Emily Lime - Librarian Detective: The Book Case E-Book

Dave Shelton

• Herausgeber: David Fickling Books
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Emily Lime
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 280

Beschreibung

EMILY LIME is the one and only Librarian Detective! As Assistant Librarian (and a pupil!) at St Rita's School, she's got the sharpest mind going. And she's going to need it! There's been a bank robbery in town, a break-in at the school and a dastardly villain is on the loose.With the help of new girl, Daphne, and George (the only boy), Emily is determined to get to the bottom of things, with surprising and very funny results . . .

Leseprobe

For Ness Wood

Contents

Title PageDedicationONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENTWELVETHIRTEENFOURTEENFIFTEENSIXTEENSEVENTEENEIGHTEENNINETEENTWENTYTWENTY-ONETWENTY-TWOTWENTY-THREETWENTY-FOURTWENTY-FIVETWENTY-SIXTWENTY-SEVENTWENTY-EIGHTTWENTY-NINETHIRTYTHIRTY-ONETHIRTY-TWOTHIRTY-THREETHIRTY-FOURTHIRTY-FIVETHIRTY-SIXTHIRTY-SEVENAcknowledgementsAlso by Dave SheltonCopyright

ONE

‘Excuse me, miss?’

‘Yes?’

‘Sorry to bother you, but a lady over on the other platform asked me to give you this.’

Daphne Blakeway looked round from the timetable she had been examining to find that the man talking to her was a railway porter. He looked old – older, even, than his voice sounded – but harmless enough. He handed her a book. As it happened, Daphne was desperate for something new to read, so she took it from him almost without thinking.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘But why? And who?’ She scanned the other platform. ‘The young lady with the dog with the enormous ears?’

‘Oh no, miss. This was an older lady. Shortish, wideish, in a tatty old fur coat. And a hat – so I didn’t really get a good look at her ears.’ The porter squinted across the track. ‘Can’t seem to spot her just at present. Said she was on her way to take the book to St Rita’s herself, but then saw you – she recognized the uniform, you see – and wondered if you might save her the bother. You are going to St Rita’s, aren’t you, miss?’

‘Yes. I was meant to arrive there last night, actually, to start there today, but I got stuck in London when my onward train was cancelled.’

‘Oh yes, that accident outside of Paddington put everything in a right pickle. But would that be all right? The book, I mean. It’s for the library, she said.’

‘Really?’ Daphne took a closer look at the book. Her eyes widened as she took in the cover. ‘Scarlet Fury: A Smeeton Westerby Mystery, by J. H. Buchanan. It doesn’t seem quite the usual sort of thing for a school library, I must say.’

‘Ah well, I suppose you could say that St Rita’s is not quite the usual sort of a school, miss.’

‘No? Oh well, in any case, I’ll be happy to take the book, of course. Oh, I say, do you know when the next train to Pelham comes in? Only I’m not sure if I’ve time for a visit to the tearoom.’

The porter consulted his pocket watch, holding it at a variety of distances from his bespectacled eyes in an effort to get it in focus.

‘Well, miss, let’s see … Ah yes. Pelham train is due in any minute.’ He turned to squint away down the track, and indicated a plume of smoke in the middle distance. ‘See? Here it comes now. But you’ll still have time to grab a bun or some such if you look sharp. Old Wilf – he’s the conductor – he’ll want to fill up his thermos flask before they set off again. He’s a devil if he doesn’t have his tea. You get yourself over there and sort yourself a bite to eat – you look like you could do with it. I’ll get your suitcase on board, if you like.’

‘Oh, thank you!’ Daphne raised her voice as the noise of the arriving train grew. ‘That’s very kind.’ She dashed off to the tearoom, stuffing the book into her satchel as she went, leaving the porter to heave her small but weighty case into an empty carriage. When she returned, with some dainty sandwiches in a paper bag, the porter ushered her in through an open carriage door.

‘There you go, miss. Your case is up on the rack there. You have a safe journey now.’ He shut the door after her. Daphne poked her head out of the open window.

‘Thank you so much.’

