ALSO BY JENNY COLGAN

Standalone novels

Amanda’s Wedding

Looking for Andrew McCarthy

My Very ’90s Romance

Arthur Project

The Boy I Loved Before

Sixteen Again

Where Have All the Boys Gone?

West End Girls

Operation Sunshine

Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend

The Good, the Bad and the Dumped

The Loveliest Chocolate Shop in Paris

Working Wonders

The Christmas Bookshop

Midnight at the Christmas Bookshop

Little Beach Street Bakery series

The Little Beach Street Bakery

Summer at Little Beach Street Bakery

Christmas at Little Beach Street Bakery

Sunrise by the Sea

At the Cupcake Café series

Meet Me at the Cupcake Café

Christmas at the Cupcake Café

Rosie Hopkins’ Sweet Shop series

Welcome to Rosie Hopkins’ Sweet Shop of Dreams

Christmas at Rosie Hopkins’ Sweet Shop

The Christmas Surprise

Scottish Bookshop series

The Little Shop of Happy-Ever-After

The Bookshop on the Shore

500 Miles from You

Summer Seaside Kitchen series

A Very Distant Shore

The Summer Seaside Kitchen

The Endless Beach

An Island Christmas

Christmas at the Island Hotel

An Island Wedding

Doctor Who novels

Dark Horizons

Into the Nowhere

In the Blood

The Christmas Invasion

The Triple Knife and Other Doctor Who Stories

Star Tales

Polly series

Polly and the Puffin

The Stormy Day

The New Friend

The Happy Christmas

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2024 by Jenny Colgan

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Amazon Original Stories, Seattle

www.apub.com

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Amazon Original Stories are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

eISBN: 9781662522574

Cover design by Liron Gilenberg

Cover illustration by Handsome Frank Limited – Andrew Lyons

And grant it, Heaven, that all who read

May find as dear a nurse at need

—Robert Louis Stevenson, A Child’s Garden of Verses

Chapter 1

‘I’m just saying, Christmas is going to be a disaster.’

Mirren tried to smile down the end of the phone at her mother’s anguished tones. She looked around the office, but she needn’t have worried about being overheard; there was nobody there. On Mondays and Fridays, the whole place mysteriously emptied out. Mirren didn’t mind. When the office was empty, it meant far fewer well-meaning colleagues giving head-tilty glances about how awful it was that Mirren’s boyfriend had called it off and wouldn’t return her flat deposit or the money she’d put down on a once-in-a-lifetime holiday everyone thought would result in a ring, including Mirren and, worse, Mirren’s mother.

So as far as Mirren was concerned, whatever this latest disaster was, it couldn’t be worse than what had already happened this year, thank you very much. She smoothed her hand over her unruly chestnut curls and took a deep breath.

‘Mum, you always think Christmas is going to be a disaster.’

‘Yes, but sometimes it is.’

‘It’s not. Sometimes the turkey gets burned and nobody really cares because everyone’s a bit drunk and then everyone remembers it as being funny.’

‘MIRREN, that was an ABSOLUTE DISASTER.’

‘It was fun,’ protested Mirren weakly. ‘And memorable!’

‘Well, that is NOT going to be happening again.’

Christmas was a big deal to Mirren’s mother, Nora. You would never of course imply, Mirren and her two brothers agreed, that their mother liked to make Christmas all about her by making a huge massive fuss of it, having a mild tantrum about 2ish requiring everyone to apologise and feed her sherry and do soothing, before repeating the cycle at teatime, but it had certainly happened before. The trick was to never ever mention the phrase ‘it’s just a big roast, isn’t it?’ anywhere within earshot.

‘Well, it won’t be a disaster. Let Hayley and Carl do the cooking.’

Letting the two sensible people her brothers had married take over was by far the best plan. Both of her brothers marrying the calmest humans on Earth might be seen as some sort of psychologist’s dream. Mind you, she’d thought Rob was calm. Turned out he was just busy plotting ways to get rid of her, with what felt like maximum devastation to her finances.

‘WHAT? But I always—’

‘Help, I meant help, I didn’t mean do it all.’

‘What’s wrong with my cooking?’

‘Oh my God, Mum, how can I get out of this conversation?’

‘Anyway, it’s not . . . Seriously, what’s wrong with my cooking? Anyway. That’s not the real disaster. It’s poor, poor Violet.’

Mirren’s heart went cold.

‘Great-aunt Violet?’

‘Yes.’

‘A disaster how? What’s happened to her? How come you didn’t start with this?!’

Her beloved Great-aunt Violet had been old when Mirren was a child and Mirren was thirty now, so that must make her very, very super old.

Mirren’s mother made a noise through her nose that she knew very well.

‘I don’t know. She won’t talk to me, she’s hardly answering the phone. I think there’s something up with her but she won’t answer her WhatsApp messages.’

‘Well, she wouldn’t,’ said Mirren. ‘You know how vain she is about her glasses.’

‘Is she?’ said Nora absently. ‘I’d go round but, darling, you know she prefers you . . . and I’m so busy.’

Since she’d retired, Mirren’s mother had become an indefatigable volunteer for things. She liked to interfere and send around grumpy Facebook messages and considered this to be ‘working for the community’, even though quite a lot of it appeared to be about banning dogs from things and getting up petitions to keep children out of communal gardens or stopping low-income housing developments. She would get very huffy if anyone suggested this might not actually be a real job.

‘Of course,’ Mirren said. ‘I’ll go today.’

‘On a Friday night?’ said her mother, sounding, as usual, disappointed. ‘No hot dates? Early Christmas parties?’

‘Only with my PJs and my new book,’ said Mirren, trying to pretend she didn’t care.

Chapter 2

Mirren loved her great-aunt dearly, always had. On the other hand, if Mirren were to tell you she loved going to visit the old people’s home as well, she would be lying. This wasn’t a particularly fancy one; it was a vast creaky old Victorian house in south London with plumbing noises and rooms subdivided in odd ways to accommodate wheelchairs, and it basically looked deliberately designed to frighten children, who were rarely over the moon to be there in the first place.

But Violet was different. She didn’t raise Mirren, but she had always been such a good counteroffensive to her mum, when she really needed it. Violet put up with no nonsense whatsoever, was endlessly generous with caramels, and told lots of lies about being in the war. (She had, technically, been in the war, she’d just been eight at the time.) Mirren had spent hours at Violet’s house as a teen, eating carrot cake and being lectured about feminist literature and told to go to university, which she was very glad about, even when her mum sniffed that it was a waste of money. Mirren loved Violet very dearly.

Violet had been furious about the whole going-into-a-home thing; she was mentally sharp as a tack, but kept falling over, and her arthritis was horrible. She had objected furiously to moving until the third time she tripped over the oven door, and Nora told her the only alternative was moving in with her, whereupon Violet went mutinously quiet – and now, here they were.

Mirren hadn’t seen Violet for a couple of weeks and she’d been all right then – signing in to an old person’s home always felt like telling the dentist you floss all the time. She never felt like she’d been quite good enough.

Mirren was nervous by the time she made her way along the first-floor corridor to the turret room at the end. It was the fanciest room; Violet had adopted a policy of outliving everyone else who got it, then putting in an early bid, so she’d made it there eventually. The nice thing about the turret room was that single-paned windows lined the turret and they were old and draughty, so it slightly took the edge off the 50-degree furnace temperature the facility was kept at. The heavy fireproof doors weren’t meant to be propped open, but hers were.

The last time Mirren had seen Violet, she’d been sitting in her day chair, nicely dressed, with make-up on.

This time, she was in bed, barely lifting her head.

‘Violet?’ Mirren said, worried. ‘It’s me, Mirren.’

Violet looked slightly confused – not like her at all – then her face cleared.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘Little Mirren.’

‘Hey,’ said Mirren. ‘Mum said . . .’

Well, Nora hadn’t said much actually.

‘What’s up?’ Mirren said, suddenly very frightened.

Violet fussed and moved herself up the bed, and Mirren helped and poured her a glass of water and found her – actually rather chic – oversized reading glasses.

‘Did you know,’ Violet said, by way of an opener. ‘Did you know that about eighty per cent of people my age have cancer? I mean, basically we all have it?’

Mirren shook her head, her mouth falling open.

‘No . . . and you?’

‘Yes,’ said Violet. ‘So common. Honestly. Between this and ending up in Bexleyheath, I really don’t know why I bothered with university.’

Violet had gone to Cambridge when not many women did. It had been the most remarkable time of her life.

‘I am so, so sorry,’ Mirren said. The breath went out of her, and she sat down on the bed. She knew her aunt was old, of course. She’d just always found it easier not to think about it. ‘When do you start treatment?’

Violet gave Mirren a look.

‘Oh, Mirren, don’t be ridiculous. They don’t do treatment at my age.’

‘Of course they do!’ Mirren said, scandalised.

‘Well, all right. They are technically putting me on a list. Kind of. I think they put my name on in a very light pencil.’

‘That’s a scandal!’ Mirren said. ‘That’s awful. You should be at the top of the list!’

Violet shook her head.

‘What, I should take the place of a child? I don’t think so, do you? Who exactly should I push out of the way, Mirren?’

‘But . . .’

She shook her head again. ‘No. It’s ridiculous. I don’t want an extra miserable six months of chemotherapy. I want lots and lots of good drugs. You might have to help me with that. You’re a young person. You’ll know about drugs and that.’

‘Violet, I’m a quantity surveyor.’

‘Hmm.’

‘What kind of cancer?’

‘Oh, it’s everywhere,’ she said. ‘I’m basically so old I’m just one big blob now anyway. I’ve fused. With black threads running through me.’

Mirren suddenly got a lump in her throat. Violet just seemed so stoic, all alone in this room lined with her books. She had never married or had children – it was apparently frightfully bourgeois and boring after Cambridge – and had instead lectured in English at the University of Sussex.

‘You are being very brave,’ Mirren said.

‘Good,’ said Violet. ‘Tell everyone. I am being terribly matter-of-fact and practical. Extremely admirable and brave.’

‘Do you feel terribly admirable and brave?’

Violet looked at Mirren then, through the big glasses, and gave her head one sharp shake. Then Mirren sat and held her, and they both had a good cry.

‘Don’t you DARE tell Nora,’ said Violet, hiccupping as Mirren passed her a hanky. ‘She’ll start sending me inspirational messages on the internet and doing sponsored swims.’

‘I shan’t,’ lied Mirren. Nora would get it out of her in two seconds flat. ‘Okay. What is going to help? Sweets? Whisky?’

‘I don’t . . . I don’t feel like eating at all.’

Mirren almost said, Oh, you have to eat, before remembering how many other well-meaning people would be giving her exactly this advice, so she shut her mouth.

Violet got a sly look on her face.

‘You’re young, Mirren. Do you know where to get any drugs?’

‘Violet! And no, I really don’t know where to get any drugs!’

‘Can you pretend that you do? Just in case they won’t give me any in case I get addicted to it in the three months I have left to develop a habit and start living under a bridge?’

‘I . . . I’ll have a think,’ said Mirren, remembering her Persian friend whose father had always smoked opium in Iran and had seen no reason to give up the habit on arriving in Europe.

‘I want my daddy,’ said Violet suddenly, then she covered her mouth with her hand. ‘Oh God, don’t tell anyone I said that. I don’t even know where it came from.’

‘I won’t,’ Mirren said.

Violet had lost her father, Mirren’s great-grandfather Reg, in the war. She could barely remember him. She covered her face with her hands.

‘There is one thing,’ she said eventually. ‘One thing I would really like.’

‘Not heroin?’

Violet shook her head just a little. Her long pale hand was trembling. The veins stuck out. Her watery eyes suddenly stared over Mirren’s head, looking at something that wasn’t there.

‘I had . . . we had something. When I was a little girl. A book.’

‘What kind of a book?’

‘A Child’s Garden of Verses,’ said Violet, quite without hesitation. ‘By Robert Lighthouse Stevenson. No, wait. Robert Louis Stevenson.’

Mirren frowned.

‘That sounds familiar,’ she said.

‘It should,’ said Violet. ‘I used to read it to you.’

Mirren thought about it.

‘It had big pictures of flowers?’ she said eventually.

‘Well, your edition did,’ said Violet. ‘My dad’s edition . . . the one I had. There are lots of different ones. But the one he gave me was special. It had hand-drawn plates. He used to read it to me and my best friend, June. June was very cheeky and funny and naughty, but he used to read it to her anyway. Her dad was dead. I used to feel so sorry for her, and very glad I still had a daddy.’

She looked so very sad then, and Mirren tried to keep her focused.

‘What happened to it?’

‘I don’t know. After we lost Daddy . . . we moved away. I never saw June again. I suppose my mother must have sold it; we certainly needed the money, and she sold everything else we had. Crockery, silverware – everything really, practically almost down to his bloody kit bag. My life changed so much.’

Her eyes and voice were cross now, and still generations away, buried in tweed and pipe smoke and horse-drawn coal deliveries and cobblestones. Then her tone changed.

‘The moon has a face like the clock in the hall; She shines on thieves on the garden wall, On streets and fields and harbour quays, And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.’

Mirren patted her gently on the shoulder.

‘I wonder,’ Violet said. ‘I wonder if it’s still out there somewhere. My dad always said it was special.’

Mirren pulled out her phone.

‘We could have a look,’ she said. ‘If it will stop you asking me for heroin.’

Chapter 3

Fortunately, Mirren had her laptop in her bag and could show Violet the internet properly, phones being truly too small, even with the big glasses. They looked through every variation and edition they could find. They went up to thousands of pounds – thousands – for beautiful, ornate editions, but Violet didn’t recognise any of them.

‘Are you sure it was hand-illustrated?’ Mirren asked finally. ‘I mean, you were very little.’

Violet nodded.

‘June and I weren’t allowed to touch the pictures in case we made the ink run. I remember very vividly.’

‘What were they like?’

‘Amazing. Black-and-white line drawings with a fountain pen, full of elaborate flowers and beautiful women in great headdresses, and stars and great moons . . .’

Mirren frowned and typed in ‘A Child’s Garden of Verses hand illustrated’ and peered through the thicket of results.

‘Huh,’ she said. ‘Ooh.’

Mirren pulled up an old story from a literary magazine about the rumour that Aubrey Beardsley had drawn a version, which had never been published. Aubrey Beardsley was an incredibly famous artist even Mirren, who was bookish rather than arty, had heard of; his elegant black-and-white line drawings had illustrated famous 1920s and 30s books and plays, his art nouveau style often hanging up in university dorm rooms. This edition was only mentioned in passing, though; nobody had ever seen it.

‘Might it have been this guy?’ Mirren said, passing over some samples of his work – elongated women in incredibly elaborate hats and gowns, under starry skies.

