BY BOOK OR BY CROOK! by Winnie Czulinski

Another entry in my ongoing mini-mystery series set in my fictional English village of Little Avalon, c. 1950, with ever-observant amateur detective Miss Rudwell-Horace!

Viewer discretion not needed – these are gentle mysteries, with no murders or blood – and are a little tongue-in-cheek (also an extension of a much shorter mystery series I wrote for a Brit ex-pat newspaper in the 1980s.)

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📙🍂🫖 BY BOOK OR BY CROOK! 📔🖋️☕ by Winnie Czulinski 🫖☕📙

...Little Avalon in late September had all the seasonal charms of a small English village, with its harvest in, the smell of bonfires, the orange and gold of autumn leaves. People tended to make their tea a little stronger, and, on a nippy eve, to make cups of cocoa.

There was something in the air that had much to do with the season, but more than that. It was, in fact, the fifth year since the end of war in 1945...with longer memories of those last lingering golden days of early fall 1939, when the world changed so much.

At this time of year, there also was a gentle swell of indoor activity and events. That included the Little Avalon Literary Society or Book Club. Miss Bookley the librarian usually ran the meetings, and seemed to understand her participants. Things were kept somewhat relaxed (one was not required to read the whole book, for example), and might on occasion become a little lively.

But even she, undertaking this particular event and with the best of intentions, could not have foreseen the outcome of this evening. Who would have thought that the discussion and century-old writings of two long-dead authors (or at least families of authors) and their worlds and social mores, would disturb a village so? It was like a later, literary version of The Wars of the Roses. Sides were being taken, quite vocally.

The Brontes (Charlotte, Anne and Emily) vs. Jane Austen. Somehow this meeting of the book club, with its purpose of thoughtful exchange, had disintegrated into a bookish kind of feud situation as tense as any wartime scene. Even Miss Rudwell-Horace, who had a good understanding of human nature, was surprised at the passion and vehemence of the villagers, many of whom she had no idea had seriously read either author.

Earlier she had glanced into the kitchen to see Mrs. Bunn cutting more sandwiches quite viciously, as if at war, or as if she loathed the very bread and fillings (Miss Rudwell-Horace reflected that many residents of Little Avalon were heartily tired of tinned tongue.) The sharp knife gleamed in the weak light of the kitchen.

"May I help?" she said, walking briskly in.

The baker's face was red, and her hands were shaking with the knife. "That man!" she sputtered, then set her lips. She didn't say anything to Miss Rudwell-Horace, and the latter didn't pry. Perhaps later. Then Mr. Bunn walked in, with a face that reflected his wife's. Had they had words? They muttered a little as they finished the sandwiches, and arranged more cakes on a plate.

The new round of refreshments helped a little. Earlier, the baker had said with her rolling laugh that being here at a "literature" evening was the only chance she ever had to hold a book rather than a wooden spoon, rolling pin or great lump of to-be-stretched-pounded-and-pummeled dough. "But what about a cookery book?" the unknowing might venture to ask.

Mrs. Bunn would simply shake with laughter. But she had been frowning more than was her wont this evening, at this simmering scene of rebellion. And Mr. Bunn, helping her tonight, seemed just as cross. Perhaps a second round from the several pots of tea at the ready would help. Miss Rudwell-Horace moved closer, ready to refill cups.

As for librarian Miss Bookley, in putting this event evening together, she had tried to chair and mediate...and to remain impartial but enthusiastic, as librarian. "Ladies and Gentlemen....These authors of history had a unique view of their society and era..." etc., etc.

In any case, almost everyone, it seemed, had a strong opinion about Bronte vs. Austen, and some could even quote at length. The unfolding and impassioned evidence of informed literary opinion was astonishing, to say the least.

More than one literary-minded villager had exclaimed that Charlotte Bronte called Austen's work "a carefully fenced highly cultivated garden...the passions are perfectly unknown to her," and claimed that Jane wrote "trivial courtship novels."

