JANUARY BROUGHT LOWER temperatures to an already frigid winter as well as the enforcement of rations. Emma regarded the book of coupons with a sigh.
National Coupon Day made that Monday sound like a fun event. It would be anything but now that she could only shop at the corner grocery near work where she’d registered. She couldn’t deviate from that shop if she intended to follow the rules, and Emma had always been a rule follower.
Morning tea wouldn’t be the same with the sugar ration, but thank goodness the government hadn’t rationed tea. Such a thought was truly appalling.
She passed the grocer on her way to work that morning and found a queue of women already waiting for their first week’s allotment. Hopefully the crowd would be cleared in the evening on her way home.
Margaret was already in the library when Emma arrived and offered a gentle smile. “How did things go in East Anglia?”
The ache of missing Olivia crushed against Emma anew, so brilliant that it robbed her breath for a jarring moment. Emma nodded, unable to speak.
“I know. It’s harder when they go after you’ve seen them.” Margaret looked down at her slender hand where the diamond glittered on her finger. “I saw Jeffrey, he surprised us all by coming home for Christmas. He said he wanted to set a date.”
Emma sighed, understanding her friend’s hesitation. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s so frustrating.” Margaret’s eyes glossed with tears. “I love him, I do...”
“Have you explained to him that you don’t want to give up your position here?”
Margaret swiped at an errant tear and swiftly glanced to Miss Bainbridge’s office to ensure the action hadn’t been seen. “I’ve tried but he says that he wants to ensure I’ll be cared for if...” She swallowed. “If he dies.” She put a hand over the lower half of her face, as if her sobs could be physically held back.
The government took care of war widows in a way widows of men who were hit by cars were not. Jeffrey was correct in knowing Margaret would be seen to if he died after they wed. And yet, in garnering such security, Margaret would have to give up a job that would keep her financially stable as well.
The unfairness of what women endured blazed in Emma—that women had to sacrifice careers they enjoyed, being forced into the home simply because of marriage. Or women who companies refused to hire because they were widows with children, women who had done what society asked and married, quit their jobs, had children—only to be punished in the end.
Men weren’t stifled by such restrictions, nor were they reduced to having to lie about their marriages or children to secure employment just to have enough money to put food on the table.
Emma stated none of this. Margaret needed support, not fire. “We would miss you terribly here, but you know I will stand by you either way.”
Somewhere in the distance, a door closed and Margaret snapped upright as she swiped at her tears.
Miss Bainbridge entered the library floor and summoned them over with a wave of her hand. “I’d like to speak with you all.”
Beside Emma, Margaret stiffened slightly, clearly thinking herself in trouble.
Miss Crane joined them, the three of them gathering around the Class A subscriber desk.
“I have something very serious I must discuss.” Miss Bainbridge paused to meet each one of their gazes.
When her gray eyes landed on Emma’s, a little chill trickled its way down her spine like a droplet of cold water sliding down the channel of her back. Perhaps the manageress had seen Margaret on the verge of tears. Or perhaps she had picked up Emma’s own quiet suffering and feared how subscribers might feel about being assisted by England’s saddest librarians.
“Boots’ library detectives will be arriving later on today,” Miss Bainbridge said. “They will be investigating a recent incident.”
“Is it for all the misshelved books?” Miss Crane asked.
Emma didn’t have to turn to know the other woman was sneering at her. Her scorn was evident in the nasty tone of her voice.
“Misshelved books...?” Miss Bainbridge spoke slowly, somewhat perplexed. Then the confusion cleared from her face in a dawning moment of realization. “Oh, good heavens, no. Nothing of that sort. No, there was a break-in at the warehouse. The detectives want to investigate to ensure nothing untoward is transpiring in the library as well.
“As I said, they will be arriving this afternoon, and be attired in civilian clothing to blend in,” Miss Bainbridge continued. “The goal is to allow them to conduct their investigation without causing alarm or upsetting our subscribers. Likely they will speak to each of you in turn, so please do be cooperative and answer all their questions. Is that understood?”
They nodded.
“Good. You may resume your morning tasks.”
When the library detectives did finally arrive, telling them apart from the usual subscribers was impossible. The only way Emma noticed one—a tall, thin man with a heavy mustache—was because he arrived that morning and then reappeared again that afternoon.
Should she approach him? Was she supposed to pretend he was invisible and ignore him? Or should she treat him like any other customer and help him blend in?
There was a crime afoot and these detectives were scrutinizing the details. Detectives who would be questioning her. It was rather exciting, really. Like being part of one of the many mystery books she read.
She regarded the man carefully as she approached. “May I help you, sir?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“I’m merely looking, thank you.”
Behind him, Mr. Beard snapped out his notebook and licked his pencil before jotting something.
The detective eyed Mr. Beard warily before stopping at the next shelf to inspect the books. But as thrilling as the encounter had begun, nothing seemed to come of it.
At least, not until that evening as Emma was preparing to leave for the day, when the mustached man entered the area reserved for employees. “Miss Taylor, might I speak with you a moment?”
Emma’s stomach fluttered with anxious uncertainty to be so called out.
