*Indeed I am,' replied Joe. *A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Leafbinder.' He took her bloodless hand in his and kissed it with great ceremony.

Perigoe allowed her hand to linger, remembering for an instant a time when she might have blushed at such a gesture.

*How may I help you?' she asked and winked three times.

*I seek a book,' said Joe, *about animals, amphibians in particular, by S. E. Salter. I was hoping that you might possess such a volume.'

*Well, I believe I do,' said Perigoe and glided across the floor, almost as if she was not in possession of feet, to find it. She returned quickly and handed a book to Joe, a slim volume with a hard cover and colour plates. He held it firmly between thumb and forefinger and looked her deep in the eyes. Perigoe found it difficult to avert her gaze.

*I thought you might wish to share a drink with me,' he suggested. *Tonight, perhaps?'

Perigoe nodded slowly and her eyelid flapped like a sheet in the wind. She wanted to look away but for some reason she was unable. Soft music filled her head, like early-morning birdsong, and her bony fingertips were beginning to p.r.i.c.kle as if she had been stung by nettles.

*At midnight?'

Perigoe nodded again.

*Until then,' said Joe, breaking the spell, and he went to the door. He held up the book.

*How much do I owe you?'

Perigoe's heart was fluttering like a trapped moth and she had to steady herself on a shelf. *There's no charge,' she whispered.

Joe reached for the doork.n.o.b as a dark shadow on the other side filled the frame. He could hear the sound of heavy breathing and moments later Jeremiah Ratchet burst in like an over-fermented bottle of ale popping its cork. When he saw Joe he snorted scornfully. Joe merely stepped back to allow him entrance, tipped his hat in greeting and slipped out without a backwards glance.

As they made their way back to the shop Ludlow wondered what business Jeremiah had with Perigoe. Surely he was not a man of letters. Ludlow tried to read the t.i.tle of the book Joe now held, something about amphibians, but it was obscured by the folds of his cloak.

To the outsider, compared to most others in the village Perigoe Leafbinder had a good life. She ran a successful business and did not want for money. She had enjoyed her married life, and now she was equally satisfied with widowhood. But still she stood under the three golden orbs at midnight. Like so many of her fellow Pagus Parvians, she harboured a ruinous secret that would not leave her be. She raised her arm in the light of the expectant three-quarter moon.

Joe opened the door before she could knock.

*Mrs Leafbinder,' he said, *I've been expecting you.'

Perigoe glided in silently and Joe led her to the back room.

*So what is it you do up here late at night?' she asked and her eyelid twitched rapidly.

*I buy secrets.'

Perigoe adjusted her spectacles nervously as she considered what she had just heard. Finally she said, *I have a secret I'd like to sell. Will you take it?'

*But of course,' replied Joe and handed her a gla.s.s. *I am sure that any secret of yours would be of the highest quality and worth a good sum of money.'

Perigoe blushed and winked twice, took a small sip of the syrupy liquid and began.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Extract from The Black Book of Secrets The Bookseller's Confession My name is Perigoe Leafbinder and I have a wretched admission.

The Leafbinders have been in the business of books for nearly two centuries and I am proud to carry on the tradition. I have spent thirty years of my life in this shop and G.o.d willing I should like to spend another thirty, but if I cannot free my tortured mind I doubt I'll see out another year.

There is in existence a book of which three copies are considered immensely valuable. The story itself is not of any great interest or literary worth, merely the simple tale of a mountain shepherd. What makes the book sought after is the fact that the thirteenth line on the thirteenth page is printed backwards. No one knows how this happened; some believe the printer was in league with Beelzebub and the words were turned during one of his devilish ceremonies. Others say the letters were reversed by a flash of lightning from heaven, a sign of approval from the greatest shepherd of them all, the Lord himself. Or maybe it was the printer's young apprentice a" he liked a drink and enjoyed a joke. Whatever the reason, out of the two hundred printed copies of the book this mistake occurs only in three.

The whereabouts of two of the three misprinted books is known: one is in a museum in a foreign city, the other is with the family of the shepherd who wrote the tale. They live with their sheep on the mountains and are rarely seen. They have kept it for generations and refuse to sell it at any price. They say that money is of no value to them. The third book had been missing for almost two hundred years. It was thought to no longer exist.

To possess this volume would bring instant fame and wealth and I, like many others, have dreamed for years of finding it, but in vain.

