Andrew Taylor - The Anatomy Of Ghosts

Holdsworth smiled at him. ‘I don’t know what he wants yet.’

‘Perhaps he wishes to buy books,’ Ned suggested. ‘And he needs you to advise him.’

‘He did not look like a man who has much to spare on luxuries.’

‘Pooh,’ Ned bellowed. ‘Books are not luxuries. They are meat and drink for the mind.’

Though Holdsworth was before his time, Mr Cross was already at the coffee house, seated at one of the small tables by the door.

‘I have ordered sherry,’ he murmured. ‘I trust that will be agreeable?’

Holdsworth sat down. Mr Cross showed no inclination to rush into the business that had brought him here.

‘You are a tall man,’ he observed. ‘And broad with it, are you not? I marked you in the crowd when you were some distance away. I thought you would be older but you are still quite a young man.’

‘But not inexperienced, sir.’

‘I do not doubt it.’

While they waited for the sherry, Cross talked doggedly about the warmth of the weather, the crowdedness of the streets, and the intolerable stench from the river. The waiter came soon enough, and Holdsworth was pleased to see that the man had brought biscuits as well. The first mouthful of wine seemed simultaneously to glide down in a warm flow to his stomach and to move up in an equally warm vapour to his brain.

Mr Cross set down his glass and drew out a snuffbox made of horn. He tapped the lid but did not open it.

‘It cannot be easy for you.’

‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘No, the shoe is upon the other foot. Pray forgive me if I seem impertinent but I was watching you this afternoon. You bear your misfortunes with great patience.’

Holdsworth inclined his head, thinking that the man presumed much on so slight an acquaintance.

Mr Cross took a pinch of snuff, closed his eyes and sniffed. A few seconds later, he sneezed with such an explosion of sound that the conversations around them faltered. He took out a stained handkerchief, wiped his streaming eyes and blew his nose. ‘Pray believe me, sir, I did not mean to offend. Tell me, have you sufficient leisure at present to accept a commission?’

‘That would depend upon its nature.’

‘You have a considerable reputation as a bibliopole. They say you are a man who knows the value of a book.’

Holdsworth remained silent.

‘You catalogued the Mitchell library, for example,’ Mr Cross went on, ‘and handled its sale. I understand Sir William was most gratified by the outcome. And then of course Archdeacon Carter’s collection.’

Holdsworth nodded. Cross had done his research. His arrangement with Sir William Mitchell had not been public knowledge.

The older man loosened the scarf around his neck. ‘So it would be no more than simple truth to assert that cataloguing and valuing such libraries is a task well within your competence?’

‘Of course.’

‘And are you also able to advise on the care and maintenance of valuable books?’

‘Naturally. Both printing and bookbinding are part of my trade. Am I to understand that the commission you mentioned involves cataloguing a library?’

‘That might be part of it.’

‘And is it your own library, sir?’

‘It belongs at present to my employer.’

‘And what precisely would you wish me to do for him?’

‘My principal is a lady, sir.’ Mr Cross refilled Holdsworth’s glass. ‘Tell me, does the name of Oldershaw mean something to you?’

‘The late Bishop of Rosington?’

‘Precisely. Were you acquainted with him?’

‘No, sir. I did not have the honour of being of service to his lordship. I knew him only by reputation. So his library has not been broken up?’

‘Not as yet. It is now in the possession of his widow. His lordship reposed perfect confidence in Lady Anne’s judgement. I believe the collection to be considerable, in both extent and value.’

‘That was certainly the common report.’

Mr Cross rubbed the stubble on his chin. ‘Well, sir. You tell me you are at liberty to accept a commission of this nature. So far as I may judge, you appear well qualified for the task. But of course the decision must rest with Lady Anne herself.’

Holdsworth inclined his head. ‘Of course.’

Cross made a great to-do of helping himself to another pinch of snuff, which was followed by the same explosive ritual as before. He looked up quickly, as though aware that Holdsworth was studying him. ‘It remains only to fix a time for you to wait on her ladyship.’

‘One moment, sir. Why has your choice fallen on me? There are many others equally competent to carry out such a commission. Some would say more so.’

‘I am afraid I cannot say,’ Mr Cross said with calculated ambiguity. ‘Her ladyship informs me that it will be convenient for you to wait on her tomorrow forenoon.’

‘Very well. I assume her ladyship must be in town?’

‘Yes. I will give you her direction.’

Holdsworth drank his sherry and nibbled another biscuit, trying not to wolf it down. Meanwhile, Cross took out a worn pocketbook, tore out a leaf, scribbled a few words in pencil and passed the paper across the table.

‘Thirty-five Golden Square,’ Holdsworth read aloud. ‘Eleven o’clock.’

‘The house is on the north side.’ Cross pushed back his chair and stood up, signalling to the waiter. He turned aside to pay the score. He seemed suddenly in a hurry to be gone. He turned back to Holdsworth and bowed. ‘I am obliged, sir,’ he whispered. ‘Indeed I am. I give you good day.’

Holdsworth returned the bow and watched the little man slipping like a shadow through the crowded room and into the street. He ate the remaining two biscuits and drank the last of the sherry. Until now, he had felt elated at the prospect of employment. But, as he pushed away his empty glass, it struck him that Mr Cross’s gratitude seemed out of all proportion to the nature of the arrangement they had just concluded. More than that, for an instant his countenance had betrayed an emotion that looked curiously like relief.

In Golden Square, Lady Anne Oldershaw sat on a low mahogany armchair beside the marble fireplace in the back drawing room. Despite the warmth of the day a fire burned in the steel grate. She wore mourning and as usual her face was completely white, a monochrome intrusion in a colourful world. On her lap was an open book, and her maid was mending linen at the table by the window. Lady Anne had come here as a bride, for the house and its contents had been part of her marriage settlement. In this room, little had changed since then. The heavy velvet curtains had faded to a dusty amber, and there were pale patches on the painted walls where a generation of servants had rubbed at candle smuts.

Elinor Carbury curtsied from the doorway. With great condescension Lady Anne held out a hand to her and even indicated that Elinor might kiss her cheek.

‘It is good of you to come all this way,’ she said, ‘and by the public coach, too. I shall insist on sending you back in my own chaise. But you will not hurry away, I hope?’

‘I must return on Thursday,’ Elinor said. ‘The Doctor says he cannot spare me for longer on this occasion. He is not entirely himself at present. The warmer weather unsettles him.’

With a mechanical courtesy of the very well bred, Lady Anne methodically satisfied her curiosity about Elinor’s journey, the state of the weather and the health of Dr Carbury. There was a right way to do everything, and a wrong way too. Lady Anne had known Elinor since she was a baby, and since the death of her father Elinor had lived in the Oldershaws’ household for months at a time. Lady Anne probably loved Elinor as much as she loved anyone else alive, with the exception of her son; and she missed her almost as a daughter when she did not see her for any length of time. But Elinor was not of the same rank as herself, and she would never forget that fact.