‘A pleasure, miss,’ said the porter. ‘And the best of luck to you at that school of yours.’ He gave her a little wave, turned, and walked away. ‘Lord knows you’ll need it.’

But these last muttered words were lost in the noise of the train getting up steam. The porter raised a smile and tipped his hat to old Wilf the conductor, passing the other way with his freshly refilled flask.

Then, after a suitable pause, he gave a blast on his whistle, waved his flag, and watched as the train pulled away.

Daphne looked out at him from the carriage. She’d had a rotten journey so far, but this funny old man had cheered her with his small kindnesses. She watched him now, half hidden by steam, patiently helping another passenger – a tall breathless man, who Daphne assumed had just missed catching the same train. Perhaps, she thought, her day had just got better, and it would all go smoothly from now on. And as the train picked up speed, she turned her attention to her sandwiches and the book, and she dared to smile a little.

TWO

After the unfortunate incident at her previous school, Daphne’s parents had very much welcomed the unexpected letter from St Rita’s offering her a scholarship.

‘But it’s such a long way!’ said Daphne.

‘Oh, but it sounds wonderful,’ said her mother.

‘And it’s free,’ said her father from behind his newspaper.

‘But, isn’t it all rather odd? How do they even know about me? And why do they want me when I’ve just been expelled? It all sounds a bit fishy, doesn’t it?’

‘Now darling,’ said her mother, ‘you know you weren’t expelled. It’s just that, after the …’

‘The incident,’ said her father.

‘The incident, yes. Thank you, Rodney. After that, Mrs Yardley thought your particular – now, how did she put it? – your particular qualities and enthusiasms might thrive more fully in an alternative educational environment. Perhaps she got in touch with this –’ she consulted the letter – ‘Mrs Crump, herself, and recommended you to her.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Daphne. She pictured Mrs Yardley’s face the last time they had spoken and concluded that her former head was unlikely to recommend her to anyone for anything. At least not for anything good.

‘Well, the letter says that you “have skills and abilities that would be of great use in our library”. And it sounds like the head – now, what’s her name? Oh yes, Mrs McKay, that’s it – she has some very interesting ideas. Very modern. It seems just perfect for you, darling. A nice fresh start.’

‘And it’s free,’ said Daphne’s father.

In the end Daphne had given in. She was intrigued, and even a little excited and flattered, by being wanted by this odd-sounding school in the middle of nowhere, though she remained, too, suspicious and a little scared. But it wasn’t as if she had very much choice in the matter; she had to go somewhere, and at least this way, so far away from her last school, her reputation would not precede her. Perhaps, as her mother said, it could be a fresh start. And they wanted her to help out in the library; that much, at least, Daphne was genuinely excited about. She had never found it easy to get on with other children, but she’d always enjoyed the company of books. And the mysterious Mrs Crump had been so enthusiastic about her in the letter that Daphne could expect a warm welcome from at least one member of staff. Maybe – just maybe – it would all be all right.

THREE

The journey from Pilkington to Pelham took a little under an hour, along snaking tracks winding through glorious landscape. The countryside, never less than pretty, was made at times breathtakingly beautiful as dramatic shafts of sunlight speared through the gathering clouds, picking out, like spotlights, the crispest details of splendour. It was the pinnacle of nature’s art, a real-life masterpiece. But Daphne didn’t see a bit of it. She was too engrossed in the book. The awful doings of Mr Smeeton Westerby, private detective, turned out to be just as despicable and unsuitable as the lurid cover had led her to suspect. The story was violent, ludicrous, sleazy and entirely unsuitable for children. And Daphne loved every word. She was so thoroughly engrossed by it, in fact, that she didn’t notice the conductor entering her carriage at all. He gave a gentle cough. Daphne shrieked and dropped the book.

‘Zzorry, miss. I … nnn … didn’t mean to alarm you,’ the conductor said, in a curious, buzzing, nasal voice, as Daphne reached down for the fallen book. ‘But could I see your … mmm … oh!’ His face registered mild surprise as he took in the cover of Scarlet Fury. ‘Ahem. Your ticket … nnn … please, miss?’

Daphne, blushing, slammed the book shut and placed it face down on the seat, and then, after much flustered fumbling, produced her ticket.

