Free From the Queen by Carolyn Hart Page A

calliope pipe. She skidded to a stop a few inches from Annie, breathing fast. “It’s misty on the boardwalk. That’s why I covered it up. Maybe it’s worth something. It’s really old.” Then her face drooped, “But I know her books are everywhere. Anyway, maybe it’s worth something. I thought you could tell me.” She dropped the pillow to one side, thrust a book at Annie, as she burbled eagerly, “… they tracked me down … old friend of my Mum … both war brides … she was ninety-seven … no family left …all her things in a single box …”
    Annie took the book. She looked at the cover and felt a curious breathlessness. “Mum always said Millicent was in service at the Palace … sounded so grand … the nursing home said they’d send her things, a single box, but I had to pay postage … sixteen dollars … I almost didn’t and then I thought of Mum … I thought maybe some little trinket from England.”
    The cover was simple to an extreme.
    The title: Poirot Investigates .
    The author’s name: Agatha Christie.
    The dusk jacket was white with a rectangular illustration in black and white of Hercule Poirot formally attired in a bow tie, morning suit, and spats, carrying a top hat and gloves in his right hand, cane in his left. His eternally curious, appraising, measuring stare challenged the viewer.
    â€œâ€¦ didn’t expect much of anything. Such few things in the box … a Kodak snapshot of an American sergeant and a pretty girl … my dad was a sergeant, too … Mum was working in a pharmacy shop … he had a toothache … Mum kept up with Millicent and then she lost track … guess they had an old Christmas card from Mum and that’s how they tracked me down …”
    Gently, Annie opened the cover, turned the first pages. That curious breathlessness expanded and she felt dizzy. There it was.
    London: John Lane. The Bodley Head, 1924.
    A first edition.
    She turned to the title page. An inscription, clear and distinct, wavered in her gaze:
    To Her Majesty, the Queen
    I have the honour to be, Madam, Your Majesty’s humble and obedient servant.
    Agatha Christie
    May 15, 1925
    The signature was equally black and distinct with a large rounded A and a C with a little loop at the top. The inscription was in Christie’s unmistakable handwriting with characteristic wide spaces between each word. Signed to The Queen the year after publication.
    Annie swallowed, tried to speak, all the while carefully easing the book free of the dust jacket. The cover was yellow cloth with black titles and border to the upper board. No nicks, no scrapes, no discoloration. Straight spine.
    â€œâ€¦ know the old lady must have treasured it … she kept it in a handmade pink quilt cover … the only book except for a Bible …”
    The cover and the jacket were as fresh as the day the book was printed, a first edition in pristine condition. Very fine is the highest accolade that can be awarded to a rare book.
    A first edition inscribed by Agatha Christie to The Queen in 1925. George V was on the throne and Mary was Queen.
    Ellen once against clutched the pillow to her chest, arms wrapped tight. “I guess,” she was slowing down, eagerness fading, “it isn’t worth a whole lot.” Faded blue eyes looked at Annie hopefully. She sounded embarrassed. “I hoped it might be even worth fifty dollars or a hundred, but I guess not.”
    A hundred dollars was a great deal of money to Ellen Gallagher, who eked out a sparse living from the her little second hand shop. She wore gently used clothes picked up at thrift shops. She’d scrimped and gone without to help her niece, her only living relative, attend medical school. The last time they’d had coffee, Annie inviting Ellen down for a free cup after work, Ellen’s thin face had wrinkled in worry about the