by D J Mcintosh
The solicitor knew how to make an impression. Although I preferred the flair of Italian design, Newhouse was impeccably turned out in a British-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit and twill silk tie. A cabinet with a computer and files sat against one wall, the only sign this room was actually used for work. He took his seat behind a beautiful Georgian-era mahogany desk that held photographs in silver frames and a quill pen in a holder.
A Francis Bacon painting hung on one wall among several other works by well-known artists. I’d always found Bacon’s portraits shocking. He painted the condemned soul, his wraithlike figures with howling mouths and tormented anatomies so convincingly rendered, just looking at them was painful. Bacon suffered from terrifying bouts of asthma all his life. I’d often wondered whether those contorted mouths expressed his own awful feelings of suffocation.
The grotesque image seemed out of place in a solicitor’s office; then again, owning an original Bacon was a symbol of status and wealth and perhaps that’s what he wanted to convey. It must have set him back millions.
Newhouse opened with an apology. “I’m terribly sorry to be so late. It’s not my habit, I assure you. I do hope our Jennie made you comfortable in the interim.”
“Yes, of course.”
Apropos of nothing he waved a pale hand toward the quill. “Used by Jonathan Swift. The nib broke as he was finishing a passage. You can still see the spray of ink in the original manuscript.”
I assumed this was intended to set me at ease and perhaps demonstrate he was a man of means if I hadn’t been sharp enough to conclude that from his art.
“That’s fascinating,” I said politely. “But I’m curious about your client. Why did he choose me to represent him … or her, as the case may be? Why pay for me to come all the way from New York when there are dozens of talented London dealers?”
He tossed back a sweep of flaxen hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Come, Mr. Madison, your talents are well regarded even on this side of the pond. My client—and it is a ‘him’—was very determined, perhaps I could say, even desperate, to acquire the book. And yet his funds were limited. He put aside every penny of his capital to buy it.
“To win the auction he needed someone with a quick mind. A skilled bidder. He’d heard about your success last year when a George Stubbs equine painting was auctioned.” Newhouse had rested his arms on the desk. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “To be perfectly frank, I advised against hiring an American. And you a kebab, no less.” He punctuated this slur with a wink as if to show it was all in good fun. “As you pointed out we have a surfeit of talent right here. All the same, my client made up his mind and wouldn’t hear of anyone else.”
The insult about my Turkish origins proved that for all his expensive trappings, Newhouse lacked class. And I didn’t buy his explanation. The Stubbs purchase involved some sleight of hand but it was hardly earth shattering. “He chose me solely because of that?”
“You must have realized my client’s desire to remain anonymous already telegraphed a very private nature. Discretion was paramount. He was afraid a London dealer might, well, indulge in chatter, as it were.”
Here then was the real reason. “What was so important about the book that your client felt the need to hide his purchase of it? And the reference to a malevolent history in your letter—what did you mean by that?”
“Afraid I can’t tell you. I’m not privy to that information.”
It felt frustrating to make so little headway. As Newhouse was my only contact, I’d hoped for more.
In an obvious effort to change the subject, he brought our talk sharply around to the purpose of our meeting. “Were you successful in acquiring it?” His heavy, reddish eyelids blinked rapidly. “I’d be happy to take possession of the article now if it’s all the same to you.” He opened a desk drawer, removed a small bottle of ink and a booklet, and reached for the quill. “Excuse this little penchant of mine. I like to use the quill for my official signature.”
“With a broken nib?”
Coloring slightly, he said, “The nib was replaced. Some time ago.”
I smiled. “Of course you realize that by repairing it you’ve degraded its value—that is, if Swift ever did use it. We kebabs know a fake when we see one.”
He ignored my rejoinder and cleared his throat. “Let’s get to the business at hand, shall we? What was the book’s final price?”
“Well under your client’s maximum. One hundred twenty-four thousand pounds.”
Newhouse leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Very good. We hadn’t dared hope for a decent sum. People seem willing to pay anything these days.”