‘Nnnnn … vvank you, mmm … miss.’ The conductor examined the ticket, nodded his approval, punched a hole in it, and handed it back. ‘Pelham … mmm … izzz the next stop. Will you be needing any help wivvv … nnn … your luggage?’

‘Oh, er, no. Thank you. I shall be perfectly fine. Thank you.’

‘Very good … mmm … miss,’ said the conductor, and with a little bow of the head he backed out of the door.

As her burning cheeks cooled, Daphne told herself that, actually, she had no need to feel embarrassed about reading such a book as Scarlet Fury.

It was no work of literary genius, it was true, but the writing had a certain brutal energy that made it more than worthy of her attention. It was really nothing to be ashamed of.

Just the same, she decided to swap its dust jacket with the one from the other book she had with her. Now her copy of Scarlet Fury had a lovely picture of a cat on its cover, rather than the gun-toting woman in a flimsy red dress that had so alarmed the conductor.

St Rita’s school was a twenty-minute bus ride from the railway station at Pelham, and quite an unpleasant bus ride at that. The bus was old, dirty and noisy; the seats were old, dirty and uncomfortable; and the driver was old, dirty and terrible at driving. But Daphne ignored it all and carried on reading. The detective, Smeeton Westerby, had just regained consciousness to find himself tied to a chair in a burning building when the bus driver shouted for Daphne’s attention.

‘Hoy there, love! You wanted the stop for St Rita’s, din’t you?’

‘Eh? Oh, yes, please.’

‘Thought so. We’re just coming up on it now. Only I seen you was deep in that book of yours ’n’ likely as not you’d miss it if I din’t say nuthin’. Exciting is it?’

‘Oh yes. It’s … it’s thrilling!’ Daphne gathered up her things and made her way unsteadily towards the front of the bus.

‘Is that right?’ said the driver. He took a look at the cover. ‘Daisy’s Little Kitten, eh? Thrilling, you say?’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Right. Well, each to their own, I suppose.’ The bus slowed. ‘Here you are.’ The driver scanned either side of the road then opened the door. ‘Best if I don’t actually stop, if you don’t mind. It’s safer that way, like.’

Daphne threw the driver an alarmed look. ‘Safer for whom?’

‘You’ll be fine.’ The driver fixed his eyes on the road ahead. ‘Just be sure to bend your knees as you land. Quickly now!’

Daphne gulped.

‘School’s another fifty yards or so, on the right,’ said the driver as Daphne jumped off. She lost hold of her suitcase as she landed, but just managed to stay upright.

‘Opposite the bus stop,’ shouted the driver as the bus sped away.

Puzzled, Daphne watched it go for a moment, then, with a glance at the ominous sky, heaved her suitcase from the ground and set off, trudging towards whatever destiny awaited her around the bend.

FOUR

Actually, it was rather more than fifty yards to the bus stop, a small wooden shelter so densely carved with graffiti that it was a wonder it was still standing. Opposite, set in the high stone wall on the other side of the road, was a tall pair of imposing iron gates. Beside the gates, a carved stone plaque set into the wall read St Rita’s School for Spirited Girls, Est. 1873. Beyond the gates, at the end of a long gravel drive, sat the school itself. Even at a distance it looked dark and imposing, like something from a ghost story. Daphne shivered just to look at it, but she told herself that it was only the foreboding sky that made it look so sinister. Bracing herself, she tried the gates and, finding they were not locked, pushed one open and set off down the drive.

She had not gone far when she saw an odd hunched figure emerge from behind the school and start towards her. As the figure drew closer, Daphne realized that its odd posture was due to the wheelbarrow it was pushing. And as it got closer still, Daphne realized that it was not a gardener, as she had first assumed, but a boy.

‘Hullo. Your name Daphne, is it?’ The boy parked the barrow in Daphne’s path and gave his nose an enthusiastic scratch.

‘Yes,’ said Daphne, putting down her suitcase. She studied the boy for a moment. He was a grubby, scruffy specimen: everything he wore was crumpled, grimy and the wrong size for him; he had an odd smell about him, of something faintly exotic but distinctly unpleasant; his hair was enthusiastically berserk. And he wore a school blazer with, to Daphne’s surprise, a St Rita’s badge on the breast pocket.

