Murder in the Locked Library

by Ellery Adams

  The attendees sipped their cocktails, nibbled hors d’oeuvres, and mingled until book dealers, auctioneers, librarians, archivists, and collectors took turns at the raised podium Butterworth had erected in the middle of the lobby. From this spot, the rare book enthusiasts regaled the crowd with anecdotes of the worst behavior they’d witnessed over the past year.

  “All in the name of collecting,” the first speaker added by way of introduction.

  A book dealer from London spoke of how a J. K. Rowling doppelgänger had tried to sell signed copies of the Harry Potter novels from the back of her van for hundreds of pounds each.

  “You’d think the van would be a dead giveaway,” the woman said. “It probably rolled off the factory line the same year the Beatles released Abbey Road. Still, people believe what they want to believe. The imposter J. K. sold several cases—all hardbacks too—before someone reported her.”

  The other stories were equally entertaining. A representative from a New York auction house spoke of how a desperate collector had hired the distant relative of a well-known socialite to spread rumors about a folio of Audubon’s Birds of America during the preview party.

  “The guy had half the bidders convinced the folio was a fake,” the auction rep said, dabbing his forehead with a cocktail napkin. It was clear that the memory still haunted him. “I’m in charge of rare books acquisitions and my job was on the line, so I had to stop this guy’s tongue from wagging. Luckily, my good friend is a detective. One of NYPD’s finest. A call to him and I find out that the guy strutting around the gallery, gulping down champagne and Wagyu beef on toast, doesn’t own six car dealerships in Connecticut, but is an out-of-work actor. Even after security had him removed from the building, some of our prospective bidders still questioned the Audubon. To this day, I swear we could have gotten a better price for that folio if not for that scam artist.”

  A murmur swept through the crowd, and Jane could see that most of the attendees sympathized with the auction representative.

  However, she soon learned that there were just as many guests who weren’t shy about expressing their admiration for bibliokleptomaniacs.

  When a rare book dealer from Miami reached for the microphone, a hush fell over the crowd. “Last week, a boy was arrested in Paris. I do not exaggerate when I use the term ‘boy,’ for this kid was no more than thirteen. He was spotted jumping from the roof of a private collector’s house onto a neighbor’s roof. He was as lithe and sure-footed as a cat. When he was caught, he told the authorities that nothing would stop him from becoming the next Stephen Blumberg.”

  This caused a rush of animated twittering from the crowd, and Jane understood why. Known as the Book Bandit, Stephen Blumberg had stolen thousands of books from museums and universities in forty-five states. The net worth of these books was over five million dollars, and that was back in the 1990s. Blumberg never had the slightest intention of profiting from his crimes, which earned him plenty of fans. He had his fair share of critics as well. Either way, most people in the book business knew of him.

  The Miami book dealer finished his tale and passed the microphone to Bart Baylor, who introduced himself as the president of the Robert Harley Rare Book Society. Keeping his eyes fixed on a matching pair of striped wing chairs, he added, “If this is your first time attending, you might not have heard of my other name. I’m also known as the Book Doctor. If you have a rare book in need of restoration or conservation, I can help. My areas of expertise are in water and age-related damage and in customized archival housing.”

  “The Book Doc’s the best!” a voice called, and Jane guessed that it belonged to one of the two brothers who’d had tea with Bart that afternoon.

  The outburst distracted Bart and he tapped on his lips with his index fingers several times in an agitated manner.

  “Thank you, Aaron,” he said, once he’d mastered his thoughts again. “Each year, we gather to celebrate our dedication to the preservation, protection, and collection of rare books. I’m bundling other types of rarities in that term to keep this speech brief. I’d never ignore the significance of your maps, Charles, or the beauty of your etchings, Edith.”

  Bart continued to name several dealers and collectors and Jane could sense a feeling of unity swelling among the conference-goers. There had to be a measure of competition among the dealers and collectors, but in this moment, they were all people who’d congregated to celebrate a shared passion.

