‘Er . . . yes,’ I replied, nonplussed.
‘As you’re here, so to speak, do you want to come back in and take a cup of coffee?’
‘No . . . it’s fine, thank you.’
‘Well, come back in anyway.’
The line went dead and I hovered yet again on the pavement, wondering at the bizarre way this bookshop was run. But as he’d said, I was here and now had an open invitation to go back inside and talk to the man who might or might not be Arthur Morston.
‘Good morning.’ The man was entering through the back doorway of the shop as I arrived at the front. ‘Sorry about all that, and my sincere apologies for not getting back to you sooner about your lost property. Are you sure I can’t persuade you into a coffee?’
‘Positive. Thanks.’
‘Ah! You’re not one of those young ladies who equate caffeine with heroin, are you? I must say that I don’t trust people who drink decaffeinated.’
‘No, I’m not. If I don’t have my morning cup, my day begins badly.’
‘Quite.’
I watched him as he sat down. Now he was closer, and the light was brighter, I reckoned he was in his mid-thirties, very tall and thin as a rake, like me. He was dressed today in an immaculate three-piece velvet suit, the shirt cuffs peeking out from the jacket sleeves, starched and exact, with a bow tie at the throat and a matching paisley pocket square folded just so in the breast pocket. He was pale of face, as though he had never seen the sun, and his long fingers intertwined around the coffee cup he held between his hands.
‘I’m cold. Are you?’ he said.
‘Not particularly.’
‘Well, it is almost September, and from what the weather forecaster said on the radio, below thirteen degrees. Shall we light a fire to cheer our senses on this misty grey morning?’
Before I could answer, he’d stood up and busied himself with the fire. Within a few minutes, the contents of the grate were alight and a blissful warmth began to emanate from it.
‘Will you sit down?’ he indicated the chair.
I did so.
‘You don’t say much, do you?’ he commented, but before I could answer he continued, ‘Do you know that the worst thing in the world for the health of books is damp? They’ve dried out all summer, you see, and one has to nurse them and their fragile interiors so they don’t catch paper jaundice.’
He lapsed into silence then, and I stared blindly into the fire.
‘Please feel free to leave at any time. My apologies if I’m keeping you.’
‘You’re not, really.’
‘By the way, why did you come to visit the shop yesterday?’
‘To look at the books.’
‘Were you just passing?’
‘Why do you ask?’ I said, feeling suddenly guilty.
‘Simply because most of my business these days is conducted online. And the people who come into the shop are mainly locals who I’ve known for years. Plus the fact that you’re not over fifty, or Chinese, or Russian . . . Putting it bluntly, you don’t resemble my average client.’ He peered at me thoughtfully from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. ‘I know!’ He slapped his thigh delightedly. ‘You’re an interior designer, aren’t you? Furnishing some lavish flat in Eaton Square for an oligarch, and requiring twenty yards of books so that the owner can show his illiterate friends how cultured he is?’
I giggled. ‘No. I’m not.’
‘Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?’ he said with genuine relief. ‘Forgive me for seeing my stock as the equivalent of offspring. The thought of them simply being an adornment to a room – ignored and never read – is one I just cannot bear.’
This was shaping up to be one of the strangest conversations I had ever had. And at least this time, it wasn’t just down to me.
‘So, let us rewind. Why are you here? Or should I say, why did you come here yesterday, then forget something and have to return?’
‘I . . . was sent here.’
‘Hah! So you are working for a client?’ the man said triumphantly.
‘No, really, I’m not. I was given your card by my father.’
‘I see. Perhaps he was a client of ours?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Then why would he give you my card?’
‘The thing is, I really don’t know.’
Again, I had the urge to laugh at the rabbit hole this conversation seemed to be heading down. I decided to explain.
‘My father died about three months ago.’
‘My condolences, Miss D’Aplièse. Wonderfully unusual surname, by the way,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘Never heard it before. Not that that makes up for the fact your poor father is recently deceased, of course. In fact, that was a highly inappropriate comment to make. I do apologise.’
‘It’s okay. May I ask, are you Arthur Morston?’ I opened the plastic wallet and found the card to show him.
‘Goodness, no,’ he said, studying the card. ‘Arthur Morston died over a hundred years ago. He was the original proprietor, you see; he opened the shop in 1850, long before the Forbes family – my family – took it over.’
‘My father was pretty old too. In his eighties when he died. We think, anyway.’
‘Good grief!’ he said, studying me. ‘Then it just goes to show how men keep their fertility well into their dotage.’
‘Actually, I was adopted by him, as were my five sisters.’
‘Well now, that indeed makes for an interesting story. But taking that aside, why did your father send you here to speak to Arthur Morston?’
‘He didn’t actually say that I needed to speak to Arthur Morston specifically, I just presumed it, because that was the name on the card.’
‘What did he ask you to do when you arrived here?’
‘To ask about . . .’ – I quickly consulted Pa’s letter to check I said the right name – ‘a woman called Flora MacNichol.’
The man surveyed me intently. Eventually he said, ‘Did he indeed?’
‘Yes. Do you know her?’
‘No, Miss D’Aplièse. She too died before I was born. But yes, of course I know of her . . .’
I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. Just sat, staring into space, evidently lost in his own thoughts. In the end, the silence – even for me – became uncomfortable. Making sure I picked up the plastic wallet from the table, I stood up.
‘I really am sorry to have bothered you. You have my number, so if—’
‘No, no . . . I must apologise again, Miss D’Aplièse, I was actually thinking of whether I should increase my maximum offer on the Anna Karenina. They’re so rare, you see. Mouse will throttle me, but I do want it so very much. What was it you asked me again?’