Jemma dropped it on the counter. ‘Very funny,’ she muttered. Beneath it was a copy of Howards End. Jemma reached into the box, lifted out a stack of books, and moved around the shop shelving them.
As she slid the last book into the Biography section, Raphael wandered through. ‘I might go for lunch,’ he said vaguely. ‘Would you mind if I left you alone in the shop for an hour or so?’
Jemma folded her arms, mainly to stop herself rubbing her hands with glee. Until now, Raphael had never left her alone in the shop for more than twenty minutes or so. ‘Oh, sure,’ she said casually. ‘That’ll be fine. I’ll pick something up when you get back.’
‘Excellent,’ said Raphael. ‘I’ll be in Rolando’s if you need me. You know, the deli?’
Jemma knew. After all, she passed it every day when she came to work, and again when she left. It was always busy, and a delicious aroma of coffee and baking seeped out every time the door opened. As yet she hadn’t ventured in, suspecting that acquiring a deli habit would eat into her slim salary and expand her waistline. She could get an egg mayonnaise sandwich from the mini-market for a pound, anyway.
‘Jemma…’
She came to and saw Raphael looking at her curiously. ‘Yes, what is it?’ she asked, cross at being caught daydreaming.
‘You aren’t planning to do anything while I’m out, are you?’
‘Who, me?’ Jemma laughed. ‘The thought hadn’t even entered my head.’
‘Good,’ said Raphael. He smiled. ‘I find, with the shop, that it’s best to introduce things gradually. Nothing too … surprising.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Jemma. ‘Incremental steps. Continuous improvement. Kaizen.’
‘Bless you,’ said Raphael, and left.
Once the shop door had closed behind him Jemma went into the back room, stretched out her arms, and spun around. She wasn’t sure why being alone in the shop gave her such joy, especially after this morning’s shenanigans, but it did. Perhaps one day I shall have a shop of my own, she thought, and I’ll arrange it just as I like. Then the shop bell rang, and she hurried into the shop to assist the next customer.
A stream of customers came into the shop over the next hour. Some wanted travel guides to plan for their holidays. Some were thinking of getting a kitten or a puppy, and were researching different breeds. One even asked whether marmalade cats like Folio were easy to live with. Jemma, now in an excellent mood, replied, ‘We get along fine. But he isn’t my cat, he’s the bookshop cat.’
Folio leapt onto the counter and sat with his paws together, looking extremely pleased with himself. The customer asked if she could take his picture.
At one point there was even a queue. Imagine that, thought Jemma. She wondered if it would be rude to ask whether she could take a picture of the line, to show Raphael, and decided regretfully that it would. He’ll be stunned when I tell him, she thought, putting two twenty-pound notes into the right compartment in the till, and getting change. Maybe we can set a new record for takings today. That would be something. She saw herself putting today’s number into her spreadsheet, and watching the trend line adjust itself upwards.
Eventually the rush died down, and the shop bell was quiet. Jemma checked her watch. It was a quarter to two. Raphael’s having a long lunch, she thought, and tried not to feel resentful. Her stomach growled in agreement, and she patted it. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fed,’ she said. ‘Given what a profitable morning it’s been, I might treat you to lunch from the deli today. I think it’s time for a change from egg mayo.’
She surveyed the shop from her vantage point behind the counter. Despite all the customers, everything was spick and span. She needed to get more stock out, of course, but—
Her eye fell on an envelope which was sitting on the doormat.
Funny time for the post, thought Jemma. Then again, she hadn’t taken notice of what time it usually came. She went over and picked the envelope up.
It was a long white envelope, unstamped, with BURNS BOOKS written on it in block capitals.
How odd, thought Jemma. She slid her thumb under the flap, then stopped. Should I open it? But why not? It wasn’t addressed specifically to Raphael, but to the bookshop. It didn’t say Private, and it didn’t look official.
Maybe it’s a fan letter, she thought, letting her imagination run wild. Maybe it’s a thank-you letter from one of our customers. Or it could be someone searching for a special book, like Helene Hanff. She imagined a handsome stranger writing from somewhere she’d like to visit; Barcelona, or Lisbon, or Paris. He would be seeking a specific edition of… She looked at the shelves for inspiration. Great Expectations. And she would reply, enclosing the book, and they would court each other by letter—
Folio yowled, and Jemma jumped. She ripped open the envelope, displeased to be brought back to stone-cold reality.
Inside was a sheet of A4 paper, folded in three. Jemma opened it out, and stared.
It wasn’t a fan letter.
It wasn’t a thank-you letter.
And it wasn’t a request for a specific edition of Great Expectations, or any other of Dickens’s works.
The text had been cut from newspapers and magazines.
I kNOw WhAt yOu’Re uP To, AND i’M gOiNg tO StOP yOu. fOr GooD.
Chapter 8
Jemma blinked, then read the letter again. If anything, it made even less sense the second time. What the—
She let the letter fall on the counter, and shivered. Suddenly the shop seemed cold, and there was a strange, musty, heavy smell in the air.
The bell jangled. Jemma snatched up the note and put it behind her back before realising that it was Raphael. He looked concerned. ‘Is everything all right?’ he asked. ‘I – I felt I should pop in and check.’
Jemma replaced the letter on the counter and shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The shop has had a letter. We’ve had a letter. An anonymous letter.’
Raphael dived for the letter, scanned it, then screwed it up in a ball and put it in his pocket. ‘Just someone being silly,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
Jemma frowned. When have I seen him do that before? Then she remembered him sifting through the post on her first day in the shop. ‘This isn’t the first, is it?’
Raphael said nothing, but jammed his hands into his pockets and shifted from foot to foot.
‘So it isn’t,’ said Jemma, folding her arms.
‘No, it isn’t,’ said Raphael. ‘But it really isn’t anything to worry about.’
‘Have you phoned the police?’ asked Jemma. ‘What did the first note say?’
‘No, I haven’t phoned the police,’ said Raphael. ‘I don’t think it would do any good to have the police round here asking questions. And I can’t remember what the first note even said. I threw it in the bin.’ His brow furrowed. ‘To my recollection, it was pretty much like this one.’
‘But someone’s threatening you!’ cried Jemma. ‘That’s serious.’
‘People can threaten all they like,’ said Raphael. ‘They can’t do anything. What could they do?’