Cozy Mystery For Sleep: Briar Hollow | Chapter 7

This is a reading of 'Chapter 7: Three Spanners' from my personal story "The Last Cozy Lantern in Briar Hollow". This is a 30-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 7 Description:
While repairing the clock, Voss continues testing the stories she has been told. Three ordinary tools, a visit to the mill, and a carefully chosen question reveal that several villagers have reasons for keeping certain things to themselves.

Transcript

Hello, And welcome to Restful Journeys. I'm glad you're here. Tonight, We'll be continuing our journey, The Last Cozy Lantern of Briar Hollow, With Chapter 7, The Spanners. 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. There's 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 7, The Spanners. Voss tightened the vice on the little brass part until the jaws bit, Then drew a file along its edge once, Slowly, And held the part to the window to see whether daylight showed anywhere it shouldn't. It didn't. She set the file on the bench with a small clink and laid a pair of calipers against the boss, Checking the width against the mark she had scratched on a scrap of paper up in the chair. Tower. Spanner she said. A hand came in from the side, Freckled across the knuckles. A long iron spanner laid across the palm. That's the good one. Than this. A short spinner arrived beside it, Dull with years of handling. The short one's bent, And this is the other short one, Which is also bent, But differently. She laughed before she had finished the sentence. You'll want the long one. The short one's bent. The short one's always bent. He used to say it was the only honest tool in the house. Which one? Whichever he was holding. He said it about the wick trimmer too. And he hummed over that, The same four notes, Never the tune. And not one wrench ever went back where it lived. I found them in the bread crock. She nodded at the rack over the bench where three empty hooks hung in a row among the full ones. Those are where they're meant to be. Voss looked at the hooks, Then at the three spanners lined along the bench edge. In my trade? She said. A bent tool is a family heirloom. Nobody sells one. Nobody could. Who'd buy it? A man with a bent nut? Voss took up the long spanner and left it at that. It had a good weight and the handle had gone smooth in two places where her hand had gripped it for decades. She drew a small clamp from her satchel, Tried it against the part and pulled it back. Too wide by a whisker. Is that the wrong size? Said Elora Cranning. Is the right size for a different part. I carry a great many of those. Voss took out a finer file instead and tested the teeth with her thumb. Before I go on, I'd like the jaw taken up a little. Which of these do I hold while you do it? The left-handed one. No, The one with the notch. Allora reached past Vassa's elbow and set her palm against the vice handle. I'm going to take up the jaw a quarter turn, And if you let that spanner wander, It'll scar your part. He did that once, To a pulley. He never forgave the pulley. Did the pulley forgive him? The pulley's still in the tower, If you want to ask it. Voss pressed the notch spanner flat against the bench with two fingers and held it there. Alara leaned on the handle. The thread squeaked and the jaw closed another hair on the brass. Voss drew the fine file along the edge. This time it caught evenly with a dry, Clean sound like tearing paper. She turned the part a few degrees in the jaws and did the same again. Then, Once more, Counting the strokes under her breath. There, Said Alara, Stepping back and flexing her hand. Is that right? Let me see. " Voss ran a thumbnail down the cut and felt no step in it, Then set calipers on it to be sure of her thumb. The gap match the scratch on the paper. It is. You've done this before. Handed things for 11 years. Alar picked up the second short spanner, Turned it over, And looked at the bend in it with something close to fondness. This one's been bent since before I was born. My uncle's father did it, On a stuck cartwheel, And wouldn't hear a word against it. Did anyone try to straighten it? Once, With a hammer, It went the other way. She held it up to show the curve. So it stayed. Then I won't be the one to straighten it. Said Boss. Alara laughed again, Properly this time, With her head back and set the spanner down on the stone ledge by the vice, Where it rang once and lay still. Vos, Smiling at the brass, Picked up the file and began on the second edge. The file made a dry, Even sound on the brass. Vos drew it once more, Brushed the filings into her palm, And held the part up the window to look at the line of it. What was the round like that evening? She asked. Anything out of the ordinary with the lamps. The usual. Alara had pulled a brass fitting toward her across the bench and was working a rag over it in small circles. Bread and dripping first, Because he wouldn't go out hungry. And then the lantern's in order. Square, Mill lane, Hill path last. You start at the top and go down, So