The praise felt genuine. I smiled in response to his compliment. “I’ll take possession of it then.” He bent his head to write in the notebook. When he saw I hadn’t reached for my case, he looked up abruptly. “Well?”
“I can’t give it to you. Someone stole it from me last night.” I watched his pale eyes closely but didn’t find the flash of surprise that should have been there.
He dropped the quill, ink splattering his receipt book. “This comes as a shock, Mr. Madison. Sherrods has our money already?”
“Of course. They wouldn’t let the book out of their sight without the funds.”
“I see. Now tell me, what happened exactly?”
“A man robbed me. He took the book and some rare gold coins. He knew a great deal about me. My name, my occupation, and the daily routines of family members in New York.” My voice faltered as I recalled the threat against Evelyn. “How did he know I was your point man for the purchase?”
“I’ve no idea, I can assure you of that. Perhaps a contact at Sherrods?”
“I suppose that’s possible.” I remembered how forthcoming Amy had been with me about the other bidders. “I’ve learned the book consisted of five separate volumes. Was your client expecting to buy the entire book or just one volume?”
Newhouse sat up straighter. “Why, the whole book of course. As it was, the price turned out to be very dear. He’d never pay that much for only part of it.”
“Well, he’ll be doubly disappointed then. Sherrods offered only the one volume.”
“This is a disaster! You’ve reported this to the police and your insurance company, I hope.”
“Of course, right away. I gave the police a preliminary report last night and am due to be interviewed at New Scotland Yard tomorrow morning. As for insurance, you’ll have to get in touch with my broker, Jack Edison. He’s handling it personally. He’ll take a bit of time with this. You know how these companies are. Tons of paperwork. Always is in the case of art theft. In fact, he’s out of the country right now.”
This time his cheeks flared to crimson; there was no hiding his anger. “All the same, a significant amount of money is involved. I can tell you, Mr. Madison, I’ve been practicing law for over twenty years. The book was in your possession and stolen or not, you are responsible. I can assure you I’ll press the case to its limit. You have my word on that.”
“I understand it’s a difficult situation all around. The onus should be on the auction house to straighten things out.”
“That’s a fine thought, Mr. Madison. It disappeared while in your possession.” He stared at me accusingly.
“Yes, but it was reported stolen by the owner before it was even auctioned. I’ll be happy to provide you with the link to the Interpol report. Given the circumstances, I’d like to know who your client is, to tell him this in person.”
I expected Newhouse to refuse my request outright or at least to express dismay at the new information. Instead, he pulled up his gangly frame, took out his cellphone, and abruptly left the room.
His reaction was unusual to say the least. He hadn’t pressed me for any more details about the attack in my hotel room, instead immediately mentioned the insurance money. And despite his fit of temper, I’d sensed underlying anxiety in his voice.
After a few minutes the office door swu
ng open. Newhouse didn’t retreat behind his desk this time but faced me, quite agitated. The words spilled out of him. “Ordinarily I wouldn’t reveal my client’s identity; however, new circumstances have arisen that are troubling indeed. His name is Charles Renwick. My firm has represented his interests for many years. He owns a small publishing company producing high-quality, limited-edition books. Illustrated stories, books in great demand by collectors around the world. They sell for substantial sums.”
He paused to sweep his hair back again and I thought what a girlish gesture it seemed. “I’ve been quite worried about him lately,” Newhouse confessed. “That book went to his head. He’d become infatuated with acquiring the damned thing. Utter foolishness. And look where it’s got him.”
“Well, I appreciate your candor, Mr. Newhouse. Could you arrange for me to see him as soon as possible?”
Newhouse turned even paler. “I’m afraid not. Charles’s shop was burgled last night and no one can find him. Terrible business. Blood at the scene. He’s feared dead.”
