The Inheritance by Michael Phillips

Author:Michael Phillips [Phillips, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC042030, FIC042000, FIC026000
ISBN: 9781441229380
Publisher: Baker Publishing Group
Published: 2016-02-11T05:00:00+00:00

44

Books, Antiques, and Scones

David struck out southward, reaching the ocean a few minutes later. He followed the shore path along the rocky uneven beach, then gradually turned westward, the pleasant sound of the sea on his left. Eventually he returned to the road, crossed it, and continued up a gentle rise inland.

Making a wide half circle around the back of the village, he arrived at length behind the small stone church and gated cemetery. To all appearances on this day, both church and graveyard were lifeless.

He skirted the church building, gazing upon the silent walls of stones, wondering whether much more life was to be found in it on Sunday than was apparent today. It was no secret that the present curate, Reverend Stirling Yates, had been sent to this remote parish, if not as a direct disciplinary action, then something very much like it. What exact trouble had arisen in his previous parish not even David’s aunt nor Coira MacNeill knew.

Yates seemed a pleasant enough fellow. Whether he brought life to the church was another matter. How long he would be here, no one knew that either.

David continued around the church, down its entryway, and into town.

The Whales Reef Natural History Museum and Wildlife Shoppe, closed now for the winter, was one of David’s favorite places. He paused and looked through the window. It was somewhat presumptuously named, he thought, as he peered into the darkened interior. But it brought a certain prestige to the village and benefited summer tourism. He had helped Wilma Welby, whose brainchild the shop was, to organize and set up the displays and advised her on which books and other items to carry. Binoculars, bird-watching guides, and small gifts of local interest comprised the majority of Wilma’s inventory. He knew the place made no profit, but he managed to add a small stipend to one or two of his research grants every year to help subsidize it.

Few people were out on this bright, cold morning. Most hurried only to and from the market or Paper Shop or, as the day advanced, to the pub at the hotel.

A few doors farther on, David entered another small store, this one open. The small black lettering on the door read Olde Worlde Antiques.

“Hello, Harry,” David greeted a man behind a cluttered desk. “I’m surprised to see you open.”

“If I’m here I might as well keep the door unlocked,” said the shopkeeper, Harry Menglad, a native of Lerwick.

“You don’t sell much in the winter months, I suppose.”

“Not to speak of. It’s mostly Internet sales and sniffing out antique auctions on the mainland I might want to attend. I do most of my buying online these days. And with my specialty in walking sticks, fountain pens and such, I manage to do decently well.”

“Well, when you are online, I am still looking for a set of Victorian bookends like I described to you. I saw them in a manor house on the mainland—a man seated on a stool surrounded by books.

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