ART OF GOLD - A Mini-Mystery!

? It's high summer in Little Avalon, 1950!

The village is increasing its profile (and enlargement of its Post-War Benevolent Fund) by having art displays/exhibits, jams for sale, bed-and-breakfast offered.

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Enjoy this extension of a mini-mystery series (no murders, no blood, a bit tongue-in-cheek) I first wrote for a Brit expat newspaper in the 1980s!

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ART OF GOLD by Winnie Czulinski

?...It was the summer of five years after the end of the war, and time, Little Avalon felt, to open up its small world.

To what? To a London population perhaps tired of being in a still-grim smoky old city, with bomb sites everywhere (albeit converted, some of them, to gardens and gathering places).

Hence, an effort to increase village 'tourism,' as well as the size of the Little Avalon Post-War Benevolent Fund. And as the result of several meetings and discussions, it was decided that the village of Little Avalon would open bed-and-breakfasts in some of the cottages.

There might have been a problem with Mr. Jenkins at the Balls and Meadow pub, but he had only two rooms for guests. "No skin off my nose," he'd said, "if it'll bring folks here. And they'll want to have a drink..." There also would be exhibits of local history, drama productions, and special arts-and-crafts displays and events.

Among these efforts would be the presence of the renowned London artist Ellen Thorn-Rosen, who would be on display herself in the village square and other locations, working on new pieces, with completed paintings around her. The poster evidence of "See a great artist at work!" increased the already excited spirit of the village.

As well – art by raffle and art by auction (and while it could be said that Little Avalon wasn't known for its wealthy residents, people were pinning their hopes on some of the 'outsiders' supporting the effort).

"How thoughtful of your friend, Ellen Thorn-Rosen, to be a part of this," Miss Rudwell-Horace said to Nelda Berrington, Little Avalon's ex-London actress. "It will be a great draw, I am sure, as Miss Thorn-Rosen is such an accomplished artist. And we all remember her from our winter celebrations, her splendid artwork and photography, and the resolution of the Lady Beamish mystery."

"Oh, Ellen loves doing these things," said the elegant Nelda.

To the casual observer it might seem odd such a lady, Nelda, was married to the village's hardware-shop owner, Aldous Hargrave. But love can work in mysterious ways, and the two had a great bond, even while Nelda retained her appreciation of the big city.

"She's all the rage of London, really, yet in many ways Ellen has a small-town heart." Nelda gave a little laugh. "Just like me, now."

Certainly, the topic of the glamorous London artist and photographer, provided much grist for conversation at Little Avalon's social venues such as The Balls and Meadow pub, and The Majestic Tearoom?– and as overheard by Miss Rudwell-Horace.

"Something so mysterious about Ellen Thorn-Rosen," mused elderly spinster Miss Treadwell, nibbling a bit of currant cake. "I always wonder about artists."

Miss Bookley the librarian said, "Anything is possible, as we know from the news...and of course from all one finds in the library, and bookstores."

Miss Treadwell quivered. It was no secret she liked, often, a bit of sensation in her reading material, and tended to carry that into her day-to-day life. "But did you hear? Courted by an Argentinian prince, she is!"

"No, dear. Not quite. I understand she was invited to exhibit some of her art at a gallery owned by a man who was half-Argentinian... though he had thoughts of sending her art down there to a gallery he knows. Dear me, a long voyage by ship. My cuz married a Pole and almost went there, but chose Canada instead."

"I know what I heard," said Miss Treadwell stubbornly. "And I heard her say 'my Argentinian prince.'”

It could only add to the excitement. And indeed the wider news was humming with?(amongst post-war hardships, the second Labour government term with Prime Minister Clement Attlee, Princess Elizabeth expecting her second child, and central England's first 'new town,' Corby, Northants.) stories of German-looted art, 50,000 pieces of Nazi silver sold by the US this year of 1950, and several instances of art theft and fraud of paintings, including miniature ones.

"Worth thousands...and could fit in a lady's purse!" trumpeted a headline.

But that was not all. Mr. Cedric Babbingbrook, the town's retired historian, had unearthed, with delight, some scattered gems and pieces of gold, in the local stream. The find was promptly encased in glass to be exhibited at the town centre, and cunningly worked into publicity for the tourism drive.

It was known Mr. Babbingbrook had a historical obsession for, in Lincolnshire (the other side of the country) 13th-century King John, and the loss of his jewels in that broad estuary called 'The Wash.' Mr. Babbingbrook even had named his cottage 'Crosskeys,' after the bridge under which the royal gems were swept away. Word had it he'd longed to live out the rest of his life at that site, but his daughter Dierdre vetoed that.