Seven
Newhouse set up an appointment for me with Renwick’s business partner, Tye Norris, at the publishing house they ran together. Norris reluctantly agreed to meet me later in the day after the police cleared the crime scene. With almost two hours to kill before I met him, I found a pub, and with a draft of crisp Wolf Ale before me, checked Interpol to see whether any of the volumes had been recovered. They hadn’t.
I was quickly running out of options. I turned my attention to the topic of fairy tales in an attempt to discover why someone would go to such lengths to possess a rare and early version. The sum total of my knowledge about them is comparable to most people’s: I first heard the stories as a child when I wouldn’t have thought to question their meaning. Evelyn lovingly read to me from picture books every night before bed. I didn’t know at the time that she couldn’t read English. She made up the stories based on the illustrations. According to her, the Pied Piper kept rats as pets and stopped them from biting children with his music; Sleeping Beauty died because of her sins; Oscar Wilde’s selfish giant was an evil Jinn. I realized how far some of her versions missed the mark only when I saw Disney’s cartoons for the first time.
On my cell’s Web browser, I used the rest of the time to refresh my memory about fairy-tale authors. People chatted amiably away in the background of the pleasant, old-fashioned pub as I settled into the comfortable leather bar stool, my elbows propped up on the mahogany counter, and began to read. According to one article, the first folklorist to put together a collection of tales was another Italian, Giovanni Francesco Straparola. His anthology, The Facetious Nights of Straparola, was divided into sections of twelve stories referred to as “nights,” similar to Basile’s division of each volume into a “day.” Although I’d never have recognized it from the title, Straparola’s story “Biancabella and the Snake” was a version of “Beauty and the Beast.” This in itself I found interesting. Like most people, I’d thought the famous fairy tales originated with the Grimm brothers.
I was on firmer ground when it came to Charles Perrault and remembered reading somewhere that his inspiration for Sleeping Beauty’s castle was the Château d’Ussé overlooking the Indre Valley. His most famous stories included “Red Riding Hood,” “Cinderella,” “Puss in Boots,” and “Bluebeard.”
But when I think of fairy tales, it’s still the Grimms who come first to my mind. I knew their stories although not much about their lives. The article described the brothers as serious scholars who promoted German culture and shared a mission to popularize folk literature, initially for adults. They collected oral stories from friends and colleagues and began to publish anthologies. Wilhelm did most of the writing and editing and transformed many of the tales by giving them a Germanic feel, adding Christian motifs and elements of pagan mythology. Apparently, the dark and explicit sexuality in some tales caused a furor among many German readers, so later, the Grimms tamed the stories and added moral lessons to them. I found the contrast between the two countries fascinating. Two hundred years earlier, far from offending any of his countrymen, Basile’s own book of sensual tales was a runaway bestseller.
A Web search turned up portraits of both the author, Giambattista Basile, and the illustrator, José de Ribera.
Giambattista Basile and José de Ribera
I gasped at Basile’s portrait. My theory about Alessio being a descendant of Basile’s was spot on. They were mirror images of each other. Clearly, Alessio had stolen an object he considered his birthright.
By now it was late afternoon and the pub lights switched on. I shut offmy phone, finished my drink, and headed for the nearest tube stop.
After a long ride on a train crammed to the gills, I arrived at Southwark station and headed to the address where Newhouse told me I’d find Charles Renwick’s business partner.
Southwark was so old it was referenced in the Domesday Book of 1086. Buildings burned to the ground in the Southwark fire of 1212 and hundreds of people died on the newly constructed London Bridge, caught between raging fires at both ends.
Home to the bawdy and licentious, the area once hosted both the red-light district and the infamous Marshalsea Prison, as well as the Rose and Globe theaters. The new Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern set off a wave of gentrification. Pockets of rundown buildings remained, not yet assembled by some ambitious realtor. Renwick’s business was located near Chancel Street in one of these, a dim corner composed of residences and aged commercial outlets.
