Amanda Cadabra and The Hidden Depths by Holly Bell (best love novels of all time txt) 📕

‘So far, so good.’

‘Each of the Cardiubarns, including Senara and Perran Cadabra, were sent letters. How can we be sure of that? Senara says she instructed her agent to send them out. She says that the letter she received was not what her agent would have sent. It was on magic parchment with magic ink.’

‘We are relying a great deal —’

‘On her testimony. Yes. However, Perran Cadabra confirmed that he received the same style of letter. He’s a witch too. Hm … I need him to confirm if he recognised it as magical. I trust his word over hers.’

‘Let’s say he confirms,’ said Hogarth.

‘So, let’s put those two to one side for the moment. The Flamgoynes had motive. They had means. My father and I found the ink and paper inside Flamgoyne itself. Who knew where the paper and ink were hidden? I knew where the paper was. I didn’t know where the ink was. At least, I didn’t remember knowing. However, according to Pasco, only three people knew where the ink was: Lady Gronetta, her eldest son Hedrok and Pasco himself. Pasco could have known where the paper was. It wasn’t that difficult to find that day I searched for it. It didn’t need to be. It was harmless without the ink. As far as I know.’

‘Thomas, I don’t believe your father was wittingly involved.’

‘Neither do I. But if he could have been, … I need to talk to Pasco myself. And I need to speak to Perran Cadabra.’

Trelawney returned the tray to his lap, but stared into the fire. He looked up as Mike spoke.

‘Your father said something specific that’s perturbed you, lad.’

Thomas nodded. ‘He asked me if I wasn’t too close to the Cadabras …’

Hogarth looked at him mischievously but sympathetically. ‘I told you they’d get under your skin.’

Chapter 7

A Man Has Written A Book?

‘A book?’

‘Our cricketer?’

‘Ryan Ford?’ asked Amanda, who’d popped into The Corner Shop for her special order of Ortiz Bonito Del Norte tuna. Tempest was fussy about his tuna. ‘He’s written a book?’

‘Clever lad!’ exclaimed Joan the postlady.

‘Not just a pretty face,’ observed Sylvia, leaning her stop sign on the wall behind the door.

‘Or a good left arm,’ added Dennis.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Mrs Pagely, the librarian, ‘but no, Amanda dear, not Ryan Ford: his guest, John Bailey-Farrell.’

‘Is it a sports thriller?’ enquired Dennis eagerly.

‘It’s an autobiography,’ clarified Joe Mazurek, the milkman, whose float provided a frequent opportunity for mischief on Tempest’s part.

‘But he’s only been alive for five minutes!’ protested Sylvia.

‘I do believe he’s about twenty-eight,’ contributed Amanda.

‘Still …’ Sylvia demurred.

‘I think they write their autobiographies young these days,’ Amanda explained.

‘A sort of Part One, is it?’ suggested Dennis.

‘I expect so,’ opined Gordon French, former headmaster of Sunken Madley School. ‘It’s good publicity for him, the team and the sport.’

‘And ….’ Mrs Pagely intervened firmly in her most effective librarian's voice.

The chatter paused.

‘He would like to throw a little book release party at the library, just for Sunken Madley. No press, just the free local paper for a photograph and a quote for the next edition.’

‘I expect the big launch will be some smart London hotel with all of the national newspapers there,’ offered Sylvia.

‘Oo yes,’ agreed Joan. ‘It’s just the sort of story The Speculator would like.’

‘And The Morning Alarm,’ added Mr French with certainty.

‘It’ll definitely be in Big Pictures Only Magazine,’ opined Sylvia.

‘I like Sunny Side Up Weekly. It’ll be in there for certain,’ stated Joan.

‘Yes, well, this occasion is just for us,’ Mrs Pagely reiterated.

Sylvia clapped her hands. ‘Lovely!’

‘My Jim’ll do a big bake for it,’ said Joan enthusiastically, ‘and I’m sure those lovely boys at The Big Tease will want to help.’

‘Mr Sharma and I will donate however many cartons of juice we might need,’ offered Mrs Sharma.

‘Well, thank you, all,’ Mrs Pagely returned appreciatively. ‘It’s a bit last minute so word won’t leak out, but it will be on Thursday.’

‘We’ll be there,’ Gordon confirmed for the assembly.

‘Oh, ’e’s a lovely lad and no mistake,' stated Sylvia. ‘Never thought I’d see a man to eclipse our Jonathan,' she added, referring to Mrs Pagely’s tall, raven-haired Adonis of an assistant.

‘Yes, I’d have put the teenage girls in the village on restraining orders if it wouldn’t have kept them from the library,’ Mrs Pagely jested, although sincerely protective of her protégé.

‘Oh dear,’ interjected Mrs Sharma. ‘He’d be terribly embarrassed if anyone …’

‘He’s after our Amanda,’ stated Joan saucily.

‘Jonathan and I are just friends!’ objected Amanda.

‘Oh, we know that. No. John Bailey-Farrell.’

‘No ….'

‘The day they had that accident up at The Grange he was there to propose,’ added Joan.

‘What?’ protested Amanda.

‘No, he wasn’t. Just bringing her flowers,’ corrected Mrs Sharma calmly.

‘Oooo!’ duetted Joan and Sylvia.

‘We’d met precisely once,’ Amanda clarified deliberately, ‘and he was being polite and probably helping out the new florists.’

‘Does your inspector know about this?’ asked Joan with a wink.

‘He’s not my —'

‘Yes, dear,’ replied Sylvia.

‘Our relationship is —'

‘Purely professional!' they chorused humorously.

‘I really should be go—'

Ding!

‘And here he is! The man of the hour,’ Dennis greeted John Bailey-Farrell. He was possessed of crisp dark hair curling off a philosopher’s brow, six feet of physical perfection and a complexion that could have had designer skin-care brands queuing around the block. Yet he was modest withal, courteous and respectful. It was unsurprising that Sunken Madley had soon claimed him as one of their own.

Gordon held out his hand ‘Congratulations, John.’

‘You can sign my copy any time you like, dearie!’ nodded Joan, with a wink.

‘Hello, John. It’s Thursday for the big day, or should I say the little day, as it’s local?’

‘Hello Amanda,’ John said warmly, at her question. ‘Yes, it’s Thursday. I know it’s short notice. And please, ladies and gentlemen, keep it quiet.'

Ding!

‘What shall we keep quiet?’

'Hello, Irma.'

'Hello, Mrs Uberhausfest,’ they greeted the graceful nonagenarian with the boyish haircut, as she entered in a purple, ankle-length, soft suede coat.

‘Good day, everybody. Amanda, what is this?’

‘A private village party at the library to launch John’s