Cozy Mystery For Sleep: Briar Hollow | Chapter 5

This is a reading of 'Chapter 5: The Physician's Account' from my personal story "The Last Cozy Lantern in Briar Hollow". This is a 32 minute reading with no ambient sounds or music.
Story:
In the quiet village of Briar Hollow, an ordinary autumn evening takes a troubling turn when a familiar light fails to appear. As questions begin to gather around the loss of a respected villager, a careful observer starts noticing the small details others have overlooked.
Settle in for the opening chapter of a gentle, atmospheric fair-play mystery filled with lamplight, village secrets, and the slow unraveling of a carefully hidden truth.
Chapter 5 Description:
Voss pays a visit to the village physician and listens carefully to his account of Eldred's final evening. The story appears reasonable—but in Briar Hollow, the smallest details are beginning to matter.

Transcript

Welcome to Restful Journeys. In this track I will continue reading The Last Cozy Lantern of Briar Hollow. This will be Chapter 5. Please find a comfortable place to sit or lie down and relax. Take a few moments to clear your mind and allow yourself to listen to these words. Let's continue with Chapter 5, The Physician's Account. Voss's second knock had barely finished when the surgery door opened on a small round woman in a flowery apron who wiped both hands down it before she said a word. She did it slowly, Palm and then back of the fingers, As if the words might be spoiled by a damp grip. The milk's on the seal. She said. And the doctor will be a minute. I think it was a minute, " he said. He has someone with him. She glanced over her shoulder into the dim and lowered her voice further. A cough. A long one. Then I'm in no hurry. Boss said. Voss. I'm here to mend the clock. Oh, You're the clock lady. Pruitt laughed softly, Mostly into her collar. Agnes Prewitt. I keep the house for the doctor. Mind the step, It's higher than it looks. It was. Voss had walked down from the square with the lane tilting under her boots, Counting the lampposts as she passed them, Six in all, Each with its glass door and its cold wick. The one outside the surgery had been the fourth. Its red wax had caught the afternoon light as she went by. Now she lifted her boot over the step and followed the housekeeper in, And the door closed behind them with a soft, Well-oiled click. The hole was short and narrow and it smelled of carbolic with a sweeter layer of lavender polish over it. A coat stand stood against one wall with a single black coat on it. A brass lamp hung on the other, Its bracket polished to the color of butter. At the far end, Two doors waited, One of them shut on a murmur of voices and a dry, Patient cough. Pruitt nodded toward a hard, Straight-backed chair beside the wash basin. There, If you would. It isn't a comfortable chair. The doctor says patients who are comfortable stay too long. She laughed again, That private little laugh. I think he was joking. I'd have guessed so. Boss said. A man who joked about it badly would have a better chair. She set her satchel on the floor against the chair leg and sat. The basin beside her was white enamel with a chip out of the rim, And a folded towel hung beside it, Square to the edge of its rail. Pruett took a cloth from her apron pocket and went to a small table under the lamp, Where she began on a surface that already showed her reflection. Voss looked down. The boards ran away from her boots in long, Pale lines, Scrubbed to the grain, With not a speck lodged in any seam. She said. These boards are scrubbed to a shine I could set a gear against. The cloth paused. I'll take the compliment for the floor, Thursdays and Mondays, On my knees with the soda. The doctor likes it so. Then the doctor is a lucky man. Oh, I think he knows. Pruitt said, And went on polishing. The consulting room door opened before Vos could decide whether to stand. A man in a muffler came out past her, Coughing into his fist, And Pruitt saw him to the street door. Dr. Finch held it with one hand, The other tucked behind him, And looked at her over the silver rims of his spectacles as though she were a symptom he had expected. Miss Voss. Do come through. Doctor. She said, And rose. Pruett had already stepped aside to let her pass. Voss went through the doorway into a room that smelled faintly of tinctures and cold tea. A desk stood square to the window, Its green leather top bare except for a blotter, A pen laid parallel to its edge, And a closed account book squared to one corner. Two chairs faced it. She took the