As he liked to say to a pub audience (interested or not), "In its rising, the North Sea tide can flow as fast as a human runner, can outrun a galloping horse, across that level landscape, around the time of full and new moons....so of course the gems could quickly vanish, never to be seen again."

Some of the visitors seemed fascinated, while old Mr. Oddie propped up at the bar, perpetually pickled, would merely gaze with bleary eyes at the speaker.

"Our own stream may be of a much milder nature, but there is every possibility that something similar happened, except that in this case it may have brought up what had been dormant. Our stream ran fast and hard this past spring, with plentiful rains, and movement of silt and mud..." And Professor Cedric would burble on, much like a fast-moving brook.

Some of Little Avalon believed the gems had been tossed in the stream by Mr. Babbingbrook himself; others believed they were true remnants of royal history. They had been pronounced, by both the jeweler Mr. Gemm and retired antiquarian Augustus Gold, as "not genuine" but the mystery was as good as authenticity.

"Those gems have become part of the village," mused Mr. Trotter to Miss Rudwell-Horace over their tea. "As special as the King's Oak." Indeed that ancient spreading tree with its half-hidden opening also had become part of the village's summer promotion ("The dangerous, precious secrets it has held over centuries of war and...")

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But that was not the only royal attraction. Cyril Foxworthy, the town's Charles I re-enactor, was also in evidence in breeches, doublet and Cavalier hat, obligingly posing with visitors for Brownie-camera pics. Cyril had been part of a mystery the winter before, a mystery that involved a short-lived loss of his own jewels, found by evening's end.

And all was enthusiastically covered by Big Avalon Courier reporter Dermot Brashley?– who had a 'connection' in London, and who locally dashed about importantly in his decrepit little Mini or by bicycle (effects of rationing) with his stiff notebooks, his modern new pens, the Press badge in his hat.

As for the interesting variety of guests from London and other areas, they were discussed in some detail by the bed and breakfast operators; in the Majestic tea room, the Balls and Meadow pub and the village in general. Miss Rudwell-Horace with her keen observation powers, and Mr. Trotter with his postal deliveries and also a keen eye, had soon become aware of them.

"That tall couple, you've seen," said Mr. Trotter, sipping his tea. "Seem quite posh, maybe a bit artsy. But unpleasant. Though they're always together, they seem to..." He faded off.

"Give the impression of wishing they were elsewhere," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "Yes, I came to that conclusion. Something seems to be disturbing them."

"Odd. And I saw young Jacob Pillsworthy talking with them yesterday. You know he doesn't talk to many, being the awkward type."

"Indeed," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "Our young man is not very sociable."

"Then there's the London couple with the kiddies," said Mr. Trotter, "Do you know one of the little ones lifted a tin of peas in the shop and right into the mum's bag? With the nappies. And she'd probably just turned her head a moment." He chuckled. "Came to me, that would be the ideal way to carry stolen goods. Who'd look in a nappy bag?"

And there was a most distinctive gentleman, Mr. Hiram P. Hiram, who was as brash as the artsy couple seemed reserved.

"Such a loud voice," said Mr. Trotter. "And asking for ice...ice!" He said it with the awe accorded an unknown quantity. "So American, I understand. Or…hmmm, he might have been talking about diamonds." And he flushed a little. "All depends how you hear a word."

"True enough," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, remembering the exchange she heard in the tearoom the other day. "Interesting how some say he is American, from the Bronx – and some say he is Cockney," she said thoughtfully. "One would think them quite different, quite distinct."

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"A spy!" the reticule-toting Miss Treadwell said with flushed face, next day in Lady Colleen's Lunch-and-Mhor eatery. Indeed, she seemed to live in hope that there was still lingering wartime activity of conspiratorial or clandestine nature.

Miss Treadwell had opened her cottage to bed-and-breakfast visitors, as had Miss Wiley. Though it was rarely mentioned, it was known the latter had had a father involved in art fraud, a case some years ago. An unfortunate legacy. But as far as anyone could tell, she had never given the slightest indication of following in his footsteps.

"In any case, a good idea for our new hostesses to acquire a handy nephew or grandson," Miss Rudwell-Horace said.

The young men of the village had stepped in to conspicuously mend fences and put in light bulbs, establishing a masculine presence. Of course, precious antiques and jewelry would be well-concealed, but one never knew who one was inviting into one's home.

