Collectors, Cats & Murder

by Kathy Manos Penn

  Ellie pulled up in her Bentley at 7 on the dot. “Thought we’d go in style, since Peter’s always telling me I need to take the car out from time to time and not let it sit in the carriage house too long. Matthew prefers his Range Rover, so I try to alternate between my Jaguar and this old thing.”

  Spoken like a true Dowager Countess. “No complaints from me. You can chauffeur me in this old thing any time you want.” I was glad I’d dressed up a bit in a black dress and boots topped with a red pashmina.

  Dressed in his signature waistcoat and bowtie, Gilbert was already seated at a table near the fireplace when we arrived. A bottle of red sat on the table along with an appetizer of red pepper burrata for us to share. He stood and gave us each a peck on the cheek.

  His delight was obvious. “Ladies, I can’t tell you how intrigued I am by your inquiries and how much I’m looking forward to our chat. Mark Twain, Arthur Conan Doyle, G.K. Chesterton—all the greats. I’m honored that you think I can be of assistance. I suggest we place our orders first, and then I’ll share my assessment.”

  We agreed and made short work of choosing our entrees—duck for Ellie, sirloin for Gilbert, and for me, what had become my favorite fish, hake. Ellie and I were eager to hear what Gilbert had to say.

  “Now, I don’t claim to be an expert on any of the authors whose letters are represented—even Arthur Conan Doyle—but it’s not difficult to uncover the facts if you know where to look. I focused on two items. First, there’s the tribute Doyle sent Twain on the occasion of his seventieth birthday celebration. Twain’s birthday is November 30th, but his friends hosted a party for him on December 5th at Delmonico’s in New York City. Were you aware the Delmonico brothers opened the restaurant in 1837 and it’s still a renowned dining establishment today? This is what I love about research. One can find the most amazing facts.

  “As for the celebration, letters and telegrams came in from across the country and from England. After Twain gave his speech, the tributes were read aloud, beginning with one from President Teddy Roosevelt. The rest were read as the evening progressed including one from Joel Chander Harris. The telegram that will interest you is the one from the Brits—many whose names are unfamiliar today. It read, ‘The undersigned send Mark Twain heartiest greetings on his seventieth birthday and cordially wish him long life and prosperity.’ Some thirty-odd names were listed, among them Arthur Conan Doyle, Gilbert—or G.K. Chesterton, as we know him, and Rudyard Kipling.”

  Ellie interrupted. “But Doyle also sent a letter on his own, right?”

  “That’s the thing. He didn’t. The letters and telegrams were printed in Harper’s Weekly Magazine, and there is nothing from Arthur Conan Doyle. The article in Harper’s is the official record.” He paused. “Now, Leta, what are you frowning at?”

  “I’m frowning because I don’t know what it means. Could the magazine have gotten it wrong?”

  Shaking her head, Ellie chimed in. “I think it means no such document exists. Or if it exists, it was created out of whole cloth—it’s a fake.”

  Gilbert looked quite pleased with himself. “Precisely! You ladies have stumbled upon a forgery, or perhaps I should say the existence of a forgery, since you don’t have the piece of paper.”

  “A forgery,” I repeated. “I guess whoever took it will be disappointed if they try to sell it.”

  Pouring more wine, Gilbert made an interesting observation. “True, but remember someone sold it to Teddy, and he was none the wiser. The thief could have similar luck passing it along. Now, shall I tell you what else I discovered?”

  My mind was already racing, trying to make sense of what Gilbert had just shared, but I nodded yes.

  “The first document was alleged to be from Doyle to Twain. The second was the opposite, a letter from Mark Twain to Doyle. The listing says ‘Twain to Doyle on meeting in America,’ and I saw that letter in Teddy’s binder when I visited him Friday morning. In it, Twain thanks Doyle for the hours he spent with him in Hartford and is effusive about how much he enjoyed meeting him.

  “I told him then I was all but certain the two men never crossed paths, but couldn’t swear to it without checking further. I forgot all about that conversation until I saw your list. I can now tell you categorically that no such a meeting ever took place. The year Arthur Conan Doyle visited America, Twain was in Paris.”

