“What do you mean?”

“For one thing, it allowed Wren to build his fifty churches, as well as St. Paul’s Cathedral. The fire is the reason we live in such a beautiful city, Mr. Chaffanbrass.”

“And the second reason?”

“Do you know how many people died of the plague in 1665?”

“How many?”

“About sixty-five thousand, and that despite two-thirds of Londoners leaving the city. The fire killed so many rats and fleas, leveled so many derelict buildings, that in the end it probably saved tens of thousands of lives.”

Ruminatively, Mr. Chaffanbrass said, “Perhaps it’s received a bad press, then.”

“Perhaps,” Lenox agreed. “Still, it would be better all around if it didn’t happen again. Incidentally, has my copy of Pickwick come in yet?”

“It hasn’t yet, I very much fear.”

“Can’t be helped,” said Lenox.

“It will prove worth the wait, though! The finest red leather, with gold inlay!”

“And all the words inside?”

“Every last one!”

Ancient, homey, and comfortable, Calum’s was one of the best bookshops around, small and a little dark with rows of crammed bookshelves along the walls. Mr. Chaffanbrass’s squat counter stood in the middle of the room, just next to a freestanding oven that usually had a kettle on and a comfortable chair beside it. The owner himself was a very small, cheerful man, with red cheeks, tidy white hair, and a large belly. He wore perfectly round spectacles and a tweed suit, and the majority of his life was spent behind the counter and next to the warmth of the oven, reading. There was always a turned-down book on the arm of his chair.

“Anything else new?” asked Lenox.

“Nothing you haven’t seen, no. Wait, though!” As Mr. Chaffanbrass skittered to the back of the store, Lenox looked idly through the books on the counter. Presently the gentleman came back with a small volume in his hand.