  “There are those who mock collectors of rare books,” Bart went on. His voice had grown louder and more confident as his speech progressed. “They reference Sebastian Brant’s medieval German allegory, The Ship of Fools, in which one of the fools headed for the Fool’s Paradise was a book collector. The man who hoarded books without ever cracking a cover to gain the wisdom from the contents.”

  Bart removed two index cards from the pocket of his dinner jacket and, using a censorious tone, recited the following lines,

  “For I rely upon my books,

  Of which I have a great supply,

  But of their contents know no word,

  And hold them yet in such respect,

  That I will keep them from the flies.”

  Someone gently bumped Jane’s elbow and she pivoted to find Eloise offering her a First Edition Fizz.

  Jane accepted the cocktail and mouthed her thanks.

  “Future generations will thank us for keeping rare books from the flies,” Bart intoned. “Private collectors are accustomed to being called fools. But you’ll find that the shelves of libraries and museums are filled with the donated collections of foolish men and women—the visionaries who hunted for, cherished, and saved priceless treasures for future generations. Let’s raise our glasses to them, and to all of us, who continue to honor Brant’s Fool of Useless Books.” Bart held up his glass of water. “To useless books!”

  “To useless books!” shouted the attendees, the staff of Storyton Hall, the Cover Girls, and the villagers.

  When Jane turned to speak to Eloise, she saw tears in her friend’s eyes.

  “It’s silly, I know,” Eloise said, sniffing. “I don’t sell rare books in Run for Cover, but that speech was very moving.”

  “It wasn’t just the speech,” Jane said, understanding exactly what Eloise meant. “We’re among our kind. We’re with book people. People who love everything about books. The history of books. The illustrations. The typography. The paper, covers, edges. The significance of an original manuscript or a signed copy. These people also understand the power of books. They understand how books can impact the world, one reader at a time. They respect the book, as we do.”

  Eloise nodded. “This is going to be an amazing five days. I’m going to learn things I never knew.”

  Jane thought of the black-eyed stare of the skull and the book fragment waiting in Sinclair’s office. Under her breath, she whispered, “I hope these discoveries don’t bring us harm.”

  * * *

  Later that evening, after the attendees had dined in either the Madame Bovary Dining Room or opted for a casual meal in the Rudyard Kipling Café, Butterworth rounded up the members of the Robert Harley Society and escorted them to the Henry James Library.

  “Thank you for coming,” Jane said when they were all seated. “The library is officially closed, so it’s the perfect place to ask if you’d be willing to look at a book that we found buried in our back garden.” She paused. “I should add that the book was buried with human remains and is in very poor condition.”

  The Robert Harley members exchanged quick, excited glances.

  “You may have already heard about the body and that we had a forensic anthropologist on our grounds today,” Jane continued. “Our staff was instructed to be completely transparent on this topic. And while Mr. Sinclair and I had hoped to identify the book on our own, we’ve been unsuccessful. Therefore, we’d be grateful if you five would take a look at it. Mr. Sinclair is very knowledgeable about books—”

  “But my knowled
ge pales in comparison to yours.” Sinclair smiled humbly at their guests.

  “We’d love to!” one of the brothers exclaimed. “I’m Austin Sullivan, by the way. This is my older brother, Aaron. We work in public relations, but we’re not that devoted to work. We’re devoted to collecting all things related to American history. That’s where all our time and money goes.”

  “The Sullivan brothers come off like socialite playboys, but that’s not who they are,” Rosemary said. “They’re constantly raising money for the humanities—whether it’s a new library wing or an after school arts program—these two will be chairing the committee and beating the bushes until the funds are raised.”

  Aaron and Austin pretended to scowl at Rosemary.

  “Ro, we have a rep to maintain,” Aaron whispered. “Don’t sell us out.”

  “I don’t travel in their circle much,” Rosemary continued. “I’m shackled to a desk in my little corner of the Library of Congress. I’m an archivist.”

  “An archivist with famous politician parents,” Austin said. “Daughter of an ambassador and a senator. Not that she lets that define her. Ro kicks ass on her own.”