  Nearly choking on my wine, I spluttered, “You mean it’s a forgery too?”

  “Ladies, it would seem so. I didn’t want to steal Dave’s thunder, so I held back from digging into the item concerning J.M. Barrie, but I have to wonder if it’s also a forgery.”

  Stunned into silence, I thought it was timely our food was served right then. I nodded yes when Gilbert asked whether we’d care for a second bottle of wine and Ellie suggested we enjoy our meal while digesting Gilbert’s revelations. As was always the case at the Stocks Inn, dinner was superb.

  We slipped into small talk and covered the topics of how I’d come to relocate to Astonbury from Atlanta and what Gilbert had seen so far during his visit. Ellie offered to show him her library and to have Matthew give him a tour of the brewery at the estate.

  “Gilbert, you should take her up on both of those offers. Her son Matthew brought that brewery back to life, and Astonbury Ale is popular throughout the Cotswolds. And, of course, you’d enjoy seeing Ellie’s book collection. Plus, when will you get another opportunity to take a tour led by the Earl of Stow?”

  We all declined dessert and opted instead for coffee. Staring into the fire, I had a sudden thought. “It’s nearly nine, and Dave’s likely back in his room, typing up his notes. Why don’t I give him a call to see if can shed any light on the Barrie document?”

  The phone rang a few times before Dave answered. He said he’d had to dig among his pages of notes to uncover the phone, and I pictured him sitting at the desk in his hotel room, laptop in front of him, and papers spread on every surface—the desk, the floor, and the bed.

  I gave him a synopsis of Gilbert’s findings, and he said he wasn’t surprised. “If I hadn’t discovered a similar scenario, I might have been shocked. I sat in the library at the university and poured through the Barrie collection. Twain’s supposed letter about Peter Pan? Everything I’ve read tells me Mark Twain wasn’t in London at any point in 1905. He saw Peter Pan on Broadway and was very complimentary about it. Hold on, let me find that piece of paper.” I heard shuffling. “Here it is. He wrote, ‘It is consistently beautiful, sweet, clean, fascinating, satisfying, charming, and impossible from beginning to end.’ Twain liked it and liked Maude Adams, the actress who portrayed Peter Pan.

  “So, it seems this is another fake, perhaps not made up out of thin air, but at least derivative. Twain could have written to Barrie about enjoying the play, but he saw it in New York City, not London. And I can’t find any reference to Twain corresponding with Barrie about it at all. Amazing.”

  “Dave, let me tell Ellie and Gilbert, and see what they think.” My companions listened attentively and wondered whether Twain could have also seen the play in London, but at a later date.

  Despite me having my hand over the phone, Dave heard the question. “Leta, I wondered the same thing but couldn’t find any indication he did.”

  I went back and forth between Dave and my dinner companions to be sure we understood everything Dave had found. I wrapped up the call and told him I’d call him later.

  I was pretty sure the expression on my face mirrored what I was seeing around the table. “We’re talking about forgery, but why would someone break in to steal forgeries? I realize we haven’t looked into the Agatha Christie letter, but it must be a forgery too, don’t you think?”

  Gilbert sat back and hooked his thumbs in his vest pockets. “It would seem so. And I have the same question you have—why steal forgeries when there was a room full of genuine letters, books, and memorabilia?” None of us had an answer.

  When Gilbert walked us to the car, he gasped as he caught sight of the Ben
tley. “If I visit Astonbury Manor, might you take me for a ride in this beauty?”

  Ellie laughed and promised she would. The drive home was unusually quiet, and I surmised Ellie was as puzzled as I was. As I said goodnight to her in my driveway, she said, “You mentioned sleeping on things earlier today. Let’s hope that works for sorting out what we heard over dinner. Good night dear.”

  If only it were that simple. Something tells me finding the key to this mystery will take more than a good night’s sleep.

  Chapter Nineteen

  No lightbulbs hung suspended above my head when I awoke Friday morning. No sudden ah-has about the theft or the murder had sprung to mind. Time for yoga for me and an appointment at Posh Pets for my still fragrant dog. I snagged Dickens a spot at 8 a.m. and was able to drop him off a few minutes early.

