Seven Years Read online

  “Browning?” he said finally, handing back the sheet and pushing his old National Health glasses up on his nose. “Not much call for Browning these days. His literary stock’s gone right down, you might say.” His chuckle sounded like an automatic coffee maker in its death throes. “Now, your Metaphysicals and your Romantics, that’s a different story. Donne, Marvel, Keats and Shelley, they all sell like the proverbial hotcakes. Even old Willie Wordsworth and his daffodils. And your Victorian novelists—Dickens, George Eliot, Hardy, Mrs. Gaskell, and don’t forget your Brontë sisters—I can’t keep ’em on the shelves. Not that anyone who buys them actually reads them, you understand. I put it down to telly, myself. BBC drama.” He shook his head as if pronouncing a verdict on BBC drama. “But your Victorian poets? You can’t give ’em away. I don’t know why. I quite enjoy a bit of Tennyson myself every now and then. ‘Onward, onward, rode the six hundred’ and all that. Stirring stuff. Can’t say I care much for Browning, though. Bit of a pervert, wasn’t he? All that rot about murder and adultery. Take ‘My Last Duchess.’ Didn’t the duke in that one have his wife done away with just because she looked at other blokes?”

  “‘I gave commands; / Then all smiles stopped together.’” I quoted.

  “Yes… er… well, quite. Like I said, not much call for that sort of thing.”

  “Yes, but would you have any idea from whom you bought this particular volume?” I tapped the sheet of paper in my hand.

  “Whom?”

  “That’s right.”

  He scratched his head again. “Well, I don’t rightly know. I mean, I get a lot of people coming in here.”

  We both cast a glance around the shop when he said that, and when I turned back to him, he continued, “On a good day, like. There’s good days and there’s bad days.”

  There had been no-one else in the place the last time I had been there, either, but I saw little point in mentioning that to him. “So there’s no possible way you can tell me who sold you this book?”

  “I didn’t say that, did I? Keep perfectly good records, I do. There’s no taxman can fault me on that. You’re not—”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I am not a tax auditor. As a matter of fact, I’m a retired Professor of Classics. Cambridge.”

  He didn’t seem quite as impressed as most people do when I mention the hallowed name of the university. “Professor, eh?” he said. “That explains it, then.”

  “Explains what?”

  He pointed to the sheet of paper. “Browning. I’ll bet he knew his classics, didn’t he? All those artists and Renaissance stuff. Plenty of fellow perverts back then.”

  “These records you keep,” I said. “Would it be at all possible for you to consult them and try to find out for me who brought this book in?”

  “I suppose I could,” he said without moving. “But I don’t ask customers for their names and addresses. No one likes that. Smacks too much of the police state, being asked for your name and address and telephone number. I mean, you wouldn’t like it if I asked you for your personal details when you came in here to buy or sell a book, would you? I think a person should be allowed to buy and sell things in perfect anonymity. That’s one of the freedoms our fathers fought for. Within reason, of course. I mean, when it comes to guns or explosives or drugs, that’s a different matter. Need a redchester for that sort of thing.”

  Redchester? I realized he probably meant “register.” My heart sank. “Are you telling me,” I said slowly, “that you can’t do as I ask? I thought you said you could help.”

  “Up to a point. That’s what I meant. Up to a point. I was just explaining that I can’t you give you a name and address. Or telephone number. Not that I would if I could. I mean, you say you’re not a tax investigator, that you’re some sort of professor, but you could be a policeman, for all I know.”

  “Do I look like a policeman?”

  To my dismay, he took my question seriously and studied me from head to foot.

  “Well, no,” he said. “If you ask me, you rather resemble George Smiley. You know, from the John le Carré books. Not the Alec Guinness version, you understand, or Gary Oldman, but George Smiley as you might imagine he’d look if you didn’t see him as Alec Guinness or Gary Oldman, if you follow my drift.”

  I thought the only thing I had in common with Smiley was that I sometimes appear invisible. People tend not to notice me, or if they do, they mark me down immediately as uninteresting and harmless, then pass me by without a second glance. When some people walk into a room, everyone turns to look at them; when others walk in, no-one bats an eyelid. That’s me.

  “I suppose you could be a spy,” Gorman added. “Like Smiley was.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, man,” I said. “What would a spy be doing asking for the identity of someone who bought a second-hand book from you?”

  “I could think of any number of reasons.” He paused. “Why do you want to know?”

  Here it was at last, the question I had prepared for but still dreaded. I told him about finding the envelope of money in the book. To my surprise, he took my explanation at face value.

  “Well, I must say, sir, that’s very honest of you,” he said. “Very honest, indeed. And honesty’s a quality I appreciate. There’s not many as, coming across a twenty pound note, like, wouldn’t simply put it in their pocket and spend it down the pub. But you want to return it to its rightful owner.”

  “Yes,” I said, with a sigh. “Indeed I do.”

  “Commendable. Highly commendable.”

  “Can you help me?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Gorman said. “At least, not as much as you’d like me to.”

  “How, then?”

  “I have a list of books bought and sold.”

  “And what will that tell me?”

  He put his finger to his nose. “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  And his chair legs scraped against the floorboards as he moved to stand up.

