Death in Westminster

‘What have you got by Jane Austen?’ asked an Irish lady dressed in blue. She had piercing eyes and a loud voice. A fox fur hung around her neck and her nose was red from the late February cold.

‘The shelf for authors beginning with “A” is just there.’ Augusta pointed to it.

‘But what have you got?’ The lady clearly didn’t wish to look for herself.

‘All of them I think. Which one are you looking for?’

‘One I’ve not read.’

Augusta could feel her patience being tested. She stepped out from behind the counter of her bookshop and forced a smile. Then she stepped over to the shelf labelled “A”.

‘Here are all the books we have by Jane Austen.’ She pointed at them. ‘If you have a look at them, you might see one you haven’t read.’

The Irishwoman squinted at the shelf and Augusta suspected she needed spectacles. Meanwhile, her attention turned to a man in a black overcoat. He was standing near the window, leafing through a book on British wildlife. His dark hair was combed back and long on his collar. He had a thin moustache and looked about twenty-five. Augusta had observed him leaf through several books over the past ten minutes. He had also climbed the staircase to the mezzanine floor twice and made some furtive glances at her. Perhaps he had some time to waste or was indecisive. Either way, he was making her uneasy.

‘I’ve read all these,’ announced the Irishwoman. ‘Have you not got any more?’

‘No. It seems you’ve read all of Jane Austen’s books,’ said Augusta.

‘I don’t think so. I can only see six here.’

‘Jane Austen only wrote six books.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I’m sure she would have written more had she lived longer. She died at forty-one.’

‘Forty-one? Poor woman.’

‘Two of her novels were published after her death and I believe she was working on another which was never finished.’

‘That’s a shame. So what do I read now?’

‘Have you read anything by the Brontë sisters?’

‘No. Where are they?’

‘Here. Under “B”.’

Augusta glanced back at the man in the black coat. He met her gaze and gave a smile before pulling out a book on Gothic architecture.

‘Wuthering Heights,’ said the Irishwoman. ‘What’s that about?’

‘It’s set on the Yorkshire moors. But I won’t say much more as it might spoil the story for you. I think it’s fun to begin a book without knowing too much about it. Then you’re in for a nice surprise.’

‘Or a disappointment if it turns out to be boring.’

‘You won’t be disappointed with Wuthering Heights.’

‘Alright then, I shall try it.’

The Irishwoman made her purchase, then left the shop.

Augusta was now alone with the man in the black coat. She retreated behind the counter and hoped her assistant, Fred, would return soon. He had gone to Holborn Library to collect a box of books which needed repairing.

Augusta occupied herself by feeding some seed to Sparky, the canary who perched in his cage on the counter. From the corner of her eye, she watched the man replace a book on the shelf and approach her.

‘Mrs Peel?’ His voice was quiet and soft.

Her skin prickled. How did he know her name?

‘I’m wondering if you have The Fair Jilt or The Amours of Prince Tarquin and Miranda by Aphra Behn?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

‘Oh, never mind. I already have a copy of her complete works but I like to collect them individually too. It’s a delightful shop you have here.’

‘Thank you. If I get any of Aphra Behn’s work in stock, I can let you know if you leave me your details.’

‘That’s kind of you.’ He glanced around and leant forward on the counter. ‘It’s not actually the reason I’m here.’

‘Oh?’ Although the gentleman seemed pleasant, his manner was unusual. Augusta felt unsure what to make of him. She returned his gaze with a determined glance, keen to demonstrate she was in charge in her bookshop.

‘I wanted to wait until we were alone.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve heard you’re good at finding people,’ he said.

‘Who did you hear that from?’

‘I prefer not to say. I’m wondering if you could help me.’

‘Find someone?’

‘Yes.’

Augusta recalled the last person she had been asked to find, Catherine Frankland-Russell. She had made the mistake of not doing enough research into the person who had asked her to carry out the work. She had little interest in repeating the error. ‘You do realise there are plenty of detective agencies who can do this work for you? I run a bookshop.’

‘Yes, I realise that. It’s just that I’ve heard such good things about the work you do.’

‘I must insist on you telling me who told you that. Otherwise, I shall refuse to help at all.’

‘Very well.’ He sighed. ‘I have a friend who’s a news reporter and he covers the criminal trials at the Old Bailey. He’s heard your name mentioned more than once. Apparently Scotland Yard thinks highly of you.’

To Augusta’s disappointment, her reputation was becoming more widely known.

‘I can pay good money,’ he added.

‘I’m not interested in money.’

‘Really? It’s not often you hear that.’ He gave another sigh. ‘Look. Mrs Peel. I really could do with your help. I really need to find this person, I have some news for him. I’ve tried writing to him, contacting mutual friends and placing messages in the classified advertisements and so on. But I’ve had no luck.’

‘What do you want to tell him?’

‘It’s between me and him, I’m afraid.’

‘And how do you know him?’

‘We’re old friends. I haven’t seen him since the war.’

‘You’re sure he survived the war?’

‘Oh yes, I know he did. But we’ve lost contact since then.’

‘Is there a possibility he doesn’t wish to hear from you?’

He frowned. ‘I don’t see why not. No.’

‘Would he know where to contact you if he wanted to get in touch with you?’

He scratched the side of his head. ‘Yes, I think so. He has my address and I haven’t moved recently. But it’s important I find him.’

Movement at the shop window caught Augusta’s eye. A couple was lingering outside, considering whether to come in.

The man followed her gaze and noticed them too. ‘I need to talk to you in private and obviously it’s rather difficult here,’ he said. ‘I can explain it much better to you somewhere else. I think that when you hear my reason for searching for my friend, you’ll be happy to help. And I’ll insist on paying you good money for it, whether you like it or not.’

The bell on the door sounded as the couple stepped inside the shop. The man pulled a pen and notebook out of his pocket, scribbled something on a page, then tore it out and pushed it across the counter to Augusta. ‘My name’s Symes,’ he said, turning to leave. ‘I hope to see you again soon.’