Page 65 of The Undercover Bookshop

The younger one puts a hand to his arm. I can tell by the wrinkling of his sleeve the older one is getting a little tug backwards. “What Mr. Skardon means is that it is safest for you if there are not more copies. It’s best to keep information contained, if you understand.”

Two things feel obvious to me—one, he is right, and two, I don’t have a choice. Yet I stall. I can’t help myself.

“Don’t you want to know where I found them? Don’t you want me to come to your office and answer questions? Don’t you want to know what I think and what I’ve heard?”

Again, the younger man’s mouth lifts. Just a corner and just a smidge. “For now, we want to make sure you aren’t wasting our time.”

The older man, Mr. Skardon, holds out his hand.

I tug open my handbag and tug out the mass of now-crumpled paper. I reach past Mr. Skardon’s flapping fingers and shove them to an amused Mr. Serpell.

“Thank you.” He slides the papers into the brown leather briefcase he’s been holding in his left hand and snaps it closed. “You’ve done a good thing, Miss Brown. We’ve had eyes on Mr. Beurton for some time, and if these prove interesting, we’ll reach out. But do not make any attempt to contact us. Your job is done.”

“But it’s not Mr.—”

“Good day, Miss Brown,” Mr. Skardon says, cutting me off. Mr. Serpell has already turned away.

This time I’m the one to wrinkle the fabric of his sleeve. I grab on tight, which spins him around in alarm. “Miss B—”

“Those papers concern Mrs. Beurton, not Mr. Beurton.” I point to Mr. Serpell’s briefcase as he stops only a foot away. “She’s the spy.”

Confusion clouds their eyes, but only for a second. By the time they address me again, smug arrogance has replaced their confusion.

“We’ll be in touch, Miss Brown. Leave it to the professionals.”

They walk away, and I want to stamp my feet. So I do. And it makes my head hurt.

They’re chasing the wrong Beurton!

Chapter 26

Monday, 27 February 1950

Despite arriving to work a half hour early this morning, I find I’m not the first one in. Mr. Hastings crouches in the main aisle stocking tinned goods on the lower shelves.

“Let me do that, sir.”

He works his way to standing and steps towards me. “All better, Gemma?”

“All better, sir.” I grin.

His eyes drift from mine to the top of my head, and considering he’s a good six inches taller than I am, I know he can see the wound and stitches across my crown.

“It’s a nasty thing that happened. Such a scare. The roads can be slippery this time of year. I’m awful sorry you had such a hard fall.”

I nod, a little surprised but pleased Peggy’s story is still holding. Charlie and I talked about it at the end of last week, when he visited for a moment, but I haven’t seen him since. He went home to Oxford for the weekend to visit his parents, and I encouraged him to go. Guilt was eating at me. I promised to back off—for him, really—and then I went behind his back to the auto body shop. I’m not sure what to do about that now. The lie feels terrible. But, I remind myself, no one has reached out. So maybe there was nothing in those papers of interest after all, and the whole thing is over.

“Gemma?”

“Yes, sorry, I’m listening.”

He exhales that soft grandfatherly laugh I’ve come to love. “You were a million miles away.”

“I’m back now and ready to work.”

He looks about the store with a gleam of pride. “We aren’t too shabby, are we? Mrs. Hastings came in each day and helped with the books, too, so we didn’t fall behind there either. I’d say we’re shipshape.” He faces me again. “That means you take it easy today, do what you want, and ease back slowly.”

“I’m fine, Mr. Hastings. Truly.” I take the tin of green beans from his hand and go back to the cart he’s pushed from the storeroom and start restocking the shelves.