The case of the missing books by Ian Sansom Page B
Authors: Ian Sansom
Tags: Fiction, General, detective, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Fiction - Mystery, Mystery & Detective - General, Jews, Ireland, Theft, Librarians, English Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Traveling libraries, Jews - Ireland
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began.
The stubbly old man stared at Israel with beady, watery blue eyes for a moment before speaking.
'Surely, doesn't the Good Lord tell us that if you entertain a stranger you entertain Me.'
'Right,' said Israel. Oh, God.
'And we're being paid for it, Granda.'
'Aye, well.'
'He's the librarian, Granda. Do you remember?'
'He doesn't look like a librarian. He looks as if he's the blavers.'
'Blavers?' said Israel.
'Ach, Granda,' said Brownie scoldingly. 'Can I get you some coffee, Israel?'
'Erm, yes, thanks,' said Israel, disarmed by the boy's easy-going manner. 'A cup of coffee would be great.'
'Espresso? Cappuccino?'
'Young people today,' mumbled the old man, to no one in particular.
'I'll take an espresso if you have one—' began Israel.
'No, I'm joking,' said Brownie. 'It's instant.'
'Right. Well, whatever.' He became conscious of his dripping onto the floor. 'And I…erm. If you don't mind, while you're…The lady–erm–George?'
'Yes.'
'Right. Yes. George said you'd be able to dry off these clothes for me? They got a bit wet. Out in the farmyard there?'
'Spot of rain?'
'Yes,' said Israel, abashed. 'You could say that.'
'No problem. We'll just put them on the Rayburn here. That'll do it. And what happened to your eye?'
'It was just an…accident,' said Israel, remembering now why his whole head hurt, and why he couldn't see properly.
'You've a rare 'un there,' said Brownie. 'Should have seen the other fella though, eh?'
'Yes.'
'It's an absolute beauty.'
'Right.'
'Like a big ripe plum so it is.'
'Yes.'
'Does it hurt?'
'Yes. Thanks. Well. I'll just pop and get some spare trousers and what have you.'
'It's all right,' said Brownie. 'I'll lend you some of mine, sure. You'll starve of the cold out there. You warm yourself by the stove. I'll only be a wee minute.'
Brownie left the room, leaving Israel alone with the old man.
'So,' Israel ventured, struggling to think of some useful conversational gambit to get things going. 'Is it your farm, then, Mr…?'
'My farm?' said the old man, fixing Israel with a suspicious stare.
'Yes.'
'Of course it's my farm.'
'Right.' That was the end of that conversation then.
'It was my farm,' continued the old man, as if Israel was in some way to blame for this apparently sudden and parlous state of affairs.
'Right. It's a lovely…' Israel tried to think of the right adjective to describe a farm. 'Erm. Big farm.'
'Not really.'
'No,' agreed Israel. 'Of course. It's not that big.'
'Fifty acres.'
'Fifty? That's quite a lot, isn't it. I mean an acre is…' He had no idea how big an acre is. 'Quite a size.'
'We had five hundred at one time.'
'I see.'
'Had to sell 'em all. To survive.'
Israel nodded.
'Developers,' said the old man. 'From down south. And the mainland.' He spoke this last word with some menace. 'Now we've just the fifty. Far barn's gone.'
'Well, I suppose fifty's better than nothing,' said Israel nonsensically.
'Hmm. All George's now. Signed over to her.'
'I see. And how…long have you been farming here yourselves?'
'Since 1698.'
At which point, thankfully, Brownie re-entered the room.
'The boy here prefers his books to proper work,' said the old man, nodding at Brownie.
'Right,' said Israel, struggling to find some possible change of subject, his agricultural chat having proved predictably inadequate. 'Are you a student then?'
'Yep,' agreed Brownie, proffering a T-shirt, and trousers and socks, and a towel.
'Thanks. What are you studying?'
'Philosophy actually.'
'Oh right. My goodness. Very good. Where?'
'Cambridge.'
'Oh really? I was at Oxford.'
'Wow. What college?'
'It was the, er, other place actually.'
'What?'
'Oxford Brookes.'
'Oh, right. Is that the old poly?'
'Yes. Yes, it is…'
'It's got a very good reputation, hasn't it?'
