Chapter 20
T hey ran up the snow-covered path to the railway station together, giggling like schoolchildren.
‘I am so sorry it took you hundreds of pounds to get out of there,’ said Mirren regretfully.
‘Oh no,’ said Theo. ‘It’s a sixth edition!!! Well worth it, we’ll do really well out of this.’
‘I thought it was first editions people wanted.’
‘Normally it is,’ said Theo. ‘But this is a corrected edition.’
He patted the nice canvas tote bag carefully.
‘It has a word in it Darwin had never used before.’
‘Uh huh?’ said Mirren.
‘“Evolution”,’ said Theo, grinning.
‘Wow!’
Mirren smiled as they reached the train station.
‘They’ll have cancelled everything,’ she said regretfully, as Theo drew out two tickets from the machine.
‘Do not underestimate, madam, our noble iron steeds,’ said Theo, smiling as, around a snowy bend, the tracks began to shake and the pointed yellow nose of an Azuma train emerged and slowed as it came into the station.
Mirren gave Theo a glance that became a wide smile as he ushered her towards the first-class train carriage.
The warmth of the lovely carriage was bliss; it was more or less empty, and they plopped themselves down in the wide armchairs around a little window table for two on the right-hand side of the train. Whereupon a nice lady came by and checked their tickets and asked if they would like a bacon sandwich or a gin and tonic, and they laughed at each other and said yes, they would like both.
It was a short journey to Edinburgh, but one of deep and unsettling beauty. The train hugged the coastline on the eastern shoulder of England all along the high freezing waves and endless beautiful beaches, deserted bar the occasional dog walker; or caravan parks, cold and empty, waiting for their Christmas visitors. Snow showers swirled around the train as it rocketed through the white landscape; the great power station at Torness oddly lovely, painted as it was in stark greys and whites to blend in with the clouds. Mirren found herself staring, utterly captivated.
‘So?’ prompted Theo eventually, as he glanced up.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. She had been putting off this moment – seeing if what she’d snatched was anything or just useless fluff. ‘It popped out from behind the picture.’
And she carefully took out and unrolled the little coil of paper. It was in gold lettering and had obviously been meant to be stuck on the outside or the back at some point; for some reason, the framers had not done so.
There was a name – presumably the photographer’s – and then a note confirming what they already knew: Robert Louis Stevenson and Aubrey Beardsley photographed at Stevenson’s home, Edinburgh, 1892.
‘YES!’ said Theo, punching the air. ‘Oh my God! Yes!!!!!!!’
‘But that could mean . . .’
Mirren was pinkening with pleasure that they’d got something.
Theo googled quickly. ‘The Stevensons were a massively famous Edinburgh family ... here we are.’ He triumphantly hoisted up an address.
‘Yes, but ... Violet had the book ages after this. Decades.’
‘I know,’ said Theo. ‘But we know one thing about where it’s been. Amazing.’
Back in the cavernous quiet of the snowy early morning bookshop, a woman with steely grey hair and cold eyes was talking to her assistant.
‘How could you not notice it was there?’ she hissed.
‘You didn’t notice either!’ said the man, then looked like he instantly regretted it, as the woman’s mouth went very still.