by Ellery Adams
“I hope you’re hungry,” she said, indicating the menu.
“We’re always hungry. And it looks like we won’t have long to wait.” Aaron made a subtle gesture. “Here comes the bell.”
Butterworth approached the dinner gong, which sat on a mahogany sideboard. He picked up the mallet, struck the gong twice, and waited for the sound to resonate through the room. It took several seconds for the hum of conversation to die down, but when Butterworth was certain he had everyone’s attention, he introduced the members of the chamber orchestra who’d be playing Victorian-era pieces for the diner’s pleasure. After the expectant guests finished applauding the musicians, the head butler concluded his short speech by listing the beverages accompanying the dinner and explaining when the dancing would start in the Great Gatsby Ballroom. He then wished them an excellent meal, issued a stiff bow, and withdrew to a corner of the room.
The waitstaff began moving around the tables, serving red or white wine. When it was Austin’s turn to choose, he seemed unable to decide.
“He’d like red, thank you,” his brother told the waiter.
“I’m sorry,” Austin’s apology was directed at Jane. “I’m missing Bart tonight. This dinner was his idea. He loved art and he was one of the few people who believed book collecting was an art form. As for art in the Victorian era, Bart was especially fond of the Arts and Crafts movement. Any patterns showing symmetry made him feel calm.”
Aaron nodded and picked up his wineglass, though he didn’t take a sip. “We should toast his memory.”
Jane experienced a moment of déjà vu. She and her friends had just shared cocktails in honor of Lizzie Siddal. Lizzie had been dead for over a hundred years. Bart had been gone for only a matter of days.
“That’s a lovely idea,” she told Aaron. “Did Bart have a favorite quote?”
The Sullivan brothers exchanged knowing grins. “Funnily enough, he was very fond of one by John Ruskin,” said Austin. “Ruskin was a great patron of the Pre-Raphaelites.”
“I’ll have Butterworth ring the gong again. Would one of you lead us in the toast?”
Hand to heart, Aaron obliged.
Jane caught Butterworth’s eye and signaled for him to ring the gong. In the silence that followed, Aaron got to his feet and surveyed the room. “I don’t mean to keep you from the delicious meal we’re about to enjoy, but seeing as this night celebrates a famous brotherhood, my brother and I wanted to ask you to stand in memory of our other brother—the one we all lost this week.” He paused for a moment to collect himself. “Bartholomew Baylor loved books. He loved this conference. He looked forward to spending time with his book brothers and book sisters every year. I’d like to think he’s with us tonight.”
He touched his brother on the elbow and Austin now stood up and raised his glass. “Bart’s favorite quote, which was from John Ruskin, was this: ‘One cannot be angry when one looks at a penguin.’”
The dining room echoed with soft laughter.
Austin waited a heartbeat before continuing. “Your laughter is an example of Bart’s gift. He found ways to bring people together. And he always brought out the best in all of us, even though people didn’t always see the best in him. To Bart.”
“To Bart!” the diners repeated loudly and with feeling.
From that point onward, the meal progressed like a well-rehearsed symphony. The candles gently flickered, the music filled in any gaps in conversation, and poached salmon with mousseline sauce followed the vermicelli soup. After the fish course came the meats. There was veal stewed with mushrooms, garlic, and saffron, French pigeon pie, and roasted chicken. In addition to the entrees, the fresh vegetable dishes included green beans, new potatoes, and asparagus.
It felt like hours had passed when the waitstaff cleared the table to prepare for dessert. Most of the diners complained that they had no room left for sweets, but Jane knew better. There was a lull as the wineglasses were removed and coffee cups were delivered. The din of conversation grew a trifle louder. During this time, Jane raised the subject of Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts to her tablemates.
“With all that’s happened, I haven’t had the chance to tell you that Bart’s theory about our cookbook was spot on. It is, in fact, the cookbook also known as The Devil’s Receipts. He was also correct when he told you that it was given this negative moniker because the recipes contained certain ingredients that could endanger certain members of the public.”
