“You know how the book ended up in my shop?” Mr. Preston was aflutter with hope.
“I have a theory,” Edith answered cautiously. “But I think before we proceed any further, we should talk to Miss Rawlinson.”
The little bookseller fairly inflated with indignation.
“I don’t see why,” he sputtered. “She has been extremely rude, making insinuations that I was some sort of inept thief, and drawing quite hurtful parallels between my skills in burglary and bookselling.”
“However,” Anderson said gently, “it is her book. That makes her the victim of the crime.”
“I suppose… When you put it that way…” Mr. Preston reluctantly took up his hat and coat. “Edward, my useless assistant, should have been back from lunch some time ago,” he explained as he locked up.
“I’d like to interview him later,” said Anderson. “Is it possible he had something to do with this?”
“Edward? Hah! The only thing that boy reads are comic papers. If he could tell me who Keats was or why that first edition was important, I’d give him ownership of the business on the spot. Then I’d spread my wings and fly away on holiday.”
Grumbling thus, Mr. Preston led them up the high street, to a shop that was the very opposite of Preston’s Booksellers. Where the latter was a dim, dusty sanctum of leather-bound tomes, Betty’s Books fairly exploded with life and colour. Large purple lettering over the door enticed the customer into a brightly lit room, festooned with cheerful bunting and lined with books of every hue. There was even a children’s corner with a model train chugging its way faithfully around a stand of illustrated adventure books. Unlike Preston’s, this shop was also crowded with customers.
The three of them made their way to the till, Mr. Preston glaring at everything he saw. Edith was not one bit surprised when she saw Miss Rawlinson. She was a large, cheerful woman in a knitted cardigan and an emerald-green beret perched jauntily over one ear. She suited her shop as perfectly as Mr. Preston suited his.
“Miss Rawlinson,” muttered their companion coldly.
“Mr. Preston,” the lady answered with equal austerity. “Take over please, Florence,” she told her assistant, motioning them into a small office brightened by geraniums and a handmade tea cosy. When introductions had been made, Miss Rawlinson’s eyes gleamed with triumph.
“An officer of the law! So, he’s confessed at last?”
“I am here purely in a consulting capacity,” said the detective quickly, as Mr. Preston bristled. “And Miss Langford has a theory about the crime that she’d like us to hear.”
All eyes turned on Edith.
“Mr. Preston,” she began, “you buy stock from private libraries and collections, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Now a shop is the least safe place to stash a stolen book. After all, it might accidentally get sold! On the other hand, what’s safer than a private library? Perhaps a family library that isn’t often used? The owner would never notice the book’s appearance or later disappearance when the right buyer is found.”
“I know exactly the kind of thing you mean,” said Mr. Preston sadly. “Nowadays every country squire feels he ought to possess a well-stocked library, but to actually read from it is viewed as an excess practically bordering on Bolshevism.”
Miss Rawlinson gave a surprisingly girlish giggle.
“I sometimes get that sort of person in my shop,” she told Mr. Preston. “I usually hide and let Florence deal with them.”
“Ah, if I could leave Edward to deal with customers on his own…” he said dreamily.
“One just can’t get good employees these days, and that’s the truth.”
Encouraged by this mellowing of hostilities, Edith continued:
“Suppose the thief has a connection to such a country house. He assumes his prize will be safe there, but he’s wrong, and the contents of the library are sold with the book swept up in the sale.”
Mr. Preston nodded excitedly.
“When we discovered the book, we had just been unpacking crates from a recent purchase, Sir Geoffrey Barstow’s home library. But—” his face fell, “I valued that library the week before. I went over it carefully and would have noticed such a rare gem.”
“That just gives us a window of time to work with. The book must have been added in the week following your visit and then simply packed up with the rest.”
“Sounds like we need to pay Sir Geoffrey a visit,” said Anderson.
“I’ll get Florence to mind the shop,” said Miss Rawlinson. “You see how busy we get, we simply couldn’t close in the middle of the day,” she added as an aside to Mr. Preston.
“There’s a child chewing on your display copy of Tales from Shakespeare,” he replied acidly. Miss Rawlinson gave an offended sniff and hurried off to deal with the calamity.
“Negotiations breaking down…” murmured Anderson to Edith.
They motored down to Sir Geoffrey’s estate, which lay only a few miles away. It was a fine Georgian house set in pretty woodland that was somewhat spoilt by attempts at modern improvements. As they explained their business to an impassive butler and were conducted inside, Edith saw that the interior of the mansion had suffered the same fate. Modern paintings and geometric furniture had been added on top of the decor without any attempt at integration. A cubic lady followed them with three eyes as the butler led them to the library.
“Sir Geoffrey will be with you shortly,” he intoned.
“Goodness,” whispered Miss Rawlinson. “This is turning into a real country house mystery. I hope we don’t find a body in the—”
Her words died away in a kind of horrified gurgle as the library door swung open. For there, on the carpet, was sprawled the unmistakeable shape of a dead man. The bullet hole in his back and the blood pooling around him made that all too clear.
“Oh dear,” murmured the butler. “That will stain.”
Mr. Preston let out a squeak, while Miss Rawlinson continued to gurgle incoherently. Anderson gave Edith a resigned look and took control of the situation.
“I’m a policeman.” He showed the butler his card. “Please telephone the local station.” As the man hurried off, Anderson turned to the two booksellers. “You two will need to wait outside. Mr. Preston, can you tell me if this man is Sir Geoffrey?”
“Sir… Geoffrey?” Mr. Preston blinked at them.
“Sir Geoffrey? What about him!” boomed a voice down the corridor. A stocky, red-faced man barrelled down on them like a steam engine in tweed. “I’m Sir Geoffrey. What the devil are all of you doing crowding outside my library? Good Lord!” he added, without a pause. “That chap’s dead!”
“Do you know him?” asked the detective. Sir Geoffrey squinted into the room and lost some of his bluff manner.
“Yes… Why that’s Hickson, my secretary… But that’s impossible!”
“Why do you say that?” asked Anderson quickly.
The squire hung his head. “I was going to kill him myself,” he confessed, “only I didn’t get the chance. Someone beat me to it!”
Daria Writes 