“She absolutely does mean loads of harm! If by harm you mean taking money away from you and food out of our mouths and ruining our books and cluttering up the shop!”

“But look,” said Mr. McCredie, as the door tinged. “My dearest girl, you have brought so many people in. So many.”

Carmen was incredibly gratified by this statement when he stopped talking and gripped the bench he was leaning against. A group of tall, fair-haired people had stepped in. They were well dressed and rich-looking, clearly European tourists, a combination Carmen had already learned that, while not quite as excellent a prospect as American tourists, nonetheless remained a very good opportunity, so she pushed forward the lovely tartan copy of a Scottish festivities recipe-and-decorating book right under their noses: many people liked to re-create Hogmanay and ceilidhs and black bun and other Scottish treats at home for themselves once they had left their holiday behind, and this was the perfect book for them to do it with.

“Hello,” said the woman at the front of the group. She seemed friendly, with the look of someone who was almost certainly the backbone of any local charity committee she sat on. “Excuse me?” The voice was northern European—German? Dutch? She smiled but also looked a little anxious. “We were looking for the McCredie family?”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” said Carmen, turning around to where Mr. McCredie was—but he had vanished.

With a quick side glance at Mrs. McGeoghan, Carmen shot off through the stacks. “Mr. McCredie!”

She came upon him practically cowering in his armchair, the complete opposite to the emboldened man he’d been that week, shoveling the snow from the sidewalk in his finnesko.

“Mr. McCredie, there’s someone here who wants a word.”

“I don’t want to see them.”

“Do you know them?”

His face paled, and he shook his head. “I don’t . . . I don’t think so.”

“So what’s . . . what’s the matter? They’re not creditors, are they?”

He shook his head. “I don’t . . . I just . . .”

“Can I deal with them for you?”

“No, I don’t . . . Thanks . . . No, please just say I’m unavailable.”

Carmen put her hand on his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He looked terribly pale in the dim light. “Yes. Please just . . .”

He flapped his hands uselessly in the direction of the shop.

Carmen returned, looking warily at the family.

“We are so sorry,” said the woman. “I did not mean to disturb you. We found some very old letters that came from here, that was all.”

And she left a card reading “Gretl Koonings,” with a +49 code on it.

Chapter Twenty-Five