  It seemed to take an eternity, but Gorman disappeared into a backroom and reappeared carrying the sort of large hardbound ledger one might expect to encounter in a Dickens novel. He set it down on the counter before him.

  Smiling to reveal stained and crooked teeth, he tapped the tome. “If it’s to be found, it will be found in here,” he said gnomically and started turning the pages, stopping occasionally to mutter to himself, moving back and forth through the ledger, running his index finger down a page, then pausing and turning back to the beginning to inspect some sort of list of contents. I didn’t know what system he used to organize his sales and purchases ledger, but it seemed to take him a long time to emit that little “Ah-ha” of success which indicated to me that he had found what he—and I—was looking for.

  “What is it?” I asked, leaning forward, finding it impossible to rein in my enthusiasm. “Have you found it?”

  He looked up at me. “Now hold your horses a moment,” he said. “I think I have. Yes. Like I said right from the start, you’re lucky it’s Browning. We don’t get many of his books in, so this must be the one.” He consulted the list with his index finger again, muttering all the while. “Yes,” he said, looking up at me. “That’s the one. Well, that is a surprise.”

  “What is?”

  “The date. That batch only came in a month ago, and there was me thinking Browning had been on the shelf for years.” He made that strange dying coffee machine sound again, which I placed halfway between a chuckle and sniffle. Perhaps one should call it “snuckling” or “chiffling?” “Poor old Browning. Left on the shelf. Get it?”

  “A month isn’t very long. Do you remember who brought it in?”

  “Can’t say as I do. I told you not to get your hopes up.”

  “What do you remember, then?”

  He snuckled again. “You might well end up spending that twenty quid in the pub tonight, af
ter all,” he said. “All I can tell you is that your Browning came in on the 28th of September, along with seven other books. Eight in all.”

  A month was certainly not long. “Do you remember anything at all about the person who sold them to you?” I asked.

  “Afraid not. I’ve got a terrible memory for faces. Besides,” he went on, “have you considered that whoever brought the books in to sell might not have been the original owner? Second-hand books go through a lot of hands sometimes. Might be third hand, or fourth hand.”

  I had thought of that and countered it with my own observations and theory. I had examined the book closely and saw no signs of other price markings other than the original Waterstones sticker. Usually a second-hand book dealer will pencil a price on the flyleaf, and pencil marks always leave some traces. But there was nothing. And judging by the book’s condition, I had concluded that it hadn’t been read, and that it was more than likely Miss Scott had not seen the inscription, as the pages had been somehow stuck together. Gorman had obviously missed it, too. His penciled price appeared on the page after the flyleaf.

  The only stumbling block to my theory was that Miss Scott must have either been given the book by hand or received it through the post. In either case, the odds were that she knew who had given it to her. Perhaps, if she saw by the postmark that it was from Barnes, she had dropped it straight into the box of items to be taken and sold, wanting nothing to do with him. It was a theory. “Do you have any other useful information?” I asked.

  “Depends what you think is useful. The price I paid, which I am not willing to divulge to you, no matter who you might be. And the titles of the accompanying volumes in the batch.”

  I brightened a little at that. “Accompanying volumes?”

  “Yes. Like I said, it came in a box with seven other titles.”

  “Would you tell me what they are? These titles.”

  Gorman chewed his lower lip. “I don’t see why not,” he said finally. “After all, you are a customer. There might be something you’re interested in. You might actually buy one or two of them.”

  I took his hint. “Naturally,” I said. “Goes without saying.”

  He nodded, satisfied, then started to reel off a list of titles, Penguin, Virago or Oxford World’s Classics, for the most part, which I jotted down in my notebook. As he said, there was nothing remarkable about any of them—Jane Austen, Emily Brontë, Elizabeth Jane Howard, Elizabeth Taylor, a selection of Rilke’s poetry, a biography of Mary Shelley—but I was already thinking that if the books were still in the shop, then one of them might reveal a bit more information about the seller. A slip of paper with an address, used as a bookmark, for example. Wishful thinking, I know, but one can always hope.

  “Might I have a look around your shop for them?” I asked.

  “Be my guest,” said Gorman. “But just so you’re not wasting your time, I’ll tell you now that Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice have already been sold. I told you I couldn’t keep Victorian fiction on the shelves. And before you get all pedantic with me, yes I know Jane Austen wasn’t a Victorian, strictly speaking.” I crossed the two novels off my list, which left me five more to find, then I headed into the maze of interconnected rooms along the corridor and got to work.

  Though I am used to not being noticed, it did occur to me that a man of my age and appearance, especially in the old mac I was wearing against the chilly rain, might be regarded as somewhat suspicious if seen hanging around a public—which is to say private—school, even a minor one like the Linford School. I determined, therefore, to make my entrance speedy and decisive by driving straight up to the front door and getting out of the car with a confidence and determination that announced I was here for a reasonable and legitimate purpose, and there was no need to call the police.