nearest one and moved it half a foot closer to the desk before Finch could object. Finch went around the desk and lowered himself into his chair, Only after she had taken hers. Then he rose again, Denied the window latch, And sat once more. You'll forgive the preliminaries, " he said. A fee, I take it, Is the matter? What auto-restorer's fee to cover, In your view? Time, Parts, And my keeping a roof over my head while I do it. Voss said. It is that what the vestry has asked you to find out, Or are you just being thorough? Is there a difference where public money is concerned? He smiled and adjusted the spectacles. And The Timeless Voice. How long do you suppose the work will take? Pruitt had drifted to the door and stopped there. She had flowered her sleeves again somehow, Though Voss had not seen her touch anything. I've had my hand on the going train this morning. Voss said. The wheels are sound. Some wear on the pinions, A dry arbor or two, And a pigeon with the pinions. Ten days if nothing surprises me. Fourteen if it does. And do you need the cabinet or only the mechanism? There's a cabinet? There is a case of sorts, I believe. " rather the worse for them. Then I'll leave it be unless it's in my way. The mechanism is the work. The case is carpentry and carpenters are cheaper than I am. She laughed at that to herself briefly, Since the doctor did not. My price is set by the fortnight, Not the hour. I'll write it down for you, With parts itemized, And you may argue with the figures one at a time. Admirably clear. Finch said with his fingertips together. Though I wonder whether the vestry would prefer a lump sum or payment by stages. What has been your experience? Stages. A third at the start, A third when the train runs, A third when it keeps time. Though I'd settle for knowing the first third exists. The audits Monday fortnight, I'm told. It is. He glanced at the blotter, Then at her. Yes monday The fund will have been looked over by then, And the vestry will be in a better position to say what it can bear. Naturally, I should like to see the work begun at once. Everyone would. Begun is the part I can manage. Paid is the part I'm asking about. And you shall have an answer, Miss Voss, Very shortly. " The smile came again, Courteous and unhurried. Let me speak to the reverend. We hold the account jointly, You know, And— and I make it a point to never moving a penny without him. Write out your figures, By all means. I will see that they are laid out before the right people. " laid before. Boss said. Not paid out of. Played before in good time. He did not look away, And neither did she. It was she who gave in with a short nod and took her pencil stub from her coat to turn the matter into sums later. A small cough came from the door. Pruitt had moved half a step into the room, An apron hand lifted as though to ask whether tea was wanted. Finch did not turn his head. He gave one slow nod, The kind that closed a door, And Pruitt stepped back into the hall. The latch clicked softly behind her. Voss turned her chair a few degrees towards the window. Mule Lane lay in the flat afternoon light, Empty from the surgery step to the bend, Not a cart on it, Not a child, Not a hen. It's very quiet down there, " she said. I'd wager it always so, But on a foggy night it must be quieter still. No wheels, No voices. A man could hear his own boots. Could he? Finch laid his pen on the tray and squared it to the blotter. I couldn't say. I was in the surgery until nine, Writing up my notes, And then I went up to bed. The lane keeps its own counsel after dark. Most lanes do. Nine, " Voss said. That's early. It is an early profession, Miss Vance, Whatever people suppose. " A physician who sits up late is generally a physician who is doing something badly. He smiled at his own remark, A small dry movement that did not reach the spectacles. Prove it will tell you the house is dark by a quarter past. Boss did not ask Pruitt. Finch folded his hands on the desk, One over the other, And regarded them. I will say this, Since you are going to be up and down that tower. Eldred had complained to me of dizzy spells. More than once. I told him to rest, To take the stairs slowly, To let the girl do the lifting. He was not a man who took advice. He raised his eyes. One sees it so often in the old. They will not be told. Dizzy. Voss said and nodded. Quite so. A fall in such a case is hardly a mystery. Sad, But not a mystery. Why don't Dylan Mysteries? Voss said. Only in wheels that stick. Though I will say the tower stair is a hard one. The treads in the middle are