Page 41 of Welcome to Murder Week

“Precisely. Progressives are not for me. I have no desire to sacrifice quality for efficiency.”

I sense that there’s no point in arguing.

Beyond the counter, the back part of the shop is even more cluttered than the front, because along with the plentiful books is fishing gear, old and new. There are reels and nets, baskets, flies, fly cases, clippers, and vests. On the ceiling are fly rods, lying flat across the rafters the way my grandmother used to keep hers in the garage. The name of the shop, The Book and Hook, clicks.

“You’re a fisherman,” I say.

“A loyal daughter. My father was an avid angler. He opened the shop as The Hook and Book, selling fishing supplies and one book.”

“Ah, yes,” Wyatt says. “The good book.”

“What? Heavens no,” Germaine says. “It wasThe Compleat Anglerby Izaak Walton. Don’t you know it?”

We shake our heads.

“It’s a classic, published in 1653. Not much plot—a fisherman, a hunter, and a falconer talk about their preferred sports, and the fisherman prevails. The book is filled with practical advice about fishing. We love it because Walton writes about fishing the River Dove, a trout stream that cuts through the Peak District. Dad sold so many copies that he eventually added more books about fishing. But when I took over, I started shifting the emphasis from hook to book. Changed the name too.” She picks up a reel, pushes her finger through the middle, and twirls it around. “But I’d have done better keeping it as it was. There’s a better profit margin on fishing supplies than on books.”

“Business isn’t good?” Wyatt asks.

“Locals favor our very good library, and we don’t get many tourists in Willowthrop. The area has too many other villages with more to recommend them.”

“I think Willowthrop is lovely,” Amity says.

“I do too. And as Americans, you probably find it quintessentially English. But we don’t have a claim to fame. Not like Bakewell, with its famous tart and the magnificent Chatsworth House, home to the Devonshire family for seventeen generations, or Castleton with its caverns and blue john stone, or charming little Edensor, which was moved lock, stock, and barrel in the 1830s because the Sixth Duke of Devonshire said it blocked his view. Can you imagine? Of such things revolutionaries are made. Though at the new location, the village was rebuilt around a broad green planted with laburnum trees. They have the most exquisite scent, a mix of sweet pea and lilac.”

“Ooh, we should go there,” Amity says.

“And then there’s Ashford in the Water,” Germaine continues, “with its medieval bridge, which is not only the most photographed bridge in England but is also, according to the National Tourist Board, the best place in the country to play Poohsticks.”

“From Winnie the Pooh?” I say.

“Of course.”

My mother and I played that game, dropping branches from the bridge over Ellicott Creek and running to the other side to see whose stick crossed under first. We scrambled through the bushes along the road, racing to get the best sticks, and back to the bridge to play again. This must have been before my mother left for the first time, because the memory carries none of the anxiety that colored my time with her afterward, when I was always worried that she would lose interest or suddenly announce she had to leave.

Germaine is still talking, rattling off the area’s other, more notable villages. “And Tideswell is surrounded by limestone mountains, and Eyam, of course, is the plague village.”

“That doesn’t sound like a draw,” Wyatt says.

“Oh, it is. Fascinating history. During the bubonic plague, anyonewho could afford it fled London to avoid the disease. But in 1665, the plague found its way to Eyam when an old cloth infested with rat fleas was sent to the local tailor. In no time at all, two-thirds of the village had died. But two clergymen had the unusual foresight to create a quarantine zone around the outskirts of the village that no one was allowed to cross. Outsiders left food and supplies at the edge, which the residents of Eyam paid for by putting coins in troughs of vinegar, which they believed helped kill off the disease. Clever, wouldn’t you say? Their methods prevented the plague from spreading to Sheffield and the surrounding area. People like to see where it all happened or perhaps just satisfy their ghoulish curiosity. Either way, it’s good for business.”

“You thought a fake murder mystery would put Willowthrop on the map?” Amity says.

“That was the idea, and to raise money to save our community pool. You Americans have long loved English-village mysteries, but there was such a boom during the pandemic. Here too. Thinking about murder, I suppose, is less stressful than worrying that you might drop dead because someone coughed on you. Do you know what the big national obsession was during our cholera outbreak in 1854? It was a true-crime case involving a love triangle and a man stabbed to death and stashed beneath a kitchen floor. More than ten thousand Londoners dead from cholera and all anyone wanted to talk about was the Bermondsey Horror. Anyhow, we knew the interest would be there, and when we started planning our murder-mystery week, we had great ambitions. There was talk of a big sponsor—BritBox or British Airways—a larger advertising budget and a big-name author—” Here she hesitates, like she realizes she’s said too much. “It was not to be, however, so we corralled some local businesses, rolled up our sleeves, formed a committee, and together with Roland Wingford came up with what I think is a thumping good mystery.”

Germaine comes out from behind the counter and sits on the couch by the window. She pats the cushion beside her. “But I didn’t ask you here to talk about Willowthrop, Cath. When I told you earlier that I believed your mother was searching for someone, it was more than a hunch. When we first corresponded, when she initially inquired about our mystery adventure, she wanted to know if the town published a phone book. Did she know someone from the area?”

“Beats me,” I say. “Maybe she met someone online and wanted to track him down?” That’s a nicer way of saying that she sexted with someone for a while, convinced herself they were soulmates, and made plans to cross the ocean to find him.

“She could have been searching for a lost love,” Amity says.

They all look so hopeful, I’m sorry to disappoint them.

“Trust me, I knewa lotabout my mother’s lovers. I can’t imagine her having a meaningful connection with someone here and not sharing all the details.

“And she’d never been to this area before?” Germaine says.

“Not that I know of.”

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