  I had struck it lucky in Gorman’s shop on the fourth book, the biography of Mary Shelley. There was no name and address, but there was, on the title page, a stamp bearing the name of the school and its address, a small village just over the Humber Bridge, on the flatlands of northern Lincolnshire. I had been right, I thought, in assuming Miss Scott to be a teacher, and the Linford School was no doubt where she taught. Along with the Mary Shelley biography, I also bought both Elizabeth Taylor’s In a Summer Season and Elizabeth Jane Howard’s Falling—all at what I thought to be a fairly exorbitant price, I must say—just to make Gorman happy, and set off.

  The school building, Linford Hall, was Elizabethan or Jacobean in origin, in the “prodigy house” style, a redbrick mansion with a busy roofline, mullioned windows and extensive grounds. Rather than benefitting from the landscaping genius of an Inigo Jones, these grounds had been given over to playing fields and running tracks, deserted on the day of my visit. If Linford Hall didn’t quite match the palatial grandeur of Longleat or Temple Newsham, it was still impressive enough to the unsuspecting visitor.

  The solid oak door stood atop a flight of stone stairs under an arched brick porch. I hadn’t seen anyone about as I drove up the gravel drive, and there was a distinct hush about the place. The staff car park to the right of the main building was almost full, however, so I assumed that classes must be in progress. That was all right with me. I was willing to wait. I carried the Shelley biography, which at the right moment I would say had fallen accidentally into my hands, and as I was passing… I was hoping that one of the teachers would be willing and able to tell me to whom the book had belonged so that I could return it. If necessary, I would bring up the name of Miss Scott somehow. I planned to begin by asking for general information about the school and its teachers.

  Once inside the cavernous reception hall, I noticed the odd pair or group of girls moving quietly about the place, carrying books. Footsteps and voices echoed in the grand space. The ceiling was ornate, decorated with Renaissance-style angels radiating outwards from a glittering chandelier, and the wainscoted walls were dotted with large portraits of old families, and perhaps even past headmasters.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  I must have looked lost, though I was more struck by wonder at the grandeur of the school, because a young woman had approached me. Her tone was helpful and friendly, rather than accusatory. My harmless appearance was working in my favor. “I wonder if I might have a word with your headmaster?” I said.

  She smiled. “I’m afraid Miss Morwyn is busy at the moment. We’ve had a bit of a flu epidemic here, and several of the regular teachers are off sick. I’m sure Ms. Langham, her deputy, will be able to help you out. What is it you’re inquiring about?”

  “Nothing specific,” I said. “I’m just looking for some information and background.”

  “Very well. If you’ll just wait here a moment.”

  And she clip-clopped off down the broad passage lined with administrative offices. In moments she was back to tell me that Ms. Langham would see me now, though she could spare only fifteen minutes as she had a class to teach at eleven o’clock. I said that would be fine and followed the young woman down the corridor. After a brief knock, she ushered me into a nondescript office, furnished with the usual practicalities of teaching, which these days, of course, included a computer as well as the requisite filing cabinets and bookcases. The room was tidy enough, and it looked out on the playing fields at the back of the school.

  Ms. Langham stood up to greet me. She was about my height, which isn’t very tall, and slim, with auburn hair loosely tied at the back of her neck, where it fanned out over her shoulders. Her oval face was lightly freckled and her eyes a watchful and intelligent pale blue. A touch of lipstick would have done wonders for her rather thin lips. Her clothes were as conservative as one would expect in such a place as Linford—not tweedy, but a dark skirt over a high-necked blouse. I would have guessed her age to be mid-forties, at the most. She was no conventional beauty, but I have to confess that I found her immediately attractive. She smiled, sat down again and bade me si
t opposite her. “Well, Mr.…?”

  “Aitcheson,” I told her. “Donald Aitcheson.”

  “Well, Mr. Aitcheson, what can we do for you today?”

  She sounded more like the girl behind the counter at Starbucks than a teacher. I felt like asking for a double espresso and a blueberry muffin, but instead I said, “I was wondering if you might be able to tell me a little about the school, its history, reputation, staff, standards, courses of study and so on.”

  “Of course.” She paused. “This is quite unusual, however. We don’t generally have people calling at the school for a chat about our standards and reputation. But seeing as you’re here… Do you mind my asking why you wish to know?”

  “I’m looking for a suitable institution to send my son, and I was wondering if Linford might fit the bill.”

  She stared at me, looking puzzled, for a moment before answering. “Well, Mr. Aitcheson,” she said finally, “much as I hate to disappoint you, I’m afraid Linford definitely won’t fit the bill. Not in the least.”

  “Why not?”

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “I would have thought you might have done at least the modicum of research before you came all the way out here, I must say. We’re easily Googled.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Linford Hall is a girls’ boarding school, Mr. Aitcheson. We don’t have any boys here.”

  Then who the hell is Barnes? I almost said out loud. My mind was already spinning in search of alternative explanations. Perhaps we were in a D.H. Lawrence scenario. Barnes as Mellors, the gamekeeper, or something like that. It was a possibility. Surely they must have a few men about the place, if only on a daily basis, to help with the heavy lifting and so forth. Not to mention maintaining the extensive grounds. But would a “Mellors” character be likely to know about Browning and send a teacher a book with the inscription that so intrigued me? I doubted it. I tried not to let my disappointment show