Others poured criticism on how much the dark world of the Bronte moors reflected people's lives, and how "that family" could write only inspired by each other. And, indeed, how it all was reflected in their books. The talk went on and on, with voices for the 'authenticity' and real-world of the dark moors, against civilized genteel London and Bath society, the Regency world. There was great passion in declaring which author was "better."

"Apples and oranges!" exclaimed the somewhat-excitable Adrian Dalrumpole. "Really, how can they be compared?" And he shot a glance at Miss Bookley, who flushed a little.

"The Brontes were lower-middle-class, Jane Austen upper-middle-class," Adrian continued. "And they wrote in a time and century that changed dramatically with the decades, at the start of Queen Victoria's reign, witnesses to the huge social impact of the industrial revolution.... Jane, an earlier Regency woman, had none of this, though quite certainly she was educated and aware..."

"How did they get around?" someone piped up.

"Oh, dear me, our Jane travelled by horse-drawn carriage, the Brontes by train with so many other citizens of the world..." And he rambled on.

Adrian Dalrumpole was a relative newcomer to the village, another postwar escapee from the still-bomb-blasted busyness of London. Friendly enough, though with an incessant nervous cough, and a little odd now and then, "but then he's a writer," villagers like the inquisitive Miss Treadwell were known to say. He seemed to be enjoying himself this evening, though may have been taken aback to find many villagers as well-read as he was.

There was another lull. When Miss Rudwell-Horace happened to glance at the author she saw a face lit up, flushed with what seemed some highly pleasurable emotion, as if he'd just thought of something that gave him great joy.

However, the tensions were high, including amongst two ladies, with little indication one had been considering the other for a 'companion' in her cottage. Miss Fletcher and Miss Peronel could hardly have been more different. One sharp, lean and decisive, the other woolly and twittery, though an excellent housekeeper. Miss Peronel was trembling a little, and she had remained silent while Miss Fletcher talked about the Brontes, and their contribution to literature.

Miss Peronel took a deep breath and said in a timid voice, "I really do feel that dear Jane..."

"She wrote for her time, but in such a sheltered way," said Miss Fletcher forcefully." Somehow, one could picture Miss Fletcher striding over northern moors clad in serviceable tweeds - and being a fish out of water in the Regency world of Bath and London.

Miss Fletcher was still talking, when Miss Peronel said, "I am for Jane!" in a voice that was forceful for all its trembling. She clenched her fists and rounded on Miss Fletcher. "And I shall tell you why!" The twittery lady had become a bird of vengeance.

Miss Fletcher's mouth opened, and she said not a word, seeming transfixed.

