Page 23 of The Christmas Book Hunt

Back in the cavernous quiet of the snowy early morning bookshop, a woman with steely grey hair and cold eyes was talking to her assistant.

‘How could you not notice it was there?’ she hissed.

‘You didn’t notice either!’ said the man, then looked like he instantly regretted it, as the woman’s mouth went very still.

Chapter 21

Theo and Mirren alighted at Edinburgh full of happiness and excitement. Mirren had never been there before, and Theo directed her to a great glass elevator that carried them from the grimy, confusing station straight up through the roof until she found herself level with a huge vista of old buildings with pointed tiled roofs, cathedrals and turrets and towers and, swaggering over them all, the grey bulk of Edinburgh Castle itself. The gardens laid out beneath the train station were glittering with the lights of a funfair; as they emerged from the lift, they found themselves in the middle of a festive fayre, with stalls offering mulled wine and brandy, a band playing, and lots of people sitting around braziers, taking a break from their Christmas shopping and enjoying their day. The smell of roasting chestnuts and cinnamon hung strongly in the air.

‘Goodness,’ said Mirren.

‘I suspect this is very much your kind of place,’ said Theo, and they set off, crossing the gardens and heading up into the heart of the old town. Mirren was hot and out of breath before they reached the Royal Mile, clambering up the cobbles, then over the other side as they made their way to a curving little street that ran downwards off the main road, with beautiful, brightly painted shops lining it.

‘This is Victoria Street,’ said Theo. ‘Used to be all bookshops. There’s only a couple left now.’

And they stopped in front of a bright-blue-painted shop, its windows filled with beautiful and curious books from everywhere – bestsellers, but also gorgeous, strokable classic editions; exciting thrillers; a special section, Mirren saw as she entered, simply entitled ‘Very Long Books for Very Cold Nights’, which contained nothing under 800 pages; and a pretty, dark-haired girl, welcoming them with a smile.

‘Hello!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Come in, you’ll let the cold in. And we have a terrible job getting it back out again,’ she added, as if she had real experience of that matter.

Mirren explained their mission, and the girl, whose name was Carmen, said she wouldn’t know anything about that, but she knew who would, and yelled ‘Mr McCreadie!!!’ The noise went so far into the shop, it practically echoed. Then they all waited for what seemed like a long time, until a very old man appeared from the back of the shop.

‘Hey,’ said Carmen. ‘These guys have some questions about Robert Louis Stevenson.’

The old man beamed, displaying terrible stumps where his teeth should have been. Mirren tried not to show her surprise.

‘Don’t be shocked,’ said Carmen. ‘He’stryingto shock you. He lost his teeth in the Antarctic.’

Mr McCreadie smiled wider.

‘Which nobody does these days,’ said Carmen. ‘As long as they do what they’re told and don’t go off trying to find penguins’ eggs. Don’t let him show you his—’

‘And here is where I lost a finger to frostbite!’ said Mr McCreadie, holding up a stump proudly. He sounded indistinct through his missing teeth.

‘Of course, he COULD just go and get them fixed,’ said Carmen. ‘Or he COULD stand around showing off all day and telling everyone what it’s like in minus 40 degrees.’

‘The cold began early that day ...’ started Mr McCreadie, and Carmen bustled off.

‘ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON!’ she said.

Chapter 22

Once he’d found out what they were doing, Mr McCreadie’s eyes burned with excitement, and he asked Carmen to bring them all tea, at which she rudely refused, saying she wasn’t his servant, until she saw that the people in the shop obviously thought she was being incredibly cruel to the lovely gentle old man and capitulated, grumpily. They all settled in the back drawing room behind the stacks, an extraordinary little nook in front of a roaring fire, with armchairs laid out and family pictures on the wall.

They allowed Mr McCreadie to tell them the story of his wilderness adventures, which he did at some length, but Mirren found she didn’t mind. It was cosy in front of the fire, and there was tea and hot buttered toast, and she felt, in this safe place with the shelves and shelves of books weighing down on her, and the tiny coil of paper in her pocket, that they were getting closer; they had to be. Had to be.

Mr McCreadie had, it turned out, heard of the Beardsley book, but hadn’t believed it truly existed. He took out a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and blinked at the picture Mirren brought up on her phone. ‘Well, blow me down,’ he said.

As they sat there, talking about possibilities, an absurdly tall man, dipping his head, threaded his way through the stacks.

‘RAMSAY!’ said Mr McCreadie in delight.

Ramsay made his way to the fireplace. ‘Carmen says you’re on some wild goose chase,’ he said.

‘I certainly am!’ said Mr McCreadie gleefully.

Theo and Mirren jumped up.

‘This is the best antiquarian bookfinder in Scotland, Ramsay Urquhart,’ said Mr McCreadie. ‘Or at least, the tallest.’

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