“Please forgive me!” I said, dropping everything as I reached out a steadying arm to my unwitting target. I had cannoned right into him, not paying the least attention to what—or who—might be on the other side of the post office door. I bent quickly to retrieve my mail from the pavement.
“It’s quite all right,” he assured me, looking up into my eyes and smiling. He stood several inches shorter than my own lanky six feet three. His chestnut hair and neatly trimmed beard, highlighted with gray, framed a strong face, and dark blue eyes sparkled at me. Closer to forty than thirty, I reckoned. He stepped back. “I don’t believe we’ve met but I’m Trevor Chase. I own the bookshop here in the village.”
“I do beg your pardon once again.” I smiled. “I’m Simon Kirby-Jones, and I’ve just moved here. I promise you that I don’t run over people deliberately.”
“I’m sure you don’t.” He returned my smile. “I was on my way to my shop. I don’t open the doors to the public until ten, but I’d be delighted if you’d consider having a cup of tea with me.”
At the very least, I told myself as I stood admiring his lithely muscled body. He was built like a teddy bear, but a teddy bear who could mow down a defensive line if need be. Just my type. “I’d like that very much, thank you.” I grinned back at him, not quite baring the fangs but nevertheless giving the impression—so I hoped—that he looked good enough to nibble on.
My reward was another smile. “Then come with me,” he said. His bookshop was only a few doors down from the post office, past a small combination bakery-tearoom and a lawyer’s office. The Book Chase was emblazoned in gold letters across the windows, with Trevor’s name more discreetly printed near the bottom.
“Catchy name,” I commented as I waited for Trevor to unlock the door.
“Thank you, Simon, but I actually can’t take credit for it. Believe it or not, that was already the name of the business when I bought it about six years ago,” he said as he opened the door. “I hope you don’t mind if I call you Simon upon such limited acquaintance?” The door swung open, and Trevor Chase motioned me in.
“Not at all, Trevor, not at all,” I assured him. He closed the door behind us, then reached for a light switch. The lights sprang on, and I inhaled deeply one of my favorite scents—books. The shop consisted of one large main room, from what I could see, with lots of shelves and nooks here and there where one could browse to one’s heart’s content I wandered around while Trevor locked the door behind us and quickly found the section where Daphne Deepwood was shelved. I was relieved to find several copies of each title. Now, what about Dorinda Darlington? Was there a separate section for mysteries? I didn’t want to be too obvious, but I can never resist looking for my books in any bookstore I run across.
Trevor stood and watched for a moment while I hunted in vain for good ol’ Dorinda; then he motioned for me to follow him. He pointed out the section where my biographies were shelved. “I really did admire your biography of Eleanor of Aquitaine,” he said. “Not only was the research impeccable, but the writing style was lively and eminently readable.”
Oh, dear, if he keeps this up, I thought, I really will be in love. “Thank you very much,” I replied modestly. “I had enormous fun with that book. I’m glad you liked it.” We passed through a doorway at the back of the main room into a small hallway. A set of stairs led up to the second floor, and a discreet sign advertised that the second floor held out-of-print and collectible books. I had thought Trevor would show me upstairs, but apparently he was ready for his tea. He led me on to a small office in the back, where he busied himself with filling a teapot at the small sink. Soon he had the teapot settled on a small gas ring, and we got comfortable, Trevor seated behind his desk and I ensconced in a comfortably overstuffed armchair across from him.
“My, this is cozy,” I said cleverly. There were posters around the walls, most of them advertising various books, a couple displaying the attractions of art exhibits. A sofa stood against one wall, and it looked like a pleasant place for an afternoon nap, with colorful pillows scattered along it. The usual office paraphernalia was there, too: filing cabinets, letter trays, a computer, and so on.
“I find it a comfortable place to work,” Trevor agreed. He pulled a pipe and tobacco pouch out of his jacket pocket. “Would you mind?” he asked, his voice polite.
“Not at all,” I replied with some enthusiasm.
“One never knows with Americans these days,” Trevor said, smiling as he prepared his pipe. “So many that I’ve encountered are so rabidly antismoking that I never presume these days.”
I made a face, and he laughed. “Please don’t get me started on American obsessions. Antismoking has become a religion back there, as has anti-just about everything else. Those are only some of the reasons that I’m happy to be living in England for now.”
“I can understand that, Simon,” Trevor agreed. “I’ve traveled a bit in the States and encountered enough of those obsessions to last me for the rest of my days. On the other hand, at least in some areas, the atmosphere is much less oppressive with regard to certain matters than it can be in a small village like this.”
He wasn’t quite sure of me yet, perhaps. I thought I had given him enough signals so that he couldn’t possibly mistake the nature of my interest. But caution is not a bad thing.
