Allegra was, as I might have anticipated, extremely well connected. The family she grew up in was extremely well connected and she extended her network at Oxford University. Straight from there into the Foreign Office. Her various foreign postings seemed to increase rather than diminish the expanding connections she maintained back in the UK. It was no surprise, therefore, when she introduced the expensively suited gentleman in the BMW’s passenger seat as Neil Flood, the Deputy Chief Constable of Sussex.
‘But please call me Neil,’ he said, with suitably well-modulated vowels.
‘Neil,’ said Allegra, ‘is, rather conveniently, a collector of twentieth-century first editions.’
‘Just a hobby,’ he said modestly.
‘I think the way to do it,’ said Allegra, ‘is for you, Ellen, to go into the shop with Neil.’
‘Why?’
‘You’ve been there before. You’ve met Augustus Mintzen. It would be reasonable for you to introduce a friend who’s interested in first editions.’
‘My friend being Neil?’
‘Of course,’ he said with a grin. ‘Go back years, don’t we?’
‘Hm,’ I said a little dubiously. I have been guilty of using subterfuge in the past, but I don’t like to tell more lies than I have to.
‘Is there a problem with that?’ asked Allegra. ‘Did you part with Augustus Mintzen on bad terms?’
‘No, no,’ I assured her, glad that I’d resisted using some of the choice lines I’d considered when last in his bookshop. ‘No, no, it’ll be fine.’
‘Good,’ said Allegra. ‘I’ll stay in the car.’
The bell on the door rang as we entered, sounding as corny as ever.
Augustus Mintzen, wearing a brown three-piece tweed suit from the same tailor as the green one, looked up at us over the top of his glasses. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said.
‘Good to see you again,’ I said.
‘Again?’ He gave the impression of having never seen me before in his life.
‘I was in the other week to talk about the valuation of Cedric Waites’s books.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I remember. You’re the declutterer, aren’t you?’
‘That’s right. And I was so impressed by your shop,’ I lied, ‘that I thought I must introduce my friend Neil to it. Neil’s a collector of first editions.’
‘Oh, excellent,’ said Augustus Mintzen, all fuzzy, lovable eccentric.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Neil with practised charm. ‘My particular interest lies in mid-twentieth-century firsts.’
‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. I do have quite a selection of goods that may tempt you. Fiction is it you’re after?’
‘I have some interest in fiction. Poetry’s more my thing.’
‘Ah. Well, I have a very nice first of Peter Redgrove’s At the White Monument. 1963. Signed by the author. Dust jacket in fine condition.’ He reached round and his hand instantly found the thin yellowish volume. ‘Priced at fifty pounds but we might be able to do a deal.’
‘Yes,’ said Neil coolly. ‘Trouble is I’ve already got a copy of that.’
‘Oh, well done. How clever of you.’
‘From another dealer. For twenty-eight pounds.’
‘Probably not in such good condition as this one.’
‘In perfect condition, actually.’
‘Ah. Well. You can always find some dealer having a sale. Anyway, this copy is signed by the poet, so obviously that puts up the price a bit.’
‘May I have a look?’
‘Of course.’ Augustus Mintzen handed the yellow-jacketed slim volume across.
Neil opened it with respectful caution. Over his shoulder I could read the handwritten inscription. Considerable control was needed for me not to show any emotion.
‘And what’s the provenance of this?’ asked Neil.
‘My wife picked it up at a car boot sale,’ the bookseller replied evenly. ‘This is a very good area for serendipitous discoveries of that kind. The Costa Geriatrica, it gets called. Elderly parents die, their offspring want to empty the house as soon as possible, so that they can sell it. Very few of them are experts in valuation when it comes to books.’
I thought immediately of Roy and Michelle and asked, ‘So, has your wife picked up a lot of rare books at car boot sales?’
‘She certainly has. She’s a very good eye for that kind of bargain. Or maybe I should say “nose”? She sniffs out the valuable ones.’
‘Useful wife to have,’ said Neil with an easy smile. He held out the catalogue which had been thrust on me at the end of my previous visit to the shop. ‘There was something in here that really interested me.’
