I walked over to a bookshelf, searching for an author or a title I knew. Many of them were in foreign languages. I paused to peruse what looked to be an original Flaubert, then moved along to find the English books. I pulled down a copy of Sense and Sensibility – perhaps my favourite of Austen’s novels – and leafed through its yellowing pages, keeping my touch light on the ageing paper.
I was so immersed that I failed to notice a tall man surveying me from a doorway at the back of the shop.
I jumped at the sight of him, and snapped the book shut, wondering if it was an ‘impropriety’ – as I had just read in Austen – to open it.
‘An Austen fan, are we? More of a Brontë devotee myself.’
‘I love both.’
‘Of course, you must know that Charlotte was not a great admirer of Jane’s work. She deplored the fact that the literary supplements swooned over Ms Austen’s more . . . shall we say, “pragmatic” prose. Charlotte wrote with her romantic heart on her sleeve. Or, should I say, in her pen.’
‘Really?’ As I spoke, I tried to make out the man’s features, but the shadows were too heavy to see more than the fact that he was very tall and thin, with reddish-blond hair, wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and what looked like an Edwardian frock coat. As for his age, in this light, he could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty.
‘Yes. Now then, are you looking for something in particular?’
‘I . . . not really.’
‘Well, browse away. And if there’s anything else you wish to take off the shelves and read, please feel free to sit in one of the armchairs and do so. We are as much a library as a bookshop, you see. I’m of the belief that good literature should be shared. Aren’t you?’
‘I absolutely am,’ I agreed fervently.
‘Do call up for me if you need help in finding something. And if we haven’t got it, I am bound to be able to order it in for you.’
‘Thank you.’
With that, the man disappeared through the door at the back, leaving me standing in the shop alone. This would never happen in Switzerland, I thought to myself, given that at any second I could snatch a book off the shelf and make a run for it.
A sudden noise pierced the dusty silence and I realised it was my mobile ringing. Mortified, I made to grab it and switch it to silent, but not before the man reappeared, putting his finger to his lips.
‘I do apologise, but it’s the only rule we have here. No mobiles allowed. Would you mind awfully taking the call outside?’
‘Of course not. Thanks. Bye.’
My face flaming red in embarrassment, I left the shop feeling like a naughty schoolgirl who’d been caught texting her boyfriend under the desk. It was also ironic as my mobile hardly ever rang, unless it was Ma or CeCe. Outside on the pavement, I looked down and saw it was a number I didn’t recognise, so I listened to the voicemail.
‘Hi, Star, it’s Shanthi. I got your number from Marcus. Just keeping in touch. Call me when you get a chance. Bye-bye, lovely.’
I felt irrationally irritated by the fact her call had led to an undignified exit from the bookshop. Having spent so long plucking up the courage to actually go in, I knew I wouldn’t find any more of it today. When I saw the bus that would take me back to Battersea, I crossed the road and jumped onto it.
You’re pathetic, Star, you really are, I berated myself. You should have just walked back inside. But I hadn’t. I’d even enjoyed the brief conversation I’d had with the man, which was a miracle in itself. And now I was on a bus back to my empty apartment and my empty life.
Arriving home, I stared at a bare wall, and decided that I needed to buy a bookshelf for it.
‘A room without books is like a body without a soul,’ I quoted to myself.
But as I was stony-broke until next month after all the plant buying, I also knew that I must do something about finding a job. Relying on Pa Salt’s posthumous funds wasn’t helping anything, especially not my self-esteem. Perhaps tomorrow I would walk down the high street and ask in bars and restaurants if there was any work going as a cleaner. Given my lack of communication skills, I definitely wasn’t cut out to be front-of-house.