  “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Pearce’s parents in Israel,” said Levi. “I’m Levi Ross, purveyor of rare books and manuscripts. Levi Ross Rare Books has locations in London, Chicago, New York, and Tel Aviv.”

  It was now Bart’s turn. And though he and Jane had already met, he and Sinclair hadn’t been introduced, so he said his name, occupation, and then added, “The Sullivan brothers and I attended the same college. We sort of came into manhood and book collecting together. And now, here we are.”

  Again, Jane felt an aura of genuine warmth fill the space around her. She felt completely at ease among this group.

  “Is everyone comfortable with my locking the main doors?” Sinclair asked. “I’d prefer we weren’t disturbed.”

  Bart tapped his lips and muttered a string of numbers under his breath.

  “Bart?” Rosemary whispered. “Are you all right?”

  “Gloves,” Bart said. “I need my gloves.”

  Sinclair shot Jane a worried glance. The plan was for the Robert Harley members to look at the book, not touch it.

  “Doctor Wallace, the forensic anthropologist assigned to this case, entrusted the book to me,” Sinclair said. “For now, I’d rather no one else handle it. I hope you understand.”

  Bart nodded multiple times, but this revelation seemed to allay his anxiety. “I have a latex allergy, so if gloves were necessary, I’d need to get mine from my room.”

  “Of course,” Sinclair said in a soft, soothing voice. “Shall we proceed?”

  Bart indicated that he was ready and Sinclair motioned for Jane to lock the door while he retrieved the book from his office. Their footfalls echoed in the silence, and when Sinclair placed the sealed rubber box in front of the five book aficionados, not one of them moved.

  Sinclair pried off the box lid and lifted out the wood cradle holding the remains of the book.

  Rosemary sucked in a breath at the sight of the ruined cover, but Levi immediately put a jeweler’s loop to his eye and leaned closer to the cradle.

  Austin also bent closer. Unlike Levi, he closed his eyes altogether and inhaled deeply. His brother glanced at Sinclair. “Are the pages just as bad?”

  “There’s nothing left to see. Except . . .” He glanced at Jane for permission and she nodded. “A single legible phrase that said, ‘skin the tongue.’”

  Levi removed his loop and frowned down at the book.

  Bart tapped his lips. His expression matched Levi’s.

  Suddenly, the two friends looked at each other. “Do you think—?” they began in unison.

  Jane suppressed a grin. They reminded her of Fitz and Hem.

  “Go ahead,” Levi said graciously.

  Bart kept his eyes on the book. “It’s likely a cookery. A book of receipts. Rosemary? Aaron and Austin? What do you make of the age?”

  “Mid-eighteen-hundreds,” Aaron said, his focus still on the cover. “Not American.”

  “Maybe a smidgen earlier. Based on that shade of green,” Rosemary added. “A London publisher, Austin?”

  Austin nodded. “I think so. I’d need to view the typeface before I could say for certain. Could we see the page with that line of text?”

  The room was plunged back into expectant silence as Sinclair shifted the fragile pages to the place where Jane had found what she’d originally believed to be a gruesome phrase.

  The Robert Harley Society members concurred that the mystery book was most likely a cookbook, and that “skin the tongue” was a line of instruction from a recipe.

  “Levi and Rosemary can search their databases for records of other nineteenth-century cookeries with an embossed wheat bundle on a green cover,” Bart said after Sinclair returned the book to its rubber bin. “It shouldn’t take them long to come up with a title.”

  Jane and Sinclair thanked their guests for their time and expertise.

  In return, their guests thanked Jane and Sinclair for allowing them to see the mysterious artifact buried with human bones.

  “But why?” Jane said to Sinclair after the five friends had left the library. “Why go to your grave with a cookbook?”

  Sinclair gazed down at the damaged cover. “Perhaps the pages weren’t filled with traditional recipes. Perhaps they contained receipts written by an unusual woman—an herbalist, for example.”

  “Those herbalists were known by less favorable names,” Jane said after a long hesitation. “Sometimes, they were called witches.”

  Chapter Six

  Though the twins did their best to convince their mother that they should spend Sunday morning helping the grad students instead of attending church services, their efforts were in vain.