There had been feverish redecorating of cushions and curtains, as much as could be done. And the guests' breakfasts were as enhanced as they could be, with modest supplies of fresh cream, butter and eggs, from Stokes's Farm Dairy, as a treat replacing wartime marge and dried eggs. There also had been “promises" levied on the b-and-b owners not to make cakes that were “fancy."

With some serious discussion at the community centre, that had been decided, so as not to endanger the livelihood and reputations of Little Avalon's Bunn's Bakeshop, and the Majestic Tearoom. There, co-owner Miss Pettigrew reigned supreme with her baked-goods' decorations of crystallized edible flowers.

(The discussion brought back wartime memories, of trying to enhance the Christmas pudding, which got most of its moistness from grated carrot, with a sprig of holly leaf dipped in Epsom salts for a crystallized effect.)

Miss Wiley nudged Miss Rudwell-Horace, as the door swung open and seemed to hesitate. "Poor Jacob Pillsworthy. Loves his mince-and-mash here, but a bit odd." She tsk-tsked. "Perhaps understandably. Love to go to art college, his aunt said, but of course they can't afford that. I imagine he'd do almost anything to get there. Lets him muck about in their back shed with his paints."

"Indeed, he seems to have a talent," agreed Miss Rudwell-Horace. looking at the war-orphaned young man, barely out of his teens. His dark hair looked as if it had been chopped with garden shears, his movements were often jerky; his eyes tended to dart around the room.

"I do feel sorry for him," said Miss Wiley. "But one never knows what he's thinking. A bit unpredictable, those moods of his. And as likely to bury himself in the library as in the woods." She sipped her tea. "And poor boy, not very coordinated on that bicycle of his."

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The day that had begun grey and drizzly had transformed itself into a glowing golden world, with roads and laneways a-sparkle. The London artist Ellen Thorn-Rosen had been given prime location in the village square near the pavilion, so handy if it rained.

"It may not be coincidence I and the others also are placed near pub and tearoom," she said to Miss Rudwell-Horace with a smile.

She made a fine picture, seated elegantly at her easel, a swirl of skirt stirring in the breeze. How could anyone help but be fascinated by the rainbow of paints, her expensive-looking brushes, the completed paintings about her, the long dark hair, like a cinema heroine, and exotic silken scarf?

And in case anyone doubted, the sign 'Famous London Artist' (which she had balked at, at first) would surely draw them.

Miss Rudwell-Horace looked with interest and pleasure at the long, strong fingers doing their work. They were decisive, or sometimes seeming to hesitate, poised, hovering, then steadily stroking and filling. "I have always admired the individual style of artists," she said.

"Yes, we come to it eventually – though may change, due to some infirmity or other reason. And when we start out, we may strive to imitate a teacher or master, those we admire. It is all part of the developing of our own style."

In other locations, the Little Avalon villagers displayed their crafts and wares, from books with pressed dried flowers, to jars of homemade jam and pickle.

Miss Rudwell-Horace sat again in the Majestic Tearoom. With so many visitors, it was fuller than it had ever been. Even the bored-looking artsy couple nibbled a currant cake or two. Mr. Hiram P. Hiram consumed a Marmite sandwich with apparent enthusiasm. The London parents strove to please their offspring with the right sweet treat. Older youngsters like Pammy Putts and Mick Bristle, came and went, scoffing the 'leftover' biscuits Miss Pettigrew kept for them.

All seemed caught up in the excitement of the 'new' spirit of Little Avalon, thought Miss Rudwell-Horace, looking about her. And then there came one of those odd lulls, as though all conspired to keep quiet together.

And then, the excited voice of Miss Treadwell, who'd been buried in a newspaper. "What a story about this criminal! Worth hundreds and thousands, those goods are!" And a bony forefinger pointed to the newspaper, as her shrill voice rang in the air.

In the stunned silence, there was the sound of a teacup dropping and smashing on the floor. The room seemed frozen. Miss Treadwell, Miss Wiley, the arts couple nearby, Mr. Hiram P. Hiram, the London family...and a dozen or so villagers.

Miss Wiley's face was quite white. Mr. Hiram P Hiram seemed to flush red. The London parents looked uncomfortable, glancing around at their children, the mum poking in her nappy bag. Miss Rudwell-Horace looked at them all keenly.

Was there a guilty secret here? The dark paternal history of Miss Wiley, the suspicions of Mr. Hiram being a linguistically-adept spy, the mystery of the rather haughty-looking art-related couple. Young Jacob Pillsworthy, who'd been cramming a bun into his mouth, stood stock-still.

And then gradually the room returned to normal, though Miss Treadwell continued to read aloud about the value of stolen art, and an apparently brisk trade in forgeries. Miss Rudwell-Horace sensed the village's inquisitive spinster had lifted the lid on something, but what?

