of yours, I won't put up with it. Understood?'
After a pause: 'Understood, ma'am.'
THE NEXT stage in Joe Dougan's odyssey brought him from The Brains Surgery to Noble and Nude. Peg Redbird, the owner of the most cluttered antique shop Joe had ever seen, was out doing a valuation when he arrived. He asked her assistant, a talkative, red-haired man in a bow-tie, if the shop had been in existence for some time and was told Peg herself had opened it in 1975. Joe said he would wait for her. He was sure he could find plenty to interest him until she returned.
He went upstairs looking for books. Most antique shops have a small stock somewhere, and this was no exception. In a back room he found some stacked along the lid of an upright piano, but they were disappointing. Paperback detective stories of the nineteen-thirties, by the likes of Margery Allingham and Ellery Queen. Joe didn't have time for fictional mysteries. There were mysteries enough in English Literature to keep him occupied.
He looked at his watch. For this, Donna would exact compensation. Champagne with dinner tonight. Or a visit to a stately home tomorrow. Or a new hat. Or all of those. He hoped the owner of this place would not keep him waiting much longer. But there was no question that he would give up the chase. People said there was an obsessive side to his personality ('people' meant Donna more than anyone else; she was obsessive in describing him as obsessive). Well, he had to admit that once started on something he liked to see it through to a conclusion, regardless of the time expended. But 'obsessive' was not a word he would have used about himself. He preferred 'tenacious'.
Another long interval elapsed before he heard voices downstairs. Certainly one was a woman's. Hopeful that the wait was over, he picked his way through an obstacle-course of vases, ancient sewing-machines and wind-up gramophones and started down the stairs.
It is one of those universal truths that people in the antiques trade have loud voices, and these carried up to him.
The female voice was saying, 'Darling, I had him on toast. Well, he was ripping off the taxman, and we both knew it, so he couldn't expect top dollar, could he?'
The man asked, 'But did he have a sense of what it was worth?'
'There's one born every minute. You'll see when you pick up the goods. The chaise longue is an eyesore, but it will sell, and the rest of the stuff is very collectable indeed. You're going to love the Coalport. And Ellis…'
'Yes?'
'There are a couple of pictures, rather lurid watercolours. If you want to remain my bestest friend, handle them with TLC.'
'Valuable?
'I don't know, do I, until I get a better look at them?'
'Who's the artist, then?'
'Never you mind, old dear. Just bring the goodies back safely to Peg.'
Joe made a sound in his throat to let them know he was approaching. He was glad to have overheard the exchange. He would play a cautious hand with Peg Redbird.
'Oh, I clean forgot,' the man said, clutching his red hair in consternation. 'This gentleman came in specially to see you. He's been waiting some time.'
Joe stepped forward and introduced himself. Peg stood up and shook hands when she heard he was a professor. The prospect of some business with a wealthy academic galvanized her enough to want her colleague to leave. 'Ellis, would you be an angel and see about renting a van? I promised you'd collect that stuff from Camden Crescent today.'
Left alone with Joe, Peg practically rubbed her hands as she asked if he was a collector.
'Not exactly, ma'am. If I see something I like, I buy it. Books, mostly.'
Her disappointment was quick to show. 'Books? You're in the wrong shop, precious. I don't go in for books. If I get some in as part of a job-lot, I pass them on to a bookseller.'
'That I can appreciate, ma'am. I won't take up much of your time.' He took the Milton out of its bag. 'I was told you acquired this some years ago and sold it on.'
'If you really mean years ago, I did have a book-room when I started,' she said, taking the book and opening it. 'I stocked anything in those days just to fill up space. There's nothing worse than empty rooms.'
'Do you recall this book?'
She turned it over in her hands without opening it. 'You're going to tell me I sold it for peanuts, no doubt. Milton isn't exactly a best-seller and it's not in the best of nick.'
'I only paid twenty pounds myself, ma'am.'
'What's so special about it?'
Joe was determined not to tell her yet. 'This is the Dr Johnson edition of Milton. Both of them are on my current Eng. Lit. syllabus. This is a special find for me.'
'What I don't understand,' said Peg sharply, 'is where I come into this. You don't want to sell it back to me?'
'Oh, no. I'm keeping it now.'
'Well?' She looked annoyed.
He was in danger of crumbling under the cross-examination. 'This is pure sentiment, I guess. This book is going to have an honoured place on my shelf at home. Almost like a friend. I like to know about its past, where it lived, who owned it…' His voice trailed away.
Peg tapped her finger on the cover. 'Some Bathonian owned it at one time. 'Five, Abbey Churchyard'. That's local.'
'Really?'
A clicking sound came from Peg's mouth. 'Someone told me something about Abbey Churchyard today.'
Joe attempted to close that avenue. 'You must have a memory of how you acquired the book.'
'Don't bet on it, professor. I wouldn't have bought it on its own, so it must have come in with some other stuff.'
'More books, you mean?'
Peg narrowed her eyes, straining to think about several matters, and raked a hand through her dark-tinted hair. 'No, it was part of another purchase. It was in some sort of container, with other things.' Suddenly she snapped her fingers. 'I do remember. Do you know what a writing box is?'
'Something containing writing paper?'
'Well, yes, but this was a specific item of furniture. A rather clever thing, much used two hundred years ago. I've got one somewhere upstairs, but it would take ages to find it. Look, the best way I can describe one is this. Think of an old-fashioned school desk with a sloping lid and a space inside for all the stuff a kid uses in school. You know what I mean?'
'Sure.'
'Well, imagine it without legs.'
'Okay.'
'You could rest it on a table or on your lap, right? Now a writing box looks exactly like that when it's in use, but you can close it up. The part you write on is hinged halfway down, so that you can fold it back on itself and it makes the shape of a box. Do you follow?'
'I know exactly what you mean, ma'am,' said Joe. 'I've seen them back home. They're nice pieces.'
'That's how I acquired this,' Peg said, patting the front of the book. 'It was inside a writing box, along with a sketchbook of some sort and a cut glass ink bottle.'
A tingling sensation crept the length of Joe's spine. With an effort to sound only faintly interested, he said, 'Did you keep any of these items? The sketchbook, for instance?'
'No, I got rid of that. It had a few inept pencil sketches as far as I remember. Nothing anyone would wish to frame.'
His stomach tightened. 'When you say 'got rid of'…?'
'I unloaded it on someone.'
'Sold it?'
'I don't give anything away, my love. I'm in business. I'm just trying to think whether the box upstairs is the one the book was in, or another. It hadn't been looked after, I can tell you that much.'