C. Renwick Fine Books did not appear to be a thriving publishing house. It was an old two-story structure of bricks so sooty it looked as if the facade hadn’t been touched since the Great Fire. The front window was streaked with dust; a dirty white blind obscured the view inside. The nameplate beside the door had the dull greenish tinge of brass that hadn’t seen a cleaning cloth for years.
Something else sparked my interest. A small carved stone figure dangled from an aluminum bracket over the door, a Babylonian amulet intended to ward offdemons. Strange to see such an exotic charm hanging here. I tapped the enameled horse-head knocker and waited.
I heard a shuffling sound inside. A hand shifted the blind. A gnome-like, white-haired fellow peered out at me and promptly dropped the blind. After much clicking of locks and sliding of bolts the door opened. The man stood to one side so I could enter. “Do come in, Mr. Madison,” he said. “I was told to expect you.”
In stark contrast to the exterior, the front room was attractive and orderly. A polished oak floor and elegant William Morris Acanthus wallpaper of intertwined leaves fit well with the room’s antique furniture. Edwardian lamps with cut-glass shades cast a gentle ambient light. Against the back and east walls handsome walnut display cases held what I presumed were the firm’s published books. They stood on tilted wooden stands to reveal illustrated pages. My eye caught an edition of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Mermaid, its gorgeously designed first letter, F, with a mermaid ingeniously curled around its tail.
Smashed glass on one of the cases reminded me about last night’s violence. Purplish dust lay over many of the surfaces in the room.
Norris saw me observing it. “Newhouse told you about our burglary, I understand. The police technicians have been over everything for fingerprints. That purple stuff will be the devil to clean off. They’ve cleared it now—the police—and given me permission to get on with things. Not that I have the heart to without Charles, mind you.”
I smiled sympathetically, imagining how shaken up the old fellow must be. “Arthur Newhouse told me about the break-in. Is there any news yet of Mr. Renwick?”
The poor man looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. When he spoke, his lips quivered. “No word. Nothing at all. I’m not quite sure what to do.” His glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them back with a weary sigh. “Charles was here at the time of the robbery—that much we do know. I spoke to him on the phone right before it happened. He was just putting
on his coat, getting ready to leave.” He looked around. “I’ve not been able to touch the floor, although he would be most distressed if he saw this mess.”
Glancing at the shards of glass on the hardwood, I noticed a rivulet of dried blood in one corner. It ran underneath the display case.
“We’d best talk in the shop,” Norris said flatly. “I find it too upsetting to stay for long in this room.”
Norris locked up and led me through a double set of leaded-pane doors. The “shop,” as he called it, yawned in front of us, a vast space at least sixty feet deep. Two massive, antiquated printing presses stood off to one side. Norris explained that a large copper vat sitting on a heating coil was a paper digester. One wall held high banks of narrow metal trays in different sizes. These were shut, so I couldn’t see what they contained. I guessed printing plates and movable type. Several large rectangular tables had been placed side by side and stacked with papers of all kinds, colored leather hides, spools, cutting tools, and implements associated, I assumed, with various elements of the printing process. The place had the vaguely musty but pleasant smell of an old bookstore, the only modern touch, rows of Phantom LED linear lighting strips overhead.
“Those lights are the closest approximation to sunlight we could find,” Norris said when he noticed me looking at them. “Charles abhorred fluorescents. He believed they distorted one’s vision and hence affected the quality of the final printed page. Candescents are just as bad and ultraviolet destroys books.” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Before we get started, may I offer you a cup of tea? I’ve just made a fresh pot.”
“That would be great. Th anks.”
He went over to a small cabinet that held a sink for washing up, a hot plate with a kettle, and a coffee maker. Something about him bothered me. He seemed familiar but I was certain I’d never met him. And then it struck me. He bore an astounding resemblance to Pinocchio’s Geppetto. The kindly Geppetto with the black brows, glasses tucked on his bulbous red nose, sturdy mustache, and constant expression of delighted surprise. Norris was practically a carbon copy.