‘Grand! You finally made it,’ he said. ‘I saw you from inside. Thought you looked like you were struggling with that suitcase a bit.’

‘I was rather,’ said Daphne, with a little nod and a smile, and held the case out towards him.

‘Thought so,’ said the boy. ‘Should be easier with this, though.’ He tilted his head toward the barrow. ‘Come on.’ He turned and started shuffling back towards the school, leaving the wheelbarrow behind him. ‘I should get a move on, if I were you. Reckon it’s going to start tipping down any minute now.’

Daphne stared after him in amazement, then glanced up at the sky, which, in turn, glowered back down at her. Sighing, she turned the wheelbarrow round, heaved the suitcase up into it, and set off down the drive. It was easier, but it wasn’t easy. The barrow was difficult to steer and not suited to gravel, but Daphne struggled along, zigzagging down the drive, and soon caught up with the dawdling boy.

‘I’m George, by the way,’ said the boy, as Daphne drew up alongside him. ‘Oh, mind the dip.’ He pointed to a deep hollow in the driveway just ahead of them. Daphne swerved sharply to avoid it.

‘Crikey!’ she said, when she had wrestled the wheelbarrow back on course. ‘What happened there?’

‘That’s what happens when you trust a bunch of third formers to fill in a crater.’

‘A crater? But surely the Germans didn’t bomb anywhere near here? And anyway, it’s years since the war ended.’

‘Oh, it were nowt to do with a bomb.’

‘Oh? What then?’

‘Chemistry experiment. Couple of girls messing about with stolen supplies. Mrs Klinghoffer was furious.’

‘I’m not surprised! Were they all right?’

‘Dunno. Nobody saw where they landed.’

They had arrived at the school itself now, but rather than approaching the front door, George led Daphne round to a path at the side of the building.

‘It all looks a bit different in real life,’ said Daphne, glancing at the shocking state of the brickwork while struggling to keep the barrow from veering into the lavender bushes. ‘From the drawing in the brochure, I mean.’

‘Oh, you mean the crumbling walls and the holes in the roof and suchlike? Yes, the old place could use a lot of work, really. But Mrs McKay, the head, wants the caretaker to do it all because she won’t pay up for all the roofers and builders and carpenters and such that it really needs. And he’s a nice chap, Mr Thanet, but really he’s a bit useless at anything practical, and really slow. Do you see those broken windows up there? They’ve been like that for weeks.’

‘What happened to them?’

‘Motorbike accident.’

‘On the second floor?’

‘Yes. Bloomin’ disgrace, it was. Very irresponsible.’ George shook his head. ‘Shocking way for a Latin mistress to behave. Here we are.’ They had reached a door at the rear of the school. George turned the iron handle. ‘In the nick of time, too,’ he said, casting a look at the sullen sky. ‘It’ll be bucketing down soon, I reckon. Ooh, and here comes Mr Thanet.’

Daphne glanced back over her shoulder to see a rather angry-looking bearded man stalking across the playing fields in their direction.

‘I don’t think he’s very happy about you borrowing his wheelbarrow, you know,’ said George. ‘We’d probably best make ourselves scarce. Come on.’

‘Me? But I didn’t …’

But George had already gone in, and, after one brief glance at Mr Thanet’s face, Daphne heaved her suitcase out of the wheelbarrow and followed.

Inside, hurrying as best she could along the corridor, Daphne noted that the interior of the school had a lot in common with the exterior: it had clearly once been grand and impressive, but was now distinctly worn and neglected. The lower, wood-panelled section of the wall was badly scuffed, while the wallpaper on the upper section was torn and beginning to peel. Pausing for a moment, Daphne poked an exploratory finger under a loose fold of the wallpaper, then squeaked in alarm as half a yard of it rolled itself up from the bottom like a roller blind, exposing crumbling plaster beneath. A small cloud of fine white dust enveloped her and set her coughing.

