High Rhymes and Misdemeanors

by Diana Killian

She was feeling less jolly about it after four hours of lugging stacks of books over to Peter who was scaling the ladder to restock the tallest shelves. The hall library was slowly resuming something like its old order, but it was time-consuming and increasingly hard on the lower back and knees. They had even quit discussing “the case.” Bed began to sound like heaven. Balancing yet another armload of books, Grace thought longingly of stretching out on clean sheets and resting her weary head on a soft pillow. A look at Monica, who had been yawning for the last hour, confirmed her feeling that it was about time to call it a night. Her head was beginning to ache again. She remembered, a little bit aggrieved, that she had been knocked unconscious a mere twenty-four hours earlier, and that no one had seen fit to coddle her at all.

  Peter was still doggedly shoving books back on shelves, and Grace reflected that for him, tonight’s labors had as much to do with reopening for business as quickly as possible, as treasure hunting.

  She glanced at Calum. He was browsing the lower bookshelves, momentarily distracted by several gilt-stamped green book spines.

  “I’m bushed,” Monica announced, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor. “My back is killing me.”

  “Great gods, the tragedy of it!” roared Calum, scaring them all into momentary standstill. He turned to face them, a calf-bound book in hand. “I’ve searched my entire adult life for this collection, and now that I find it, a volume is missing.”

  “What collection, sweetheart?” Monica picked herself off the floor and joined him, staring down at the title he held.

  “Sherlock Holmes, The Complete Collection.” Calum groaned it out as though he were lying spread-eagled on the rack. “Published between 1893 and 1930. It’s the complete collection of all the Holmes stories in book form with the original illustrations.” He held the book out toward Monica. “Look. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 1909.” His accent sounded thicker with emotion.

  “How do you know it’s not complete? The volumes aren’t labeled.” Monica studied the bookshelf behind Calum.

  “I know! I know everything about this collection. There are nine volumes in total, and there are only eight here. Eight! And six of them first editions.” He gazed up at Peter who was frowning down from the ladder. “I tell you I’d pay anything for this set if it were complete!”

  “It is complete,” Peter said. “There are nine volumes.”

  Monica was counting. “Nope,” she reported. “I count seven and then Calum’s holding one. Eight.”

  “The ninth must have been put on the wrong shelf.”

  Calum turned eagerly back to the shelf. “Yes, perhaps that’s it. Perhaps it’s been misplaced.” He and Monica began to scour the shelves.

  Grace picked up the book, which Calum had set ever so carefully aside. She stared at the gilt-top edge, the half-calf front board. There was something awfully familiar about that book.

  Feeling a sort of dreamlike detachment, she turned on heel and headed for Peter’s living quarters. It seemed a mile across the expanse of polished wood floor and Oriental carpet. She knelt down beside the curio table.

  There it was, sure enough. Lying between the child’s silver spyglass and an old compass: one gilt-edged and somewhat battered book with a familiar silhouette on the front cover. She could just make out the title. Study in Scarlet.

  Grace slid open the cabinet doors and reached in, feeling around the shells and toys. Her fingers grazed the smooth leather and anticipation feathered down her spine. Gently, she lifted the book out. It felt oddly light, and something slid inside it; she could feel the motion from outside the book board.

  Swallowing hard, Grace opened the book to see…a fragile yellowed title page. It took her a moment to realize what must have happened, and she turned the first few pages. And there was the answer. Someone had carved out a big chunk of the center pages of the book so that a cavity was created. And in that cavity something sparkled. Grace’s eyes focused on a little carved face peeking up at her. A white carved profile against a sardonyx background. Some venerable goddess. Artemis. Or Aphrodite. Or Athena.

  Or…Astarte?

  Grace reached for the piece with trembling fingers. The carved eye stared back, unmoved.

  It made sense, she thought. Poor Danny, in fear of his life, panicking, had looked for some place to conceal the goods. He would have seen the hollowed books in the hall outside, and with that memory in mind, he must have hit on the notion of creating his own hollowed book. What had he done with the pages he ripped out? Stuck them beneath the logs in the hearth perhaps? Flushed them down the toilet? Tossed them out the back window?

  Wedged beneath the first oval was another cameo, a bit larger. Framed in silver, a famous intaglio profile rose out of a deep blue backing. Grace took it out and reached for the next. One by one, she picked them out of their hiding place.

  Then, unbelieving, she examined the row of carved faces lined on the table top: ten exquisite antique cameos of various shapes and sizes and colors. Lord George Gordon Noel Byron’s final birthday gift to a ten-year-old girl named Medora Leigh. His daughter.

  Chapter Thirteen