by Ellery Adams
Heading to the staff corridor, Jane’s hand closed over her locket. This was a habitual gesture and she always felt a thrill of pleasure when she thought of the treasures stored high above her head. Her current guests would go weak in the knees at the sight of just one or two selections from the secret library. The door at the back of Great-Aunt Octavia’s closet that granted access to the library’s spiral staircase was truly a Narnian gateway, for every time Jane stepped into that windowless room, it was as if she’d entered another world. A world of words, preserved for all time in a fireproof, climate-controlled space. Unpublished Shakespeare folios. Famous literary masterpieces with alternate endings. Maps, poems, drawings.
Bart would have loved them all, Jane thought. Even the books meant to incite conflict or cause harm.
This thought led to thoughts of food adulteration. Jane suddenly picked up her pace, bound for the spa construction area.
She’d been so preoccupied by Bart’s abrupt and violent death that she’d neglected to check on Celia Wallace’s grad students. Their sifting through a mound of dirt seemed less significant in comparison to her goal of identifying Bart’s killer and bringing him or her to justice. And yet Jane couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a connection between the diseased murder victim buried in Walter Steward’s garden nearly two hundred years ago and Bart Baylor.
Ducking under the flap in the construction fence, Jane recalled how concerned she’d been that the discovery of skeletal remains would delay the next phase of construction on the Walt Whitman Spa.
“If that was all I had to worry about today, I’d be grateful,” she muttered.
Her mood lifted the moment she came upon the grad students—both of whom were young women—exchanging lighthearted banter with two of Storyton Hall’s oldest groundskeepers. All four looked hot, sweaty, and dirty. They also looked delighted to be scooping shovelfuls of dirt from one pile to another.
“Hello, Miss Jane!” One of the groundskeepers paused in his work to greet her.
“Wow. You’ve made incredible progress so quickly,” Jane said, pointing at the diminished dirt mound. “Have you found any treasure?”
The grad student with the blond pigtail braids said, “So far, just a coin.”
“Another halfpenny?”
The second grad student, a slim Hispanic woman with caramel-colored eyes, shook her head. “This one’s German. We haven’t cleaned it, so I can’t read the year or denomination. We’ll bring it back to the university just as we found it because Celia prefers artifacts to be delivered untouched if possible.”
“Makes sense,” Jane said, and glanced up at the sun. “I’ll send out pitchers of ice water and Mrs. Hubbard’s homemade limeade. You’re all working so hard, but you need to stay hydrated.”
This was met with a chorus of “thank yous,” and Jane felt a trifle guilty for having an ulterior motive in sending Butterworth to deliver the cold drinks. When he appeared in her office twenty minutes later, however, the guilt quickly vanished.
“It is decidedly German,” Butterworth said, his eyes glinting with excitement. “An early piece, predating the formation of the German Empire in 1871.”
At Jane’s blank stare, Butterworth elaborated. “Prior to this event, Germany was comprised of separate states and the various regions issued their own coinage. There were guldens, marks, hellers, groschens. I’m no expert in German numismatology, but I believe the coin discovered today is silver and was minted in Hamburg.”
Jane was impressed. “How do you know? Is Hamburg stamped on the coin?”
“An image of its fortress is. With its three-tower castle, the structure is clearly recognizable.”
“Recognizable for those with your breadth of knowledge.” Jane’s phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. “The sheriff has finished interviewing the Robert Harley Society members. They’re signed up for the letterpress workshop, as am I. Not only will the event give me a chance to observe the Sullivan brothers, but I could also use some time to reflect on these two murders. Quietly setting type might give me that time.”
Butterworth looked dubious. “Forgive me, Miss Jane, but quiet contemplation is unlikely seeing as you’ll be in the company of your friends.”
“They can’t all make it, which is a shame. The Cover Girls have as much passion and respect for books as any of our current guests,” Jane said. “And while they lack the combat training of the Fins, they often help me tackle complicated problems. I don’t tell them every detail, but sharing the broad brushstrokes often gets me to that allusive a-ha moment.”
