“What do you know about my boyfriend?” said Sophie, finding the word distasteful. It seemed both too much and too little to describe what Winston was to her, but worse, the way Mr. Smedley used it, it sounded tawdry. And how the hell did he know about Winston anyway?
“The Chinese restaurant, Selfridges, these are public places. Did you really think you could keep your little dalliance a secret from me?” Sophie leaned against the counter, feeling dizzy. Her stomach jolted and she felt sweat begin to dampen her forehead. Had Smedley been tailing her? She had written him off as an eccentric collector, maybe a little aggressive, but basically harmless. But now it seemed he might pose a real threat to her safety, and perhaps to Winston’s, too.
“You’ve been following me?” said Sophie, almost unable to breathe.
“Find that book, Miss Collingwood. You’re the only one who can do it, now that your uncle is gone. And I’d hate to see you take your own tumble down the stairs.” He rang off, but Sophie didn’t know it. She had fallen to the floor in a faint.
—
FOR A MOMENT, Sophie thought it was Uncle Bertram’s voice calling to her. All she could see were books and the silhouette of a man leaning over her. She had fallen asleep in the corner of a bookshop, a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland propped on her knee. Uncle Bertram had been talking and talking to the bookseller about things Sophie did not understand, and, just like when she was at his flat and he read to her in Latin at bedtime, their words had lulled her to sleep.
“Come, my little Sophie,” he said, slipping his arms around her and picking her up. “I’ve made you do too much walking round London for a nine-year-old. Let’s get you some tea.”
“I don’t mind walking,” she said when Uncle Bertram had set her down on the pavement outside the shop. “It was just that I was reading about a dream and your voices were like Alice’s sister in the book.”
“Well, it’s true,” said her uncle with a chuckle, “that we were talking about a book with no pictures or conversations in it.”
“Did you buy it?” asked Sophie.
“Not today,” he said. “I’m afraid it was too expensive for my budget.”
“What makes a book valuable, Uncle Bertram?”
“An excellent question,” he said, taking her hand and guiding her down the street toward the nearest café. “There are two kinds of valuable. A book might have special value to me that it wouldn’t have to anyone else. For instance, the old family prayer book at your father’s house. It’s not a rare edition and it’s got a loose cover and a lot of torn pages. Nobody would pay much for that at a bookshop. But to our family, it’s irreplaceable. It has our history in it—not just in the baptisms and marriages and burials listed in the front, but in every tear and every smudge. So that book is valuable.”
“But what about the book you wanted to buy today?”
“Ah, that’s a very different matter. That’s a book that is expensive, which is not quite the same as valuable.”
“What was it?”
“It was an early edition of a very important English translation of a book called Plutarch’s Lives. In other words, it’s a very old book about history.”
“That doesn’t sound very interesting,” said Sophie.
“Ah, but interesting and valuable and expensive are all different,” said Uncle Bertram. “A book can be interesting or valuable to one person and not to another, but an expensive book is expensive for all of us.”
“And why was the Pluto book so expensive?”
“Plutarch,” said her uncle, ushering her into the café and settling in at a table. “Well, it’s expensive for several reasons. First, it’s an important book. Plutarch was one of the great historians of the ancient world. And this particular translation is important, because it’s the one Shakespeare used to research some of his plays.”
“Shakespeare, like A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the park last summer?” said Sophie.
“That’s right.”
“He’s funny,” she said.
Uncle Bertram dosed a cup of tea generously with milk and sugar and handed it to Sophie, who took a long drink.
“So, the book I was looking at today was historically important and it had an important literary connection to a famous author. Those things made it valuable. What made it expensive was that it was in very good condition, added to a simple equation.”
“Equations like math?” said Sophie. “I hate math.”
“This is simple math,” said her uncle. “It’s called supply and demand. If there are not very many copies of a book but there are lots of people who would like to have one, then the book will be expensive. A book can be valuable without being expensive, but it’s not likely to be expensive without being valuable.”
“So if there was a book that only had one copy,” said Sophie, “and everybody in the world wanted it, that book would be expensive!”
“It certainly would,” said Bertram.
—
“SOPHIE! SOPHIE, ARE YOU all right?” She realized that this voice was not Uncle Bertram’s, that she was not nine years old, and that she had not fallen asleep.
“Is that you, Gusty?” she managed to say softly.
“What happened?” said Gusty, his voice tinged with panic. “I heard a bump and I found you passed out on the floor.”
Sophie hoisted herself up on an elbow, feeling dizzy and a little queasy. “I guess I didn’t get enough breakfast,” she said.
Gusty helped her into a sitting position and pulled a box of books behind her so she could lean against it. “You stay there, while I get you some water.” He disappeared downstairs and Sophie concentrated on breathing for a minute. She tried not to think about Smedley or anything he had said. There would be time for that later. For now she breathed in the aroma of old books and worn floorboards and it worked better than any smelling salts. By the time Gusty was back from the basement, Sophie had pulled herself up from the floor and was sitting in a chair behind the counter.
“I told you not to move,” he said, handing her a glass of water.