the light follows you. Well, So you follow the light. I never get that right. He used to correct me. Which way did he correct you? Both depending on his mood. Alara laughed and held the fitting at arm's length. He said, A round is a sentence and you don't read it backward. Sensible. Voss set the part back in the vice and tightened the jaw. It gave a small click. She ran a thumbnail along the seat where the part met the iron, Filling for a gap and found one the thickness of a hair on the left side. She took the file to it. And when did he come back from it? Oh, Uh, In and out. The usual hour. Nothing to note. Alara breathed on the fitting and rubbed harder. He never lingered on around, Said a lamp lit is a lamp lit, And standing about admiring it, Only waste oil. He sounds like my father, Who timed his own breakfast. Vos took up the long spanner and tried it on the nut. It sat snug. She gave it an eighth of a turn, Listened to the thread, And eased it back. Did he eat the bread and dripping or just stand over it? Ate it. Every scrap. He was fussy about the bread. Alar's answers were coming quicker now and flatter, Like coins counted on a table. Dripping to the crust, Never on the plate. Did you eat with them? I did, And I washed up, Which is the only reason I know about the crust. Alara turned the fitting over. Why? Did you want the recipe? I wanted the drippings to be true. Said Voss. It's the small things that tell you whether a story was lived or tidied. Well, That one was lived. I've the scars from the pan. Allara held up her wrist as evidence, Found no scar worth showing, And lowered it again. Ask me something about brass. I'm better at brass. " Voss gave the nut another quarter turn and checked the thread with the ball of her thumb. I'll ask about the brass in a minute. And after the round? The rag slowed. He sat down, Had a cup, And that was about it. Voss left the next question where it was, As she would have left a spring to settle before measuring it, And drew the file once more along the seat. The rag went on scraping. On the shelf, A small clock that was not hers ticked in a hurry. He came home from the doctor's. Allara said to the fitting rather than to Vos. Slow and heavy about the eyes, He said nothing but clock business and that only once. Then he took the tower key off its nail by the door and went out again. Shortly before 10. She turned the fitting over and began on the other side. And that's what I have. Vos glanced at the nail by the door. It was empty. The key it had held was in her own coat pocket. She eased the spanner off the nut and laid it on the ledge and checked the seat of the part again with her thumb. The hair's breadth gap had gone. Allara set the rag on the bench and smoothed it flat with her palm. That's all there was to it. She looked along the tools lined up on the ledge and then at Voss. Do you want the short spanner after all? " Voss considered the offer and the face that made it, And decided the second was not asking for company. I'll try it. She took the short one, The bent one, And fitted it over the nut. It bit at a slant, As promised. No, That's what I thought. I was only testing the fit. It's never fitted anything, " said Laura. That's its charm. Then it's in good company at this house. Vos laid it back on the ledge beside the others, In the order Allara had given them, And took up the file again. Was he working the round that last day or did he keep it for the evening? Alara picked up the rag and a brass collar from the tray. The screep of it started, Brisk and steady. The cut to see whether it caught. It did not. She set the part on the ledge, Wiped her fingers on a cloth, And looked at the cloth rather than at Elora. Is the doctor any good? She asked. At doctoring, I mean. I'd like to know whose door to knock on if I drop a tower on my foot. Allura's rag slowed. Fussy, She said. That's the first thing. Good enough, I suppose. He's never lost anyone he could have kept, And he'll tell you so. " She set the brass fitting down and it rang once against the wood. You should see his bottles. Should I? Every one he dispenses. Cough mixture, Tonic, The stuff for the knees, A label in his own hand, The dose underlying twice, And a seal on the cork, As if he were signing a treaty on the bottle. Her voice had quickened and she was nearly smiling. Mind, The whole village sells things. " The vicar does his vestry letters with the church seal on top, And Wren Halloway won't let a parcel out of the shop without a blob on the string. We used to say Briar Hollow ran on ceiling wax. And if the Chandler ever ran short, We'd all have to start trusting each other. Moss laughed, A short dry bark that surprised her a little. He sounds like a man who likes his work to look finished. That's it exactly. Alara jabbed a finger at her with a sharp nod. Finished and Initialed. He'd label a loaf of bread if you let him. I'd want a receipt for that loaf. You'd get one in triplicate and a lecture on crumbs. Allara was laughing now, Openly, With her head down, And she wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. Oh, Uncle would have liked you. He liked anyone who laughed at the right moment. He couldn't stand people who laughed a beat late, So they'd know it was a joke. I laugh early. Voss said. It saves me. You too, You know. You were halfway through before I'd finished. Alara sniffed, Still smiling, And reached for the rag. Is it a fit then? The part? Vos looked it up again and sighted along its edges once more with one eye shut. She tried the little shoulder with the tip of the file and gave it two more light strokes. And blew on it. It's a fit. I could go on improving until its spring, But the clock will not thank me. Tolerances are like opinions. There comes a point where more of them doesn't help. Uncle said that about tea. Then he was a sound man. Laura picked the brass fitting up again and went back to it. The scrape of cloth on metal resumed, Easy and unhurried. Voss turned the mended part in her fingers a last time and found nothing to quarrel with. She laid her own cloth on the bench beside the file. She said nothing more about the doctor. Voss wrapped the mended part in a square of clean flannel. Tucked the corners under and laid it in the satchel between the tweezers and the oil tin. The buckle took two tries. Her coat hung on the hook by the door beneath the empty nail where the tower key had hung. I want to hear how the village spent that night. " she said, Shrugging into one sleeve. One door at a time, Starting at the bottom and working up if the lane lets me. Alara had taken up a second rag and was rubbing the bench in long strokes, Though it had been clean for ten minutes. The miller will be in a mood. Is that a warning or a forecast? Both. He's in one every day, But some days it's got edges. She rubbed harder at a ring of old oil. Don't ask him about the lantern first. Ask him about the flower. Ask him about the price of anything. I can handle a mood. Voss got the other arm in and settled the collar. I've had worse than a Miller's. I once spent a fortnight with a church warden who wanted his clock to strike thirteen on purpose. Alara gave a short laugh, Surprised out of her, And bent to the bench again. In the The third, A woman beating a rug over a gate, Stopped to look at the coat and the satchel, Decided they were harmless and went back to beating. At the fourth post, The narrow house with the upstairs window stood back from the lane, The glass empty this time, A child's chalk drawing of a cat half-washed from the seal beneath it. It's door dark green, The brass plate freshly rubbed. Voss passed it at the same pace, Eyes ahead. A grey shape on the cottage seal beyond watched her go by with the flat patience of a creature who had seen better coats. Flattened as it neared the water. She heard the wheel before she saw it. A slow, Wet thud that came up through the cobbles into her soles. Regular as a man knocking at a door, He had no intention of opening for himself. The air thickened with the smell of warm grain and something dry and sweet underneath, Like bread not yet baked. A fine white dust lay on the stones, Lighter at first and then thick until her boots left prints in it. The mill squatted at the bottom of the lane, Low and stone built, With an iron bracket by the door and a lantern hanging from it. Unlit and furred with flower. The door itself was shut. Flower lay across the step in a drift, And the only mark in it was the wide, Scuffed scrape of a man's boot going in and not coming out. Voss raised her hand to knock. Her knuckles had barely met the wood when it opened. A hand's breadth and no more. Ned Garrow filled the gap from the lintel down, Red in the face, Flower to the elbows, A sackcloth apron tied over a belly that had done its share of the milling. He kept one hand on the edge of the door and did not step aside. Mr. Goro she said. I'm not after your bench this time. Then you're after the other thing. He shifted his weight. And the door shifted in, Not an inch wider. Same answer as before. Behind him, The wheel thudded against its housing, Slow and steady, And the sound came through the gap, Along with a warm breath of grain that tickled the back of her nose. Past his shoulder, She could see a sliver of the room, A hopper, A bench, The edge of a sack. Nothing that invited her in. I hadn't asked anything yet, " she said. Then you'll not need to ask it. Fear. I'm sorry about Eldred. I gather you knew him? " Everybody knew him. Garo jerked his chin toward the bracket above her head, Where the lantern hung unlit. Forever fussing over that lamp. Trim it, Polish it, Move it an inch. Ask, Was it too bright for my window? It's my door. I'll light my own door. He sniffed and flowers shivered off his sleeve. Not that it did any good. Lane was dark. Voss had heard it in the millyard in very nearly that order. Home, The lamp, The dark. Even the sniff had come in the same place. She turned it over once, The way she might turn a gear that had come back from a workshop exactly as it went in, And put it down again. Star. She said mildly. Did he come by