“What kind of background would someone have to have? To be able to imitate someone’s handwriting for an entire letter? An artist . . . or . . . maybe a calligrapher. Oh my goodness. Fiona at the shop! She does wedding invitations and small framed quotes in lovely script.”
“That’s one part of it, Leta, but whoever is crafting the letters a la Lee Israel would also have to dream up believable content. That would take research—a literary mind.”
A thought popped into my head. “I wonder . . . Could Albert have supplied her with the words? He was bright enough to get into Oxford. Could he have enough of a literary mind to come up with the content?”
“That’s a thought. Of course, Fiona could also be well-read since she works in a bookshop. And with her exposure to Teddy and his collection . . . well, let’s just say anything’s possible.”
I wondered whether he realized he was getting caught up in the puzzle just as I had—that this was how things evolved once the LOLs set out to solve a mystery. I sipped my wine. “Changing the subject, what would you like to do tomorrow? We could tour Gloucester Cathedral. We haven’t done that yet. Or we could take a boat ride on the River Severn or have a quiet day at the cottage or anything else you’d care to do.”
“Why don’t we go to Manchester to explore the flea markets? That way we can take Dickens and make a day of it. I don’t plan to buy anything, but I’d like to see what’s out there in the way of Barrie items."
"Are you sure? It sounds like fun, but it's an awfully long drive for you, especially after your round trip to Edinburgh this week."
He grinned. "It probably is, but if we split the driving, it won't be too bad. With my research fresh in my mind, I'm eager to explore. Wouldn't it be amazing if we stumbled across something in the wild, so to speak—a treasure that hasn’t made its way into university collections like the ones in Edinburgh and at Yale?”
We agreed we'd set out early the next morning, and the conversation shifted to possible outings for the following week. Unusual for me, I wasn’t sleepy when we got home. I tended to the animals while Dave stoked the fire. He poked his head into the kitchen and asked whether I was up for an after-dinner drink and reading in front of the fireplace before going to bed. “I checked with Dickens and Christie, and they think we should have a wild night and stay up past eleven,” he joked.
I grinned at him. “I’m game, but only if I can change into my robe and slippers. I’ll be back down in a sec.”
When I returned, Dave was engrossed in his new book. He’d placed my glass of amaretto on the side table nearest the fireplace and was seated on the opposite end of the couch sipping his. Christie was purring in his lap. “I think I’ll get the ledger book and the copies we made and look at them more closely,” I said.
I wish I could tell what the notes in the From column stand for. Knowing that might get us a step closer to the forger. As I studied the book, I turned one of the copies over and began to jot down the different abbreviations. Some were obvious, like eBay, and I assumed AZ meant Amazon. Others meant nothing to me. Duh! My brain must be addled with alcohol. I should start with the notations for the four missing documents. That was easy enough. Three of the four were listed as being from BF/AA. The Agatha Christie note said AP.
I’d narrowed it down but still didn’t know what the notes meant. Flipping through the book again, I saw that the bulk of his recent acquisitions came from eBay, AB, and Bib. Beyond that, most were from BF/AA, BF/CC, BF/TT, and AP. I’d gone far enough in the book that I was now staring at blank ledger pages, but I continued flipping and thinking until suddenly I reached the last page. It wasn’t blank. It was the key to the abbreviations.
BF stood for Bolton Flea Market, and the letters that followed BF seemed to be for names of individual dealers like Alastair’s Attic, the China Closet, and Tina’s Trinkets. “Aha! The figurines must have come from those last two.”
I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud until Dave looked up. “What? Last two what?”
“Flea market stalls. I found the key to the notes in the ledger, so I know where the items were purchased. AP is Albert Porter.” I scooted toward Dave and showed him the page at the end of the book.
He ran his finger down the page. “AbeBooks and Biblio . . . They’re respected dealers. I’ll bet he got the Edgar Allan Poe books from one of those. For a purchase like that, you’d want to know the provenance had been established. You don’t want to spend thousands of dollars or pounds unless you know for sure a book or document is authentic.”
