The Burglar in the Library - By Lawrence Block Page 0,1

for snow north of the city.”

“It’ll warm up,” I said.

“You think so?”

“It’s March already. I know the groundhog saw his shadow, but the extra six weeks of winter are almost up. Even if we do get a little snow, it won’t stick around long.” I took my suitcase in one hand and Raffles’s carrier in the other and let Carolyn hold the door for me. Outside, I went through what you have to go through to close up a store in New York, hauling the steel gate across, fastening innumerable padlocks. These chores are best performed barehanded, and by the time I was done my fingers were numb.

“It’s cold, all right,” I admitted. “But we’ll be cozy at Cuttleford House. Snow on the roof, a fire on the hearth—”

“Kippers for breakfast. Afternoon tea with cream and clotted scones.” She frowned. “Is that right, Bern? Or should it be the other way around?”

“No, it’s right. Kippers for breakfast, scones for tea.”

“I know that part’s right,” she said. “It’s just a question of which is supposed to be clotted, the cream or the scones, and I’m pretty sure it’s the cream. ‘Scones and clotted cream.’ Yeah, that sounds better.”

“Either one sounds good about now.”

“And all those other great English dishes. Bangers and mash, bubble and squeak, toad-in-the-hole. What exactly is toad-in-the-hole, Bern, do you happen to know?”

“Not exactly.”

“It always makes me think of The Wind in the Willows. I bet it’s good, though, and it makes you feel all safe and secure and cozy when you eat it. How about bubble and squeak, Bern? Any idea what that is?”

“Maybe it’s the sound the toad makes,” I suggested, “when you yank him out of the hole.”

“And sherry trifle,” she said. “That’s a dessert. I know that much.”

“It sounds like a frivolous girl,” I said. “‘Sherry Trifle—she’ll boost your blood sugar while she breaks your heart.’”

“Reminds me of a little cupcake I met a couple of weeks ago at Pandora’s.”

“Really?” I said. “It reminds me of Lettice.”

That was a conversation stopper, all right, and for the next hour or so neither of us said very much. We caught a cab to Grand Central and a train to Whitham Junction, where we’d transfer to a spur line leading north and east to Pattaskinnick, a hamlet nestled at the juncture of New York, Connecticut, and Massachusetts. There we could hire a taxi to carry us the last three or four miles to Cuttleford House.

On the way up to Whitham Junction we sat on the left-hand side of the train so that we could look out the window at the Hudson. Two of our three pieces of luggage rode in the rack overhead. The third rested on the floor between my feet, emitting an occasional meow.

“You’re going to love this, Raffles,” Carolyn assured him. “A genuine English country house just three hours from New York.”

“It may be a little more than three hours,” I said. “And it may be a little less than genuine.”

“It’ll be close enough, Bern. Raffles, there might even be some genuine English mice for you.”

“There’s a charming thought,” I said. “I hope they haven’t spent the past fifty years grazing on the library.”

“If it’s a real English country house,” she said, “they’ve got cats of their own.”

“I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to see Raffles.” I nudged his case with my foot. “I don’t see why we had to bring him. He was perfectly comfortable at the store.”

“It’s too long to leave him, Bern.”

“You left your cats.”

“Ubi and Archie have each other for company. Besides, Fred from across the hall is going to pop in once a day to feed and water them. I’d have done the same for Raffles, but since you invited me along—”

“I know.”

She patted my hand. “Incidentally,” she said, “I really appreciate it, Bern. It’s great of you to bring me.”

“Well, I didn’t want to go by myself.”

“I guess that wouldn’t be much fun.”

“I’d go nuts,” I said. “Just sitting around twiddling my thumbs, waiting for the scones to clot.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the cream, Bern.”

“Whatever. You’re my best friend, Carolyn. There’s nobody I’d rather be taking to Cuttleford House.”

“That’s a sweet thing to say, Bernie. Even if it’s not exactly true.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bern,” she said, “let’s have a quick reality check here, okay? A romantic weekend at an English country house in the dead of winter—”

“Some dead of winter. It’s March already. It’s almost spring.”

“Forget the calendar, Bern. It’s too cold to go for a walk in the