Levi put his coffee cup down and stared fixedly at Jane. “How were you able to confirm this?”
“A happy accident,” was all Jane would say. “But I’m grateful to be sharing a meal with two collectors and a dealer. You see, I’m not sure how to appraise this book or what measures I should take to ensure its safety until I’m given leave to sell it.”
“You’ve already made that decision, then? To sell?” Levi asked. There wasn’t the slightest hint of eagerness in his tone. Merely curiosity.
Jane made an encompassing gesture with her arm. “The upkeep on this place costs a fortune, and I’d like to proceed with our spa project. I’m hoping that the sale of such a rare book would defray some of the building costs.” She looked at Levi. “Do you have an idea what price the book would fetch at auction? You’ve seen it. You know its condition.”
Levi hesitated. “Yes. The condition was worse than rough. However, I haven’t seen the book’s printed pages, which is precisely what would restore its value in the eyes of a collector. I couldn’t give you a proper appraisal without seeing it again.”
“Fair enough,” Jane said. “The cookbook is still in the Henry James Library. Tomorrow, if you have time, perhaps I might show the ... revised version to you.”
“I would like that very much,” Levi said, and dipped his chin in appreciation.
Jane turned to the Sullivan brothers. “The invitation extends to you two as well. Though the cookbook isn’t American and isn’t something you’d be interested in collecting, it—”
“Fascinated Bart, which means we could probably learn something from it,” Aaron said with a smile. “Thank you, Ms. Steward. We’d love to see the infamous recipes.”
“As long as there are no members of the press around to document the moment,” Austin hastily added. “We’ve had our own public relations troubles over ingredients this year, so we don’t need our critics connecting us, or our company, to that cookbook.”
Aaron nodded vehemently. “Absolutely. We want to see it because of Bart. Because, well, it was the last book he saw.” His expression became aggrieved. “I wish it had been a botanical or a book featuring engravings of the animals of Papua New Guinea. I just hope Bart’s final thoughts weren’t about food adulteration.” He shot a glance at his brother. “We’d hate that.”
Jane was stunned by the openness of the Sullivan brothers. Not only had they admitted that their company was under fire for food adulteration, but they’d also made it clear that they were concerned about their reputation. And yet they still cherished their friendship with Bart enough to honor his memory by looking at the cookbook. Jane was surprised that they’d been so transparent in front of her and Eloise.
“I hope the issues your company faces are resolved to everyone’s benefit. And by everyone, I mean your family, the farmers, and the customers,” Jane said. This was her way of expressing sympathy for the Sullivans while making it plain that she believed it wrong for consumers to be exposed to harmful chemicals in products claiming to be organic. “And while I can’t offer you comfort in that quarter, I honestly don’t think Bart was focused on the contents of the cookbook. In the end, I believe his final impression was of being surrounded by books. For him, it was more like a colorful image. Like a painting of books.”
“How apropos, considering this evening’s theme,” said Levi.
The conversation switched to another subject, but was soon interrupted by the arrival of the waitstaff with the final course.
The desserts were a triumph. Mrs. Hubbard
had contained herself to a quartet of Victorian delights. The diners could sample chocolate pudding, a cherry tart, Apple Charlotte, and floating islands. This delectable treat, which consisted of pieces of soft meringue drifting in a vanilla custard sauce, had always been one of Jane’s favorites.
“Ms. Steward, would you please dance with me as soon as possible?” Aaron asked after dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “If I don’t move, I might pass into a food coma right here at the table.”
“Your chef is amazing,” Austin said. “My compliments to him.”
Eloise shook her head. “The head cook is Mrs. Hubbard.”
Austin had the good sense to look abashed. “Forgive me. That was a sexist assumption on my part. Could I make it up to you, Ms. Alcott, and to Mrs. Hubbard, by discussing the head cook’s favorite genre on the dance floor? I’d like to stop by Run for Cover tomorrow and purchase a gift for the person who was able to carry out Bart’s vision with such panache.”
The satiated diners left the Madame Bovary, heading for the Great Gatsby Ballroom at a leisurely pace.