Then Miss Rudwell-Horace saw a tall figure, Little Avalon's bookshop owner Rudyard Page (the Younger) cross the room. He stopped in front of Adrian Dalrumpole, and the two seemed to be having an intense conversation. Adrian gesticulated, Rudyard frowned and spread his hands out. Then the latter moved away, with still a look of annoyance on his face.

~~~📔🖋️📙~~~~~~

"Don't read 'em that much, but I could take either one!" said Miss Persimmon. She glanced up at the formidable curve of the long shepherd's crook she insisted on using instead of a cane, as if to reaffirm it as one of her most-prized items.

It was a Mother Goose prop from the Little Avalon Dramatic Society. Miss Persimmon seemed to delight in going briskly down the lanes with her crook (which reached up past her head) looking for all the world like a pepped-up shepherdess. In vain other villagers had advised her to get a normal-sized stick, a simple cane.

"More likely to see the Brontes than Austen familiar with this," she said, with a chuckle, shaking the crook.

The evening wore on, with all its drama and discord. Miss Rudwell-Horace again saw the genial, homely Mrs. Bunn with a face like thunder, fists clenched as though she could commit murder and mayhem with her trusty rolling-pin. But not only her. Miss Fletcher was looking daggers at Mr. Dalrumpole.

Miss Rudwell-Horace found herself wishing she had her trusty sidekick and collaborator Mr. Trotter with her, But he had begged off, laid under as he was with his "fall sickness" (allergies), though had seemed relieved not to attend the literary evening.

The volume of voices rose and ebbed so that one might hear only part of a word. And then Miss Rudwell-Horace's eyes went to Adrian Dalrumpole, Little Avalon's eccentric author. He had a look on his face that reflected fear, horror and shock. His head turned; his eyes seemed fixated on the odd painting on the wall, a modern effort by a budding village artist, and all of lines and slashes (an eyesore to some).

The author remained transfixed, his face registering its blend of emotions. Who or what in a room crowded with villagers, some here for decades, could have caused him such unrest?

She looked around. Misses Fletcher and Peronel, Rudyard Page the Younger, Mr. and Mrs. Bunn...and so many others. Over in one dimmer corner was a man unknown to Miss Rudwell-Horace, a lean dark-suited figure. Had he just come in? He turned to speak to another, heavier-set man. But it was Mr. Bunn's voice she heard. "Better watch himself, he had!"

And just like that, Adrian Dalrumpole was gone. Soon after that, the two strangers left. It seemed somehow fitting that the event wound up shortly after, with Miss Bookley exhorting all to have a good night's sleep, and to be open to enjoy both writers.

"Perhaps a new day and morning tea will help," she muttered to Miss Rudwell-Horace.

The latter began to make her way home, reflecting on the evening, frowning at the memory of the author's face and the two strangers, and recalling that Adrian Dalrumpole had said his new book would be called "'Shepherd's Delight.' Allegorical, of course, my dear lady."

Then, suddenly, Miss Treadwell shot up beside her with the lean swiftness of a greyhound. "I must say Ariadne Bookley's done her best to turn us all into loathing each other tonight. Well, perhaps not quite...but dear goodness, I could almost believe the war was still on."

And then...her face quivered, her eyes widened with emotion, and she took a deep dramatic breath. "I don't know that anyone else heard, but I heard it, clear enough. One of those strange men. He said it, right to Adrian Dalrumpole. 'You're dead. You're dead.'"

**📙*🖋️*📔**

Mr. Trotter had come in out of a light rain and wind a half hour ago. Miss Rudwell-Horace served half-coffee, mixing it with the barley-dandelion-chicory substitute of wartime days. It helped cut down on a jumping heart, and was a reminder of a time of 'make do and mend.' And after all, rationing in Britain was still on.

She'd given the little postman a full account of the literary evening and its tensions, and he seemed suitably impressed. "The plot thickens," he announced. "Adrian Dalrumpole is indeed bothered about something. Not only from the book club."

"You delivered a letter to him," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, narrowing her eyes a little.

"Indeed, and he hadn't even opened it before he went quite white in the face. Then he muttered something like 'So they're coming after me.' Just as I thought."

Miss Rudwell-Horace looked keenly at Mr. Trotter. "'They...' Hmmm."

"I wished I could have known more, but of course..."

"It is his right not to let you know," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, wishing herself she might have been able to see over the man's shoulder as he opened his letter.

"What was he so afraid of? Who? Could it be someone from his war days?" she said. Someone from the village who was not who and what they appeared to be? A few of her neighbours, she knew, had worked for the war effort as had she herself. And Little Avalon, like many towns and especially after 1945, had its strangers here and there.

"But then there was that odd exchange with Rudyard the Younger, our bookshop owner. And certainly the two strangers."

"And most of all," said the postman, "Miss Treadwell hearing someone say 'You're dead.' We know she's been wrong before...but also right. She hears something, but perhaps doesn't hear it the right way. Like when she thought that visiting artist Ellen Thorn-Rosen loved her 'Argentinian prince,' but it was actually p-r-i-n-t-s."

They were both silent a moment, remembering that particular village mystery of art, jewels and hundreds-and-thousands, and the darkly-beautiful London artist.

"Still, I must say, 'dead' seems quite plain to me," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, "though perhaps it was said in jest."

She continued to muse over last night's event. Then there was a rap on the door. "Why, Constable Bland," she said, feeling not as surprised as she might have.

He tipped his cap. "You were there, at the event last night, Miss RH. And I know how observant you are. So I must ask you..." As he talked, Miss Rudwell-Horace's eyes widened a little, and Mr. Trotter, who of course had not been at the literary evening, was quite agog.