Some months ago I was in my shop when I heard the bell and I saw a frail old woman making her way slowly between the bookcases. She walked stiffly with the aid of two sticks. Her left elbow was held tightly against her side, making her slow progress even more painful, and I could see at once that she concealed something beneath her cloak.

I stepped out into her path and greeted her and I led her into the office, where she leaned her sticks against the desk. It was nearly six and I was looking forward to closing up and retiring for the day. In an effort to hurry things along I enq uired rather brusq uely, *Madam, how may I help you?'

She eyed me with suspicion, and asked, *Do you buy books?'

I nodded.

*What would you say this is worth?'

She took a tatty volume in maroon leather from beneath her cloak and proffered it across the table. She seemed unwilling to let it out of her grasp and I had to tug with some strength to relieve her of it. She kept her little black eyes on me all the time.

I examined the novel, rather carelessly at first, for I felt it could not be of much value. The leather cover was stained and worn, the t.i.tle was illegible, and it looked as if it had been q uite badly treated.

But when I opened it I was q uite unprepared for what I saw. There on the t.i.tle page were the words: *The Loneliness of the High Mountain Shepherd by Arthur Wolman'.

My heart lurched in my chest. Could this be the missing third copy? The old lady's eyes were boring into me all the time as I carried out my examination. Casually I turned the pages. They were brown with age and mould and some were stuck together. I reached page thirteen and I was close to apoplexy when I read it. The thirteenth line was reversed.

*.yadnus a no peehs ym raehs ot dekil I'

*Hmm,' I mused as if in two minds about something. And indeed I was. Imagine, in my hands I held a book that could bring me acclaim and riches, but only then did I realize I could not afford to buy it. In my dreams I had never considered how I would pay for it; I had only ever thought that somehow the book would be mine.

I reasoned that I had two choices. I could pretend the book was worthless and offer the old lady a token amount of money or I could tell her the truth and then she would go away and sell it to someone who could pay.

The q uestion was: did she know the value of the book? I could feel droplets of sweat on my forehead and it took all my concentration to stop my hands from shaking. Her eyes were like needles in my skin.

*Well?' she said rather testily.

My answer sealed my miserable fate.

*It is an interesting volume,' I said slowly, *but it is not particularly valuable.' Those words set me on a path from which there was no return.

She looked disappointed and for one brief instance I allowed myself to hope. Could it be possible she was ignorant of its true worth?

*But,' I said, trying to rea.s.sure her, *it just so happens that I have a customer who has an interest in this author, so I should be glad to give you ten shillings for it. I am sure you agree that is a generous offer, considering its rather poor condition.'

I smiled, charitably, I thought. The old lady smiled back, in a mean-mouthed tight-lipped sort of way.

Then she opened those thin lips and hissed, *You filthy liar. You low-down cheat. Do you think I am a fool? That because I walk with sticks I have feathers in my head?'

I had been found out. I stood up and tried to placate her growing fury.

*Perhaps I made a mistake. Let me look again.' But it was too late. I was beyond redemption.

*This book is worth many times what you have just offered me and yet you choose to insult me. You are nothing but a crook. Give it back to me.'

She reached across the table and s.n.a.t.c.hed at the book and all I could think was that my dream was being taken with it.

*I will take this elsewhere,' she said, still tugging. *To someone with integrity.'

*I'm sorry,' I cried, close to tears. *A moment's weakness. After all, I am only human. I can be tempted.' I was still holding on to the book. I couldn't bear to let it go.

*Pshaw,' she spat. *I have heard enough.'

We struggled across the desktop. First she would hold sway, then I, until finally I gave one mighty wrench and the book came free. The old lady fell backwards and I watched in horror as her head cracked on the arm of the chair and she crashed to the floor in a crumpled pile of skin and bone. I ran to her and dropped to my knees at her side leaning close to see if she was still breathing.

She hissed in my ear, *yadnuS a no peehs ym raehs ot dekil I,' and then expired, her final breath fogging my spectacles.

*Oh, Lord above,' I muttered. *Now what do I do?' It was not usual for a customer to die in the shop and I was unsure of the correct procedure. And while I dithered the voice of the devil, surely it could only be he, piped up in my ear.

*Take the book,' he whispered. *Take the book. Who will know?'

