by Ellery Adams
“I agree,” she said. “And I can’t imagine there’d be anything a bibliophile would love more than to help solve a book-related mystery.”
* * *
All of Storyton Hall’s rooms were booked by conference attendees. Jane had no idea what she and the staff would have done had Celia and her grad students needed to stay another night, so she was infinitely relieved when Sinclair informed her that the anthropologist and her team would complete their work on the site by that evening. Most of them would be returning to Charlottesville to examine the findings in the university lab.
“The process isn’t finished, however,” Sinclair said. “And Doctor Wallace has a request. She’d like the dirt previously removed from the site by the earthmover to be kept off-limits. She’s leaving two grad students behind to sift through it and would welcome any help our groundskeepers can offer. We’re not to worry about accommodations for her students, as one of them has family living about fifteen minutes away who’ll not only put them up, but will also loan them a car for the duration.”
“Sounds good.” Jane gestured toward the narrow door leading to Sinclair’s office. “Can you show me the book fragment now? I thought I’d get over here earlier, but you should have seen the twins’ bathroom. The things I have to do to make their tiles white again.”
Sinclair grinned. “I expect they slept very soundly.”
“I didn’t hear a peep.”
“I admit to burning the midnight oil to no avail. I’ve had no luck identifying Oliver’s book.” Sinclair raised his hands in supplication. “While I may find the nickname a trifle flippant, it’s preferable to referring to our unknown guest as the skeleton or the Rip Van Winkle. Oliver sounds more innocuous.”
Once Jane was inside Sinclair’s office, he closed and locked the door behind them. Sinclair was in charge of vetting guests, which meant he performed background checks on everyone who booked a room at Storyton Hall. The Fins had learned from experience to step up security measures during conferences. As a result, index cards covered every inch of wall space above Sinclair’s desk. Each card contained the name and a color photograph of the conference attendees.
Jane’s eyes roved over the cards. “There are more men than women,” she observed.
“The numbers seem slightly skewed by the addition of the Robert Harley Society, which has traditionally been all male.” Sinclair arched a brow. “And before you become offended on behalf of your gender, women are permitted to join. In fact, there is one female member, but it’s a very small society as a rule.”
“I wonder why,” Jane mused aloud. However, her interest in the subject vanished as soon as Sinclair showed her the metal box buried with Oliver.
Sinclair handed her a pair of latex exam gloves and donned his own.
“The box itself houses no clues,” he said. “It’s empty, unmarked, and corroded by rust. I’ve placed it in a rubber bin and will give it to Doctor Wallace before she leaves this evening.”
As for the book, its sad remains sat in one of Mrs. Hubbard’s roasting pans in the center of a small table on the far side of Sinclair’s office.
“Did you ask to borrow this?” Jane asked.
Sinclair shook his head. “If word gets out, Mrs. Hubbard will have my head.” He gestured for Jane to take a seat and switched on a powerful desk lamp. Two pieces of foam, a magnifying glass, a jeweler’s loop, a razor blade, and a pair of tweezers were lined up alongside the roasting pan.
“I’m afraid the typeface has literally vanished from what’s left of the pages,” Sinclair said morosely. “But your eyes are younger than mine. Perhaps you’ll spot something I missed. Go ahead. You know how to handle fragile materials and it won’t be harmed much more than it already has. It’s barely recognizable as a book now.”
It clearly galled Sinclair that he might never know what treasures had been between the book’s covers due to how thoughtlessly it had been buried, but he moved away to give Jane room to work. She placed a foam block in the pan and opened the cover onto it for support. Both the inside cover and endpaper were stained a dark russet. There were also black speckles and pockmarks throughout, as if the book were diseased. Every page looked like it had been gnawed by starving rats, and despite Jane’s deliberate inspection, she couldn’t find a single word or illustration.
And then, just when she believed the book had no secrets to reveal, she realized that two of the pages were stuck together.
Using the razor blade and a great deal of patience, she parted the pages at the top corner. She continued sliding the blade down the fore-edge and was horrified when minute flakes of loose paper floated down into the pan. She nearly stopped, but the pages were almost separated, so she took a steadying breath and finished the job.