I went upstairs to shower, and noticed the bottom drawer of my chest of drawers was still open from when I had retrieved the plastic wallet containing Pa Salt’s letter, the coordinates and the quotation. With a horrified jolt, I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen it. I ran downstairs to search for it, my heart beating like a proverbial drum against my chest as I tipped out the entire contents of my leather rucksack, but it wasn’t there. I tried to think whether I’d had it in my hands when I’d stepped into the shop and remembered that I had. But after that . . .
I could only hope that I had put it down on the table in the bookshop when I’d idled amongst the shelves.
Going to my laptop, I searched the bookshop’s website to look up a telephone number. When I rang, it clicked through to an answering machine, the distinctive tone of the man I’d met telling me that someone would call me back as soon as possible if I left them a number. I did so, then prayed to God that he would call. Because if that plastic wallet was lost, so was the link to my past. And, perhaps, my future.
6
The next day, I woke up and immediately checked my mobile to see if there was a message from the bookshop. As there wasn’t, I realised I had no choice but to retrace my movements to Kensington Church Street.
An hour later, I entered Arthur Morston Books for a second time. Nothing had altered since yesterday – and thankfully, on the table in front of the fireplace, lay my plastic wallet. I couldn’t help but give a small cry of relief as I picked it up and checked its contents, all of which were present and correct.
The shop was deserted and the door at the back of the room was closed, making it perfectly possible for me to leave without disturbing any occupant behind it. But however much I wished to do this, I had to remember the reason I had sought out this place originally. Besides, the tinkling bell must have alerted someone to my presence. And it was only polite to let them know that I had found what I needed before I left.
Again, my mobile shattered the silence and I ran to exit the shop before answering it.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that a Miss D’Aplièse?’
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, it’s Arthur Morston Books here. I’ve just received your message. I’m going to go downstairs now and see if I can find your missing item.’
‘Oh,’ I said, confused. ‘Actually, I’m standing outside. I was in the shop a few seconds ago, and yes, I found it on the table where I’d left it yesterday.’
‘I do apologise. I must have missed the bell. I opened up, you see, then dashed back upstairs. There’s a book coming up in an auction today—’ A ringing noise interrupted him. ‘That’s my representative on the landline now. Do excuse me for a moment . . .’
All went quiet at the other end, before I heard his voice again. ‘Forgive me, Miss D’Aplièse, I just had to decide on my maximum price for a first edition of Anna Karenina. Fabulous copy, best I’ve ever seen, and signed by the author too, although I’m rather afraid the Russians and their roubles will most likely win against my paltry pounds. Still, worth a punt, don’t you think?’
‘Er . . . yes,’ I replied, nonplussed.
‘As you’re here, so to speak, do you want to come back in and take a cup of coffee?’
‘No . . . it’s fine, thank you.’
‘Well, come back in anyway.’
The line went dead and I hovered yet again on the pavement, wondering at the bizarre way this bookshop was run. But as he’d said, I was here and now had an open invitation to go back inside and talk to the man who might or might not be Arthur Morston.
‘Good morning.’ The man was entering through the back doorway of the shop as I arrived at the front. ‘Sorry about all that, and my sincere apologies for not getting back to you sooner about your lost property. Are you sure I can’t persuade you in
to a coffee?’
‘Positive. Thanks.’
‘Ah! You’re not one of those young ladies who equate caffeine with heroin, are you? I must say that I don’t trust people who drink decaffeinated.’
‘No, I’m not. If I don’t have my morning cup, my day begins badly.’
‘Quite.’
I watched him as he sat down. Now he was closer, and the light was brighter, I reckoned he was in his mid-thirties, very tall and thin as a rake, like me. He was dressed today in an immaculate three-piece velvet suit, the shirt cuffs peeking out from the jacket sleeves, starched and exact, with a bow tie at the throat and a matching paisley pocket square folded just so in the breast pocket. He was pale of face, as though he had never seen the sun, and his long fingers intertwined around the coffee cup he held between his hands.
‘I’m cold. Are you?’ he said.
‘Not particularly.’
