***
I’d tried without success to find a phone number for Mr Bacus, the accountant who lived in Middle Tweaking. Weirdly, he didn’t seem to be listed anywhere online, or even in the local phone book. Never one to give up easily, I decided to kill two birds with one stone by calling in at the local store. I was sure that the Stock sisters would know where Mr Bacus lived. While I was there, I would pick up a couple of packets of custard creams if the new stock had arrived.
The woman behind the counter wasn’t Cynthia Stock, but there was an obvious family resemblance, so I assumed she must be her sister, Marjorie. I knew, from my previous visit, that the custard creams were kept near to the carrots and tea bags. Unfortunately, when I got to that aisle, I discovered all of the stock had been moved around. Instead of carrots and tea bags there were now rubber gloves and Pot Noodles. Needless to say, there was no sign of the custard creams.
Thoroughly defeated, I went over to the counter.
“Hello.” The woman looked up from what she was doing. “Are you new to the village?”
“No, we live in the old watermill.”
“Ah, yes. My sister mentioned you. Welcome to Middle Tweaking.”
“Thanks. I just popped in on the off chance that you might have restocked with custard creams.”
“You’re in luck. We had a delivery just this morning.”
“Great. Where are they?”
“Now, where did we put them?” From under the counter, she brought out the large ledger that I’d seen her sister using. “Custard creams?” She flicked slowly through the pages. A couple of minutes later, she tapped one of the pages with her finger. “Here we are. If you turn around, you’ll find them in the aisle on the far left. Halfway down on your right, next to the cat food.”
“The cat food?”
“That’s right. You can’t miss them. They’re in between the cat food and the Marmite.”
“Right.” I followed her directions, and sure enough, there were the custard creams. I figured I might never find them again, so I grabbed five packets instead of two.
“My, you certainly like your custard creams.”
“I do, but then they are the king of biscuits.”
“I’m rather partial to a Jammie Dodger myself.”
“While I’m here, might I ask you for some information?”
“Of course. I’ll help if I can.”
“I’ve been told there’s an accountant who lives in the village. A Mr Bacus?”
“Arthur? Yes, we use him ourselves. He’s very good.”
“Could you possibly tell me where he lives? I’ve looked for his phone number, but I couldn’t find it anywhere.”
“He lives in one of the cottages behind the church. Number thirty-two. He’s almost always in.”
“Thanks very much.”
Mr Bacus’ cottage was a quaint little place, spoiled only by the overgrown garden. I rang the doorbell and a few moments later, the door creaked open and a face peered out of the gap.
“Can I help you, young lady?”
Mr Bacus looked seventy if he was a day. He was wearing trousers which were an inch too short, and a green cardigan. Clearly the man had been a hipster long before the term had been coined.
“Mr Bacus?”
“That’s me.”
“I was given your name by Marjorie Stock at the village store. I’m looking for a new accountant?”
“In that case, you’ve come to the right place.” He opened the door wider. “I’ve been an accountant for over fifty years now. Would you care to come inside?”
“Thank you.”
The house was spotless, but I felt as though I’d stepped through a time warp. Everything about it shouted the fifties.
“Come through to my office, would you?” His office was in the front room and overlooked the overgrown garden. His desk, an antique very similar to my own, was positioned next to the window. “Do have a seat.” He pointed to an old, brown leather sofa.
“Thanks.”
Mr Bacus sat on a chair next to the desk, which was on castors, and then propelled himself across the room towards me.
“So, young lady, you’re looking for an accountant?”
“That’s right. My previous accountant went to live in France.”
“I spent some years in France when I was younger. It’s much too hot for my liking—it made my nose peel something awful. What line of business are you in—err—I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”
“Jill. Jill Maxwell. My family and I recently moved into the old watermill.”
“Myrtle Turtle’s old place?”
“That’s right.”
“Lucky you. It’s a charming property.”
“Thank you. And to answer your question, I’m a private investigator.”
“How very interesting.”
“The thing is, Mr Bacus, I’m—”
“Do call me Arthur.”
“The thing is, Arthur, I’m not particularly good with paperwork, as you’ll see from this lot.”
“Let me have a look at it.” He took the carrier bag, shot back across the room on the chair, and emptied the contents onto the desk. “Receipts, bills, invoices. All the usual suspects. This will be no problem at all. I could whip this into shape for you within a few days, unless you need it sooner than that.”
“A few days would be fantastic.” I glanced around the room and realised there was no sign of a computer. “Can I ask, Mr Bacus, what do you use to produce the accounts? Is your computer in another room?”
“A computer? Certainly not. I have no use for one of those.”
“Do you do it all on a calculator?”
“No, it’s all done up here.” He tapped his forehead with his finger.
“You do it all in your head?”
“Yes, and I have done ever since I started. I’m proud to say that I’ve never had any complaints. Is that going to be a problem?”
“Not at all.”
“Excellent. Any more questions?”