“I hope your a-ha moment occurs,” Butterworth said, his mouth twitching slightly at the corners.
Jane made to leave when she was struck by a thought. “Speaking of friends, have Sinclair tell Celia Wallace about the coin’s provenance as well as my wild theory that the man buried in our garden is Otto Frank.”
Holding the door for Jane, Butterworth said, “Mr. Sinclair thinks your theory is a valid one.”
“He does?” Jane asked.
“Mr. Sinclair found an article mentioning Doctor Frank’s state of health. It was written shortly before he fled London and was never seen again.”
Jane knew exactly what Butterworth would say next. “He had tuberculosis, didn’t he?”
Butterworth nodded. “His condition was no secret among those in his circle. He was not expected to reach old age.”
“It’s difficult to age with an arrow in your back,” Jane said. “Have Sinclair ask Celia for an image of that arrowhead, please. I don’t know why, but I’d like to see it.”
The head butler left and Jane ordered lunch trays for herself, Sheriff Evans, and his deputies and requested that they be delivered to the William Faulkner Conference Room. Over walnut chicken salad sandwiches and roasted sweet potato and ginger soup, Jane shared what she’d found regarding Only Natural’s financial difficulties.
“During their interview, the Sullivans said that they’ve known Mr. Baylor for a long time,” Emory said. “It would be a shame if they turned on their friend because he didn’t support the merger of their companies.”
Having finished her soup, Jane put down her spoon. “When did they first become friends with Bart?”
“All three gentlemen attended the same boarding school and college,” the sheriff answered. “Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan were also godparents to Mr. Baylor.”
“I had no idea they had such close ties,” Jane said. “Did their families live in the same town too?”
Sheriff Evans had just taken a bite of his sandwich, so Deputy Phelps replied in his stead. “Different states. But both families summered in Newport. According to Aaron Sullivan, that’s how they first met.”
Deputy Emory looked aggrieved. “The brothers were so upset when they heard about Mr. Baylor, that they’re either skilled actors or their grief is genuine.”
“It’s possible to commit a crime and still express remorse,” the sheriff said. “A murderer isn’t without feelings. Sometimes, when finally confronted, a killer can be completely overwhelmed by emotion.”
Jane suddenly found it difficult to swallow her mouthful of sandwich. She saw that Deputy Emory was no longer eating and sat quietly with her hands in her lap. Deputy Phelps had already devoured everything on his tray. Perched on the edge of his chair, he was clearly eager to get back to work.
“We need to delve deeper into Only Natural Foods and the roles Aaron and Austin Sullivan play in the company.” The sheriff placed his napkin on the table. “Ms. Steward, thank you for lunch. Keep your eyes and ears open during the afternoon workshop, if you would.”
The sheriff obviously had things to discuss with his deputies, so Jane left them in the conference room and made her way to the Great Gatsby Ballroom, which was where the letterpress workshop was being held.
As the session was already underway, Jane silently maneuvered around the other tables, bound for the one marked with a sign reading, RESERVED FOR COVER GIRLS.
“Is e
verything okay?” Eloise whispered once Jane was seated. “I know it’s not, but are you okay? When you weren’t here at the start, we got worried.”
The other Cover Girls in attendance—Mabel, Betty, and Mrs. Pratt—nodded in agreement.
“I’m better now that I’m with you,” Jane said, and meant it.
She turned her attention to their workshop leader, a retired professor named Michael Piech. The professor was describing the various works created by letterpresses.
“In my opinion, this press was made to produce poetry,” he said, directing his audience to the screen at the front of the room. “Just look at this broadside of a Rumi poem.”
“What’s a broadside?” Mabel whispered.
Jane grew rigid, unable to reply.
Don’t be that Rumi poem, she silently prayed. I don’t want to think about Edwin right now.
“It’s a sheet of paper printed on one side. Like a poster or an advertisement,” Eloise whispered to Mabel.
