There were dead flies in the window and thick dust over many of the objects. Carmen thought briefly back to Mrs. Marsh and what a heart attack it would have given her.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door, which tinged with an ancient bell, flattened down her hair, and walked in.

Chapter Seven

Inside the shop did not seem any less of a disaster area—or any more of a place where any sane human would want to spend her time or her money.

The main room, painted green to match the front, was lined with shelving in which books—mostly old—were jammed so tightly you couldn’t pull any of them out. The titles appeared to be filed willy-nilly. There was a large glass cabinet at the front on which sat an old-fashioned till, and inside, on the top shelf, were two or three old books on display that clearly hadn’t been touched—and Carmen had never heard of them—for a very long time. The rest of the cabinet was filled with an unruly sprinkle of invoices, paper, receipts, advertising flyers, empty envelopes, and general detritus.

“Hello?” said Carmen loudly, but there was no reply.

There was a floating set of steps to the higher shelves, but that too was piled high with what looked like atlases—not just atlases, but atlases Carmen wagered were too old to have half of the new names of countries in them. There was a section of books about Edinburgh itself that had obviously been fingered and read by tourists so often they were in a dreadful state and couldn’t possibly be sold now. A spiderweb in the corner of the window was pretty, but did not give an ideal impression, Carmen rather thought.

“Helloooooo?”

Still nothing. How on earth, thought Carmen, did this shop make a living? How?! How could it possibly support one person, never mind two?

A dilapidated metal circular display, presumably meant to be placed outside when the shop opened—although it was now ten past ten, so the shop really ought to be open already—contained a stack of creased, ancient, and wildly inappropriate postcards. Did people really want to come to Edinburgh and send home a postcard with an engagement picture of Charles and Diana?

“Um . . . Mr. McCredie?” She looked down at the floor; something seemed to be sticking to the sole of her foot, and she wasn’t completely sure she wanted to know what it was. “Mr. McCredie?”

Finally she heard from the back—if this was the front of the shop, Carmen wasn’t sure she wanted to know what the back looked like—a shuffling noise, as if someone, she thought, was trying to push his way through quite a lot of paper.