of the sale room, the collected murmurs and whispers of over a hundred punters settled into ranks of chairs lined up to face a stage at the far end. A simple lectern stood to one side, a stand to the other presumably for books to be placed upon. Fortunately there was little mention of the man whose books were on sale, and no photographs. Perhaps it was the notoriety of the collection, or maybe antiquarian book sales were always like this. It was the first time he’d ever been to one, so McLean couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come at all.
The sale catalogue had plopped through his letterbox a month or so earlier. At first he’d thought it was some kind of cruel joke. Then he’d noticed that it had been addressed to his grandmother, not him. Yet another mailing list woefully out of date. Donald Anderson’s shop on the Canongate had already been sold and was apparentlygoing to become a trendy wine bar. Now it was the turn of his substantial collection of rare and ancient books. The money raised, so the introduction to the catalogue stated, was to go to the Sick Kids Hospital and the Zero Tolerance campaign. Such had been Anderson’s last wishes, conveyed to his solicitors just the day before he died.
McLean hadn’t read any more than that, consigning the catalogue to the bin in the corner of the kitchen where all the junk mail went to die. But something about it had stuck with him, and two days later he’d fished it out again. Every so often he’d find himself idly leafing through it as he drank tea at the old kitchen table, wondering what possible use he might have for an obscure sixteenth-century hagiography or a bound fragment of an illuminated manuscript from an unverified source but thought to be of the St Kilda school. He had noticed a first edition of Gray’s Anatomy that looked like the sort of thing Angus Cadwallader would have loved, but why he’d noted the date and time of the sale in his diary and made sure the afternoon was free, he had no idea. Even less so why he’d actually come along.
‘Inspector. What a pleasant surprise.’
McLean looked around to see a large woman approaching. At least he thought she was a woman, though she had the largest hands he’d ever seen. She wore the sort of outfit you might expect to be taking tea in Jenner’s on a weekday afternoon, an overemphasis on tweed and heavy makeup. She was either wearing a wig or had spent the entire morning at a very skilled hairdresser’s, one who most likely trained in the 1950s. Still slightly bemused tobe at the sale, it took him too long to make the complex series of connections to a name.
‘Madame Rose.’ He nodded, shuffling sideways in his seat as she dropped herself indecorously beside him, too close for comfort. Not she at all. He. McLean remembered now, the so-called medium and fortune-teller with the shop at the bottom of Leith Walk. She’d helped … dammit, he’d helped out with the ritual killing cold case a year or so back. Had a vast collection of occult rubbish, including many ancient books, tucked away at the back of the shop. Madame Rose was also a friend of Jayne McIntyre, which had to count for something he supposed. He wondered how they’d met.
‘Just Rose is fine.’ Madame Rose settled into the seat, which creaked in protest at his considerable bulk. ‘I must say I didn’t expect to see you here. What with your connection to Anderson and all.’
‘I never really expected to come here myself.’ McLean tapped the rolled-up catalogue against his leg, considering the possibility of getting up and leaving. A few minutes earlier he might have got away with it. Now, having been recognized, it would only draw attention.
‘And yet here you are. Had your eye on anything in particular?’ The medium nodded at McLean’s rolled-up catalogue. ‘There’s some rather wonderful first editions of Wendell’s Treatise on Babylonian Magic . I do hope they don’t go for too much. Rumour has it
The sale catalogue had plopped through his letterbox a month or so earlier. At first he’d thought it was some kind of cruel joke. Then he’d noticed that it had been addressed to his grandmother, not him. Yet another mailing list woefully out of date. Donald Anderson’s shop on the Canongate had already been sold and was apparentlygoing to become a trendy wine bar. Now it was the turn of his substantial collection of rare and ancient books. The money raised, so the introduction to the catalogue stated, was to go to the Sick Kids Hospital and the Zero Tolerance campaign. Such had been Anderson’s last wishes, conveyed to his solicitors just the day before he died.
McLean hadn’t read any more than that, consigning the catalogue to the bin in the corner of the kitchen where all the junk mail went to die. But something about it had stuck with him, and two days later he’d fished it out again. Every so often he’d find himself idly leafing through it as he drank tea at the old kitchen table, wondering what possible use he might have for an obscure sixteenth-century hagiography or a bound fragment of an illuminated manuscript from an unverified source but thought to be of the St Kilda school. He had noticed a first edition of Gray’s Anatomy that looked like the sort of thing Angus Cadwallader would have loved, but why he’d noted the date and time of the sale in his diary and made sure the afternoon was free, he had no idea. Even less so why he’d actually come along.
‘Inspector. What a pleasant surprise.’
McLean looked around to see a large woman approaching. At least he thought she was a woman, though she had the largest hands he’d ever seen. She wore the sort of outfit you might expect to be taking tea in Jenner’s on a weekday afternoon, an overemphasis on tweed and heavy makeup. She was either wearing a wig or had spent the entire morning at a very skilled hairdresser’s, one who most likely trained in the 1950s. Still slightly bemused tobe at the sale, it took him too long to make the complex series of connections to a name.
‘Madame Rose.’ He nodded, shuffling sideways in his seat as she dropped herself indecorously beside him, too close for comfort. Not she at all. He. McLean remembered now, the so-called medium and fortune-teller with the shop at the bottom of Leith Walk. She’d helped … dammit, he’d helped out with the ritual killing cold case a year or so back. Had a vast collection of occult rubbish, including many ancient books, tucked away at the back of the shop. Madame Rose was also a friend of Jayne McIntyre, which had to count for something he supposed. He wondered how they’d met.
‘Just Rose is fine.’ Madame Rose settled into the seat, which creaked in protest at his considerable bulk. ‘I must say I didn’t expect to see you here. What with your connection to Anderson and all.’
‘I never really expected to come here myself.’ McLean tapped the rolled-up catalogue against his leg, considering the possibility of getting up and leaving. A few minutes earlier he might have got away with it. Now, having been recognized, it would only draw attention.
‘And yet here you are. Had your eye on anything in particular?’ The medium nodded at McLean’s rolled-up catalogue. ‘There’s some rather wonderful first editions of Wendell’s Treatise on Babylonian Magic . I do hope they don’t go for too much. Rumour has it
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