worn to a dish. Three hundred years of vicars and sextons will do that. Finch's thumbs shifted one over the other. I have asked the vistri for a better rill more than once. Money as ever. The clock fund has been spoken for these two years and I'm afraid the rail was never a size to compete with a clock. Then the clock gets its due on Monday. If the audit is kind. He set it lightly and glanced towards the window as though the lane might have an opinion. The vestry likes everything in columns. I am not a man who minds columns. A little patience on your side, Miss Voss, And the fee will come in its proper season. " and was still. You must be tired of questions. She said. Everyone in the village will have been at use since morning. Not everyone. A village is more tactful than it seems, And I have the privilege of a closed door. He unfolded his hands and laid them flat. Is there anything further on the matter of the fee? Not that I can think of. And I shall not detain you. Voss gathered her satchel from the floor by the chair leg. Thank you for your time, Doctor. The boss stood and found the chair back with her free hand. I'll say one thing before I go. Those tower stairs are hollowed in the middle like soup spoons, Hard on an old man's knees and harder on his balance. I'll try not to think about it while I'm up there with the mechanism. She laughed briefly at the soup spoons. Finch did not. He smiled faintly and kept his hand still on the blotter. The window behind him showed a strip of mill lane and one dark lantern post, The glass of its door a dull square in the daylight. He said nothing more. Vos waited a polite breath for the question that usually followed, And none came. So she nodded to the room in general and opened the door. The hall was cooler than the consulting room. The brass lamp on the wall had been lent against the dim passage, And it threw a small warm circle onto the boards and onto the hall table beneath it. Pruett stood there with a yellow cloth, Working at one corner of the wood in slow circles. She had been working at it, Voss thought, Since the door closed. Mind the mat. Pruitt murmured. It curls at the edge. I keep meaning to tack it. Boss stepped over it. Your floors would forgive me if I didn't. Pruitt laughed softly, Almost into the cloth, And moved to the next corner. Then, Without looking up, She said, He's never hurried, The doctor. Never has been. Not in all the years I've kept for him. She breathed on the wood and rubbed at the breath. I think it's a comfort to people. I'm sure it is, " Baal said. Is that your own polish? Is from the Square Shop. Wren Halloway will tell you the price before you've asked. I shall take your word for it. She reached the street door and drew it open. The cold came in at once, Flat and damp, And the brass glow stayed behind her on the boards. Voss stepped out and pulled the door to behind her until the latch clicked. Mill Lane lay empty in the afternoon. The cobbles dry now and pale. Six lantern posts stood down at its length, Each with its glass door shut and its flame out. And the nearest one stood at her elbow. She looked down the slope towards the mill, Where a thread of smoke rose from Garrow's chimney. Voss turned her back on the surgery. She patted her cuff, Where the winding days were penciled, And started up the lane toward the square and the smell of pie, The slope pulling at her calves. Halfway up the lane, Voss found she was thinking of the pie and not much else. By the time the square opened out ahead of her, The fog had gone to a low grey ribbon down the base of the tower. And the lamp over the hollow's end door was already lit, Yellow against the dusk. The door stuck at the bottom. She lifted it by the handle and pushed. And the end came at her all at once. Beer, Hot pastry, Wood smoke, And a murmur of men who had been sitting in the same places since four o'clock. Two farmers nodded at her over their pot. She nodded back, Which seemed to settle something, And took the stool at the end of the long oak bar nearest the fire, Pushing her satchel under it with her heel. There she is, Maud boomed from the far end, Where she was hauling a tray of pies out of a cloth. Sit, Love, Sit. You're letting the heat out of your own stool. I'm sitting. Then you'll want a plate. Plate arrived before the sentence had finished, With a wedge of pie on it the size of a doorstop and a fork laid beside it at a precise angle. The crust shattered when Vos pressed it. Under it, The gravy was dark and peppery, And the meat gave way without argument. She ate in silence for some minutes