Butterworth, a true Renaissance man, had taken up his conductor’s baton and was leading the Storyton Chamber Orchestra in an opening waltz. He would conduct for several songs before passing the baton to his understudy and resuming his duties as head butler.
Aaron took Jane’s hand and led her to the center of the dance floor. He pressed his palm against the small of her back, smiled at her, and then began to waltz in synch with the other dancers.
Jane knew that Aaron cut one of the most dashing figures in the room. While some of the men had opted for Rossetti’s bow tie and a shirt with a shorter collar, Aaron had chosen a high collar and an elaborately tied cravat. Many men would have looked ridiculous in such a getup, but Aaron Sullivan did not. He looked like he’d stepped right out of a Jane Austen novel. With his fair hair, he couldn’t pull off the perfect Mr. Darcy, but he’d make an excellent Captain Wentworth.
To Jane, he might as well be the Invisible Man. His good looks didn’t matter to her one bit. And while she found his company pleasant, Aaron Sullivan couldn’t keep her mind in the present.
It was Edwin she thought of now. And of a private dance she’d shared with him in this room. The music had been from Tchaikovsky’s The Sleeping Beauty. The floor had been illuminated by thin beams of candlelight coming from tall candelabra stationed around the dance floor. Edwin had held Jane very close, as if willing any space between them to disappear. He’d moved her body as if she had no ownership over it, and she’d willingly surrendered to his touch.
At the end of the song, when she’d longed for nothing more than a long, deep kiss from the man clutching her so tightly, he’d lowered her into a dip and seen the owl tattoo on her left breast. It was at that moment that Edwin Alcott had discovered her secret identity. Later on, he’d confessed the complex details of his own.
No other man could compete with such a memory, Jane thought as the waltz ended and Aaron complimented her on her graceful dancing.
“I had an excellent partner,” she said, before excusing herself under the pretense of having to check on the punch bowl.
Aaron had no trouble replacing her. By the time the second dance began, Rosemary was in his arms.
“They make a charming couple,” Mrs. Pratt said, causing Jane to jump. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, but I assumed you’d want to know how the baiting of the hook went over at our table.”
“I most certainly do. Let’s find a quiet place to talk.”
Jane and Mrs. Pratt left the ballroom and made for the Ian Fleming Lounge. After taking seats close to the door, the two women bent their heads together.
“I’ll do my best to be brief,” Mrs. Pratt began. “Though brevity is not one of my strong suits.”
Jane smiled and made a waving motion for her friend to continue.
“Rosemary seemed as blue as her gown at the start of the meal, but she perked up by the time the soup course was over. I sat with Violet and Anna—who are much closer to Rosemary’s age than I am—and they were able to dispel her black cloud by asking her about the recent events held at the Library of Congress. That led to discussions about fashion, celebrities, best-selling novels, and so on.”
When Mrs. Pratt paused for breath, Jane made a noise of encouragement.
“Despite our most valiant attempts to engage Rosemary at the end of the meal, she was glum again while we waited on dessert.” Mrs. Pratt’s mouth curved into a secretive smile. “There was no opening for us to slip in the subject of the cookbook. None. But help came from the most unexpected quarter.”
Jane raised her brows. “Oh?”
“The gentleman seated to my left explained that he suffers from debilitating allergies. I use the word ‘debilitating’ considering his line of work. He’s the special collections librarian at a large university in the Midwest, and the poor man is allergic to dust. He’s constantly breaking out in hives.” She shook her head in sympathy. “For once, and I doubt I will ever utter these words again, we were grateful to have Randall at our table.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Pratt squirmed in her chair—such was her delight over being able to share this anecdote. “As you can imagine, our local pharmacist pounced on this man like a cat on a lame mouse. The lecturing commenced and, as usual, we thought Randall would drone on forever. Again, we got lucky.”
“I can’t imagine how,” Jane muttered, feeling sorry for everyone forced to listen to Randall Teague. “Why has he attended these rare book events, anyway? Is he trying to drum up business for Storyton Pharmacy?”