‘Well, it is almost September, and from what the weather forecaster said on the radio, below thirteen degrees. Shall we light a fire to cheer our senses on this misty grey morning?’
Before I could answer, he’d stood up and busied himself with the fire. Within a few minutes, the contents of the grate were alight and a blissful warmth began to emanate from it.
‘Will you sit down?’ he indicated the chair.
I did so.
‘You don’t say much, do you?’ he commented, but before I could answer he continued, ‘Do you know that the worst thing in the world for the health of books is damp? They’ve dried out all summer, you see, and one has to nurse them and their fragile interiors so they don’t catch paper jaundice.’
He lapsed into silence then, and I stared blindly into the fire.
‘Please feel free to leave at any time. My apologies if I’m keeping you.’
‘You’re not, really.’
‘By the way, why did you come to visit the shop yesterday?’
‘To look at the books.’
‘Were you just passing?’
‘Why do you ask?’ I said, feeling suddenly guilty.
‘Simply because most of my business these days is conducted online. And the people who come into the shop are mainly locals who I’ve known for years. Plus the fact that you’re not over fifty, or Chinese, or Russian . . . Putting it bluntly, you don’t resemble my average client.’ He peered at me thoughtfully from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I know!’ He slapped his thigh delightedly. ‘You’re an interior designer, aren’t you? Furnishing some lavish flat in Eaton Square for an oligarch, and requiring twenty yards of books so that the owner can show his illiterate friends how cultured he is?’
I giggled. ‘No. I’m not.’
‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ he said with genuine relief. ‘Forgive me for seeing my stock as the equivalent of offspring. The thought of them simply being an adornment to a room – ignored and never read – is one I just cannot bear.’
This was shaping up to be one of the strangest conversations I had ever had. And at least this time, it wasn’t just down to me.
‘So, let us rewind. Why are you here? Or should I say, why did you come here yesterday, then forget something and have to return?’
‘I . . . was sent here.’
‘Hah! So you are working for a client?’ the man said triumphantly.
‘No, really, I’m not. I was given your card by my father.’
‘I see. Perhaps he was a client of ours?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Then why would he give you my card?’
‘The thing is, I really don’t know.’
Again, I had the urge to laugh at the rabbit hole this conversation seemed to be heading down. I decided to explain.
‘My father died about three months ago.’
‘My condolences, Miss D’Aplièse. Wonderfully unusual surname, by the way,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Never heard it before. Not that that makes up for the fact your poor father is recently deceased, of course. In fact, that was a highly inappropriate comment to make. I do apologise.’
‘It’s okay. May I ask, are you Arthur Morston?’ I opened the plastic wallet and found the card to show him.
‘Goodness, no,’ he said, studying the card. ‘Arthur Morston died over a hundred years ago. He was the original proprietor, you see; he opened the shop in 1850, long before the Forbes family – my family – took it over.’
‘My father was pretty old too. In his eighties when he died. We think, anyway.’
‘Good grief!’ he said, studying me. ‘Then it just goes to show how men keep their fertility well into their dotage.’
‘Actually, I was adopted by him, as were my five sisters.’
‘Well now, that indeed makes for an interesting story. But taking that aside, why did your father send you here to speak to Arthur Morston?’
‘He didn’t actually say that I needed to speak to Arthur Morston specifically, I just presumed it, because that was the name on the card.’
‘What did he ask you to do when you arrived here?’
‘To ask about . . .’ – I quickly consulted Pa’s letter to check I said the right name – ‘a woman called Flora Mac-Nichol.’
The man surveyed me intently. Eventually he said, ‘Did he indeed?’
‘Yes. Do you know her?’
‘No, Miss D’Aplièse. She too died before I was born. But yes, of course I know of her . . .’
I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Just sat, staring into space, evidently lost in his own thoughts. In the end, the silence – even for me – became uncomfortable. Making sure I picked up the plastic wallet from the table, I stood up.
