Murder, They Wrote by Loren D. Estleman Peter Robinson Peter Blauner Charles Todd and C. J. Box

Author:Loren D. Estleman, Peter Robinson, Peter Blauner, Charles Todd, and C. J. Box
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504057318
Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
Published: 2018-10-27T00:00:00+00:00

The Pretty Little Box

Charles Todd

Somewhere in the Midlands of England, Winter 1915

She didn’t know what had come over her.

She had never done anything like that before—had never even been tempted. But it was so beautiful. And the clerk was looking the other way, too busy ogling the pretty girl in a very unbecoming walking dress for late November who was just passing the shop window.

And so she simply covered it with her gloved hand, gently closed her fingers over the box, and then nonchalantly said, “Good day,” with a smile, and walked out of the door.

Nothing happened. No alarm was raised, no one shouted for her to stop.

She walked on casually, as if nothing had happened—as if she had nothing to hide. But her heart was pounding in her chest, and she was hard pressed not to breathe so rapidly that she passed out. The thought of a constable—an ambulance crew—anyone—discovering what was now resting in her pocket frightened her to death.

Almost to death, she amended quickly.

What she ought to do, right now, was turn around and march straight back to the bookshop and put the little box back where she’d found it. Before the clerk even noticed it was missing.

But that was even more terrifying to contemplate. He might already have noticed. He might have already sent someone for Constable Welkin.

She swallowed hard. She’d taken the little box because it was so extraordinary, and she’d never had anything quite like it. Ever. And she’d wanted it more than anything.

She walked on, looking for a way out.

Just ahead was the greengrocer’s door.

She hurried inside, off the High, out of sight, and realized that she was almost running. Slowing, she managed a smile and walked down to a display of late cabbages. She bought two, although she hated them.

The bookstore had just received a shipment on consignment—she knew that much from the newspapers. It was from a house that was for sale somewhere in East Anglia, and Otto’s Bookshop had been asked to catalog the library before it was put up for auction.

She’d never been interested in old books, and only went to the bookshop from time to time for the latest novels. But she did like pretty things, and when she’d casually picked up a small, beautifully decorated case, opened it, and leafed through the book inside with all that gold leaf and the tiny, exquisitely painted scenes on each page, she had been astonished and then covetous. She had no idea how much it might be worth—far more than she could afford, surely!—and she was afraid to ask. That was when the desire to have it overcame her scruples and her terror at something so—so audacious and unlike her.

Leaving the greengrocer’s, she stopped in at Lydia’s for a gypsy tart and a cup of tea. That settled her nerves a little, but she was still anxious, and wanted only to go home now, shut the door, and be safe. Again she contemplated returning the little book, but that was impossible without explaining how she’d come by it.

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