I turned back to see what Teddy had paid for the missing documents. “Maybe this is how he wound up with forgeries of the letters, then. I recall Beatrix saying he didn’t pay nearly what she thought they might be worth—hundreds of pounds instead of thousands. If they were real or if they’d come from AbeBooks, would they have cost lots more?”
“Absolutely. And Lee Israel says in her memoir she thinks she got away with her scheme for so long because her prices were low—$40 and $50 apiece. The dealers she sold to turned around and priced them at hundreds of dollars, sometimes thousands.”
I pointed out that the missing documents had come from two sources, Alastair’s Attic and Albert Porter. “Albert was Teddy’s driver and also did odd jobs at Bluebird Books. And Alastair? He’s the man who gave you the business card after your presentation, the one with the cravat. Funny, I bumped into him earlier this week in Chipping Camden while I was with Beatrix. I think his stall may be our first stop tomorrow.”
“Yes. I’d forgotten his name, but it was the conversation with him that gave me the idea to visit a flea market or two. How ’bout we see if Gilbert wants to meet us in Manchester? With his knowledge of collectibles, he’d be a big help. I can call him first thing tomorrow.”
A grin spread across my face. “Does this mean the game’s afoot, Sherlock?”
Chapter Twenty
The aroma of coffee brewing woke me Saturday morning. That told me Dave had quietly rolled out of bed and started his day. I pulled on my robe and joined him in the kitchen.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Ready for your coffee?”
Yawning, I took the cup he handed me and took note of Christie nibbling her dab of food. “It appears you’ve gotten the hang of feeding the princess. How many times have you had to fluff her food this morning?”
Before he could answer, Christie looked up and meowed. “He’s pretty good at it, maybe better than you are.”
“Oh, only five or six rounds of fluffing have been required. Dickens is much less demanding. I tossed him a treat as he ran out the door, and he’s been contentedly checking the corners of the garden for the last thirty minutes. By the way, I’ve already spoken with Gilbert and he leaped at the chance to shop the markets in Manchester.”
“Super. I’ll give Beatrix a call to see if there are any particular stalls she recommends, since she’s a regular.” She visited the Manchester flea markets monthly to stock up on used books for her shop and occasionally stumbled upon a find like the first edition of a J.M. Barrie biography she’d sold me. Hide-and-Seek with Angels came out in 2006, so it wasn’t as costly as first editions from the 1900s.
“Too bad she can’t join us. Can you imagine the education we’d get shopping with both Gilbert and Beatrix?”
I swung into action, as Dave had told Gilbert we’d be there before noon and we had a three-hour drive ahead of us. We fixed to-go cups of coffee, snagged two protein bars, and were on our way. It was another beautiful day, crisp and sunny, and we marveled at the spring flowers bursting into bloom along the way.
Dickens barked greetings to sheep and dogs and horses for the first part of the drive and then snoozed on the back seat. One of the many things I loved about my new life in England was being able to take Dickens everywhere I went.
Pulling out my phone, I rang Beatrix and put her on speaker. “Guess where we’re going? To Manchester to explore the flea markets—and Gilbert Ward is joining us.”
“Oh!
I’m jealous. Which ones do you plan to visit? I’d recommend the Bolton Flea Market as your first stop. Well, I suppose that depends on what you’re looking for. If you’re after books, that’s the best. If you’re looking for fashion like hats and scarves, try the Radcliffe Market.”
I told her our priority was books and memorabilia and explained what I’d discovered from the index in the burgundy ledger. “I think we have to nose around Alastair’s Attic, don’t you?”
“Because some of the missing items came from there?”
“Oh my gosh, Beatrix. I just realized I haven’t spoken to you since Ellie and I had dinner with Gilbert. I haven’t told you about the forgeries!” Together, Dave and I told her how we’d established that at least three of the missing documents were fakes and had been purchased from Alastair’s Attic. And then we told her about the Lee Israel book.
“Lee Israel? Of course, I read her memoir. But forging handwritten letters would be much more difficult than what she did. I want to say it’s an outlandish idea, but I guess it isn’t.”
