“This is all we have to go on, I’m afraid,” says Elliot, pulling the photograph of his grandfather and the mystery woman out of his wallet. “I know it’s not much, but we’re really hoping you might be able to help. Anything you can tell us at all would be amazing, really. We’re kind of desperate here.”
I glance up at him, a little surprised by how seriously he’s taking this ‘research’ of ours.
I thought we were just going to make something up if we couldn’t track down the mystery woman? I didn’t realize we were ‘desperate’?
“Dad thought the uniform might be ATS?” I put in. “I don’t suppose you know anything about that, Maisie.”
Maisie’s lips pucker with annoyance under their frosted-pink lipstick.
“I’m not quitethatold, Holly,” she says, sniffing. “I wasn’t even born during the war, you know. Although I suppose anyone over 30 seems ancient to you.”
Elliot and I exchange glances.
“Holly tells me if there’s something you don’t know, it’s probably not worth knowing,” he says, jumping in smoothly to rescue me. “I’m guessing that’s why you’re so good at your job.”
My muscles tense as I wait for Maisie to figure out that I told him that in relation to gossip, not to her job at the library, but, to my relief, she just reaches up and pats her hair self-consciously.
“Some people have been known to call me the Queen of the Library,” she says, trying and failing to sound modest. “I wouldn’t say thatmyself, you understand, but, well, thereisa reason the library is doing so well these days. Not that the bookstore isn’t, too,” she adds quickly, turning to me. “Howisyour poor father, Holly? It’s a difficult time of year for you both, isn’t it?”
Maisie tilts her head to the side sympathetically, as if she hasn’t spent the last decade pretending the library and bookstore are two rival gangs in a literary turf war, each struggling for dominance over the town of Bramblebury.
Yes, she should definitely be a fiction writer, if she ever quits the library.
“We’re fine, Maisie, thank you,” I reply, suppressing the urge to square up to her like an extra fromWest Side Storypreparing for a dance-off. “But the woman in the photo? Do you think you can help us figure out who she was?”
“Oh, yes,” she says, remembering the reason for our visit at last. “The Auxiliary Territorial Service, wasn’t it? I think wemighthave something on that somewhere, but I’ll have to check when I can find a spare second. I’m rushed off my feet here, as usual.”
She indicates the room we’re standing in, which is empty but for the three of us, and has a faint aroma of mildew and neglect.
“Leave it with me, though,” Maisie adds, with a martyred expression. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best. Why do you want to know, though? Who do you think this woman is?”
Her eyes light up at the thought of fresh gossip material.
“We’re not sure,” Elliot replies, saving me the trouble. “It’s a bit of a mystery, unfortunately. This is all I know.”
He hands her a piece of paper torn from his notebook, on which he’s scribbled down his great-grandfather’s name and regiment, along with the approximate dates he arrived in and left England.
“Oh, I love a good mystery,” says Maisie, scanning the note greedily. “I’ve read all the Hercule Poirot books in the library, you know. The Miss Marples, too. Although I always manage to figure out whodunnit before the end, which spoils it a bit.”
“This should be no problem for you then,” replies Elliot kindly. “I’m sure you’ll have the case solved in no time.”
“Well, I’ll do my best,” replies Maisie, blushing slightly. “He’s a proper charmer, this one,” she says, giving me a glance of approval before turning to go. “Young Martin better watch out; it looks like he’s got himself some competition.”
“Martin?” asks Elliot, smiling uncertainly as Maisie sweeps off importantly to scare some children who are loitering near the computer terminals. “Who’s Martin, and why is he my competition?”
“He isn’t,” I assure him, taking his arm as we head back into the street. “Martin Baxter is the boy next door. Literally, I mean. His parents own the bakers; you know the shop next to ours?”
“Right. So you guys grew up together, then?”
“Not really. We grew up next to each other,” I correct him. “Martin and I never really had anything in common, but he was convinced we did, what with the whole ‘parents being shopkeepers’ thing. He’s … well, he’s always had a bit of a thing for me, I guess. He thinks that us living next door is a sign that we were meant to be together.”
“But it never happened?” Elliot asks. “You two never got together? Sorry,” he adds quickly, “I know it’s none of my business, I just … well, I guess I’m just worried about the competition now.”
He gives a low chuckle, and I squeeze his arm reassuringly.
“You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” I tell him firmly. “Martin’s not my type. Never has been, never will be. I like tall, handsome Americans, you know. Ones who write books about dead grandfathers, and like to start wild goose chases over mystery women.”
“That’s very specific of you,” Elliot replies, laughing properly now.
