“Of course you did,” I said, moving farther into the shop as he shut the door behind us and I was enveloped in that lovely scent of paper and binding glue that pervaded libraries and bookshops and made me a little homesick. As a child when my brothers and Kit had somehow managed to evade me and escape the house on one of their adventures, and Diana was too involved in one of her personal dramas to notice me, my haven had been to curl up in my father’s library with a good book and become lost in a world where I could have adventures of my own.
Despite it being the middle of the day, the shop was mostly deserted. A young couple was pressed against one of the crowded shelves, their faces so close they were apparently more interested in each other’s pores than in the books behind them. I glanced at Drew and he gave such a perfect impersonation of the Gallic shrug that I almost laughed out loud.
Placing a hand on the small of my back, Drew led me to a high counter at the front of the shop in the triangle of windows. A large brass cash register sat regally in the middle of the countertop, surrounded by a chaotic mixture of books teetering precariously like children’s building blocks.
“Bonjour,” Drew said rather loudly, as one does when speaking to foreigners. As if the volume might compensate for the lack of proper pronunciation.
Before I could suggest that the consonant n is also usually silent, a young man popped his head up from behind the counter. “Bonjour,” he said a little warily, as if unsure of which language we were meant to be speaking.
“Do you speak English?” I asked in my best French.
His look of suspicion changed as he regarded me and my yellow spotty dress, his gaze lingering a little longer than necessary on the exposed skin of my chest before returning to my face. He was probably in his late twenties or early thirties, with dark curly hair and scruffy cheeks, wearing the ubiquitous black roll-neck sweater so common among the French youth as to be almost a uniform.
“For you, madam, of course.” His English was good although heavily accented. “How can I help you?” He directed the question to me, ignoring Drew completely.
Drew pulled out the folded piece of paper of notes from his father and checked the name. “We are looking for a Jack Laypin. Does he still work here?”
Both the young man and I looked at Drew in confusion. I gently took the note from Drew and read it myself. “I believe he meant to say Jacques Lapin. We understand that Monsieur Lapin was the bookseller here twenty years ago.”
“Ah, oui,” the young man said. “Sadly, he is no longer with us. He died some time ago. I run the bookstore now.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said. I looked at Drew, wondering what our next move should be now that our one connection to La Fleur was dead.
“But I am Philippe, his grandson. Is there something I can help with?”
Drew let out a heavy sigh. “Probably not. We were hoping your grandfather could tell us about someone who may have once been a customer during the war.”
Philippe directed a broad smile at me again, as if I were the only one who’d spoken. “I was just a little boy at the time, but I spent every day after school here in the bookshop with my grandpère. He even put a stool in front of the cash register so I could help him when the store got busy. I knew all the regulars. Is there anyone in particular you are looking for?”
I exchanged a hopeful glance with Drew. “Yes. My late husband, Kit Langford. Do you recognize the name?”
He shook his head. “No, madam. I’m sorry, but I do not.”
I hid my disappointment. “I know he purchased at least one book here, but if he wasn’t here regularly, then I don’t expect you to remember him.”
“Which book? My mère tells me I have a perfect memory—that I can remember the titles of books better than the names of the customers who purchased them.” Another shrug. “It’s doubtful, but possible I’d remember.”
I pulled out the book tucked under my arm and placed it on top of a small stack. “It’s The Scarlet Pimpernel.” I opened up the front cover. “It has the name and address of your store stamped inside the front cover.”
His dark eyes widened as he flipped the book over twice and then examined the cover. “How very strange. I remember this exact book very well, mostly because my grandfather would only ever allow one copy in the store, and if anyone tried to purchase it, he would tell the customer that it was flawed in some way and order another for them to purchase. I was also charged with shelving the books alphabetically, but if I ever saw that particular book out of order, I was to leave it alone. I never thought to question him because he was my grandfather.”
“And you don’t remember selling it?” Drew asked.
Philippe looked at him as if surprised to see him there. “No. It was never sold. It just . . . disappeared.”
“Disappeared?” Drew’s forehead wrinkled.
“Yes. There was a man who lived in the back of the bookstore. And one day poof he was gone, and so was the book.”
My gaze met Drew’s.
“This man—do you remember his name?” Drew asked.
“Oui. Christophe Legrand. He did special printing for my grandfather in the back room. I was never to mention it to anyone, especially to the Germans. He was a very nice man. He used to give me peppermints and play marbles with me. I was sad when he left.”
I attempted to keep my voice calm. “Do you remember anything about him? Anything that might help someone recognize him?”
His face scrunched in concentration before he spoke. “He smoked a pipe and he would sometimes let me help him to light it.”
My throat seemed to thicken, making it difficult to speak. “Anything else? A lot of gentlemen smoke pipes.”
He shook his head, and then stopped. “There is one thing. He wore a gold ring on his little finger. It had two swans on the flat part of it. I remember that because that’s the hand he’d use to hold his pipe.”
I felt Drew’s hand on my arm, and I realized I was shaking. He stepped away from Philippe, bringing me with him. “Kit?” he asked softly.
I nodded.
“Do you need to sit down? Or leave?”
I knew if I said yes, he wouldn’t hesitate. But I couldn’t stop here. We’d learned nothing, really, except that Kit had lived behind a bookseller’s shop under an assumed name during the war. And had perhaps stolen a book. As much as I wanted to leave, to accept that there was nothing more to be learned about my husband’s past and any association he might have had with La Fleur, I knew this couldn’t be the entire story. It was as if I’d seen my husband’s ghost, and I was determined to follow to see where it led.
“No, really. I’m fine. There was something else your father told you—something about a white wolf? Maybe Philippe will remember hearing a reference from his grandfather or Kit.”
He continued to gaze steadily at me. “Only if you’re sure. I’d be happy to walk you back to the hotel . . .”
“No,” I said a little too sharply, making him flinch slightly. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” I stopped, unsure what I was going to say. I took a deep breath. “I’d like to see this through. I’ve come all this way, so I might as well.” I forced a smile, probably the sort that Anne Boleyn wore to the chopping block, but at least it was a smile.