wished for as long as he wished, with no further obligation on either side afterwards. In a less innocent community Farley might have had doubts, but he could see no objection and the two shook hands on the deal; that was as close to a legal contract as the Skiddledalers ever came. Nathaniel nevertheless made a note of the terms for his own records.
The building work went slowly and occupied the best part of a year, with a break during the winter, and Farley came in for a good deal of muttered criticism for the disturbance. It didn’t bother him. At the end of it there was a capacious structure still in keeping with other buildings around though a great deal better finished, fitted internally with store rooms and sales counters, and outside over the door a board inscribed “SKIDDLEDALE EMPORIUM” in clear but tastefully subdued lettering. Being at best barely literate, most of the villagers had no idea what it meant but agreed that it looked very fine.
In the following days they were at first puzzled and then worried by a succession of wagons bringing large packing cases that were carried inside with considerable effort and shortly afterwards brought out evidently empty to be taken away. Then there were alarming stories of Nathaniel’s having been closeted in long private conversations with Harry Birtwhistle, the innkeeper. A rumour started about supposed plans to transform the pub beyond recognition, an idea so horrifying as to prompt a delegation of protest. Harry hastily assured them that nothing of the sort was in the wind; plans were being made, to be sure, but the character of the pub was sacrosanct (I paraphrase, of course).
The scheme eventually turned out to be for a grand opening of the new store with the monthly contest between Nip and Seld forming the principal event. Since at that time different games were played in the two regular locations, and choosing either one for this occasion would obviously favour its usual host community, something different was needed, and a committee comprising Nathaniel himself, Ezekiel Farley and Harry Birtwhistle as chairman was set up to consider what it might be. In order to provide a real challenge for the contestants as well as entertainment for spectators, the decision was to have a competition in story-telling: teams of three as usual, with each member to have up to five minutes – there was little fear of over-running. Scoring was to be by the committee with Harry having the final say in case of disagreement. As a prize Nathaniel donated a bottle of his best cognac; despite comments that it would be wasted on Skiddledalers, he insisted that anything less would be an insult to a community that had provided him with a refuge when he most needed it.
Come the day, so many people turned up that the pub could not accommodate them all, so a makeshift stage was set up in the store, which fortunately had been arranged with the counters around the edge of the main hall leaving a large clear area for the gossiping that was an essential feature of any market. As it was a Sunday there could be no question of actual trading, but the range of goods was set out and Nathaniel had arranged for a small promotional gift to everyone who turned up. Local unfamiliarity with cash trading was the cause of the venture, so prices were set out in terms of commodities, and if anyone noticed that a stone of potatoes cost ten pounds of carrots while a stone of carrots cost two of potatoes, he didn’t mention it. Nathaniel considered the margin very reasonable.
Someone had pointed out that half an hour of actual story-telling was not really quite enough, so it was arranged that a local team, not actually competing, would provide a “friendly” supplement. Each team was given a store room for final rehearsals before the presentation. There would be three rounds with Skiddlethorpe last in each, and a pause for refreshments between them. I shouldn’t attempt to reproduce most of the actual stories even if they had all been recorded, as the Skiddledale dialect is fairly impenetrable and a translation into standard colloquial English would probably fall flat as a pancake, but the last one from the local team is an exception. “Well, we’ve heard the others, and I’m sure we’ve all enjoyed them. Mine is very short, but the funniest of the lot. While all that was going on, we have drunk the brandy.”
And it was true; no one had noticed before, but the bottle had disappeared. There was uproar, threatening to develop into a nasty scrimmage until Nathaniel calmed it by bellowing “Quiet, please,” and explaining that he had sent Simon to fetch a replacement. Remaining resentments were sidetracked when young Jennie Hardcastle suddenly went into labour and was rushed into a side room while various matrons scurried around doing what was necessary.
Nathaniel’s asking whether the father was there produced an embarrassed silence. All anyone knew was that it was someone outside the valley, and Jennie wouldn’t give his name; she might not know it herself. Harry said that they were anxious to find one as Jennie’s father would not have his own attached to the bastard, and a sudden idea occurred to him: would Nathaniel, familiar with the outside world, suggest one that might be suitable?
While Nathaniel was pondering another diversion arose. A shepherd from the valley head shoved his way through the crowd and complained that all the price lists were in terms of arable produce: how much was a bale of wool worth? “Wool worth?” muttered Nathaniel, sotto voce in irritation with the distraction, but it was picked up.
Young Johnny thrived, eventually emigrating to America where his own son became a successful businessman. And that, according to our family, is how the name Woolworth later became so familiar.
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UNEASY ASSASSIN
As a professional eliminator, Olga Vishinskaya had few equals and probably no betters. She would complete her mission efficiently, with a minimum of collateral problems, and to the complete satisfaction of the client. For the target, to whom she felt an almost equal responsibility, she would try to make the end agreeable within the constraints of her own paradoxically strict personal morality. Her view of death was clinical: it was inevitable sooner or later and sometimes, in terms of social hygiene, the sooner the better. She would accept an assignment only if satisfied that it served the common good, but considered it incompetence to cause any unnecessary distress in the execution.
Her disposal of Martin Barratt was a case in point. In the morning after their meeting he was found dead, and the doctor and police were called in from the nearest town as soon as the snow was sufficiently cleared towards the end of the day. Olga could truthfully say that yes, she had accompanied Martin to his room to discuss the content of a private telephone call, but although he might have had some thoughts of a more intimate acquaintance – to deny it would be unconvincing, not to say unflattering to herself – she believed he was too much the gentleman to press unwelcome attentions on her. In the event he was too tired even to suggest anything of the sort. He was certainly alive and contentedly sleeping when she left him; what happened after that she could not say.
Lisl Gertner’s account was completely consistent with all this. When Herr Barratt had failed to appear for breakfast she investigated and found him apparently asleep fully clothed in his chair, but actually not breathing. He had been a fairly frequent visitor and on a previous occasion had asked for medical attention: although she was of course unaware of the reason, she had noticed this time a slight difficulty in carrying luggage, perhaps in hindsight due to something more serious than the turbulent weather.
Schandi Grüber, representing the police, found the body exactly as Frau Gertner had described. If he had thought to wonder whether the cups and coffee pot used that evening might still be available unwashed for examination, he knew Lisl better than to ask.
The doctor who attended Martin before had found signs of heart disease on that occasion, and this time nothing inconsistent with it. With no wish for gratuitous unpleasantness, he was disinclined to suggest any other cause. The local police authorities, not notably given to officious curiosity, readily accepted his view, and Olga was free to go on her way with only two days’ delay.
As usual on such occasions she stopped in the next village and visited the church. She would have preferred one of the Orthodox rite, but it was a Catholic area a
nd the Latin variety would serve just as well. Inside, she spent a few minutes in prayer before a figure of the Virgin, then lit two candles, one for Martin and one for herself. She had rather liked him, and was glad that nothing in their encounter was of a kind to embarrass him on meeting his maker. Anything else was his own responsibility, but she thought it unlikely to be particularly heinous.
That thought almost triggered another that did not quite surface. It bothered her all the way to her lunch stop, but the roads after the storm still needed more than usual care and she could spare it little attention. Over the meal, however, it took shape. Her usual targets were little better than vermin who in previous ages would as often as not have faced a well-earned judicial execution, and by despatching them she was performing a valuable service for a society now too effete to do so for itself. That was the gist of the briefing about the Weston gang before her mission, and at the time she had no reason to suppose Martin an exception, although his absence from the gathering of the rest should perhaps have given her a hint. As it was she had found him utterly different from her