Chapter 4

Dale had been raised in Northampton, where his parents still lived, but he had an elderly aunt in South London. Recently, due to failing health, she had given up her large suburban semi and moved into a care home. He was prevailed upon to clear out her belongings so the house could be sold.

His aunt was keen on crime fiction and had accumulated hundreds of books, so he asked me to go down to see if they were worth anything. He had been rather low lately because of more delays with the the new hospital laundry, and I was happy to go, if only to keep him company.

There is no real money to be made from second-hand mass market paperbacks. If she owned a good dictionary, atlas, encyclopaedia, or collectable cookery books Jeremy might get his wallet out, but he would not want ordinary detective stories. Dale knew of an old family Bible, but another relative was keen to take that as an heirloom.

We travelled by train from Victoria Station to a suburb with streets and streets of semi-detached houses. His aunt's, with a large bow window and Tudor-effect boards on the façade, was one of two hundred in a long avenue. We went in and he showed me several rooms with shelves full of books. I picked a few paperbacks out at random — some crime fiction and a romantic novel. 'Not really stuff for an antiquarian bookshop; may be more a question of someone taking them off your hands.'

He pointed to an Agatha Christie. 'She's still popular.'

'On TV, certainly. Paperback reprints of her books are common. Trouble is they're two a penny. Your aunt took good care of them, but rarity is what makes an old book valuable. These paperbacks may have been precious to the old lady, but sentimental value doesn't convert into cash.'

He pointed out some book club editions of Dickens, attractively bound in leather. 'What about these?'

'They'll fetch something, but you can probably still get the same or very similar editions new, so they're not hugely sought after. No disrespect to your aunt, but I wonder if they've ever been read?'

He was disappointed. Not wanting to be insensitive, in a more kindly tone I said, 'This place is really homely, well cared for, she must have loved it here.'

'Yes, it meant so much to her. When I was a kid I used to love coming to visit. She had things hidden away in the cupboards, playing cards, old board games, even a film projector. The garage and garden sheds were packed with stuff. She used to let me explore. Wanted to keep me out of mischief, probably.'

Part of his childhood was going with the sale of the house. No wonder he was sad. I reached out and touched his shoulder sympathetically. Suddenly serious he said, 'To change the subject dramatically, Ben, there is something... '

Before he finished, I happened to glance down, and noticed on a low shelf a hardback with Loyd Larcher's name on the spine. 'What's this?' I broke in, bending to pick up the book. It was Not a Jenny More, Not a Jenny Less. A quick glance inside told me it was published in nineteen-sixty-two. No reprints were listed, and I realized that in my hands was an unblemished first edition, complete with dust jacket. The first sentence of the blurb read: When two cousins with the same name fall in love with the same man, an astonishing intrigue develops.

'We might be on to something here, Dale, this is a first edition. I told you, didn't I, that Loyd Larcher was the speaker at that dinner Jeremy took me to? He gave me his card, though we've not been in contact again.'

'Oh yes, Loyd Larcher. He was quite famous, wasn't he?'

'Your aunt might have been one of his fans. Let's see if she has any others.' We searched the bookcases and pulled out more Larcher first editions, together with other books that ought be worth more than a pittance. Among them were a dozen or more biographies, several cookery books and some lavishly illustrated volumes on astrology. They were enough to make it worth asking Jeremy what he thought.

'I'd better let my aunt know, in case she wants to keep any. I'll ring her tonight. She doesn't have much space for her personal stuff.'

'You don't want anything yourself?'

'I'm getting the hall clock for clearing the house. It's a good one. Other members of the family have had china, bits of furniture, old family photos. When the house is sold the money will be invested to help pay for her care. She's not expecting much for the books.'

The next day I showed Jeremy the list of potentially valuable books we had found. 'Well done, Ben, this is very professional. Have a word with Dale and fix a time for us to go round. Best if it's out of shop hours. I'll offer a good price, but don't build up his expectations. The Loyd Larchers are promising. You seldom see his political novel about the population explosion, So Very Many More, Not So Many Less, for sale. Most of the list, though, are not what you would call rare books ... difficult to know what they'd fetch.'

We fixed up an evening for the three of us to go to the house in Jeremy's van. The passenger seat was just large enough for two. I sat in the middle, unable to move further towards Jeremy because of the handbrake, and trying not to lean too hard on Dale when we cornered. Jeremy talked all the time about how he admired people who did socially valuable jobs in the National Health Service, about how demanding the work must be, and how generally underrated the public sector was. Then he made me cringe with embarrassment by saying, 'and of course it's good to know that someone sensible and reliable is looking after Ben.'

Dale leaned comfortingly towards me and said, 'We look after each other. It's a good arrangement.'