Jane slowly peeled the pages apart and immediately spied the ghost-pale shapes of letters. Readjusting the angle of the desk lamp, she picked up the magnifying glass and stared at the faded print.
“Have you found something?” Sinclair asked from his desk.
Jane turned to face him. “Three words. They make no sense. And I’m not sure I want to understand their meaning.”
Sinclair was at her side in an instant.
Accepting the magnifying glass Jane held out, he bent over and read the words aloud: “‘Skin the tongue.’”
He then straightened and looked at Jane. “A bit graphic for Oliver’s time, wouldn’t you agree?”
Before Jane could reply, her cell phone vibrated. She glanced at the screen and said, “We’ll have to continue this later. The conference attendees are starting to arrive.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “Having seen those three words, I’m relieved that by the time we found Oliver, there was nothing left of him but bones.”
Chapter Five
Mrs. Hubbard’s book-themed tea service looked like a scene from a fantasy novel.
The conference attendees lined up in the hallway outside the Agatha Christie Tearoom, and when the waitstaff opened the doors, the guests standing close enough to glimpse the magical spread gasped with delight.
Mrs. Hubbard and the sous chefs had been playful in the past when shaping finger sandwiches. Jane had seen them use cookie cutters to form flowers, leaves, and Christmas trees. However, this was the first time the staff had made platters of sandwiches shaped like open books.
“Using marbled rye helped create the illusion of text,” Mrs. Hubbard had explained to Jane as the tea buffet was being arranged. “The grill lines on the sourdough and white toast created a similar look. That was Juan’s idea,” she said, smiling at her fry chef. “And because we also made open-faced sandwiches, we were able to use condiments as text.”
Jane examined a tiered glass platter. The bottom tier featured smoked salmon sandwiches topped with herbed cream cheese squiggles while the top tier held roast beef and arugula rolls garnished with delicate scribbles of roasted red pepper sauce.
“These are wonderful, but the desserts are beyond magnificent. I can’t imagine how much time you put in making that cake.”
The cake, which stood proudly on the end of the buffet line next to orange Jell-O books topped with whipped cream pages and a platter of book-shaped cookies filled with homemade strawberry jam, had a black-and-white theme.
“Make sure you’re here when it’s cut or you’ll miss all the fun,” Mrs. Hubbard had said.
As the guests began entering the tearoom, Jane saw the space through their eyes. She took in the snowy tablecloths, the placemats resembling old book pages, and the centerpieces of chrysanthemums, feathers, and fresh greens. Each linen napkin had been tightly rolled and tied with a satin ribbon. Nestled inside every napkin was a quote by a famous scribe, bookmaker, or modern publishing mogul. The speaker’s identity was intentionally left blank, for Jane hoped the quotes would serve as conversation starters.
Jane could see that these wouldn’t be necessary, as the guests were already talking to each other about Mrs. Hubbard’s cake.
The entire confection was black and white
. The bottom and top tier were white and the middle tier was black. The tiers were lined with black-and-white fondant book spines in different sizes and shapes, complete with real book titles penned in edible icing. There was also a fondant topper fashioned into an open book. On its white pages, Mrs. Hubbard had written “welcome” in a curly script.
The end result was a bit of a surprise to Jane, considering how excited Mrs. Hubbard had been to make a colorful cake for the Groundbreaking Ceremony.
“Would you like a piece, sir?” the waitress charged with cutting the cake asked the first person in line.
The man, who was tall, slender, and heavily freckled, leaned over to read a few of the icing book titles. “I never say no to cake. If the cake is uncut, that is. If I get the first piece, I know the knife has touched only my food. It’s one of my quirks, and it’s not always well received at other people’s birthday or anniversary parties.”
He didn’t smile to indicate that he was joking, and the waitress clearly didn’t know how to respond, but Jane did. She realized that the man must be Bartholomew Baylor, president of the Robert Harley Rare Book Society. He’d explained, in a detailed e-mail to her, that he suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder, and that his visit to Storyton Hall would be made more comfortable if Jane would fulfill certain requests.
