteria and ivy and inside by cobwebs. You can guarantee it will be freezing cold in winter and not much warmer in summer.”
“I don’t think it sounds ugly.” A dreamy look came over Eleanor’s face. “I think it sounds charming.”
Daniel laughed. “I suppose if you were willing and able to spend a couple of hundred thousand on it, the house could be made quite attractive.”
“What a pity we don’t have a few hundred thousand knocking around,” said Eleanor, smiling. “For a house like that, I might just give up the cottage.”
Sighing, Daniel put his hands on his hips. “Forget it, El. It’s not going to happen.”
“I’d love to take a peek inside though, wouldn’t you?”
“Nope. Anyway, it’s not for sale.”
“Shame. You know I can’t resist an old ruin.”
“I hope you’re not referring to me?”
Eleanor put her arms around Daniel’s waist and hugged him tightly. “As if! You’re in excellent condition for your age.”
“Correct answer,” he said, bending down to kiss her. “Anyway, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Clarence inherited the lot one day.”
“Clarence?”
“The mouse hound.”
“Poor little mite. It must be terrifying being that small.” Eleanor had a vision of the dog being carried off by a passing jackdaw, four tiny paws poking out from the sleeves of its pink fun-fur sweater as it disappeared overhead. “But Joshua can’t be all that mean,” she said, holding up two of the books for Daniel to see. “He let me have this lot for far less than they are probably worth. In fact, he seemed very keen to be rid of them. And he refused to take the money and told me to put it in the vicar’s collection box instead.”
“Really? That doesn’t sound like Joshua Pinkham to me. So, you’ve bought more books?”
“Only a few,” she said, sheepishly. “I had to have them because they were printed by Williams & Makepeace at what is now The Reading Room. And I know I don’t need any more books, especially now I’m supposed to be making space…”
Daniel sighed. “But when did ‘need’ ever come into book buying?”
“True. And the Bible really is a beauty. Let me show you…”
Daniel stopped her, keen to get on. “You can show me at home, but first you have to see the specimens in the fruit and veg tent. Graham’s gooseberries are stunning, if you’re easily impressed by small hairy fruit.”
Eleanor pinched his side. “Don’t be horrid – I think it’s lovely.”
“I’m not being horrid, but the festival is relatively new to you. I’ve had giant marrows and crocheted tea cosies inflicted on me since birth.”
“I thought you loved these traditional events?”
He shrugged, leafing through the guidebook Philip had put together for the show. “You’re right, I do. So what would you like to see next? Cake decoration? Miniature gardens? Crafts?”
“Tough call.” Eleanor tapped her chin as she mulled over the options. “But I think top of my list for this afternoon has to be the vegetable sculpture category.”
“An excellent choice if I may say so. Let’s start there.”