by Nancy Warren
It was certainly nice having someone so big and strong and dangerous accompany me to the vampire lair. He opened the door and called out, “Lucy’s here,” presumably so they could all make themselves decent. Whatever that meant to a vampire.
As I walked in I heard a snarling noise and saw Hester sitting in a large, wooden chair that I didn’t remember seeing before. Her fangs glittered and she glared at me. “What’s wrong, Hester?” She hadn’t been growling and fanging me when she’d left the shop.
“Hester is grounded,” Rafe answered coolly. “She was ordered to stay with you until the shop closed and she disobeyed.”
“Grounded?” I wanted to laugh, but Hester looked as though she’d have my liver for breakfast at the first giggle.
I wanted to make things easier for her, so I said, “But if she’s grounded, how will she help in the shop tomorrow? I need her.”
Hester looked at me with less hatred and more respect as Rafe considered the matter. I doubted he’d ever had kids, but Gran had, and she looked at the scenario playing out and said, “Perhaps if Hester apologized to Lucy, and promises not to let her down again, she could still go out tonight.”
I wanted Hester’s apology like I wanted bunions, but I knew Gran was trying to let them both save face. Rafe looked down his long nose at both of them and said, “Fine.”
Hester said, “Sorry,” in a sulky tone. Before Rafe could snap at her, Gran said gently, “And you won’t let her down again.”
“I won’t.”
“Very well.” They both looked at Rafe who nodded abruptly. Hester jumped from the chair and ran through the doorway, calling, “I’m late. Come on. Who pinched my black eyeliner?”
CHAPTER 17
“L ucy,” Gran said, looking pleased to see me. She was paler than before but more solid. She seemed less human and more vampire every time I saw her. She still looked her age, but sleeker and stronger. “Did you find the grimoire?”
“No, I found this, instead.” I held up the mirror. “It showed me the grimoire, but then the picture faded. Shouldn’t the mirror lead me to what I seek?”
Sylvia sent me the sort of look she usually reserved for Hester. “It’s a scrying mirror, Lucy, not Google Maps.”
“Well, it showed the book, I’m sure it was the right one, in a jumble of other books. Does that ring any bells?”
Gran looked distressed, and said, “Let me see. Perhaps I can try the scrying mirror. I handed it to her and she held it up, then her lips made an O. I went behind her to see what she was seeing but there was nothing there but a corner of my own face. Belatedly, I realized vampires have no reflection, so magic mirrors weren’t in their bag of tricks.
I began to pace. Rafe joined me. I said to him, “She never gave you any idea where she was going to hide the grimoire?”
“No. She planned to give it to me for safekeeping, but she was killed before she could. I thought the killer must have got away with the book.”
“But, if whoever attacked me thought that the order book was the grimoire, then they didn’t get it.”
“There is another possibility,” he said. I had a sense that I wasn’t going to like his second possibility but I asked anyway. “What is it?”
“There’s more than one individual, or group, who wants that book.”
I felt as though cold, clammy hands were gripping my upper arms. “Who would want a book of spells other than a witch? Or someone training to be a witch?”
Rafe wasn’t given to quick answers. He pondered my question. “The grimoire itself has value as in antiquity, and a piece of art. I suppose there are collectors who might go to great lengths to get their hands on such a book, but would they kill for it?”
“I hope not. It’s bad enough feeling that maniacal witches are after me, I’m not sure I can take murderous bibliophiles as well.”
“Based on that bump on the back of your head, I don’t think this is a laughing matter.”
He was right, of course. I’d been lucky to escape with only a bump when Gran had fared so much worse. If Nyx hadn’t brought Rafe to me so fast, I wondered if I’d still be alive.
“Let’s suppose that Gran knew someone, or something, was closing in. You were away and she was worried that it would fall into the wrong hands. Where would she hide it?”
“Not here. We searched every inch of the shop and your home.”