  He whined as we entered the shop. "I don't think I smell bad at all. Can't I skip the bath and just get a new bandana?"

  I ignored his plea and gave him a quick hug before dashing to Let It Be for class. The intense focus required for holding yoga positions was just what I need to clear my mind.

  Toby’s Tearoom for a cup of ginger tea and a lemon scone was my final stop. Home by 9:30 with nothing on my schedule other than picking Dickens up after his bath, my goal was to relax quietly in front of the fireplace until Dave arrived late in the day. I surfed Facebook, played Words with Friends, and sent the sheep photos to Bev and Anna.

  Trying hard not to undo the calm of yoga, I only glanced at the message from Constable James with the emails Gilbert had sent Teddy. My thought was that Dave could study those later. During my “unfortunate sleuthing adventures,” as my sister Sophia had labeled my activities, I always seemed to reach a point when I questioned what the heck I thought I was doing. I was there now. It was usually Wendy who convinced me our services were invaluable, and she wasn’t around this time.

  Christie stretched on the rug in front of the fireplace and meowed. “Nice to have you home. Here I come.” She jumped onto the couch and settled in my lap as I began The Tuscan Child, the book I’d picked up at Bluebird Books. I was several chapters in when my phone pinged with a text from Wendy. She briefly explained that G.K. Chesterton was the author of the popular Father Brown series and that he and Agatha Christie had been members of the Detection Club. Chesterton had been the club’s first president. Right! I have a framed copy of their rules, The 10 Commandments of the Detection Club.

  My return text was a brief thank you with a promise to give her a full report when she got home. Now she’s done it, I thought. I flashed on the conversation with Dave, and the word forgery popped into my brain and lodged there. I managed to read another chapter in my book but kept having to reread entire passages. In frustration, I laid the book by the lamp, dumped the cat from my lap, and wandered to the kitchen.

  A cup of tea in hand, I stared out the kitchen window while my brain swirled. Where was that book I’d bought for Dave? The one that became a movie? It would have made sense for it to be with the Rhys Bowen book I’d bought the same day, but it wasn’t. I finally found it hidden beneath Teddy’s burgundy ledger on my desk. Can You Ever Forgive Me? Memoirs of a Literary Forger was a slim paperback, only 129 pages, and the temptation was too great to resist. I can read it in no time.

  By the time Posh Pets called to say Dickens was ready, I’d skimmed the book and was once more in full on sleuthing mode. As I drove the short distance to pick him up, a gazillion questions bounced around in my head. Could it be that someone like Lee Israel, the New York City forger in the book, was making a living from selling clever fakes? Was it one person or several people who had forged the missing documents? How had Teddy wound up with a handful in his collection? Could there be still others in his binders that we were unaware of? No matter the answers, the bigger question was why anyone would steal them—and kill a harmless old man?

  Dickens barked a happy hello when I opened the door to the shop. “Look at me! Don’t you love my bandana? It has lambs on it.”

  He was never enthusiastic about visiting Posh Pets, but he was always well behaved. As I paid, the owner told me she wished her other clients were more like him. “He’s such a sweetheart, so calm he sometimes falls asleep while we brush and dry him.” I felt like a proud parent. He pranced to the car, and he was right. I did love his bright blue bandana with the fluffy lambs.

  Though Dave looked exhausted when he pulled up at three, he insisted he’d be good as new after a short nap. He’d made reservations for eight at a special place—as a surprise for me—and there was no arguing with him.

  Christie was vocal as she followed him to the bedroom. “I think he needs me to warm his feet, don’t you? And Dickens, now that you smell better, you can come too.”

  When I looked in on them ten minutes later, they were all sound asleep. Even after I showered, blew my hair dry, and got dressed, no one had stirred. Wherever Dave was taking me, I doubted it was more than a thirty-minute drive, so I figured he and the menagerie could snooze until 6:30 if they wanted.

  Reading in the sitting room with Frank Sinatra on the CD player, I smiled when I heard the shower going and Christie came yawning down the stairs, followed by Dickens. She glanced in the sitting room and went to the kitchen, and he barked at the door, “Out, I need to go out, Leta.”