“I think that’s part of it,” Mrs. Pratt said. “But he also has a small collection of rare medical books. When he stopped lecturing and raised this subject, Rosemary really came to life. Her father also collects books on medicine and disease. His interest centers on the American Civil War.”
Jane nodded. She was beginning to understand how this could lead to one of the Cover Girls raising the subject of the cookbook. “Did the ingestion of poison somehow enter their conversation?”
“It was far more distasteful, actually. Especially since I was trying to savor my tart!” Mrs. Pratt was clearly torn between wallowing in her indignation and continuing her narrative. Fortunately, her desire to reach the best part won out. “Somehow, Randall and Rosemary began talking about the food served to Civil War prisoners. Rat stew was one of the better examples. This led to a discussion on the troops killing and eating tens of thousands of passenger pigeons. Somehow, the subject returned full-circle to our meal and Victorian-era recipes.”
“Who finally brought up the topic of Mrs. Tanner’s Everyday Receipts?” Jane couldn’t keep the impatience from her tone.
Mrs. Pratt glanced at the ceiling. “I believe it was Anna. She idly wondered if your cookbook contained a pigeon recipe, and if that recipe included dangerous ingredients. Rosemary replied that we’d never know because the cookbook pages were blank. You should have seen her face when Anna told her that they were no longer blank.”
Jane exhaled. “Excellent. Now all remaining members of the Robert Harley Society know the cookbook’s location, and that it’s every bit as rare and wonderful as Bart predicted. Horrible, but rare and wonderful.”
Mrs. Pratt surveyed the room. Other than a man and woman sitting at the bar, it was unoccupied. “What now?”
Jane checked her watch and said, “The trap is set. All we can do is wait for it to be sprung.”
“And if morning comes and the book remains untouched?” Mrs. Pratt asked.
“Then my feelings of reservation were unfounded and Felix Rolf is the murderer.”
Mrs. Pratt stood and adjusted the bodice of her gown. “I’m going to return to the ballroom and make it clear that I’d like to be swept off my feet. What will you do?”
“I think I’ll say hello to Celia Wallace,” Jane said. She couldn’t tell Mrs. Pratt about Otto Frank’s diary. It was bad eno
ugh that she and Sinclair had had to concoct a lie to feed to Celia concerning where they’d found the diary. Jane hoped that Sinclair had been able to pull off the fabrication. After all, it would be hard to believe that the diary had suddenly surfaced. And in perfect condition.
“We’ll say it was tucked in with my great-uncle’s books on Victorian transportation,” Jane had suggested to Sinclair. “Celia’s never been to his private library. She doesn’t know the scope of his personal collection and she has no idea if it’s orderly or in a state of complete disarray.”
Mrs. Pratt rubbed her hands together. “If I had that diary, I’d skip to the last page. If you thought you were being stalked like wild game, wouldn’t you write the names of your hunters in your diary? I would. Otto Frank was a man of science. He believed in facts. I’d bet my Victoria Holt collection that he documented everything that happened to him. He would have believed that in the future, people would read his diary and realize that an injustice had occurred. Not just to him, but to all those who purchased and ate adulterated food from crooked manufacturers.”
Though Jane liked the picture Mrs. Pratt painted, she doubted the diary named Otto Frank’s murderers. If it had, Sinclair would have contacted her by now.
However, as she was escorting Mrs. Pratt back to the ballroom, her cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her gown. Mabel never failed to sew a pocket into the skirt of all of Jane’s theme dresses, and Jane made a mental note to thank her talented friend for her thoughtfulness when she had the chance.
“Enjoy the dancing,” Jane told Mrs. Pratt before ducking into a staff corridor to read Sinclair’s text.
Her phone screen shone as brightly as a full moon in the gloomy corridor. The narrow space was always cooler than the public thoroughfares, but it felt as cold as a tomb at this moment. The skin on Jane’s arms and shoulders broke out in gooseflesh before she’d even begun to read Sinclair’s words.