“And I don’t think we’re the only ones who have searched. I bet Gran asked you to take the book after that first break-in. So, if we assume that whoever attacked me didn’t get what they were looking for, then it’s still well hidden.”
“Not on the premises, but close by, because we know she had planned to put it in my hands for safekeeping.”
I snapped my fingers, loud in the thick silence of our joint pondering. I turned to him, “Where would you hide an antique so it wouldn’t stand out?”
He looked at me and his brows drew together before he nodded, slowly. He didn’t speak, so I did, even though I was fairly certain he knew where I was going with this. “You might hide it in an antique store that is so jumbled no one can ever find anything.”
“But would she be so foolish? Anyone could go into the antique store and buy the grimoire.”
“They’d have to know it was there, and find it, and, in that jumble, it would be a miracle.”
It was after midnight by this time. The vamps were obviously anxious to get on with their plans, so I got up to leave. I’d go to Pennyfarthing’s the next day during shop opening hours while Hester manned the shop and and have a good look through the books.
I was nearly at the door when Sylvia said, “Oh, Lucy, Dr. Weaver left you this package.”
Dr. Weaver had style. The lumpy package Sylvia passed me was wrapped in pink tissue paper, tied with silver ribbon, and bore a card. In careful handwriting, Dr. Weaver had written, “May this brighten your day and speed your healing.” I tore into the wrapping and discovered a cardigan hand-knit by the doctor. It was purple and pink, and decorated with overblown roses. I couldn’t help but feel happy when I saw it.
Once again Rafe walked me home. When we got to my door, he said, “Where does it hurt?”
I pointed to the lump on the back of my head. He reached out and ran his palm over the spot, his touch as soft as a whisper, then he continued to move his hand down my neck and over the top of my back. The sensation was like cool water running over me. Not unpleasant at all. In fact, I felt the remaining headache lift. He left his hand on my back a moment longer than necessary and I looked into his dark, mysterious eyes. With a slight smile, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Good night, Lucy.”
I put my hand to the spot where he’d kissed me. As he walked away I echoed, softly, “Good night.”
HESTER not only turned up the next morning, but she arrived on time. She was even marginally more useful. Sylvia, or maybe Clara, must have suggested the outfit she wore for it was much more in line with what a knitting shop assistant should wear. A longish black skirt over short boots, and on top was a beautiful cardigan in green and black with big silver buttons.
Not wishing to rush into Pennyfarthing the moment it opened, and be conspicuous as the first customer, I waited a couple of hours and around eleven that morning went next door.
When I got there I was aware of voices. There must be other customers, which was good for me, as I wanted to browse and poke around without anyone paying attention to me. Bookcases were scattered randomly all over the shop and so crammed with titles that, if given a choice, I’d have preferred to search for the proverbial needle in the haystack.
However, there were no other customers in the shop. Mrs. Wright was standing at the sales counter at the top of the shop and with her was her husband. They stopped talking when they saw me. She looked as though she’d been crying. The American in me wanted to ask her if everything was all right, but my British side urged restraint. Since I was on British soil I chose to pretend I saw nothing amiss when she asked, in a chok
ed voice, if she could help me.
“I wondered if you had any knitting books.”
Mrs. Wright plucked a tissue from a box on the counter and surreptitiously wiped her eyes while pretending to blow her nose. Perhaps to give her time, her husband said, “Knitting books? You run a knitting shop. Don’t you sell knitting books?”
I hadn’t expected a third-degree interrogation as my excuse was, admittedly, flimsy. I said, “We do. We sell modern ones, but there’s a particular series that my grandmother said was very good if you’re learning to knit. It’s out of print. I’m probably on a wild goose chase, but I thought, since you’re right next door, that I might have a look.”
My hand felt suddenly hot and when I looked down I saw that my ring was glowing. I thought of the way Mr. Wright had nearly stabbed me with a Prussian sword and wondered if he was as doddery as he seemed. But why would he want to hurt Gran?
