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From the Queen

MysteriousPress.com

Annie Darling shivered as she sloshed through puddles. Usually she stopped to admire boats in the marina, everything from majestic oceangoing 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.

Rain swept at an oblique angle beneath the protective ceiling, spattering the boardwalk. Annie passed three closed shops, their owners choosing the February doldrums to close down and sip Margaritas in the Bahamas. A small light gleamed in the window of Ellen's Keepsakes. The display behind the plate glass was eclectic, eccentric: a rusted waffle iron that was new in the 1930s, a plaid raincoat with a sagging hem draped over a wicker chair, a battered small leather trunk with scuffed sides, a stack of Willow pattern plates, postcards with one-cent stamps, rhinestone-studded black satin heels, an accordion missing several keys, a cane fashioned from driftwood, a handpainted plaster statuette of the Virgin Mary.

Annie pushed open the door. Ellen's shop was partway up the boardwalk in a much smaller space than Death on Demand. A narrow passageway between Ellen's Keepsakes and a men's clothing store, Dandy Jim's, led to the alley that ran behind the stores.

Annie was already calculating whether it would be quicker when she left the shop to dart down the passageway and slosh through the alley, which always puddled in heavy rains, to reach the parking lot or to retrace her steps on the protected boardwalk. Her car was actually nearer the end of the alley than the end of the boardwalk, but she would avoid a drenching on the boardwalk.

She stepped inside, felt colder than on the boardwalk. "Ellen?"

Small tables jammed the shop, leaving a narrow passage to a counter. She passed tables overflowing with what Ellen fondly called collectibles. Annie recognized them for what they were, small, worn remnants of nameless lives. Jumbled willy nilly on every surface were costume jewelry, old clothing, picture frames, dishes, cooking utensils, assorted art ranging from a unicorn fashioned out of gum wrappers to a tray-sized mosaic of the leaning tower of Pisa, vinyl records, WWII dog tags, yellowed post cards with three-cent stamps, a stack of blue enamel basins, a washboard, feathered hats, even an assortment of swizzle sticks.

A thin gauzy curtain separated the shop from the storeroom. The cloth parted and Ellen hurried to a counter with some prized collectibles at one end and a rectangular gray metal cash box and ledger at the other. Ellen didn't have a cash register or a reader for credit cards. She wrote down each sale in the ledger, provided a handwritten receipt to the purchaser.

In the center of the counter lay a pink quilted rectangle. The initials M and K were on the top.

Ellen saw her glance. She sounded a little defensive. "I put the book back in its quilted cover. It's still in the plastic wrap you gave me, but I thought it was nice to keep it in her cover. I think Millicent must have made the cover. Her name was Millicent Kennedy."

Ellen's face was open and vulnerable as she continued to prattle. Passing thoughts popped out without thought or planning. She put the book in its quilted wrap and recalled dim memories of a long-ago meeting with the woman who skillfully created safe harbor for her most valued possession. "I was just a little kid ... Mum took me with her ... a tea shop ... we met Millicent ..." She smiled, her voice soft. "... Mum was so pleased ..." Then the smile fled. She gently touched the M. "Don't you suppose," she searched for words, "she probably knew the book could bring some money but she kept it because the Queen gave it to her?" Pink tinged her cheeks. "I don't know why the Queen would but maybe it was a memento when Millicent was going to leave to marry an American. Anyway, I know I'm guessing, but the Queen gave her the book and Millicent never parted with it, not even when she was old and poor and had only a little box full of belongings. Just think, the Queen held that book in her hands."

There was awe in Ellen's high voice.

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Excerpted from From the Queen by Carolyn Hart. Copyright © 2015 Carolyn Hart. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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