while Maude worked the bar, Drawing a paint here, Cuffing a lad's elbow off the wood there. The oak creaked under her forearms every time she leaned. The fire popped. One of the farmers laughed at something and the other man told him it was not that funny. Modest coming back? Mmm, Better than good. I'd stay a month for this crust, And the clock only needs ten days. Maud's laugh went up off like a dropped tray. Hear that, Tobias? A month! Tobias, Whoever he was, Raised his pot without looking round. Voss put a corner of crust on the side of her plate and spoke through the last of the gravy. Mod. You'd know. Eldred kept a ledger for the lamps and there are columns in it for oil. Pages of them. Who did he buy it from? Somebody must have carried it up the lane in drums. Maud had a cloth in her hand. She had begun to rub at a ring on the bar, Though the ring did not look as though it had ever been there. Then she laughed, High and long, A full beat longer than the question could have earned. And the farmers glanced over. Oh, Now you'll want something sweet after that. She said, Reaching under the bar for a second plate and setting it down with a clack beside the first. The short press from Tuesday, But it keeps. Butter keeps. Just ask the thing about butter deer. Boss looked at her plate where corner of crust still sat in the gravy and then at the second one which held nothing at all yet. She found, To her mild surprise, That she was grinning. I'll take the shortbread. She said. Course you will. Maud was already lifting the lid from a tin and the smell of brown butter rose out of it. She counted three fingers of shortbread onto the plate and added a fourth for nothing. My mother's crust and my grandmother's shortbread. You can't buy that in the square shop, Whatever Wren Halloway tells you. I wouldn't dare. Voss broke a finger of shortbread in half. It snapped cleanly and crumbled over the plate. She ate the first piece, Then the second, And let the heat of the fire press at her left side while Maud went off down the bar with a jug, Still talking about butter, Loudly, To nobody in particular. The oil columns could keep until morning. She had the whole of the clock to get through first. A push of cooler air came in off the street and the fire leaned towards it. Dr. Finch stood on the mat and took his hat off, Knocking a few beads of damp from the brim against his knee. Good evening, Mrs. Pinnock. Dr. Love. " Maud was already reaching under the bar for a mug, The one with the chipped handle that nobody else was allowed. You're late! I'd nearly given it to the dog. You haven't got a dog. That's how late you are. She drew the half-paint in one long pull, Let the foam climb, And slid it along the oak. Finch laid his coins beside it, Counted to the penny, And lifted the mug. He glanced down the bar and saw Vos and gave her a single nod, Nothing more. She raised a piece of shortbread in return. He took the first sip, Then lipped, And set the mug on its own ring of wet. The bar creaked under his elbow. I wanted to ask how the village has been taking it. He said. Eldred, I mean. One hears so little in the surgery, Except what people choose to confess to a stethoscope. He turned the mug a quarter turn. He was a patient of mine, You know, For many years. " I keep thinking of those dizzy spells. He mentioned them more than once, And I never managed to get to the bottom of them. It sits badly when a man says plainly what ails him and one can't put a name to it. Vos chewed and looked at the shortbread in her hand with great interest. Maud's fingers had closed around the handle of a second mug she'd been about to fill. The knuckles went pale against the pewter. He was fine, Love, " she said. Perfectly fine. Fine. Finch's eyebrows rose a fraction. I understood he was rather. Perfectly. She put the mug down a little hard and reached beneath the counter for a glass and a cloth. Did you want one of the pies for later? I've two left and the crusts come up lovely. Won't keep past morning, Mind. " Not tonight, Thank you. Pity. She began to wipe the glass. It was a tall one. Clear and had plainly been dry on the shelf since before Voss came in. The cloth went round the rim, Down the side, Round the base, And then round the rim again. A log shifted in the grate and sent up a small flurry of sparks. Nobody looked at it. Finch drank. He did not look away from Maud, But she gave him the side of her face and the top of her head, Bent over her work. You were fond of him, I think. He said. Everyone was fond of him. The cloth went round. He lit our lamps for 