For days now, Harold Meyers has not opened his book store and has not even been seen outside. Considered by most a recluse, and by some a bit more, his recent behavior  was a bit much and Mrs. Chanderloin, the butcher's wife, asked me to investigate when she started imagining all sorts of spectacular deaths and disasters. "He's not well I tell you", she said, leaning over the counter as I made the day's meat purchases. "Now he's never been exactly well if you know what I mean, but this is really not well", she added. "Maybe he's having one of those brain fevers you read about in the papers all the time." Mrs. Chanderloin could produce the most incredible conjectures from overheard rumors and vague descriptions of events in the media. "Did you hear they've had to take the prime minister off his rack?" she would ask, forgetting that she sold prime rib and was governed by a prime minister. "He's all bent over, and they had to take him of his rack", she repeated. "You mean they had to take him off his back?" I asked. "Yes that's it, off his back. Anyway, what I was saying was that Mr. Meyers hasn't been seen in a while. You know how he is, always inside reading his old books and keeping to himself. It's amazing the man sells anything at all. Well a couple of days ago he closed the blinds of the  windows in the back and upstairs, something he never does. That's odd I thought, but did not think anything of it, the man is strange you see. Well that's now three days ago and he hasn't come out since. Makes you wonder if he's still alive in there. Do you think we should smell something by now? I mean that would be bad for business if it did. Poor Mr. Harold, lying there all dead and nobody knowing it."

The woman was unstoppable and had practically started planning the poor man's funeral. The only way I could seize the vocal flood, was to promise that I would go next door to find out if everything was all right, after I had brought my groceries home. Perhaps it was a secret hope for adventure or perhaps the butcher's wife had gotten to me, but I decided to dig up my old lock picking set. "Where are you going with that Jeremy?" Hubbard asked from the workshop. I will never know how he figures out these things but he always does. "Nothing special sir, it's just in case. Mr. Meyers may be in a bit of trouble and this might help if I need to get it", I said, being absolutely honest because the old man would know instantly if I wasn't. "Just be careful, I don't want a constable or worse yet Meyers himself find out that you still own and use that. "No sir, not to worry!" I shouted from the front of the store as I left. Meyer's store front was different than the others. It was older and much darker, as if a fire storm had raged against the already dark wooden beams and panels. Most of the front was occupied by tall and wide windows, displaying many very old books. Meyers also kept a stack of the more popular works there and he had recently put a new edition of Haggard Rider's latest novel on display, although he despised any modern literature. In between the display windows was a very small, narrow door. I pulled the chain for the door bell, making no assumptions on Meyer's well being.

Nothing happened. I rang again but still no response. Opening a door illegally in broad  daylight is not a clever thing but to do it right in front of the inhabitants of a small community is even less advisable. To get to the back of the book store I had to walk out of the square onto Fleet Street and make an immediate left to get into the small alleyway that goes all the way around the houses and stores. Meyer's rear entrance does not have the same provisions as the other buildings do. Both Welder and Chanderloin have converted the property behind their stores into loading and unloading areas, with in between, Hubbard's vivarium and a small patch of green behind the butcher's. Meyer only has some empty space on which he eventually wants to build an extension to store even more books. For now the place is a jumble of old boxes, wooden crates and the like, all enclosed between two high stone fences. At least that made it easier for me to do my business unnoticed. Not that it would have mattered if anyone saw me, since Mrs. Chanderloin had practically ordered me to go inside and we do not get much other folk here.

Strangely enough the lock on Meyer's back door was of a rather more complex design than I had expected. I could have known of course. Meyers is exceptionally protective about his books and it is a miracle he is willing to part with anything he has personally or which is for sale. It took more than fifteen minutes to guide the various drivers along the inserted spanner. When it finally gave way I found myself covered in sweat. I left the door slightly ajar and crept into the back of the book store. All of a sudden I realized that the task was not to burgle the place but to find out what had happened to its owner instead. "Mr. Meyers!", I yelled, "Are you in here?" There was a loud bang coming from directly overhead as if someone had dropped a large piece of wood on the floor or as if something heavy had fallen over. I thought I heard a voice but it sounded more like a murmur or a muffled scream. Assuming the worst, I ran upstairs completely throwing caution into the wind. Most of the layout of the store was identical to Hubbard's watch shop and I could easily find my way around. It was my guess that the sound had come from the same room where my bedroom was located and that was the first place I would check. It was not necessary however to break in the door because it was opened by Meyer's himself, who in a night robe and bewildered eyes stumbled out. "What in the world is going on? Why are you trying to get into my bedroom?" he mumbled. "I'm so sorry sir, we were worried about you. You had not been seen for some time now", I said, really embarrassed now.

Standing there with Meyers all confused was a very awkward situation. What made the event even more curious was that the man was completely bald, something he normally is not. We did not know this but apparently our next door neighbour and eminent book seller wears a carefully made wig. The man is of the slightly vain persuasion, even though no valid qualifications can be found on his account. Meyer must have noticed that I was looking at his head and quickly covered the shining dome with the hood of his night robe. "Perhaps I should explain, it will come out anyway", he said. "In case you had not noticed I wear a wig. A wig of the highest quality and design. Three days ago a candle on my night stand fell over and set the thing on fire. I've already ordered a new one but I've been too embarrassed to show myself. Hence my absence from the regular courtyard perambulations. Now Jeremy you have to promise me that you will not tell anyone what has happened. Tomorrow things will be back to normal. If someone asks, tell them I had a bad case of the flu." The old man was deeply concerned I could tell, and who am I to judge someone's feelings about their appearance. "Of course Mr. Meyers", I said, "None of this has happened. I will let myself out now and return to my daily duties." "Thank you, I appreciate it", he said, "By the way, how exactly did you get into my house?"