‘Yes!’ Violet said, clutching at the laptop. ‘Yes! That’s it. They were just like that!’

She touched the laptop with her fingers, as if it were paper.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I would . . . I would so love to see it one more time. The last time . . . everything was . . .’

A woman came bustling in, bosom first.

‘Time for your doctor’s appointment, Mrs Neale! Let’s be having you! Come on, I’ll take you to the toilet first.’

Violet looked at Mirren, and in her face Mirren saw the misery, the sheer embarrassment of every indignity she was going through at this stage of her life – this clever, interesting woman.

‘Please,’ Violet said, wincing, as the woman started heaving her off the bed, none too gently in Mirren’s opinion. ‘Please could you see if you could find it? Please?’

Mirren nodded.

Chapter 4

Mirren assumed this would be a matter of internet sleuthing, which she was rather looking forward to. But she found there was almost nothing more written on the matter. She dived down a few rare book rabbit holes, but their definition of rare books generally centred quite a lot around Mein Kampf and various old witchcraft and pornography titles, so she didn’t stay very long.

She also wondered how on earth she could find out where Violet’s mother would have sold the book. Did she even know that she had something quite precious on her hands? Where would she have taken it? They lived in London; would she have gone to a book dealer? There used to be so many, on Charing Cross Road, but they had mostly all gone now, turned into coffee shops just like everywhere else.

Mirren chose the ‘premier antiquarian bookshop in Europe’, in Kensington, and decided to go in and have a look, not wanting to phone – who does that? – and also she feared feeling like a total idiot if they had never heard of it or thought she was being stupid. Her plan was to just wander in after work on Monday and have a look round, then leave.

After a quiet weekend, and an equally quiet Monday, Mirren finished early, at 4 p.m., and marched up the wide high street. The weather was getting cold – cold enough for boots – and there were posh lights hanging all the way up the high street, big shiny chandeliers. Not like the tacky balls and sponsored illuminations on Oxford Street. These were proper lovely lights, pale whites and yellows sparkling in the early evening gloom. Designer shops displayed tiny expensive handbags surrounded by twinkling lights, and thick nests of fir tree branches covered in snow, with sparkling jewellery or oversized watches. In one, beautiful little stuffed birds were casting beady eyes over glistening bracelets on realistic frosty twigs.

The people walking by – mostly women – were incredible. Beautiful, long-limbed, fresh-faced. Even in early December, some had bare tanned legs that obviously weren’t outside in the cold for long enough to get remotely goose-bumped. Others wore white jeans and big furry gilets – with real fur? Surely not. And high ponytails and seemingly unnecessary sunglasses and everyone was blonde and about nine feet tall as they clopped past her on wedge trainers. Mirren, with her hard-to-tame curly mop and Next suit, felt very small and suburban among them.

Finally, Mirren reached the shop she was after. It was painted a dark green, with Palliser & Sons Booksellers spelled out in immaculate gold cursive over the shiny darker green door. It looked like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. There were very few books displayed in the window; those that were there were big and heavy, without prices. Mirren pushed on the door before realising, feeling foolish, that you couldn’t just walk into this shop. You needed to ring a little bell, presumably so they could come down and inspect you first. Suddenly feeling nervous, she pressed the button.

Chapter 5

It 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.

Chapter 6

Philip Palliser strode through into the back room, calling for his nephew, the boy who sat in the outer office.

‘THEO! THEO, WHERE ARE YOU?’

Theo, having just washed up the teacups and wondering, not for the first time, if this really was the best use of his degree, jumped to attention. His uncle’s sudden mood changes could be unnerving.

He emerged to see Philip holding out a piece of paper, which he took.

‘Mirren Sutherland?’ he said. ‘What is this for?’

‘I need you to find out about her,’ said Philip. ‘That’s what you young people use the internet for? Stalking each other and whatnot?’

Theo shrugged.

‘Not really . . . What’s this about?’

‘There is a book . . . a rumoured book . . . that combines two great artists of the nineteenth century in one. But it has only been spoken about, never seen. Never discussed, except in secret circles. As a holy grail. Until a scruffy young woman walks in here, bold as you please, and announces she’s looking for it.’

‘Okay,’ said Theo. ‘Uh, cool?’

‘No!’ said Philip. ‘She has no idea what it means. Did you see her shoes?’

Theo shook his head.

‘She’s going to be looking for it.’

‘Can’t you ask your network?’

‘What, and let them know I want it? Not likely,’ sniffed Philip. ‘No. You have to follow her around. Subtly. Quietly. She’ll probably talk to more family members who’ll know something. Figure out where she’s going to go. Follow her there.’

‘As a spy?’ said Theo.

‘Well, you’re not much use around here,’ said Philip brusquely.

‘How would you even know it was in the country?’ said Theo.

‘Beardsley was big on the continent when Stevenson wasn’t,’ shrugged Philip. ‘They were never in demand at the same time. Plus, I would know. European dealers are completely useless at keeping their mouths shut. Worse than the wine chaps. Spend too much time with the wine chaps, that’s half the problem.’

Theo frowned.

‘But I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable . . . stalking a girl,’ he mumbled.

Philip looked exasperated. ‘I give you bed, board and a bloody job, and I bloody well help your father out enough – I don’t think asking you to do one thing is too much, do you?’

The threat in his voice was absolutely clear. And Theo’s existence – and his father’s, the younger brother in the family – was very dependent on Philip’s goodwill.

‘I’ll start checking,’ he muttered.

Philip nodded shortly. ‘Good.’

Chapter 7

Mirren had genuinely imagined this would be straightforward. She shouldn’t have just rushed out, she thought. She should of course have phoned first. She was just being too keen, after she couldn’t find it online. Plus, she hated phoning people. Her phoning-people instincts, it turned out, were pretty much spot on. It did not go well.

‘Excuse me . . . do you have . . .’

‘Dunno,’ came the lugubrious voice from one large place she tried in Dumfries.

‘Because you’re meant to have nine miles of books?’ Mirren said.

‘Because we have nine miles of books,’ came the voice back. ‘So.’

‘So if anyone wants to find something, they have to come and look through nine miles of books?’

‘Yeah,’ said the voice, sounding temporarily perkier. ‘It’s GREAT.’

She didn’t have any more luck elsewhere, and touring other local antiquarian bookshops over the next couple of days brought her no more success than at Palliser & Sons. If she was going to look properly, it became increasingly likely that she was going to have to actually go.

Then, a few days later, Nora called again.

‘It’s such a disaster,’ she was saying. ‘Waitrose is completely out of their Heston puddings and I don’t even know if I’m going to get a slot . . . I mean, we could go to Tesco, I suppose . . .’

Mirren was only half listening because she knew her mum found it soothing to be complaining about something. And Mirren found it soothing not having to think about her love life.

‘. . . oh, and of course Violet’s in hospital . . .’

She tossed this in at the end, as if Violet was really far down the list, behind the unexpected shortage of elderflower syrup.

‘Oh my God! Why?’

‘She’s very, very old . . .’ started Nora.

‘Yes, yes, I know,’ Mirren said, but she was worried. ‘I’ll nip over.’

Violet did not look well at all. And she was in a single room at the hospital. That is never a good sign. If they sling you out with everyone else hollering all night, that shows they reckon you’re going to walk off sooner or later.

All the fire was out of her bright eyes, and she had an oxygen mask on and a drip in her arm. Mirren stroked Violet’s icy cold hand, its veins like a relief map.

‘Vi?’ she whispered.

Violet’s eyes cracked open painfully.

‘Vi?’

‘Have you . . . have you got the book?’ Violet croaked. Mirren brought her over some water, and she grimaced, but managed a sip.

‘Not yet,’ said Mirren, and Violet’s face fell.

‘Oh,’ she said. And a single solitary tear rolled down her cheek.

‘But I’m going to look for it,’ Mirren promised, in a panic. ‘I am. First of all – where were you living when your mum sold all your stuff?’

Violet frowned.

‘Hereford,’ she said. ‘Before I went to Cambridge.’

‘Okay,’ Mirren said. ‘Well, look, I have some time . . .’

She did, actually. She had a ton of annual leave to use up, post-bloody-Rob, after he’d made her book a huge holiday in the Maldives then chucked her too late to get her deposit back. So now she had time, but no money to go away with. Heartbreak and penury were quite the combination.

‘Please, go,’ Violet said, almost pushing Mirren with urgency. ‘I’ll give you some money.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I just stayed here with you?’ Mirren said.

Violet shook her head.

‘Please,’ she said, suddenly looking very scared and pulling off her oxygen mask, taking in a big shuddering breath. ‘I’ve never . . . I’ve never believed there’s anything after, Mirren. I just can’t. This is . . . this is my last chance. To feel my dad again.’

She looked up at Mirren.

‘I know you love me, Mirren. I know you.’

And she squeezed Mirren’s arm, surprisingly hard.

Chapter 8

Hay-on-Wye did, Mirren thought, feel like a good place to start. Having arrived mid-morning into some uncharacteristic December sunshine, she took a beautifully backdropped selfie – hills, cobbles and sloping roofs of the town all in one shot, even if she had to stand on one leg while she took it – and posted it on her Insta, just in case bloody Rob got told by his friends how brilliantly she was doing, travelling places and not being in the least bit fussed by him being the single worst human ever born . . . Actually, she realised, being away from London, away from false promises and memories tainted by him being a shitweasel, might actually be quite good for her.

It was a beautiful little town with about a thousand bookshops, lovely old grey houses, and now, at the very beginning of winter in Wales, it was already snowy on the little stone-walled roads. Mirren looked towards the hills – which did look like harps, in fact, just like they were supposed to – and briefly wondered how long ago it was, exactly, that wolves had stopped living here and whether or not they’d reintroduced them yet. Her little car, on the other hand, was very happy – you’re not allowed to drive fast in Wales, so she didn’t stand out or get honked as much as usual in her tiny ancient Fiat.

She couldn’t stop her spirits lifting as she approached the dream of a town, nestled right on the border of England and Wales, a world away from London, and mothers, and Robs. She’d watched a stubby grouse take off from a frosty ploughed field as the car puttered down the hill towards the beautiful slate stone roofs of the gorgeous town.

And the bookshops! It was almost overwhelming. There was one that had taken over an entire old cinema building. There was an ancient building with genuine half-timbers. There were crime bookshops and naughty bookshops and every type of book under the sun, and, everywhere, people who loved to read, wellies and hats, marching through the pretty grey streets with tote bags under their arms, past the mullioned windows.

Mirren, a bookworm all her life, hadn’t even realised there was an entire town like this. She had to fight down the temptation to immediately just move here. Who wouldn’t be happy all the time, padding from shop to shop, picking up something wonderful to read and a Welsh cake in one of the many local cafes, and sitting overlooking the river? Suddenly, it felt like a promise of a different life. Mirren took a look at her tiny Fiat, and her tiny Fiat looked back at her with its round headlamps, as if pleading with her not to fill it up with hardbacks; it was having enough trouble making it up the slushy roads as it was. Festive white lights swung in the wind across streets filled with puddles. Sheep dotted the hillsides. It was perfect.

Just as in London, eyes narrowed when Mirren ventured into the shops, one by one, and mentioned what she was looking for. Aubrey Beardsley? And Robert Louis Stevenson? Nobody had heard of such a thing. When they heard it was an original, eyes suddenly opened back up again, often wider than before. Although Mirren saying it was a sale made seventy-five years ago didn’t raise a lot of eyebrows in shops hundreds of years old.

Mirren searched mile upon mile of shelves. Violet remembering the cover was red was a help in itself, as she could run her finger along fairly quickly. But she tried the children’s department in one shop and found herself almost overwhelmingly tempted by the many beautiful, varied editions of A Child’s Christmas in Wales and bought one of those to take back anyway, bound in red leather, with beautiful illustrations of little boys throwing snowballs at cats.

And there were many versions of A Child’s Garden of Verses – contemporary, with modern children in snowsuits, lovely old-fashioned watercolours, and odd Cubist versions from the 1950s – but none was the one she was looking for. Although she was tempted to buy a beautiful Charles Robinson edition from 1896 as a backup. Even that was hundreds of pounds.

She stayed there so long that, even in an environment where people were expected to stay, the nice lady on the desk kept an eye on her and at one point, in fact, cleared her throat politely. Mirren realised it was well after five, and she had been in there all afternoon.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, realising. She also suddenly realised she was exhausted from driving, and completely starving. She grabbed a cheaper, but still pretty, version of A Child’s Garden of Verses, paid for it and headed out into the dark evening. The rain had come on, pelting down.

Violet had given her a little money – but not very much. Mirren was feeling a bit worried. If the internet couldn’t find something for you . . . and phoning the bookshops wasn’t any use . . . and now she’d looked in a place, a town, an entire citadel of books that, from the outside, ought to hold every book in the known universe, as well as people who knew more about old books than anyone else on Earth, and still nobody had heard of it. Was this all a ridiculous waste of time?

Chapter 9

Theo, having (to his uncle’s unusual satisfaction) managed to find Mirren’s Instagram, turned up in Hay-on-Wye later, as the trains had groaned their way across the country, broken down, turfed him off, made him walk miles to a bus stop and hack the rest of the way. It seemed to him that starting in the biggest book town in the UK would probably make the most sense, but he was there after the shops had shut. It did feel slightly ridiculous, this cloak-and-dagger stuff.

On the other hand, what choice did he have? Theo had loved books all his life. The world of books mostly centred on London, but London was so expensive to live in, it was insane. It was either do his uncle’s bidding or, effectively, be homeless. All his friends were as strapped for places to live as he was. Not to mention that Philip had unpleasantly hinted about supporting his father. Theo sighed. He really didn’t have a choice but to do what his uncle demanded.

He glanced around at the ancient coaching inn he was staying in. It was half-timbered, the heavy beams coming down from the ceiling, the walls white limestone. A roaring fire was in the grate, surrounded by horseshoes, and his room had a little staircase up into what felt like a hayloft, where his bed was. Everywhere, of course, were books lining the walls; photographs, too, of people who he supposed were writers, or book people – black and white, holding books, and weathered with age.

At this time of year the inn was quiet, and, soaked through by the weather and quite freezing – London had been relatively mild – he was rather looking forward to an evening in front of the fire with a glass of malt and one of the many books around the place. There was already a black Lab lying in front of it, its tail thumping softly every time Theo made to give it a pat. The nice lady from reception said she’d bring him over a menu in a little while. Yes, this would do very nicely indeed.

He had just taken his drink, selected an old book of Waugh from the shelves and settled back in an extremely comfortable chair by the fire when he heard the loud voice.

‘Well, what are they saying? No, no, speak up, I can’t hear you . . . the reception in here is just AWFUL . . . Stupid low beams . . . Sorry, I’m in the middle of nowhere.’

