Ian Sansom - The Case of the Missing Books

Israel pulled at the big chain doorbell at the front door, which rang ominously. The big oak door was open, and there were cardboard boxes piled up inside the hall. But no one came. So Israel called out.

'Hello? Hello? Anybody in?'

He didn't like this at all: calling unannounced at people's houses with Ted he'd found difficult enough; it seemed like bad manners. Back in London, if you wanted to see someone you texted or rang at least a week in advance and left a message on their mobile. Turning up at people's houses on spec in a beaten-up old van with Ted to collect library books was not what he'd imagined he'd be doing when he took on the job in Tumdrum: he felt like a book-vigilante, which is exactly how they'd been treated on some calls. Some places they'd gone to collect the books, children had been sent to answer the door.

'My mum's not in,' the little children would say, although you could clearly see their mums hiding in the kitchen, or in the front room, watching the telly.

'Tell your mum I'm no' the tick man or the coal man,' Ted would say. 'I'm from the library.'

It didn't look as though that approach was going to work on this occasion though, because there was no one around at all. The only sign of recent human activity seemed to be the cardboard boxes in the hall, and a Volvo estate parked outside the house.

Israel stepped cautiously across the threshold and cleared his throat.

'Hello?' he said, sticking his head forward, his voice growing weaker in the quiet. 'Excuse me? Anybody about?'

His voice echoed and the house remained silent, completely deserted apart from all the fine furniture, and the paintings on the walls, and the vast rugs on the terracotta floors, and ornaments and objets d'art stuffed in cabinets and on plinths and in recesses and cubby-holes.

A black retriever and a white Persian cat appeared in the hallway from behind the cardboard boxes, regarded Israel slowly and with animal disinterest, and then walked on by, out of the front door and down into the garden.

'Hello? Hello?'

Now he'd entered the house he figured he might as well keep going, and so he slowly made his way through the hall and down a corridor, past doors and double doors, calling as he went, and eventually he came through to a vast kitchen painted an electric yellow, with black and white chequerboard tiles, and there, outside the kitchen window, with views out across a small orchard, he saw a motionless human figure, silhouetted against the darkening sky.

'Hello?' called Israel, extremely faintly now, his heart beating like a little bird's. 'Hello?' The figure did not respond. Israel gulped and began to walk across the kitchen, his brown brogues clicking accusingly across the floor, through the utility room full of wellington boots and Barbours, and outside.

It was a long terrace at the back of the house. The dark, motionless, stooped figure that Israel had seen inside turned out to be an elderly man standing at a long wooden workbench. He was wearing a trilby hat, and a boiler suit over a three-piece suit, and he was working very slowly and with deep concentration with what looked like a cooking spatula, shaping and moulding a concrete bust, like one of the huge heads Israel had seen in the garden.

'Hello?' said Israel uncertainly.

'Ah. Yes. Good,' said the old man, snapping out of his reverie, and turning round and smiling warmly, his bright blue eyes sparkling, as if he were expecting him. 'Good. Ah. You're not Bullimore?'

'No. Sorry.'

'I thought you were Bullimore.' The man waved the concrete-covered spatula at Israel.

'No, I'm not.' Israel had no idea who Bullimore was.

'You're not with Bullimore?'

'No.'

'So you are?'

'Israel Armstrong. I'm the new librarian.'

'Ah, the new librarian. Marvellous. Can't shake hands, I'm afraid. Covered in stuff.' He wiped his hands on his boiler suit. 'Chairman Mao was a librarian, did you know?'

'Yes.'

'Would have been better off sticking to it, really.'

'Yes.'

'Would have saved the world a lot of trouble.'

'Er.'

'And Hitler was an artist.'

'…'

'Not sure about Stalin. What was he?'

'Erm. I'm not sure.'

'Pipe-smoker, anyway. Never to be trusted. Don't smoke a pipe yourself?'

'No.'

'Good. Always worth asking. Now, I've heard a lot about you.'

'You have?'

'Oh yes. You know, small town. Word gets around. Great write-up you had in the paper.'

'Thank you.'

'You're settling in OK?'

'Yes.'

'Good. Excellent. Well, very nice of you to come out and see us.'

'That's all right. You are…?'

'Sorry, forgive me. Awfully ill-mannered. I'm Pearce Pyper, widower of this parish.'

'Right.'

'Now, by your accent I detect that you're not from here, Israel, is that right?'

'Yes. I'm from London, actually.'

'Ah. Yes. That's right. I remember. It was in the paper. Us outsiders must stick together, you know. I'm a Cork man originally myself-long time ago, of course. Rebel Cork!'

'Right.'

'Lot of nonsense. Anyway, where exactly in London are you from? Big place, London, or at least it was the last time I was there.'

'Yes. North. North London. I don't know if you know it at all…?'

'Yes. Of course. Not all of it, mind. Kensington and Chelsea I know very well. And my club, the Athenaeum. You're not a member?'

'No.'

'Ah, well. Name like Israel, I suppose you're Jewish, are you?'

'Er…'

'I knew the Chief Rabbi once. You didn't know him?'

'No. I don't think so.'

'Not the current fella. The one before the one before that. Can't remember his name now. What was he called?'

'I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm not really-'

'Never mind. It'll come to me. My first wife was Jewish. Jabotinsky? Her family were in the fur trade? And little Irving Berlin I knew briefly. Wonderful parties. And Heifetz.'

'You knew Heifetz?'

'Yes. Well, through my wife. Could never see why people got so excited about the fella myself. Much preferred George Formby: great fun at a party.'

'Anyway, I've come about the, erm, the library books, Mr Pyper.'

'You can call me Pearce.'

'OK, Pearce. I'm collecting up all the old stock and overdue books.'

'Jolly good. Getting it all ship-shape and what have you. Come on then inside.'

They went back through the house, through rooms that no longer seemed inhabited, which seemed in fact merely like the shelter for the remnants of a grand inheritance-hunting trophies here and there, and cheetah skins on the floor-and finally they entered into what Israel assumed was the drawing room, looking out over the gardens. Israel had never seen a room quite like it-a room completely and utterly replete, perfectly satisfied with its ornaments and its fine furnishings, every inch of its panelled walls filled with family portraits. Israel thought miserably of his chicken coop.

'Now. Drink. What can I get you? Sherry OK?'

'It's a bit early for me actually.'

'Nonsense. By the time you get to my age you'll not bother with that sort of thing. Sweet or amontillado?'

'Er…'

'I'll pour you the sweet. You come back round to it in old age. Now.' Pearce Pyper poured the drinks from cut glass into cut glass.

'Sláinte.'

'Cheers. This is quite a place you've got here.'

'Oh yes. We were very lucky with this place. My wife and I bought it in 1939. Post-partition, before the war. Happy days. Lot of work, mind.'

'Your wife, is she still…'

'No, no. Four wives actually. First two died. Third one divorced me. Fourth one I divorced. Quits all round. Are you married?'

'No.'

'Wouldn't recommend it. Are you a homosexual?'

'No.'

'The companionship's always nice of course, but you can always get a dog. Have you got a dog?'