Chapter 5 Section five

The copper lamp, which neither Dubens nor Tommy was interested in, turned out to be very popular, and Dubens was very happy. "Mrs. Blasford, thank you very much for bringing such a nice thing. It's very unique. Must have found it on a foreign trip!" "Yes, we bought it in Egypt," said Dubens. That was eight or ten years ago, and she can't remember where she bought it now.Maybe Damascus, maybe Baghdad or Tehran.However, Dubens feels that Egypt is becoming the focus of everyone's discussion at present, and it seems more interesting to buy in Egypt.Moreover, this copper lamp looks quite Egyptian.Even if you buy it in another country, it may be an imitation of something from that era in Egypt.

"Honestly," said Dubens, "it's a little bit better for our family. So I thought--" "Well, it does have to be drawn," said Miss Little. Miss Little is in charge of the bazaar.In the neighbourhood, she was nicknamed "Jane of the Parish," chiefly because she was ignorant of everything that happened in the parish.Her surname (Little) is easy to cause misunderstanding, but she is actually a tall woman with a dignified figure.Her Christian name was Taurasi, and she was usually called Tautie. "Mrs. Blasford, I hope you come to the bazaar, will you?"

Dubens promised that she would come. "I can enjoy the fun of buying." Dubens said frankly. "Ah, I'm so glad you think so." "I think it's very nice," said Dubens. "This kind of bazaar. Because—well, it's really good. I mean, one person's superfluous things may be another person's treasure." "Oh, we must tell the priest that," said Miss Bryce Ridley.She was a thin, rather old woman.She went on: "He must be very glad to hear that." "For example, this paper bucket." Dubens said, lifting the bucket.

"Ah, will anyone buy it?" "If it's not sold when I come tomorrow, I'll buy it." "However, recently there have been very beautiful plastic laundry tubs." "I don't like plastic very much," said Dubens. "This papier-mâché bucket is really good. Even if you put a lot of pottery in it at once, it won't break. Ah, and the old can opener. This kind of bucket with Bull-headed ones, I haven’t seen them recently.” "But it's a lot of trouble to use this kind of can opener. Isn't an electric can opener more convenient?"

This conversation continued for a while.Then Dubens asked if there was anything she could do to help. "Ah, Mrs. Blasford, please set up the art booth. I think you must have a sense of art." "I'm not artistic at all. It'd be a pleasure to let me decorate the sales floor, though. Let me know if I make a mistake." "Short handed, and it's great to have your help. We're glad to see you. Are your new flats ready?" "It should be ready," Dubens said, "but it looks like it will take a long time. Electricians and carpenters are really hard to deal with. They go home every now and then."

There was a little polemic over Dubens' accusation that the electric and gas companies agreed. "The worst are the Gas Company people," said Miss Little firmly. "Because they're all from Lower Stanford. And the electricians are only good if they're from Willpunk." The pastor changed the subject with some words of encouragement to the helpers.The vicar also expressed his great pleasure to meet the new parishioner, Mrs. Blasford. "We know you very well," said the pastor, "ah, it's true, and know your sir very well. Another day, I want to hear the funniest story of you two. You must have had a very interesting life. I miss you I probably don’t want to talk about it, so I won’t mention it, but you and your wife are really lively about the last war.”

"Oh, please tell us, Reverend," said a woman with jam jars as she left the store. "I have learned it in absolute secrecy," said the vicar. "I saw you walking past the graveyard yesterday, Mrs. Blasford." "Yes," said Dubens. "I visited the church first. There are one or two windows here that are very attractive." "Yes, it's from the fourteenth century, the window on the north side porch. But most of it is Victorian, of course." "While walking in the cemetery," said Dubens, "I noticed that there are quite a few Parkinson graves."

"Yes, that's true. There used to be a big Parkinson family around here. Of course, I can't remember any of them. Do you remember, Mrs. Lupton?" Mrs. Lupton, with two walking sticks, was quite old, with a rather smug expression. "Yes, yes, I remember when Mrs. Parkinson was alive—oh, old Mrs. Parkinson, the Mrs. Parkinson who lived in the 'Lord's House', what a wonderful old lady, what a wonderful thing. " "Also, I saw some Sommers or Chatterton graves." "Wow, you know quite a bit about the past around here." "Actually, I've heard something about Jordan—is it Anne or Merry Jordan?"

Dubens looked around the crowd, but the name Jordan didn't seem to attract special attention. "It is said that someone used a cook named Jordan, Mrs. Blackwell, formerly named Susan Jordan. She only kept it for half a year, and she had many shortcomings." "That was a long time ago?" "No, only eight or ten years ago, not much longer than that." "Does anyone with the surname Parkinson live here now?" "No, they all left a long time ago. One of them married a cousin and moved to Kenya." "I don't know," Dubens said politely, knowing that Mrs. Lupton was connected with the local children's hospital. "I don't know if you need children's books? But they're all used books. We bought the original owner's books." When I bought furniture, I got a lot."

"It's very kind of you, Mrs. Blasford. Of course, we've got some good books from people, all recently written for children, and it's a pity to let children read old books." "Ah, really?" said Dubens. "I love the books I had as a child, including my grandmother's when she was a child. I like them best. Treasure Island, Mrs. Molesworth's "Four Farms where the Wind Blows" and something by Stanley Wayman, I'll never forget." She looked around, as if to ask for everyone's approval—then, suddenly looking at her watch, she realized that it was getting late, so she took her leave.

