Page 65 of Murder in Blackfriars

I knew Grace enjoyed reading, but she’d never mentioned delving into novels once lessons were done. Books about history and art were what she spoke to me about.

“Perhaps another time,” I told the woman. I turned back to the picture books. “Is this one about the seaside very sought after?”

“Oh, yes.” The woman lifted the book in question and moved it more into the light, as though enticing me to give it a closer look. “I have sold many copies, and many copies come to me when children grow too old for it.”

“I suppose there is much interest in jaunting to the ocean?”

“In rainy London?” The woman laughed. “We all wish to rush to the sunny seaside, don’t we? Even though it’s likely just as rainy there.”

I gathered my thoughts and my courage. “I don’t suppose there were books like this many years ago—say thirty years gone? That parents were eager to find for their children?”

I expected the woman to shake her head and sadly say that it was far too long ago to know, but she beamed at me.

“Of course, my dear. I have some in the back.”

21

The woman swiftly disappeared through the narrow doorway. Before I had time to wonder at the chance she’d have such books, she returned with three in her hand.

She laid the books side by side on top of the others. “These were quite popular in their day.”

One was similar to the book I held, though clearly older and with a different picture, not as detailed. The second had only a blank red cover, and the third’s cover was cracked and worn but still showed the colors of an ocean, rocky beach, and nearby cliffs.

“How can you be certain?” I asked in bewilderment.

“Because I’ve had this shop forty years now, dear. My father had it before me. I recall what everyone wanted thirty years ago like it was yesterday. People are still readingThe Heir of Redclyffe, aren’t they? I knewthislady.” She tapped the book with the bright cover. “Wrote quite a number of picture booksand little folktales for children, but this was the only one she did about the seaside.”

I tried to imagine Daniel as a tiny boy, sitting on his mother’s lap, or perhaps his nanny’s, as she read out to him from this book. The same book he then clutched as his only reminder of his mother and father when he found himself left at Mrs. Kerr’s. I hoped she was as good to him as Mr. Patterson claimed.

I opened the book and turned the pages. I found another simple story about a boy who lived at the seaside, explaining all the things to be seen to another lad, who’d come from a city.

The boy Daniel would have gazed at the few drawings inside and imagined the seaside, while his mother’s voice was soft in his ears.

My vivid imaginings made my eyes fill. I closed the book, blinking the moisture away.

“I don’t suppose you’d remember who you sold these books to, all those years ago?” I asked without much hope.

The woman’s smile shone out. “Dear me, no. My memory is plenty sharp, but those are details no one would recall. However, I still have the ledgers from those days. Give me a few moments to dig them out.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” I began.

“No trouble at all, dear. As you can see, I am not overrun with custom today.” She gestured toward the inner door. “Come back with me. I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

* * *

In another quarter of an hour, I was settled in a small, dusty room with my feet on a footstool, sipping tea that was not too bitter.

The woman told me her name was Mrs. Davies, and shenow knew that I was Mrs. Holloway, a cook from Mount Street, and had a daughter called Grace who lived with my friends. She also knew that I was often flummoxed by my mistress, Mrs. Bywater, had begun selling my baked goods at a stand in Portobello Road, and was engaged to my beau, Daniel, who had a son of his own.

I do not know why I opened up to her so, but I found Mrs. Davies congenial, kind, and easy to speak to.

She did find ledgers from the year 1854 and also from the years before and after for good measure. I sipped tea while she ran her mitted hands along the pages and actually found a number of entries for the books in question and who they were sold to.

“I can copy these out for you,” Mrs. Davies offered, then peered shrewdly at me. “If you tell me why you wish to know.”

“Because I have a mad idea that I can find a man’s parents by discovering if they once purchased a child’s book when he was a babe.”

When stated, it did sound daft. I also risked losing my post by lingering in this shop, but I was comfortable, Mrs. Davies was a friendly and interesting woman, and I could not bring myself to leave just yet.