Theo closed his eyes. Oh lord, this was just what he needed. Perhaps a hen party.

A very wet person carrying two rucksacks and a plastic bag stood dripping in the doorway.

‘No, I didn’t have anything booked, she’s just . . . No, I haven’t, I haven’t . . . Can you hear me?’

Theo let out a low sigh, as did the Labrador. The woman glanced up from under her soaking hood and immediately turned her face away, but unfortunately didn’t stop hollering into her phone.

‘Okay, have a comfortable night . . . I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay? You got that? As soon as I have news? Yeah? Okay? Goodnight.’

Finally, she rang off and blissful silence descended.

‘Sorry,’ said the woman, who looked to be about Theo’s age, and who also didn’t look sorry at all. ‘Trying to talk to the elderly. You know.’

The nice lady from reception came in.

‘We’ve found you a room,’ she said. ‘Sorry, we shut up a lot off-season.’

‘It didn’t really occur to me,’ said the girl. ‘I left in a hurry.’

Who doesn’t book a room on their phone? thought Theo, as the fire crackled. It wasn’t like she didn’t know how to use it.

‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘Thanks so much for fitting me in. If I go and dump my stuff, could I order a really ginormous gin and tonic?’

Chapter 10

Mirren wasn’t sure how much Violet had heard of her conversation, and anyway, it didn’t really matter. Mirren was pretending she was calling to give her updates and keep her involved with the book hunt, but of course really she was calling to make sure she was still alive. And trying to distract her with something, anything, even if she had to yell at her. Violet had seemed confused, which was deeply worrying.

Still, at least she had definitely lucked out with where she was staying. There was a freestanding bath in the middle of the room, but the receptionist had made it quite clear they weren’t going to be serving dinner for long, and basically if she wanted to eat she had to get downstairs pronto. Bit bossy, but Mirren could have a bath when she got back. She was so damp, though, she dried herself off and put on a nice flowery dress and fresh tights. You always need fresh tights. Plus this place had tons of books too, might as well take a rummage. There was some grumpy bloke in the library already behaving like it was his personal sitting room rather than an actual public bar, but she could ignore him; hardly her fault he thought he could check into a hotel and have the whole place to himself.

There was a delicious smell of a warming stew coming from the kitchen, and Theo was growing sleepy when the irritating girl reappeared, looking fresh and scrubbed, and falling on her gin and tonic with alacrity. She immediately started chatting to the receptionist about the history of the inn, and its connections with the book trade in the town. Just a busybody, Theo thought grumpily. Can’t stop herself talking to anyone. Verbal diarrhoea.

Until, half dozing, he heard the words . . . Robert Louis Stevenson. And Theo’s ears pricked up and he sat up in his chair, which made the dog prick up too, and they looked at each other. Theo wanted to hit himself for being so dense. Okay, she’d been absolutely drenched, rather than smiling and filtered as she was in her Instagram pictures, but even so. He should have twigged. What was her name again? It was an odd one. Melon something.

‘Mirren Sutherland,’ said the girl to the receptionist, as she finished filling in a registration form.

The whisky warming Theo added to a general sense of well-being; his uncle, not in any way an easy man to please, would be delighted with his nephew for tracking down the target with such perspicacity. As well as some pure dumb luck.

‘You’re the only two diners tonight,’ said the receptionist pleasantly. ‘Are you happy to eat at one table? It’s quite a big table,’ she added quickly, in case they had already decided this would be a terrible idea.

Mirren shrugged, having already clocked the man’s grumpy expression, but to her surprise, Theo stood up.

‘Why not?’ he said, rather charmingly. The receptionist beamed and vanished back into the kitchen. It was increasingly clear that she was not just the receptionist but the general everything person.

The table was a long, rough-hewn thing that was obviously meant for large groups. It would have been stupid for them to sit at opposite ends, Mirren supposed.

‘Hi,’ she said, slightly reserved after his grumpy look before.

‘Hi,’ he said, suddenly much more keen and eager. Mirren wondered if it was because she looked less like a drowned rat now, whether her hair was drying frizzy or not. He shook her hand keenly. Outside, the rain pounded hard against the windowpanes.

‘I feel like we’re two stranded travellers out of time,’ he said, looking around the room under the dim light of the candles. ‘Like our horses are stabled out the back, and we shall have to tell ghost stories to pass the time,’ he went on.

Mirren couldn’t help it: this very idea appealed to her bookish soul enormously. She spread out her long dress and sat carefully at the head of the table.

‘Why, sir, I’m not sure I can permit you to approach me in this manner as a woman travelling alone.’

He smiled back. ‘Indeed, maiden. However, here comes your trusted chaperone.’

And they were both smiling as the woman came in bearing two plates, each of which held a perfect little meatball, served in a warm, smoky, tangy broth. She poured them each a glass of rich red wine from a decanter and, smiling, left them to it.

Theo raised his glass. ‘Your health,’ he said. ‘Miss . . .’

‘Sutherland.’

‘Theodore Palliser. Delighted.’

Mirren did not make the name connection, and smiled. ‘What brings you to this road on so gloomy an evening?’

‘I am on an errand for my uncle,’ said Theo. ‘And you?’

‘I am hunting down a legacy,’ said Mirren, taking a sip of wine. ‘On behalf of my great-aunt.’

‘Well met then,’ said Theo, polishing off the broth, which was truly delicious. The woman came back, cleared the plates and set down their main course – you could only order a meat or a vegetarian dish, and they’d both opted for the former, a plate of lamb chops, richly scented with herbs and a red wine sauce, and the creamiest mashed potato, buttery and soft, along with dark roasted vegetables. Mirren, who hadn’t eaten all day, was overjoyed. She bent her head to take in the marvellous, warming scent and sighed with contentment. Theo, watching her, smiled.

‘You have waited some time to break your fast, milady?’

Mirren looked at him. ‘I’m not sure I can keep up being an olde-time lady while I’m eating this. I don’t think I can take very genteel bites. Feel free to keep reading your book. Are you in the book trade? I suppose most people are round here.’

‘I am . . . and I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Theo, getting stuck in. ‘Eat with your mouth open, I wouldn’t care.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t do THAT.’

‘Well, there you are, you’re basically an aristocrat.’

Mirren grinned and dived in with a will. The sauce was utterly divine; the potatoes turned out to have cheese through them, and there was fresh bread on the table to mop up the gravy. It was absolute heaven, with the fire flickering and the candles burning steadily while the rain drummed on the old windowpanes. They were quiet until Mirren sat back with another sigh.

‘Do you want to go back to being posh now?’ said Theo.

‘No, it’s all right,’ said Mirren, ‘because I might burp or something and then I think I would have to go and join a convent and I don’t think I’d like that at all.’

‘Smart thinking. So what is this legacy you’re looking for?’

Mirren looked at him sideways. ‘Hmm, I don’t know, what on earth would one come to Hay-on-Wye for?’

‘A book,’ said Theo.

‘You’re very smart for the youngest son of a nobleman sent on family errands.’

‘Thank you, milady. Had any luck so far?’

‘No,’ said Mirren. ‘There are, like, miles of books here. I mean, actually miles. I think I’d have to look through every one in the world. For a book I don’t even know definitely exists. In fact, I’m beginning to think it doesn’t. I mean, if something exists, it’s on the internet, right?’

‘Uh, usually.’

‘I mean, someone somewhere would have heard of it.’

‘Is there no mention of it at all? What is it?’

‘It’s a children’s book. But with a famous artist illustrating it. Not like printed. Like actual drawings.’

Theo hadn’t realised this. He’d thought it was a printed book. But if it was filled with original Beardsleys . . . well. This was something.

‘And nobody’s ever seen it?’

Mirren shook her head. ‘According to the internet, it’s just a rumour. But my great-aunt swears she’d held it.’

‘And have the artist’s illustrations ever shown up sold separately?’

Mirren looked at him strangely. ‘I never thought of that,’ she said.

Theo bent down to his now empty plate with a piece of bread to hide his face.

Mirren pulled out her phone and googled the artist. There were so many drawings, none of which particularly had children in them. There were fairies; ladies and men – both naked; Salomes; a mother and child, but nothing that would obviously illustrate the Stevenson.

‘Huh,’ she said. Then she googled ‘lost artwork of Beardsley’ and saw a tiny sentence from an ancient, buried article that had escaped her before, as it didn’t contain the words ‘book’ or ‘Stevenson’. ‘The Longmans commission was never delivered.’

‘Mister Palliser!’ she said in consternation. ‘Bloody hell. I think . . . Longmans was the publisher of the original book.’

‘So what does that mean?’ said Theo, unable to hide his eagerness.

‘Well. It’s not proof. But it means something. That it might actually exist!’

Chapter 11

The nice lady had brought them treacle tart and, stuffed to the gills, they had retired with coffee beside the fire, nattering away about other things – this and that, quite a lot about overbearing families, as it happened, and what they thought was going to happen at Christmas time. It was odd, Theo found himself thinking. Although he was theoretically meant to tail this person and then get the book off her, he couldn’t help liking her. She was funny, and frank, and had an infectious laugh.

Mirren, for her part, couldn’t help thinking that the rather pallid, posh-looking chap she’d first glimpsed when she arrived was, once you got to know him, rather chatty and fun, and his pale skin and dark eyes gave him a slightly vampiric aspect – particularly in the firelight – that she didn’t mind at all; in fact, she found it rather attractive. Also, the dog liked him and was lying under his hand as he stroked it gently. This was a big point in his favour. Even though dogs liked everyone, so this was not rational thinking. Well, unless it proved he wasn’t a real vampire.

As she talked about her mother, and he talked about his grumpy uncle, and how he couldn’t do anything about it as long as he had a place to live, they found themselves getting deep and personal and sharing more than they might have done had they not been the only two people in there, on a filthy night in front of a blazing fire, a long way from home.

Finally, the receptionist announced she was closing up. Mirren got up. There was a moment . . . just a tiny moment, in the quiet crackle of the fireplace and the rain drumming on the roof . . . where she almost thought . . . maybe? Why not? She held his gaze and he looked back at her, looking amused. But then he jumped to his feet, made a polite bow and said, ‘Madam. A true pleasure to make your acquaintance.’

I do not, Theo thought to himself, need to complicate this any further. But he had very much liked making her smile.

The following morning, the rain had cleared, and the day was bright and sunny with a hint of frost. Mirren woke feeling surprisingly clear-headed, given the wine and the gin and tonic, and happy to see the frosty light through the mullioned window. She had slept excellently, and did her hair carefully before creeping down for a superb breakfast of Welsh cakes, porridge with syrup and local sausages and bacon. Sadly, there was no sign of the man she’d met the previous evening. It occurred to her that she barely knew him and they hadn’t swapped social media handles. She’d just assumed she’d see him again that morning, and was amazed by how deflated she felt. It had been a long time since she’d had a proper conversation with someone that had arisen naturally. Her colleagues and flatmates had tried to encourage her back out there with internet dating, but she’d had a couple of stilted conversations on dating apps and one awkward date where she spent the night half falling off an uncomfortable stool at an overpriced wine bar with smirking waiters, and had decided she wasn’t ready.

Oh well. She had a job to do, she supposed, so she finished her coffee and headed out. There were dozens of bookshops here and she had to at least start asking and stop being intimidated, even by the owner at one bookshop who had folded his arms and looked at her every time she dared to go past a shelf without buying something immediately.

She got very good at looking for a red hardback. She even got braver at asking booksellers for everything they had by Stevenson, every copy they had; asking if they’d ever heard of it. Most of them just stared at her. One, a particularly round elderly gentleman, laughed heartily, tucking his hands into his waistcoat pockets like a cheerful mole, and said, ‘Ah, the Beardsley brief! I haven’t heard that old chestnut for years! It’s up there with Cardenio!’

‘Well,’ said Mirren defiantly, ‘my great-aunt remembers it. She held it in her hands.’

‘And how old is she now?’

‘Ninety,’ said Mirren, shrugging.

‘Hmm. Well, I’m sure she saw the Charles Robinson . . .’

‘It wasn’t the Charles Robinson,’ said Mirren firmly, for the ninth time.

Then the old man did a very curious thing. He glanced around the room – it was a very cold Tuesday in early December, they weren’t remotely busy – and said, very quietly, ‘If it’s real . . . if it’s real, it’s worth its weight in gold, you understand? You would have to guard it with your life.’

‘It’s a book,’ protested Mirren.

‘Books change the world,’ said the old man, blinking behind his spectacles.

This gave Mirren pause. She had, honestly, been thinking throughout the day, as she passed so many thousands of tomes, so many blank faces, that this was both a terrible waste of her annual leave and not at all helpful to Violet, not really; she needed care and nursing, not indulging in wild goose chases.

Then she remembered how Violet had begged, and looked again at the expression on the bookseller’s face, and she vowed to herself that she would carry on.

‘Books ARE the world,’ said the old man. ‘Be very careful.’

Chapter 12

Mirren had spoken to every dealer she could in Hay-on-Wye. She’d checked every shelf; looked at more Stevenson books than she could count; got her hands utterly filthy, dust in her hair and a distinct smell of old books about her that she could no longer notice. The general consensus from the dealers was that, number one, the book was a myth, or they would definitely have heard of it (book people, Mirren was learning, took any mention of a book they hadn’t heard of as a personal affront); number two, that it was a waste of time looking – if it wasn’t in their town, it wouldn’t be anywhere; and, number three, reluctantly, the next place to look might be Alnir, a town on the Northumbrian coast also famous for its bookshops, ‘Although,’ sniffed one fastidious-looking man in a bow tie, ‘everything is so frightfully DAMP.’

Having left her details everywhere she could think of, having done as much, she felt, as she could possibly do short of going house to house (which had also occurred to her), Mirren finally returned to the inn, ready for a very early night and to move on the following day to continue the search elsewhere. The receptionist smiled and pushed an envelope towards her.

‘This was left for you.’

Frowning, Mirren opened it, then instantly began smiling.

Dear Miss Sutherland,

it started, in a creditable stab at an italic hand.

It was a delight to make your acquaintance. As we appear to be in the same line of work, I hope our paths will cross one of these days. Do let me know via the most excellent innkeeper where your next port of call may be.

Yours faithfully,

Theodore Palliser

Mirren felt herself go pink. This was, obviously, ridiculous – just a travelling salesman, having a bit of a laugh with her.

But even so. Between Violet, and the rotten year she’d had, it felt like the first exciting thing to happen to Mirren in such a long time.

She begged a pen and paper off the innkeeper . . . receptionist, she meant . . . and, smiling, started,

Dear Mr Palliser,

Thank you for your rather forward note. I continue on to quite the largest bookshop in the country, the better to fulfil my quest. It was most bracing to meet you.

