Page 17 of The Christmas Book Hunt

Downstairs, the dining room was quiet; the bar a warm spotlit oasis, empty apart from some families celebrating a birthday party in the corner. The bar stools were all theirs. Theo bowed graciously, and Mirren responded with a curtsy. Then he slightly ruined it by saying, ‘Quick, they put out free snacks, and if you eat them all they refill the bowl!’

Mirren scrambled up on the bar stool, presumably not in the style of an elegant woman from olden times, and smiled at him, and he ordered her not a hot toddy, but a dark and stormy from the cocktail menu.

‘So, are you, like, really rich?’ she said finally, when she’d devoured the snacks and, by mutual agreement, they’d both ordered fish and chips.

Theo shook his head.

‘Not a bean. My uncle is though. He’s used to living in style, so I suppose he just books the same places for me. But I work for him.’

‘How come?’

‘London property market. The job comes with a room,’ said Theo, and Mirren nodded gravely. ‘I wanted to work in books ... in publishing, you know? I did English at university.’

Mirren smiled. ‘I can see you lounging around campus with a book of poetry and a very long scarf.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Theo, sipping his drink. ‘I think you’ll find it was French existentialism.’

Mirren grinned. ‘Yup, thought so.’

‘So it was meant to be a stopgap but ... here I am. Looking for, uh, Dickens books. I’m basically an indentured servant, but with a good postcode.’

‘There must be money in it somewhere,’ said Mirren, interested, and looking around.

‘Oh, you can make a small fortune in antiquarian bookselling,’ said Theo. ‘Provided you start with a large one,’ he grinned. ‘Sorry. Old bookselling joke.’

Their food arrived, golden and fragrant.

‘Oh God,’ said Mirren. ‘Sorry, this is so good ... I don’t eat out that often ...’

He looked at her enquiringly.

‘London property prices,’ she mumbled, and he nodded approvingly.

‘So,’ he said, digging in. ‘Tell me everything about the mysterious aunt’s legacy.’

Once they’d finished their cocktails, Theo ordered wine with a practised ease – there was a difference, Mirren thought, between people who actually had no money and people who said they didn’t but had obviously grown up at least with it in the general vicinity – and she found herself pouring the whole story out. He was so interested and so charming. She even told him about the awful spring, when she had put all her savings into a luxury holiday with her ex, Rob, who had decided at the last minute he didn’t want to go, too late for her to get the money back, and rather than be sympathetic, her mother had sniffed and said,well, that was silly, wasn’t it, as opposed to Violet, who had implied she knew someone in MI5 who could get him killed. Which eventually, over some fabulous chocolate mousse, led to why she loved her great-aunt so much, and why she dearly wanted to find this book for her. Even though it might not exist, even though Mirren couldn’t possibly search everywhere, it was the only thing Violet wanted and if she could find it, she would.

Theo nodded. ‘But nothing so far?’

Suddenly, Mirren remembered she hadn’t turned her phone back on yet.

‘I thought there was something ...’ she said. ‘Hang on.’

She ran upstairs, excited, and realised when she got there that she was slightly drunk and winded. She went into the bathroom and drank a large glass of water but still felt a little wobbly. She told herself to steady on, but perhaps did not listen. Then she charged back downstairs, to where Theo had moved to a corner table near the fire, with two glasses of whisky.

‘I saw something,’ said Mirren. ‘In the bookshop. I didn’t know what I was looking at, so I took a photo ...’ She turnedher phone back on. ‘It was kind of dying,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if it will have made it.’

They both peered at the phone carefully as it warmed up and Theo shot Mirren a quick look at herGood Omensscreensaver.

‘You need an angel-run bookshop.’

‘I do,’ she said fervently. ‘I really, really do.’

She pushed on the photos app and up it came. At first disappointingly – it was dark, and she herself could be seen reflected in the frame.

But gradually they ran it through some filters, and enlarged it, until they could see it clearly.

The picture showed two men: one thin, with a long drooping moustache, wearing a long velvet coat; the other even thinner, with a hangdog face – a very young man, with bright black hair that must have been brilliantined, parted in the middle, and with pointed elfin ears. They looked a rather odd couple.

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