Amy Snow (15 page)

Mr. Manning the stationer's face falls when he looks up and sees my dripping figure framed in his doorway. Professional courtesy visibly wrestles with dismay.

“You are back,” he observes.

“Good day, Mr. Manning, I hope you are well. I wonder if I could possibly trouble you for one final glance at your directory?”

“I doubt any new names have appeared on it overnight, miss. We do not have brownies here who scribe away by moonlight.”

“I am certain you do not, sir, but I wish to look for something else if it's not too much trouble.”

He shrugs and stretches his neck in one direction and then the other before handing the directory to me.

“Gloomy day,” he mutters.

“Extremely gloomy,” I agree, unable to stop smiling. I leaf eagerly to the letter C. And there it is.

Crumm & Co. Waistcoat Lane. Next to the crooked courtyard behind St. Angelus. Holborn.

The address erases any trace of doubt. Waistcoat Lane! No wonder Aurelia thought of our childhood story. I offer up a swift prayer that her future clues will not require quite such a lengthy and tangled trawl through my past.

I read the directions again and dash from the shop, throwing thanks over my shoulder as I go. My cab is waiting and there is a furious hurtle to Holborn, during which all my resentment towards Aurelia's quest is forgotten. I can hardly breathe for anticipation.

“Want me to wait again, miss?” asks the driver when we pull to a splashing halt outside St. Angelus.

I pay and send him away. After the delays and stagnation of the last days, I shall not be leaving Mr. Crumm's establishment until I find the letter. If I am locked in overnight, so be it.

Holborn is deserted. Indeed, all of London is subdued on such a drudge of a day. My skirts drag with the weight of the water. The hammering torrents may very well have dented my bonnet. I do not care. Soon I will hear more from Aurelia.

There is the courtyard, crooked to be sure, shaped like a crumpled handkerchief. Beside it a narrow lane—I half expect to see two sartorial bunnies bounding ahead to show me the way. And here is the shop, painted burgundy, with a bulging mullioned window and the words Crumm & Co. neatly painted in gold, above.

As I pause on the threshold, quivering with anticipation, the door flies open with a friendly jingling of bells and a tall gentleman in a vast overcoat nearly trips over me.

“Pardon me, miss,” he says in mannerly tones, and holds the door for me before going on his way.

A pleasantly lit interior greets me, thanks to candles and gas lamps both. It is welcome brightness on such a dark day.

“Good day, madam.” A contented-looking man of perhaps sixty looks up from a ledger and smiles. “May I assist you with anything?”

“Good day, sir. I shall look around, thank you.”

“Indeed, indeed.”

Go to the natural history section . . . Cast your thoughts around the book we discussed at length . . .

I step a little farther into the shop. I decide I will most certainly
not
go to the natural history section. Now that I understand the tone of Aurelia's clue, I believe this is another device to confound anyone but me. For although Mr. Howden had talked of a great many books that night, desirous to show off his erudition, the book that
we
—Aurelia and I—shared was, of course,
The Old Curiosity Shop
.

“In fact, sir, excuse me, could you direct me to the works of Mr. Dickens?”

He emerges from behind his desk and shows me the relevant shelves. Then he appears to startle and look at me more closely, though he collects himself quickly.

“Why! I wonder . . .” he exclaims, then stops. “I wonder if there is anything else I might help you with, Miss . . . ?”

“Nothing else, thank you.”

But he is looking at me so carefully. Perhaps it is just the sight I present, bedraggled and pale, oozing rainwater. Perhaps it is the fact that I am in mourning—or unchaperoned. Whatever the reason, he has a pleasing, low voice and the sort of presence that prohibits offense.

“I wonder, miss, if you have noticed our collection of early numbers over there? We are not a library, but I am a great devotee of the contemporary writers so I keep a copy of everything by Mr. Dickens and two or three others. Periodicals and bound books alike are stored in this glass case. They are not for sale but I shall leave the key in the door in case you wish to peruse.”

He returns to his desk and leaves me in peace. I frown—more than usual. There was something odd about the whole interaction.

I find
The Old Curiosity Shop
on the bookshelves. I remove my wet gloves and rapidly feel around it—tops and undersides of the shelf. I know the letter will not be in a book, for the books are there to be sold. Nothing.

I feel behind the shelf, to see if it slides forward, to see if anything could be hidden there. Nothing.

I am already half certain of the outcome when I move to the glass case. I glance at Mr. Crumm, but he remains engrossed in his ledger. I unlock the case and find the long line of editions of
Master Humphrey's Clock
, the magazine I remember so well from childhood. Here are the copies containing the closing chapters of Little Nell's sad story, and here is the very last, on the end of a shelf, against the wall.

I carefully remove the magazine, turn it over in my hands; nothing slides out. I riffle gently through the pages and find a place where two or three are stuck together lightly, perhaps a little binder's glue gone astray. Or perhaps not.

I slide a finger between the pages and it falls open exactly where I expected—the tragedy of a heroine who dies too young.

Between the pages lies a plain white envelope inscribed with just two initials: “AS.”

Hands shaking, I unfasten my cloak, sink the letter into my dress pocket beside its predecessor, and wrap myself up again. I restore the magazine, lock the cabinet, and pause a moment to marvel. Here, in this city so far from Hatville, in an out-of-the-way alley, in a neighborhood I never before visited in my life, waits a letter to me from my friend. I feel as though I have strayed into a novel myself.

I am in a fever to read the letter, yet I do not want to do so in a public place. Nor do I wish to return to the room where I have been so recently confined. Also, I wonder if there might be further answers in this shop that Aurelia's letter cannot supply. Did this gentleman know her? He seems to know
me
.