Mirren Sutherland, Miss

She addressed it to Theodore Palliser Esq, Poste Restante, and handed it back to the receptionist, who laughed and shook her head.

‘You could just swap phone numbers, you know. Is this some new way of dating?’

‘Not officially,’ said Mirren. ‘But I think it ought to be.’

The receptionist smiled. ‘I do too.’

The following morning, Mirren set her course northwards. She was running out of money, but had the bit between her teeth now, and set off in the complaining little Fiat. It began to snow as soon as she passed Leeds, and as she ascended the glorious Yorkshire Dales, conditions carried on deteriorating. Her Fiat felt very thin and fragile as she crept, lights on full beam, past vistas that in better weather would be exceptionally beautiful. Animals were huddled together, vague outlines in the whitening fields by the ancient old stone walls that had stood beyond memory in the harsh upland farms, the hills looming behind them. Blinking, Mirren carefully followed the red lights of the cars picking their way along the road in front of her, windscreen wipers squeaking as they attempted to keep the view of the way ahead clear despite the huge flakes fluttering in front of her eyes. Finally coasting downhill and on to the beach, even as it was darkening, was a huge relief.

The first bookshop in this little town was an absolute beauty, even by bookshop standards; a former factory that had been completely subsumed by books. There was a huge travel section, an ice cream parlour, a large display board full of leaflets for B&Bs and, high up, a vast mural filled with pictures of writers from down the years. Mirren stood grinning, trying – mostly unsuccessfully – to identify them.

There was memorabilia everywhere; old framed photographs of writers covered every part of the wall. Huge, mobbed sections on old trains and buses and planes; beautiful fiction and treatises on every topic under the sun.

Although she started feeling buoyed by the fresh town, her first day digging through the stacks yielded absolutely nothing. She left and went to every other bookshop in the town. They were charming, all of them. But not a sniff. She found a cheap B&B, which was more or less all she could afford, and carried on with the search. The next day she did the same thing, until it grew late and the shops emptied of customers, the roads filled up with snow, and Mirren had a headache under strip fluorescent lights in back stacks, and could barely make out individual titles at all.

This was pointless, Mirren started to think by the fifth day. She wasn’t looking for a needle in a haystack. She was looking for a piece of hay in a haystack. There was no chance this was going to work out. Even if she did now know the Dewey decimal system back to front, rather a lot about engraved frontises, and couldn’t believe she had ever mixed up italic ‘f’s and ‘S’s. She tried not to get distracted, although that proved impossible when she came upon a pristine Ladybird Cinderella with painted illustrations and couldn’t resist spending time with the glorious dresses in pink, blue and gold. Having come away without her straighteners, her hair had settled into heavy curls, and she twisted it up and out of the way, often with a pencil. Booksellers no longer looked surprised when she walked in the door. She looked like one of their tribe.

The B&B she was staying in was full that night, now it was the weekend. Maybe she’d just take the other line drawing edition home and that would have to do. Give it up. Spend the last couple of weeks with Violet – if that was all it was – in peace. Her mother kept sending her worrying messages about bruising, and Violet not wanting to eat. She should go home. She should. She called her mother.

‘So!’ said Nora, who always dived straight into conversations as if there had been no intervening pause. ‘Now I have Hayley saying SHE’s going to bring cranberry sauce, if you please! To MY house at CHRISTMAS TIME!! I have never heard the like.’

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘I mean, what’s wrong with my cranberry sauce?’

‘Well, nothing’s wrong with it,’ said Mirren. ‘You buy it from Sainsbury’s.’

‘MIRREN! You know what I mean! I add orange juice and cloves to it! Makes it special!’

‘Maybe Hayley is just trying to help out.’

‘Ease me out, more likely. Would she walk on my grave as quick?’

Possibly, thought Mirren, the way you’re going. ‘Mum, it will be fine.’

‘Yes, it will. When I’ve done EVERYTHING, as EVER. Where are you?’

‘Uhm . . .’ Mirren couldn’t quite face getting into it. ‘Out and about.’

‘You’ve really upset Violet.’

A cold claw clutched at Mirren’s chest. ‘What do you mean?’

‘She keeps going on and on about you. Apparently you’re bringing her something? And it’s going to make everything all right? Some book? She’s worried you’re taking too long.’

‘Mmm,’ said Mirren.

‘Honestly, you two and your books. When are you bringing it? Could you make it sooner? She’s being a pest and I have a lot to do.’

Mirren swallowed and she swore to herself she would do whatever she could to save Violet from the cold comfort she was getting back down south.

‘I’m looking,’ she said. ‘Back soon.’

‘I’ll just carry on getting everything done,’ sniffed her mum. ‘Also, what do you want for Christmas?’

‘Nothing, I don’t really need anything.’

‘Stop being ridiculous, you’d have a total fit if you didn’t get a parcel. What would you like?’

Mirren sighed. ‘I’d love . . . some new Adidas?’

Nora snorted.

‘Trainers? Oh my God, Mirren, I never thought I’d bring you up to be so common.’

‘Have to go, Mum,’ said Mirren, hanging up and feeling more alone than ever.

Back outside in the cold and the snow, even the cheery sparkle of the town’s Christmas lights around the square and the laughter of children on the old-fashioned carousel was not enough to lift Mirren’s spirits. She pulled her arms around her. Her coat really wasn’t enough for this weather; it was fine for mild grey London winters, where you were never more than a few feet away from a warm grate venting from the Tube as you walked past. But this – with the wild sea on one side, and the cold wind and empty fields on the other – was another matter.

Northumberland was clearly incredibly beautiful, wild and remote; Mirren loved it. While also feeling completely freezing. She left the last shop, a charming place that mostly focused on local history and birdwatching – she almost got sidetracked into a glorious Lindisfarne facsimile before tearing herself reluctantly away. Maybe if she went back to the big bookshop . . . at least she could have a coffee at the ice cream stand, heat herself up a bit. It was after six; everywhere else was shut.

Suddenly, Mirren felt the air going out of her like a deflating balloon. This place was beautiful. But it was miles from home and everything she knew, and she was no closer to finding the book than when she set off nearly a week ago.

Outside, the wind pulled at her ferociously. It was freezing. If this book even existed, she was never going to find it here. Never in a million years. It was in some millionaire’s mansion, or shredded by someone who didn’t know its worth. It had been lost, was in the attic of somebody; had been used as firewood in a harsh winter after the war. This was a stupid errand; she should never have come, a total waste of time.

Mirren thought, fighting against the swirling flakes and howling wind, that she would get into her car, drive back to the motorway, and carry on until she got too tired, then pull off and have a night in a nice cosy Premier Inn, with a boiling hot shower and a comfy double bed. She could get some Jaffa Cakes from the petrol station and watch some terrible rubbish on television and then tomorrow she’d be back in London. Nothing like as nice, she reflected rather sadly, as the night in the coaching inn with that handsome young salesman. But even so. It would be warm.

And Violet would be soothed by her being there. That was a much more sensible idea than trying to do the impossible here, while her poor aunt was treated as an inconvenience by the rest of her family.

Shaking with cold, she headed over to where she’d parked the little Fiat. A thick layer of snow lay over it and she wiped it off the windscreen with her inappropriate raincoat, soaking it through.

Inside the car was freezing, and outside was now pitch dark, the glow of streetlights only dimly perceptible through the snow-clad windows. Mirren turned the key, ready to turn the heating up to absolutely full, when she realised that she had already turned the key over. And nothing had happened. She tried it again. A small groan from the engine. Nothing else.

Mirren felt tears pricking her eyelids, which she knew was ridiculous but even so. She’d been fantasising about that boiling hot shower for a long time and now it was dissolving in front of her eyes. She just wanted to go home and get warm, more than anything else in the world.

It was nearly seven o’clock. Her phone was almost completely drained; she couldn’t recharge it in the car any more. There was nowhere else to go, except the bookshop, where she could use the toilet – it was getting urgent – and ask if they knew somewhere she could stay. She couldn’t think of a better idea.

She got out of the car, fiercely wiping the tears from her eyes, her feet now soaking and freezing. Her car . . . she’d have to look at it in the morning. Another expense she could barely meet.

She slipped and skittered her way up the ungritted high street, back to the big bookshop, where a tall man with a beard was just locking up for the night.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Please . . .’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid we’re shut.’

‘But I just wanted to use the bathroom and . . . ask if there was anywhere to stay,’ she said.

The man shrugged. ‘Dunno.’

‘Can’t I just grab one of the leaflets on your desk?’ she said. ‘My phone is out of juice.’

‘Didn’t you come in for hours the other day and not buy anything?’ said the man.

‘I was coming back!’

‘To use our facilities for free? Good, good.’

Mirren was staring at him, unsure as to whether or not she was about to start crying again, when suddenly, out of the dark, came a loud, posh and rather familiar voice.

‘Excuse me, good sir? Might I prevail on you to help this travelling young lady?’

Chapter 13

Mirren realised she had rarely been so pleased to see anyone. There was Theodore, his black eyes flashing with merriment.

‘Eh?’ said the man with the beard.

‘Well, it says you shut at seven, and I believe we are still ten of the hour?’

Mirren bit her lip to stop herself smiling.

‘You what?’ said the man.

‘I have business in this shop with your early Dickens,’ improvised Theo. ‘And this young lady requires use of the facilities.’

‘Which early Dickens?’ said the man, getting a sly look on his face.

‘I’m from Palliser & Sons?’ said Theo. ‘I’m Theo Palliser.’

Suddenly, the entire mood changed.

‘Of course,’ said the man. ‘I was just . . . checking the weather.’

He unlocked the door and ushered them inside. Mirren, utterly surprised, bolted off to the bathroom to pee, with some relief, and warm herself up. She hadn’t realised quite how freezing she’d got. There was a large old-fashioned radiator in the bathroom and she draped her hands across the top to get some feeling back into them. Her face looked pale and she found herself dragging a little lipstick across her mouth, flattered and delighted that Theo should have come after her like this.

She emerged from the bathroom to see Theo regarding several incredibly old copies of Dickens’ novels, kept in a locked cabinet with a key. He was pointing out flaws to the bookseller and shaking his head in an expert fashion, and Mirren found herself rather proud to watch him. She hadn’t realised he was from one of the shops she’d been to in London; she’d visited so many.

As she waited, she grabbed a few leaflets for bed and breakfasts from the rack; perhaps they wouldn’t mind if she used the phone to see if she could find somewhere to stay.

Theo was making very non-committal sounds in response to the bookseller’s very best books and glanced up and looked at her. She smiled straight back at him.

‘I think,’ said Theo, ‘I’ve seen enough. Thank you.’

As the bookseller rather huffily started locking the books away again, Mirren found herself staring at the pictures that lined every inch of the walls: writers and booksellers down the years. There were so many, faded by the weather, dusty.

As Theo turned to go, she saw it. She crept forward, not sure what she was looking at. A glint of something in her memory.

‘Perhaps I could close the shop now?’ said the bookseller, something of his original grumpy tone sneaking back into his voice.

‘Of course. And thank you,’ said Theo, all manners back, and Mirren, glancing around, quickly took her phone, on its 2% battery, and snapped a photo of the picture on the wall, just as it died and the man more or less marched them to the front door, putting out the lights as they went.

Chapter 14

Mirren and Theo stood out in the freezing cold, looking at one another.

‘Thanks,’ said Mirren, suddenly shy. It was a while since a man had done something so nice for her.

‘No problem,’ said Theo.

‘Now I just have to charge my phone and . . . find somewhere to stay.’

‘You are very bad at booking ahead,’ observed Theo.

Mirren looked down at her wet feet. She was completely freezing again. In fact, it was worse this time, having come out of a nice warm shop.

‘I wanted to go home tonight,’ she said, and for some reason, ridiculously, her bottom lip started to wobble. ‘I just want to go home. But my car’s broken down. And my phone didn’t charge. And . . .’

She stopped then, because she was sounding ridiculous.

Theo blinked. ‘Okay,’ he said, as if he’d decided something.

‘What do you mean, okay?’

‘Okay, follow me.’

The snow had settled on his long dark eyelashes. It rather suited him; he still looked slightly like a vampire.

On the other hand, he almost certainly wasn’t one, and Mirren very much felt short of options at this time. Chilled and exhausted, she docilely followed him across the road, not even knowing where she was going, something she would not have recommended to a single one of her girlfriends, ever.

They were only a short way up the road, into the main section of town, and Theo bounded up the steps of a solid old honey-stone building, respectable looking, lit with round outdoor lights, with The Town Hotel written in a smart font above the old wooden doorway.

‘I’m sure they can sort you out,’ said Theo.

Inside, the lobby was so very lovely Mirren wanted to cry. Luxuriantly warm, there was a large fire burning in the grate, with copies of recent magazines carefully splayed on a low table. Tartan carpets were soft and cheery, and the reception desk had a proper old-fashioned bell. Ahead, a beautiful ornate staircase with a carved banister led upwards; everything felt hushed and there was an expensive hotel smell, as well as a smell of something nice coming from the bar. Mirren knew immediately that she wouldn’t be able to afford to stay there. The car was going to take every last penny she had to fix.

‘This young lady needs a room,’ said Theo.

‘Of course, madam,’ said the man. His smart yellow-and-black striped waistcoat alone suggested to Mirren that it was going to be pricey, which was confirmed when she saw the rack rate.

‘Oh no, it’s okay,’ said Mirren. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll find somewhere.’

Theo realised immediately, looking at her cheap shoes, which hadn’t even been able to keep out the weather, what was going on. The problem was, his uncle’s largesse very much extended to the business, and keeping himself, and to the same extent Theo, in lavish comfort. However, he combed the accounts with a sharp eye, and certainly wouldn’t stretch to a second room. And he, Theo, had absolutely no money at all; impoverished at the end of his studies, he was essentially an intern, for all his expensive clothes.

So. A dilemma.

‘Well,’ he said, as the wind outside blew harder; the snow had really started to settle now. ‘Do you think you could put an extra bed in my suite?’

‘Of course, Mr Palliser,’ said the man quickly, making a note.

Mirren looked at him, concerned.

‘You don’t have to take it, of course,’ he said. ‘Just . . . charge your phone and have a drink and figure things out?’

He held the key out to her, mentally checking he hadn’t left his boxers on the floor.

Mirren realised she was dripping on the polished wooden floor of the lobby. The smart young receptionist was politely not looking at her. She looked at the proffered key.

‘I assure you, madam,’ said Theo, ‘my intentions are quite honourable.’

Mirren smiled. ‘Exactly what a blackguard would say, I am afraid, Mr Palliser.’

‘Alas! Hoisted indeed, by the keenness of your wit. Nevertheless . . .’