He must have read the nervousness on her face as he offered a kind smile. “I simply need to ask after several subscribers. I’m Mr. Gibbs, library detective for Boots’.”
Library detective—what an exciting-sounding title.
Emma allowed him to lead her to Miss Bainbridge’s office. He took the manageress’s seat and indicated the chair opposite. She settled in the familiar hard surface of the wooden seat.
Mr. Gibbs flipped open a small notebook not unlike Mr. Beard’s. “Have you noticed anyone unusual in the library?”
“There are always unusual people from time to time...” Emma hedged, thinking of Mrs. Chatsworth toting Pip about in a basket at her arm.
The warm chuckle Mr. Gibbs gave surprised Emma. Weren’t detectives supposed to be terribly serious? He seemed most genial.
“What about the man with the notebook?” he asked.
“That’s Mr. Beard. He’s been writing in it since I’ve known him.”
“Do you know why?”
That was a great question. Emma hesitated, trying to recall the times she’d seen Mr. Beard write and guess as to what he might be doing. “I’m not entirely certain. It might be research on books. But I do believe he also records people’s conversations.”
Mr. Gibbs’s eyebrows were as thick and dark as his mustache and they lifted up into his forehead. “Recording people’s conversations?”
“Perhaps,” Emma replied in a noncommittal tone. “I’ve never asked him.”
Mr. Gibbs wrote something in his book and looked up. “Do you think you might?”
Did he suspect Mr. Beard of being the person who’d broken into the warehouse? Emma could scarcely imagine Mr. Beard, with his tweed jackets and rounded belly, smuggling himself into the warehouse.
Emma nodded. “Of course, I’ll speak with him the next chance I have. Anything I can do to help.”
After work, Emma stopped by the grocer with her new ration book, but though she had coupons and the money to afford the items, there was no sugar or meat to be had. With a can of tinned fish in her shopping basket and a loaf of day-old bread, she headed home.
Mr. Beard didn’t come to the lending library for several days. No doubt affording him just enough time to read the latest mystery he’d been willingly badgered into borrowing.
When Emma finally caught sight of him, she strode over in the most casual manner she could muster.
“I imagine you’ve received more of these brain-rotting reads.” He scornfully waved a hand to the mystery section, eyes bright with interest.
“There is one by Agatha Christie I recently read, Murder on the Orient Express.” She selected the book from its place on the shelf. “A murder takes place on a train, then they become stranded when the engine blows and a blizzard hits.”
“And they must uncover the murderer before he kills again, I presume?”
Emma smiled. “Precisely.”
He leaned closer toward the book. “Sounds dreadful.”
“So much so that I read it in one day.” She tsked.
He reached for the book, but she drew it back slightly. “Do you record all the books you read in your notebook? Is that why you’re always writing in it?”
He furrowed his brow and then glanced down at his breast pocket where the little notebook peeked out. “I...uh...actually, I’m with the Mass Observation.”
“Mass Observation?”
“Yes. I’m to record the world as I see it as a means of charting life during the war. I write down prices of items, the general mood of people in regard to the events transpiring around them. And, of course, the weather.”
Mrs. Chatsworth stood nearby and spun round suddenly. “Is that why you listen in on people’s conversations?”
Mr. Beard cleared his throat. “Well, yes.”
“Seems an invasion of people’s privacy to me.” Mrs. Chatsworth sniffed. It was quite a claim when most of her ramblings had to do with the affairs of those around her and neighbors she had never met.
“You do this every day?” she pressed.
Mr. Beard regarded her with sincerity. “Without fail, madam.”
Secretly, Emma was glad for Mrs. Chatsworth’s interjection into the conversation—it meant there would be less for Emma to ask. If nothing else, the other woman’s interference helped to absolve Emma of any suspicion Mr. Beard may have at her random questioning.
“And why in heaven’s name would you spend your time recording people’s discussions and all these events with this...this phoney war.” Mrs. Chatsworth adjusted the basket from one arm to the other as Pip continued to sleep on soundly.
“Historians will look back on this someday with keen interest.” Mr. Beard puffed out his chest.
Mrs. Chatsworth chuckled and the dog in her basket pricked his ears at the interruption to his slumber. “You think they’ll be interested in your diary?”
Mr. Beard’s face flushed. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
“I’m sure the information will be of value to people in the future.” Emma smiled at Mr. Beard, feeling slightly sorry for the older man under Mrs. Chatsworth’s assault. “Maybe even an author writing about this time period someday?”
“Why the devil would anyone do that?” Mr. Beard asked.
Emma simply shrugged and held up Murder on the Orient Express. “Let’s get this checked out for you.”
That evening at home, Emma found an official-looking letter from Mr. Boydell, the evacuation officer for Nottingham, who also served as the city’s treasurer. Emma had heard nothing from Olivia in the last week and nothing from Aunt Bess since the visit at Christmas. Olivia’s last letter hadn’t indicated anything of concern.
Mr. Boydell couldn’t be replying to her request for Olivia to return home, as Emma had not finished the letter yet.
Whatever information the missive contained, the sinking sensation in Emma’s stomach told her the letter’s arrival was indeed bad news.