From the Queen

From the Queen

Carolyn Hart

Annie Darling shivered as she sloshed through puddles. Usually she stopped to admire boats in the marina, everything from majestic ocean-going yachts to jaunty Sunfish. On this February day, she kept her head ducked under her umbrella and didn't spare a glance at gray water flecked with white caps and a horizon obscured by slanting rain. She reached the covered boardwalk in front of the shops, grateful for a respite. She paused at the door of Death on Demand, shook her umbrella, then inserted the key.

The chill of the morning lessened as she stepped inside her beloved bookstore. In her view, Death on Demand was the literary center of the small South Carolina sea island of Broward's Rock. She tipped the umbrella into a ceramic stand, wiped her boots on the welcome mat, and drew in the scent of books, old and new. She clicked on the lights, taking pleasure from the new book table with its glorious array of the best mysteries, thrillers, and suspense novels of the month.

She hurried down the central aisle, turned up the heat and put on coffee to brew. The island didn't teem with visitors in February so customers would be as precious as a first edition of
The Thirty-Nine Steps
. Ingrid Webb, her faithful clerk, was enjoying a holiday in Hawaii with her husband, Duane, and many regular customers were also off-island sunseekers. If Max were next door at Confidential Commissions, his rather desultory business that offered solutions for any situation, he'd be very likely to pop in for a mug of coffee and suggest a prompt departure for home and afternoon delight, one of his favorite pursuits, but her husband was at Pebble Beach for the PGA tournament with a group of golf buddies. It would be quiet on all fronts.

What would be the perfect book to choose for a moment of leisure? As she poured a mug of French roast, she considered which title to select for her treat. Tasha Alexander's
The Counterfeit Heiress
? J. A. Jance's Beaumont struggled between past and present in
Second Watch
. Perhaps the new Darling Dahlia title by Susan Witttig Albert. Or on this rainy, cold (for a sea island) day, she might reach for an old favorite. Just as a baggy sweater and wellworn house shoes afford comfort, so did books from yesterday,
Drink to Yesterday
by Manning Coles,
Ming Yellow
by John Marquand,
Murder's Little Sister
by Pamela Branch.

A sharp mew sounded. She felt a tiny prick on one ankle.

Agatha, the elegant black feline who ruled the store, gazed at Annie with unwinking green eyes.

Why did her cat's stare make her feel like she was back in school and had received a summons from the principal's office?

Agatha paused for one last meaningful look and marched determinedly toward the coffee bar.

Annie followed. She poured fresh cat food into a steel bowl. She lifted a ceramic bowl, swished it out, added fresh water, and placed it next to the steel bowl. She should now, if she were diligent, hurry to the storeroom, place orders, perhaps unpack books. Instead, she headed to the front of the store to the first bookcase, carrying her coffee mug. She smiled as she picked up
Murder's Little Sister
.

She settled on a shabby sofa in an enclave with a Whitmani fern and slipped into Pamela Branch's mordantly funny world, secure in the certainty that nothing exciting was going to happen today.

The front bell sang. Annie slid a crimson Death on Demand bookmark into her book and came to her feet, ready to smile. It was late afternoon and the store had been as quiet as a cemetery all day. She started up the central aisle.

Ellen Gallagher bolted toward her, shoes thumping as she ran. Her frizzy brown hair was in its usual unbrushed, tangled state, but her long, thin, ordinarily sallow face was flushed a bright pink. Near-sighted eyes behind thick lenses blinked rapidly. She clutched a feather pillow tight to her chest. “Annie.” Her voice was a mix between a squeal and a highpitched calliope pipe. She skidded to a stop a few inches from Annie, breathing fast. “It's misty on the boardwalk. That's why I covered it up. Maybe it's worth something. It's really old.” Then her face drooped, “But I know her books are everywhere. Anyway, maybe it's worth something. I thought you could tell me.” She dropped the pillow to one side, thrust a book at Annie, as she burbled eagerly, “… they tracked me down … old friend of my Mum … both war brides … she was ninety-seven … no family left …all her things in a single box …”

Annie took the book. She looked at the cover and felt a curious breathlessness. “Mum always said Millicent was in service at the Palace … sounded so grand … the nursing home said they'd send her things, a single box, but I had to pay postage … sixteen dollars … I almost didn't and then I thought of Mum … I thought maybe some little trinket from England.”

The cover was simple to an extreme.

The title:
Poirot Investigates
.

The author's name: Agatha Christie.

The dusk jacket was white with a rectangular illustration in black and white of Hercule Poirot formally attired in a bow tie, morning suit, and spats, carrying a top hat and gloves in his right hand, cane in his left. His eternally curious, appraising, measuring stare challenged the viewer.

“… didn't expect much of anything. Such few things in the box … a Kodak snapshot of an American sergeant and a pretty girl … my dad was a sergeant, too … Mum was working in a pharmacy shop … he had a toothache … Mum kept up with Millicent and then she lost track … guess they had an old Christmas card from Mum and that's how they tracked me down …”

Gently, Annie opened the cover, turned the first pages. That curious breathlessness expanded and she felt dizzy. There it was.

London: John Lane. The Bodley Head, 1924.

A first edition.

She turned to the title page. An inscription, clear and distinct, wavered in her gaze:

To Her Majesty, the Queen

I have the honour to be, Madam, Your Majesty's humble and obedient servant.