40 years. Then I'm sorry to have raised it. Don't be. It's a kindness. She held the glass up to the lamp, Squinted through it, And found it, Evidently, Not yet right. The cloth went to work again. Voss broke the last of the shortbread and made it last. A man at the far table called for more bread and was ignored. Finch tilted his mug, Studied the bottom of it, And set it down again without drinking. She had spent enough years among escapements to know the feel of something running a hair out of true. And she did not care for finding it here, Among the pies. At last, Maud put the glass on the shelf, Took down another, And laughed. This laugh came out thin and short, As if it had been let out of a door on a chain. Listen to the pair of us, " Maud said to the glass in her hand. Sitting here like awake. Drink up, Doctor. It'll go flat. It's a small measure, Mrs. Pennock. " It rarely lives to see flat. Then you've no excuse. Finch smiled faintly and drank again. Voss, With crumbs on her fingers and nothing else to do with them, Set about brushing them one by one onto her plate. Finch drank the last of his ale in two unhurried swallows and set the mug on the bar with the handle turned toward Maud, As a man does who has done it every evening for years. He took his hat from the peg by the door and on the way he nodded to Maud. Who nodded at her glass, And then to Vos. Miss Voss, I hope the clock proves kinder than the stare. Clocks don't have to be kind, Doctor, " Fawce said. Only honest. Good night. He smiled at that, Faintly again, And went out. The door let in a breath of cold fog and a snatch of the square before it swung to on its leather hinge. The latch dropped with a click. Maud set the glass down at last, Looked at it as if it had disappointed her, And wiped the bar top in a long, Slow stroke from one end to the other. She collected Finch's mug on the way and carried it through to the back kitchen. Water ran, Pans knocked. She did not sing. Which Vos had already learned she did over the washing up. Vos ate the last corner of crust. It had gone cool and the gravy at the edge of the plate had skinned over. She pressed the crust into it anyway. The coroner's jury had called it an accidental fall that afternoon after hearing Finch describe the worn stare, The fog, And Eldred's supposed dizzy spells. A woman, Who had poured Eldred his pint for however many years, Had said in the same evening that he was perfectly fine. Both could be true. Probably nothing. Vos said to the plate. She said it quietly, But the kitchen hatch slid up a hand's breadth and Maude's voice came through the gap. Did you say something, Love? Only that the shortbread was excellent. Course it was. The laugh came a note high, Then the hatch dropped shut again. Voss pushed the plate to the edge of the bar, Where Maud would find it. She collected her satchel from under the stool where it had leaned against her shin all evening. The fire had burned down to a low red heap. A log slumped and sent up a little spurt of sparks, And nobody else in the common room stirred. The window had gone home. The settle, Where Garrow might have sat, Had he been a man for company, Stood empty with his cushion dented. At the foot of the stair, She took the rail in her left hand. The wood was smooth and faintly sticky with years of beeswax and thumbs. The third step creaked, The sixth complained more loudly, And she put her foot on the outer edge of the seventh as she had the night before, Where the tread was quiet. The fire's warmth followed her up a few steps and then gave out. Of crust thinned. Above her the landing was dark and she had no candle. On the half landing, She stopped. One hand on the rail and counted the day on her fingers as she would a train of wheels. The vicar with his fund and his signature, Garo and his sacks, Who had been home, He told her, And who had said the lane was dark. Laura with a drawer key in her pocket, The doctor with his careful hands, Pruitt in her cloth, Maud in her glass. That was everyone she had been told to meet. A bag of tools, A key and a hole in a ledger, And not one of them yet asked a plain question twice. Below, Maud's laugh went up in the kitchen at something only she had heard and stopped. Tomorrow, " Vos told the dark and went on up to find her door. That concludes Chapter 5, The Physician's Account, From the story The Last Cozy Lantern of Briar Hollow. Thank you so much for continuing to listen to this story. I hope you've become relaxed and possibly fallen asleep.

Reviews

Thank you. Your voice is calming and the story is great❤️