‘Oh yes?’
Neil found the relevant page. ‘The Colossus …,’ he said.
‘Ah.’ Augustus Mintzen smiled with satisfaction. ‘Sylvia Plath.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I notice you don’t put a price for this in your catalogue. “Available on request”.’
‘Yes. Because only a serious collector would be contemplating buying the book. We are talking rather a lot of money here.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Neil. ‘I am fully aware of the value of a Sylvia Plath first edition.’
‘The interest in her and Ted Hughes doesn’t seem to diminish. Grows, in fact, all the time. She’s become a feminist icon.’
‘And he the paradigm of unfaithful husbands,’ said Neil.
‘That’s the way it is, yes,’ Augustus Mintzen agreed. ‘They’re a bit like the Bloomsbury Group. As with Virginia Woolf’s, people would pay thousands for one of Sylvia Plath’s shopping lists.’
‘And for a first edition of her first book of poems, with handwritten dedication …?’
‘They would pay many, many thousands.’
‘Hm.’ Neil nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, I am a serious collector, fully aware of the current market value of a Sylvia Plath first edition. And I am seriously interested in purchasing the copy you have for sale.’
‘Excellent.’ Augustus Mintzen didn’t actually rub his hands together, but he had the look of a man who wanted to.
‘So, Mr Mintzen, might it be possible for me to see the goods on offer?’
‘Of course. Because of the rarity of this particular volume, I keep it in my safe.’
‘Very sensible.’
‘You will excuse me a moment while I get it.’
‘Of course.’
Left alone, I looked across at Neil. He put a discreet finger to his lips, indicating that we could talk about anything other than the Sylvia Plath first edition.
‘Regular treasure trove in here, isn’t it?’ I said, looking around the shelves.
‘Yes. Thank you so much for introducing me to it. Sadly, bookshops like this are becoming increasingly rare. So much of the trade is done online these days.’
Pretty uncontroversial conversation. If Augustus Mintzen had overheard it, no harm would have been done.
He bustled self-importantly back in, bearing a neat cardboard box. Before opening it, he reached into a drawer and produced a rather grubby pair of white gloves which, with appropriate ceremony, he proceeded to put on.
The precious volume was swathed in white tissue paper. The ceremony with which he unwrapped it would have been appropriate for an Egyptian mummy. He laid the book on the tissue paper on his desk.
Neil looked at it with awe. If his reaction was manufactured, then he was a very good actor. But I got the impression that he was genuinely moved to be looking at such a rarity.
‘And dare I ask, Mr Mintzen,’ he said, ‘how much you are asking for the book?’
The bookseller glowed with self-esteem as he replied, ‘Comparing it with recent sales of similar Sylvia Plath works,’ he pronounced judiciously, ‘I could not let it go for less than thirty-five thousand pounds.’
Neil was not shocked by the answer. He nodded thoughtfully, as a genuine collector of Sylvia Plath – and perhaps he was one – would have done.
‘You said there was an inscription …?’
‘Yes.’
‘You open it, Mr Mintzen. You’ve got the gloves on.’
The bookseller did as instructed. Like Neil, I peered down at the handwritten inscription on the title page. Once again, I had to curb my natural reaction of excitement.
‘Wonderful, actually to see Sylvia Plath’s writing,’ said Neil. ‘I still get a frisson seeing something that I know has been touched by one of my favourite writers.’
‘Oh, I agree.’ Augustus Mintzen beamed. ‘It’s for just such moments that I went into the book-dealing business.’
‘Yes.’ Neil nodded. There was a silence, then he said, ‘Strange, that both the Sylvia Plath and the Peter Redgrove have the same dedicatee.’
‘Perhaps not that strange,’ said the bookseller. ‘Must have come from some private collection that the children of the owner wanted to get rid of in a hurry.’
‘Possibly,’ said Neil. ‘Did your wife find them at the same car boot sale?’
‘I can’t remember,’ said Augustus Mintzen. ‘Maybe she did. I just remember being extraordinarily excited when she came back with the Sylvia Plath.’
‘I’m sure you were,’ said Neil drily. ‘But you don’t know if your wife got them at the same car boot sale?’
