The Left-Handed Booksellers of London

by Garth Nix

  “Great-Uncle Thurston and Great-Aunt Merrihew,” said Merlin. “This is Susan Arkshaw.”

  “And about time,” said Merrihew, her Scottish accent very clear. “As you know, this is very inconvenient, Merlin. Come closer, young woman. We won’t bite.”

  “I won’t anyway, lass,” rumbled Thurston. “There’s nowt to fear.”

  He had a broad Yorkshire accent. Susan walked over to the chairs, glancing from one to the other, noting that Thurston was reading Barbara Tuchman’s A Distant Mirror, in which he’d carefully placed a bookmark before closing it; and Merrihew had simply put her Penguin paperback of The Tiger in the Smoke by Margery Allingham open facedown on the whisky barrel table.

  But it was their voices she noticed most. Susan hadn’t really thought about it till now, but Merlin had a kind of posh, public-school voice. Audrey was definitely a Cockney. Sam by the door sounded maybe Canadian or some kind of softer American. And now a Scotswoman and this great Yorkshire farmer type. It was very confusing to her, as it would be for anyone British, who initially, at least, sorted people into social classes according to their accent, whether they consciously wanted to or not.

  “There is always rather a lot to fear, as a matter of fact,” said Merrihew. “It’s possible we should even be afraid of you.”

  Chapter Seven

  In London a bookseller feller

  Wore one glove surprisingly yeller

  Matched with a new suit of dark blue

  Stuffed with a pistol or two

  That well-armed bookseller feller

  “AFRAID OF ME?” ASKED SUSAN, TAKEN ABACK. “WHY WOULD YOU BE afraid of me?”

  “Well, that’s merely an example. We don’t know if we should be afraid or not, because we lack information,” said Merrihew. “Would you care for some tea?”

  “Uh, yes, please,” said Susan. “Look, I don’t understand. I mean, anything, really.”

  “Sit ye down, lass, sit ye down,” said Thurston, gesturing to one of the chairs with his massive gloved right hand. “What Merry is getting at is that we were puzzled by the Raud Alfar warden shooting at you, as if you represent some threat to them, and then there was quite an attempt to prevent you coming here today, what with some thugs and then, of all things, May Fair goblins in daylight!”

  “One question being, are you responsible for both actions?” asked Merrihew. “Were both these apparent kidnappings staged? To try to avoid us?”

  “What!” exclaimed Susan, almost getting back out of the chair she was about to sit on. She looked at Merlin, who gave her a sheepish smile. “I never knew anything about the Old World or any of this stuff before I met Merlin. I’m an art student—well, almost one. And I want to find out who my father is, that’s all.”

  Merrihew looked at Thurston, who nodded. He sat down himself and began to rummage in his waistcoat for something.

  “Aye, aye, she speaks truth, inasmuch as she knows herself,” he rumbled. “Our apologies, Miss Susan. Where’s that tea?”

  “I’ll go see, Great-Uncle,” said Merlin, fleeing the scene, pursued by a dirty glance from Susan. She was surprised to see him disappear into an alcove she hadn’t noticed before, where someone’s hand came out and drew him in. A slim, feminine hand, a right hand, gloved in satin. With buttons up the wrist.

  Susan felt the slightest pang of jealousy and had to firmly push the feeling away. Once again she reminded herself that Merlin was not good boyfriend material; he was obviously more in love with himself than he ever could be with anyone else. His interest in her would doubtless not last beyond the consummation of the chase, and she wasn’t interested in that kind of relationship. Her mother had too often fallen for just such a trap.

  It did pass through her mind that Merlin was also much more fascinating than poor Lenny. Who had always been something of a stopgap boyfriend anyway. He did play the French horn beautifully, and had very dexterous fingers and lovely curly hair, but there was something missing. . . .

  “Now, why don’t you tell us about your encounter with the goblins,” said Merrihew. “We heard from Audrey you’d been danced away. How did you escape the fair? Was it Merlin who noticed what was out of place?”

  “No, no, it was me,” said Susan, bringing her mind back from an invidious comparison of Lenny and Merlin. She held up the glass flower. “This glass flower . . . only it was alive, transparent, where everything else was very much in color.”

