'Yes. North. North London. I don't know if you know it at all…?'

'Yes. Of course. Not all of it, mind. Kensington and Chelsea I know very well. And my club, the Athenaeum. You're not a member?'

'No.'

'Ah, well. Name like Israel, I suppose you're Jewish, are you?'

'Er…'

'I knew the Chief Rabbi once. You didn't know him?'

'No. I don't think so.'

'Not the current fella. The one before the one before that. Can't remember his name now. What was he called?'

'I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm not really-'

'Never mind. It'll come to me. My first wife was Jewish. Jabotinsky? Her family were in the fur trade? And little Irving Berlin I knew briefly. Wonderful parties. And Heifetz.'

'You knew Heifetz?'

'Yes. Well, through my wife. Could never see why people got so excited about the fella myself. Much preferred George Formby: great fun at a party.'

'Anyway, I've come about the, erm, the library books, Mr Pyper.'

'You can call me Pearce.'

'OK, Pearce. I'm collecting up all the old stock and overdue books.'

'Jolly good. Getting it all ship-shape and what have you. Come on then inside.'

They went back through the house, through rooms that no longer seemed inhabited, which seemed in fact merely like the shelter for the remnants of a grand inheritance-hunting trophies here and there, and cheetah skins on the floor-and finally they entered into what Israel assumed was the drawing room, looking out over the gardens. Israel had never seen a room quite like it-a room completely and utterly replete, perfectly satisfied with its ornaments and its fine furnishings, every inch of its panelled walls filled with family portraits. Israel thought miserably of his chicken coop.

'Now. Drink. What can I get you? Sherry OK?'

'It's a bit early for me actually.'

'Nonsense. By the time you get to my age you'll not bother with that sort of thing. Sweet or amontillado?'

'Er…'

'I'll pour you the sweet. You come back round to it in old age. Now.' Pearce Pyper poured the drinks from cut glass into cut glass.

'Sláinte.'

'Cheers. This is quite a place you've got here.'

'Oh yes. We were very lucky with this place. My wife and I bought it in 1939. Post-partition, before the war. Happy days. Lot of work, mind.'

'Your wife, is she still…'

'No, no. Four wives actually. First two died. Third one divorced me. Fourth one I divorced. Quits all round. Are you married?'

'No.'

'Wouldn't recommend it. Are you a homosexual?'

'No.'

'The companionship's always nice of course, but you can always get a dog. Have you got a dog?'

'Er…'

'Cost me a fortune.'

'The dog?'

'No, the divorces. Had to get rid of a lot of the ormolu. My first wife, she was a terrible one for the Persian bowls, and the African tribal art: influence of Picasso, and the other fella. What was he called? God…Weird little man. Obsessed with sex? Beard.'

'Erm.'

'Yes, yes, anyway, that was him. Used to collect Elizabethan crewel-work myself. Had to sell it all off, mind. The Art Deco I'm trying to hang on to: I've got a bit of a thing about the Art Deco. Had to let some of it go, of course. Like losing a child.'

'Oh dear.'

'To Bullimore actually. I thought you were with him.'

'No.'

Pearce Pyper dropped his voice. 'Dreadful man. Bumptious, to be honest, if you know what I mean. Buys the stuff, carts it off to his shop, or down south, wherever, I don't know. Bit of a shit, actually.'

'Oh.'

'But you know, upkeep of the house and everything. Beggars can't be choosers. Difficult keeping on top of it all.'

'I'm sure.'

'But we do our best. "Go muster thy servants; be captain thyself."'

'Right.'

'Another sherry?'

'No, I'm fine, thanks.'

'I shouldn't really, but I shall.'

Pearce poured himself another sherry and took Israel by the arm.

'Come on, let's get your books from the library. Tenax propositi and what have you.'

The library was adjacent to the drawing room, divided only by a set of heavy, ornate, satiny-white doors; thrown open, the two rooms might have once been a magnificent ballroom, but now separated they were like two halves, two varieties of exquisiteness. Leaving the densely furnished drawing room they now entered the ordered calm of the library. Simple mahogany shelves reached up high to the ceiling and at both ends of the room-which was at least forty or fifty feet long-were two beautiful desks, with carved legs showing rampant lions. Sofas and rugs and small occasional tables piled high with books were all around.

A man sat in the centre of this magnificent room, surrounded by boxes.

'Ah, Mr Bullimore, this is my young friend, Israel Armstrong.'

'How do you do?' said Israel.

'Mr Bullimore here is culling for me. Weeding, eh, Bullimore?'

P. J. Bullimore struggled to his feet. He looked uncomfortable and incongruous in the surroundings-a ruddy, stout-faced man with a huge, heaving stomach. He sported finger rings, and a chunky watch and wore the clothes of someone who looked like they'd just been practising their chip shots, and who had enjoyed a couple of gin and tonics, and who was warming up to tell you an amusing story that wouldn't be suitable for the ladies.

'Pleased to meet you,' he said, shaking Israel's hand.

The cardboard boxes all around Bullimore were packed with books and marked on the side either 'Poetry', or 'Philosophy', or 'History', or 'Religion'.

Pearce Pyper stood by the boxes.

'Now, what was it we agreed?'

P. J. Bullimore was silent.

'Mr Bullimore? Was it fifty pounds per box?'

Bullimore was looking silently ahead.

'That's pretty reasonable, isn't it, Israel? He's a librarian, you know,' Pearce said to Bullimore.

'Sounds very reasonable,' said Israel, assuming that Pearce Pyper's library might be similar in kind and in value to his own: a rainforestful of dampening paperbacks.

But then he took a book from the top of the box marked 'Poetry'.

'T. S. Eliot?' he said.

'Yes,' said Pearce. 'He was a cold fish. Friend of my first wife's. Used to send us all his books.'

'You knew Eliot?'

'Well. I wouldn't go that far. He was friendly with my sister as well. Little too friendly, actually. Bertrand Russell, he was the same.'

'But this is…'-Israel opened up the book, The Waste Land, and looked at the flyleaf-'signed by Eliot?'

'Is it? Yes. Probably.'

'Hmm.'

Israel then moved on to another box, which was marked 'Cookery'.

'The Alice B. Toklas Cook Book?'

'Ah yes. Too French for my tastes.'

Israel examined the flyleaf. 'Signed by Alice B. Toklas.'

'Yes. God, she was a handful, let me tell you. And the woman, what was the other woman…?'

'Gertrude Stein?'

'Good God, yes. Like a bloody prize-fighter. Forearms the size of my thighs.'

Israel had moved on to 'Fiction' and had taken the first book off the top of that box.

'The Great Gatsby.'

'Lovely book. Nice man. Never liked his wife. Highly strung.'

'You know, Mr Pyper-'

'No, no. Call me Pearce.'

'Pearce, some of these books are…they're priceless, you know.'

'Well, I don't know about that,' said Pearce Pyper modestly.

'I really think I should be the judge of that, Mr, what did you say your name was?' said Bullimore suspiciously.

'Armstrong.'

'Mr Armstrong. I don't know if you know much about the book trade.'

'I'm a librarian.'

'Ah. But the book trade? The trade?'

'A little.' Israel didn't mention that the little he knew about the book trade was from his experience working as a deputy store manager in the Bargain Bookstore in the Lakeside Shopping Centre in Thurrock in Essex.

'Yes. I'm sure,' said Bullimore. 'But you should really leave the valuation to us experts. Look,' he said, picking up another volume from the 'Fiction' box. 'For example. This probably looks fine to the untrained eye. But if you look closely you'll see that here there's some water damage.' He pointed to a brown fleck. 'And the covers are torn. And the binding is loose.'