~~~📔~~🖋️~~📙~~~

One could imagine how swiftly the news had gone around the village that author Adrian Dalrumpole had taken to barricading himself in his house, nailing boards within and without. There was the sound of intensive hammering, an occasional curse, the thump and thunder of chunks of wood.

He could hardly do it all himself, as he was not a large or muscular man, and so he apparently had requisitioned some of the young men of the village. Miss Rudwell-Horace had indeed seen two of them, busily hammering and boarding up the cottage.

One was heard to say after, "Paid well!" Of course, Miss Rudwell-Horace did not yet know the purpose of this. She might have approached one of the youth, but no doubt he had been sworn to secrecy.

~~~~~~~

🍺🎯📔🍷📙🎯🍻

The buzz in the Balls and Meadow and the Majestic Tearoom was two-fold and related: who were the mysterious new men in town (and staying at the pub in Little Avalon) and why the dickens had the eccentric author boarded himself up in his house?

"For one of his books!" said Mrs. Littlebrim the milliner. "Some mystery plot. Trying it on to see how it would be done."

"Dear me," said another voice. "Let's hope he doesn't try on a murder to see if he gets it right."

"More likely to be murdered himself," Miss Sharp the seamstress said crisply. "And that's what you heard, wasn't it?" But her lips twisted a little as she turned to Miss Treadwell, who said:

"I know what I heard. And it's spies! Has to be. Those men last night...Some business that was never settled at the end of the war." And she reached out to tap Constable Bland, who had just entered. "Surely there's something you can do."

He shook his head regretfully. "Not much. Not yet. The gentleman is breaking no law with what he's doing to his cottage. And...well, we know there's still some odd behaviour and fear, even five years after the war's over."

"But those strangers?" demanded Miss Treadwell. "And what I heard?"

"From London they are, and they're breaking no law yet. And are you sure that's what you heard?"

"I was standing close enough! Why you don't have an entire force on this...we could all be in danger!" she sputtered on, reaching into her reticule for the small flask she carried everywhere. Then, apparently remembering she was in the pub, she asked Mr. Jenkins behind the bar for a sherry.

Miss Rudwell-Horace heard it all. And because of it, or perhaps in spite of it, she was getting an idea. She glanced at one of the village lads, the one who'd said over his lager, "Better pay than I've had all year!"

What could motivate the author to arrange all that?

Old Mr. Oddie, perpetual customer propped up at the bar, had a spark of interest in his bleary eyes, upon hearing the excited chatter around him. But "books and crooks," he mumbled. "Don't know what's worse." He slid his glass over. "Another, Jenkins, if ye would."

~~📙~~🖋️~~📔~~

Miss Rudwell-Horace turned in bed again, patting her pillows. Through her mind ran images of the villagers...

Rudyard Page, the dark, slightly mysterious bookshop owner. Miss Fletcher glaring at Adrian Dalrumpole. The angry Mr. and Mrs. Bunn. The insistent Miss Treadwell. The young men paid to barricade the house. The mysterious men at the literary evening, and staying at the Balls and Meadow...could they actually be criminals or otherwise men with a negative agenda, after Mr. Dalrumpole?

She would call on Miss Persimmon, she thought. In her mind's eye she saw the slit of open window of the author's house. One villager had said there was a window open at the back, just a little; it appeared the man inside didn't want a stuffy house. As for what she had in mind...Miss Rudwell-Horace knew people well, and she felt quite sure that not only would the emotional author not be upset, but that he would respond to that approach.

"My dear Miss Persimmon," she said. "You can be of great service to Little Avalon at this time."

The other woman stood tall and straight, quivering a little. "Indeed, Miss Rudwell-Horace, I hope as much as I was during the war. How can I help you?"

Miss Rudwell-Horace explained, and took a pen and paper from her purse. She composed a short note, let the other woman read it, tied it with ribbon around the end of the stick.

Together they walked briskly to the boarded-up house, and around to the back. Miss Persimmon stood tall and straight again, wielding her shepherd's crook like the mythical Britannia with her trident. She aimed it at the slightly-opened window, the slit that might have been meant for boiling oil at another time, and slowly pushed the long stick through.

There was an agony of suspense, then the crook shook a little while the man at the other end obviously took the note off. They waited several moments, which seemed to lengthen. The two women stared at each other in an agony of suspense.

And then...the crook was pushed back out, with a returning note, to the sound of a male voice, with something that sounded like a sob: "Fear not. All is well!"