“I can imagine that Snupperton Mumsley isn’t exactly the center of the British gay rights effort.” I laughed, and Trevor grinned around the stem of his pipe. Fragrant smoke billowed around us in the office, and I sniffed appreciatively. “But I see no reason why two consenting adults”—I gave him the full benefit of my dark gaze—“can’t enjoy themselves behind closed doors as much as they want, despite what the matrons of Snupperton Mumsley might think.”
Trevor took the pipe out of his mouth and laughed aloud. The teakettle began to sing, adding to the merriment. “Ah, Simon”—he stood up to fix our tea—“I do think Snupperton Mumsley has suddenly become a much more interesting place to live.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, moving to help him with the tea things. A few minutes later, we raised our teacups to each other in a silent toast.
“I’ve been in London most of the past month,” I explained, setting my teacup aside for the moment, “getting through all the paperwork which allows me to live here, which explains why I hadn’t discovered your shop before now. I never dreamed there could be such ... amenities when I decided to move here.”
Trevor puffed at his pipe. “I had wondered why you hadn’t been seen much in the village before. We all heard, oh, at least six weeks ago, that someone had bought Tristan Lovelace’s cottage and would be moving in. Rumor was rampant, of course, about who it might be.” He grinned at me. “I never really knew the infamous Professor Lovelace, though I got an earful from various sources. I’m quite pleased to see that, in certain respects, my informant was spot on.”
“To the effect that the queer quotient at Laurel Cottage remains as high as ever?” I responded dryly.
He laughed again. “Spot on, my dear chap, as I said.”
I had to laugh, too. Tristan was the only person who had ever called me “my dear chap.” I suddenly felt terribly English. “I suppose it’s useful, in a way, to have one’s reputation established even before one moves in.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Trevor advised. “There’s bound to be a certain amount of gossip, especially in a small place like this. But in six years I’ve had very little trouble. Some are like the delightfully oblivious Neville Butler-Melville and simply don’t have a clue. Others figure out quite quickly, but as long as you’re discreet, there’s no mention made of anything so vulgar as one’s sexual preference.”
“Sounds like where I grew up in Mississippi,” I drawled. “People might know you’re gay, but they gloss right over the fact because it’s not something one mentions in polite society. As long as you don’t make an issue of it or embarrass anyone by bringing your boyfriend home for a visit, it simply is ignored.”
Trevor nodded. “Discretion is the key, of course. Besides, there are enough goings-on, thanks to certain members of the community, to ensure that attention is usually directed elsewhere.”
“I know just what you mean,” I said, settling back in my chair for a good natter. “Let me tell you what I witnessed at the post office this morning!” I gave Trevor a quick but highly entertaining precis of the scene between Abigail Winterton and Samantha Stevens. He laughed, spewing smoke in his mirth.
“Abigail is rather a nasty old cat,” he said. “You’d think she would have learned by now, with Prunella Blitherington slapping her down all the time. One of these days, the high-and-mighty Mrs. Stevens is going to show her what’s what, and Abigail may never recover.”
“So what’s the story behind Mr. Stevens’s accident?” I asked.
Trevor shrugged. “Who knows? He’s got to be nearly thirty years older than his wife, and he’s not in terribly good health. Yet he persists in trying to perform various macho feats, like hang gliding and bungee jumping, and he’s going to kill himself one of these days. I daresay that Mrs. Stevens won’t wear black too long afterwards, either. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the one who encourages him to do such foolhardy things in the first place.”
“Sounds like a plot for a good English mystery,” I observed.
“Be my guest,” Trevor said. “After you’ve been in Snupperton Mumsley for a while, I’ve no doubt you’ll have gathered enough material for several mystery novels.”
“Not to mention romance,” I said boldly.
Trevor laughed—a sound I was coming rather quickly to enjoy—but the phone rang. Any reply he might have made was lost as he picked up the phone after glancing apologetically at me.
“Good morning,” he said smoothly. “The Book Chase.”
A voice squawked at him. The light in Trevor’s eyes went dark, and he turned slightly away from me. I stood as if to leave the room, and he motioned me back into my seat.
“I’m sorry,” Trevor said into the phone, his voice betraying his irritation with the caller, “but I really cannot talk just now. I’ll have to ring you back later.” The voice protested in Trevor’s ear, loudly, but Trevor repeated himself before putting the phone back in its cradle.
“Sorry about that,” Trevor apologized. “A book dealer who simply refuses to take ‘no’ for an answer on some of my stock he wants to buy.”
I nodded. Trevor didn’t know, of course, that I have exceptionally good hearing. Thanks to the magic little pills that make life in death so pleasant, I can no longer turn into a bat or into any other creature, but the sensitive hearing remains.
Even after having met the young man only once, I still could recognize the ill-tempered tones of Giles Blitherington on the other end of the phone line.
Was there some sort of relationship between Trevor Chase and the snotty young lord of the manor?