  Both of my four-legged friends ran to Dave when he came to the kitchen—even Christie, who continued to tell me Peter was the better choice.

  Dave enveloped me in a hug. “How I love waking up to the smell of your perfume. Shalimar, right?”

  “It’s been my favorite for years. Are you ready for a glass of wine?” In typical Cotswolds fashion, the day had turned warm after a cool misty start, so we took our glasses outside to the garden. Dave showed me photos from Scotland and grew more animated as he told me of his research and how it had fueled new ideas for his book. It had been a successful trip for him.

  I grabbed the blue gift bag containing the Lee Israel book as we left for dinner. I knew he wouldn’t mind that I’d read it before wrapping it for him. He still hadn’t told me where we were going, but I could tell he was quite pleased with his choice. When we parked near the Wheatsheaf in Northleach, I knew why.

  He turned and kissed me on the cheek. “Do you remember? This is where we had our first date. I wasn’t in town for our six-month anniversary, so I hope a seven-month celebration will do.”

  “I remember our date, but I must admit I’d lost sight of it being seven months since that auspicious occasion. You have an amazing memory.”

  He’d reserved the same spot by the fireplace where we’d shared our first dinner, and a bottle of champagne in an ice-filled bucket sat on the table. I beamed as the server filled our glasses and Dave tapped his glass to mine. “Here’s to my very own brown-eyed girl.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Oh hell, I love you!”

  We both laughed as we sipped champers, as Wendy called it, and shared happy memories of our long-distance relationship—visits to New York City and London and the quiet times here in the Cotswolds.

  I placed the blue bag on the table. “I’d like to say it’s an anniversary gift, but I’ve already confessed my memory isn’t as good as yours. I picked it up thinking you’d find it intriguing, and it’s turned out to be a very timely choice.”

  When he pulled the book from the bag, he knew right away what I meant. “You’re kidding. I saw the trailers for the movie but never went to see it, nor have I read the book. Did you get this after last night’s conversation?”

  “No, I bought it days before I had any inkling about the forgeries. Quite the coincidence, don’t you think?”

  We agreed it was strange how things had transpired, and Dave laughed when I explained I’d read it that afternoon before wrapping it for him. I shared the highlights from my afternoon of reading, explaining how the author had turned to forgery in desperation when her previously successful writing career had fallen apart and she was nearly destitute. “Of course, h
er documents weren’t handwritten. They were created on a variety of ancient typewriters because she was crafting fake letters by authors and celebrities from the ’50s and ’60s.”

  “But, she had to forge the signatures, right?”

  “Yes, she did that by tracing authentic signatures. Her real talent, though, lay in making up real-sounding letters—by taking lines from existing documents and mingling them with her own words. She studied the works of her targets—Lillian Hellman, Dorothy Parker, Edna Ferber, Noel Coward, and others—and then wrote convincingly in their voices.”

  “Wow! This little book will have to be my bedtime reading tonight. I haven’t studied the history of forgery, but I’ve read some interesting stories in the years I’ve been writing literary articles. William Henry Ireland was famous in the late 1700s, I think it was, for forging letters allegedly written by Shakespeare. Until then, the only piece of writing surviving the great man was his signature. Ireland was even so bold as to produce a play written by Shakespeare. I think that was his undoing. Anyway, he eventually confessed what he’d done. The astonishing part of the story is that he was never remorseful. Instead, he was proud of his accomplishments.”

  I shook my head. “That may be a common theme among forgers. Lee Israel was also proud of her work—at least the initial stage. I think she used the words ‘larky, fun, and totally cool’ to describe her letters. What she regretted was later spiriting authentic letters from libraries and replacing them with her fakes.”

  We placed our orders, and I laughed at the two of us ordering the identical items we’d eaten on our first visit. I chose the lamb, while Dave went with the beef tenderloin and requested a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon to accompany our entrees.

  Dave drummed his fingers on the table, a sign he was thinking. “The forgeries taken from Teddy’s home are a horse of a different color because they aren’t likely to be typed documents. Sure, Barrie and Doyle and their peers typed their work in later years, but they still wrote their letters in longhand.”