He dangled the key at her, and Mirren took it.

Chapter 15

After 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!’

Chapter 16

‘Theodore?’

The voice was not calling to wish him many happy returns of the season, that much was obvious. The phone had interrupted a very pleasant evening, and Theo had excused himself and wandered back into the lovely foyer, staring upwards at the twinkling glow of the huge Christmas tree, even as his uncle’s voice was like steel down the telephone.

‘Hello, Uncle.’

‘I am just looking at my online banking . . .’

It was ten o’clock at night. Of course he was.

‘And there are frankly some absolutely ABSURD expenses on here. You can take her out for dinner, but you can’t take the piss.’

‘No!’ stammered Theo. ‘I’m not.’

‘Well, what the bally hell are you up to then?’

‘I . . . I have a lead,’ said Theo. ‘We’ve identified the writer and artist together.’

‘REALLY?’

Theo could practically feel him rubbing his hands together.

‘Yes.’

‘So, it exists, you think?’

‘I think it’s definitely possible . . . We’re moving on to Edinburgh.’

‘Oh, you’re a “we” now, are you?’

‘No, but . . .’

‘No, I quite understand,’ said his uncle with an unpleasant sneer. ‘Honeytrap, eh? Tempt her in, then pounce when the moment’s right. Like it, like it. Didn’t think you had it in you. Jolly good.’

He sniffed and the computer clicked in the background. Theo had absolutely no doubt he was still staring at the accounts.

‘Don’t you dare come back without it,’ said his uncle, his voice as cold as ice.

Chapter 17

Theo seemed muted when he came back from his phone call, Mirren thought. And she was tired too. They should call it a night. As she stood up, though, she realised that for the first time in a long time – through the days of that awful spring, the endless hours spent sobbing and begging the holiday company, the relentlessness of work, her mother’s general low-level disappointment, then poor Violet getting sick – it felt like she was having a good time. She walked, a little unsteadily, into the lobby. A second huge, elegantly narrow Christmas tree stretched up through the winding staircase, decorated entirely in silver and glass, which made it look modern and glittering, like an ice palace. Mirren let her head fall back so the tumbling glitter and lights filled her vision end to end. Theo smiled, watching her.

‘Oh, it’s lovely,’ said Mirren. ‘I always forget how much I love Christmas, don’t you?’

‘And the dark and the cold?’ said Theo.

‘Well, that’s what I mean,’ said Mirren. ‘It’s dark and cold but then you go in somewhere warm, and the loveliness of that – the nice warm car, or pub, or home, or coffee shop – it is just the loveliest feeling. Or hopping into bed and getting cosy. Or having an electric blanket.’

‘A what?’ said Theo. The family he’d grown up in rather saw feeling the cold as a moral failing and never turned the heating on ever; it ate into the capital, apparently.

‘Oh, it’s just lovely to be cosy and warm, that’s all,’ said Mirren, smiling and moving closer to the fire by the entrance.

‘I think,’ said Theo, ‘you have had quite enough whisky and should probably head upstairs.’

Mirren grinned at him. She looked, Theo thought, uncommonly pretty in the flickering light. Outside, the snow was piling up on the window frames. He was feeling happily content after a big meal and the cheeriness of finally, potentially, pleasing his uncle. As for feeling guilty that he hadn’t come clean with Mirren . . . well. Yes. He did feel guilty about that. Without having the faintest idea what to do about it that wouldn’t result in him being thrown out on the street. He’d think of something, surely?

‘Come on,’ said Mirren, feeling loose-lipped and devilish. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

Inside the lovely old room, warm and softly lit, the top cover of the four-poster had been pulled back and everything was looking incredibly inviting.

‘I . . .’ Theo cleared his throat. ‘I’ll take the trundle, naturally.’

But Mirren’s eyes were flashing. It had been so long, she thought, since she’d had an adventure. She had a missed call from her mum on her phone. She didn’t want to answer it.

‘You’ve been so kind,’ she said. ‘And it is your bed . . .’ She smiled at him wickedly. ‘And it’s dark, and nobody knows we’re here . . . We could share . . .’ She patted the pillow beside her.

‘Don’t tempt me,’ he said. Then regretted it, because instantly the mood in the room changed. Mirren looked back at him, her gaze direct, and suddenly both found their breath had quickened.

Theo looked at her sorrowfully. She looked absolutely gorgeous there, her long hair different shades in the firelight, her cheeks pink; beneath her plain black dress, who knew what he might discover? And he would so much like the chance to find out. He was incredibly tempted.

On the other hand, she thought he was just a chap, looking for Dickens – a rich boy playing around who was just hanging out with her because she was fun and he didn’t have too much to do. She thought he was, what, a diversion?

Whereas of course he knew. When they found the book . . . he didn’t want to look that far ahead. Of course he wouldn’t. Nothing would happen and this ridiculous wild goose chase wouldn’t go anywhere. But he knew what he’d have to do. He’d have to overbid for it. Or somehow get his hands on it. Otherwise, he knew what would happen. Him losing his home was one thing. His family suffering because of him was quite another. His father had been so pathetically grateful when Philip had extended his offer. This was his last chance to get something right. And if she did find the book, if they did, particularly if he helped, well . . . this would be newsworthy. It would be something.

Also, having met Mirren, he couldn’t bet against her succeeding. He remembered her again, soaking wet, with a determined set to her face that said she would go on looking, regardless.

And now he’d got to know her, he couldn’t help himself: he liked her. He just liked her. No way around it. He was still going to make sure he got the book, he had to. It was just business. She’d understand when they got there. Plus, he’d identified the photograph. He basically was on the way to finding it anyway. Really.

He thought of his uncle again – ‘Honeytrap, eh?’ – and shuddered. He didn’t want to be like his uncle or his father, a silver worker, only just keeping the wolf from the door. He had broken his father’s heart when he’d studied English instead of something ‘useful and lucrative’, like medicine or law. He knew what Mirren meant about feeling like a disappointment to her family; he felt the same way about himself. He would have loved a bookshop, working in one; he had enjoyed the places they’d been. He just didn’t want to be as sharp and mean as his uncle. Or so desperately in need of money.

And if he went back now . . . he’d be out on his ear, he supposed, while his uncle found someone better suited to the nastier side of the business. He’d have to take a job with his father, and even then he’d still have to live at home, he wouldn’t have any choice. While being berated by basically the same voice. This had felt like a little respite from a life he felt he was not handling terribly well so far. The pretty girl, the lovely restaurants. Some fun, in a life without much of it.

He glanced at the snowy window again. It felt like the entire hotel, this oasis of warmth and light and good cheer, could disappear like a mirage, leaving him huddling like the Little Match Girl on a street corner.

But there was one decent thing he could do, in his deceit.

Chapter 18

Mirren felt instantly crestfallen as she saw Theo’s dark eyes slide off hers and stare out of the snowy window. Perhaps she’d misjudged things? She thought back to asking him what sold well through his uncle, and he’d explained that the most lucrative was often quite startling seventeenth-century pornography, but his uncle didn’t like discussing this, and she’d laughed aloud and said, For example, what? And Theo had said, trust him, she didn’t want to know, but it was basically the internet porn of its day, except with rather more saddlery, and she’d laughed again and . . . well. It had seemed, Mirren thought, quite provocative at the time.

Was he gay? Or maybe just didn’t fancy her? Which she knew was obviously completely okay and everything . . . well, obviously, she’d much rather he was gay, in the scheme of things, but that hadn’t been the vibe she’d got at all. But then . . .

As if he’d made his mind up about something, Theo switched his attention back to her, and she was struck, again, by how dark and penetrating his eyes were. Hard to read.

He made a slight bow.

‘Milady,’ he said. ‘Whilst all my earthly instincts would compel me to approach you, my chivalry never could. I should be delighted to take the trundle, and trust we shall both sleep soundly.’

There was a moment of silence during which Theo wondered if he’d been able to pull it off. If there was one thing, he had thought, he could do in his lamentable moral code right now, perhaps it was this; at least he wouldn’t sleep with her under false pretences.

Mirren stiffened, as if he’d insulted her, which he knew, of course, he had. He would have liked very much to tell her what he felt about her, but that would just make things worse, not better.

‘Of course,’ she said.

And after that, they took turns to go into the bathroom and undress, more or less in silence.

Mirren lay in the four-poster, determined to be a bit annoyed, but her very, very long day, the dousing, the whisky, as well as the extraordinarily cosy duvet, firm mattress and crisp white sheets, the thick brocade curtains keeping out all light and noise from the snow-softened streets, meant that she found herself completely incapable, and drifted off to sleep incredibly quickly.

Theo, on the trundle, his long legs sticking out the bottom, took a little longer, wondering on their plan of attack for the next day, how on earth they could find something so rare and special in such a big book country as Scotland, and also thinking of the absolute unlikelihood that anyone in the entire place would have somehow overlooked an undiscovered book by Edinburgh’s own famous son, Robert Louis Stevenson.

His thoughts also strayed to Mirren, her breathing slow and quiet, but he damped down those thoughts immediately and tried to focus on the task in hand.

Chapter 19

The next morning, the fresh snowfall had rendered the little coastal town beautiful; trapped in time. Shiny aluminium cars were covered in white – including, alas, the tiny Fiat, with nobody from a car-fixing company considering being able to come out in the near future to anyone not in immediate danger, given so many people had come a cropper on A roads.

There was, however, a stop there for the train that would take them across the border, which Theo suggested during a delicious but somewhat muted breakfast where, feeling her head rather twingey from the night before, Mirren was glad she hadn’t jumped into bed with this thoughtful bookish man she barely knew at all. It had seemed a great idea the previous evening; now, she was grateful for his restraint, and pleased he thought they should go on together. Theo, for his part, buried himself in the paper and occasionally passed the marmalade.

‘Okay,’ he said, as they got up to leave. Then smiled at her. ‘You okay?’

She nodded. ‘Sorry about last night.’

‘Not at all,’ said Theo. ‘I was really flattered.’

Mirren nodded, still feeling very stupid.

‘Have you got, uh, someone?’

And Theo said ‘no’ at exactly the same time as Mirren said, ‘No, don’t tell me, I’ll just feel worse’.

The awkwardness, however, was blown away as they opened the front door of the hotel into the town.

The sun was making the snow turn to diamonds, everything gleaming up and down the street. It was still early; not too many footprints or car tracks in the pristine white crystals. The sky had lost its heavy greyness and was a bright stark Scandinavian blue, so different from the damp of the west, birds vanishing overhead.

Mirren took a long breath of clean air deep into her lungs, shaking out her fuzzy head. It was so cold it hurt; it felt like drinking freezing water. She looked around her.

‘Wow,’ she said. ‘This place is fantastic.’

Theo agreed; it was an undeniably cracking day. They had a hard task ahead of them, and an embarrassing evening to forget, but it was difficult not to feel light at heart when there was crunchy snow underfoot and a sun high up in the sky. Children, wrapped in Puffas that made them twice as wide as they were, were already heading for the hill behind the town, dragging trays or bright plastic sleds, shouting excitedly to their friends. School must be off, or postponed, or perhaps they had just all collectively decided to skip it, and Mirren had to think that, under the circumstances, she didn’t entirely blame them.

They walked up the street towards the station, but they had a plan; en route, they were going back into the old shop, and Theo was going to distract the bearded owner again, and Mirren was going to look at the back of the picture to see if it had anything written on it. They were going early on so that hopefully the shop would be empty and, even more hopefully, it wouldn’t be the same guy who had been so grumpy the previous evening.

They were, it turned out, in luck. The shop was being opened up by an older woman, with short steely grey hair and a severe expression.

‘Hmm,’ said Theo.

‘Don’t tell me,’ said Mirren, smiling. ‘Tough middle-aged ladies are the hardest to charm?’

‘Seriously impossible,’ said Theo. ‘She’ll see right through me.’

‘Go obscure,’ suggested Mirren.

‘She’ll think I’m showing off.’

‘Naive?’

‘Oh my God,’ said Theo. ‘Are you, perhaps, born to a natural life of crime?’

They drew closer just as the woman opened the door. She frowned at them, which wasn’t exactly what Mirren thought you should do as your friendly neighbourhood bookseller, but what did she know?

‘Hello,’ said Theo cheerfully, and they followed her inside as she turned on light after light. To Mirren, there was something about the cold morning sun poking through the frosted windows, showing up the dust floating off the old books, and the smell of the shop that felt like coming home. It smelled not unlike Great-aunt Violet; an aura of books, of reading, of curling up and being cosy, of deciding, in a queue or on a train or a bus, just to step out of your normal world for a little while, go visit Narnia, or medieval England, or Persia, or the cockpit of a fighter plane; a hot air balloon; crime-ridden streets of Victorian London. To sit and blow the dust off something, then be transported elsewhere. It was magical. She couldn’t think of another word for it.

Theo had eventually followed the woman to the back of the shop and started discussing editions of On the Origin of Species with, Mirren couldn’t help noticing, a fair amount of authority and knowledge. She was quite impressed. There was nobody else around in the large echoing rooms and she feigned interest in the many pictures that covered every spare inch of wall. She recognised a growling handsome Ted Hughes, the unflattering buns of the Brontës, and an old silver-framed reproduction of Alfred, Lord Tennyson, his enormous shaggy head large and dignified. Once more, Mirren found herself getting engrossed in this world: the old books she could hold in her hands; the wooden floorboards under her feet; the simple, human state of looking and sharing knowledge and information.

Suddenly, she heard the voices move back towards her and, startled, moved quickly to where the picture was. It was practically rusted to the wall as she tried, carefully, to feel behind it or lift it off; it didn’t come easily at all and wasn’t on a piece of string like some of the others. She pulled it away a little to see if she could see anything more about it, even just squint behind it.

As she did so, something old behind the nail gave way and, with a deafening crash in the silent cathedral of books, the frame dropped on to the ground with a shattering crash.

Immediately, footsteps came running.

‘What the HELL did you do?’ said the woman, her eyes frosty.

‘I . . .’ Mirren improvised helplessly. ‘I must have hit it with my bag as I passed. I’m so, so sorry.’

She bent down to fish the frame out of the broken glass.

‘Don’t touch it,’ barked the woman. More staff had started to arrive, pulling off coats and gloves.

‘Georges,’ she yelled. ‘Where’s the dustpan?’

Mirren pretended to be carefully replacing the back of the frame on the ground. But as she did so, she saw something – a tiny rolled-up strip of paper – and while the woman was looking round for the dustpan, she couldn’t help herself. She snatched it up.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said again. ‘Can I pay for the frame?’

‘I’m going to take that 1972 edition,’ said Theo hastily.

The woman seemed slightly mollified.