‘Ooh, don’t do that!’ George called back to her, casting a worried look at the wall. ‘It’s only the wallpaper holding this place together, I reckon. If you go tearing bits off willy nilly, then the whole lot might come tumbling down. Might not be such a bad thing, mind, but I’d rather be outside when it happens.’ He set off again.

Daphne flapped at her uniform to brush off the dust and dashed round the corner after George, straight into the path of a small, red-haired girl coming the other way. Daphne just had time to register the look of surprise on the other girl’s face before she slammed into her and down they both fell in a tangle, her suitcase flying off across the floor in one direction, her satchel in another, spilling its contents as it went.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ said Daphne, as she unknotted her limbs and got back up.

‘Well, I should hope so!’ said the girl, already back on her feet, pacing, and looking for something on the floor. ‘Tearing round the place like that!’ Then she snatched up a sheet of writing paper and an envelope. Only then did she look over at Daphne, now busy gathering up her own things, and gave her an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, that was rude. And … and actually it was my fault, too. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I had my nose in this letter from my uncle. He’s … well, he had some … rather bad news, I’m afraid, so I was a bit distracted.’

She stuffed the letter into her pocket. ‘Here, let me give you a hand.’ One of the books was at the girl’s feet. She stooped to pick it up, then glanced at the cover.

‘Oh!’ The girl stared, shocked, at the book, wrapped in the scandalous cover of Scarlet Fury.

‘It’s … it’s not mine,’ said Daphne, plucking it from the girl’s hands and stuffing it back into her satchel.

‘No, I …’ The girl seemed stunned, staring into space.

Daphne assumed she must be a sensitive type. The girl blinked, gave her head a little shake, and appeared to recover herself a little. ‘Don’t worry. Your, umm … your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Oh, there you are!’ George had reappeared. ‘I was nattering away to you, and I only just realized you weren’t there any more. You missed some good stuff, too. I was being really fascinating. Oh, hello, Veronica.’ He gave the red-haired girl a nod. She nodded back in a distracted sort of way.

‘Got to … go,’ she said, and dashed off.

‘Odd girl,’ said Daphne.

‘Yes, well, you’d best get used to those,’ said George. ‘This place is full of them. Now, come on. It’s time you met the boss.’

FIVE

There was a small set of steps leading up to the library door. George stood at the top with his hand on the door handle, craning his neck to smile back at Daphne.

‘I think you’re going to like this,’ he said.

Daphne thought she probably wouldn’t. Her expectations had been worn away by everything she had seen so far. Given the state of the rest of the school it was pretty obvious what to expect: a tatty little room with some tatty old bookshelves full of tatty old books. She forced a smile and prepared to politely smother her disappointment.

George pushed the door open.

‘Oh, but do try to keep quiet,’ he whispered, as he stepped inside.

‘Of course,’ said Daphne, following him in, rather annoyed that he’d thought it necessary to say such a thing. She knew how to behave in a library, after all. She was always quiet and respectful. There was no need to tell her.

Then she saw the library and let out a loud gasp.

‘Shh!’ said George.

‘Sorry,’ whispered Daphne. ‘It’s just that it’s so …’

It was amazing. It was immense. It was magnificent.

They had entered several feet above floor level, at the top of a short staircase leading down into the vast space of the library, and this elevated view allowed Daphne to get some sense of the size of the place, which, had she been down amongst the maze of bookcases, might have been difficult to grasp. Daphne had never seen so many shelves. It was like a vast and complex world built entirely from bookcases. Good ones, too. Newly made from fine dark wood, with obvious care and skill, to exactly fit the space. Tall arched windows set high in the far wall let in the light of the afternoon sun and cast the whole scene in a magical, golden, honeyed glow.

‘Wow!’ said Daphne.

‘It is impressive, isn’t it?’ said George.

‘It’s astonishing,’ said Daphne. ‘It really is. I never could have imagined.’ She frowned delicately and paused a moment. ‘But, um, where are all the books?’

It wasn’t that there were no books in the library. There just weren’t very many. What there were would have looked like far too few even at the much smaller library in Daphne’s old school. Here, dotted amid the gaping spaces of the many shelves, they looked pathetic, like the last few teeth in the mouth of an old man who loved sweets but was allergic to toothpaste.

