greeting of a prim female spirit and ducked beneath a low door into Charnley’s bookshop.
After the noise outside the shop was eerily quiet, a dim place where old books stood regimented on older bookcases, ordered by some mysterious system no outside observer could hope to fathom.
Prints filled any spare space on the walls depicting religious subjects: the killing of the Innocents, the Crucifixion, the harrowing of hell. I wondered if anyone had ever engraved the more
cheerful moments of scriptural history, like the wedding at Cana. If they had, Charnley didn’t have them.
A spirit said, “Can I help you, sir?”
I don’t generally patronise Charnley’s shop; I looked around the gloomy interior for a moment or two before I saw the spirit gleaming on an inkpot.
“I was hoping to see Mr Charnley.”
“I generally deal with customers, sir.”
The elderly, rather fussy voice suggested the living man had once been Charnley’s shopman, still performing his duties long after death. It must be invaluable to have all that expertise on
call – not to mention the savings from not having to pay him.
“I’m trying to trace a book that was once in the library of Mr William Hodgson,” I said. “A manuscript of psalm tunes.”
“Ah,” said the spirit, oozing unctuousness. “And you wish to purchase this book?”
“I’m acting as agent for a man who wishes to do so, yes.”
The spirit shot away into the back of the shop.
After a few minutes, Charnley himself came out to talk to me, a bitter-looking man in his late forties, wearing a grey wig and black coat. Most of the religious tracts distributed on the Key
come from his printing presses. He boasts there is nothing in his pamphlets to offend the most delicate of sensibilities.
He remembered the book but didn’t think much of it. “The tunes were just the usual popular rubbish.”
“My interest isn’t musical,” I said. “I believe it had a German inscription at the front?”
“To my beloved son, Luther,” the spirit said. “Signed by Melchior Friedric Fischer, Shotley Bridge, 1722.”
“It was bequeathed to a Philadelphian gentleman of my acquaintance,” I said, “but it never reached him. I was wondering if you still had it.”
There was a heavy pause. A thin smile curved Charnley’s lips.
“Stolen. I had a shopboy who left it lying around instead of putting it aside for the gentleman who requested it. The book was purloined. I dismissed the boy, of course.”
“Young people nowadays are so lazy,” the elderly spirit said.
“Disrespectful,” Charnley said. “Caring only for the pleasures of the world.”
“Indeed,” said the spirit comfortably.
“Did you report the theft to the constable?”
Charnley’s smile turned into a sneer. “You mean Bedwalters the writing master? The one who has abandoned his duties and responsibilities for a dead whore?”
The spirit tut-tutted.
“Well,” I said, deciding to go before I lost my temper. “If you no longer have the book I want, I can keep my money in my pocket, can’t I?”
And I turned on my heels and walked out, feeling self-righteous in my indignation.
Outside, I hesitated in the drizzle, wondering if it was time to meet Hugh – we’d arranged to meet in Nellie’s coffee house before going back to Mrs McDonald’s. The
female spirit slid down the wall and settled on the corner of a shelf built on the front of the shop to house a dozen very old, very damaged books.
“I saw him,” she said primly.
“Who?”
“The fellow who stole the book!”
I stared at the virulent gleam of spirit. “The book of tunes?”
“The lad put it outside on the shelf,” she said. “This shelf. Charnley told him to. Said it wasn’t worth waiting – the gentleman might never send to America at all. Get a penny or two for it , he said. Put it with all the other rubbishy stuff .”
The worst thing, I thought, was that Charnley had been happy to blame an innocent lad for his own
After the noise outside the shop was eerily quiet, a dim place where old books stood regimented on older bookcases, ordered by some mysterious system no outside observer could hope to fathom.
Prints filled any spare space on the walls depicting religious subjects: the killing of the Innocents, the Crucifixion, the harrowing of hell. I wondered if anyone had ever engraved the more
cheerful moments of scriptural history, like the wedding at Cana. If they had, Charnley didn’t have them.
A spirit said, “Can I help you, sir?”
I don’t generally patronise Charnley’s shop; I looked around the gloomy interior for a moment or two before I saw the spirit gleaming on an inkpot.
“I was hoping to see Mr Charnley.”
“I generally deal with customers, sir.”
The elderly, rather fussy voice suggested the living man had once been Charnley’s shopman, still performing his duties long after death. It must be invaluable to have all that expertise on
call – not to mention the savings from not having to pay him.
“I’m trying to trace a book that was once in the library of Mr William Hodgson,” I said. “A manuscript of psalm tunes.”
“Ah,” said the spirit, oozing unctuousness. “And you wish to purchase this book?”
“I’m acting as agent for a man who wishes to do so, yes.”
The spirit shot away into the back of the shop.
After a few minutes, Charnley himself came out to talk to me, a bitter-looking man in his late forties, wearing a grey wig and black coat. Most of the religious tracts distributed on the Key
come from his printing presses. He boasts there is nothing in his pamphlets to offend the most delicate of sensibilities.
He remembered the book but didn’t think much of it. “The tunes were just the usual popular rubbish.”
“My interest isn’t musical,” I said. “I believe it had a German inscription at the front?”
“To my beloved son, Luther,” the spirit said. “Signed by Melchior Friedric Fischer, Shotley Bridge, 1722.”
“It was bequeathed to a Philadelphian gentleman of my acquaintance,” I said, “but it never reached him. I was wondering if you still had it.”
There was a heavy pause. A thin smile curved Charnley’s lips.
“Stolen. I had a shopboy who left it lying around instead of putting it aside for the gentleman who requested it. The book was purloined. I dismissed the boy, of course.”
“Young people nowadays are so lazy,” the elderly spirit said.
“Disrespectful,” Charnley said. “Caring only for the pleasures of the world.”
“Indeed,” said the spirit comfortably.
“Did you report the theft to the constable?”
Charnley’s smile turned into a sneer. “You mean Bedwalters the writing master? The one who has abandoned his duties and responsibilities for a dead whore?”
The spirit tut-tutted.
“Well,” I said, deciding to go before I lost my temper. “If you no longer have the book I want, I can keep my money in my pocket, can’t I?”
And I turned on my heels and walked out, feeling self-righteous in my indignation.
Outside, I hesitated in the drizzle, wondering if it was time to meet Hugh – we’d arranged to meet in Nellie’s coffee house before going back to Mrs McDonald’s. The
female spirit slid down the wall and settled on the corner of a shelf built on the front of the shop to house a dozen very old, very damaged books.
“I saw him,” she said primly.
“Who?”
“The fellow who stole the book!”
I stared at the virulent gleam of spirit. “The book of tunes?”
“The lad put it outside on the shelf,” she said. “This shelf. Charnley told him to. Said it wasn’t worth waiting – the gentleman might never send to America at all. Get a penny or two for it , he said. Put it with all the other rubbishy stuff .”
The worst thing, I thought, was that Charnley had been happy to blame an innocent lad for his own
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