often to see it? Often enough, His hand tightened on the door edge. Every dusk, Rag in one fist, Pole in the other, Never asked to leave. Did he ask leave to polish the glass? He asked leave for nothing. He glared at the step as if she had left the flower there. Is that what you came down for, Eldred's manors? No. Was the mill working that night? Wheel was turning. He said it to the flower. It always turns. That's what a wheel does. Of course. That's all I'll say about it. The wheel thundered twice more while neither of them spoke. A bead of sweat ran down from Garrow's hairline. And he let it. Vos set a hand on her satchel flap and the tools inside clinked together and his eyes dropped to the sound and came up again narrower. Just tools, " she said. I'm not here to measure your wheel. Good. It's been measured. By whom? By me. 40 years of me and my Father. He shifted again, And the gap stayed exactly as wide. You want something else? Say it. I've sacks waiting. She considered the sacks, The hand on the door, The flat set of his mouth, And what a second question might cost her against what it might fetch. It would fetch the same answer, Only louder. Right, She said. I'll take your word for it. He grunted. It was not disagreement, Only the noise of a man who has set down something heavy and is waiting to see whether you will pick it up. Vos did not pick it up. She stood on a step and looked as though she had all the time in the world and no particular use for it. What does Allura see to it now? She said instead. Her, Not me. No, I shouldn't think so. That earned her a glance, Brief and suspicious, As if she might be laughing at him. She wasn't quite there. The gap in the door did not change. Flower dust drifted out through it and settled on her boots, And the wheel went on counting out its beat behind the wall. Thank you for your time, " Boss said. I'll let you get back to your flower. " Garo grunted. The gap narrowed to a crack, Then to nothing, And the bolt went across on the other side with a clack that seemed to settle the matter for good. The wheel carried on behind the wall, Thud and thud and thud, As though nothing had been said at all. She brushed the flower from her boots against the edge of the step. And started up the lane. The cobbles tilted toward her at first, Then back on her heels as the slope took hold. Whoever had laid them had not been thinking of walkers. One finger thin, She folded her thumb down against her palm. Alara, Eldred home from the doctor's that evening, Slow and heavy-eyed. Clock business, He'd said, And nothing else. . The tower key off its nail and out the door shortly before ten, Told flatly, With the rag going over the brass the whole time, And a spanner offered at the end like a plate of biscuits to change the subject. Second finger, Garo at the gate and against the door, With the same answer both times. She could not tell whether the man had a very good memory that it so often it had worn smooth. And the door had not been opened wide enough to help. Her stride shortened as the lane steepened. The smell of grain thinned with each lantern post she passed, And the thud behind her lost its edges until it was more a thing she knew was there than a thing she heard. Third finger. The doctor and the surgery, And then in bed from nine, Given with the physician's easy certainty and nobody's word but his own, To back it. Four if she counted Maud's laughing. She did not, Count Maud's laughing. She laid it all out the way she would a clock's parts on a bench, Each piece named, Each one sound enough by itself. But a movement was only checked by running it. And none of this would run. Allara had told her what Elder did, And Allara had loved him. Garo had told her where Garo was, And Garo disliked everyone. The doctor had given his hours with the physician's easy certainty. Every piece was somebody's own word about themselves or about somebody else, And not one of them had a mark she could measure against. Not a pin to put a gauge on. She said aloud to nobody. A wagon rattled somewhere over towards the square and was gone. The lane stayed empty. The surgery's green door, Showed on her left, Shut. Its brass plate, Dull, And she went past it at the same pace without turning her head. Across the lane, Mina's window rose above her, Curtain half drawn. Nothing moved behind it. She opened her hand and looked at her fingers, Three of them still crooked against the palm. Then she straightened them one by one and pressed her hand flat against her coat. Behind her, The mill door stayed shut and the wheel thudded on against the stone. Voss went up the lane with her hand still flat on her coat toward the square and the tower door. Where the round would start at dusk. That concludes Chapter 7, Three Spanners, From the story The Last Cozy Lantern of Briar Hollow. Thank you so very much for continuing to listen to this story. I do hope you've become relaxed, Maybe tired, And possibly fallen asleep.

Reviews

I think I’ll know how to fix a clock by the end of this mystery😊☺️!
Thank you for reading.