  “Ah, the left-handed aren’t so good with that sort of thing,” said Thurston comfortably, opening the leather pouch he’d taken from his waistcoat to take out a pinch of tobacco, while simultaneously searching his other pocket for a pipe or papers. “Give them something to stand up and fight, none better, of course. So from the beginning, when those pesky goblins danced around, what went on?”

  Merrihew sniffed but didn’t comment.

  Susan told them, as best she was able to recall. She noticed Merlin was leaning in from the tea-making alcove, listening.

  “Hmm, that’s interesting,” said Thurston. “And the dog let go the stick when you said, eh? I’m thinking we might be needing to know who your father is, too, lass.”

  “Why?” asked Susan bluntly.

  “Well, the Raud Alfar think you’re someone who’s dangerous to them,” explained Thurston, dropping wisps of tobacco as he waved his hand around to punctuate his words. “And those two ruffians who came after you, we’ve heard from Inspector Greene she can’t get a peck of sense out of them, they’re right mazed, which suggests someone from our neck of the woods has been interfering with mortal minds. They were from Birmingham, members of the Milk Bottle Gang. Neither Greene nor ourselves know of any connection between that gang and the Old World, here or there. Indeed, it is a rare thing for organized gangsters to have dealings with the mythic, and vice versa. Some mortals are drawn to serve malign entities, the so-called Death Cultists, but not your garden-variety criminals. Oh no.”

  He paused, possibly for dramatic effect but more likely to prevent his pinch of tobacco from entirely escaping his grasp.

  “When we additionally consider the relatively few personages or entities who are capable of forcing or enticing the May Fair goblins to snatch two mortals away in broad daylight, and one of them a bookseller . . . eh . . . something must be up. And what connects all these things? Susan Arkshaw. And what is most interesting about Susan Arkshaw? Her unknown father.”

  “It’s my business,” said Susan indignantly. “I didn’t ask for anyone else to pry into my family history.”

  “Nor do we particularly want to,” said Thurston. “In fact, it’s quite inconvenient—”

  “Extremely inconvenient and likely inconsequential,” interrupted Merrihew impatiently. “Where is that tea?”

  “Coming!” called out Merlin. There was a confirming rattle of cups and saucers and silverware from the alcove, and some muttered conversation.

  “As I was about to say,” continued Thurston. “We can help you find out who your father is . . . or was . . . far more swiftly than you could by yourself. Or even with anyone else’s help. Ah!”

  He found his pipe in an inside coat pocket and pulled it out. With its curved stem and rather enormous bowl, it looked like he’d stolen it from a hobbit, thought Susan, who was a big fan of Tolkien. He started stuffing the pipe with what remained of the pinch of tobacco he’d been waving around.

  “I hope you’re not planning to light that monstrosity,” said Merrihew as Thurston put the pipe in his mouth and started patting his waistcoat pockets again. “Remember? Strictly no smoking in the bookshops now. Not since last year. We all agreed.”

  “Ah, yes,” grumbled Thurston. He removed the pipe and looked at it sadly.

  “Tea’s up,” said Merlin.

  Or, in fact, not Merlin. Someone who sounded like him, but with a lighter, smokier voice. Susan looked around and saw a young woman who looked very like Merlin as she’d first seen him, in a suit. In this case a pale blue pinstripe through navy blue, over
a powder-blue silk shirt, with a half-undone tie striped in some school or university pattern that would mean something to those who cared about such things. She was a little more rounded than Merlin, and at least an inch taller, even though she wore brogues to his current Docs. A pale blue buttoned satin glove covered her right hand, which was holding a black-and-white-spotted porcelain cow creamer. Merlin, next to her, carried a silver tray with cups, saucers, sugar bowl, and spoons.

  “You must be Vivien,” said Susan.

  “Regrettably, my younger sibling and I do look alike,” replied Vivien, waiting a moment for Merlin to put the tray on the whisky barrel coffee table before she also set down the cow-shaped milk jug. She offered her hand to Susan, who stood up and shook it, before both sat down.

  “Welcome to the New Bookshop,” said Vivien. “And thank you for coming to see us. I think we kind of missed that part, didn’t we?”