‘I really am sorry to have bothered you. You have my number, so if—’
‘No, no . . . I must apologise again, Miss D’Aplièse, I was actually thinking of whether I should increase my maximum offer on the Anna Karenina. They’re so rare, you see. Mouse will throttle me, but I do want it so very much. What was it you asked me again?’
‘About Flora MacNichol,’ I said slowly, perplexed by the way his mind seemed to dart from one subject to the next at lightning speed.
‘Yes, of course, but for now, I am afraid you will have to excuse me, Miss D’Aplièse, as I’ve decided that I really should not let those Russians win. I’m just going to pop upstairs and telephone my agent to raise my bid before the auction starts.’ He rose from the chair and pulled a golden fob watch out of his pocket, clicking it open like the Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland. ‘Just in time. Could you possibly mind the shop while I’m away?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thank you.’
I watched his long legs make short work of the walk to the door at the back. Then I sat there, wondering whether I was mad, or he was. But at least it had been a conversation, and I had said the words I needed to. And set the hares running . . .
I spent a very pleasant time acquainting myself with the stock, making a definitive mental list of what I would want to have on my own dream bookshelf. Shakespeare, of course, and Dickens, not to mention F. Scott Fitzgerald and Evelyn Waugh . . . And then some of the modern books I loved too, which hadn’t yet had time to become classics, but I knew would be just as valuable to any collector in a couple of hundred years’ time, if not as beautifully bound in leather as they used to be.
Not a single person entered the shop as I wandered the shelves. Hunting through the children’s section, I found a collection of Beatrix Potter books – The Tale of Mrs Tiggy-Winkle being my all-time favourite.
I sat down by the fire and began to turn its pages. And had a vivid flashback to a Christmas when I must have been very young. I’d found a copy of this book under the tree from Père Noël, and that night, Pa Salt had taken me on his knee in front of the fire that blazed merrily in our sitting room all winter and read the story to me. In my mind’s eye, I remembered looking out of the windows at the snow-capped mountains feeling warm, contented and very, very loved.
‘At peace with myself,’
I whispered out loud. That is what I want to find again.
‘All done,’ came the man’s voice, jolting me out of my memories. ‘Call me reckless, but I just had to have that book. I’ve been searching for it for years. Mouse will no doubt give me a tongue lashing, which I fully deserve, for bankrupting us even further. Goodness, I’m hungry! It’s all that stress. You?’
I looked down at my watch and saw that over an hour had passed since he’d disappeared upstairs and it was now five to one.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Well, could I tempt you? There’s an excellent restaurant just across the road which very kindly provides me with whatever the day’s menu is. It’s a set menu, you see,’ he clarified, as if this was important. ‘Always exciting to never be quite sure what you will get, rather than choosing it for yourself, don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Why don’t I run across the road to collect the food and see if I can entice you? I owe you lunch at least, for being kind enough to stay down here while I sweated it out over the auction.’
‘Okay.’
‘Beatrix Potter, eh?’ he said as he glanced down at the book in my hands. ‘How ironic. In all sorts of ways. She knew Flora MacNichol, but then nothing in life is a coincidence, is it?’
With that, he left the shop and if I’d had any intention of disappearing while he was out, his parting words had prohibited it. I tended the fire in the way that Pa Salt had taught me, banking the coal close together so that it did not burn too fast and waste fuel, but gave out a steady, constant heat.
Again, the shop remained deserted, so I read The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck and Tom Kitten while I waited for his return. I was just about to begin on Jeremy Fisher when my nameless lunch companion reappeared through the door holding two brown-paper bags.
‘Looks excellent today,’ he said as he locked the door behind him and turned the sign to Closed. ‘I don’t like to be disturbed when I’m eating. Bad for the digestion, don’t you know. I’ll just pop upstairs and get some plates. Oh, and a good glass of white Sancerre to go with the fish,’ he added as he strode across the shop and I heard him bound up the stairs.
The Shadow Sister Page 6