Agatha Christie

May 15, 1925

The signature was equally black and distinct with a large rounded A and a C with a little loop at the top. The inscription was in Christie's unmistakable handwriting with characteristic wide spaces between each word. Signed to The Queen the year after publication.

Annie swallowed, tried to speak, all the while carefully easing the book free of the dust jacket. The cover was yellow cloth with black titles and border to the upper board. No nicks, no scrapes, no discoloration. Straight spine.

“… know the old lady must have treasured it … she kept it in a handmade pink quilt cover … the only book except for a Bible …”

The cover and the jacket were as fresh as the day the book was printed, a first edition in pristine condition. Very fine is the highest accolade that can be awarded to a rare book.

A first edition inscribed by Agatha Christie to The Queen in 1925. George V was on the throne and Mary was Queen.

Ellen once against clutched the pillow to her chest, arms wrapped tight. “I guess,” she was slowing down, eagerness fading, “it isn't worth a whole lot.” Faded blue eyes looked at Annie hopefully. She sounded embarrassed. “I hoped it might be even worth fifty dollars or a hundred, but I guess not.”

A hundred dollars was a great deal of money to Ellen Gallagher, who eked out a sparse living from the her little second hand shop. She wore gently used clothes picked up at thrift shops. She'd scrimped and gone without to help her niece, her only living relative, attend medical school. The last time they'd had coffee, Annie inviting Ellen down for a free cup after work, Ellen's thin face had wrinkled in worry about the staggering debt that Ginny was piling up in school. An extra hundred dollars would mean a better winter coat for Ellen or a pair of shoes.

Annie eased the book back into its dust jacket, held it with her fingertips. “A hundred dollars? This book is worth at least a hundred thousand dollars and I think more than that. A hundred and fifty, maybe a hundred and seventy-five.”

Ellen managed to push out thin high words, “A hundred thousand dollars?”

“More.” Annie placed the book on the coffee bar, first making sure the surface was absolutely clean. “I'll get a plastic cover for it.”

Ellen stared at the book lying on the counter. Her lips trembled. “Oh, my goodness. But I don't know what to do with it.”

“I'll see what I can find out.” Ellen needed to be careful with a book that was worth a small fortune. “I'll make inquiries. I'll check out some rare book appraisal firms and bring you the information. I think the best approach is to contact an appraiser and get a valuation and then we can find out how it can be put up for auction or offered to a high level rare bookseller.”

The most collectible book ever owned at Death on Demand had been a first edition of S.S. Van Dine's
The Benson Murder Case
, which Emma Clyde bought for nine thousand dollars. Sometimes when Annie and Max went to dinner at Emma's, Annie browsed in Emma's library which had a bookcase full of first editions, including
The Dain Curse
by Dashiell Hammett,
A is for Alibi
by Sue Grafton, and
After Dark
by Wilkie Collins.

“A hundred thousand dollars?” Ellen scarcely breathed the words.

“Absolutely.”

Ellen's face looked suddenly young.

Annie was touched by the transformation. This must have been what Ellen looked like before life plucked at her, eroding confidence, piling worries.

“Oh. Oh,” Ellen breathed. “That would be … That could be … oh, how wonderful. I can help Ginny. And I hadn't told you but I went to the doctor and he said I had to get treatment for my eyes or I pretty soon I won't be able to see but that new insurance has a five thousand dollar deductible and I don't have five thousand dollars. Oh, Annie.” Sudden tears glistened in her eyes.

Annie blinked back tears of her own. It was wonderful to be in the presence of unexpected happiness. “I'm so glad for you, Ellen. Now you can do what you want to do. I'll help you find someone to buy it. Now, let me get the plastic cover.”

When the book was carefully eased into its protective holder, Ellen held the plastic-sheathed edition carefully. “If they hadn't told me she was a war bride, I likely wouldn't have bought the box.” Her voice was shaky. “They wanted sixteen dollars for the postage. I didn't really have that much extra. I started a letter to say I couldn't send the money and then I decided I would do it, I would.” She peered at Annie. “Just to think … the book in that box of her things …”

Annie slipped an arm around thin shoulders, gave a squeeze. “I'll start checking. I'll see what I can find out.”

Ellen nodded, started up the aisle, stopped. “If it turns out to be so, I don't have to be afraid any more. I don't have to be afraid …”

Annie walked with her to the front door. Ellen had arrived bedraggled, shoulders slumping a little in defeat, obviously tired, hoping for a little extra money. Now her thin face was alight, her faded blue eyes bright with happiness.

Annie took a last sip of lukewarm coffee, slipped several sheets into a folder, glanced at her watch. A quarter to five. No reason not to go ahead and close up for the day. She'd had a grand total of two customers since she opened, the rector, who wanted the new Julia Spenser-Fleming book, and Hyla Harrison, an off-duty police officer. Always attuned to her surroundings, Hyla was one of Police Chief Billy Cameron's most careful and thoughtful officers. She was partial to police procedurals and picked up a new issue of
Sadie When She Died
by Ed McBain, observing, as Annie rang up the sale, that the weather was great for Spotted Salamanders and maybe that's why they were the official South Carolina salamander and she'd seen one near the pond by her apartment house.

That being the extent of Annie's contact with customers, she'd relished gathering up information for Ellen, a list of appraisers and auctioneers and rare book dealers. She tucked
Murder's Little Sister
into her purse to finish tonight in front of a roaring fire and gave the dim store a last survey as she turned off the main lights, humming to herself.