“I’m OK, really,” said Sophie. “It was just low blood sugar.” Smedley’s warning about not talking to Gusty had suddenly returned to her mind.
“Have one of these,” said Gusty, holding out a packet of digestive biscuits. The last thing she wanted to do was eat, but he insisted, and she did feel a little steadier after a glass of water and a biscuit. “You need to go home and get some rest,” he said. “Take the rest of the day off.”
“That might be a good idea,” said Sophie. “I think I’ll go home and try to sleep, if that’s OK.”
He wouldn’t hear of her taking the tube home, so he closed the shop, walked her out to St. Martin’s Lane, hailed a taxi, and gave the cabbie a twenty-pound note and instructions to see Sophie safely to her door. Thirty minutes later, locked in her flat, sitting in a room of empty bookshelves, she finally allowed herself to relive Mr. Smedley’s phone call.
It seemed the suspicions about Uncle Bertram’s death that she’d fought so hard to shake may have been right after all, and that somehow that crime—if it was a crime—was tangled up in the mystery of A Little Book of Allegorical Stories. Smedley had used that word: mystery. Sophie had always wanted to find herself in the midst of a mystery and now she was—but this wasn’t like curling up in Uncle Bertram’s sitting room with a volume of Wilkie Collins or Agatha Christie on a cold winter night. This was real.
“There are two things you need to know about mysteries,” Uncle Bertram had said one night as they settled in for Murder on the Orient Express. “If there is a sword on the wall in the first chapter, someone is going to take it down and use it in the last chapter.”
“I don’t think there’s going to be a sword on a train,” said Sophie, who, at eleven, was starting to discover the joys of challenging adult authority.
>
“There isn’t always one,” said Uncle Bertram gently. “And it isn’t always a sword. It could be a hunting rifle or a cricket bat.”
“What’s the other thing?” asked Sophie.
“Beware of red herrings.”
“I don’t like herring.”
“Red herrings aren’t fish,” said her uncle. “They are false clues. A red herring will lead you down the wrong path every time.”
But now Sophie had no idea what were the swords on the wall and what were the red herrings. Did it matter that Winston was looking for the same book as Smedley, or was that just a coincidence? Winston had a perfectly good reason for wanting Mansfield’s second edition, so she could set him aside for now. He was a red herring. What did she know about Smedley? Almost nothing. There were no swords hanging on that wall. Why had she been chosen to find this particular book? That certainly wasn’t chance; Smedley had said as much. Was Sophie herself a sword on the wall?
She pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down a series of questions:
Why me?
Why now?
Why this book?
Why two different collectors?
She paused for a moment, holding the pen over the paper, and finally allowed her mind to return to Mr. Smedley’s final, chilling proclamation: “I’d hate to see you take your own tumble down the stairs.” At the top of the list, in capital letters, she wrote:
WHAT HAPPENED TO UNCLE BERTRAM?
In the excitement of being courted by Winston, she had almost forgotten about the inquest report that still lay in her uncle’s desk drawer. Now she returned to those stark pages knowing that her suspicions about her uncle’s death were based on something more than paranoia and shock. On top of the neat stack of pages, where she had left it, was the inventory of personal items recovered from her uncle’s body.
Were there any clues in this generic list? The only thing that set Uncle Bertram apart from any other dead male body was the presence of a book—and for him it would have been more unusual if he hadn’t been carrying one. And that thought made Sophie pause to consider—what didn’t he have with him?
It was easy to think of things that weren’t on the list. Everything else he owned was not on the list. But she did her best to channel Hercule Poirot. How would he approach the problem? She had left Uncle Bertram’s apartment with him a thousand times. What did he take along?
—
“ARE YOU READY?” called Sophie down the hall, eager to be on their way. Uncle Bertram had decided that, at thirteen, Sophie was old enough to go to a book auction, and she was worried they would be late.
“You realize the book I’m bidding on is lot 375,” said Bertram. “It won’t come up for at least three hours.”
“But I want to see it all,” said Sophie.
“You want to see it all,” he repeated. “Why am I not surprised? Well, just let me see that I have everything. Has it stopped raining?”
“The sun is out,” she said, bouncing with impatience.
“No umbrella, then. Do you have a book to read?”
“Don’t ask silly questions,” said Sophie. “Of course I do.”
“And of course I do, too. I have my hat, I have my auction catalog, I have my wallet, and I have my niece.”
“Let’s go, let’s go.”
“Right,” said Uncle Bertram. “Off we go.” He picked up his keys from the bowl by the front door, and they were on their way.
Sophie looked back at the list. His keys. If Uncle Bertram had been going out, why didn’t he have his keys?
Hampshire, 1796
AFTER HER TWO DAYS’ confinement at the rectory, the weather did clear, and despite the mud through which she was forced to walk, Jane, having taken an early luncheon, arrived at the gatehouse of Busbury Park just after midday. To her surprise, she found the house a hive of activity. The front door stood open, a large trunk stood on the floor of the sitting room, and into this the housekeeper was just placing a small parcel of books. Mr. Mansfield came tottering down the stairs with a heavy coat over his arms.
