Cozy Mystery For Sleep: Briar Hollow | Chapter 12

This is a reading of 'Chapter 12: Broth, Books and a Dark Lane' from my personal story "The Last Cozy Lantern in Briar Hollow". This is 29 minutes of reading with no ambient sounds or music.
There are 20 chapters in total.
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 12 Description:
A mending book preserves the quiet history of Briar Hollow's lamps. When Voss compares its records with what she has seen for herself, a dark stretch of Mill Lane begins to look increasingly deliberate.

Transcript

Hello. And welcome, Touristful journeys. I'm glad you're here. Tonight. We'll be continuing our story. The Last Cozy Lantern of Briar Hollow. With Chapter Twelve. Broth, Books, And a Dark Lane. But before we begin. . . Take a moment. To make yourself comfortable. Whether you're settling in for the night or simply taking a little time for yourself, Allow the busyness of the day to gently fade away. There's nothing you need to do right now, Nowhere else you need to be. Just relax, Listen, And let the story carry you somewhere peaceful. And now, Let's return to Briar Hollow. Chapter 12. Broth, Books, And a Dark Lane. I'd like to see the Mending Book. Vos said, Tipping the last of her tea into the saucer to cool. Whatever the round has had done to it. I'd rather know before I finish the clock than find out from the clock. Alara was already at the dresser, One hip against the drawer to shove it past its sticking place. What would the lamps have to do with the clock? I think a village that keeps one book for forty lanterns keeps its opinions in it. Fair The drawer gave a squeal. Allara lifted out a book and a cracked brown cover, Blew a crumb off of it, And slid it across the table past the teapot. My uncle's hand, All of it, Except the last year, Where it's mine when his eyes were tired. Don't read the margins. He drew faces. The kettle ticked on the hob. Along the far wall, The workbench stood with its vice clamped on a bent burner, And the round ledger sat shut on its shelf by the door, Where it had sat when Vos first came. She pulled the book under the window and opened it flat. The lines ran in columns, Date, Post, Work done. She laid a finger beside the first and went down. Church Lane, Wickholder Renewed. Pump corner, Glass cleaned of soot and one pane puttied. Pump corner again. Hinge. Baker's Row. Burner swap. She turned a leaf. Linchgate. Chimney glass. Chimney glass. Chimney glass. Somebody is breaking the glass at the linchgate. Boys. They throw conkers. The vicar's offered a prize for the one who owns up. Has anyone? A girl of nine. She wanted the prize. She'd never been near the place. Boss went on. Green Steps, Bracket Reset. Ford Lane, Reflector. Ford Lane, New Door Catch. The post by the pound had eleven lines to itself. She went through the summer and the autumn, And Elora's rounder hand took over from the shaky one near the back. Oil can seam. A new cap on the market cross lantern. Last of all, A line for the week before the death, An Eldred's cramped upright writing. CHURCH LANE, WICKHOLDER, AGAIN She went back to the top and ran down the post once more. Only the names, Ticking them off against the lanes she had walked. Square, Church Lane, Pump Corner, Baker's Row, The Pound, Ford Lane, The Green Steps. The Hill Post up by the Vicarage had a line each, And Mill Lane, Six posts on it. 5 Headlines There's no line for the post outside the surgery. She said mildly. Not one. All the way through the year. Alar glanced up over the cup rim, Then looked at the tea. Not that I know of. Is it ever out of service? Waxed up, Say, The way you showed me. It's. . . Allura stopped. She set the cup down. My uncle would have written it. He wrote everything. She held out her hand for the book. And Vos gave it to her. Alara tapped its edges square on the table, Went to the dresser and put it in the drawer. The drawer clicked home on the second shove. More tea? You've let that go cold. I've let it go to the saucer. Boss said. That's different. She pushed the cup across anyway. A knock came at the cottage door. Light and quick. Allara went to open it. From the kitchen doorway, Voss had a clear line down the passage to the step and the square beyond. Pruett stood there with a covered pot held out in both hands, A cloth tucked around the lid, Steam creeping from under the rim. Flower dusted her sleeves to the elbow. She did not come over the threshold. For you, Miss Vance, The broth. Beef with barley and I think it wants salt, But I wouldn't guess how you take it. You mustn't think I've come to fuss. You shouldn't have walked all the way up. Allara said. She took the pot. And it was heavy enough that she used her hip to hold the door. It's no distance. " Her eyes slid past Dallara into the kitchen and found Voss and slid off again. Keep the lid on until it's wanted. It takes the chill off quickly otherwise. She was already backing down the step. She turned and set off across the square at a pace that was nearly a trot. And at the corner by the pump, She bent her head and took the turn down toward the surgery without looking around. Alora watched her go. Poor soul, She's frightened of her own shadow and she carries soup up a hill. She shut the door with her foot, Carried the pot to the table, And lifted the lid a finger's width. The steam rolled across the kitchen at the height of Voss's chest. Smelling of beef and barley. Pepper. Spoons. 