‘Well . . . I suppose . . . It’s only an old antique from a junk shop. Probably not worth anything. Don’t worry about it.’

Georges appeared. He was the angry man from the night before, who recognised the troublemakers. His eyes narrowed.

Theo beamed at him.

‘We got it!’ he said, waving the book he had paid for hurriedly – it was hundreds of pounds, Mirren noticed in alarm – and bundling them back outside into the snow.

Chapter 20

They 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.

Chapter 21

Theo and Mirren alighted at Edinburgh full of happiness and excitement. Mirren had never been there before, and Theo directed her to a great glass elevator that carried them from the grimy, confusing station straight up through the roof until she found herself level with a huge vista of old buildings with pointed tiled roofs, cathedrals and turrets and towers and, swaggering over them all, the grey bulk of Edinburgh Castle itself. The gardens laid out beneath the train station were glittering with the lights of a funfair; as they emerged from the lift, they found themselves in the middle of a festive fayre, with stalls offering mulled wine and brandy, a band playing, and lots of people sitting around braziers, taking a break from their Christmas shopping and enjoying their day. The smell of roasting chestnuts and cinnamon hung strongly in the air.

‘Goodness,’ said Mirren.

‘I suspect this is very much your kind of place,’ said Theo, and they set off, crossing the gardens and heading up into the heart of the old town. Mirren was hot and out of breath before they reached the Royal Mile, clambering up the cobbles, then over the other side as they made their way to a curving little street that ran downwards off the main road, with beautiful, brightly painted shops lining it.

‘This is Victoria Street,’ said Theo. ‘Used to be all bookshops. There’s only a couple left now.’

And they stopped in front of a bright-blue-painted shop, its windows filled with beautiful and curious books from everywhere – bestsellers, but also gorgeous, strokable classic editions; exciting thrillers; a special section, Mirren saw as she entered, simply entitled ‘Very Long Books for Very Cold Nights’, which contained nothing under 800 pages; and a pretty, dark-haired girl, welcoming them with a smile.

‘Hello!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Come in, you’ll let the cold in. And we have a terrible job getting it back out again,’ she added, as if she had real experience of that matter.

Mirren explained their mission, and the girl, whose name was Carmen, said she wouldn’t know anything about that, but she knew who would, and yelled ‘Mr McCreadie!!!’ The noise went so far into the shop, it practically echoed. Then they all waited for what seemed like a long time, until a very old man appeared from the back of the shop.

‘Hey,’ said Carmen. ‘These guys have some questions about Robert Louis Stevenson.’

The old man beamed, displaying terrible stumps where his teeth should have been. Mirren tried not to show her surprise.

‘Don’t be shocked,’ said Carmen. ‘He’s trying to shock you. He lost his teeth in the Antarctic.’

Mr McCreadie smiled wider.

‘Which nobody does these days,’ said Carmen. ‘As long as they do what they’re told and don’t go off trying to find penguins’ eggs. Don’t let him show you his—’

‘And here is where I lost a finger to frostbite!’ said Mr McCreadie, holding up a stump proudly. He sounded indistinct through his missing teeth.

‘Of course, he COULD just go and get them fixed,’ said Carmen. ‘Or he COULD stand around showing off all day and telling everyone what it’s like in minus 40 degrees.’

‘The cold began early that day . . .’ started Mr McCreadie, and Carmen bustled off.

‘ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON!’ she said.

Chapter 22

Once he’d found out what they were doing, Mr McCreadie’s eyes burned with excitement, and he asked Carmen to bring them all tea, at which she rudely refused, saying she wasn’t his servant, until she saw that the people in the shop obviously thought she was being incredibly cruel to the lovely gentle old man and capitulated, grumpily. They all settled in the back drawing room behind the stacks, an extraordinary little nook in front of a roaring fire, with armchairs laid out and family pictures on the wall.

They allowed Mr McCreadie to tell them the story of his wilderness adventures, which he did at some length, but Mirren found she didn’t mind. It was cosy in front of the fire, and there was tea and hot buttered toast, and she felt, in this safe place with the shelves and shelves of books weighing down on her, and the tiny coil of paper in her pocket, that they were getting closer; they had to be. Had to be.

Mr McCreadie had, it turned out, heard of the Beardsley book, but hadn’t believed it truly existed. He took out a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and blinked at the picture Mirren brought up on her phone. ‘Well, blow me down,’ he said.

As they sat there, talking about possibilities, an absurdly tall man, dipping his head, threaded his way through the stacks.

‘RAMSAY!’ said Mr McCreadie in delight.

Ramsay made his way to the fireplace. ‘Carmen says you’re on some wild goose chase,’ he said.

‘I certainly am!’ said Mr McCreadie gleefully.

Theo and Mirren jumped up.

‘This is the best antiquarian bookfinder in Scotland, Ramsay Urquhart,’ said Mr McCreadie. ‘Or at least, the tallest.’

‘Uhm, thank you,’ said Ramsay.

‘Mirren Sutherland,’ said Mirren. Ramsay’s hand engulfed hers completely as he shook it. He gave her a wide friendly grin.

‘Theo Palliser,’ said Theo.

Ramsay’s grin suddenly faded. ‘No relation to . . .’

‘Philip? He’s my uncle.’

‘And you’re working for him?’

The shift had been so fast, Mirren was puzzled.

‘Uhm, yes,’ said Theo.

‘You too?’

‘No!’ said Mirren. ‘I’m just looking for a book for my great-aunt. That she lost a long time ago.’

‘And you’ve . . . hired a Palliser?’

‘Just coincidence,’ said Theo quickly. ‘I’m touring on the lookout for early Dickens, we can’t get enough of that in London. Specifically, a second-edition Sketches by “Boz”, if you come across one.’

Ramsay’s face softened a little. ‘Oh, that is a pretty couple of tomes,’ he said, smiling slightly. Then he looked around and folded his arms. ‘So, what are you after?’

Mirren explained, and Ramsay whistled. ‘So you think it’s real?’

She showed him the photograph.

‘And this was just . . . hanging up?’ He shook his head. ‘Bloody hell. I thought it was a myth, like the Up on the Rooftops white edition.’ He stared at it again. ‘WELL,’ he said. Then, almost to himself, ‘Where would you start looking?’

‘I don’t have it,’ said Mr McCreadie.

‘How could you possibly know?’ said Mirren, looking around at the seemingly endless Aladdin’s cave.

‘Oh, he knows,’ shouted Carmen’s voice from way off. ‘He just won’t share his “magical system” with anybody else.’

Chapter 23

Ramsay offered two suggestions: the Writers’ Museum, on Lady Stair’s Close, and the author’s old home, on Heriot Row, seeing as they knew the book had been there at least once.

As Theo headed through the door to the street, it felt like, suddenly, the air outside had turned much, much colder. Ramsay sidled up quietly to Mirren.

‘You just want this book so your aunt can see it again, yes?’

Mirren nodded. ‘That’s all she wants.’

He glanced at Theo, who was stamping his feet outside and looking at his phone.

‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘the Pallisers have . . . a reputation in my line of work.’

Mirren regarded him steadily. ‘So you think . . . if I find it, I should bring it to you?’

Ramsay laughed. ‘Oh goodness, of course not. Although I’d certainly do you a good deal on it. No. I’m just saying, be careful.’

‘Theo isn’t like his uncle,’ said Mirren hotly.

‘Oh, I’m glad you know him so well. Right-oh.’

Mirren bit her lip, rather awkwardly.

‘I was just going to say . . . just to you. There’s one more . . .’

He pressed a piece of paper into her hand.

‘This isn’t the writer’s place . . . it’s the artist’s. His country retreat. Worth asking. And maybe . . . I mean, it’s up to you, but maybe go alone.’

Mirren pondered this as Theo cheerfully accompanied her to the Writers’ Museum, which was down the Royal Mile, a chilly but beautiful walk down the long cobbled street from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace, past little hidden closes, ancient tenement buildings in higgledy-piggledy order; streets peeling off to the side, down to the Cowgate, or back to the gardens. They stopped, of course, at every bookshop they saw. It was fascinating, following the footsteps of a thousand-year-old city. To their left was a tour to Mary King’s Close, an old plague street that had been closed up four hundred years ago, leaving the inhabitants to their miserable fates, then built over. Mirren shuddered. ‘That’s not very Christmassy,’ she said.

‘You’re right,’ said Theo. ‘They should put fairy lights on all the unmarked graves.’

Mirren tutted, but was thoughtful about what Ramsay had said. Mind you, she had known him for five minutes, whereas she and Theo had spent a lot of time together. Of course, she had flattered herself that that was because he enjoyed her company, although last night had rather put paid to that . . . It was a conundrum. Regardless, she didn’t mention the paper Ramsay had given her right away.

The museum, on Lady Stair’s Close, was beautiful, an old building full of treasure from three of Scotland’s most famous writers, and included memorabilia from Stevenson’s travels, pictures and objects. It was fascinating, and the woman there was incredibly informative and helpful. But nothing about the book; she knew a lot about his travels and his life, rather less about details of specific editions. It was a bust.

The Stevenson house wasn’t much help either; although the couple who now ran it as a B&B were completely delightful, they had never even heard of the book.

As Mirren and Theo came up from Heriot Row, there was definitely a flatness around them, even as the early dark had flared the city into brightness; everywhere, people were going to restaurants and bars and celebrating the run-up to Christmas in defiance of the cold dark starry night.

They had travelled a very long way, looked at miles of shelving, met a lot of people – but got no closer to their goal. As they stood there, Mirren still utterly freezing, her phone beeped. The RAC had made it to her vehicle and reckoned they’d fixed it. (She had left it open, upon reassuring herself that it was very unlikely that anyone would want to steal the spare swimming kit she kept in the boot in case she ever wanted to do some emergency exercise. It had never been used.)

‘Well,’ said Theo, crestfallen. He had felt sure that in this great city of books, surely, surely they would find the one they were looking for. ‘I’ve heard there’s an amazing shop over in Wigtown . . .’

Mirren looked around. Getting the car fixed had absolutely cost the last of her money. She wasn’t going to ask her poor aunt for more; Nora sounded more and more pessimistic whenever Mirren texted. She couldn’t leave her car for much longer, it would get towed. And there would, after last night, obviously be no more sharing-a-room-with-Theo shenanigans. That had not worked out at all.

They had tried. It had been, in its way, an adventure. But here, on an ancient street in an ancient capital, revellers all around in party hats with streamers and crackers, lights swinging across the roads from the tops of buildings, Christmas tree lights glowing in the windows, it felt like it was coming to its end. It had been undeniably fun and interesting. Mirren realised as she looked around that, somehow, even the thought of Rob had ceased to sting. But her aunt was far away, getting weaker every day. If anyone would have known, she sensed, it was the old man with the missing finger in a huge cave full of books in the home town of Stevenson himself. And he did not. Edinburgh, beautiful as it was, was for her the end of the line.

Chapter 24

‘Are you seriously going to drive all the way back to London tonight?’ said Theo, as they trudged back down the ancient stone steps that led to the railway station.

‘It’ll be fine,’ said Mirren.

‘I’d be happy to share the driving . . .’

‘You’ve done more than enough,’ said Mirren. ‘Thank you so much.’

A direct train to London came first and, rather reluctantly, Theo got on it, encouraged by Mirren. It was not the kind where you could pull the window down. Instead, he kept pressing the button to open the door, which was not nearly so romantic and tended to beep loudly in their ears. Nonetheless, as the departure time approached, he still leaned out of it.

‘In the absence of being able to exchange letters,’ said Theo, ‘could I . . . could I perhaps take your number?’

Mirren couldn’t help smiling as they swapped. ‘Can you Snapchat me?’ he said. ‘Then I can at least see from the map that you’re on your way home, and not upside down in a ditch.’

‘You are unflatteringly worried about my driving,’ said Mirren.

‘Fine lady, forgive me, it is so,’ he said, bowing deeply.

As the train started up, she sent him a smiley face on Snapchat, along with three books in a row. Then the doors beeped once more and the long sleek train started to ease its way out of the old station, gathering speed as she waved.

Her own train, going through the pitch dark, was much slower, stopping everywhere this time, and she found herself, almost from the moment she sat down, falling fast asleep. Stations passed in a blur as she started awake each time, then dozed off again, the train the only thing lit in the empty landscape. By the time they reached the town again, she knew she was in absolutely no fit state to drive back to London that night, and found a cheap Airbnb on her phone, tumbled in gratefully, and fell fast asleep.

The next morning, the snow had settled but the sky was clear and the air was frosty and bright. A nice young farmer brought toast and honey for breakfast from their own farm, and good coffee, and Mirren stretched and felt, oddly, not too disappointed about her failed mission. Or at least, she was sanguine. Time to stop chasing about. She would go back to London, cuddle up to her great-aunt, enjoy every second they had left. She’d read her The Dark is Rising, that was a good Christmas book. They could enjoy that. And her mother . . . well, she’d figure that out too when she got back. But she would endeavour not to be sulky or rise to things. She would try to bring home the true lovely spirit of Christmas. Perhaps they could even read around the fire on Christmas Day. She’d at least mention it to her brothers. Stop Mum fretting too much about stupid bread sauce and other things that simply didn’t matter.

She crunched her way through the white early morning streets, enjoying breaking puddle ice with her too-thin boots, pleasingly full of toast and sweet honey, and was happy and quite surprised to see her car, needing its windows scraped but otherwise fixed and untouched, even the swimming costume. In London, it would have been towed days ago, and probably squashed into a cube by now.

She turned the heaters on full blast and sat inside, waiting for the windscreen to fully defrost. Feeling in her pocket, she pulled out the piece of paper from Ramsay.

It was an address back in Scotland – of course it was, she thought to herself. A wild goose chase, this entire thing. She plugged it into her phone.

It was only an hour away.

Chapter 25

Mirren debated with herself. Then she thought about heading back down south and having to deal with everything. And when would she be up here again? And it was such an incredibly beautiful part of the world, the wild east coast. She’d never known it before, never visited the beautiful Northumberland National Park. And the road went right alongside it . . .

Even as she started up the car, she wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do, until she put on the indicators, almost without meaning to. She pulled out on to the newly gritted tarmac, and hit the beautiful, winding road.

Melrose was a glorious town, just on the border, with an old abbey and gracious grey buildings, perfect little squares and picturesque views. It was quite lovely, and Mirren couldn’t believe she’d never even heard of it.

She hadn’t known what to expect from Ramsay’s description, but the address he’d given her led her to a large Victorian house in the middle of a residential street. Huge glass windows fronted on to the garden; it had clearly been a beautiful grand property in its day, but it was sadly neglected – it needed painting and the window frames were peeling. The path was cracked and overgrown. Mirren frowned. She wasn’t really quite sure what she was doing there. What would she do, just go up and ask them for the book? That was probably what Theo would do, she thought. March in there with his self-confidence. She could do that, surely.