Professor Piech raised his pointer. “Printed on Crane’s Lettra Pearl White using a Vandercook cylinder press. The typeface is Open Sans. Black. The mountain design, done in red ink, is from a hand-carved woodblock.”
Staring up at the screen, the professor read the lines of poetry aloud. And though Jane knew a much older man was speaking, she heard Edwin’s voice fill the air around her.
“A mountain keeps an echo deep inside itself.
That’s how I hold your voice.
I am scrap wood thrown in your fire,
and quickly reduced to smoke.”
“How beautiful,” Eloise murmured.
Mrs. Pratt put her hand over her heart. “That poet must have made millions of women swoon.”
Mabel also chimed in with a comment, but Jane was lost in a memory and didn’t hear it.
In the memory, she and Edwin were sitting on the low wall surrounding the herb garden behind Storyton Hall’s kitchen. It was twilight. Shadows were stretching out along the gravel paths and stars were beginning to spangle the periwinkle sky.
On that garden wall, Edwin had given Jane a gift. It was an original Rumi poem. Because it had been written in Persian in the sixteenth century, Edwin had translated the words, saying that the gift was his way of pledging himself to her. He told Jane that he loved her and that the echo of her voice had carried him through his most difficult time. He was forever hers. If she’d have him.
Jane had responded by saying that she wanted him, despite the complexities of such a relationship, because she’d fallen in love with him.
Afterward, they’d walked, hand in hand, across the great lawn and through a cloud of fireflies, to Jane’s house.
It had been an enchanted evening.
“Psst!” Eloise waved a hand in front of Jane’s face, snapping her back to the present. “You haven’t blinked in over a minute. Is there something we should know?”
“I’ll tell you later,” Jane murmured.
The professor clicked his remote and the image on the screen changed. “Though we’re focusing on Pre-Raphaelite-style broadsides today, I still wanted to show you a few examples from contemporary printers. Many small presses use fresh, bold interpretations of classic works. Take this version of Shakespeare’s Sonnet Thirty-Five, for instance. The Optima typeface and the clever eclipse design, which progresses from black to yellow to red and is a nod to the eclipse referenced in the poem, are arguably more effective than multiple colors and ornate typeface. This design allows the sonnet’s themes to shine.”
A woman near the front said, “It’s unique, but I believe William Morris and Kelmscott Press were the perfect match for Shakespeare’s works.”
“Fair enough,” the professor said amicably, and signaled for the house lights to be turned up. He then asked the participants to select a poetry sample from the center of their table.
“This is what you’ll be printing today,” he explained. “At the end of the workshop, you’ll have a beautiful piece of art to take home. I’m sure some of you are wondering why you aren’t being given the chance to print an entire poem.”
The audience murmured their agreement and the professor laughed. “It’s okay, it happens every time. You’ll be surprised to find that setting movable type is neither quick nor easy. You must set the type in reverse, and even the most detail-oriented individuals will make mistakes along the way. Typically, these mistakes go unnoticed until the plates meet the press. When the ink is on the rollers, things tend to become clear.”
To Jane, the professor might have been describing a murder investigation. She felt like she’d been given an assortment of random bits of information and was somehow expected to fit them together until they formed a complete picture. But the information she and the Fins had gathered thus far might as well be backward and upside-down letters from a nineteenth-century poem. At this point, their sleuthing was all theory and no concrete evidence.
“Which poem did you get?” Mabel asked Mrs. Pratt.
“‘The Honeysuckle,’” Mrs. Pratt answered. “The poet is Dante Rossetti. You?”
“I have the other Rossetti. Christina,” Mrs. Pratt said. “It’s a rather gloomy verse from ‘A Daughter of Eve,’ but I don’t mind. The Victorians were obsessed with death, so I don’t expect a poem filled with sunshine and daisy imagery.”