By this time, Mrs. Wright had her emotions under control. She said, “I’m not sure if we have any knitting books, but they’d be on one of the shelves over there.” She waved a hand in the general direction of the middle of the shop. I got the feeling this was pretty much how she directed every customer to every item they were searching for. Basically, you were on your own.
The warmth on my ring finger made me want to run, but how dangerous could it be with the shop open to customers and my vampire protectors right next door?
I decided to keep an eye on Mr. Wright, but go clockwise and systematically search bookshelves. I’d begin at the top, like the vision I’d glimpsed in the mirror, but what if the mirror was faulty? Or a trickster? I’d look at every book on every shelf before I gave up.
I didn’t go straight to the glass-fronted bookcase that held the oldest books, because that would have been too obvious. I thought, if my grandmother had hidden the grimoire here, she’d slipped it into an obscure spot.
Ancient and dusty textbooks on everything from astronomy to zoology bumped spines with well-read Enid Blytons and mass-produced copies of Dickens, Trollope, and Austen. To my surprise, I did find a good knitting primer from the 1950s. The pictures and patterns alone made it quite a good conversation piece and I decided to buy it to display in the shop.
While I was mooching through old cookbooks, stacks of ancient Vogue magazines and a book of ancient Greek plays, Peter Wright spoke, from behind me, “What about this one?” The Wright’s son held out a book of crochet patterns from the 1970s. “I heard you from the back room.” He pointed to the cover that featured a bedspread made of colored squares. “Remember the Granny Square? I think Mum covered everything in our house in those things.”
“Thanks,” I said, stacking the crochet book on top of the knitting book. He said he’d take them to the till for me and I could keep looking.
However, after hunting through the rest of the bookcases I had no more to show for my search than that one knitting book, one crochet book and an incipient dust allergy. Mr. Wright rang them up. I said, as casually as I could, “What happened to those swords and the dagger you were polishing last time I was in? Did you sell them?”
He peered at me as though from a long distance away, and then said, “No. We keep them locked up. Did you want to see them?”
When I assured him I didn’t, he said. “That will be seven pounds seventy-five, then, please.”
As I left, Mrs. Wright was standing near the door staring out into the street. She still looked very troubled. I said, unable to hold off the American side of me any longer, “Is everything all right Mrs. Wright?”
She seemed startled by the question. Her eyes, still red from crying, blinked at me a few times and then she said, “Oh yes. Only it’s so difficult, isn’t it?”
I had no idea what was so difficult, but I nodded in an understanding fashion, put my books under my arm and headed back. I peeked in the window and could see there were no customers and I didn’t feel up to making small talk with my surly assistant.
I was bitterly disappointed that I hadn’t found the grimoire. I’d been so sure I’d find it next door.
I texted Hester that I had a few more errands to run and headed into Elderflower Tea Shop. My grandmother always used to say problems were best solved over a cup of tea. Add a scone slathered with jam and cream, and I’m inclined to agree with her. Both Miss Watts were working today and it was quiet in the tea shop. They seemed delighted to see me. They both came over. “Are you all right? We were so shocked. Poor Rosemary.”
Of course, they’d heard about the murder. I imagined that soon the press would get hold of the story and everyone would know. Still, lovely British ladies that they were, they didn’t pry, but gave me one of the best tables by the window and I settled in with my pot of tea, my scone, and my knitting book.
Reading that knitting book was like travelling back in time. Cheerful housewives knitted sweaters for all the family as well as dresses, coats, blankets and scarves.
As I was contemplating the need for a tea cozy shaped like a fruit basket, overflowing with knitted fruit, I became aware of a strange sensation at the back of my neck. It was like raindrops, only not wet, like cold fingers drumming on the back of my neck without any pressure. In short, it was a strange and peculiar sensation almost impossible to describe.
