The Marsh Madness

Best of all, the ad hadn’t been up long.

I happily drove to Grandville, glad to get there before any book scouts descended. Not that I had anything against other scouts; after all, I was one myself in a limited way. And I counted on my contacts to keep Vera’s collection improving. Aside from that, I also made a bit on the books I found in the church bazaars, secondhand stores, Goodwill, garage sales and other rich sources. Several of the scouts were also my customers.

Labeled boxes were stacked by the front door when I arrived. Although the packing looked orderly, the place had that forlorn feeling that houses get in a move. I was greeted by a tall woman with shoulder-length wavy auburn hair and a full, almost voluptuous figure. There was something familiar about her. “I’m Larraine Gorman,” she said, “and the noises you hear from upstairs would be Doug. Ignore them and him.”

Larraine looked like she would have been more at home on a Titian canvas than in this jumbled, box-laden foyer. My uncles would have been captivated by her.

She’d put aside the books I wanted, neatly packaged up in two boxes and labeled “NGAIO MARSH.” I could tell that the owner was parting with them reluctantly. “No changing your mind,” her husband had boomed from upstairs as she greeted me. “And see if she’ll take some clothes while you’re at it.”

She rolled her eyes and called back, “How about some golf clubs? I could slip in a few of those.”

I grinned. “It’s not easy cutting back, is it?”

“It certainly isn’t. This downsizing effort is killing me,” she said. “I don’t mind ditching the knickknacks, but it’s hard to get rid of my books. I’ve read them all more than once and treasured each one.”

I got that.

“If it’s any consolation,” I said, “they’re going to a good home. My employer collects first editions. I can’t afford that, but I have my own little collection. And every book in it gets treated like a fine first.”

“That’s a relief,” she said with a wan smile.

I checked out the other boxes of books, in case there were volumes we needed or with good resale prospects. Nothing wrong with funding future projects with a quick flip. I found some likely candidates and put them aside, before I opened the two Marsh boxes to check the condition of the books. I may have purred with delight as I inspected each book. I loved how the covers reflected the style of the era. Many of the Fontana reprints even had a charming little inset with a painting of Inspector Alleyn on the back and some details about him. “Educated at Eton and moulded in the diplomatic service,” I noted and in my opinion both environments had served him well.

I checked inside and, sure enough, several had maps and floor plans of the grand house in that book. I loved that. Most had the cast of characters before the first chapter. I’d appreciated those lists when I first discovered Marsh. The device hadn’t lost its charm. I wished more authors would give their readers a break by doing this.

I chuckled over the names in the lists: Cressida and Cuthbert, Nigel, Peregrine and Sir Hubert, Chloris and Aubrey, Sebastian, Barnaby and Hamilton, Cedric, Desdemona and Millamant! I thought they were all delicious. A new batch of names in every book. Of course, there’d be crowds of butlers and footmen, cooks and maids. Some staff would rate a name, but not all.

I looked forward to meeting more of Marsh’s characters. Some would die in the interests of the story. In most cases, the death would be grisly and possibly bloody, but it would get our attention and teach us that this was a murderer who meant business and would stop at nothing. Ruthlessness can keep us turning pages. Never fear, Roderick Alleyn would put things right again.

I was counting on it. I noticed Larraine grinning at me. “You seem to appreciate them. I hate to give them up. It’s like letting go of friends. So I’m glad you’ve discovered Ngaio Marsh.”