  “Hmph,” snorted Merrihew, while Thurston waved his hand around in a gesture that might mean anything, but was perhaps agreement and also a kind of weak implied apology.

  “Vivien got all the airs and graces in our extended family,” said Merlin. He sat down and picked up the teapot. “I’ll pour, shall I?”

  “Very steady tea pourers, the left-handed, I will say that,” said Thurston.

  “Thank you, Great-Uncle,” replied Merlin. “Milk, Susan? And su—”

  “Biscuits,” interrupted Merrihew suddenly. She got up and headed for the alcove. “I specifically said biscuits were to be brought up.”

  “Great-Aunt Merrihew is extremely fond of McVitie’s Jaffa Cakes,” said Merlin. “But as a matter of self-control, only eats them when we have visitors. Which, as I mentioned, is a very rare occurrence.”

  “No sugar, thank you,” said Susan, taking her cup. She lifted the cup to admire the pattern. It wasn’t one she knew, a pink color scheme with floral panels, so she flipped over the saucer. But there was no maker’s mark. Ceramics were one of her interests, a field she thought she still might possibly pursue. Mrs. Lawrence had gently tried to channel Susan’s many artistic enthusiasms into a mere several or perhaps even two fields, but she had not succeeded.

  “H and R Daniel,” said Vivien. “Eighteen thirty. Not the cow creamer, of course. M and S, I think, from about five minutes ago.”

  “So, your father,” said Thurston, looking intently at Susan over the rim of his cup, which he then upended, draining it in a single draft. “Ahh! Now that’s a good cup. Too small, but good. Your father. What do you know?”

  Susan looked at Merlin, who raised one eyebrow. Vivien leaned over and patted Susan on the shoulder.

  “You are going to have our help whether you want it or not,” she said. “I’m sorry about that, but there are very good reasons for it. The Old World can be extraordinarily dangerous, and the greatest danger is not knowing what you’re dealing with. Please let us help you.”

  Susan took a deep breath and they all sat silently for a few seconds. Thurston poured himself another cup of tea and muttered something about the superiority of mugs. Merrihew did not return from the alcove, from which a rustling sound was emanating, suggesting work upon a packet of biscuits.

  “I don’t suppose I have a choice,” said Susan eventually. “But I hope . . . I hope I’m not going to get dragged into any more . . . weird stuff. I want to find out who my father is, work through the summer, and start my course. That’s all.”

  “Well, one step at a time,” said Vivien, which was not at all comforting. “I know you went to see Frank Thringley as a possible parental candidate. What led you there, and what other information do you have?”

  “Frank was the easy one,” said Susan. “He sent us postcards at Christmas, with his address and everything. But even before I saw him . . . and felt his strangeness . . . he was a long shot. Mum’s always been kind of dreamy; apparently she took a lot of acid back in the sixties, though she says she didn’t, and she said Frank was ‘one of her friends’ but in a slightly different tone than the others, if you know what I mean.”

  “Your mother’s absentminded, rather dreamy?” asked Vivien. “Sort of disconnected from what’s going on?”

  “It comes and goes,” replied Susan defensively. “But you could describe her that way.”

  Merlin poured Susan more tea. Merrihew returned from the kitchen nook with a plate of her favorite chocolate-and-orange biscuits and sat down, balanced the plate on her knees, picked one up, and started eating.

  Vivien and Thurston exchanged glances.

  “What?” asked Susan.

  “Well, the dreaminess, lass . . . for some mortals, this might be a sign of extended contact with the Old World. Time spent somewhere like the May Fair you were taken to, or with entities that are out of step with our world. Or even deliberate interference with her mind.”

  “Oh,” replied Susan. She blinked back a tear, thinking of her mother’s difficulties. “I see. I suppose that makes sense. She always said she didn’t do drugs, though she hung out with lots of bands before I was born . . . the Stones and the Kinks and everyone, taking photographs—she’s a photographer, and a painter—I should have believed her. . . .”

  “What are your other clues?” asked Merlin gently.

  Susan took a tarnished silver gilt cigarette case out of one of the many pockets of her boiler suit. She carried it with her everywhere, since her mother had given it to her on her twelfth birthday “from your dad” but then denied having done so later, and said she’d never seen it before. The case was also convenient for carrying the other scant clues she’d gleaned over the years.

