Page 108 of One More Christmas at the Castle
Xan and I drank our coffee and then began on the final run of bookshelves, which he insisted on helping me with.
‘If we do it together, we can finish it today,’ he said. ‘I expect after that you’ll be too busy to help me till after Christmas.’
‘Probably – but once the guests have gone again, I’m looking forward to cleaning out the curio cabinets next! They can’t be airtight, because everything in them is furry with dust.’
‘You have a strange idea of fun,’ he said, smiling at me. ‘Come on, let’s get going. We’ll do things differently this time and removeallthe books first, instead of one shelf at a time, and put them in stacks on the trestle tables for dusting.’
‘I expect that will be faster,’ I agreed and he started passing me books from the bottom shelf.
I don’t think Maria had even run a feather duster along the top of the books in this section and there was enough dust to make both of us sneeze – not to mention Plum, who had inconveniently fallen asleep underfoot and now woke, making indignant wheezing noises, before removing himself to his favourite spot on the sofa.
Xan pulled up the mahogany library steps to reach the higher shelves, so I now got peppered with dust when he passed the books down to me.
‘It’s a funny mix of books up here,’ he said, after a bit. ‘Learned tomes and paperback thrillers, all mixed up with what looks like Asa’s boyhood reading: hardbacks ofTreasure IslandandBoy’s Ownadventure stories!’
‘It’s nice that he kept his old books,’ I said, clapping a copy ofThe Coral Islandtogether and dislodging a small, semi-transparent paper packet of stamps, which seemed to have been used as a bookmark.
I showed it to Xan, who said he didn’t think Asa would have used a Penny Black as a bookmark, even as a child.
‘These are French, anyway, I think,’ I said, opening the top and taking a closer look.
‘Definitely not Penny Blacks, then,’ he said, going up another step to reach the second shelf from the top. He handed down more of the same odd mix and then climbed down holding a large, leather-covered tome with faded golden cord and tassels hanging from the spines.
‘It’s an old photograph album,’ he said, opening it carefully and turning a couple of pages. ‘I think it must be Asa’s family one – and it looks a bit fragile.’
‘I’ll dust it very carefully, then,’ I promised. ‘And if we leave it out, you might find some photos of Asa as a boy in there for the biography?’
‘Yes, put it to one side so I can look at it properly later. Sabine might like to see it, too.’
I gently laid it down at one end of the table, while Xan climbed back up to the top of the steps.
‘One more shelf,’ he said, and I reached up to take the first of the books from it: large hardback children’s books about history, archaeology, and ancient Egypt. Asa obviously had an early interest in the subject.
‘I think I’ve found his boyhood stamp album up here in the corner,’ he said. ‘Yes – with all the stamps firmly stuck in place and, I’m sure, entirely worthless!’
I took it from him and flicked over the pages.
‘I expect he had lots of fun filling it, though,’ I said, then looked up. ‘Is that it?’
‘No, there’s something right in the corner – another photograph album, I think, but a more recent one from the look of it.’
He climbed down, holding an album covered in what looked like padded white vinyl, that had yellowed on the spine. The front was embossed with lurid orange daisies.
‘I have to say, compared to the other, that one looks a bit cheap and tacky.’
‘Not quite up to the standard one expects in the dear old Castle?’ he joked, and opened the cover.
‘Ah, that explains it!’ he said, enlightened. ‘This seems to have belonged to Sabine’s detested stepmother, so it’s only surprising it’s here at all, and hasn’t long since been consigned to a bonfire!’
He flicked over a couple more of the pages and a largephotograph slid out and then fluttered down, as if it had a strange, moth-like life of its own, finally coming to rest face-down on the carpet at my feet.
I bent and picked it up, turning it over curiously. It was clearly of a family group – a thin, stooping, scholarly-looking man and a plump, but well-corseted woman, with a teenage girl standing between them.
I stared down uncomprehendingly at the girl’s winsome face, with its tip-tilted nose and wide-apart eyes, framed in chestnut curls.
‘What on earth’s the matter, Dido?’ Xan demanded. ‘You’ve gone as white as a ghost!’
‘It’s notmethat’s the ghost,’ I said incoherently, and pointed at the photograph. ‘Who is that, in the middle?’
