Page 8 of The Secret Christmas Library
The train was extraordinarily long, carriage after carriage. Once past the start, and the seated areas, it grew quieter. Mirren looked sadly through the windows at people opening little doors into cosily appointed cabins, with tartan-carpeted rooms, and beds with crisp clean duvets on them; tiny sinks and a shower; bottles of water and toiletries neatly arrayed. Her heart sank. It looked so warm and cosy, when she was so freezing and sad. She was obviously being taken to another seated carriage, presumably at the other end of the train.
They were almost fully back out in the dark sooty air of the London night by the time they reached the very end of the train and the very last carriage. The final carriage, right before the engine, was not blue at all. It was a dark, rich red. Instead of large, rounded-edged windows, it had an old-fashioned slammable door and windows that could open. It had obviously been attached from a completely different train; it was a different make and model altogether from the sleek new Caledonian Sleeper. Oh, great. Maybe she had to sit all the way on an Underground seat.
‘Ma’am,’ said the attendant, tipping their hat, as the door swung open.
Mirren mounted the steps, carrying her wheelie bag, and turned right into the carriage. She expected an electric door, but there was a handle. Then, when she got inside, she stopped dead.
6
‘No way . . . ’ she breathed, out loud. Then blinked twice. It had already been a very confusing evening. Was that . . .? It couldn’t be.
The small door opened out into a carriage with no partitions in it, so in fact it was more like a very long, if narrow, room. It was markedly bigger than Mirren would have imagined. Her brain still couldn’t quite take in what she was seeing. But the carriage – room, home, whatever you wanted to call it – was done out like a . . . well, there was no other word for it. It was done out like a library.
There was faded cloth wallpaper on the walls around the windows, which themselves had proper burgundy printed curtains, with tiebacks. And around and above the windows there were books: old books, in careful bookshelves with high lintels, to keep the books safe on sharp corners. There were comfortable, rather chintzy sofas along the windows; an antique armoire for writing at; a baby grand piano at which Mirren stared in disbelief, and a small bar with old crystal decanters. Hunting scenes were on the walls, and brass lights let out a warm glow into the darkness. At the far end, with two chairs set in front of it, was an actual coal fire.
‘No way,’ she breathed.
A man wearing a tie came forward from behind the bar; she hadn’t noticed him at first.
‘What is this place?’ she asked in wonder.
‘Welcome to the McKinnon Carriage,’ said the man. ‘May I offer you a drink?’
Mirren was already walking forward into this extraordinary room.
‘No way!’ She was furious that she didn’t have her phone to take pictures. ‘Is this . . . is this for people who are targets of assassins?’
‘Ma’am,’ said the man, smiling indulgently. ‘Could I offer you a hot snack?’
But Mirren’s attention was suddenly stolen by something else: a figure in one of the two seats next to the fire, which, she realised now, was electric, not coal, but remarkably convincing, and certainly gave out a good heat. Compared to the freezing railway platform the warmth was absolutely delicious, and she could think of nothing more appealing than sinking into an armchair with one of the books around the place.
The barman reappeared. ‘I took the liberty of making you a hot toddy,’ he said. ‘Many passengers feel like one when they board, but if you’d like anything else, just ask.’
Whatever it was, it smelled like heaven.
‘No, no, that’s fine,’ said Mirren, gratefully taking the thick, warm glass and inhaling the mingled odours of whisky, brown sugar, cloves and lemon gratefully. ‘Thank you.’
The figure in the armchair turned round, and Mirren braced herself to say hello to the strange man from the library.
‘Mirren bloody Sutherland! I wondered if I’d see you!’
It was the ghosting bookseller himself. Theo Palliser.
7
In what had already been an extremely surprising week for Mirren, this was perhaps the most surprising of all. Immediately she was furious that he was seeing her with a tear-stained face, mascara all down it, a stupid neck pillow – aneck pillow– hanging off her, her coat dirty from the station and not warm enough for the weather.
Because she had forgotten how attractive he was. Devastating: so pale and thin, those great big dark eyes, the clever eyebrows permanently arched as if he was on the brink of saying something wicked, which he generally was. When Theo was about, with his courtly manners and sparkling black eyes, his quick wit and taste for adventure made him irresistible to be with. Of course, Mirren had realised painfully over the last long months, she probably wasn’t the only one who thought so.
‘What are you doing here?’ said Mirren.
‘Miss Sutherland,’ he returned, in his overly formal way.
‘Why are you even . . . ’ She looked around. ‘Wherever the hell we are?’
‘Book business,’ said Theo, smiling. ‘My uncle sent me.’
‘I thought you weren’t working for him any more.’