2. You'll stay for it. The first bowl. Ball said. After that, I'm a woman with a vicar to visit. She had two mouthfuls, Praised the barley and the pepper to the ceiling, And was out of the door before Allara could produce a second spoonful. The gravel on the hill path shifted at every step, And the brambles on either side hung over it still, Carrying a few shriveled berries that caught at her sleeve. By the time she reached the vicarage gate, She had counted the hinges. Two. One of them rusted solid and decided that the climb was a fee in itself. The front door stood on the latch. But no one answered her knock, So she let herself in and followed a passage lined with umbrellas, Past a kitchen where something was boiling over toward the only open door. Thorn sat at a desk buried in paper, A knife in one hand and a sermon candle in the other, Shaving the wick with small, Anxious strokes. Shavings of wax had gathered on the blotter and on one corner of an open hymn book. Ah! He said. Miss Voss. Deuce said. Oh, Not on that. There's a cat under there. Well, There was. The Windows seat. She took the window seat. Below it, The hill fell away to the roofs of the square, And the tower stood up among them like a stop finger. Mr. Thorn, I have a small question about my fee. How will it be paid? Your fee? Yes, Of course. He turned the candle and took another sliver off. I shall have it written out directly. " I'd rather be paid once the vestry has seen the work. The knife stopped. Thorn set it down beside the candle very carefully as though either might go off. The vestry. Yes. Well. . . You see. The audit stands for Monday, Fortnight from poor Eldred, Which is to say, Not so very far off now. And I had thought. . . We all had thought. That it was a very convenient time. With the clock in hand. And the repair comes out of the fun. The owl of the fund? Yes. At every penny. A clock, A fund. One does not expect a clock to be accompanied by a death. He laughed. A beat late. And wished he hadn't. Hmm, Forgive me. I was in the churchyard that very night. You know, Composing among the stones until nearly ten, And heard nothing whatever. One does wonder what one is for. It is only that I cannot think what I shall say to the vestry when they want the figures. " I am not a man who Well. . . I don't follow figures. Alistair brings me the quarter pages with the tea tray, You see. And I sign at the foot where he shows me. And he fills the columns after. It saves my eyes. He reached the totals out to the Malcomus vestry, And I say Amen. And Eldred sits at the back with his little book, Looking. I always thought. Rather puzzled. It is a very comfortable arrangement. Alistair is a most careful man. He reads the mining papers over his tea, He tells me, The only fiction he allows himself. At the foot. Ball said. And he fills in the columns after. As a rule. Is that improper? Sergeant Hale didn't seem to think so when he came over from Ashcombe for the inquest. Such a civil man. He asked a great many sensible questions of everybody but me, And I was rather hurt. He rubbed the side of his nose with a wax-flecked finger. He said it was all in order, As it were. Voss had her notebook open on her knee and her pencil stub in her hand, And she did not write anything. Sergeant Hale at Ashcombe. I'll remember that. She smiled. In case I need to ask someone to look at a pendulum. Thorn laughed gratefully and took up the candle. Among the stones until nearly ten. Voss said. Close by the tower. Hmm, Everywhere. It is a small yard. And I walk when I compose. He turned the candle in his fingers. I thought I heard a door once. A good while before ten, Far off across the square. The wind in the porch, I decided It generally is. Did you see anyone? No, Not a soul. I had my lantern and my own thoughts, And the one is a poor witness to the other. Who has the keys to the tower? Bals asked in the tone of someone asking after the weather. Eldred, And my spare in its vestry. " on its nail. Nobody has asked for it in 30 years. A knock sounded at the vicarage door. Followed by the scrape of boots on the mat and a voice in the hall asking somebody in particular whether the house was receiving. Thorn brightened and said, That would be Alistair. He said he might. And a moment later, Dr. Finch stood in the study doorway with his hat in one hand and a cloth-bound book under his arm. He nodded to Vols. She nodded back. And he gave the cluttered desk the look of a man judging how much of it could be moved. Josiah Madam. I hope I'm not interrupting the sermon. Candles. Thorn said. The sermon is quite beyond me this week. " Finch laid the account book on the desk and slid it across the leather, Squaring it to the edge with two fingers. The cloth cover was the brown of strong tea rubbed pale at the corners. The audit is not far off. I'd like your signature beside mine before then, So nobody has to hunt for you on the day. " He turned his head courteously towards Vos. While I am here. Miss Voss, I wonder if you have come across any small book of Eldred's in the course of your work? " He kept a little collecting book, I believe, For the clock subscriptions. The vestry will want to see his receipts. I have not liked to trouble his niece. I've seen a round sledger and a mending book. BALSAM not a collecting book. Have you asked Miss Vance? I thought it unkind so soon. His smile was patient and perfectly kind. If you should happen to see it. I'll mention it. Thorn had opened the cover. Found his spectacles on his forehead and lowered them to his nose. He turned a leaf, Then a second, Reading as he went, In the way of a man who has been handed a book across a desk and means to be seen doing his duty by it. His lips move. Somewhere in the house a door banged. Pounds on one side. He said. And the shillings on the other, And the pence going off somewhere by themselves. I sign where I'm shown, And I trust the Lord and you for the rest. Is that an improper arrangement, Do you suppose? " Nobody asked you to follow it. Finch said. And his voice was mild and unhurried as it might have been over a feverish child. Only to sign beside the man who does. That has been the arrangement since the fund began. He reached across the desk and took the book back from in front of Thorn. He