Eloise was grinning over her selection. “Mine is ‘Violets, ’ by George Meredith. It’s very sweet. I’ll have it framed and we can give it to Violet on her birthday. She was so disappointed that she couldn’t come, but she couldn’t reschedule her clients. Who wrote your poem, Jane?”
“William Morris. I’ve never heard of this one. It’s called ‘Our Hands Have Met.’”
Mrs. Pratt craned her neck to see Jane’s paper. “Oh, it’s romantic! ‘Our hands have met—our lips have met’”—she paused to wriggle her brows before continuing—“‘our souls—who knows when the wind blows?’”
“Quite an abrupt change in tone at the end,” Eloise said. “Sounds like someone who can’t quite commit.”
Though Jane briefly wondered if Eloise was referring to Edwin, Lachlan, or both men, she didn’t want to be bogged down by thoughts of her complicated love life, so she scanned the room in search of the Robert Harley Society members.
All four of them were concentrating on their poems. Their faces were taut, as if the strain of holding back their sadness and shock was stretching their skin.
I won’t learn a thing by watching them, Jane thought. I need to set my type quickly and visit their table when I’m done.
There were wooden boxes filled with metal type tiles on every table. Each wooden box was divided into compartments by letter. The box the Cover Girls had been given was labeled “Goudy Modern 12 pt.”
Professor Piech walked everyone through the steps of setting their first line of type, and Jane became completely absorbed in the task of selecting tiles and positioning them in her composing stick. It was delicate work that required deep concentration, and though the room was at capacity, hardly anyone spoke. This was understandable, seeing as a single mistake in one line, such as omitting punctuation or forgetting to insert a text tile in reverse, often meant redoing the entire line.
Jane found the exercise very therapeutic. It helped to have long, thin, and deft fingers, which she did. It also helped that she loved the feel of the tiles and how each line of poetry grew as she worked.
“I feel like a modern day Gutenberg,” she whispered to Eloise, after finishing her third out of five lines.
“You’re much better looking,” Eloise quipped.
To her right, Mabel cursed softly. “I can’t believe it. I inserted a comma when I was supposed to use a semicolon. Lord, how am I ever going to fix that mess? It’s in the middle of the second line and I’m on the fourth.”
“I could see why people resisted child labor laws,” Mrs. Pratt grumbled half-heartedly. “Their little fingers are better suited to this kind of work. Mine were made to turn pages and lift pieces of ch
ocolate to my mouth.”
“Can you picture Fitz and Hem doing this?” Jane asked with a grin. “I could see them switching the ps and qs in every box, however.”
Their laughter was raucous enough to draw attention from neighboring tables. Still smiling, Jane got back to work. She was thoroughly enjoying this workshop. Not only was she learning new information about books, but she was also clearing her mind. She knew this would be beneficial when it came time to think about the murder investigation again.
The workshop participants finished setting their type at different times, and a dozen people had already stepped away from the letterpress carrying beautiful poems printed on thick, oversized paper. These were put on racks to dry, and the guests returned to their seats to chat with their friends.
Once Jane’s broadside was on a drying rack, she made a beeline for the Robert Harley members and quietly asked to join them. She knew that the empty chair at their table had been meant for Bart. Even after the group invited her to sit, she hesitated to take Bart’s seat, but Levi got to his feet and pulled out the chair for her.
“Please,” he said. “We could use the company.”
Jane asked after their poems. All four members read their poems to her, which lightened the mood. It also led to a discussion about the Pre-Raphaelite dinner.
“I know it won’t be the same without Bart,” Jane said, addressing the group as a whole. “But he’d want you to savor every moment of this conference, wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” agreed Rosemary. “He enjoyed seeing others enjoying themselves. Must have been why he loved you buffoons so much.”
This remark was directed at the Sullivan brothers, who responded with bittersweet smiles.
“We balanced each other out. Like weights on a scale,” Aaron said. “Bart was serious, studious, and careful. Austin and I were the opposite. Bart taught us to care about our education—something our parents and teachers never managed to do. We could never repay him for that gift.”