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It was as if it had been choreographed – the tearoom one day, the tavern next day, with a similarly full house. In the sudden lull that occasionally comes to even a crowded pub, young Mick Bristle, with his friend Pammy Putts, could not have had a better entrance and effect.

"Look what we found! In the King's Oak!" he cried, bursting in and holding up a crumpled brown-paper carrier bag. "Art, just like the papers said." Both he and Pammy were breathing hard.

There were exclamations and murmurs. "Somebody get Mr. Gold! He's outside.” Moments later the antiquarian - who'd been seeing a colleague off to London - came in, looking rather agitated, and sat down heavily.

As a growing crowd stared at him, he carefully withdrew three, four, five small paintings from the bag. The silence was broken only by his laboured breathing. And then, "Good gracious," he said, putting on his glasses, then shakily withdrawing a magnifying glass from an inner pocket. "I do believe it is...could it be? And I was just reading about them."

"Bloody them-who?" exclaimed someone.

"Why...the Group of Seven," the old scholar said, in what seemed a wondering tone. And the emphasis he gave it indicated that it was a proper name.

"Seven what?" said someone, the other patrons staring and shrugging at each other.

"Really quite remarkable," Mr. Gold said, "if it's genuine. The group did some impressive paintings." And he stared at the scenes of snowy hills, bright trees, a harbour.

"Who are these artists?" said Miss Ardley, the primary-schoolmistress, with interest. "Ought I to be teaching them in class?"

After a moment's silence, Mr. Gold said, "I've been reading up on them. Canadian, though at least two also British. Known in, er, certain circles in our nation, but apparently not so admired in their own country for many years. 'A drunkard's dream, a spilt can of paint,' their critics over the Atlantic said."

"But here?" said Miss Rudwell-Horace, feeling a stir of interest.

"The?Morning Post here?called the Group of Seven 'the foundation of what may become one of the greatest schools of landscape painting.' At least one of them was in the Great War, and painted some of that time into his work. 'Halifax Harbour,' for example – and that is Halifax in Canada – represented the homecoming for these soldiers of the Dominion."

He paused, while the crowded room seemed to hold its breath.

“They became better known in the British Empire Exhibition, in 1924," Augustus Gold went on. "And the rest, really, is history. Disdained by their own country (though they're also English), and really quite valued and revered here, in certain circles. The look of their work is a bit of a shock at times. So strong and vibrant, sometimes decidedly Impressionistic.

"And one in particular, Mr. Tom Thomson, often did miniature paintings, and in short order."

"But are you saying," said Mr. Trotter, "that their art is worth something?"

"Indeed. I should not like to put an actual figure on it...but thousands of pounds, without a doubt. Of course, there's the rarity value. And if someone wants it, it's got to have a price."

There was a shocked silence. And these paintings had been found in the King's Oak. Might they have been put in there, as a pick-up point or temporary stash...? But surely everyone in Little Avalon knew of this hiding place. Did that then point to an outsider who had found and used it?

Augustus Gold gave a little cough. " Please understand that that does not mean these paintings are genuine. They might indeed be fraudulent." And he trembled a little, perhaps envisioning his crucial role in a courtroom to determine motive, provenance and authenticity or lack thereof.

The artwork would reside under lock and key, for the time being, at Little Avalon's small police station.

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On top of that discovery, the news went swiftly through the village. Jacob Pillsworthy, never too steady on his bicycle, had had an accident, and ended up in what Little Avalon called its "almost-infirmary."

He was terribly upset, and, never the most patient of patients, was said to be driving the residing Sister Ruddy mad. He would be permitted to go home in a day or so, in an old wheelchair, she said...and in the meantime, would he simply be a good boy and take his tablets? That would help them both sleep.

?Miss Rudwell-Horace, concerned for the young man, also thought through her impressions of Mr. Hiram P Hiram, the haughty couple, the London family, Miss Wiley, Miss Ardley. They all had some connection with art.

And Jacob had been seen talking with the art couple. Had they got him to do something not quite proper? But how could he have known them long enough to do anything? Would this scattered young man, too, have had the presence of mind?

Yet Miss Rudwell-Horace thought of his flashes of brilliance, his occasional unerring observations. There was, she thought, some genius beneath that messy thatch of hair. And he did long to go to art school.

She thought of Miss Wiley, determinedly running her bed-and-breakfast with all the time a misty cloud of suspicion over her, as her father (who was Canadian, Miss Rudwell-Horace remembered) had been involved in art theft. It was said that one should not judge the child by the sins of the father. And yet...it was Miss Wiley's teacup that had dropped and smashed, to Miss Treadwell's exclamation of the value of the artwork in the London newspaper.