closed the cover with the flat of his hand, Tucked it under his arm, And settled his hat on his head. Monday, Josiah. Good day to see you, Madam. Dr. Finch said Boss. Mind the gravel. It shifts. He inclined his head as to a patient with an opinion and went out. From the window, She watched his tall figure start down the path, The book dark against his coat, Not hurrying. Thorn had sat down and spread both hands flat on the parish papers, As if they might otherwise blow away. Vos left him to them with a remark about the candle, Which he did not hear, And let herself out. The gravel crunched under her boots all the way down. The mill door was open and propped with a half brick. She looked at the hinges before she looked at anything else. They were true. What came out to meet her was grain dust, Warm and dry, With the hill thudding on behind the wall like a slow heart. Garo was at the bench with a file in his fist and his back half turned. She took the near half without being asked, Unbuckled her satchel and laid a cloth and a small gear out under the window. Door hangs true now. Garo said. Not looking up. I noticed. It's the first thing in this village that does. She found the edge of a worn tooth with her fingernail. You told me you were at home that night. Harm was. You did. Twice in nearly the same words. You also told me there was a glim by the surgery. She picked up a fine file. I've been trying to make that sit. A man in doors with the door shut and a bolt crossed. I can see how he tells me the weather. I can't see how he tells me the lane. Garo put his file down. He did it carefully. Parallel to the edge of the bench, Which was how she knew he wanted to throw it. Lamps out, Isn't it? Out on the lane? Anyone knows the lane's dark when a lamp's out. Witch Lamp The one by the surgery, What's it matter? It stands to reason, If you look. She held the gear to the window and squinted along its teeth. Did you look? The wheel thudded twice before he answered. Outside, Water ran off the paddles in a long, Tearing sheet. I tell you, I was home. So you did. Said Vos mildly. She began on the next tooth. And after a while. . . Slowly, As if it were nothing to do with her, She pushed the small oil can an inch along the bench toward his side. Garo brought his tool down on the bench so hard the can jumped. A little cloud of flower lifted off the boards and hung there. His face had been red already. Now, It darkened. Not home. He said at last to the bench. Out on the lane. He snatched up the can, Found nothing to do with it, And set it down again. I went to call on Sarah Quill. Up the hill path, Past the last cottage. The Widow Quill. Don't look like that. A man can call on a widow. It's no crime. I wasn't looking like anything. This is my ordinary face. It's been a disappointment to a great many people. The corner of his mouth moved once and was stamped flat. I'd have it kept quiet. Her name. She's a decent woman in this village who would have bands read by Sunday. She'll not be talked over in the shop and at the inn. She's had enough of being talked over. Then why tell me? You might have gone on being home. Because you not leave. You'd be back with that file in that face, Asking the same again, And I'd only say it worse. That's fair. She closed the little wrench's jaw and set it down between them where he could see it. I don't gossip, Mr. Garrow. Her name stays in this room. " He let out a breath that took some flower with it. One more question, And then I'll leave you to your hopper. When did you go? And when did you come back? He thought with grave concentration of a man who counted everything by what it cost to grind. Went up just after nine. The church had struck, I know. Lamp by the surgery was burning then, Going by, I tell you, Bright as a sixpence. He rubbed his jaw and left a pale stripe. Home Gone Eleven. I thought I'd walk into the stream. It was that black. Whole lane bar a chink of light over the doctor's own door, And the doctor's lamp, Black as the inside of a boot. I thought Vance had put it out for the night. In good riddance, I said to myself. He stopped. I wasn't glad of it after. No. Did you see anyone? On the lane. Either way. Too dark to see my own boots. Couldn't have said if the Archbishop was stood at the surgery door. He turned his shoulder to her. Did what I went for, Came home the same way I went. That's all there is. " the same way, " said Vos. There's only the one. She did not press him. She rolled the gear up in its cloth with the file inside and slid it into the satchel beside the wrench and ran her eye along the bench for anything of hers left behind. There was a little oil can, Which was his. She left it where it stood, An inch from his elbow. Good day to you, Mr. Garrow. A grunt answered, Which from him was a speech. At the door, She lifted the latch and it swung true on its hinges so that she gave it a small nod of professional satisfaction before she stepped over the sill. The afternoon had gone out of the day while she worked. Beyond this step. The lane ran uphill between its post and the dark lay across the cobbles from wall to wall. The nearest lantern showed only as a black stalk with a blacker head. Lit just after nine. She thought. Black by 11. She put the two together, As she would two halves of a broken pinion, And found that they were mended. A lamp that had been burning had been put out and shut up in an evening. Between a widow's door and the church clock. She went up the hill with her hands in her pockets, And she did not look at the fourth post as she passed, And she knew exactly where it stood. That concludes Chapter 12, Broth, Books, And a Dark Lane. From the story, The Last Cozy Lantern of Briar Hollow. Thank you so much for continuing to listen to this story. I hope that you find it peaceful. Become calm and relaxed and possibly fallen asleep.