Thistles and Thieves

by Molly Macrae

  Janet patted a stack of books in the window display and gave herself a shake. Then she grabbed a cleaning cloth and set to polishing the glass in the front door. Although she couldn’t help also looking for seals in the harbor—or Rab MacGregor sitting on the harbor wall.

  “I hate to wish for a rainy day,” she said when Tallie wandered over, “but at least the sun helps me see the smudges Rab missed the last time he cleaned.”

  “They might be new smudges since the last time.”

  “Innocent until proven guilty. You see, as eminently sensible as Christine is, you, with your legal brain, are more so.”

  “Thank you. Are you buttering me up for something? Sorry, that sounded suspicious again, didn’t it?”

  “Do you miss teaching law?”

  “Look at me and my eyebrows now.” Tallie closed her eyes and lolled her head with a sleepy smile. “That’s my imitation of Smirr and Butter living the good life, and the way I feel about it, too.”

  “All three of you are charming.”

  “We aren’t expecting any deliveries today, are we?”

  “No stock. A day coach or two, maybe.”

  “Let’s hope for three.” Tallie came and took the cloth from her mother. “But while it’s quiet, why don’t you take the foundling books into the office and look through them more carefully?”

  “Foundlings. That’s how I think of them, too.”

  “And you’re itching to discover their parentage, yet here you are washing windows. I can clean glass with the best of them, because I’m a very helpful member of Christine’s team of something or other, so go on. I put the box in the office for you, and the computer’s on.”

  “A very helpful and astute member of Christine’s something or other. Call me if you need me.”

  “Call me if you find treasure.”

  No one actually spent much time in the office, “office” being more of a euphemism. The room, a narrow slice partitioned from the space behind the sales counter, reminded Janet of a galley kitchen without windows. It was useful for getting work done out of the public eye, though, and as Christine said, they could be thankful it didn’t smell of a morning fry-up. At some unspecified future date, they planned to “do something” with the office. They’d bought the business from a couple who’d apparently gotten along better by each having their own desk—facing opposite walls so they’d sit with their backs to each other. One recent morning, Rab had surprised the women by moving the three-drawer filing cabinets, previously flanking the desks like twin bulwarks, to the wall at the far end so they stood next to the lone bookcase. He’d also moved the desks so they sat side by side along the wall with the door.

  “Opens up the vista,” he’d said by way of explanation, and he’d been right. Those two changes made a comfortable difference. Now when you entered, you saw a clean expanse of cream-colored wall straight ahead and slightly more floor space. No one sat with her back to the door, and the bookcase at the far end somehow looked less lonely and less like a second thought.

  The computer sat on the desk farther from the door. Janet logged in and then turned to the box of books. Tallie had thoughtfully set the box on the chair at the other desk so there was room on the desktop to spread and sort the books to her heart’s content. Janet patted that heart and then folded back the box flaps. The leather-bound edition of Kidnapped sat on top.

  She took the book out and looked over the exterior, checking spine, edges, corners, and cover for wear, stains, dirt, and damage. Wear was minimal and she found none of the rest. The three embossed thistles down the spine—done in gold leaf—glinted as she turned the book. Each thistle was slightly different. She stroked the middle one with a fingertip and then opened the book to look at the endpapers—marbled—and to check the binding—intact and tight. Janet understood completely why Norman Hobbs yearned to own the little gem. She might not let him. She might want it.

  Her disappointment came when she looked at the publication information and realized the book was only one volume in a set. And if it was the only volume they had, it wouldn’t be nearly so valuable. But maybe the others were still in the box.

  She set Kidnapped in the upper left corner of the desk. Then she unpacked the rest of the books, counting them as she did and laying them out in neat rows. Thirty-seven in all. Six rows of six plus Kidnapped sitting alone in its corner.

  “Well, pshaw,” she said to it. “Are your buddies missing or are you missing?”

  Tallie poked her head in. “Talking back to the books?”

