Part of Bunty rather liked the calm, almost stagnant pace of life in Kembleford. After a rare evening out to an even rarer party, she was very pleased at the thought of being able to lounge in bed until at least midday.

At least, that's what she'd thought.

The birds hadn't even started singing when Hornby timidly knocked on the door and relayed in his calm tones that a job had been found for her.

Bunty wondered who on earth had assumed she had been looking for such a thing. Still, it couldn't be that bad.

There was a reason why nobody ever wanted to help out at Kembleford Library. For a start, it stank. Not the sweet, musty smell of most book archives - a geriatric cleaner with very questionable methods meant that the place reeked of some unknown concoction, some strange mixture of burnt toast, cat hair and mouldy cabbage.

Secondly, the nosy old bats who worked there could drive anyone away with their persistent nattering and judgement of everyone who came through the door.

There were four of them - creaky jointed, heavy jawed custodians with pinch marks where their horn rimmed glasses pinched their noses.

The only exception was Miss Gildrew (daughter of the droll, sprawling Mrs Gildrew) who, despite being as airheaded as balloon with several holes and possessing the same amount of literary knowledge as the huge tom cat that kept trying to break in, was too young and imbecilic to gossip. Yet it was very likely that the fate would befall her soon, as certain as her blonde hair would probably soon turn grey.

She'd spent the morning avoiding the most interesting lady (a muscular, formidable old bat with a heaving bosom called Ms Haxelby) as she was, to put it mildly, utterly terrifying.

And finally, it was boring. Ridiculously so.

The most exciting part of Bunty's morning had been swatting a fly that was dangerously close to desecrating a very dog eared copy of Samuel Pepys' diary.

That was, until the door swang open and Inspector Sullivan hurtled in. Well, she thought it was him - the man had disappeared among the shelves so quickly Bunty hadn't been sure if it was him or not.

She quickly got up, and strode casually towards the corner where the maybe Sullivan had headed towards.

If it wasn't him, it was a remarkable likeness. Bunty had heard a lot about the young inspector - not many good things, if she was honest. Mrs McCarthy wasn't fond of him, and Sid often got so vehement about Sullivan's relentless sense of duty (arresting anyone and everything for seemingly nothing) that Father Brown would have to step in.

The most redeeming feature of him was undoubtedly his looks. Aunt Fliss had described them to her, and leaning back against the shelf admiring the way his fitted blue suit tapered along the muscles of his slim frame as he reached up to retrieve a book from a high shelf she could definitely see what she meant.

However, there's only so much to be learnt from a man by staring at his back, no matter how nice his back may be, so Bunty decided to turn him around to get a good look at his front.

"Can I help you, Inspector?"

The young man, now immersed in a battered Trollope volume, jolted as though electrified. He spun round to view his assailant.

"No, no, I'm fine, Miss..." He trailed off, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Windermere." Bunty answered.

"Yes, that's right. Windermere."

"Call me Bunty," She smiled, extending her hand, "I don't think we've met properly."

"Eh... no." Sullivan took her hand cautiously, as if it was a snake that might bite him. "No, we haven't. I'm Detective Inspector Sullivan, Kembleford Police."

Bunty cocked her head to one side and surveyed him curiously. "Not a fan of first names Inspector?"

Sullivan's handsome features very clearly showed his discomfort. "Not really, no." He replied awkwardly.

"Shame." Bunty rolled her soft blue eyes, and absentmindedly swished over to fix an upside down collection of Keats. "I've heard a lot about you; now that I can put a face to the character, I'd rather like a whole name to go with it."

Sullivan followed her over, piercing blue eyes narrowed with intrigue. "Who's been talking about me?" He asked.

"Father Brown of course," Bunty chirped, "And Aunt Fliss."

Sullivan screwed up his face in annoyance. "Of course," He scowled, before trying to recover his polite demeanour as Bunty turned to face him again, looking somewhat amused.

"Not a fan of people talking about how handsome you are?" She said brightly, watching Sullivan's mouth drop. "That was Aunt Fliss, of course," She added unnecessarily, "Although Father Brown did tell me you can be very heroic when the occasion arises."

Sullivan, frozen to the spot with his mouth open and book in hand, looked more like a rabbit in headlights than a Byronic hero. Interesting. Bunty rarely encountered men who didn't morph into peacocks at the slightest praise, puffing out their chests and parading in front of her like ludicrously overgrown infants. Sullivan was allergic to compliments, and was now blushing so profusely the books nearest to him were in danger of singing.

"Are you sure there's nothing I can help you with?" She enquired, breaking him out of his trance with a start.