She marched up to the old wooden storm door and looked around for a bell. It appeared to be a lever that you had to pull. She did so, and heard a chime deep inside the house.

For a long time, nothing happened, and Mirren stood there. She had raided her suitcase and added a couple of extra layers, but the wind cutting through was absolutely bitter and she didn’t have gloves. She rubbed her hands together and shivered. One more time?

Just as she stooped down to pull the lever, she suddenly thought she heard something. Sure enough, it was a voice. Saying, ‘Wait a minute!’

It took an age for the bolts to be drawn back. Standing in front of Mirren was a tiny old woman, as old as Violet it looked like, her face all wrinkled. She was very short, her back bowed over so she couldn’t stand up straight at all. She winced at the effort of pulling the bolts.

‘Sorry,’ said Mirren.

‘That’s all right,’ said the woman in a soft musical accent. ‘Normally, people come round the side . . .’

‘Oh . . . sorry!’ said Mirren again.

‘That’s all right. Now, what is it? If it’s a religion, I’m afraid I’ve put all my chips on the Church of Scotland and it’s far too late to change now. No God likes a ditherer.’

‘It isn’t,’ smiled Mirren.

‘Oh, good,’ said the old lady. ‘Also, if it’s swindling, I gave out my bank details over the phone to a very convincing young man two years ago and there’s nothing left. My children were FURIOUS.’

Mirren smiled again. ‘It isn’t that either.’

‘Oh. Well. Would you like to come in? Oh, also . . .’

‘Uh huh?’ said Mirren, happy to follow the old lady inside, out of the wind.

‘. . . if you’re my physiotherapist and I’ve just forgotten we had an appointment, I have absolutely been doing my exercises every day.’

Most of the house was full of large closed wooden doors, but Mirren followed the old lady slowly down a passage to a kitchen at the back that had a Dyson heater running. It wasn’t beautiful, but it meant the room was delightfully warm.

‘My children insisted,’ she said. ‘I think it’s making me soft.’

‘Well, I think it’s lovely,’ said Mirren vehemently.

‘I’d rather a real fire,’ said the lady. ‘But it was doing for me knees. Tea?’

Mirren smiled gratefully as the woman poured her some tea from a freshly boiled kettle and asked if she would like a Penguin biscuit, which turned out to be exactly what Mirren felt like at that moment.

‘So,’ said the lady. ‘Tell me!’

‘Well,’ said Mirren. ‘Someone told me the artist Aubrey Beardsley used this place?’

‘He did indeed!’ said the old woman. ‘He was my great-uncle!’

‘That’s really weird,’ said Mirren, ‘because I’m looking for something on behalf of my great-aunt.’

‘Hmm,’ said the woman. ‘What are you looking for, exactly? All of his pieces are sold, mostly. I had a couple, but they needed to be sold after the whole . . . charming young man incident.’

‘I am so sorry about that,’ said Mirren again.

‘Ach, it’s only stuff,’ said the woman. ‘At my age, I’d rather have my knees than all the stuff in China. And that’s a lot of stuff.’

‘It is. No, what I’m looking for is a bit different . . . It’s actually a book.’

The woman looked up at her then and for all her slowness and infirmity, Mirren caught in her eye the beginning of a bright gleam, like a bird.

‘A . . . a book?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Mirren. ‘My great-aunt . . . she remembers a book. That she thinks he illustrated.’

There was a very long pause.

‘And would that be a Robert Louis Stevenson book?’ said the old lady finally, her voice sounding slightly tremulous.

‘YES!’ said Mirren, her heart suddenly leaping in her chest.

The old lady nodded. ‘Well, well, well. I haven’t thought about that book for a very long time.’

She gave Mirren a long, appraising look.

‘Tell me. By any chance, is your aunt’s name Violet?’

‘Yes!’ said Mirren.

‘Well then, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m her best friend, June.’

Chapter 26

It took another pot of tea and all of the Penguins to get to the bottom of it. June was completely astonished. She insisted on Mirren coming with her into the sitting room, which was elegant, if clearly uninhabited, and going through the bookshelves there to find the old photo albums. Mirren let her take her time. Finally, she found it. A tiny black-and-white photograph with white corners, very faded, of two little girls in a back garden, wearing short summer dresses and ribbons in their hair.

‘There we are!’ she said. On the back, in faded ink, someone had written: Violet and June, Summer 1944.

‘Violet’s father must have taken that. He was a wonderful man, your great-grandfather. We’d moved south, but my dad died early on in the war, there was a lot of us like that. Your great-grandfather treated me just like his own. I practically lived at Violet’s. My mother was never the same. We’re quite an . . .’ She coughed politely. ‘An eccentric family.’

‘And the book?’ Mirren couldn’t help herself asking.

‘Well, yes, my great-uncle had illustrated it, but there had been a falling-out with the publisher, then Mr Stevenson had gone away, I believe to the South Seas, and it rather got away from them. Then the darling boy died far too young – no children, of course – and the draft came down to us. He wasn’t so fashionable then – we didn’t know what we had.’

‘So it was yours?’

‘I suppose it was. I knew I loved it.’

Mirren’s heart was racing. If this was the family home . . . could it be in an attic? A basement somewhere?

‘And then what happened to it?’

June’s mouth twisted. ‘Och, I was only wee. It was such a very long time ago.’

‘I know.’

‘And children’s memories . . .’

‘I know.’

‘Mind you,’ said June, ‘I remember a lot of the 1940s. Couldn’t tell you what on earth I did for the whole of the 2010s.’

‘I sympathise,’ said Mirren.

June screwed up her face. ‘When Mr Sutherland died . . . Oh, my dear, it was a terrible thing. Violet just cried and cried and cried. And I cried too, so much. It was like losing a second daddy. And then of course I lost Violet too. They had to leave their house.’

Her eyes misted over.

‘It was so common,’ she said, ‘but it was still just as awful. No babby should ever lose a parent in a war.’

‘No,’ said Mirren.

‘And then after that . . . they moved. They just moved. I don’t even know where. Where is she now?’

‘London,’ Mirren said.

‘That’s a big place. I can’t . . . Is she all right?’

Mirren shrugged. ‘Not really. That’s why I promised to bring the book for her.’

‘I don’t remember ever seeing it again after that summer,’ said June. ‘What does Violet think?’

‘She thinks her mother must have sold it. They didn’t have much money.’

‘No, nobody did,’ said June. ‘But she couldn’t have sold it – it was ours. Her mother would never have done that.’

‘So might she have given it back?’

‘She must have,’ said June. ‘But I’ve never ever seen it.’

‘Might it be in an attic somewhere?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said June. ‘After I was last in line to inherit, Hector and I moved here . . .’

She showed Mirren a picture on the mantelpiece of a distinguished-looking man with a big 1970s moustache.

‘And we raised the girls here and they were huge readers. They went through everything.’

She ran her hands along the books on the shelves. ‘In fact, I even remember buying them an edition of that book with flowers on it because we’d lost ours. I looked everywhere.’

‘That’s the edition I had!’ said Mirren. ‘That’s the one Violet bought for me.’

‘Goodness, how funny,’ said June, her face dreamy.

Mirren looked around. ‘So . . .’ She sighed. ‘Oh, June. I think you were my last hope. I can’t . . . I have absolutely no idea where I would . . .’

Just then, there came a loud knock on the door.

Chapter 27

June and Mirren looked at one another.

‘Are you expecting . . .’

June shook her head. ‘Goodness, no, I’ve had the entire family on the phone all morning, thinking I can’t deal with a bit of snow and ice.’

‘Can you?’

‘Not really,’ said June. ‘Don’t tell them that.’

Mirren followed her slow progression – this time, to the side door. Obviously someone who knew their way about.

June looked puzzled, and it took Mirren a moment before she recognised the woman with the steely hair from the bookshop standing at the door, next to the man with the drooping beard.

‘That’s her,’ said the woman.

‘Thought as much,’ said the man.

‘Excuse me, love,’ said the woman.

‘It’s Mrs Fisher, actually,’ murmured June.

‘We believe this woman is trying to swindle something. She took something from our shop . . . STOLE it.’

‘It was a tiny piece of paper!’ protested Mirren, realising as she did so she was incriminating herself. ‘And how did you know I was here?’

‘How did we notice you coming back for the battered old car you’d abandoned at the other end of the high street, then running the engine for twenty minutes before driving off incredibly slowly?’ snorted the man. ‘Also, you never check your mirrors.’

‘Georges!’ said the woman crossly, and Georges looked shamefaced, as if he’d also just incriminated himself.

‘Anyway, we believe you might have . . .’

The woman glanced around the corridor, lined with bookshelves, and looked happy about it.

‘We believe you might have something that this young lady might be trying to make off with. But we are willing to offer you a very fair price for it.’

‘I’m not trying to make off with anything!’ spluttered Mirren. The woman was pushing her way over the threshold.

‘I’m sure we can help . . . if you haven’t already found it . . . It’s not that valuable, really, but we can do you a favour. Be nice to be able to turn the heating on, wouldn’t it?’

June had lost all of the sharp-eyed fervour she’d had earlier in the kitchen, and now looked terribly elderly and confused.

‘I’m not sure . . . I’m not sure who all you people are.’

Mirren remembered how she had been conned the year before.

‘Don’t worry,’ said the woman, pushing past her. ‘We won’t disturb anything.’

Georges stood looking menacingly in the doorway.

‘She doesn’t have it,’ said Mirren boldly. ‘So piss off and leave her alone.’

‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ said the woman. ‘Don’t worry, love. We’ll sort you out.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said June weakly. ‘That would probably be best.’

‘You know, when we find it, we’re going to give you ONE HUNDRED POUNDS,’ said the woman. ‘Imagine that!’

Georges was already going through the shelves, carelessly tossing discarded books to the side. Some of them fell on the floor.

‘Ooh, how exciting,’ said June. She appeared to have completely forgotten the reason Mirren was there, and their conversation in the kitchen.

‘I think you can go,’ said the grey-haired woman to Mirren. ‘Once you’ve returned what you took from that frame. You and your little Palliser friend.’

‘He didn’t know anything . . .’

Mirren stopped talking even as the woman snorted loudly.

‘A PALLISER? No chance. Or was it just a lovely coincidence you ran into each other?’

‘We . . .’ Mirren stopped talking, winded. The couple continued to pull at June’s shelves.

‘You get out of here or . . .’ started Mirren again, taking a step forward.

‘Or what?’ said the woman. ‘You’ll call the police? You invited us in here, didn’t you?’

‘Why, yes, I think so,’ said June, looking confused. ‘Would you like a Penguin biscuit?’

Chapter 28

Meanwhile, Theo had been having an absolutely horrible time of it. Philip had been absolutely furious that he’d been on a highly expensive jolly with nothing more than a half-decent Darwin to show for it. Even worse, Theo had been far too scared to mention that he’d checked out where Mirren was on Snapchat maps and realised that she hadn’t come back down south at all; instead, she’d shot off back to Scotland, completely blindsiding him.

Mirren, in the house, was equally blindsided. Of course. How could she have been so stupid. He didn’t want to sleep with her because it was all fake. All of it. He was pretending to be charming, and chat and get on because he wanted the book too. That was all it was. She had been so naive and stupid. Ramsay had tried to warn her, as had the bookseller in Hay-on-Wye.

But now, with the man and the woman ransacking the shelves behind her, she couldn’t think of anyone else to call.

Theo sounded slightly gruff when he picked up the phone to her.

Her hissed, panicky conversation startled him awake.

‘But you didn’t tell me you were going to Melrose,’ he said, interrupting her.

‘You didn’t tell me you knew all about the book!!!!’ said Mirren. ‘I believed all that Dickens nonsense.’

‘Dickens is never nonsense—’

‘We don’t have time for this! They’re here! They followed me! From the bookshop!’

Theo sighed.

‘Oh goodness.’

‘They’re going through the shelves faster than I can! They just barged in! And there’s a really old lady here and they’re going to upset her!’

‘Okay,’ said Theo. He glanced over at his uncle, who was busy in the other room with a very serious buyer who had turned up with a security guard – always an excellent sign.

‘I’m going to tell you something you have to say to them to make them go away.’

‘How can I trust you?’

‘Well, you can’t,’ said Theo. ‘But firstly, you called me. And secondly, obviously I don’t want them to get it. I want— I need,’ he added desperately, ‘I need you to find it and bring it to me.’

‘No chance.’

‘Okay, bye.’

‘NO, wait. We’ll talk about it.’

Mirren walked up to the bookshop staff, who were hurling books and old family photos and treasures willy-nilly around the place. She looked at them. A month ago, she wouldn’t have dared. She was licking her wounds and keeping her head down. Violet had lived every day of her life boldly and on her own terms. That was something that Mirren had to learn. Because now she was a Book Person.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, folding her arms. The steely-haired woman got up, shooting her an icy look.

‘I just got off the phone with the livery company.’

‘No you didn’t,’ sneered the woman.

‘Check with the guild master,’ said Mirren, as Theo had told her to. She had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but it was clear there was a lot about the arcane world of antiquarian bookselling she didn’t know at all. And at any rate, it seemed to be doing the trick: the woman had obviously heard of them, even if Mirren hadn’t. She carried on with what Theo had told her to say, and what he’d said they’d do.

‘You know where to find him. SW1A 0AA.’

Georges stopped at that, as the woman put up her hands to hush him.

‘You must get so many parcels,’ went on Mirren. ‘So many. So many books coming in; so many letters. How could you even know which the book lice would be in? So tiny. So impossible to tell. Until they eat your entire stock, of course. In three to six weeks.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ hissed the woman.

‘You wouldn’t dare break into an elderly woman’s home, would you?’ said Mirren boldly. ‘In fact, you’d probably leave straight away.’

The woman stiffened. Then she saw the resolve in Mirren’s face.

‘We’ll come back,’ said the woman threateningly. ‘When it’s more convenient. Come on, Georges.’

‘Don’t let them,’ said Mirren to June.

‘Oh, I thought they seemed nice,’ said June, blinking.

There were now books all over the floor where Georges had tossed them down. If Mirren had been feeling less shaky, she’d have ordered him to pick them up. And learn how to use a duster in his shop while he was at it. But she was already amazed at her own daring.

‘Go now,’ she said, as sharply as she could manage. ‘Vultures.’

Theo called her back.

‘Oh my God!’ said Mirren. ‘I can’t believe that worked!!!!!’

‘I’m not all bad,’ said Theo.

‘No,’ said Mirren, frowning again. ‘Just a bit bad.’

‘What are you going to do?’ he said.