  “Always.”

  “Anything interesting yet?”

  “It’s an odd bunch of books to find together in one box.”

  “It’s a whisky box. Maybe they all got drunk and went home together,” Tallie said.

  “Stranger things have happened. Norman’s going to be happy, though. Kidnapped is one of a set, but the only one of the set.”

  “You mean it was kidnapped?”

  “I didn’t think of it that way. I hope not. But coming from a broken set, it isn’t worth as much. If Norman doesn’t care that it’s an orphan, and if it’s ours to sell, then that should make him happy.”

  “Unless you decide to keep it. I see book lust in your eye.”

  “I don’t need another book,” Janet said.

  “It’s only a small one. Any clue yet about who brought them?”

  “That’s my next step. Look for names, inscriptions, bookmarks, stray hundred-pound notes. You know. Typical stuff.”

  “I could use a good bookmark,” Tallie said. “You go ahead and keep the hundred-pound notes. Oops, customers need me. See you.”

  Looking for the names, inscriptions, and ownership marks didn’t take long. Janet didn’t find any at all. Then she fanned through each book, looking for any of the at-hand objects people used to mark their places. Over her years as a librarian she’d found photographs, birthday cards, receipts, toothpicks, recipes, prescriptions, credit cards, once a flattened toothpaste tube, once a double-edged razor blade, and sometimes money. But all she saw while flipping through the foundlings was an occasional margin note. No tangible surprises, not even a real bookmark.

  The more recently published books were in decent shape, if a bit dusty, but ten- and twenty-year-old fiction and reference books weren’t anything they’d bother giving shelf space to. The shop’s trade in used books was high end, skewing toward the antiquarian and rare. Their limited selection lived safely in a locked case.

  A handful of the foundlings, including Kidnapped and The Little Minister, were old enough to be interesting. Just in her quick flip through each of them, though, Janet saw that their condition would best be described as well-handled and well-loved. Still, some of them were first editions and they might be worth a bit of research. She stacked them on her lap, rolled her chair to the computer desk, and opened a new document where she recorded the books’ vital statistics—title, author, publisher, publication date.

  She was intrigued by each of these older books. She’d never held such early editions of T. H. White’s The Sword in the Stone or Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons. And although Kidnapped was the only volume of the Stevenson set, the box might have come from a one-time Stevenson fan. Another of the books on her lap was Records of a Family of Engineers, a posthumously published family history by Stevenson. Another was an abridged edition of a book by his grandfather.

  And one of the books Janet loved immediately, as much as she loved the copy of Kidnapped. It was an edition of The Complete Herbal by Nicholas Culpeper, MD, published in 1850, and it almost qualified as the treasure Tallie wanted her to find. In her cursory internet search, she learned it was one of many editions since Culpeper published the original in 1653. This one was such a plain-faced, utilitarian chunk of a thing, covered in uninspired brown cloth, that Janet could picture someone looking at it, shrugging, and using it to replace a missing doorstop.

  Judging from the number of stained pages in the Herbal, and the pencil and ink
notes in its margins, she doubted that anyone had reduced it to such a lowly position. More likely the book had passed through generations of grateful hands as people searched Culpeper’s wisdom for their troubling symptoms, looking for relief and a reason to hope. But Janet decided she loved the book even more to think it would, in its unassuming way, shrug in return and dedicate itself to holding a door open if asked.

  In addition to the stained and marked pages, the Herbal’s front and back boards were loose. And though the spine was intact, the text block had begun to split, with the first half of the pages separating from the second half and several pages in the middle coming loose. If someone weren’t careful when opening the book, the two halves might pull the brittle spine apart. And it looked as though someone had either caused that split or helped it along by tucking something between the pages in the middle of the book. Something much more substantial than a bookmark or bookmark-like substitute—Janet could make out the faint depression it had left in the pages—about the size of a thick envelope. A chapbook, maybe? Or a slim paperback. The damage might have been accidental. Janet had seen that kind of thing happen at the library, when a child tried to fit a book back on a shelf, and the book opened just enough to engulf a smaller one already there. This intruder had stayed tucked in the Herbal for quite some time, though. Long enough to leave its mark.

