Chapter 15
A fter lingering by the fire to thaw herself out, Mirren left Theo in the lobby and headed up to the room. By the time she got there, the second bed had already been made up, and a maid, smiling, and notably better dressed than Mirren was right then, was just leaving. Mirren smiled at her awkwardly.
The heavy oak door creaked open to reveal a beautiful, large, oak-panelled space. There were old oil paintings on the walls, and a pair of thick red velvet curtains had been drawn over what was, on closer inspection, a large bay window overlooking the town.
There were two parts to the room: a large four-poster bed – Mirren couldn’t help smiling and feeling slightly pink at the look of it – then, in the small dressing area, a truckle bed had been set up and neatly made with sheets and blankets and lovely white fluffy pillows. Mirren suddenly felt utterly exhausted and was almost tempted just to fold herself into it there and then.
She explored the bathroom, which had black and white tiles on the floor, a large variety of toiletries and a clawfoot bath. Without hesitation, Mirren put the plug in and turned the tap; hot water gushed out and she nearly cried with delight. Draping her wet clothes on the heated towel rail, which felt rather the height of smartness as far as Mirren was concerned, she filled the bath to the brim, threw in all the scented stuff, and sank into it in full happiness.
By the time she’d emerged into a white fluffy towelling robe, she was yawning properly and very ready to fall asleep, but just as she was plugging in her phone, the phone in the room rang.
‘Oh good, nobody has murdered you,’ said Theo. ‘I believe there is a fine line in hot toddies in this bar, if you’re ready.’
‘I was nearly asleep,’ said Mirren.
‘Yes, I often have that effect on women.’
Mirren grinned, then dug in her backpack for a black dress she’d brought and fresh tights. She could really do with a new jumper, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She added some lipstick and tied her hair back in a ponytail, but it didn’t look quite right. After a moment, she blotted down the lipstick, and put a long braid into the front of her hair, then caught the rest up in a bun. She looked immediately like someone from another age. Laughing at herself, she glanced in the mirror once more ... then kept it.
Downstairs, the dining room was quiet; the bar a warm spotlit oasis, empty apart from some families celebrating a birthday party in the corner. The bar stools were all theirs. Theo bowed graciously, and Mirren responded with a curtsy. Then he slightly ruined it by saying, ‘Quick, they put out free snacks, and if you eat them all they refill the bowl!’
Mirren scrambled up on the bar stool, presumably not in the style of an elegant woman from olden times, and smiled at him, and he ordered her not a hot toddy, but a dark and stormy from the cocktail menu.
‘So, are you, like, really rich?’ she said finally, when she’d devoured the snacks and, by mutual agreement, they’d both ordered fish and chips.
Theo shook his head.
‘Not a bean. My uncle is though. He’s used to living in style, so I suppose he just books the same places for me. But I work for him.’
‘How come?’
‘London property market. The job comes with a room,’ said Theo, and Mirren nodded gravely. ‘I wanted to work in books ... in publishing, you know? I did English at university.’
Mirren smiled. ‘I can see you lounging around campus with a book of poetry and a very long scarf.’
‘Excuse me,’ said Theo, sipping his drink. ‘I think you’ll find it was French existentialism.’
Mirren grinned. ‘Yup, thought so.’
‘So it was meant to be a stopgap but ... here I am. Looking for, uh, Dickens books. I’m basically an indentured servant, but with a good postcode.’
‘There must be money in it somewhere,’ said Mirren, interested, and looking around.
‘Oh, you can make a small fortune in antiquarian bookselling,’ said Theo. ‘Provided you start with a large one,’ he grinned. ‘Sorry. Old bookselling joke.’
Their food arrived, golden and fragrant.
‘Oh God,’ said Mirren. ‘Sorry, this is so good ... I don’t eat out that often ...’
He looked at her enquiringly.
‘London property prices,’ she mumbled, and he nodded approvingly.
‘So,’ he said, digging in. ‘Tell me everything about the mysterious aunt’s legacy.’