And what of the London family, with the three children, including the fast, light-fingered one. Could they be involved? Could adult criminals actually have pressed little ones into service for them? And then there was the disreputable-looking Hiram P. Hiram. And even Ellen Thorn-Rosen, a respected artist. Could she have the remotest connection with this art mystery?

Miss Rudwell-Horace sat, with her glass of currant wine, just a touch for the evening. She also recalled another bit of conversation she had heard in the pub, a sarcastic voice. "Oh, poor King John, losing his jewels in the Wash. Couldn't adorn himself so much anymore. He was a bloody awful king..."

"Imagine he found a way to decorate himself with more. Likely had some tucked away, or got the people to pay for it."

The image of adornment seemed to dance in Miss Rudwell-Horace's awareness. Just as the village's Charles I re-enactor had adorned his crown with jewels and lost them (for a short time, earlier that year). Just as kings like John Lackland had craved them, acquired them, lost them. Then there was the reference to hundreds and thousands of pounds...and other snippets of conversation.

Often, she knew, it was the way one heard a word.

And as for the miniature paintings that were either genuine or imitation Canadian Group of Seven...The answer to some of this mystery, she thought, was becoming clear. Yes, she could picture who had put the artwork in the King's Oak, as well as where the gold and gems came from...and what the 'hundreds and thousands' referred to...

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The raffle-winner would be announced at the Community Centre: It was so richly-promoted it might have been the event of the year. But it was also obvious that Little Avalon on the whole hoped to learn more about the mysterious art.

After all, that was where one learned things (as well as, of course, at the pub, in the tearoom, at the train station, on the High Street, and almost anywhere in the village).

The atmosphere of the centre ran high, it seemed, with emotion. Conversation was deafening. Even Mr. Hiram P Hiram, clicking his large briefcase decisively shut and open, wanted to know who – he himself? – had won the raffle. And Constable Bland was in evidence. Those eyes of the deceptively mild, respected village policeman could turn to flint, if he thought something wrong. Perhaps he had reinforcements in the wings.

Miss Wiley who seemed to have a guilty secret, and to be rattled by the words "hundreds and thousands," the gossipy Miss Treadwell, Mrs. Bunn with her rosy floury face, Augustus Gold and Mr. Gemm, Pammy Putts and her cohort Mick Bristle...surely the entire village must be here.

Jacob Pillsworthy, in his old wheelchair, looked both nervous and unhappy. It had been impressed upon him that in his state of injury, he need not be here, but he had insisted. After all, he too had bought a raffle ticket.

If someone – including any of the outsiders – was indeed guilty of a crime or misdemeanor, would they be here? But then, Miss Rudwell-Horace reflected, those who had done wrong often felt they were too clever to be found out. In any case, there was a raffle draw, and photographs to be taken by both Dermot Brashley, and, more artistically, by Ellen Thorn-Rosen. That also was a draw for most humans.

Her eyes went to the door. Would he come? And then, in the silence – and for all the world as if he was on a stage – Cyril Foxworthy, in all his Cavalier-garb glory, swept into the room, tossing back his cloak. "Good people!" his voice rang out with all the confidence of one of Little Avalon's most talented and enthusiastic Dramatic Society members. "'Tis time to lay the mystery at rest!"

He paused, dark eyes sweeping the room, the feather plume in his kingly hat quivering. "Indeed, 'twas I, your kindly sovereign, who gave the jewels and gold to our small but not insignificant stream."

Out of the silence piped up a voice. "Oh, thanks ever so, Your Majesty!"

"Indeed, 'twas for the good of this royal borough, needing a little help. Rest assured, your noble king has other jewels, and a more splendid crown in the works."

"More splendid than that painted piece of tin stuck with stones you had?" mumbled a detractor. Not everyone in Little Avalon appreciated local royalty, though Cyril was kind as well as handsome, bringing his pageantry to many special events and care facilities.

Seemingly unbothered, Cyril continued, "So let those now encased in glass be a glorious reminder..."

"They already are," piped up a voice.

"...forevermore," said the king, both frowning and smiling at the voice.

And Cyril aka Charles I doffed his impressive hat, bowed low and swept from the room, followed by a spatter of applause. "Well, that's that," someone said. Constable Bland looked relieved (one case he could close the book on), while Cedric Babbingbrook's face showed disappointment. In his mind, his face said, he had been holding out for King John, even from this distance.

