herself.
Her mention of Clumps made me particularly uneasy. Nell couldn’t have known about Derek’s floppy elephant unless she’d spent time in the nursery, near the children’s books—the likely source of the death threat’s whimsical lettering.
Had Nell been taunting me? Was she telling me that she knew who was harassing Simon? Or was she letting me know that she was both poison pen and arsonist and that, try as I might, I’d never prove it?
It wasn’t hard to guess how she knew of my alliance with Simon. Oliver had deduced an awful lot from observing his brother and me in the rose garden. Nell would be able to deduce even more. She knew me, knew of my involvement in solving a few modest puzzles that had cropped up in our village. If she’d seen Simon showing the note to me in the rose garden, my subsequent silence on the subject would have told her that I was working with him on the sly.
My head was swimming with conjecture. I wasn’t sure what to think, but if Nell had left the pitchfork behind, I’d’ve used it to fish out the burning bundle and confirm in my own mind that it was flea-ridden horse blankets rather than a set of clothes an arsonist would want to destroy—which, I told myself, could explain why she hadn’t left the pitchfork behind. Nell might be enigmatic, but she was nobody’s fool.
A gust of noxious smoke chased me back into the shelter of the courtyard, where I paused to shake the gravel from my shoes. As I straightened, I saw Emma standing in the doorway of the workshop nearest me. She was grinning from ear to ear.
“Come here, Lori,” she called. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I followed her into a well-appointed carpenter’s workshop. The stone building was low-ceilinged but long, and it contained an amazing array of woodworking tools: saws of varying shapes and sizes, drills, planes, clamps, chisels, tins of nails, pots of glue, whatever might be needed to make or repair anything made of wood.
No one was using the tools at the moment. The band saw’s whine had ceased and the only person in sight was a wizened old man seated on a Windsor chair near a woodstove at the rear of the building. His bald head was as brown and mottled as a knob of burled walnut, and he wore a patched carpenter’s apron over a moth-eaten wool sweater and a pair of rough brown dungarees.
Emma’s eyes were dancing as we approached the old man, but it wasn’t until we stood before him that she spoke.
“Ms. Lori Shepherd,” she said with great ceremony, “please allow me the pleasure of introducing you to . . . Mr. Derek Harris.”
“Y-you’re . . . Derek Harris?” I stammered, gaping at the old man. “The original Derek Harris?”
“None other,” he replied, favoring me with a gap-toothed grin. “Pull up a chair. Emma and I were talking over old times.”
“I’ll bet you were.” I hauled a heavy oak chair closer to his and sat.
“Mr. Harris taught Derek everything he knows,” Emma prompted.
“There’s some things can’t be taught,” Mr. Harris allowed. “Derek, as you call him, had a God-given gift for working with wood, but I helped him make use of it, right enough. He tagged along after me like a puppy when he was home from school.” The old man pointed a gnarled finger toward the woodstove. “Found him sleeping on the floor there some mornings, wrapped up in a bit of old blanket. Some folk mistook him for my apprentice. Had no idea he was his lordship’s son and heir.”
While Mr. Harris enjoyed a reminiscent chuckle, I glanced toward the spot on the floor where the young Derek had slept. How he must have rejoiced, I thought, when he’d been mistaken for the old man’s apprentice. The process of distancing himself from his father had already begun.
“Mr. Harris still has apprentices,” said Emma. “People come from every corner of England to study under him. It’s the same in the other workshops.”
“It was his lordship’s idea,” Mr. Harris
Her mention of Clumps made me particularly uneasy. Nell couldn’t have known about Derek’s floppy elephant unless she’d spent time in the nursery, near the children’s books—the likely source of the death threat’s whimsical lettering.
Had Nell been taunting me? Was she telling me that she knew who was harassing Simon? Or was she letting me know that she was both poison pen and arsonist and that, try as I might, I’d never prove it?
It wasn’t hard to guess how she knew of my alliance with Simon. Oliver had deduced an awful lot from observing his brother and me in the rose garden. Nell would be able to deduce even more. She knew me, knew of my involvement in solving a few modest puzzles that had cropped up in our village. If she’d seen Simon showing the note to me in the rose garden, my subsequent silence on the subject would have told her that I was working with him on the sly.
My head was swimming with conjecture. I wasn’t sure what to think, but if Nell had left the pitchfork behind, I’d’ve used it to fish out the burning bundle and confirm in my own mind that it was flea-ridden horse blankets rather than a set of clothes an arsonist would want to destroy—which, I told myself, could explain why she hadn’t left the pitchfork behind. Nell might be enigmatic, but she was nobody’s fool.
A gust of noxious smoke chased me back into the shelter of the courtyard, where I paused to shake the gravel from my shoes. As I straightened, I saw Emma standing in the doorway of the workshop nearest me. She was grinning from ear to ear.
“Come here, Lori,” she called. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I followed her into a well-appointed carpenter’s workshop. The stone building was low-ceilinged but long, and it contained an amazing array of woodworking tools: saws of varying shapes and sizes, drills, planes, clamps, chisels, tins of nails, pots of glue, whatever might be needed to make or repair anything made of wood.
No one was using the tools at the moment. The band saw’s whine had ceased and the only person in sight was a wizened old man seated on a Windsor chair near a woodstove at the rear of the building. His bald head was as brown and mottled as a knob of burled walnut, and he wore a patched carpenter’s apron over a moth-eaten wool sweater and a pair of rough brown dungarees.
Emma’s eyes were dancing as we approached the old man, but it wasn’t until we stood before him that she spoke.
“Ms. Lori Shepherd,” she said with great ceremony, “please allow me the pleasure of introducing you to . . . Mr. Derek Harris.”
“Y-you’re . . . Derek Harris?” I stammered, gaping at the old man. “The original Derek Harris?”
“None other,” he replied, favoring me with a gap-toothed grin. “Pull up a chair. Emma and I were talking over old times.”
“I’ll bet you were.” I hauled a heavy oak chair closer to his and sat.
“Mr. Harris taught Derek everything he knows,” Emma prompted.
“There’s some things can’t be taught,” Mr. Harris allowed. “Derek, as you call him, had a God-given gift for working with wood, but I helped him make use of it, right enough. He tagged along after me like a puppy when he was home from school.” The old man pointed a gnarled finger toward the woodstove. “Found him sleeping on the floor there some mornings, wrapped up in a bit of old blanket. Some folk mistook him for my apprentice. Had no idea he was his lordship’s son and heir.”
While Mr. Harris enjoyed a reminiscent chuckle, I glanced toward the spot on the floor where the young Derek had slept. How he must have rejoiced, I thought, when he’d been mistaken for the old man’s apprentice. The process of distancing himself from his father had already begun.
“Mr. Harris still has apprentices,” said Emma. “People come from every corner of England to study under him. It’s the same in the other workshops.”
“It was his lordship’s idea,” Mr. Harris
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