‘Eh?’ said George, who had padded down the stairs to floor level and seemed to be scanning the room, looking for something.

‘I said,’ said Daphne, ‘where are all the books?’

‘Ah!’ said George. ‘You noticed that? Very good. Impressive librarian instincts if I may say so. Just what we’re after.’ He smiled at her, looked about him warily, smiled again. ‘Temporary matter, nothing to worry about. We’ll have some new ones soon.’ He took another couple of steps, still looking about the place as he went. ‘Still not enough, but, you know, a few more. Oh, and we do have one good section now. Let me show you. I just got them shelved this morning.’ George tiptoed off behind the bookcase nearest to him, and Daphne followed. Turning the corner she found herself facing a set of shelves that was stuffed full of books.

‘Daphne Blakeway,’ said George, ‘let me introduce you to crime!’

‘Well, that’s a bit more like it!’ said Daphne. ‘Seems an odd choice for a school library, though. Cops and robbers and so forth.’

‘Oh well, the girls here like that sort of thing. Well, maybe not the cops so much …’ George skulked off round another bank of shelving, disappearing from Daphne’s view. ‘And, you know, it’s a start at least, as we try to get things sorted after the … ah …’

‘After the what?’ said Daphne, once she had grown tired of waiting for George to continue. Then, when this gained no response, she followed the way George had gone, and found him holding a chair out in front of him and trembling. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Oh, er … nothing. Nothing to worry about.’ George gave Daphne his best effort at a reassuring grin. ‘Oh, but mind you don’t slip on that blood.’

He dipped his head to indicate where he meant.

Daphne looked down and saw that just beyond the toes of her shiny new school shoes there was indeed a small puddle of a dark, slightly lumpy liquid. A dotted line of smaller drips of the same colour led away past where George was standing.

‘Ew! What on earth … ?’

‘Er … I’ll explain later.’ There was a sound. Something beyond the next set of shelves. A low rumble and a malignant hiss and some unpleasant crunching, all at once.

Daphne shuddered.

‘Hang on,’ said George, and advanced out of view, the chair wobbling in his shaking hands. Then something noisy happened out of Daphne’s sight. There was some mildly terrifying animal screeching, some thumps and scratches, some squeals of alarm from George, then a final cry of ‘Go on! Gerroff’ – a farewell snarl – and a scritchy-scratchy, hurtling scurry of clawed feet racing away across wooden floorboards. Daphne glimpsed a large, dark, furry blur dropping into the bushes outside a high open window.

George reappeared, even more dishevelled than he had begun.

‘Sorry about that. Now where was I?’ He set down the chair and, because one of its legs seemed to have been torn off, leaving only a splintered stump, it fell over.

George gave it a brief, gentle frown. ‘Oh yes … so, we’re trying to get things started again, after the fire.’

‘What was … What fire?’

‘The fire that burned down the old library. Terrible, it was. We lost everything. And the bloomin’ insurance company refused to pay up for it.’ George scowled. ‘They said it’d been started deliberately.’

Daphne gasped.

‘I know,’ said George. ‘It’s outrageous. Said they found petrol-soaked rags, but if they did they must have put them there themselves. None of our girls would’ve been so sloppy!’

He led Daphne away from the bloody puddle and back towards the crime section. ‘But bloomin’ Mrs McKay didn’t even put up a fight. So we didn’t get a penny, and we’d already spent all the money we did have on swanky new shelving, so now we’ve nowt left to buy books with. All we’ve got is a few odds and ends donated by parents. Most of it’s rubbish, of course. But these are all right.’

He pointed at the neat ranks of crime books.

‘Although,’ George went on, pointing at the one gap on the shelf, ‘I can’t find this one for the life of me. I just hope it turns up before the boss notices or—’

‘George, are you doing any work today? Oh!’

A small girl in wonky glasses and a beret had emerged, seemingly from nowhere. She looked at George, then at Daphne, then back at George, frowning throughout.

‘And who’s this?’ She pointed a sour expression in Daphne’s direction. ‘And why is she here?’

