Chapter 5
I t had frankly never occurred to Mirren to dress up to go to a bookshop. Quite the opposite, in fact; if it was up to her, she would turn up in her pyjamas, grab a clutch of things off the shelf and go curl up on a beanbag with a bag of fudge. But now, as a man appeared at the door, absolutely immaculate in what looked to her – not terribly trained – eye like a bespoke suit in soft grey flannel, a pink shirt with a white collar and a pale teal tie that shouldn’t have gone with it but somehow did, perfectly, Mirren wished she had made more of an effort, rather than sticking with her old cheap suit. She had felt fine leaving the house, and now felt really scruffy. Stupid Kensington.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked, slightly sneerily, as if he was already pretty sure he couldn’t.
‘I don’t know,’ said Mirren nervously. ‘I’m looking for a book?’
‘Well, there’s a Waterstones . . .’
Mirren felt a sudden flush of anger at his patronising manner.
‘A RARE book,’ she said crossly.
‘Ah,’ he said, then, reluctantly, ‘Come inside.’
Undeniably, Mirren could see why he wouldn’t want just any old people in his shop. It was really, really gorgeous in there; polished wood floorboards with Persian rugs laid on them. There were proper antique desks set at intervals, then dark wood bookshelves that reached up to a high ceiling with a tiny gilded stair on wheels. The noisy road outside had vanished as if it had never been there; somewhere, very soft classical music played. There were comfortable leather wing chairs and an actual fire in the grate. The air smelled of sweet cedar, even though Mirren was reasonably sure you weren’t actually allowed to have open fires in central London. There was probably some royal exception. The gold royal appointment logo was discreetly etched on to the window.
There was a young man in the outer office, then a beautiful young woman passed by the doorway – there were two doors, leading into other rooms in the same rich colours of brick red and a kind of greeny blue, dimly lit, but also full of books, ancient, in their raised lettering, behind locked glass. The woman was holding a tray of delicate patterned china with a teapot, but the man made an infinitesimal movement of his head and she withdrew. Obviously, Mirren was not the kind of client that got tea. Or anything from the decanter of rich brown liquid on the antique desk.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Do you know what kind of book you are looking for?’
He said it so patronisingly Mirren was tempted to say, ‘Oh no, I don’t know, one with a dog on the front.’
Instead, she said, ‘I’m looking for Robert Louis Stevenson.’
He nodded quickly.
‘Which.’
‘ A Child’s Garden of Verses .’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That book has sold and sold ever since it was published. Even a first edition isn’t particularly rare. Shouldn’t set you back more than ...’
He glanced at her.
‘. . . a couple of thousand.’
FOR A BOOK WITH POEMS ABOUT BEDTIME IN IT????!!!!!!!! is what Mirren would have spluttered outside, but of course she didn’t. She kept her face completely blank, still annoyed.
‘I’m looking for something quite specific,’ she said. ‘The Aubrey Beardsley edition.’
Now it was her turn to watch his face. He managed to keep it almost completely straight but just for a moment, just the tiniest moment, she saw something steal over it. A crafty expression. A tiny, tiny flash of recognition.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing,’ he said. ‘You mean ... the artist?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Not even by rumour?’
‘I don’t ... I’m sorry, I can’t help you. You’ve tried online?’
‘Yes, it’s not much help. It used to belong to my aunt. I’m trying to find it again.’
‘Are you?’ he said, in a strenuously unconcerned voice. He opened a polished wooden box on the desk and took out a beautiful embossed business card that announced his name – Philip Palliser, Dealer in Rare Books.
‘Well, if you find such a thing ... do bring it in here if you’d like it valued.’
‘Thank you,’ Mirren said. ‘Where would you start?’
He pulled in one side of his mouth. ‘That’s a tricky one. Wherever it was sold, I suspect. When was that?’
‘Just after the war.’
‘Goodness. A long time ago.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And where were they living?’
‘I’m not sure. They were in London but then moved up north somewhere? I’ll check.’
‘Well,’ he shrugged. ‘I really wish you good luck. I know what it’s like to be desperate for a book and not be able to find it. This is why I feel the internet is overrated.’
Mirren smiled.
‘I mean, I don’t know if it’s even in a shop. It could be sitting in some old library somewhere.’
The man pushed on his glasses.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said. ‘This kind of thing – if it exists, what you’re looking for – well. People would shout about it from the rooftops. As Beardsley got more and more famous ... it would be in a museum somewhere. We’d have heard of it. I would have heard of it.’
‘Oh,’ said Mirren, disheartened.
‘I suppose it’s not impossible it’s on a very old shelf somewhere, waiting for someone to pick it up. For me, I would suggest Hay-on-Wye. And do ... I mean, it’s highly unlikely ... but if you were to come across it, feel free to bring it in.’
‘Thanks,’ said Mirren. He seemed to have softened rather a lot. After all, it couldn’t be much fun having people ringing your doorbell all day. ‘Thanks, I will.’
‘Very nice to meet you, Miss ...’
‘Sutherland. Mirren Sutherland.’
‘What a pretty name.’
And he escorted her, politely, back out of the door into the blowy December evening.