  “So, no, Dr. Culpeper, I’m sorry,” Janet said to the book. “You aren’t the kind of treasure we can sell for a fortune. If you’re even ours to sell. You’re old and used and a little bit abused, but I think you’re pretty cool, even with your warts and scars.” She set the Culpeper and others back on the other desk.

  “Mom?” Tallie looked around the door. “Coach.”

  For the next several hours the bookshop and tearoom kept busy as one day coach after another out of Fort William, Glasgow, and Inverness arrived in Inversgail. The daily Outlander onslaught, Christine called it, named for the many trippers who were fans of the wildly popular Outlander books and television series. The trippers were a mix of Europeans, Americans, and an increasing number of Chinese, many of them on a quest to find the “real” Highlands. Yon Bonnie Books attracted them by looking like a “real” bookshop. Built of granite blocks, like so many of the shops on the High Street, Kate Greenaway might have drawn up the plans herself and painted the trim its charming dark green. Inside, to a mix of lilts, airs, and classical music floating down from the overhead sound system, the questers discovered poetry, stories, books of photographs, and guides for any type of “real” Highland adventure they cared to experience.

  Customers were sometimes disappointed by the three American women’s accents. But they were delighted by Christine and Rab (if he happened to be in). And Ranger would allow selfies, up to a point, before turning his back and closing his eyes. Summer’s “real” shortbread and scones universally left customers in good humor.

  Just as Janet had hoped to find a treasure among the foundling books, she lived in hope with each new onslaught that one of the pilgrims drawn to the locked case of antiquarian books would become smitten, unable to live without A Hundred Years in the Highlands by Osgood Hanbury Mackenzie. Theirs was an excellent and rare 1921 first edition, first impression, signed by the author to Colonel Stuart Farquhar, who’d opened Yon Bonnie Books after returning from the Great War in 1919. She held her breath that afternoon as a young couple from Shanghai held the book between them with reverence and dewy eyes. But it wasn’t to be.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Tallie said after putting the book back and relocking the case. “Smitten, but not enough to break their budget.”

  “I’ll keep dreaming.”

  “It’s bound to happen, just like I’m bound to get my chance to call Ian an old dic—”

  “Customers, dear,” Janet broke in. “Has he been in again?”

  “No. I’m just having a flashback to yesterday.”

  “He is the gift that keeps on giving. We’re in a lull between Outlander storms. Why don’t you take a break?”

  “Do you think there’s time for a fast walk around the block and a cup of tea?”

  “Go for it.”

  Christine had decided to take a break, too, sipping from a mug as she came from the tearoom.

  “Sleep catching up with you yet?” Janet asked.

  “What? No. Not that I’ve noticed. Why do you ask?” Christine set the mug on the sales counter and drummed her fingertips beside it.

  Janet hadn’t really thought sleep was about to overtake Christine. One look at her jittery pupils would tell anyone that.

  “Did you find a name?” Christine asked. “In the box of books? Do you know who left them?”

  “Not yet.” Janet figured that answer covered all three questions well enough.

  “Wouldn’t prove anything anyway,” Christine said. “Who owned them once, aye. Not who owned them since. Not who left them.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I’ll look at a few. Help you out. Over there.” Christine waved toward the fireplace. “Leave the counter free for customers.”

  “Thank you. On both counts. Go grab one of the chairs before someone else does.” Janet waved her hand toward the fireplace, too—as a distraction. Christine, focusing her jittery eyes on Janet’s fluttering hand, missed Janet sliding the mug quietly aside. “I’ll bring you some of the more interesting books,” Janet said.