‘This is Daphne Blakeway,’ said George in an exasperated tone. ‘We were expecting her, remember? Daphne, this is Emily Lime, Assistant Librarian.’

‘Hello,’ said Daphne. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ (Though she wasn’t at all sure that she was.) ‘I was invited by Mrs Crump, the Head Librarian. Actually, is she here? I ought really to introduce myself and—’

‘No,’ said Emily Lime.

‘Oh, but …’

‘Ah yes,’ said George. ‘I should have said. Mrs Crump is away.’

‘On sick leave,’ said Emily Lime.

‘For her nerves,’ said George.

‘Indefinitely,’ said Emily Lime.

‘Oh,’ said Daphne. ‘Only … she’s the reason I’m here, really. She approved my scholarship.’

She looked from George’s face to Emily Lime’s, then back again. Her bottom lip fluttered, just a little. ‘I thought when you said “meet the boss” …’

‘Well,’ said Emily Lime, ‘in Mrs Crump’s absence, that would be me. And so all new appointments to the library team must be vetted and approved by me.’

Daphne bit her lip.

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous!’ said George. ‘Just give her the badges, for heaven’s sake, and we can all—’

Emily Lime fired a stare at George so hard it might have stopped a charging rhino. ‘No! I cannot just give her the badges. I do not hand out library badges willy nilly to anyone who asks. There are proper procedures we must adhere to. There is paperwork to fill in. There is a system. There has to be a system!’

She turned her fierce gaze on Daphne. ‘I’ll have to interview her for the position, though heaven knows I have better things to do with my time.’

‘But I thought—’

Emily Lime raised her hand, like a policeman stopping traffic, and Daphne shut up.

‘My office,’ said Emily Lime. ‘Ten minutes’ time. Don’t be late.’ And with that, she disappeared back the way she had come, grumbling as she went. There was the distant sound of a door opening and then slamming shut.

‘Now, don’t worry,’ said George. ‘You’ll be fine.’

‘Do you think so?’

George rubbed his chin. ‘Oh yes. You’re just lucky you’ve caught her on a good day.’

SIX

Nine and three-quarter minutes later, when Daphne entered the office, Emily Lime didn’t even look up from the book she had open on the desk in front of her.

‘Hello?’ said Daphne. ‘You said—’

‘Shh!’ Emily Lime raised a stern finger in Daphne’s direction. Daphne shut up.

The pointing finger jabbed downwards to indicate a chair on Daphne’s side of the desk.

‘Oh. Thank—’

‘Shh!’ said Emily Lime.

Daphne cringed apologetically and pulled out the chair, spilling a pile of books from on top of it onto the floor.

‘SHH!’ said Emily Lime again, her eyes still fixed on her book, her finger now pointing up at Daphne’s face, just in case it wasn’t already clear who was making all the noise.

‘Oh. Sorry,’ whispered Daphne, as she got down on her hands and knees to tidy up the spilled volumes.

Emily Lime grunted, lowered her finger to the book and began flipping through the pages at great speed while jotting occasional notes in pencil onto a small piece of card with the other hand. She carried on like this, in silence except for an occasional tut, hum or grunt, until she turned the final page, and closed the book, just as Daphne rose from the floor and took her seat on the chair.

Daphne smiled expectantly across the desk at Emily Lime, who continued to ignore her. Emily Lime opened a small wooden drawer by her side and placed the notecard inside, amongst a stack of others. Then she turned to face forward again, and gave a little start as she noticed Daphne.

‘Forgot you were there,’ she said, with no note of apology in her voice. Then she set aside the previous book and opened up another. She began flipping the pages and note taking once more.

Daphne, seeing that there were three more books after this one in a pile on the desk and that therefore she probably had a while to wait, took the opportunity to look around the room. Books were the main thing about it. There were teetering towers of them on the outskirts of the desktop, piles of them up against the walls, and more on the mantelpiece, on either side of a carriage clock. There were more scattered about the floor, and further piles of them balanced on top of various cardboard boxes dotted around the room. Daphne couldn’t be absolutely certain, but she felt confident that the boxes were probably full of books too. Certainly, that would explain why the word BOOKS had been written in large black letters on each one.