The Peculiar Position of the Garden Gate
The village of Ashwell Crossing had a talent for keeping secrets, though it was equally talented at sharing them. By Tuesday morning, every resident between the post office and the duck pond knew that Gerald Hapsworth’s antiques shop had been entered during the night, and that a collection of Georgian silver — modest in quantity but considerable in value — had been taken clean away.
Constable Briggs, a diligent young man who had recently transferred from the county town and still looked faintly bewildered by the pace of rural life, was conducting interviews in the shop’s doorway when Dorothea Fenn arrived with a jar of homemade chutney for Gerald and the quiet, unhurried air of someone who had absolutely no pressing business elsewhere.
“Morning, Miss Fenn,” said Constable Briggs, without much enthusiasm. Dorothea had assisted, as she put it, with two previous matters in the village, and Briggs had learned that her assistance, while ultimately correct, required a great deal of patience on his part.
“Good morning, Constable. How is Gerald bearing up?”
“Shaken. He’s inside with his sister.” Briggs lowered his voice. “No signs of forced entry. Window at the back was unlatched, probably for weeks. The thief knew what to take — went straight for the display cabinet, left the larger pieces entirely.”
“Someone with knowledge of the trade,” Dorothea observed. She was already looking past him, her grey eyes moving over the front of the building with calm, methodical interest.
Gerald Hapsworth was a slight, worried-looking man in his sixties who had inherited both the shop and an impressive collection of anxieties from his father. His sister, Maud, was made of sturdier stuff and had already put the kettle on.
Over tea, Gerald explained that he had closed the shop at half past five the previous evening, walked home along the lane, had his supper, and gone to bed early with a head cold. He had discovered the theft at nine that morning.
“Did anyone call at the shop yesterday afternoon?” Dorothea asked.
“Only Arthur Pelham,” Gerald said. “He comes in most Mondays to look at the militaria shelf. Never buys anything, but I don’t like to discourage him.”
Dorothea nodded slowly. Arthur Pelham was a retired schoolteacher who lived in the large house at the top of Croft Hill, kept elaborate records of local history, and had the slightly competitive manner of a man who preferred knowing things to enjoying them. He had also, Dorothea recalled, once made a rather pointed comment at the church fête about Gerald’s pricing.
She excused herself, thanked Maud for the tea, and walked back out into the street.
It was a bright October morning, the sort that made the village look like an illustration in a calendar. Dorothea stood for a moment on the pavement in front of Hapsworth’s, apparently admiring the window display of coaching prints and pewter candlesticks, and then walked around the side of the building to the yard at the back.
The garden gate stood open.
This was the detail that Dorothea could not quite put aside. Gerald had mentioned, quite casually, that he always bolted the yard gate when he left — not from any great concern about security, but from lifelong habit. His father had done the same.
Yet the gate was open.
Constable Briggs, to his credit, had noted the unlatched window and the direction of the footprints in the soft earth near the back wall. He had looked at the gate, recorded that it was open, and moved on. But Dorothea noticed something else. The gate opened outward into the lane. And the bottom of the gate, where the old wood had swelled unevenly over the years, had left a fresh, distinct arc scraped into the ground — the sort of shallow groove that a heavy gate made when it was swung open with purpose.
The groove was on the inside.
Someone had opened that gate from within the yard, not from the lane. Which meant the gate had been bolted from inside when they did so.
Dorothea walked along the lane, thinking carefully. If the thief had entered through the unlatched window — as the footprints suggested — they would have exited through the same window, or through the shop’s back door, which Gerald had confirmed was locked and undamaged. Neither exit involved the gate. Yet the gate had been opened from the inside.
Unless someone had unbolted the gate during the day, from within the yard, in order to leave it conveniently accessible for later. Someone who had been inside the yard quite legitimately.
She called upon Arthur Pelham that same afternoon, ostensibly to return a book she had borrowed at the summer reading group. His shelves, she observed with practised casualness, were beautifully organised. His collection of local history pamphlets was extensive. And on the small table near the door, rather less tidily arranged, sat three pieces of Georgian silver, one of which still bore a small paper price label from Hapsworth’s Antiques.
“I see you’ve been adding to your collection, Arthur,” Dorothea said pleasantly.
The colour that rose in Arthur Pelham’s face was answer enough.
He had, it emerged, slipped out through the back of the shop while Gerald was occupied with a telephone call, unbolted the yard gate, and returned that night through the lane. He had genuinely believed, or so he claimed with diminishing conviction, that the silver was underpriced and that Gerald would never notice. Constable Briggs, once telephoned, arrived with rather more enthusiasm than was usual.
Gerald recovered his silver by Wednesday. He sent Dorothea a very handsome pot of strawberry preserve in return, which she accepted graciously and ate over the following fortnight on toast each morning.
The gate, Gerald later mentioned, had been fitted with a new bolt. On the outside.
Disclosure: This post may contain affiliate links. If you click a link and make a purchase, Cozy Nook Tales may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. This helps support the site and allows us to continue publishing free stories every day.