~~~~~~~~

🍂🍷📔☕📙🫖📙🍷🍂

The trees were even prettier two days later. Miss Rudwell-Horace enjoyed her walk, especially when she saw that some of the boards had been removed from Adrian Dalrumpole's cottage.

She smiled in a satisfied way, and her steps quickened. Two letters for the postbox. It was a pleasant autumn day, and so she sat a while in the village gazebo.

It was not long before Adrian Dalrumpole appeared. He made a show of doffing his hat, with that faintly showy air he had, holding it over his rounded stomach. "My dear lady," he said. A pause, and then, "I know of your legendary powers of deduction. You are a Holmes in your own right, a Christie, a Marple, even if it is not murders you seek to solve."

Miss Rudwell-Horace looked penetratingly at the jittery author with, still, the determination in his eyes. She smiled. "At the literary night, you heard and observed, too, something you wished to use, in your profession."

Adrian Dalrumpole dabbed his brow with a fine handkerchief, and said, "I confess. Beyond that, my dear lady, if you can only imagine! The pain, the fear, the desire to hide – especially with so much more to do, and I did it the only way I knew how. I felt I had to barricade myself."

"You realize you simply made yourself more conspicuous, my dear man."

He sighed. "Alas yes. In striving to cut myself off from my fellow humanity, I simply made myself the focus. The life of an author oft is a tangled one. But that was a delicious touch, the shepherd's crook – so symbolic! – with its message. I felt I could respond to you. Perhaps nothing else would have done it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Miss Rudwell-Horace sat with Mr. Trotter in the garden, both of them enjoying the unseasonable golden warmth of the September day. Yet there also was that autumnal cool crispness in the air. The roses, bobbing and stirring, seemed twice as precious as in June.

Thin crisp oatcakes spread with marge and mouth-puckering marmalade, were somehow just right for this time of year. A pot of tea stood squat and ready, centre of the table, with, off to the left, a bottle of Miss Rudwell-Horace's currant wine.

As was often their wont, the duo began with smaller matters.

"Miss Peronel and Miss Fletcher," said the little postman. "Is there truly any hope for a living and working arrangement?"

Miss Rudwell-Horace spread marmalade with a satisfied air.

"It would seem so. One might think them quite dissimilar, and they are (as well as nothing to do with the barricaded-house mystery). But sometimes opposites attract. As it turned out, Miss Fletcher admired the shy Miss Peronel who clung to her convictions, more so than if she had elected to agree with Miss Fletcher, to keep the peace. This woman, Miss Fletcher felt, was worthy of being her companion and house-help. And Miss Peronel was happy to have the work. In the end, the difference would add spirit to the arrangement.

"Where the other tension came in, as I understand, was that our London-village author had been considering having Miss Peronel be his housekeeper. And that, Miss Fletcher would not stand for."

"Sounds as though he could easily make enemies without meaning to," said Mr. Trotter.

"Perhaps. He also cut Miss Bookley a little, in intimating she was responsible for the tension-filled evening. Which, I suppose, she was in a way.

"And then...our Mr. Dalrumpole. What really struck me was how intensely his face changed, in quite a short time. A little smug and complacent, at first, at being the London author in a small village. And then...his face infused with what seemed an almost joyful emotion, his eyes bright." She sipped her wine.

Mr. Trotter clapped his hands together. "I believe I know what you mean! Saw a book writer like that once. Got out of there before he used me in his story."

Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled and said. "Yes, I realized after that I must be observing a writer's inspiration, the muse when it struck. He had a new idea, for his book in progress, and I believe it may have had something to do with the idea of an at-odds village literary society club. So he wanted to do some more work on it. Yet his publishers were pursuing him.

"It seemed there was something quite ominous," Miss Rudwell-Horace went on. "Especially when I was told by Miss Treadwell that she had heard 'You're dead.' But it was not a threat as such, nor was it anything to do with our Bronte/Austen village feud.

"Instead, the word that was actually said was interrupted by the surrounding noise. The word deadline. 'Your deadline.' His authorial obligation. Remember the noise volume up and down, so that one might hear only part of what was being said, and Adrian Dalrumpole had a nervous cough that often obscured what people said.

"Yes, there is something about that word... and our inquisitive Miss Treadwell was right to be concerned, even if she heard only the first syllable. It is not the first time she was partially right."

Mr. Trotter shook his head. "And Rudyard the Younger had nothing to do with it?"

"I wondered at first. But I believe Rudyard Page had wanted Mr. Dalrumpole to be part of an event in his bookstore. The author is well-enough known for that. But our author is a little temperamental, and refused, for now. He may change his mind."

Mr. Trotter sipped his wine. "And, I gather, he felt that only by barricading himself in his cottage he would get his book done and hold off his publishers, who had come after him to remind him to cough up the goods."

Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled at the way he put it. "Yes. His anxiety was two-fold. He was also determined to keep out what he thought of as inquisitive busybody villagers. In reality, likely very few of them wanted to know about his book, but some writers, it seems, are convinced they will be hounded."

And then, as if reminded by the tasty morsels before him, he said, "But what about the Bunns? Did the Mister or Missus have anything against the author?"

"In a sense, yes. Adrian Dalrumpole...had committed the unforgiveable sin of comparing Mrs. Bunn's pear tart to some he'd had in London, which he called 'superb.' It is one of her specialties, and such an insult was not easily born."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was half-day, with most businesses shut. The Majestic Tearoom was one of the few allowed to remain open. After all, tea, baked goods and conversation were (just as they had been throughout a long war) an ongoing necessity.

Miss Rudwell-Horace, entering, saw Miss Bookley the librarian, leafing through a substantial-looking book, and absently crumbling and eating a scone. Then the woman looked up, and her eyes glittered through her spectacles. "Miss Rudwell-Horace. Please do join me."

And then, "What a war I unleashed at the literary society." She shook her head. "Truly, I had no idea people felt so strongly."

"Human nature is surprising at times," Miss Rudwell-Horace agreed.

They made small talk, then Miss Rudwell-Horace glanced at her companion's book, which she could not yet identify. Austen or Bronte? she might have said. "Any thoughts on which you prefer?" she said with a twinkle in her eye.

Miss Bookley looked rather cool...then she flushed a little, chin raised. "Mary Taylor," she said decisively. "A good friend of Charlotte Bronte. But an entity of her own, a strong woman and a feminist. A lesser-known author...and only one book, alas."

But Miss Rudwell-Horace knew. "My dear cousin Rachael - and that's 'a-e-l,'" she added. "In the north - Yorkshire." And then, glancing around, "She helps restaurants and tearooms recover from the difficulties of wartime, with the economy, the shortages, payment systems. So dedicated to helping these businesses be the best they can be.

"But more than that – she is also a descendent of Mary Taylor, and a strong advocate of her work. How interesting that you know of this author."

Miss Bookley's eyes widened. "Dear me, your cousin – how fascinating."

"And indeed," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, "It is a joy to find and appreciate a good book."

But what neither of them said, but what both (Miss Rudwell-Horace was sure) thought, was: what kind of book, what story, would Adrian Dalrumpole and his publishers unleash upon the world? Would he have 'used' Little Avalon and its diverse villagers for his literary purpose?

Miss Rudwell-Horace shrugged a little. There was no point in worrying. As they once had all been exhorted for six years of war: "keep calm and carry on." And she poured them both another cup of tea.

~~~~~~~~~