‘There’s Cædmon’s bookstore, just a few doors down.’
Several moments later, standing at the entryway, Kate frowned. A small white placard with the word ‘Fermé’ hung crookedly on the other side of the glass door. Behind that, a green curtain had been drawn, preventing her from seeing inside the shop. Turning the door knob, she verified that the shop was, indeed, closed.
‘Do you wanna come back when the bookstore opens?’
Unsure, she glanced at her Seiko watch: 9.26. Local time.
‘Actually, I think it’s best if we seize the bull –’ she banged on the wooden door frame with a balled fist – ‘by the proverbial horns.’
Several moments passed. Again, Kate banged on the door. A bit more forcibly this time.
‘The bookshop is closed!’ a distinctly English voice boomed from the other side of the locked door.
‘It’s important that we speak with you,’ Kate said through the glass.
‘Je m’en fou! La librairie est fermé! Casse-toi maintenant! ’
Worriedly biting her lower lip, she glanced at Finn. ‘He insists that the shop is closed.’ She didn’t bother to translate the profane preface and postscript that bracketed the announcement.
‘Are you sure that’s even Engelbert standing on the other side of the door?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sure.’ She’d recognize that well-articulated voice anywhere. Refusing to call retreat, Kate again rapped on the pane. ‘Cædmon, please open the door. It’s important that I speak with you.’
The entreaty worked, the deadbolt lock was released and the shop door swung open. A man, nearly as tall as Finn, with shoulder-length red hair, filled the entryway. Not only was his stained shirt completely unbuttoned, the tails limply hanging against a pair of corduroy trousers, but his feet were bare.
‘Kate? Is that you?’
‘Hello, Cædmon.’ She pasted a cordial smile on to her lips. A vision of grace under pressure.
Blood-shot blue eyes narrowed. ‘You have some bloody nerve, showing up on my doorstep.’
20
‘May we please come inside, Cædmon?’
Mockingly sweeping his arm aside, the red-headed Brit gestured for Finn and Kate to enter the bookshop. ‘By all means. Mi casa, su casa.’
As he stepped across the threshold, Finn sized up their ‘host’, instantly pegging the guy for a prick of the first order. Cædmon Aisquith. Hell, he could barely say it, let alone spell it. Standing approximately six foot three, Aisquith had the lean, rangy build of a long-distance runner. And the ashen, hollow-eyed look of an insomniac. That or the English dude was coming off one helluva bender.
Finn removed his Oakley sunglasses and hooked them on the collar of his T-shirt. Perusing the joint, he wondered how Aisquith made a living. Granted, he didn’t know a lot about the book trade, but common sense told him that a dark, unkempt shop wasn’t the kind of place that attracted a clientele. Who the hell liked the smell of mildew? Not only were the floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered in a visible layer of dust, there were unwieldy stacks of books haphazardly arranged on the floor, just waiting for an unsuspecting customer to plough into. To quote his great-uncle Seamus, the place was ‘a slipshod shipwreck’.
Kate cleared her throat. Probably because, like Finn, she’d just swallowed a mouthful of dust motes. ‘Gosh … it’s been a long time. No doubt you’re surprised to see me.’
Aisquith folded his arms over his chest. ‘Baffled to say the least. In your lettre de rupture you succinctly stated that you never wanted to see me again.’
‘I sent that letter sixteen years ago,’ Kate retorted, an exasperated edge to her voice. ‘In hindsight, conveying those sentiments in a letter was terribly unfair to you. However, I was young and inexperienced.’
‘A poor excuse, given the nature of our relationship.’
Standing ringside, Finn quickly gathered that Kate had once shacked up with the dishevelled bookstore owner, and the prick was still royally pissed off that she’d given him the shaft. You go, girl.
‘And including those lines of poetry from Yeats was unconscionable,’ the prick continued. ‘ “In courtesy I’d have her chiefly learned; Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned.” ’
Finn sidled a few steps closer to Kate, a show of moral support. ‘I don’t know. Sounds like a classy “Dear John” letter to me.’
‘And who might you be?’
‘The name’s Finn McGuire. I’m Kate’s new BFF.’ He didn’t bother extending his hand.
The Brit gave him the once-over. ‘A diminutive of Finnegan, I take it?’
Sorely tempted to tell Aisquith where he could shove it after he took it, Finn belligerently tilted his chin. ‘What can I say? My mother had a wicked dark humour.’
‘She must have, to have named you after a dead character in a James Joyce novel. But that’s the Irish for you.’
‘Irish-American,’ he corrected.
‘Mmmm … indeed.’
What the fuck did that mean?
‘So, to what do I owe this unexpected visit?’
Kate hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘I, um, need your help, Cædmon. I’ve just made a long, arduous journey and –’ Eyes bloodshot, cheeks flushed, she stared pleadingly at her old swain. By anyone’s standard, she looked plenty pitiful. ‘Please, Cædmon. I didn’t know where else to go.’
Hearing that, the red-headed Brit instantly dropped the sarcastic attitude. Like he’d just had a deathbed conversion, he placed a solicitous hand on Kate’s shoulder. ‘Of course. Anything. Christ, I’m such a bastard. Arrow to the heart. Wounded to the quick. All that.’
And Kate complained about him not speaking in full sentences. This Aisquith guy had it down to an art form.
‘I’m sorry. I probably should have called ahead or sent an email, but we’ve been on the run. Figuratively speaking, of course.’ A red splotch instantly materialized on each freckled cheek. Two guilty bull’s eyes.
Removing his hand from Kate’s shoulder, Aisquith waved away the botched apology. ‘Doesn’t matter. For you, the door is always open.’ As he spoke, he glanced down at his unbuttoned shirt. ‘Forgive me. I’ve been under the weather.’ He fumbled with one of the middle buttons. ‘A touch of la grippe, as it were.’ Calling it quits after just the one button, he clapped his hands together. ‘Right. I’ll get us some refreshments. A glass of sherry perhaps?’ No sooner did he make the offer than Aisquith noticed the clock hanging on the adjacent wall. ‘Oh, bloody hell! It’s still morning.’
‘Would it be too much to ask for a cup of tea? I’m in dire need of a pick-me-up.’ Visibly sagging, Kate lowered her knapsack to the floor.
‘No doubt I have a canister somewhere. Please make yourselves comfortable.’ Aisquith gestured distractedly to the two leather wingback chairs shoe-horned between a pair of towering bookcases. Hospitality dispensed, he ambled towards an open door in the back of the shop, disappearing from sight.
With a weary sigh, Kate seated herself in the nearest chair. A wilted flower in a dusty pot.
‘I don’t know how to break it to you, Katie, but your pal looks like one of those guys who lives under the bridge in a cardboard box.’
‘You heard him, he just got over a bout of the flu.’ Though quick to come to the Brit’s defence, her brow furrowed. Like she wasn’t entirely convinced of what she’d just said. ‘While he may not look his best, I’m certain that Cædmon can help us to decipher Jutier’s tattoo as well as the symbols on the Montségur –’