Page 6 of The Secret Christmas Library

‘No way . . . ’ she breathed, out loud. Then blinked twice. It had already been a very confusing evening. Was that . . .? It couldn’t be.

The small door opened out into a carriage with no partitions in it, so in fact it was more like a very long, if narrow, room.

It was markedly bigger than Mirren would have imagined.

Her brain still couldn’t quite take in what she was seeing.

But the carriage – room, home, whatever you wanted to call it – was done out like a .

. . well, there was no other word for it. It was done out like a library.

There was faded cloth wallpaper on the walls around the windows, which themselves had proper burgundy printed curtains, with tiebacks.

And around and above the windows there were books: old books, in careful bookshelves with high lintels, to keep the books safe on sharp corners.

There were comfortable, rather chintzy sofas along the windows; an antique armoire for writing at; a baby grand piano at which Mirren stared in disbelief, and a small bar with old crystal decanters.

Hunting scenes were on the walls, and brass lights let out a warm glow into the darkness.

At the far end, with two chairs set in front of it, was an actual coal fire.

‘No way,’ she breathed.

A man wearing a tie came forward from behind the bar; she hadn’t noticed him at first.

‘What is this place?’ she asked in wonder.

‘Welcome to the McKinnon Carriage,’ said the man. ‘May I offer you a drink?’

Mirren was already walking forward into this extraordinary room.

‘No way!’ She was furious that she didn’t have her phone to take pictures. ‘Is this . . . is this for people who are targets of assassins?’

‘Ma’am,’ said the man, smiling indulgently. ‘Could I offer you a hot snack?’

But Mirren’s attention was suddenly stolen by something else: a figure in one of the two seats next to the fire, which, she realised now, was electric, not coal, but remarkably convincing, and certainly gave out a good heat.

Compared to the freezing railway platform the warmth was absolutely delicious, and she could think of nothing more appealing than sinking into an armchair with one of the books around the place.

The barman reappeared. ‘I took the liberty of making you a hot toddy,’ he said. ‘Many passengers feel like one when they board, but if you’d like anything else, just ask.’

Whatever it was, it smelled like heaven.

‘No, no, that’s fine,’ said Mirren, gratefully taking the thick, warm glass and inhaling the mingled odours of whisky, brown sugar, cloves and lemon gratefully. ‘Thank you.’

The figure in the armchair turned round, and Mirren braced herself to say hello to the strange man from the library.

‘Mirren bloody Sutherland! I wondered if I’d see you!’

It was the ghosting bookseller himself. Theo Palliser.