These requests weren’t difficult or demanding. Mr. Baylor asked for an even-numbered guest room on the second floor. He wanted an even number of towels and pillows. If a single candy or mint was to be left on the bed during the evening turndown service, he’d asked for an extra candy or mint or none at all. Finally, he requested nightlights—the kind he could plug into wall outlets. An even number of nightlights.
Jane had replied that her head housekeeper, Mrs. Pimpernel, would personally prepare his room.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to make him feel at home,” Mrs. Pimpernel had said after reading the e-mail. “I have a cousin with this condition. He turns the lights on and off sixteen times before leaving the house, and he washes his hands for exactly five minutes. No more, no less.”
Determined to put Mr. Baylor at ease, Mrs. Pimpernel went into room 222 and started counting. She removed the single neck roll pillow. She added extra toiletries and arranged the bottles by matching pairs. Mrs. Pimpernel also relocated the Storyton Hall stationery and pen sets. Normally, one set resided on a nightstand with the second on the desk, but she decided that Mr. Baylor would prefer them side by side.
“I also brought in an extra reading chair and floor lamp,” she’d told Jane when the room was ready. “I believe the symmetry will appeal to Mr. Baylor.”
Now, as he stood waiting for his piece of cake, Bartholomew Baylor sensed that he’d said something unusual. Smiling awkwardly at the waitress, he said, “I hope someone photographed this cake. It’s magnificent, despite its three tiers. Four would have been better.”
Jane stepped forward. “I’ll pass your compliment on to our head cook. She keeps a scrapbook of all her masterpieces. I’m Jane Steward. We’ve exchanged e-mails.”
“Bartholomew Baylor.” The awkwardness vanished and he smiled at Jane with genuine warmth. “Please call me Bart. You’ve been most accommodating, Ms. Steward. My room is very comfortable. As for the rest of the resort?” He released a rapturous sigh. “I’ve heard of Storyton Hall. I know people who’ve stayed here and lauded its wonders, but I didn’t understand why they were so enamored until I entered a reading room.”
“Which one did you visit?”
“I wandered into the Isak Dinesen Safari Room,” Bart said dreamily.
Jane was about to ask Bart if he’d had the chance to explore other parts of Storyton Hall when someone cried, “Look at that!”
The woman behind Bart stared at Mrs. Hubbard’s book cake, her mouth forming a perfect O. When she recovered, she said, “How brilliant. This cake reminds us not to judge a book by its cover—that the magic of books is the journey the reader embarks on because he or she dared to open the cover.”
Jane couldn’t glance away from the slice on Bart’s plate, which revealed a kaleidoscope of colors. Swirls of red, yellow, orange, green, blue, and purple cake existed beneath the layers of black and white buttercream and fondant.
Exclamations of amazement and anticipation reverberated down the buffet line.
Bart turned to the woman behind him. “It’s good to see you, Rosemary. Let’s sit together.”
He didn’t shake hands or hug Rosemary, but the lack of physical connection didn’t faze her. She was obviously sensitive to Bart’s needs, because she immediately gave him her napkin and then asked a waiter for a replacement for herself.
Two middle-aged men who looked like they’d just stepped from the pages of Country Life magazine soon joined Bart and Rosemary. The men wore expensive but casual clothing and radiated good health. After vigorously shaking hands with Bart and Rosemary, the men, whose features were so similar that Jane guessed they were brothers, tucked into their food. When the siblings weren’t eating, they smiled and laughed easily, as if they’d never known a moment of strife in their entire lives.
An older man with round spectacles and strands of gray woven through a coarse, dark beard approached their table and performed a little bow. Instantly, one of the brothers jumped up and shouted, “Levi!”
The smaller man was enfolded in a bear hug.