I drift back to the books for sale and decide to purchase
Oliver Twist
. It was hard to leave Oliver behind at Hatville. The bookseller inspects my choice with interest.

“A fine novel. Strange to say, I had imagined you would choose something else . . .
The Old Curiosity Shop
, perhaps?”

I have not imagined it. He knows something. “That is my favorite, sir, but I already have it.”

“I see. Then have you found
everything
you need today?”

“I have indeed. Thank you, Mr. Crumm, is it?”

“Albert Crumm at your service, Miss . . . ?”

“I am Amy Snow.”

“Of course you are, my dear, of course you are. Oh!” He emerges from behind his desk again and clasps my hand in a hearty shake. “I am so very glad to meet you at last, although . . . I suppose this means that Miss Vennaway is no longer with us.”

“I am sorry to tell you that she died, sir, but a week since. She was a friend of yours?”

“I am honored to have made her most cordial acquaintance, yes. And through her, I feel I know a little of you, Miss Snow, if that is not a presumption. My sincerest condolences.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me, Mr. Crumm—I find myself in a wonder—how she has managed this . . . this . . . ?”

“Miss Snow, do you agree that this is no conversation for business hours? I realize I am a stranger, but would it be very awkward if I were to invite you to dine at my home this evening? My daughter Kate will be there, and her young sprig of a son, Henry. We should be very glad to have you.”

I am sure some etiquette prohibits it, but loneliness compels more powerfully than convention. I can hardly contain myself for happiness, and fear I might cry in front of this most sympathetic of gentlemen.

“I should be delighted, Mr. Crumm. I have no friends in the city, and to meet someone who knew Aurelia . . . well, I cannot thank you enough.”

He will close the shop in an hour, he tells me, and asks if I would care to wait in his office. “Perhaps you might pass the time reading your new acquisition.” He smiles. “I am sure you are impatient to do so.”

I am lost for words as he drags an armchair over to a lackluster fire, which he stokes briskly to a blaze. He takes my bonnet and cloak and asks me to watch the shop for a moment so that he can run next door and buy coffee for us both. Within moments all my needs are catered for; I have my letter and solitude to read it. I am drying out by a fire so hot it makes me shiver, and I have a steaming drink to sip. I have the prospect of company this evening and, yes, privacy to weep a little as the tensions and discomfort of the last few days fall away.

I draw the letter from my pocket. It is smooth and clean compared with the first letter, now so considerably perused and toted about (not to mention entirely crumpled). I shift the chair back a little—with my luck, all I need is to drop the precious pages in the fire!

Yet I hesitate, and think with dread how close I came to giving up, losing the trail. What if this letter, too, is impossibly cryptic? What if I am to remain in London or go somewhere even worse? What if I am to go
abroad
? I swallow, and slip my finger under the flap. Knowing Aurelia as I do, or rather, realizing I do not know her half so well as I thought I did, I suspect history is about to rewrite itself, in flowing violet ink.

My treasured Amy,

You have done it! You have followed the trail and found your way to the next instruction. Congratulations, my little bird, you are quite as clever as I!

Did it take you long to find your way, dearest? How utterly, utterly frustrating that after plotting my most ingenious trail ever I can never discuss it with you, never hear what your adventures have been. I could cry, my dear, for rage at all that I will miss.

I am sorry if this first challenge has been difficult for you, Amy. London is not the easiest place and I know that you have not been situated to enjoy it, alone as you are. But it was essential that the hardest part came first.
Surely
no one else could have found this letter?

You are to go to the country next, little dove, and not so very far, merely to Twickenham, as I did before you. You will stay with my friends there. Dear people! Hush now. I know what you are thinking:

“But I do not know them! What if it is inconvenient? How can I appear on their doorstep and invite myself in, a total stranger?”

I lay down the paper and look around the room. That is exactly what I was thinking.

Be reassured, small sister, there is NOTHING about which you need fret. The idea that you should stay in their home was all theirs, not my suggestion at all. The instant you say your name you will be welcomed to the bosom, dearest, I promise.

I see I am nearly at the foot of the page and it seems an apposite moment to pause and ask you one very important favor, dearest. It may even be the
most
important thing you do for me in this whole adventure. Before you turn the page, promise you will do this one small thing for me . . .

“I promise, Aurelia,” I sigh. Of course she knew I would. I turn the page and am surprised to read:

Burn your clothes, dearest, I beseech you. No, I do not draw inspiration from the native peoples of hot climes. (Would that I were there! Any clime warmer than Surrey in February would suffice!) I do not suggest you go naked. The world, my dear, is not ready for that. But you know it has long affronted my affection for you to see you clad as you are. Your appearance will not be your priority because of your unnatural lack of vanity. You will say you are in mourning and let that be your excuse to wander the world in hideous blacks and grays indefinitely if I do not take decisive action!

Soon you will be indulged as I could not indulge you when we were together. Think how overjoyed I shall be when I squint down at you from my celestial chaise longue, where I am certainly consuming candied peel at a fair old rate, sipping champagne and reading the works of Mr. Dickens (I am also attended by three or four extremely handsome swains, do not doubt it).

I do not.

There is another reason I hasten to address your sartorial identity. My dear, dressed as you are, you scream to the world, “Unfortunate!” You are the poor relation, the humblest of companions, the merely tolerated. And so it was at Hatville. But no more. You would attract the wrong sort of attention dressed thus in the wider world. You must leave that identity behind.