Dave shook his head and responded. “I think it’s the only explanation, Beatrix. When you look at the facts, the letters have to be fakes. The question is, why steal them? Who would steal them?”
“I don’t have an answer for that, and it surprises me that the forgeries came from Alastair. I’ve always found his merchandise to be top-notch, though I’ve never been in the market for things like letters. I’m not sure I’d know whether one was authentic or not.
“Anyway, I hope you get to meet his wife Bonnie. I’ve always liked her. By the way, remember I told you that young Albert used to work for his dad at the flea market? It’s Alastair who’s his dad.” Funny, how she thought of someone in his thirties as young, but I guess I did too.
I got a bemused look from Dave. “Well, that’s interesting because Albert was the source of one of the missing documents. Which one was it, Leta?”
“It was the Agatha Christie letter, the one that was supposed to be on the wall.”
Beatrix interjected. “Well, it’s no longer missing. Teddy sent it off to be framed, and that’s what was in the FedEx package the neighbor called me about. Guess that means only three items were taken—and according to you, all three were forgeries. I wonder . . . What if they were stolen because the person who created them was afraid of being found out?”
At first, I couldn’t see it, but then I had a flash. “You know . . . maybe that’s it. Could the forger have gotten wind of the fact Teddy was entertaining two experts? First Gilbert, an Arthur Conan Doyle expert, and then Dave, somewhat of a Barrie expert on Saturday.”
Dave repeated, “Somewhat of an expert?”
“You know what I mean! It seems the forger was successful in pulling the wool over Teddy’s eyes, but what if he or she was worried the two visitors would immediately see a problem? That the crime would be discovered? Is that what you’re thinking, Beatrix?”
“Yes . . . but why was the forger so careless in the first place? Didn’t he know he’d gotten the facts wrong? Good grief! This is complicated. I wonder how good Alastair’s records are. Maybe he can tell you where he got them before he sold them on to Teddy.”
Nodding, Dave agreed with her. “Since he invited me to visit, I should be able to ask him about his sources. I mean, I don’t want to offend him, but if he thinks I’m a serious collector—now that’s a laugh—he would expect me to be curious.”
We told Beatrix we’d report back today or tomorrow and signed off. I looked at Dave. “A serious collector and somewhat of an expert. How good an actor are you?”
When we parked, Dickens leaped from the car with his nose up in the air sniffing, and I imagined he was anticipating all kinds of delicacies. “Oooh, Leta. Do you smell that? I think it could be sausages.”
Leaning down to attach his leash, I whispered in his ear. “Don’t you go scarfing every last thing you find on the ground, young man.”
We texted Gilbert we were at the entrance and received an immediate reply he’d be right with us. Today he was sporting a fedora with his waistcoat and bowtie.
He grasped Dave’s hand in a firm handshake and gave me a peck on the cheek. “This place promises to be a collector’s paradise. I’m glad you thought to invite me. Plus, it’s a bit of a quest, right? To find a forger, or at least the seller of the forgeries? I have an idea for how to approach Alastair.” His plan involved the two men taking the lead.
He is such a hoot. I had no doubt we’d have an enjoyable day, whether we got any further along in our investigation or not. The China Collection was near the entrance, so we ducked in there first. I could see why Teddy had purchased so many figurines there. The place was huge, as was the assortment, and Dave had to tear me away from the Disney selection. I was a sucker for Disney paraphernalia and had several coffee table books on the early animated features.
Gilbert stopped to look at pipes at the same time as I spied a stall with scarves and hats. Handing Dickens’s leash to Dave, I tried on a black checked rain bonnet. “No, not quite right, but look, here’s a red one.” That one I had to have.
We made slow progress but eventually found our way to Alastair’s Attic, where the proprietor recognized us right away. He greeted us with a smile and asked how we’d enjoyed the rest of the festival. As I looked at books, I heard Dave telling him about Gilbert’s presentation and the ones on R. F. Delderfeld and Graham Greene.
“I’ve got books by both authors in stock—nothing of fine quality, mind you, but good reads.” As we’d agreed earlier, Gilbert had hung back and came in a few minutes later.
