The Trouble with Marmalade
Edith Crawley had attended the Thornfield Summer Fête for forty-one consecutive years, and in all that time, she had never once seen anyone cry over preserves. Until now.
Dorothy Hibbert stood beside the produce table with her handkerchief pressed to her nose, her shoulders trembling beneath her floral blouse. The silver rosette that ought to have been pinned beside her Seville orange marmalade sat instead in the hand of young Constable Pryce, who looked profoundly uncertain what to do with it.
“It was there at half past ten,” Dorothy managed between sniffs. “I checked it myself. Three jars, all labelled, all entered properly.”
Edith, who had been quietly enjoying a cup of tea near the bunting, set down her cup. Forty-one years of fêtes had taught her that missing things rarely went anywhere on their own.
“Which jar is missing?” she asked, approaching with the calm authority of a woman who had once managed the entire archive section of Thornfield Public Library.
“The middle one,” said Dorothy. “The one with the red wax seal. My mother’s recipe, that is. Been in the family since 1953.”
Constable Pryce, who was twenty-four and enthusiastic in ways that occasionally caused problems, had already begun questioning a group of bewildered pensioners near the tombola. Edith watched him for a moment, then turned her attention to the table itself.
Three spaces had been marked with small paper flags bearing Dorothy’s name. The two remaining jars stood at either end. The middle flag had toppled onto its side. Edith noted that the white tablecloth beneath the empty space bore a faint circular ring — the kind left by a jar sat in one position for some time — and beside it, the ghost of something else. A smear, faint orange, no larger than a thumbprint.
She looked around the green. The fête was busy; it always was in July. There was the coconut shy, the cake stall, the rather optimistic second-hand book table that Edith privately considered her territory. People moved in cheerful clusters. The produce tent was open on three sides and visible from most of the green.
Whoever had taken the jar had done so boldly, or had done so unnoticed because they appeared entirely unremarkable.
Edith’s gaze settled on Gerald Foss.
Gerald ran the farm shop on the Beckton Road and had, for the past three years, entered his own preserves into the fête competition. For the past three years, Dorothy Hibbert’s marmalade had beaten them. Gerald was currently standing near the coconut shy with his arms folded, watching the commotion with an expression that Edith could only describe as studiedly neutral — the look of a man concentrating very hard on appearing unconcerned.
She wandered in his direction, stopping to admire the coconut shy, accepting a go that she declined, and eventually positioning herself beside him.
“Terrible business,” she said pleasantly.
“Is it?” said Gerald.
“Dorothy’s marmalade. Gone.”
“I heard.” He unfolded his arms, then folded them again. “Could have fallen. Those tables aren’t level.”
“Mm,” said Edith. “Although a fallen jar tends to stay on the table, or break on the ground. It doesn’t simply disappear.” She paused. “You’ve a smudge on your jacket cuff, Gerald. Just there.”
He looked down instinctively. The smudge was faint but unmistakably orange.
Gerald’s jaw tightened. “I was helping set up this morning.”
“Were you? Dorothy told me she arranged the produce table herself at half past nine, with only Margaret Alcott assisting. I don’t believe you were involved in setting up at all this year. You didn’t volunteer — I checked the rota last Tuesday when I helped Marion print the programmes.”
A long silence settled between them, filled with the distant delighted shriek of a child winning at the tombola.
“It isn’t just a jar of marmalade, is it?” Edith said quietly. She had been thinking about this since she’d noticed his expression. Gerald Foss was a practical man. He would not steal a jar of preserves out of simple spite. “You wanted the recipe.”
Gerald’s shoulders dropped a fraction — barely perceptible, but Edith had spent four decades watching people’s faces across library counters and she could read the small print of human expression with considerable accuracy.
“My shop is struggling,” he said at last, his voice low. “Supermarkets, online orders. I thought — her marmalade is famous in this village. If I could produce something close to it, sell it under the farm shop label—”
“You thought you would read the recipe label and copy it.”
“The ingredient proportions are on the wax seal. Handwritten.” He exhaled. “I wasn’t going to keep the jar. I only needed a moment to look.”
“And where is the jar now?”
Another pause. Then: “Boot of my car.”
Edith considered him for a moment. Gerald Foss was not a wicked man. He was a worried one, and there was a meaningful difference. But the distinction did not make the act acceptable.
“You will return the jar to Dorothy personally,” she said, in the same tone she had once used with library patrons who had held on to reference books for six months. “You will apologise — genuinely, not briefly. And then, if you are sensible, you will ask Dorothy whether she might be willing to sell her marmalade through your shop on a commercial arrangement. She makes far more than she enters in competitions, and she’s been looking for an outlet since the farmers’ market reduced its dates.”
Gerald stared at her. “You think she’d agree to that?”
“I think she’s a practical woman who would rather profit from her mother’s recipe than guard it like a dragon. But that is a conversation for the two of you.” Edith smoothed the front of her cardigan. “After the apology.”
She left him standing at the coconut shy and went to find Constable Pryce, who was still earnestly interviewing pensioners, and gently suggested he might stand down.
By the afternoon, Dorothy’s marmalade had been returned to its place on the table — red wax seal intact — and Gerald Foss had stood beside the produce tent for a quietly uncomfortable ten minutes. Dorothy had listened, said very little, and then surprised everyone, including herself, by offering Gerald a cup of tea from her thermos.
Edith watched from her chair near the book table, a copy of a Josephine Tey novel open in her lap, and allowed herself a small, satisfied sip of lukewarm tea.
The bunting fluttered. The afternoon continued. Thornfield, as it always did, carried on.
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.