  “You’re going, so put on your church clothes and be quick about it,” Jane said. At this rate, they’d be even later than usual meeting Uncle Aloysius and Aunt Octavia.

  To say that Aunt Octavia disliked tardiness was an understatement, and Jane’s brow was damp from more than the heat by the time she and the boys arrived in the lobby.

  Aunt Octavia wasn’t standing next to the grandfather clock as was her custom, pursing her lips in disapproval and tapping her walking stick against the carpet as if counting every second she was being kept waiting.

  In fact, Jane’s great-aunt wasn’t standing at all. She was comfortably ensconced on a lobby sofa with Muffet Cat curled up against her left thigh.

  The sight of Storyton Hall’s resident feline reminded Jane that Mrs. Whartle had checked out yesterday. Muffet Cat, who’d been unhappily sequestered with Aunt Octavia and Uncle Aloysius since the “champagne incident,” had happily regained his freedom.

  “Mom,” Hem whispered. “Why is Aunt Octavia reading?”

  “Yeah. Aren’t we late?” Fitz asked. “Doesn’t she hate being late?”

  Jane had no answer for her sons, for her great-aunt did have a book splayed on her lap. To her right sat a man who bore a close resemblance to a badger. He also had a book open on his lap and was gesturing between the two books.

  “There you are!” Aunt Octavia called upon noticing Jane and the boys. “Come see! Mr. Rolf is letting me travel back in time. It’s not often that someone as old as I am can be a child again. You’ve given me quite a treat, sir, thank you.”

  “It’s a pleasure to share the delights of these books with such a receptive audience.” Mr. Rolf beckoned to Jane and the twins. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

  He smiled a crooked-toothed smile and the twins hesitated. Jane looked beyond his teeth and the white and gray-streaked tumbleweed that was his hair to the book on his lap and was immediately drawn to it.

  “Is that a pop-up book?” she asked.

  “The Pop-Up Mother Goose,” said Aunt Octavia. “From 1933. I had this book, and I remember it well. There were only three pop-up pages—such things weren’t common at that time—and I thought
they were magical. I moved the pages again and again.” Suddenly, she looked bereft. “Once, I wasn’t careful and I tore off Humpty-Dumpty’s legs. It was awful. I felt like I’d killed the poor thing!”

  Fitz rushed to lay his hand over Aunt Octavia’s. His brother was a heartbeat behind him.

  “It’s okay, Aunt Octavia,” they consoled her in unison.

  “My angels!” she cried, her eyes growing damp with tears.

  Mr. Rolf, clearly worried that his rare book was on the verge of getting wet, scooped it off Aunt Octavia’s lap and passed it to Jane.

  Jane was amazed by the pristine condition of the old book. She cradled it in her right hand while carefully turning its pages. Her sons watched as each of the three pop-up illustrations unfolded and took shape and then fell flat again as she turned the next page.

  “Would you like to trade?” Mr. Rolf asked, offering Jane the book from his lap. “This one’s from 1880.” He held up a finger. “No pop-ups this time. This is a panorama picture book.”

  “Show the boys, Jane. After that, we should be off.” Aunt Octavia pointed at the grandfather clock. “I’m sorry to rush off, Mr. Rolf, but I hate to walk in after the first organ notes have been struck. The best seats are already gone by then.”

  Knowing she was being given a subtle hint, Jane opened Wild Animal Stories and gingerly turned the pages. The twins were instantly enraptured.

  “These panoramas are called chromolithographs,” said Mr. Rolf. “My favorite is the leopard with the monkeys. The leopard is so serious, but the monkeys look like they’re about to laugh, don’t they?” He smiled at the twins and this time, the twins smiled back.

  “I like the polar bears,” Aunt Octavia said.

  “I like the elephants,” said Uncle Aloysius from behind Jane.

  Because she hadn’t heard her great-uncle’s approach, Jane flinched in surprise. She gently returned the book to Mr. Rolf, thanked him for sharing his treasures with her family, and was on the verge of scolding her great-uncle when he wagged his finger.