  Maybe if Christine sat long enough in one of those very comfortable chairs she would fall asleep. Her absence from the tearoom might be hard on Summer, but Tallie wouldn’t mind helping out there. Janet slipped into the office and grabbed the two closest books. Then the Culpeper caught her eye and she took it, too.

  Christine’s eyes had slid to half-mast but she roused when she saw Janet peering at her. “What have you brought?”

  “Records of a Family of Engineers,” Janet said, “and The Bell Rock Lighthouse, part of something called the Craftsman Series.”

  “Good Lord.” Christine scowled and sank deeper into the chair.

  “You’re probably right, but what about this?” Janet held up the Herbal.

  “Looks better. What is it?” Christine held out her hand.

  “First, listen,” Janet said.

  Christine made an annoyed sound but settled back again.

  Janet read the Herbal’s full title and impressive, exhaustive subtitle—read it soft and slow and lilting. Like a croon. Like a lullaby:

  “The Complete Herbal: To which is now added, upwards of one hundred additional herbs, with a display of their medicinal and occult qualities physically applied to the cure of all disorders incident to mankind: to which are now first annexed, the English physician enlarged, and key to Physic. With rules for compounding medicine according to the true system of nature. Forming a complete family dispensatory and natural system of physic. To which is also added, upwards of fifty choice receipts, selected from the author’s last legacy to his wife. A new edition, with a list of the principal diseases to which the human body is liable, and a general index.”

  And whether it was the immensity or density of the subtitle, or Janet’s melodious croon, the result was Christine sound asleep. Janet tiptoed back to the sales counter with the books. When the bell on the door jingled, she was sorely tempted to issue a good, old-fashioned librarian’s shhh.

  But it was Rab and Ranger arriving as unceremoniously—and quietly—as they usually did. Man and dog looked over at Christine.

  “Aye,” Rab said, and nodded toward the tearoom. “I’ll give a hand, shall I?”

  “That would be great,” Janet said. “Oh, before you do, though, do you know anything about a box of used books I found on the doorstep this morning?”

  “Sorry, no.” Rab took a folded tea towel from a pocket of his coat, unfolded it and gave it to Ranger. “Be a good lad,” he said to the dog, and then he took himself off to the tearoom and Ranger, good lad that he was, took himself to his favorite chair. He jumped into the chair, arranged the tea towel to his sat
isfaction, looked again at Christine, and then settled down for his own nap. As Janet hid a sympathetic yawn, Tallie and Summer came from the tearoom.

  Tallie handed a cup of tea to Janet. Summer looked at Christine’s mug on the counter and then at Christine.

  “So much for her claim that caffeine replaced all the blood in her system,” Summer said. “She actually did pretty well, considering. Did you send Rab in when she fell asleep?”

  Janet shook her head. “He’s Rab. He just . . . arrived.”

  “He’s an Inversgailian Jeeves,” Tallie said. “He shimmers in when needed. Hey, maybe he knows something about the box of books.”

  Janet shook her head. “Even Jeeves is fallible.”

  One trio of customers seemed disappointed that afternoon to find only two of the four comfy fireplace chairs available. They were quiet and polite about it, though, and snapped pictures of Ranger before heading for the tearoom.

  “I wonder if I would’ve said anything if they’d taken pictures of Christine, too,” Janet said to Tallie.

  “I’m sure you’ll make the right decision if you get another great opportunity.” The bell at the door jingled. “Road Policing Unit, I think,” Tallie said. “Looks like Norman followed through with his call. Be right back.”

  Without explanation, Tallie slipped from behind the counter. She disappeared down an aisle toward the tearoom, leaving Janet to face two dour members of Police Scotland alone.

  9

  The female and male, walking in lockstep, stopped short of the counter, stopped short of making eye contact, and surveyed the area of the shop they could see. Janet thought it mildly interesting that they stood shoulder to shoulder and appeared to be the same height—neither of them as tall as Constable Norman Hobbs, both of them possibly no older than thirty. Definitely under thirty-five.