At home, Dubens put the car into the garage, walked around the house, and walked to the front door.The door was open and she walked in.Abbot came out to greet him. "Would you like tea, ma'am? You must be very tired." "I don't think so. I've had tea. I've had it at the Guild. The pastries are pretty good, but the buns are awful." "Buns are hard to make. As hard as donuts, eh!" sighed Arlert. "Amy's a good donut." " "Well, no one can make those donuts." Amy was Abbott's wife, who died a few years ago.But according to Dubence's own opinion.Emmy's honey pies were delicious, but the donuts were by no means well done. "Donuts are really hard to make," Dubens said. "I couldn't do it myself." "Well, there's a trick to that." "Where's Mr. Blasford? Out?" "No, upstairs. In that room, ah, the room called the library or something. I'm still used to calling it the roof room." "What is he doing there?" Dubens asked slightly surprised. "Still reading. I think he's still sorting or putting away." "I didn't expect that," said Dubens. "He doesn't know anything about those books." "That's right," said Abbott. "Gentlemen are like that, aren't they? They tend to like big books, don't they? Difficult academic books!" "I'll go up and see what he's doing," Dubens said. "Where's Hannibal?" "I want to be with Master." Just then, Hannibal appeared.It believes that barking is an indispensable condition for a good watchdog, so after barking for a while, it correctly judges that it is the mistress he likes coming home, and it is not someone who is stealing the spoon or attacking the master and the mistress.With its pink tongue hanging down and its tail wagging, it ran down the stairs. "Ah," said Dubens, "good to see mother, aren't you?" Hannibal said he was happy to see his mother, then threw himself on Dubens, nearly knocking his mother to the ground. "Easy," said Dubens. "Easy, are you going to kill me?" Hannibal made it clear that he liked her so much that he wanted to "eat her". "Where's your master? Papa? Upstairs?" Hannibal knew what she meant.It ran up the stairs and turned back to wait for Dubens to come. "Oh, really!" Panting slightly, Du Bensi walked into the library and saw Tommy sitting on the retrieval ladder, putting books in and taking them out. "What the hell are you doing? Thought you were taking Hannibal out for a walk." "Go for a walk," said Tommy. "To the graveyard." "Why take Hannibal to the cemetery again? They don't like dogs in it, do they?" "He's always been on a rope," said Tommy, "and, instead of me taking him, he's taking me, and he seems to like graveyards." "It's best not to make a habit of it," Dubens said. "You know what kind of dog Hannibal is. He likes to make his own decisions. Once going to the cemetery becomes his daily routine, then he will go to the graveyard." We will be miserable." "It's really smart about that sort of thing." "You say it's smart, but it's actually capricious," Dubens said. Hannibal turned back to Dubens and nuzzled her calf. "He told me," said Tommy, "that he was a very clever dog, smarter than you or I ever were." "What does that mean?" asked Dubens. "Are you happy?" Tommy changed the subject. "Well, it's not quite happy enough," said Dubens, "but everyone's been very friendly to me, and I don't think I've bothered them as much as I do these days. It was hard at the beginning, everyone looked alike, dressed Same clothes, it's almost impossible to tell who's who at first, unless some people are pretty or very ugly. But that kind of thing doesn't seem to attract much attention in the country, does it?" "As I said earlier, Hannibal and I are both very smart." "I thought you were saying that Hannibal was smart." Tommy reached out and took out a book from the shelf in front of her. "Kidnapped, that's also by Robert Louis Stevenson. Someone seems to really like Robert Louis Stevenson. Black Arrow, Kidnapped, Catriona , and two, both awarded to Alexander Parkinson by grandchildren's grandma and generous aunt." "Ah, what's going on here?" "I found his tomb," Tommy said. "What did you find?" "Hannibal actually found it, in the corner by the little door into the church. I guess it's the door to the sacristy or something. It's pretty worn out and not cared for, but it's his tomb." He was fourteen when he died, and his name was Alexander Richard Parkinson. Hannibal was sniffing the area. I drove it away. I managed to read the epitaph, though it was badly worn." "Fourteen," said Dubens. "Poor little boy." "Well, that's pathetic, and—" "I don't know, what did you think of." "I find it strange, Dubens, that you seem to have infected me. That's the worst thing about you. When you get enthusiastic about something, you don't always do it alone, you always get others interested in it. " "I don't understand what you mean." "I guess it's not a case of cause and effect." "What do you mean, Tommy?" "I'm thinking about Alexander Parkinson. He must be happy to do that, he's put in a lot of work and made a sort of cipher or secret message in the book. 'Merry Jordan didn't die a natural death.' Is that true? Who knows, anyway, Merry Jordan did not die of natural causes! If so, the death of Alexander Parkinson may follow." "Do you—really think—" "Well, everybody wants to use it, and I'm starting to find it weird--only fourteen. Not a single word about how he died. Nothing on the gravestone, just the biblical line: 'You lived joyously'. That's it. But —It seems that Alexander may have known that some things were not good for some people, so—so, he died.” "You said he was killed? Is it just imagination?" "However, this is what you set off. Is it the same as imagination or feeling strange?" "We will still find it strange in the future," Dubens said. "And it's impossible to find out because it was many, many years ago." The two looked at each other. "Time flies, we've investigated the Jane Fenn case before," said Tommy. They stared at each other again, and their hearts went back to the past.