When we reached the house we took in empty cardboard boxes and put them on the floor of the lounge. Jeremy checked through the copies of Loyd's novels. 'Yes, ' he said, 'I think she has them all, every one. Splendid ... every one a first edition in top condition. Not signed though.' He sniffed the pages of one of them, something he occasionally did to books in the shop. 'First editions of this one, ' he continued, 'Not a Benny More, Not a Benny Less, are very hard to come by. It's about benzedrine addiction in the nineteen-fifties. Most of the print run was lost in a fire at the distributor's warehouse. Only a few dozen survived. Reprints have sold well though, plenty of them around.'

'Do Loyd Larcher's books smell nice, Jeremy?' I asked.

'Oh, a book of that age doesn't have much smell. You would pick me up on that, wouldn't you? Now Dale will think I spend half my time sniffing books. Very occasionally, say if an old book has been rebound, you can smell the solvents from the adhesive, but not enough to give a glue sniffer a kick. Die-hard book lovers enjoy the fresh smell of a new book, it's part of the obsession, I wouldn't call it substance abuse.'

Dale said, 'I probably shouldn't ask, but would the Larchers be worth more if he could be persuaded to sign them now?'

'As a general rule a signed copy is worth a bit more, but it's something done mostly to help sales when a book comes out. Marketing people get up to all kinds of tricks. I don't know about getting him to sign them now, they've been out of print for so long. Worth letting him know this set has turned up though. I'll mention they are unsigned and see what he says. He might even know of a potential buyer.'

Having put Loyd's first editions into a box, he picked up a book on astrology and flicked over the pages. 'Ah! Someone I know will definitely be interested in this! Pack all this lot up, boys, and let me have fifteen minutes to see what's left on the shelves, in case you've missed anything.'

Dale put the kettle on for tea while I filled the boxes. Jeremy joined us in the kitchen, empty-handed and said, 'You did a thorough job, you two. I'll give you the number of a dealer who shifts a lot of old paperbacks. Tell him how many there are, and if he has space he'll make an offer. If not they will have to go to a house clearance firm. Unless you want to try selling them yourself on the internet, but I fear that would be a lot of effort for not much return.' On the way back to Fulrose Court we picked up a meal at a Chinese take-away, and Jeremy bought a bottle of good wine. By the time we had eaten we were ready to turn in.

The next day he was in a trance-like state. He must have been up half the night examining the new acquisitions. He looked as though he had slept in his clothes: his shirt was crumpled, and his tie thrown back over his left shoulder. Using the excuse that he wanted to tackle the accounts, he retired to the office once we had opened up. I checked on him after about an hour, and saw him asleep at his desk. His head, sinking down, had come to rest on top of a Loyd Larcher first edition. One of his shoe laces had come undone and straggled over the floor. I was tempted to sneak up and tie it to a leg of the desk, but chickened out, afraid he would fall and hurt himself when he stood up.

He was back to normal the next day, and rang Loyd to tell him about our discovery. The timing was bad though: a new omnibus edition of his novels was due out soon and he was, understandably, too occupied with that to be much interested in our hoard. I stood by the office door hoping that my presence would remind Jeremy to ask about the work he had mentioned at the Booksellers' Guild dinner, but Loyd must have remembered it himself without being prompted, for Jeremy said, 'Yes, he is, ' and waved me over to take the phone.

Loyd explained that some time ago he had agreed to judge a short story competition. He needed help as he was about to go on a lecture tour in the US to promote his omnibus edition, and would not have time to do all the work himself. He wanted me to weed out the stories that exceeded the permitted length, were in very poor English, or were religious or political tracts masquerading as stories. A few days ago the organizers had told him that several hundred entries had come in, and many more were expected before the closing date. He thought four or five days' work would be enough for me to go through and throw out the rubbish.

I had never undertaken anything like this before, but the job sounded interesting, the money would be welcome, and it would be something to add to my CV. I said, 'I'm certainly interested. What was the competition called again?'

'The Effingham and Meadowgoose International Short Story Competition.'

'Effingham and what?'

'Meadowgoose. Strange name, I know, but it is quite well known in some circles. I'm sure Jeremy will have heard of it. Have a word with him, and call me back with a definite yes or no. I'll be here the rest of the afternoon.'

Jeremy remembered seeing some leaflets about the competition years ago, in the local library. He thought lending Loyd a hand was a good opportunity for me, and offered to watch the shop for a few extra hours to free a little of my time for the work.

I called Loyd back, and he said he would bring the entries to the shop in a week's time. So that, if he happened to ask whether I had read anything of his, I could honestly say yes, I began Not a Kilkenny More, Not a Kilkenny Less, his novel about an Irish migrant who made a fortune in the US and named a suburb of Pittsburgh after his home town.