upstairs. "I suppose we could check quickly." It would not be that difficult to climb a few stairs to make certain that the manuscript was not up there. "Perhaps we will find Mr. Beasley waiting for you."
"Perhaps." He was not fooled by her show of bravado. "I will return shortly to deal with him, after I have seen you safely home."
That would not do. "And what if he is gone, then?" She could see that he considered it a real possibility, but he merely shrugged and smiled at her in a way that reminded her of last night, when he had been in his shirt sleeves. "If he is, then I will accept that I have been fortunate to have avoided being taken in by a hoax."
"But you will come back to check after you bring me home?" She could not bear it if he lost the manuscript because of her cowardice.
He nodded and then stopped. He turned his head. "Do you hear that?"
"What?"
"A knocking sound?"
She paused to listen, enveloped by a sense of coming doom, hoping for a terrible moment that she would hear only silence because she wanted nothing more than to leave this shadow-strewn shop behind. But the sound was clear, even if it was faint. Reluctantly, she nodded. "It is coming from upstairs."
"Wait outside while I check to make sure that Mr. Beasley has not fallen or hurt himself in some way."
She knew well enough that he worried the shopkeeper had been hurt by the one who had left the note for them to find. "I would prefer to go with you, I think," she said.
He looked as if he might protest, his lips parting. However, having learned a trick or two from her sisters, she quickly began to ascend the stairs before he could voice his agreement or disagreement with her wishes.
"It would be wiser if you waited outside," he said as they climbed the staircase.
"Then I am not being wise today," she answered sharply. She had no intention of wandering idly through the other shops on the street while he might be facing a madman alone.
They followed the sound up a flight of bare steps, through a wide door with a padlock hanging loose, and up a final rickety flight of stairs that creaked ominously under the weight of their careful feet.
"What do you think it is?" She asked the question only to break the dreadful silence that made her want to scream and run. "Perhaps," she offered, "it might be a loose shutter. Or a roof board."
He took her hand and squeezed it briefly, but did not let go as they continued. "Or perhaps Mr. Beasley came upstairs, fell, and now cannot get down the stairs by himself to seek help."
"Or call out. " She took comfort in feel of his strong fingers entwined with hers. The shimmering feeling from last night returned, spreading out through the grip of their hands to encompass her. The feeling mingled with her dread, but did not ease it away.
"He is elderly, I know, but surely we would hear his voice calling by now?" She pictured the man lying injured upstairs, the victim of the note writer who was tormenting Arthur.
They opened the last small door and ascended three final steps, finding themselves in a small, dustless chamber at the top of the shop, lined with yet more books. Mr. Beasley was nowhere to be found — injured or well — in any of the rooms.
One small octagonal window let in light. Somehow Hero was comforted to see the patch of blue sky above them. It almost seemed that their journey up the stairs had taken them hours rather than minutes, that she should see stars through the windowpane.
"There's no one here," she said with relief. And then she realized that the rhythmic sound had in fact stopped. She looked at Arthur and saw that he, too, had realized . . . and then the door behind them slammed shut.
At first she thought it an accident. The sound of a bolt being slid home sent a cold chill up her spine.
She broke the connection of their hands and raced for the door. "Mr. Beasley, there's someone up here, don't lock us in." Silence.
"Mr. Beasley!" She pounded on the door. The elderly proprietor of
"Perhaps." He was not fooled by her show of bravado. "I will return shortly to deal with him, after I have seen you safely home."
That would not do. "And what if he is gone, then?" She could see that he considered it a real possibility, but he merely shrugged and smiled at her in a way that reminded her of last night, when he had been in his shirt sleeves. "If he is, then I will accept that I have been fortunate to have avoided being taken in by a hoax."
"But you will come back to check after you bring me home?" She could not bear it if he lost the manuscript because of her cowardice.
He nodded and then stopped. He turned his head. "Do you hear that?"
"What?"
"A knocking sound?"
She paused to listen, enveloped by a sense of coming doom, hoping for a terrible moment that she would hear only silence because she wanted nothing more than to leave this shadow-strewn shop behind. But the sound was clear, even if it was faint. Reluctantly, she nodded. "It is coming from upstairs."
"Wait outside while I check to make sure that Mr. Beasley has not fallen or hurt himself in some way."
She knew well enough that he worried the shopkeeper had been hurt by the one who had left the note for them to find. "I would prefer to go with you, I think," she said.
He looked as if he might protest, his lips parting. However, having learned a trick or two from her sisters, she quickly began to ascend the stairs before he could voice his agreement or disagreement with her wishes.
"It would be wiser if you waited outside," he said as they climbed the staircase.
"Then I am not being wise today," she answered sharply. She had no intention of wandering idly through the other shops on the street while he might be facing a madman alone.
They followed the sound up a flight of bare steps, through a wide door with a padlock hanging loose, and up a final rickety flight of stairs that creaked ominously under the weight of their careful feet.
"What do you think it is?" She asked the question only to break the dreadful silence that made her want to scream and run. "Perhaps," she offered, "it might be a loose shutter. Or a roof board."
He took her hand and squeezed it briefly, but did not let go as they continued. "Or perhaps Mr. Beasley came upstairs, fell, and now cannot get down the stairs by himself to seek help."
"Or call out. " She took comfort in feel of his strong fingers entwined with hers. The shimmering feeling from last night returned, spreading out through the grip of their hands to encompass her. The feeling mingled with her dread, but did not ease it away.
"He is elderly, I know, but surely we would hear his voice calling by now?" She pictured the man lying injured upstairs, the victim of the note writer who was tormenting Arthur.
They opened the last small door and ascended three final steps, finding themselves in a small, dustless chamber at the top of the shop, lined with yet more books. Mr. Beasley was nowhere to be found — injured or well — in any of the rooms.
One small octagonal window let in light. Somehow Hero was comforted to see the patch of blue sky above them. It almost seemed that their journey up the stairs had taken them hours rather than minutes, that she should see stars through the windowpane.
"There's no one here," she said with relief. And then she realized that the rhythmic sound had in fact stopped. She looked at Arthur and saw that he, too, had realized . . . and then the door behind them slammed shut.
At first she thought it an accident. The sound of a bolt being slid home sent a cold chill up her spine.
She broke the connection of their hands and raced for the door. "Mr. Beasley, there's someone up here, don't lock us in." Silence.
"Mr. Beasley!" She pounded on the door. The elderly proprietor of
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