Once they’d finished their cocktails, Theo ordered wine with a practised ease – there was a difference, Mirren thought, between people who actually had no money and people who said they didn’t but had obviously grown up at least with it in the general vicinity – and she found herself pouring the whole story out. He was so interested and so charming. She even told him about the awful spring, when she had put all her savings into a luxury holiday with her ex, Rob, who had decided at the last minute he didn’t want to go, too late for her to get the money back, and rather than be sympathetic, her mother had sniffed and said, well, that was silly, wasn’t it , as opposed to Violet, who had implied she knew someone in MI5 who could get him killed. Which eventually, over some fabulous chocolate mousse, led to why she loved her great-aunt so much, and why she dearly wanted to find this book for her. Even though it might not exist, even though Mirren couldn’t possibly search everywhere, it was the only thing Violet wanted and if she could find it, she would.
Theo nodded. ‘But nothing so far?’
Suddenly, Mirren remembered she hadn’t turned her phone back on yet.
‘I thought there was something ...’ she said. ‘Hang on.’
She ran upstairs, excited, and realised when she got there that she was slightly drunk and winded. She went into the bathroom and drank a large glass of water but still felt a little wobbly. She told herself to steady on, but perhaps did not listen. Then she charged back downstairs, to where Theo had moved to a corner table near the fire, with two glasses of whisky.
‘I saw something,’ said Mirren. ‘In the bookshop. I didn’t know what I was looking at, so I took a photo ...’ She turned her phone back on. ‘It was kind of dying,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if it will have made it.’
They both peered at the phone carefully as it warmed up and Theo shot Mirren a quick look at her Good Omens screensaver.
‘You need an angel-run bookshop.’
‘I do,’ she said fervently. ‘I really, really do.’
She pushed on the photos app and up it came. At first disappointingly – it was dark, and she herself could be seen reflected in the frame.
But gradually they ran it through some filters, and enlarged it, until they could see it clearly.
The picture showed two men: one thin, with a long drooping moustache, wearing a long velvet coat; the other even thinner, with a hangdog face – a very young man, with bright black hair that must have been brilliantined, parted in the middle, and with pointed elfin ears. They looked a rather odd couple.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Theo.
‘What?’
‘I’ve never seen that photo. But that’s Robert Louis Stevenson! And that chap, unless I’m very much mistaken ...’
He googled on his own phone and showed Mirren that it was, unmistakably, the artist.
‘Mirren! You’ve found evidence they met!’
He zoomed in, closer and closer.
‘Let me see, let me see!’ said Mirren.
In the tiniest gold letters across the bottom of the photograph, long faded by time, and in a poor, small hand, there were the words: Edinburgh. 1892.
‘But I asked about the book!!!’ said Mirren. ‘I asked the beardy guy first thing!!!’
‘They must have been walking past that photo for decades,’ said Theo, marvelling. ‘It’s thick with dust. Probably been there a hundred years. Probably nobody there who even knows who they are. Philistines.’
‘Show-off,’ said Mirren.
‘Well, how did you know to take it?’
‘I saw loads of pictures of Robert Louis Stevenson when I thought I’d be able to find the book online,’ said Mirren. ‘I thought ... I don’t know. I just thought, in that moment, that the photo looked like him.’
‘Good work, detective! It’s him all right! And with the artist.’ Theo shook his head. ‘This is amazing.’
He went in closer still. In the artist’s hand there was something, smudged by the long exposure of the old daguerreotype.
‘I think he’s holding something in his hand,’ said Theo. ‘It might be a book.’
‘We can go back tomorrow and take a look,’ said Mirren eagerly. ‘A proper look.’
Theo looked at her slightly oddly then, but in her rather merry state she didn’t notice.
‘Mind you,’ she added tipsily, ‘I was told that it might be dangerous!’
‘By whom?’ asked Theo pleasantly.
‘Oh, another bookseller.’
‘So other people do know about it,’ said Theo, almost inaudibly. Then he collected himself. ‘Well, it’s probably best we don’t go back in, tip them off ...’ he said, still staring at the picture, now zoomed up to its greatest extent on Mirren’s phone. ‘But I’ll wager he’s holding the book. I think this is why they’re getting together for a photograph. You couldn’t just snap things in those days, you know. It was a big occasion, took ages. And if it was a big occasion, with the two of them there, both of them famous, both of them busy in ... well. I think you can draw some conclusions.’
‘But what does it mean ?’ said Mirren.
‘What does it mean?’ said Theo, his face uncharacteristically pink. ‘I think it means we’re going to Edinburgh!’