'Yes…'
Israel quickly changed the subject, his less than illustrious academic career not being a subject he wished to dwell upon: he should have got a 2:1 at least.
'Can I change into
The stubbly old man stared at Israel with beady, watery blue eyes for a moment before speaking.
'Surely, doesn't the Good Lord tell us that if you entertain a stranger you entertain Me.'
'Right,' said Israel. Oh, God.
'And we're being paid for it, Granda.'
'Aye, well.'
'He's the librarian, Granda. Do you remember?'
'He doesn't look like a librarian. He looks as if he's the blavers.'
'Blavers?' said Israel.
'Ach, Granda,' said Brownie scoldingly. 'Can I get you some coffee, Israel?'
'Erm, yes, thanks,' said Israel, disarmed by the boy's easy-going manner. 'A cup of coffee would be great.'
'Espresso? Cappuccino?'
'Young people today,' mumbled the old man, to no one in particular.
'I'll take an espresso if you have one—' began Israel.
'No, I'm joking,' said Brownie. 'It's instant.'
'Right. Well, whatever.' He became conscious of his dripping onto the floor. 'And I…erm. If you don't mind, while you're…The lady–erm–George?'
'Yes.'
'Right. Yes. George said you'd be able to dry off these clothes for me? They got a bit wet. Out in the farmyard there?'
'Spot of rain?'
'Yes,' said Israel, abashed. 'You could say that.'
'No problem. We'll just put them on the Rayburn here. That'll do it. And what happened to your eye?'
'It was just an…accident,' said Israel, remembering now why his whole head hurt, and why he couldn't see properly.
'You've a rare 'un there,' said Brownie. 'Should have seen the other fella though, eh?'
'Yes.'
'It's an absolute beauty.'
'Right.'
'Like a big ripe plum so it is.'
'Yes.'
'Does it hurt?'
'Yes. Thanks. Well. I'll just pop and get some spare trousers and what have you.'
'It's all right,' said Brownie. 'I'll lend you some of mine, sure. You'll starve of the cold out there. You warm yourself by the stove. I'll only be a wee minute.'
Brownie left the room, leaving Israel alone with the old man.
'So,' Israel ventured, struggling to think of some useful conversational gambit to get things going. 'Is it your farm, then, Mr…?'
'My farm?' said the old man, fixing Israel with a suspicious stare.
'Yes.'
'Of course it's my farm.'
'Right.' That was the end of that conversation then.
'It was my farm,' continued the old man, as if Israel was in some way to blame for this apparently sudden and parlous state of affairs.
'Right. It's a lovely…' Israel tried to think of the right adjective to describe a farm. 'Erm. Big farm.'
'Not really.'
'No,' agreed Israel. 'Of course. It's not that big.'
'Fifty acres.'
'Fifty? That's quite a lot, isn't it. I mean an acre is…' He had no idea how big an acre is. 'Quite a size.'
'We had five hundred at one time.'
'I see.'
'Had to sell 'em all. To survive.'
Israel nodded.
'Developers,' said the old man. 'From down south. And the mainland.' He spoke this last word with some menace. 'Now we've just the fifty. Far barn's gone.'
'Well, I suppose fifty's better than nothing,' said Israel nonsensically.
'Hmm. All George's now. Signed over to her.'
'I see. And how…long have you been farming here yourselves?'
'Since 1698.'
At which point, thankfully, Brownie re-entered the room.
'The boy here prefers his books to proper work,' said the old man, nodding at Brownie.
'Right,' said Israel, struggling to find some possible change of subject, his agricultural chat having proved predictably inadequate. 'Are you a student then?'
'Yep,' agreed Brownie, proffering a T-shirt, and trousers and socks, and a towel.
'Thanks. What are you studying?'
'Philosophy actually.'
'Oh right. My goodness. Very good. Where?'
'Cambridge.'
'Oh really? I was at Oxford.'
'Wow. What college?'
'It was the, er, other place actually.'
'What?'
'Oxford Brookes.'
'Oh, right. Is that the old poly?'
'Yes. Yes, it is…'
'It's got a very good reputation, hasn't it?'
'Yes…'
Israel quickly changed the subject, his less than illustrious academic career not being a subject he wished to dwell upon: he should have got a 2:1 at least.
'Can I change into
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