Page 80 of The Undercover Bookshop

“I can’t afford it. I don’t have a job. I have barely any savings.”

“You’ll have an income from us for the next two years. Particulars will be discussed later, but you’ll find all the bank information in your folder.”

My lips part again.

“Your belongings will be delivered presently and a shipment of furniture this afternoon. You merely sign the bill of lading. Sign Nora Marple, mind you, and that’s all.” He chuffs a small, almost derisive noise. “I think you’ll be pleased. Lady Marchmont made all the selections herself.”

“She told me to meet her Monday morning. I’ll need to thank her.”

“Yes, well, she seems to have taken a personal interest in this project.” He nods to me. “In you, Miss Marple. She’s taken a personal interest in you. And, for all I will say about her, she’s clever and she knows people. She’s a worthy ally to keep in your corner.”

With that he merely nods and walks out the door, gently shutting it behind him.

I stand, slack-jawed, in this brilliant new space. What kind of life is ahead of me?

Chapter 30

Monday, 6 March 1950

London, England

Monday morning arrives with bluster and clouds, but a hint of warmth, too, as if spring is fighting her way towards us. Despite everything feeling foreign and new—probably because everything is—I don’t feel as downcast as I did yesterday.

Saturday was a flurry of activity. Soon after Mr. Wainright left, the cadre of men in mechanic uniforms flew in and out, carrying all my boxes and bags from Great Rollright. And soon after their departure, a lorry parked on the side street and furniture began to arrive.

The men first carried in a sofa of a deep rich green velvet. I held up my hand to stop them. “This is new. It can’t be for here.”

“It’s all new, miss.” One of them handed me a clipboard. “And this is the address.”

I stood back as two armchairs arrived next. They had the same rich textured fabric on them, but they were an almost royal shade of blue. Then came bags of throw pillows, some with coverings of a floral pattern of blue and green to tie the sofa and chairs together; others were covered in fabrics of reds, yellow, pinks, and oranges. A garden of color that made my new home feel rich and vibrant, the very same words Lady Marchmont used to describe my new life.

Then a coffee table came through the door and was set before them; three side tables came next, and a card table for the corner, which could also serve as my dining table. And last of all—to my absolute delight—two bookshelves positioned against the walls.

The parlor was instantly warm, inviting, and glorious. In a way it reminded me of Ursula’s parlor, and to a degree—though nowhere near as grand—it held a hint of the sophistication and glamour of Lady Marchmont’s library.

My bedroom was even better. A beautiful wrought iron bed frame arrived with a brand-new fluffy mattress. I’d never seen a mattress rise so high. Every one I’ve ever slept on had been years old at the youngest. This one felt like lying on a billowy cloud, which I did as soon as they moved it in and placed it atop the constructed bed frame. That was when one of the men let out a low guffaw, and I collected myself and scooted off. They also brought in a small dressing table and stool, as well as a dresser and armchair for my room too.

Yes, Saturday felt just like Christmas.

Reality sank in on Sunday.

For all the loveliness around me—more than I could ever expect—I was alone. This was to become my home, but it wasn’t my home. The draperies I had handsewn were back in Great Rollright hanging in an empty room. The rug I’d hauled up the stairs after Mrs. Hallam advertised a few things for sale on the parish bulletin board was back there too. And, by then, Mrs. Hastings would have knocked on the outer door, gotten worried about no reply, walked up the stairs calling my name the entire way, and gasped at the emptiness she’d found. Gasped at the betrayal too.

The word would spread, as it did in Great Rollright—perhaps it already spread as I was unpacking Saturday—and Charlie would hear within minutes, if Chief Wilmot hadn’t already informed him. And although Charlie was expecting it, I imagined him to be a little miffed. Truly no goodbye, he’d think. I mustn’t have mattered at all. He’d be wrong, of course, but how could he know that? No one was there to tell him. I would never be able to tell him. Soon I’d be forgotten.

Yes, that was Sunday. The day I truly discovered loneliness. And even the bright cushions, the marvelously spacious flat, and the warmth of a proper supper cooked in a proper oven couldn’t dispel the cold gloom.

But today is different. Today I can no longer feel sorry for myself. Because that’s a slippery path and one I’ve almost fallen down before. I once told Charlie why I loved mystery novels so much, and as I was pulling The Hollow out of a box this morning, I reminded myself: The story ends with justice served and right prevailing. Characters often don’t get their little individual happy ending, so how can I complain when I don’t get mine? While, yes, in this situation Ursula got away, it can’t be denied that right prevailed—she is gone and a spy ring has been broken up. It’s a good ending.

Pulling out the new A to Z the movers left as well, I find the address from Lady Marchmont’s card, lock my door, and set out across London. It’s a walk of wonders. Perhaps I wouldn’t have disliked my time so much growing up here or my years after the war had I lived in this area. West London is clean, and the streets are swept and maintained. Stone and brick buildings are on the rise. In these areas, I marvel, the builders are investing in materials and work that will last. Here hope feels almost tangible.

I walk through Soho, pass Covent Garden, and come to a small pedestrian walk-through, where I stop once more. In all my life I had no idea such a little street existed. Cecil Court. I check the card again, as it isn’t a “court” at all but a wide pedestrian thoroughfare off Charing Cross Road. I scan the shop signs and windows. Bookshops! While there is one art gallery on the right, every other shop is a bookshop. A proper bookshop. One for children. One for, well, everyone. One clearly full of first editions. Another full of travelogues . . .

My mouth drops, and I have no need to pull it together again. I’m overwhelmed by the desire to dash into each and every shop. But I’m almost late. Nevertheless, perhaps here is where I can find a job—perhaps that is why Lady Marchmont instructed me to meet her here.

I walk halfway down the small street and check the card against the number painted atop a glass door. I’m at the right address, but the shop is empty. The lights are off. I wiggle the doorknob. It’s locked.

I step back, unsure what to do next, when a high call I recognize reaches me. “Yoo-hoo.”