  “This case was apparently my father’s,” she said, pressing the catch to open it, revealing a folded piece of paper and a washed-out rectangle of printed cardboard. “Mum gave it to me on my birthday. We were here in London, as a matter of fact. She said something or someone reminded her of him, but she couldn’t think what it was, and then she gave me this—but she wouldn’t talk about it afterwards, not ever. So it hasn’t been very helpful.”

  “Is that a crest or badge, engraved on the front of the case?” asked Vivien eagerly.

  “Maybe . . .” replied Susan, angling the case so they could all see the faded engraving.

  “I suppose it could be an animal head of some kind,” said Thurston. “Rather abstract, all those straight lines. Not a boar, horse, or lion . . . hmm . . .”

  “I took it in to Antiques Roadshow when they came to Bath a few years ago,” said Susan. “But they weren’t very interested. Their silver specialist confirmed something I’d looked up before; she said the hallmarks are wrong, and dismissed it as a fake.

  “It has the anchor mark for Birmingham, and the sterling lion and a date mark for 1962. But there’s also a hand, which usually means Sheffield, but of course it can’t have been made in Sheffield and Birmingham. And the hand is back to front anyway. The expert couldn’t identify the maker’s mark, either. It’s a kind of rune, but not Norse or like one of Tolkien’s. I didn’t get on the show, needless to say.”

  “Birmingham? And an extra hallmark, is it? Well, well,” mused Thurston. “May I see?”

  He took a loupe out of his waistcoat and screwed it into his eye. Susan took the papers out and handed over the case.

  “The card has been through the wash,” she said, putting it down on the table. “But you can still see it says ‘Reading Ticket’ and part of a number, ‘something, something seven three,’ but the name was written on in blue ink and it’s almost completely gone. I thought it might be for the British Museum reading room.”

  “It isn’t,” said Vivien immediately. “Wrong design and shape. It’s for one of the private libraries. We can easily find that out, and we might be able to restore the number, maybe the name as well.”

  “With magic?”

  “No,” said Vivien. “We’ll try more usual means first. Our conservation workshop is over at the Old Bookshop, which of course makes no sense because all the old books are here at the New Bookshop
—”

  “Happen there’s more room and better light over at the Old Bookshop,” said Thurston, looking up from the cigarette case. “There’s method there, young Vivien.”

  “Anyway,” continued Vivien. “Aunt Helen and Aunt Zoë are considered among the best paper conservators in the world. Lots of museums send books and papers for us to investigate, repair, and conserve. I’m sure we can find out where it’s from, and maybe even retrieve the name.”

  “And as I thought,” said Thurston, handing the case back to Susan. “Harshton and Hoole, our right-handed silversmiths. Sterling silver, Birmingham, 1964. The reversed hand mark indicates it was a pact gift. Given to encourage some kind of agreement or alliance between mythic entities who must have been in human form at the time. Though I can’t say I recall anything of that nature in the early sixties. Or cigarette cases . . .”

  “We can probably look it up,” said Vivien. “Though 1964 . . . Harshton and Hoole had a fire that year, didn’t they? Or was it 1963?”

  “They did, in 1964,” rumbled Thurston. “Electrical. The whole place should have been rebuilt after the war—it was damaged during the Blitz—and we ended up having to do so anyway in 1970. But very little was lost in that 1964 fire. Their papers are archived to the mine with everyone else’s.”

  “It’s not so far back; the silversmith who made it is probably still working,” said Vivien. “I’ll write a note to inquire.”

  “And be lucky to get a reply before the solstice, knowing them,” complained Thurston. “So the case, a reader’s ticket . . . and what’s on yon piece of paper?”

  “A list of names,” said Susan. “Mum would never come out and tell me a complete name, or she couldn’t, but at various times she’d mention people and things that happened or who she did something with, and I’ve been keeping a list of the men who she mentioned multiple times. But I don’t know which first names line up with the surnames. Except for Frank Thringley, who I knew from the Christmas cards, and like I said, Mum never talked about him in quite the same way as these others.”