"No, no no, I'm fine-" He stumbled backwards and blundered blindly into a small spindly table, "Thank you, I'm fine-"

He rounded a corner and disappeared behind the shelves. Bunty, pouting at having lost her only amusement, could practically feel him sighing in relief. She wandered back to the counter and perched on the stool, tapping on the scratched and battered tabletop, wrinkling her nose as the perfume of decaying paper finally managed to puncture the stench of charred bread, felines and rotting vegetables. Eventually Sullivan approached the counter, pale hands clutching a rather huge armful of books. Her eyes widened slightly as he dumped the pile on the desk in front of her, volumes spilling out of the towering mound.

"Gosh." She said, "That's quite a selection you've got there."

At this point, Ms Haxelby came stomping over, face a formidable mask as usual. Bunty quickly busied herself writing the titles in the register.

Ms Haxelby lifted one of the books and turned it over in her ham-like hands. Bunty held her breath. Ms Haxelby seemed incredibly stern to her, so it was a surprise when she handed the book back to Sullivan, saying casually, "Not the best of his work, but still a good read. Some say its a more scholastic work, aimed at the higher academics, but something tells me you'll have it finished before bedtime."

Sullivan's face seemed to lose several years, and he smiled meekly, like a child being praised by the head teacher. "Maybe." He said quietly, shuffling his hoard into a manageable pile.

"How many today?" Ms H asked.

"Five."

Ms H raised one eyebrow and sniffed impressively. A woman of few words, her vocabulistic range of wordless noises were well understood by all, and an impressed sniff was high praise. High praise indeed.

Bunty was rather shocked.

Sullivan wordlessly lifted his pile, cradling his books to him as though they were a priceless treasure. Ms Haxelby stamped his card with enough force to dent not just the card, but probably the hardwood counter beneath it. "I expect we'll see you in a day or two, if not tomorrow." She said, handing the card back to Sullivan.

"Probably," Sullivan agreed bashfully, "Thank you. Goodbye."

He strode to the door, opening it expertly with his elbow and slipping outside with the air of somebody who's practiced this many times before. "Happy reading." Ms Haxelby boomed after him.

Bunty examined the register again. Five books. Five novels. Five fat volumes that would take most people a week at least.

"I know what you're thinking," Ms Haxelby grinned; a wolfish grin that Bunty had definitely not expected from such a woman, "But he will almost undoubtedly be back tomorrow, hungry for more." She chuckled, and started sifting through a teetering tower of returns balanced precariously on the edge of the desk.

Bunty gazed at her, mouth open in amazement. "Surely he won't finish all those in a night?" She said incredulously.

Ms Haxelby nodded. "Most likely. One of Kembleford's top readers, that one. Ferocious appetite for books. Reads and re-reads anything and everything. Bit of a shrinking violet, but a true bookworm, that's for sure. Shame he's so shy, he would-"

She stopped in her tracks. Mrs Randall had appeared at her elbow, her doughy red face aglow with gossip.

"Inspector Sullivan, is it?" She asked, craning her head around trying to spy the elusive man amid the shelves.

"You just missed him," Bunty said, slightly worried that if the woman strained her piggy little eyeballs anymore, they might pop out of her head and bounce off into the gloom. Perhaps they would give that cat, who was pawing at the door again, something to hunt.

"Ooh, he's an oddball, that's the truth," Mrs Randall immediately launched into a detailed catharsis of his character, as Ms Haxelby rolled her eyes and frowned. "He comes in here like someone's chasing him and rushes about and grabs a huge stack of books-"

"Yes, she's seen them." Haxelby interrupted, but this couldn't stop Mrs Randall. Little less than a steel-reinforced wall could stop Mrs Randall.

"And the very next day he's back in with them and does it all again!" Mrs Randall giggled shrilly. "Ain't that funny? Professional man with nothing to do in the evening but read! Weird, isn't it? Maybe there's a reason why he's single!"

"It wouldn't seem surprising to anyone with a hint of intelligence," Ms Haxelby quipped icily, "And I doubt you'd get too far if you flung yourself at him."

"He could do with a good woman to keep him busy." Randall soldiered on.

"Then you don't qualify. I would also say that your Percy might complain, but that's never stopped you before, has it, Imogen?" Ms Haxelby asked in a sweet, sing song voice.

Bunty was trying so hard not to giggle she had gone purple. Mrs Randall was the same colour, but hers was a result of indignation, and she marched off looking exceptionally miffed. Bunty laughed so hard she had to cling to the counter for support.