I should like to say that I argued, that I engaged in a debate about the immoral nature of his suggestion, but that would be untrue. Instead I picked it up from where I had dropped it and stuffed it behind Gibbon's *Decline and Fall' on a high shelf above the desk. When I turned around I was startled to see Jeremiah Ratchet standing in the open doorway. I had no idea how long he had been there.

*My dear Perigoe,' he asked, *what on this miserable earth are you doing?'

*She has died in my shop,' I wailed. *She just collapsed.'

*So I see,' he said.

Dr Mouldered arrived and Ratchet stood to one side eyeing the scene. His presence made me feel distinctly uncomfortable.

*Heart attack,' p.r.o.nounced Mouldered after the briefest of examinations. Ratchet gave one of his loud snorts and Mouldered closed his bag and hurried away. To my intense relief the undertakers arrived not long after, the body was removed and Jeremiah left.

That night after dark I came up with a plan. I wanted to sell the book but I had to be careful. I couldn't be sure who else knew the old lady owned it. I had heard of someone in the City who would pay me a good price for such a book and who could be trusted not to reveal my ident.i.ty. Of course, there would be no celebrity, no fame, but it was a small sacrifice. If I went now, I could be back before dawn and no one would be the wiser. I hid the book in my cloak and stepped outside straight into Jeremiah Ratchet.

*My dear Perigoe,' he said in that loathsome way of his, *I wonder what business has you leaving Pagus Parvus at this time of night.'

*My own business,' I replied sharply. *Now step away and allow me to pa.s.s.'

He stayed where he was. *I have been thinking over the events of this evening: the death of that poor unfortunate woman, the book . . .'

*The book?'

*There is a price for keeping secrets,' he said.

His tone frightened me. *What you are suggesting, Mr Ratchet?'

*I think that you are on your way to the City to dispose of the book, the very one you stole from the old lady this afternoon, for a rather large sum of money that you will keep all to yourself.'

*There is no book, Mr Ratchet.'

*Well,' said Jeremiah, *then we have a problem. You see, if you do not find the book, which I know is here, then I will be forced to tell the magistrate that I witnessed that woman's death at your hands. The penalty is hanging, you know, for murder.'

*Murder?'

*I saw everything,' said Jeremiah. *I watched you attack that old lady and then push her to the ground, only to wrest the book from her dying hand.'

*That is not how it happened,' I protested, but Jeremiah merely laughed.

*Consider what I have said carefully, Mrs Leafbinder. I am sure you will come round to my way of thinking.'

I am ashamed to say that I cursed the duplicitous scoundrel for a full minute but I knew when I was beaten.

*Tell me what you want, Mr Ratchet,' I said finally.

*It's q uite simple, my dear. I wish to have the pick of your shelves whenever I choose and a small payment, shall we say five shillings, on a weekly basis.'

*And what of the book?'

He pretended to give the matter some consideration. *Well, I could take it to the City of course, but I think I shall wait. Perhaps after a few years I will sell it for its full value. Meanwhile, if you would be so kind as to hand it over, I shall keep it safe.'

What a heartless, s.a.d.i.s.tic man stood in front of me. I had no choice but to take his terms. I knew Ratchet would not hesitate to go straight to the magistrate, whom I did not doubt could be persuaded with money to believe anything Ratchet wanted, and I would be hanged for murder.

*I'll be back on Friday for my fee,' he said and went off with the precious book under his arm.

Needless to state, he has been as good as his word. Every Friday he collects his money and takes whatever else he pleases. As for *The Loneliness of the High Mountain Shepherd', I lie in bed every night and curse my greed and stupidity a thousand times. Meanwhile Jeremiah is bringing my business to its knees.

I cannot change what I have done, Mr Zabbidou, and I am sorry for it. All I want is to sleep again, to forget.

Ludlow put down his quill, laid a sheet of blotting paper between the pages and closed the book.

Joe took Perigoe's cold hand.

*You will sleep,' he said, *now your secret is safe.'

*But what of Ratchet?' asked Perigoe, a tremor in her voice. *He still has the book.'

*Be patient, Perigoe. He will pay for what he has done. That is all I can say. Now, take this,' he handed her a bag of coins, *and go home to get some rest.'

Joe watched as Perigoe walked back to the bookshop. He saw her go in and waited for the lights to go out. Then he went to bed smiling. Joe Zabbidou had no trouble sleeping.