The raffle winner was announced. It was one half of the artsy couple. When it was known the amount the painting went for, there were impressed gasps. What a lot of tickets they had bought!

And then Constable Bland gestured to Miss Rudwell-Horace. She turned to face the crowd. “As for the pieces of art, found by our young detectives Mick Bristle and Pammy Putts in the King's Oak, and which were under lock and key...

"Based on the knowledge of our art expert and antiquarian Augustus Gold, it very much resembles some of the art of The Group of Seven, Canadian artists. But is it stolen art? Fraudulent art? Our expert can tell us. But perhaps so can the person who did it." A pause.

And, at a nod from Constable Bland, Miss Rudwell-Horace said, “You need not fear to tell the truth.”

There was a long, tense silence. And then, out of that very diverse group of people, a voice said, "Yes. That was me who did it." The small paintings, with all their vibrancy, what their Canadian homeland had disdained, were displayed. "But oh, it's not what you think." The face was flushed, the voice defiant, though trembling.

"Is it not, now?" said Constable Bland, his official approach taking over.

This time it was Ellen Thorn-Rosen who came forward. "I think I understand," she said. Her long, sensitive artist's fingers touched the small paintings. She turned them over, looked carefully. And then she addressed the person responsible for this art.

And before the evening was through, it also was known what the "hundreds and thousands" referred to. That revelation came with an outburst of anguished emotion from another person there. And as had happened before, it was less a case for Constable Bland than it was for a certain woman to understand and deal with. Miss Rudwell-Horace just had that way with her...

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As was their wont, Miss Rudwell-Horace and Mr. Trotter were taking tea (and currant wine) to discuss the denouement of the very recent triple-mystery, of the jewels, the artwork, and the hundreds-and-thousands of Little Avalon.

The roses outsider her cottage were still glorious, stirring in a light breeze, seemingly eager to absorb what had happened. Miss Rudwell-Horace passed the scones to Mr. Trotter. He spread one with lemon curd, bright as creamy sunshine, and smiled as he swallowed.

"How you manage to make it like the old days, even with the rationing still on..." His voice trailed off with admiration, eyes wandering to the half-dozen jars she'd made (after selling a previous six to visitors). Eggs, butter, sugar, he could taste it all. The first two, from Stokes's Farm Dairy, of course, but all the sugar...? "Either you've been hoarding your weekly ounces, or it's the black market."

Miss Rudwell-Horace merely smiled. "And so," she said, "We have had not one, not two, but three mysteries. The identity of the gems; a possible art fraud with small paintings reflecting the work of Canadian artists. And the words – 'hundreds and thousands' – which might have referred to either of those, or indeed to something else.

"Was there some distant connection with King John and The Wash? As much as Mr. Babbingbrook would have liked there to be, I had to conclude there was not. And, of course, there was never any intention to present it as a genuine piece of history. Merely 'found in our historic waterway,' a stream known for centuries."

"It proved to be quite good for our village," agreed Mr. Trotter. “Some of the visitors took photographs.”

"And we can thank our Cyril Foxworthy for that excitement." She smiled. "I guessed early on he had endowed the river. The last time Cyril's gems were absent from his crown, they'd been taken by a villager. This time they were taken, along with bits of his old crown, and put into the river, by Cyril himself, as a bid to help the village gain more visitor appeal.

“So, not genuine. But rather than reduce the excitement of the mystery, it all has acquired a new patina of appeal as focusing on the actions of a royal re-enactor and dramatic society, in one small village. Dermot Brashley's lady-reporter colleague Jilly Bury is having a splendid time with that one, a human interest story.

"As for Dermot, he is making much of the valuable art angle, and had undertaken to make a trunk call to a professional acquaintance, in the newspaper business, in Canada. You know he will leave no stone, or painting, unturned. But he is turning that into a piece on the transatlantic appeal of art."

They munched thoughtfully, approvingly, in silence for a moment.

"As for the small paintings found…as we had wondered, was it anything to do with the haughty couple, or Hiram P Hiram, or indeed Miss Wiley...or Jacob Pillsworthy?"

Mr. Trotter stirred his tea in anticipation of the outcome he already knew. It was their ritual to go over the details, almost as if they were writing a book or short story.

"Poor young Jacob longed to go to art school," continued Miss Rudwell-Horace. "But his family – what was left of it, poor boy – was hard off. Still, he practiced his art and got paints from somewhere, though very few of our village residents knew exactly what he did.

"Then – perhaps while also on his way to the library to compare his work with pictures of paintings there, he had an accident when out cycling in the woods he loved. He managed to thrust his crumpled carrier bag of paintings in the King's Oak – not a secure place but all he could do, as it was nearby. He tried to crawl home, then fortunately someone saw him.