‘No.’
‘Well, maybe you could ask her …?’
‘Yes. Perhaps I could.’
‘Or I could tell you myself.’ A new voice, belonging to the woman who suddenly materialized from the stockroom. It was the second time I had seen her in the shop. Rosemary Findlay.
We all introduced ourselves. Rosemary clearly knew who I was but she made no comment.
‘We’ve just been hearing,’ said Neil Flood charmingly, ‘about your incredible luck at picking up valuable books at car boot sales.’
‘It’s not luck,’ she said rather sniffily. ‘Thanks to Gus’s work, I do know rather a lot about books. Very few people who attend car boot sales do. Which means I’m well placed to pick up the bargains when I see them.’
‘So …’ Neil smiled. ‘Your husband seems unable to remember. Maybe you can help us. Did you pick up the Peter Redgrove and the Sylvia Plath at the same car boot sale?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t remember either.’
‘It just seems a strange coincidence,’ Neil Flood went on, ‘that both books are dedicated to the same person. Someone called “Mim”.’
‘Then that would suggest,’ said Rosemary, as if the idea had only just occurred to her, ‘that they did come from the same collection.’
Neil nodded. ‘Yes, I’d have thought so.’ A reassuring grin. ‘And you’ve no idea who this “Mim” might be?’
Rosemary shook her head.
Her husband chipped in, ‘I have done extensive research into the matter. Consulted biographies of both Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. Couldn’t find any reference to someone in their circle called “Mim”.’
‘Just coincidence then?’ Neil suggested.
‘It must be,’ said Rosemary coolly.
‘No other explanation,’ Gus agreed.
‘No.’ Then suddenly Neil Flood’s tone changed. The charming book collector turned into the Deputy Chief Constable of Sussex. ‘Except there is an explanation, a very simple one. These books weren’t found at any car boot sale. They were stolen from the home of their rightful owner, Mim Galbraith.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Rosemary Findlay.
‘That can’t be right,’ said Augustus Mintzen. And the way he looked at his wife suggested that he had, until that moment, believed her story about the serendipitous discoveries at car boot sales.
‘Mim Galbraith,’ the policeman went on, ‘was part of Ted Hughes’s and Sylvia Plath’s circle in the 1950s. Peter Redgrove was another poet in the group. These two books were dedicated to her.’
‘Have you any proof of that?’ asked a brazen Rosemary Findlay.
‘Mim Galbraith will vouch for it.’
‘Mim Galbraith has got dementia. Her testimony is worthless. It would never stand up in court.’
‘No?’ said Neil. ‘She clearly remembers you coming to her house.’
I couldn’t stop myself from saying, ‘Pretending to be a legitimate declutterer.’
Still, Rosemary Findlay was unfazed. ‘I know what you’re doing, Mr Flood. Book collectors are always like this. You’ll try anything to beat a dealer down on price. So, you create this fanciful story about the provenance of the books, claiming they’re stolen, in the hope of knocking a few thousand off the asking price. Well, I’m afraid that little ploy won’t work with us. Gus and I will have no problem in finding a less devious buyer for the books.
‘And now I must ask you to leave. And take your pathetic stories with you. If you really believe the nonsense you’re telling us …’ She was almost jeering now, her words larded with sarcasm ‘… why don’t you get in touch with the police? They’ll be really interested in the testimony of a demented old woman, won’t they?’
‘Do you know, Mrs Mintzen,’ said Neil Flood, ‘I think they really will be.’
And he told her his true identity, as Deputy Chief Constable of Sussex.
That did take the wind out of her sails.
Lunchtime had come and gone. I wasn’t interested in food. All I wanted to do was get back to Chichester and Cedric Waites’s diary. I was silently urging Allegra to exceed the speed limit, but she was far too responsible to do that.
My mobile rang. Normally I wouldn’t have taken a call in someone else’s car. But the display told me it was from Ben. I always take calls from Ben. Particularly after what had happened on the Saturday night. I answered.
‘Ma,’ he said, his voice urgent and excited, ‘Jools and I have found Dodge. But he won’t come with us. Can you try and persuade him?’