“You won’t even give me a clue?” asked Edith Langford, as the motorcar wound its way down a country lane. Detective-Sergeant Anderson grinned and shook his head.
“That would ruin the surprise. And besides, I already gave you a clue. We’re going for an outing in a historical market town.”
“Hmm. But why one so far away? There’s plenty to do in Woolstock, and that’s just down the road from Longborough.” Edith scrunched up her nose, sensing a mystery. Not that she wanted mysteries to intrude on their nice afternoon. Every time she and John Anderson found themselves in a tea-room, they ended up discussing murder, but today was going to be different. Today there would be scones and normal conversation. And possibly hand-holding.
But the mystery kept nagging at her. She sat there puzzling over it and suddenly exclaimed:
“A second-hand bookshop, how lovely!”
Anderson nearly swerved the car into a hedge.
“How the devil did you know that?”
“Oh, elementary,” said Edith airily, then laughed at his expression. “It wasn’t deduction,” she admitted. “I just remembered some pointed questions you asked me last week about what I liked to read and whether I preferred antiquarian books to new.”
“My interrogation skills need work,” said Anderson ruefully. “And here I thought I was being so stealthy.”
“We won’t mention this to your inspector,” she promised, then sighed happily. “I’ve been looking for a good bookshop ever since I left London. And now I can stock up on presents for everyone. Something sinister and full of murders for Miss Mallowby, of course…”
“It’s fascinating what one can tell about people from their reading habits. And Mrs. Lundy?”
“Sentimental novels and a surprising interest in astronomy.”
“I wouldn’t have guessed that. But I’ve got one much more shocking. Last time I was in Lady Elrington’s drawing-room, advising her on a new burglar-alarm, I saw The Sheik on a side table.”
“No!” Edith clapped a hand to her mouth. “The one where he carries her off to his tent…?”
“The very same.”
“Oh goodness. I’ll never be able to attend WI meetings with a straight face again. To think of our president reading The Sheik.”
“I’d rather not think of it, if I’m honest,” Anderson admitted. “That lady frightens me enough as it is.”
They drove into Chipping Snodbury, a charming little town centred on an imposing Norman church. A short stroll down a few winding streets, and they were standing in front of a bow-windowed shop under the sign “Preston’s Booksellers”. A tinkling bell admitted them into a dim space that smelled of old glue and paper and was piled on every side with beautiful leather-bound books.
“It’s wonderful,” Edith breathed, turning in circles to take it all in. What the shop lacked in size it made up for with creative shelving, with books crammed into every corner and alcove, and even resting in a precarious pile on top of the till.
A small, bespectacled man fluttered over to them, putting Edith in mind of a sparrow in a bowtie.
“My dear detective, how delightful!” He wrung Anderson’s hand, and the latter made introductions. This was the famous Mr. Preston whose bookshop was the best in the county.
“Oh, I don’t know about the best,” murmured the shopkeeper modestly, but with a pleased gleam in his sharp grey eyes. The next moment his countenance darkened. “However, I am awfully glad to see you just now. There’s been a rather unfortunate incident, and I simply didn’t know what to do, and it seems providential that you should have arrived just at this moment.” He nodded to himself several times. “Yes, quite providential.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve had a break-in!” exclaimed the detective.
“Not quite,” said Mr. Preston carefully.
“Not quite a break-in? What do you mean? Has something been stolen?”
The little man flapped his hands in distress.
“Oh if only, if only. Quite the opposite. Something has been added.”
And, seeing the confusion on their faces, he motioned them over to the tiny office at the back of the shop. Fumbling with a large set of keys, he at last selected the right one and opened a small safe in the wall. Edith and Anderson looked on in surprise as he gingerly lifted a small gilt-edged book from the safe and held it out as if it might burst into flame any moment.
“This,” he explained in a tremulous voice. “Is a first edition of Keats’ poems, with the author’s own notes in the margins. It offers some wonderful insights into the young poet’s ideas.”
“That’s amazing,” said Anderson. “Think of what it must be worth!”
“Oh, it would bring me a fortune, I assure you. There’s only one problem. It isn’t mine.”
“Isn’t yours!”
“Not part of my stock,” continued the bookseller sadly. “Never purchased by me or my assistant Edward. We’ve absolutely no idea how it came into our possession, and what’s worse, Rawlinson is now accusing— accusing me—” Whatever Rawlinson was accusing him of, the indignity was too much for Mr. Preston. He turned away and put the book carefully back in the safe. Once it was locked up, he turned to Edith and the detective.
“Cup of tea?” he asked brightly.
“Thank you, Mr. Preston,” said Edith firmly, “but I think first you should finish telling us your story. What did Mr. Rawlinson accuse you of?”
“Miss Rawlinson,” he corrected. “She keeps the other bookshop in town, Betty’s Books. Ridiculous appellation, even if that is her name. Anyway, we’re not what one would call rivals, given the clear superiority of my stock over hers, whatever she might say. But we’ve had our disagreements in the past. And it appears this wonderful little volume actually went missing from her shop a week ago.” He looked at them appealingly. “So you see the terrible conundrum I’m facing?”
“Goodness,” murmured the detective. “Valuable stolen goods turn up in your shop, and you have no way of proving you’re innocent in the matter?”
“Precisely.” Mr. Preston wrung the corner of his tweed jacket in despair. “Naturally I shall return the book to its rightful owner, as soon as she provides me with proof of purchase. But is Miss Rawlinson content to let the matter rest there? Oh no, no.” He bobbed his head again, more birdlike than ever. “She says I am a thief and was only caught because she walked into my shop at the most inopportune moment — just as I was remonstrating with Edward about the book’s provenance, actually. She says she’ll have me in jail for this!”
“Mr. Preston, it sounds like you’ve been framed,” said Anderson gravely. “I think we’d better make a list of people who might have a grudge against you. And we’ll need to interview your assistant. I suppose it’s too late to dust the book for fingerprints…”
So much for a cosy afternoon together, thought Edith ruefully, as her companion dug a notebook out of his pocket and began taking down information. Do we magnetically attract mysteries? Or is it that we can’t help sticking our noses into anything remotely puzzling?
She couldn’t deny that it was intriguing, though. A book this valuable, once stolen, didn’t just turn up in somebody else’s shop. It could be a way of framing Mr. Preston, albeit a clumsy one. But on the other hand… A different idea altogether came to her, and she hurried after the two men.
“Mr. Preston,” she exclaimed, making the little man jump. “I think I know how that book got here!”
Daria Writes 