As soon as Levi was released, the second brother clapped him on the back. Levi’s smile was reserved but friendly, and he accepted a seat next to Rosemary with evident delight. He took her hand in both of his, raised it to his lips without making contact, and waved at Bart. Jane found this odd, considering Bart had shaken the brothers’ hands, until she recalled that there were two of them. Even numbers put Bart at ease.
The five companions quickly fell into easy conversation. They seemed to have much to share with each other and there was a great deal of amiable interrupting.
Their behavior reminded Jane of her meetings with the Cover Girls, and she felt content as she meandered through the room, greeting her newest guests. She always tried to make everyone feel welcome from the moment they entered Storyton Hall.
She was on the verge of leaving the room when an elderly woman grabbed her hand.
“I hear my alma mater has lent you one of our visiting professors.” The woman’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Is the find of historical importance?”
“Doctor Wallace hasn’t been able to draw any firm conclusions yet,” Jane said. “However, she’s returning to the university this evening. Perhaps you could call her department and make inquires.”
The old woman’s face fell and Jane saw that she’d disappointed her guest. She couldn’t blame the woman for being curious. Most people, upon learning that human remains had been found at one’s resort, would ask questions about such a fascinating subject.
“I did overhear a theory presented by the village doctor, however,” Jane whispered conspiratorially. “He believes that the person buried in our grounds was afflicted with rickets. Not only that, but he explained that several Victorian-era diseases are making a comeback. Gout, for instance.”
“Oh, yes!” the woman exclaimed, and proceeded to launch into a dramatic narrative featuring her next-door neighbor and his struggles with gout the previous winter. When she turned to focus on her tablemates, Jane slipped out of the tearoom.
In the garage, she found Celia and her team packing their skeletal remains.
“Any luck with the mystery book?” she asked Jane.
“Not yet,” Jane said. She saw a pair of Celia’s students exchange a flirtatious glance and wished Edwin wasn’t thousands of miles away. Not only could he possibly help identify the book, but she also missed him. She missed so much about him. His voice, the feel of his hands moving over her body, the sound of him banging around in her kitchen, the bedtime stories he told the boys, the way she’d catch him staring at her from across a room. She missed all of it.
Celia paused in the act of snapping
the locks on a case. “Don’t look so forlorn! This is how these things go. It’s a big puzzle where all the pieces are broken, damaged, or scattered to the four winds. And sometimes, no matter how hard we work, the mysteries remain unsolved.”
“I know. It’s just that I like to have the whole story—not just the excerpts.” Jane gestured at the manor house behind her. “Do I have your permission to show the book to some of the rare book experts? A group called the Robert Harley Rare Book Society might have access to specific resources or experts.”
“Absolutely!” Celia called to one of her students to give Jane a box of examination gloves. “You may not need these, but it’ll make me feel better to leave them with you. I’ll be in touch with any findings on my end.” She stopped packing and looked at Jane. “I realize that this is your home, Ms. Steward. Your ancestral land. Somehow or other, this man—the puzzle—that we’re taking away, is a part of your history. I understand your interest in discovering how his threads are woven into your family’s tapestry, and we’ll do all we can to provide you with answers.”
Celia’s sincerity touched Jane. She gave her a grateful smile and asked her to communicate directly with Sinclair. “Because I’ll have my hands full with the conference.”
This wasn’t exactly true, but Jane had a sneaking suspicion that Sinclair would enjoy receiving phone calls from the forensic anthropologist.
“Of course,” Celia said.
Before turning away, Jane caught an unmistakable glint of pleasure in the other woman’s eyes.
* * *
The first official event of the rare book conference was unlike any other group meeting held at Storyton Hall. Sponsored by the Robert Harley Society, the conference kicked off with a cocktail party in the main lobby. The drinks invented by the Ian Fleming Lounge staff the previous week had names like Antiquarian Aperitif, First Edition Fizz, Whiskey and Watermark, Octavo on the Rocks, and Virgin Vellum. For the wine fans in attendance, the bartenders had gone the extra mile and applied handmade labels to the wine bottles. Jane grinned every time she heard a guest order Copperplate Chardonnay, Mint Condition Merlot, or Signed Copy Cabernet.