"As for why he was afraid to be found with the paintings on him..."

Light dawned on Mr. Trotter's face. "The stories in the papers," he said. "After the news of art theft and fraud, he was afraid he'd be accused of something like that, and found it difficult to explain himself at the best of times."

"Yes, it really rattled him, poor fellow. Ultimately, our visiting artist Ellen Thorn-Rosen was able to determine, or at least suggest, there was no evidence at fraud here, at least not to profit from it. And it brought to mind something she had said to me the other week, about new, student artists copying their teachers and masters as a sign of admiration and respect.

"The painter, young Jacob, was an admirer of this Canadian group of artists, and perhaps was bashful and uncomfortable about it in front of others. He focused on doing small paintings, easily concealed. And he too may have had a desire to reproduce scenes of after-war in a new world –?just as the Group of Seven artists did –?when in reality he had been only a child at the time of our second war."

She shook her head in wonder. "Who knew where this young artist's vision came from, and how he had even found out about these Canadian artists?"

Mr. Trotter shook his head. "But that his paintings would impress Augustus Gold! Why, young Jacob must be close to a genius."

"Immensely talented, I am sure," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "And his admiration of these artists is something Miss Thorn-Rosen seemed to understand. Perhaps in her learning, she too had intentionally copied other artists, to develop a diverse skill."

"As for the artist couple, the one that seemed so guilty...they had another secret," said Mr. Trotter, shaking his head over the emotional words he had overheard.

"Yes," Miss Rudwell-Horace confirmed. "They both felt the guilt of getting to know each other and getting married to another. They each had lost a spouse to the war, and though it had been a few years since they wed, they still felt guilty, clinging to the memories of their former spouses. One had been an art connoisseur; the other an artist. So there was some emotion involved, especially around the subject of art."

"And the fact that Jacob Pillsworthy was seen talking to them?"

"Indeed," said Miss Rudwell-Horace. "As we didn't yet know who they were, we might have wondered: were they trying to get him to do something beyond the pale of respectability?"

"Like being an accomplice or a runner?" said Mr. Trotter.

"Possibly. One might even have wondered if it had led to his 'accident.' But in the end it likely was an innocuous exchange...and possibly a natural one, with people who are somehow involved in the arts, picking up on it with others, with a word here, a phrase there."

"And Mr. Hiram P. Hiram?"

Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled. "A somewhat exaggerated character. As it turned out, he could only have been someone acting out a role, putting on an act. And having learned languages and accents, he could easily pretend to be Bronx American –?or London Cockney. The impression he gave was that of a shady art dealer, and he wanted to develop the right voice."

"An actor," said Mr. Trotter. "Trying out his role to see if it would be believable. And I imagine what unfolded here just added to his enthusiasm." He chuckled, and spread more lemon curd on his scone. And then, "No doubt he would be an admirable addition to our dramatic society, if he cares to stay."

They were both silent a moment, not without a little amusement reflected on their faces. It was not the first time, and perhaps would not be the last, that the world of theatre, film and acting affected their village of Little Avalon –?and that a village mystery also had resulted in new participants in the society.

And the 'hundreds and thousands' mentioned..." Mr. Trotter said.

Miss Rudwell smiled. "I will admit to worrying over that too. Miss Treadwell's announcement, read aloud from the paper, seemed to have caused some discomfort. One could feel it in the air, and hear it in a smashed teacup. Could there truly be a fraud going on, at that level? Hundreds and thousands of pounds worth of artwork and fraud? Or of gems?

"It seemed, suddenly, that our quiet village might be, as the Americans say, a hotbed of crime. And perhaps the supposed innocence of a small village added to the lure.

"But?– and also thanks to you?and your comment about how one heard a word – it was not long until a more trifling and relatively benign explanation made itself known. The admonitions to keep one's home-baking plain, so as not to be overly competitive with the Majestic Tearoom and Bunn's Bakeshop.

"Miss Wiley had a secret – which of course could not remain one for long. She had hoarded tins of those tiny edible decorations known as hundreds-and-thousands, and had begun to use them, in her baking. But in her mind, both the fear and defiance became magnified. She may have come to believe she could be apprehended for her actions, as it had been decided the bed-and-breakfast villagers would not 'adorn' their baking.'"

They both thought of how the woman's face had crumpled, and how she had wept. Yes, she had decorated her cakes, partly to appeal to her guests, but also, as she said in a shaky, shuddering voice, "because I wanted to make things a little pretty...when for so many years in the war they were so grim and cheerless..."