I glanced up and looked around. Outside the window Nyx sat on the other side of the road staring up at me. You wouldn’t think, considering that I was across the street and behind a window, that I could see her eyes, but I swear I could, green and glowing strangely. I blinked, wondering if I was coming down with something, and Nyx narrowed her eyes, I swear she did, as though irritated with me.
What on earth did she want? I’d go downstairs and fetch her, I thought, now that I’d finished my tea. Maybe Hester was refusing to let her into the shop. It wouldn’t surprise me.
I went to the front to pay my bill but the two cups of tea had had their effect. After settling my bill, I said, “I’ll pop to the loo and be on my way.” This is what happens when you spend too much time in Oxford, you say things like, “I’ll just pop to the loo.” The toilet was up a flight of stairs and as I rose higher the strange dripping, drumming feeling at the back of my neck increased. Did I have some remaining trauma from being hit over the head?
At the top of the stairs was a discreet sign pointing me to the facilities. The bathroom was to the left down the corridor, and the one that led to the private apartments of the Miss Watts was to the right. The tingling increased as I turned and recognized the bookcase in the hallway leading to the sisters’ flat.
I had seen that bookcase in the scrying mirror.
Of course, that’s why the location had looked familiar. I’d been here before but never paid any attention to the bookcases. Glancing quickly behind me to make sure no one else was coming up the stairs, I ducked down the private hallway. Those bookcases had been there as long as I could remember, and, since I didn’t think the Miss Watts were great readers, I doubted the books had been disturbed in some time.
I began rapidly to scan shelves but there were so many books. Old paperbacks, coffee table books from fifty years ago, novels, travel guides to every spot in England. I pulled out a driving guide to the Lake District from the 1940s and nearly cried when I saw that behind it was another row of books. They’d run out of room and simply shelved books in front of other books.
I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes and pulled up the vision exactly as I had seen it in the scrying mirror. The book I was looking for had been pushed on top of the bookcase. I couldn’t see it from here but I felt it was there, above me and out of sight.
I needed to step on something to make me taller but there was no handy chair or stepstool. I reached my hands up as high as I could, straining on tiptoe but couldn’t quite get to the top of the shelves. Hoping no one would need the facilities anytime soon, I grabbed oversized books off the bottom shelf. Kings and queens of England, country walks in Oxfordshire, a history of Trinity College, and a driving guide to Sussex were all s
turdy looking.
These coffee table books hadn’t sat on a coffee table in many years, based on the dust covering them. I stacked the books and then gingerly stepped on my rudimentary footstool. This give me just enough height to reach up and feel along the top of the shelves. I came across an old cardboard box, something spiky that felt like a huge shell, enough cobwebs to furnish a haunted house, and finally, by reaching so far sideways I nearly fell off my stack of books, I touched leather. Old, dry leather that was clearly the spine of a book.
By this time, the feeling on the back of my neck was pronounced. I couldn’t grasp the book, so, in frustration, I climbed down, moved the stack of books a foot to the right and climbed back up. This time, I was able to reach the book with both hands. I took it down, my heart hammering, and the back of my neck feeling as though the cast of Riverdance were doing a particularly energetic number on my nape.
The book was clearly old, but if I had expected it to be covered with mysterious symbols, I was sadly disappointed. On the surface, it looked no more interesting than any old leather bound book. Was this even the grimoire? If the tingling on the back of my neck was anything to go by, then it was.
With another quick glance to make sure I was alone, I tried to open the book. It didn’t open.
I tried again, gently using my thumbs to pry open the book’s cover. Again, nothing happened. Gran’s protection spell was working, then.
From down below I heard Miss Watt say, “Oh yes, just at the top of the stairs at the end of the corridor and turn left.”
Rapidly, I slipped the book that wouldn’t open into the bag along with my knitting and crochet books. Then I knelt down and quickly shoved the coffee table books back approximately where they had been. I rounded the top of the banister and began down the stairs just as an old man wearing a stained raincoat and walking with a cane began to ascend. There wasn’t room for two of us on the stairway so I backed up.