“I shall wear this, Mrs. Harris, so you needn’t worry about fitting it in the trunk. Now if I can only find my . . . ah, Miss Austen,” he said, noticing Jane in the doorway. “I had hoped you might come today so I could say good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Mansfield? What gives you need to say good-bye?”
“It’s my curate, I’m afraid. He has written to say he has been presented with a living and will be leaving me within the fortnight. I must return to Croft until I can secure a replacement.”
“But surely such matters could be handled by post,” said Jane.
“I am afraid, Miss Austen, that the hiring of a curate to serve my parish is not something I take lightly. One must meet the candidates face-to-face. Do not worry. I shall not be gone for more than a month. Oh dear, I’m afraid I have forgotten my boots.”
Mr. Mansfield was just turning to go back upstairs when Mrs. Harris called out. “I’ve packed them for you, sir, not to fear.”
“I do believe,” he said, turning to Jane again, “that I should quite forget to take my head with me if it were not for Mrs. Harris. Sudden departures do not befit eighty-year-olds.”
Jane felt a chill as her friend turned to inspect the contents of the trunk. Sudden departures, she thought, await us all, especially those of such an advanced age as Mr. Mansfield.
“I have heard again from Mr. Monkhouse, Miss Austen,” he said. “He proposes to print my second edition before Christmas. Once I have unpacked I shall go over to Leeds and deliver my manuscript in person.”
“And how,” said Jane with a smile, “do you propose to do that?”
“I’m afraid I do not follow you, Miss Austen. Though no doubt there has been some rain in the north, the road to Leeds is generally quite passable at this time of year.”
“I only meant, Mr. Mansfield, that you might find it difficult to deliver to a printer in Leeds a manuscript, part of which lies on the writing table of your friend in Hampshire.”
“The manuscript!” cried Mr. Mansfield. “I knew I had forgotten something. Is there time for me to stop by the rectory and still make the coach?”
“Mr. Mansfield, you needn’t—” began Jane, but her friend was too flustered to listen.
“Here is the revised portion,” he said, pulling a sheaf of papers out of his trunk and then plunging them back again. “But how foolish of me—the new material is—”
“Is right here,” said Jane calmly, holding out the pages of First Impressions. “I had come to tell you that my vision of how to turn this cautionary tale into a full-length novel is now fully formed, and I no longer require your pages.”
“Oh, Miss Austen, bless you,” said Mr. Mansfield. “What should I do without you?”
“You should perhaps get more sleep and be less flustered and always know the locations of your manuscripts.”
“Foolish, foolish girl,” he said, turning to look at her. He seemed in an instant to age a decade, and the sparkle in his eyes dulled as he took her by the hand. “I shall miss you terribly,” he said.
Jane trembled at the touch of his hand, and wanted desperately to find a way to tell him what she had discovered in Kent the last time they had been separated—that she loved him. But though that love was engraved on her heart, she did not have the words to explain its nature. For Jane to lack for words was only evidence of the depths of her emotion. Squeezing his hand in hers and hoping that small gesture might somehow do what words could not, she said softly, “When do you leave?”
“The gig arrives any moment to take me to the London coach. But come—sit with me while I wait and keep me company.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” said Jane. “I shall write to you, while you are gone,” she added as they settled into their usual chairs.
&
nbsp; “I would rather you spend your ink on the Bennet family,” said Mr. Mansfield. “So that I may learn more of them on my return. I must admit, though, it is your companionship, more than anything, that will lure me back to Hampshire.”
“I shall count the days,” said Jane, “though I do not know how many they will be. Can it be only four months since we met? It seems I have always known you.”
“And how strange,” said Mr. Mansfield, “to remember what our thoughts were that first day . . .”
“When we formed such false impressions of one another,” she said, finishing his thought.
“And on that Sunday when we first spoke,” he said, “you said you wished to have me as your special friend. I certainly did not guess what a gift that would be.” They sat for a moment without speaking. Jane was struck with how very old Mr. Mansfield’s eyes looked. She was so used to thinking of him as an equal that she felt she had never truly comprehended the reality of his age.
“I am afraid this journey will be wearying to me,” he said.
“Do take care of yourself,” said Jane. “And come back to me.”
“I shall,” he said, and he reached for her hand and kissed it gently with his dry lips. They continued to talk until the gig arrived a few minutes later and Mr. Mansfield was forced to make his departure. Jane watched as the gig disappeared down the lane.
“Cup of tea before you go?” said Mrs. Harris, who stood in the doorway wiping her hands on her apron.
“No, thank you,” said Jane firmly, brushing a tear from her eye. “I have work to do.”
London, Present Day
“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?” asked Victoria.
“I’m saying that I was right,” said Sophie. “It wasn’t an accident. Uncle Bertram was killed.” She had rung her sister as soon as she realized about the missing keys. “The police couldn’t get into the flat until they came back with Father and his keys six hours after they found the body. The only way to lock the door to the flat is with the keys, but Uncle Bertram’s keys were inside the flat. That must mean someone came to the flat, Uncle Bertram opened the door, the killer grabbed him and threw him down the stairs, and then went into the flat and locked the door from the inside.”
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