There was a black gauzy material wrapped around the frame. He gingerly touched it. The correct term came to him from some distant part of his brain.
Funeral crepe.
This person had died.
He eased by the framed picture and noted the coat hanging on the peg. It was as threadbare as his. The old felt hat next to it was stained and carried several tears and holes.
Charlie felt a thickening lump form in his throat. He could sense poverty when he was looking at it. And the man had walked halfway across London to return Charlie’s clothes tag, and probably inquire about his missing money and book. And he had risked his life to save others and earned the George Medal.
He slowly withdrew the pilfered paper and coins from his pocket and looked down upon them. Swimming across his mind were visions of shoes and a coat for himself, and a hat and specs for his gran, and a meal free of watery cabbage soup. They abounded in neat, linear frames of his imagination. And then, like loose sand in a tide, they were washed from his thoughts. Even thieves, at least those like Charlie, had principles. And empathy for others also badly off.
He only took from those who had spares. This man clearly did not.
Charlie placed the money next to the till and stepped away. He would have returned the biscuits, too, but he’d eaten them all. And there was also the book. He reached into his pocket and placed it next to the money.
“You weren’t home earlier.”
Charlie turned. Ignatius Oliver was standing in the curtained doorway.
A nimble and lightning-quick Charlie leapt to the door, his hand on the knob.
Oliver made no move to stop him; he simply glanced at the money on the counter and then looked at Charlie.
“Why?” Oliver asked.
Instead of answering, Charlie said, “So the ‘I’ on the glass is for Ignatius, then?”
“No, it’s for Imogen,” he said, surprising Charlie. “My wife. This was her shop. I—” he looked around as though seeing the space for the first time “—I was never much of a reader. I just took it over... when.” His gaze traveled to the funeral-creped photo.
“Never knew no bloke named Ignatius.”
“Saint Ignatius of Antioch. I was named for him.”
“What’d he do to be a saint?” asked Charlie with genuine curiosity.
“He was fed to wild beasts as his martyrdom.”
“Wild beasts! Who woulda done that?”
“People who did not agree with him. It happens, you know. Awful things occur all the time. This war is a prime example. Do you go by Charles?”
“No, just Charlie. You sell lots of books, do you?”
“Not many, no. If folks have spare shillings, it probably won’t be going for books. I have sold a number of book tokens as part of a national scheme, so that helps. Rather good idea, actually. Yet not that many have been redeemed. I think people are rather... tired. But maybe that will turn around as the war continues to move in a positive direction.”
“I guess your wife liked books.”
“Yes, indeed. She said they were a wonderful way to get through troubling times, though my sales of late do not necessarily support that conclusion. Perhaps it’s the location. This alleyway can be rather hard to find.”
“I found it,” said Charlie.
“Indeed you did.” He paused and glanced at the pile of paper and coins on the counter.
“You must’a dropped it out on the street,” explained Charlie. “I just found it and brought it back.”
“Clumsy of me. But I can be clumsy.”
Charlie looked in the direction of the drawer where Oliver had placed the packet of papers from the night before. When he looked up, Oliver was studying him closely.
Charlie said, “Heard you got the George Medal. That you’re brave.”
“Many people are brave. Why I got the medal over others, I’m not sure.”
“For not sellin’ many books, that’s a lot of quid.”
“That was for many months’ worth of sales, I’m afraid,” replied Oliver. “So not so very much.” He eyed the book next to the money. “Ah, yes, I thought that was missing as well.”
“It ain’t got no words in it,” said Charlie.
“Well, it’s like a diary or a journal. My wife filled up many of them with her... thoughts.”
Charlie spied the odd device he had seen before lying on the counter. “Eh, what’s that thin’?” he asked, pointing.
Oliver picked it up. “It’s a replica of Alberti’s Disk. Have you heard of it?” Charlie shook his head. “Alberti was an Italian polymath from the fifteenth century.”
“A polly what?”
“It means he was quite accomplished at a great many things: poetry, languages, art, architecture, and cryptography, of which this is an example.” He held it up. “It has two concentric rings. The outer ring is imprinted with a standard alphabet, and the inner one the same, but with the letters out of normal order. When you rotate the inner ring and line it up with letters from the outer, you can create an encrypted, or secret, message.”
“Why would you wanta do that?”
Oliver set the device down. “Oh, just for a bit of fun.”
“I gotta go now,” said Charlie.
They stood there staring at each other for a moment.
“Charlie, why don’t you keep the book?”
“What?”
“Take the journal and... well, you can write things down in it, like my wife used to do.”
“What things?”
“Imogen would describe things that she saw. A man walking. A bird on a tree branch. A pile of rubble that used to be a home. A woman bringing food to people who needed it. And then she would write down what she thought about all that.”
Charlie used his sleeve to wipe his runny nose. “Is that really somethin’ folks do with their time?”
“At least certain people, yes. You strike me as observant and curious. So you might find it... worthwhile, I guess is the word I’m looking for. Ironic that a bookshop owner has difficulty finding the right words.”
“Bet you know a lot more words than me.”
“I daresay you’ll catch up and pass me. But please take the book. I have so many others, as you can see for yourself.” He picked up the book and held it out to him.
Charlie came forward and his grimy fingers closed around the journal. “Thanks.”
Oliver said, “And thank you for returning the money. It’s very fortunate you found it. In fact, I would imagine a finder’s fee is in order.”
Charlie stared at the money, but then he held up the book. “You give me this. And thanks for fetchin’ my tag back. Must’a dropped it round here.”
“Exactly where I found it, around here.”
“Saw a short, fat bloke here. Was he buying books?”
“He was a friend with a manuscript for me to read. I’m afraid it’s not very good.”
“Well, goodbye,” said Charlie, wondering if the same man had given Oliver another manuscript, whatever that was, earlier that morning.
“Goodbye,” said Oliver, not looking pleased.
The bell tinkled freely as Charlie left Ignatius Oliver and his shop.
A moment later he slid his head back inside the door. “And I ain’t bloody honorable.”
“Well, you were today, Charlie.”
A Girl Called Molly
Molly Wakefield walked out of Liverpool Station and gazed around at a city she had not seen since 1939. All these years later, London was in an unrecognizable state, shocked by war, and perhaps stunned at its own resilience. You never really knew what you were capable of, Molly believed, until the moment came to be capable of it. Since leaving London, Molly had had a great deal of experience along those very lines.