He cocked his head and looked at Alastair. “I say, you’re the chap who was in the audience for the Mark Twain session. You asked almost as many questions as I did. And we spoke again at the Barrie presentation.” They shook hands and talked about how much they’d enjoyed the festival.
I was wondering whether his wife was there when Alastair called, “Look here, Bonnie, you must meet these book lovers.” When I looked around to find her, I realized I’d missed her because she was seated behind the counter, almost hidden—in a wheelchair. So, she was the woman Ellie had seen with Alastair at the Twain session.
Alastair leaned over and planted a kiss on her head, and I stepped forward to introduce myself after the men had shaken her hand. “Bonnie, I’m Leta Parker, and I’m a friend of Beatrix Scott. She said I should be sure to meet you.”
It turned out Bonnie and Beatrix were well acquainted, and we chatted about the Book Nook and books while the men disappeared to the back of the stall. Now, what are they up to?
Hanging behind the counter and around the large stall were oil paintings in gilt frames. Most were landscapes of the Cotswolds. I was especially taken with one that depicted sheep grazing. “Bonnie, these are beautiful. Who’s the artist?”
She smiled. “Those are mine. I studied art, and when we lived in London, my work was available at Spitalfields Arts Market and Camden Market. Once we moved to Manchester and this chair became part of my life . . . well, the larger works got to be too much for me to tackle. These days, I do more of these.” She pointed to a rack of matted 8”x12” abstract watercolors on parchment.
I was struck by how delicate they were—an entirely different style from the landscapes. The colors were translucent. In some, faint lettering was visible beneath the glaze of colors. In others, I glimpsed what looked like sheet music. It was like looking through a sheer curtain at a blurred image. The word gossamer came to mind . . . or diaphanous.
I was trying to picture the grazing sheep hanging in my sitting room and one or two of the watercolors elsewhere in my cottage when Dave reappeared. I showed him the watercolors. “What do you think? Maybe a pair in my office?”
He studied the two I was holding up. “Either on a stand in your bookcase or framed on the wall? I could see them one over the other to the right of the big picture window.” I placed them on the counter and asked Bonnie about her technique. Her explanation was abov
e my head, but I understood something about using a fine calligraphy brush, then a wash to fade it, and finally the watercolor.
“Alastair and Gilbert are negotiating, or should I say haggling, over a signed first edition of Moriarty. I don’t know enough about it to be interested. Now, if it were a signed copy of a book or play by Barrie, that would be different.”
Bonnie heard Dave’s comment and looked up. “Too bad. We’ve had the occasional letter to or from Barrie, but I don’t think we have anything right now. Shall we keep an eye out for you?”
Dave did his best to beam. His acting skills were quite impressive. “That would be great. I’ll be returning to New York soon, but Leta could come by to see it.”
I paid for the watercolors and told Bonnie I wanted to think about the landscape. After Dave gave her his business card, we looked around for Gilbert. I wondered if he was seriously considering a purchase or playing Sherlock. When he emerged from the back room with a parcel wrapped in brown paper, I still wasn’t sure.
When we were far enough away from Alastair’s Attic, I stopped to look at my companions. “Alright, you two, you look like the cats that ate the canaries, and I’ve got a glimmer of an idea too. Can we sit down and talk over lunch?”
Dickens barked, “Leta, Christie would never eat a canary, would she?”
My escorts thought lunch was a grand idea, and we chose a booth that offered savory pies and had available tables. Both men ordered ciders, but I knew my brain would be shot for the day if I had one.
I pointed to Gilbert’s package. “Okay, you first. What did you buy?”
“I’ve started adding modern-day pastiches to my Sherlock collection, so I had to have this Anthony Horowitz book. He’s the only writer authorized by the Arthur Conan Doyle estate to carry on the Sherlock story. They chose well. If you didn’t know better, you’d believe the tales came from Doyle. Plus I got it for a song—only £40. I’ve seen it online for as much as £100.”
Collectors, Cats & Murder Page 22