"One might even think of King John's barons and common people," continued Miss Rudwell-Horace. "They fought for their lawful freedoms. So, too, did Miss Wiley wish to adorn her baking, and not let her actions be dictated to by what she saw as her higher-ups in the field of baking.

"But when she heard those words, 'hundreds and thousands,' uttered so dramatically in the Majestic Tearoom, she was afraid of being found out...and was reminded she was the daughter of a convicted criminal."

"Would they really have done something to her for that?" said the little postman with an incredulous look.

"I think not," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, with a smile that was a little sad. “And as it turns out, our good Miss Pettigrew has kindly offered to teach her the edible-flower crystallization she does.

"In the end, there was more a spirit of camaraderie than competitiveness. After all, the efforts we have made for our village lately are for the good of all our village. No one need be singled out or censured for trying to do better than another."

"And our art couple who won the prize painting," said Mr. Trotter. "For hundreds?"

Miss Rudwell-Horace smiled. "For thousands. They bought many tickets for the raffle, but it was the art auction they excelled at. Their winning bid was enormous.”

Indeed, it would be a welcome addition to the Little Avalon Post-War Benevolent Fund, for penurious widows, young families lacking a father, and any others in need after a six-year-long war that had not spared this small village.

Then she remembered something else. "In overhearing another conversation I was reminded of how one might hear a word differently. There was Miss Treadwell's insistence on the Argentinian prince, courting Ellen Thorn-Rosen.

"As it turned out, our London artist was offering prints, p-r-i-n-t-s of her art, for those who cannot afford an original – most of us, as it turns out. And she may have said this gallery owner was helping her, and even playfully said something like 'I love my 'Argentinian prints!'"

They both smiled, then sighed a little, with satisfaction. There was no feeling as rewarding as tying up loose ends, especially with fresh scones, lemon curd, a pot of tea, and currant wine.

??????????????????????????????????

There was an informal meeting at the Little Avalon Community Centre (later adjourning to the pub) to discuss the success of the art event.

There could be no denying that London artist Ellen Thorn-Rosen had been an enormous enhancement of it all, with her glamorous beauty, London air and style, and artistic renown...and with the money raised by the raffle and auction of her distinctive artwork.

And somehow, it had become known it was Ellen Thorn-Rosen's birthday. Miss Wylie and Miss Pettigrew had put aside any differences to proudly, shyly present their combined efforts of a birthday cake for the darkly-beautiful London artist. And what a sight it was, its thin icing topped with an impressionistic, pointillistic frenzy of tiny hundreds-and-thousands, and a glorious arrangement of crystallized summer petals.

A delighted Ellen then said she would like to paint the ladies “with those classic, expressive faces,” making them blush and titter.

"I do like this village," she said to Miss Rudwell-Horace. "I could even..." She coloured a little and laughed in her low voice. "Well, I will visit as often as I can, if Nelda will have me."

"Indeed, my dear," said Miss Rudwell-Horace, "and not only because you are such an elegantly delightful addition to Little Avalon. We thank you, so much, for your kindness and generosity which will greatly benefit the Little Avalon Post-War Benevolent Fund. The money from the art auction has made our fund fuller than it has ever been.

"And as for young Jacob Pillsworthy," she said in a lower voice. "It has come to my attention that you are helping him with his future in art. Your heart is as immense as your talent and hard work.”

It was not the first time she saw a suspicious sheen in Ellen's dark eyes. This lovely artist, she reflected, had some secrets along with her kindness. When the younger woman had left, Miss Rudwell-Horace sat in silence a moment, then started at the sound of a cough. Old Mr. Oddie had turned to her, his bleary eyes trying to focus.

And what came out of his mouth was quite unexpected. "A good...a great lady, that. Makes me think of a lady I, er...a Spanish lady..." Then he was silent, fumbling for a handkerchief. Those near him stared with the wonder of witnessing the Second Coming, and in the stupefied silence there came a crash.

It reflected the earlier mishap, the smashed teacup, in the Majestic Tearoom. Surely only a great shock could make someone drop their precious drink, and it seemed that to hear Mr. Oddie express admiration for anything beyond his beer, let alone suggest a past romance (!) was indeed that.

While the regulars gathered there continued to murmur and gape, adjusting to this new version of an old villager, Mr. Jenkins came out from behind the bar to sweep up the broken glass and mop up the spilt beer.

With the door open, the afternoon sun struck the bottles, mirrors and brass taps, setting all a-sparkle like jewels, and making Jenkins' collection of pub signs glow like the art they were.

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