The Lost Bookshop(50)

‘Perhaps I can stay a little longer,’ I said, kneeling on the bed beside him and letting him unbutton my blouse again. Loneliness is not a discerning bedfellow. In fact, the more inappropriate the company, the more it suited my fatalistic outlook when it came to love. Something told me I would never find it, so why bother saving myself for it?





I didn’t have much time. My ears echoed with the sound of my heels rushing along the pavement, as I scanned the numbers on the door. My search had led me to Soho and a small warren of alleyways tucked behind Regent Street. I stayed true to my word and told Armand nothing of my detective work regarding Emily Bront?’s second novel. I made a decision that morning that I would stand by for the rest of my life: the work would always come first. However, I did ask him to suggest a dealer who might be familiar with bookshops that were no longer trading. Having spent an interesting morning in Mayfair, I was given the address of Brown’s Bookshop.

It was now a solicitor’s office, but I was reliably informed that the previous owners retained the flat above the shop. I knocked on the door for quite some time, before a middle-aged woman, dressed all in black, answered.

‘Mrs Brown?’ I hazarded a guess.

‘Yes,’ she replied, raising her head slightly to peer through the glasses that were sliding down her nose. ‘Do I know you?’

‘No, we are not acquainted and I am sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to speak to your husband. It’s concerning his bookshop and his aunt, Martha Brown.’

She smiled in a sorrowful way. ‘Oh, we haven’t had one of these for a while, have we, Reginald?’

There was no one there, but I assumed Reginald was upstairs, as she looked skywards.

‘One of what?’

‘A Bront? fan. Do come in,’ she invited, as it had begun to drizzle slightly. We climbed the stairs and came to a pretty little parlour room facing the street below. Every surface was covered with lace doilies but there wasn’t a book in sight. It was not a good start. I took the seat she offered me at a small round table in front of the fire.

‘We shall have tea,’ she called out again to some invisible person. Within minutes a young girl with sullen features carried in a tray with cups and saucers and a silver teapot.

‘Thank you,’ I said but received no response.

‘Well, she might look vexed. I will have to terminate her employment and go to live with my sister in Cornwall. I simply cannot afford to live here any longer,’ Mrs Brown pointed out, sadly.

Once a polite amount of time had passed, I enquired about Mr Brown and whether or not I could speak with him.

‘Oh but, my dear, you are a fortnight too late. My dearest Reginald passed away, in that very chair,’ she said, pointing to an armchair in the corner. ‘Hence the move to my sister’s.’

‘Ah, I see,’ I said, ruing my terrible timing. ‘I am very sorry for your loss, Mrs Brown, and I won’t take up any more of your time with my silly detective work.’

She bade me stay a little longer, at least until the rain eased up, as it had now turned into a torrential downpour.

‘Besides, I don’t get to talk very much about our old bookshop any more. I used to enjoy working there.’

‘Might I ask what happened to the stock? Did you sell everything?’

‘Everything that would interest one such as yourself I’m afraid. Oh, there were many dealers back then, keen to get their hands on anything related to the Bront? family. Even a book of birds belonging to the family!’ she cooed. ‘I mean, honestly, there comes a point where you have to draw a line.’

She had no idea who she was talking to! When it came to book scouts, there was no line. Anything that might relate to an author or their life was of interest. ‘Besides, if I had anything left to sell now, I would be only too happy to part with it. I will need all the funds I can muster at my age.’

Life was difficult for a woman on her own, I could appreciate that. I told her about my shop in Dublin and, as pathetic as it may sound, I revelled in her praise of my independence.

‘But now I really must go, reluctantly, Mrs Brown,’ I said, realising the time. I had to get the train back to Liverpool for the evening sailing.

‘Oh, I am sorry, you’ve come all this way hoping to find something and I have been of no help,’ she said, struggling up from her seat to see me out. ‘Wait a minute, perhaps I do have something you might fancy,’ she said, disappearing into another room. When she returned, she was carrying what looked like a little tin box.

‘We had it in the bookshop, but it never sold,’ she said, handing it to me.

‘What is it?’

‘An old sewing box, belonging to Charlotte.’

My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe I was holding one of her humble yet personal possessions in my hands, something she would have used daily. I lifted the lid, which revealed a neat row of threads in dark hues and an embroidered pin cushion with needles lodged snugly in.

‘According to my husband, who of course got it from Martha herself, it was Branwell who gifted it to Charlotte. Although Lord knows it wasn’t much of a gift! He was fond of the odd tipple, that one.’

I knew from my research that he was fond of quite a bit more, having struggled with both alcohol and drug addiction during his lifetime. I often wondered if Hindley Earnshaw’s chaotic descent into gambling and addiction in Wuthering Heights was based on Branwell, who often suffered delirium tremens while attempting to sober up.