a hand on the banister rail to steady herself. She was still there, incapable of finishing the descent or of hurrying back upstairs out of sight, when her father came in and slowly took off his silk top hat.
He said flatly: ‘I see your gig is waiting outside.’
‘Yes, father.’
‘Obviously you were intending to go out this evening.’
‘Didn’t you say you would be in Stoke for the night?’
‘And that is why you made arrangements to slip away to some assignation?’
‘Certainly not. It was decided before that.’
‘What was decided, Laura?’
‘Please, father. If I don’t leave now I shall be late.’
‘Late for what?’
She found the courage to continue the descent and tried to pass him in the hall. He stepped back, and his arm barred the doorway.
‘Please, father, you’ll make me late.’
‘You will tell me what this important assignation is?’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’re ashamed.’
‘No.’
‘Then speak.’
The baize door beside the stairs swung open, and Sedgwick bustled through. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr. Hinde, I didn’t hear the carriage. Wasn’t expecting you.’
‘Quite all right, Sedgwick.’ Mr. Hinde let his arm fall to his side, then began to divest himself of his coat. ‘Nobody was expecting me.’
His hat and coat were taken away. When the door plopped gently shut again, Laura said: ‘Father, I can’t keep people waiting.’
‘What people?’
‘I object to this catechism.’
‘Do you, miss? Do you, indeed?’ It was impossible for her to pass that gaunt, accusing figure. He spoke softly but there was a steely edge to his words. ‘For your own sake, my dear, will you not realize that I want only to act in your best interests?’
She stared past him at the door.
He said: ‘Please go to your room, and let us talk later.’
‘No, I can’t. I must go.’
‘You will stay here.’
‘I can’t. I’ll die. Do you understand? I shall die.’
‘Go to your room. And keep your voice down. I don’t wish the servants to be privy to your hysteria.’
She looked again at the door and tried to make a move towards it. Her father stood unyielding. After a moment her shoulders drooped and she said only: ‘I tell you, father, I shall die.’
* * * *
The window would need rearranging. These new packages contained some truly enticing volumes, the covers discreet but sufficiently tempting to coax the knowledgeable into the shop to buy, Others would have to be locked away in the back room, ready for special clients who knew exactly what they wanted or who could be persuaded to want things they had not yet contemplated.
A Lexicon of Parisian Diversions, superbly printed and with especially fine plates: Edgar Wentworth turned over a page, and then another. The execution of that arm was very fine; the twisted head and the expression on the girl’s face had been caught to perfection; and one could almost imagine the buttocks moving.
He turned a further page, studied a few paragraphs of the text, and was tempted to lock the shop door and go upstairs to Annie. But there was work to be done. He must not let his mind wander, above all not let it wander over such alluring contours. With an effort he closed the book, and set it on his shelf of items for the connoisseur. He would not sell it for a day or two, though.
The bell over the shop door set up its cracked little clangour. Mr. Wentworth tugged his coat straight, assumed his most pious expression, and went to the counter.
His customer was the same build as himself and probably about the same age, somewhere in the middle fifties. He, too, had the sober mien of a man who deals seriously with serious matters; but his greying beard did not quite conceal the slackness of his plump lower lip.
‘Thought I’d drop in on my way to the British Museum. Doing some anthropological studies, you know.’
‘Yes, sir. A pleasure to see you again, sir.’
‘And to see you, Mr. Wentworth. I must congratulate you on that erudite article in the Antiquary.’
‘Most kind, sir.’
‘And what pleasures might you be able to provide today?’
Wentworth slid a volume from a cardboard slipcase and laid it on the counter.
‘Ah, Cythera’s Hymnal. Yes. I already have that. A most engaging collection. I particularly care for that little poem....’ He chuckled. ‘The Reverend Pimlico Poole, eh?’ He hummed rather than recited a few lines, as one might tentatively hum the first few bars of a hymn to make sure that the key was right.
Wentworth nodded approval. In this trade one needed to catch the subtlest nuances of a client’s mood. He now knew what state his present visitor was in.
‘If you’ll wait just a moment, sir. No more than a moment.’
In the back room he lifted from its package one of the new edition ot Choicest Facetiae, carried it reverently through to the shop, and set it also on the counter. Turning the pages, he stopped casually at a plate that had already caught his fancy.
He had chosen rightly. He could see that from the slight distension of the customer’s eyes, the would-be offhanded, man-to-man chuckle.
‘Yes. My goodness, yes. Exquisite.’
‘I thought you would think so.’
‘Completely free from—uh—vulgarity.’
‘Completely.’
Wentworth closed the book. The other man could not take his eyes off the cover as it fell into place. He dabbed at a smear of moisture on his beard, near the corner of his mouth.
‘What would you be charging for it, Mr. Wentworth?’
‘To you, sir, five guineas.’
‘That’s a bit steep, isn’t it?’
‘To a less valued customer than yourself I’d charge more. We’re having a lot of troubles. Expensive troubles. Our special consignments from France have been intercepted more than once—terrible loss.’
‘Terrible.’
‘And
