Finally, the receptionist announced she was closing up. Mirren got up. There was a moment ... just a tiny moment, in the quiet crackle of the fireplace and the rain drumming on the roof ... where she almost thought ... maybe? Why not? She held his gaze and he looked back at her, looking amused. But then he jumped to his feet, made a polite bow and said, ‘Madam. A true pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
I do not, Theo thought to himself,need to complicate this any further. But he had very much liked making her smile.
The following morning, the rain had cleared, and the day was bright and sunny with a hint of frost. Mirren woke feeling surprisingly clear-headed, given the wine and the gin and tonic, and happy to see the frosty light through the mullioned window. She had slept excellently, and did her hair carefully before creeping down for a superb breakfast of Welsh cakes, porridge with syrup and local sausages and bacon. Sadly, there was no sign of the man she’d met the previous evening. It occurred to her that she barely knew him and they hadn’t swapped social media handles. She’d just assumed she’d see him again that morning, and was amazed by how deflated she felt. It had been a long time since she’d had a proper conversation with someone that had arisen naturally. Her colleagues and flatmates had tried to encourage her back out there with internet dating, but she’d had a couple of stilted conversations on dating apps and one awkward date where she spent the night half falling off an uncomfortable stool at an overpriced wine bar with smirking waiters, and had decided she wasn’t ready.
Oh well. She had a job to do, she supposed, so she finished her coffee and headed out. There were dozens of bookshops here and she had to at least start asking and stop being intimidated, even by the owner at one bookshop who had folded his arms and looked at her every time she dared to go past a shelf without buying something immediately.
She got very good at looking for a red hardback. She even got braver at asking booksellers for everything they had by Stevenson, every copy they had; asking if they’d ever heard of it. Most of them just stared at her. One, a particularly round elderly gentleman, laughed heartily, tucking his hands into his waistcoat pockets like a cheerful mole, and said, ‘Ah, the Beardsley brief! I haven’t heard that old chestnut for years! It’s up there withCardenio!’
‘Well,’ said Mirren defiantly, ‘my great-aunt remembers it. She held it in her hands.’
‘And how old is she now?’
‘Ninety,’ said Mirren, shrugging.
‘Hmm. Well, I’m sure she saw the Charles Robinson ...’
‘It wasn’t the Charles Robinson,’ said Mirren firmly, for the ninth time.
Then the old man did a very curious thing. He glanced around the room – it was a very cold Tuesday in early December, they weren’t remotely busy – and said, very quietly, ‘If it’s real ... if it’s real, it’s worth its weight in gold, you understand? You would have to guard it with your life.’
‘It’s a book,’ protested Mirren.
‘Books change the world,’ said the old man, blinking behind his spectacles.
This gave Mirren pause. She had, honestly, been thinking throughout the day, as she passed so many thousands of tomes, so many blank faces, that this was both a terrible waste of her annual leave and not at all helpful to Violet, not really;she needed care and nursing, not indulging in wild goose chases.
Then she remembered how Violet had begged, and looked again at the expression on the bookseller’s face, and she vowed to herself that she would carry on.
‘Books ARE the world,’ said the old man. ‘Be very careful.’
Chapter 12
Mirren had spoken to every dealer she could in Hay-on-Wye. She’d checked every shelf; looked at more Stevenson books than she could count; got her hands utterly filthy, dust in her hair and a distinct smell of old books about her that she could no longer notice. The general consensus from the dealers was that, number one, the book was a myth, or they would definitely have heard of it (book people, Mirren was learning, took any mention of a book they hadn’t heard of as a personal affront); number two, that it was a waste of time looking – if it wasn’t in their town, it wouldn’t be anywhere; and, number three, reluctantly, the next place to look might be Alnir, a town on the Northumbrian coast also famous for its bookshops, ‘Although,’ sniffed one fastidious-looking man in a bow tie, ‘everything is so frightfully DAMP.’
Having left her details everywhere she could think of, having done as much, she felt, as she could possibly do short of going house to house (which had also occurred to her), Mirren finally returned to the inn, ready for a very early night and to move on the following day to continue the search elsewhere. The receptionist smiled and pushed an envelope towards her.
‘This was left for you.’
Frowning, Mirren opened it, then instantly began smiling.
Dear Miss Sutherland,
it started, in a creditable stab at an italic hand.
It was a delight to make your acquaintance. As we appear to be in the same line of work, I hope our paths will cross one of these days. Do let me know via the most excellent innkeeper where your next port of call may be.
Yours faithfully,
Theodore Palliser
Mirren felt herself go pink. This was, obviously, ridiculous – just a travelling salesman, having a bit of a laugh with her.
But even so. Between Violet, and the rotten year she’d had, it felt like the first exciting thing to happen to Mirren in such a long time.
She begged a pen and paper off the innkeeper ... receptionist, she meant ... and, smiling, started,
Dear Mr Palliser,