‘None of your business,’ said Mirren. Then, ‘I’m going home.’

‘That’s what you said yesterday.’

‘I know. But I am now.’

‘The Beardsleys’ family retreat,’ said Theo, marvelling. ‘Amazing. Are you absolutely, positively, one hundred per cent . . .’

‘No,’ said Mirren, looking at the star twinkling on top of the beautiful Christmas tree that was now apparent in June’s front room. Even though the room was cold and hardly used, she had decorated it anyway, with beautiful lights, to please the eye, to make children happy passing by on the snowy road; to celebrate a time of year for family.

‘No,’ said Mirren. ‘I’m done.’

Then she paused.

‘Would you have been like them?’ she said eventually. ‘If I had found the book? Were you on a mission to find me? Did your uncle really send you to get it off me? Would you have fought me for it?’

The pause told her everything she needed to know.

‘But,’ stuttered Theo eventually. ‘But, Mirren . . . I really . . . I really had fun and wanted to get to know you and, well . . .’

But it was too late. She had already hung up.

The kettle clicked off in the kitchen. June was making more tea, and this time she was cheerfully taking out the whisky. Mirren waved it away.

‘I’ll go,’ said Mirren. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I’m so sorry to put you through this.’

June was looking far more herself.

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘It’s very exciting! Quite the most fun I’ve had in ages! You can’t be off!’

‘I am,’ said Mirren. ‘I have to get home.’

‘Oh,’ said June, looking a little sad. Then she looked up. Again, there was a long pause.

‘You know,’ she said, eyes twinkling, ‘thinking about it . . . I might have an idea . . .’

Chapter 29

The decorations at the old people’s home were obviously well meaning, but somehow they served to highlight what a lonely place it was, however nicely done or however hard they tried. There was a full nativity play taking place downstairs, including some very under-enthusiastic, terrified-looking children, and, for some reason, a miniature pony. Most of the residents looked extremely underwhelmed.

Mirren went straight upstairs. Violet was home from hospital, but weaker, she’d learned, even in the short time she’d been away, and when she went in the silent room – one strand of tinsel around the framed photo of her family – it was nearly dark. Violet’s breathing sounded strained, but she stirred.

‘Mirren?’ she said.

‘It’s me, Violet,’ said Mirren. ‘Hello. I’m back.’

‘Hello, my love,’ said Violet, lifting her head up a little. ‘Did you . . . did you find it? Did you bring me it?’

There was eagerness in her cracked voice. Mirren drew very close to her and hugged her tightly.

‘My lovely great-aunt,’ she said.

Violet looked sad as she indicated she wanted some water, and Mirren gave it to her. She fell back on her pillows, looking yellow on the white pillowcase; exhausted, the skin lying thinly on her skull, her eyes searching Mirren’s empty hands and looking so disappointed.

‘No,’ said Mirren sadly. ‘I’m so sorry. I did try. Really hard.’

‘I . . .’ Violet let the sentence drain away; she wasn’t able to finish it. The one thing she had wanted, the one memory of her childhood, of her life before everything had gone so bad.

‘But I brought you something else,’ said Mirren softly, nodding at the door.

‘Well, this place could proper give you the creeps,’ said June, hobbling in.

Mirren was briefly worried Violet was having a heart attack, but she was only struggling to sit up. Mirren used the bed controls, holding on to her great-aunt carefully.

‘Is that . . . no,’ said Violet. ‘No. It can’t be.’

‘VIOLET SUTHERLAND????’

‘JUNE! Is that JUNE????’

Mirren stared at Violet in disbelief. ‘I can’t believe after all this time . . .’ she began.

The two ancient women weren’t listening to her, just embracing each other by the bed.

‘I would like to say you haven’t changed a bit,’ said June. ‘But I am afraid that would not be strictly true.’

‘You always were a cheeky mare,’ said Violet, and suddenly Mirren caught sight, once more, of the woman she knew.

Chapter 30

Nora was in the front room, frantically comparing three-for-two wrapping paper deals online. She looked frazzled and cross. Mirren saw her before she let herself back into the house.

‘Mirren!’ said her mother. ‘Where have you been? Seriously. Do you KNOW how much there still is to do . . .’

Mirren ignored this, went up and gave her mother a huge hug.

‘I have a new plan for Christmas Day,’ she said.

‘What???’ said her mother.

‘Don’t argue,’ said Mirren. ‘I’ve spoken to the boys. They’re cool with it.’

‘WHAT???!!!’

‘We’re going to spend it with Violet. It’s her last Christmas. We’re going to go there. The local restaurant caters – apparently, it’s excellent. And you won’t have to lift a finger.’

‘But . . .’

‘Although they’ve said if you want to volunteer in the care home kitchen, you’re more than welcome – they can always do with the extra hands. You could probably be in charge of the others,’ said Mirren. ‘You know they need six hundred roast potatoes?’

‘NO,’ said Nora, hands to her mouth. ‘How on earth do they manage that?’

‘With a LOT of fuss and organisation, I imagine,’ said Mirren.

Nora thought about it for a long time. ‘Well,’ she said eventually. ‘Perhaps I’ll give them a call.’

‘I’ve WhatsApped you the number already,’ said Mirren. ‘They’re waiting to hear. It’s going to be great. Violet’s friend is down staying from Scotland. They’ve let her check in for a few days into an empty room. She says it’s like a holiday.’

‘Goodness,’ said Nora. ‘I thought all Violet’s friends were dead.’

‘So did she,’ said Mirren, thinking happily of the two women she’d left nattering – Violet, of all things, out of bed on the chair, chatting away nineteen to the dozen, catching up on two long lives and sharing memories of the fathers they had lost long ago; the stories they had shared.

‘A letter came for you,’ said her mother. ‘Imagine! A letter.’

Mirren went and looked at the envelope. It was beautiful; the envelope was heavy cream and it had been addressed with a fountain pen and a copperplate hand. Mirren wondered how Theo had figured out where her mother lived, then remembered she should probably turn off her Snapchat map.

She didn’t touch the letter, didn’t pick it up. She’d nearly slept with him. She’d listened to all of it, just as she had with Rob, before she’d given him all her money and he’d vanished. And then a pretty boy had come along and planned to do exactly the same thing. Ugh. No.

Chapter 31

It was – oddly, given they all had to sit under very strong lighting, and the room was incredibly warm, and everyone had to shout because everyone was deaf – one of the very best Christmases Mirren could remember. And Violet managed to sit up at the table, and although she could only take a little soup, she shared a dram of whisky with June, holding Mirren’s hand.

For June’s part, her family, most of whom lived in London, were pleasantly surprised that she had come down back to the city of her birth. In fact, among them there had been some fairly frantic WhatsApping that, given June kept forgetting things, couldn’t look after the house, and let in literally anybody who came to the door, well, perhaps it was time? And this place was pretty nice? And handy? And June, basking in the luxuriant warmth that meant only wearing two cardigans, couldn’t believe people just brought you food, and you got to chat with your best friend all day and, okay, they couldn’t promise miniature ponies all the time, but as things went, it could definitely be worse.

When Mirren got up to leave at six, to go to join some very neglected girlfriends who didn’t celebrate Christmas with their families and wanted to go and eat Chinese food, she kissed Violet on the forehead.

‘You brought me,’ said Violet, ‘such a wonderful gift. The best thing. Far, far better than . . . Shepherd’s Land and hollyhocks.’

That winter was cold, but it didn’t feel so in the home. Warm and safe and with constant companionship, Violet grew thinner, and quieter, and passed gently, less than a week later, everyone there by her side, stroking her hair, holding her hand, while Mirren read from the edition Violet had once given her:

For the long nights you lay awake

And watched for my unworthy sake:

For your most comfortable hand

That led me through the uneven land:

For all the story-books you read:

For all the pains you comforted:

Mirren was there, as well as her brothers, June, and Mirren’s mother, who had been offered a job at the care home after Christmas and taken it, and was having an absolute whale of a time bossing the young staff around. To the surprise of Mirren and her brothers, Nora’s attention to detail, consistency and willingness to perform any job herself meant that the people who worked for her absolutely adored her. And it made her much, much easier to be with for Mirren too.

After the small, tender funeral, Mirren and her mother discussed packing up what was left of Violet’s small house before handing over the keys to an estate agent.

‘It’s to be put on the market and sold and split between us all,’ said Nora. ‘But I’m the executor of the will. She’s made a special bequest to you – her pearls, if you want them, plus anything you’d like from the house.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a couple of photos,’ said Mirren. ‘We could share them, yeah? Copy them out for everyone.’

Nora nodded. ‘That’s a nice idea. Can I leave the house with you? I ordered some packing crates, but there’s nothing there. She did a massive clear-out before she went to the home. Always was thoughtful.’

‘She was,’ agreed Mirren.

Sure enough, the cosy little home Mirren had spent so much time in as a child was bare and empty, the books and personal objects all cleared away; there were a few winter coats and clothes that Violet had been going to take to the home but then realised she would never need again, which made Mirren sad. It was a little eerie, but Violet hadn’t been there for a long time. Plus, Mirren had June to visit now too.

She filled two boxes with the odd bits and pieces before the estate agents came in, and thought she’d better check the attic.

There was only one item up there, and as she opened it, she realised what it was. Violet’s father’s old kit bag. It was incredibly ancient, dusty and decrepit; cracked along the seams.

Fascinated, Mirren opened it. There it was: his old mess can. An incredibly worn old greatcoat with a musty smell. A little box full of writing materials including, amazingly, some old French stamps. Wow. Amazing.

Mirren reached down. There was something . . . something more at the bottom, with sharp edges . . .

She drew it out carefully, then sat down with a bump in the cold attic.

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

Mirren couldn’t understand it. Why on earth had Violet thought it had disappeared when it had been here the entire time, under her nose?

She blew the dust off it, opened the small hard red cover. The beautiful black ink stood out, like it had been drawn yesterday, even though the pages were yellowed and worn. The first picture – of a child watering a garden – was ornate, almost surreal, but still, clearly, a child, living in a heightened, extraordinary world that was nonetheless plainly an extension of the artist’s own imagination. It was beautiful. But why . . . Had Violet been going doolally?

No, realised Mirren finally.

No, that wasn’t it.

It wasn’t only Violet – and June – who had wonderful memories of the book. There was someone else to whom it was a world of happy love, a book that he had to keep close to his heart to remember, when things were terribly bad – and they must, often, have been so terribly bad – everything that was good about this life.

As if in answer, her fingers felt a stiff corner of something and she pulled it out. It was an old photograph; it must have been from the same set as June’s, as it showed the girls in the same dresses, only this time the girls’ mothers were there, young and pretty with their set hair, aprons over dresses, each holding a little girl pressed against her, arms around her neck, and the little girls were grinning and waving at the camera. He must have taken it. They must have been waving at him.

Now in the elders’ seat

We rest with quiet feet,

And from the window-bay

We watch the children, our successors, play.

‘Time was,’ the golden head

Irrevocably said;

But time which none can bind,

While flowing fast away, leaves love behind.

Chapter 32

Mirren left the house quietly and thoughtfully. She had called June straight away, and June had exclaimed and said, well, she’d be pleased to see it, of course – but that Violet would have wanted Mirren to have it, and she’d never have been any the wiser with Mirren tracking it down. It was Mirren’s, to keep or sell, just as she wanted.

Mirren was so astonished and distracted, she almost didn’t notice two things – firstly, she hadn’t realised that it was New Year’s Eve, and the streets were full of people streaming towards town, fireworks already going off overhead; and secondly, the tall dark-haired figure waiting outside the gate, who startled her.

‘Christ,’ she said. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I know, I know, I’m so sorry. I’m not stalking you, I promise.’

‘I think you mean stalking me again . . .’

‘Turn your Snapchat map off then.’

‘I’ve been really busy,’ confessed Mirren truthfully.

‘Look, I just wanted to—’

He suddenly saw what was sitting, placed carefully, on top of the box so that Mirren didn’t let it out of her sight: the red cover.

‘No way,’ he said.

‘Don’t you dare,’ said Mirren fiercely. ‘Don’t you even think about touching it . . . And it’s . . . I think it’s kind of mine now.’

‘Oh my God,’ said Theo, longing on his face. ‘Oh my lord.’

Mirren whisked it carefully into her handbag and turned away to leave.

‘Oh, I would have loved to have just seen it . . . Anyway, I have to tell you!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve given up work! I chucked the job in! I felt so awful about it, and I’ve been hanging around for too long, just hoping things would get better and I would stop hating it, trying to rip off old people and rifle estate sales. It’s horrid. I spoke to my dad, and he told me he’d been in hock to his brother all his life and it had been a miserable thing. He told me to break free of being a Palliser. This was what I needed.’

‘Are you absolutely sure your uncle didn’t just kick you out?’

Theo smiled. ‘Actually, he didn’t. He rather liked someone working for as little as I did. I’m actually going to be making more in my new job.’

Mirren was still facing away from him. ‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to work in a real shop,’ said Theo, naming one of the large beautiful central London bookshops. ‘Learn about selling books people love as much as your aunt loved that book. Not to be locked behind glass and handled with white gloves. Books want to live and breathe.’

Mirren smiled. ‘They do,’ she said, clutching her treasure more closely.

‘So, milady,’ he said, bowing low, his dark eyes fixed on her. ‘I apologise for troubling you, and I shall precipitously take my leave.’

‘I understand,’ said Mirren.

‘If the young lady would ever wish to remake my acquaintance . . . she knows where I can be called upon.’

Mirren had promised to meet the estate agent and had to leave. She glanced back at Theo one more time, then, completely on impulse, ran up to him and kissed him hard on the lips.

He stared at her, his grin broadening, as she headed off to the estate agent’s.

‘I’ll keep my Snapchat on,’ she shouted. He grinned even wider, and bowed once more, then started hollering something. She had to get a little closer to hear him.

He does not hear; he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

And he kissed his fingers to her, turned, and disappeared into the London night.

And after a moment, as the fireworks lit the skies overhead, Mirren thought of a life that was nothing but books; of paper, wonderful as it was; of work, and family. Was that enough? Or would she still want more?

‘Kind sir,’ she yelled into the gloom. ‘You would not abandon a lady to the London night.’

And immediately, it seemed, he was there again, his bow low, his arm outstretched, as she smiled, curtsied – and took his hand.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © Charlie Hopkinson

Jenny Colgan is the author of numerous Sunday Times and New York Times bestselling novels and has won various awards for her writing, including the Melissa Nathan Award for Comedy Romance, the RNA Romantic Novel of the Year Award and the RNA Romantic Comedy Novel of the Year Award. Her books have sold more than 10 million copies worldwide and in 2015 she was inducted into the Love Stories Hall of Fame. Jenny is married with three children and lives in Scotland.

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