The Bookman's Tale: A Novel of Obsession

by Charlie Lovett

  “I’m not going down there,” said Liz. “It’s bad enough being trapped up here. I have a little claustrophobia.”

  “I think it’s a pretty big room,” said Peter. “Let me see the flashlight.” Liz leaned into the hole and dropped the bag and then the flashlight into Peter’s waiting hands. He swung the beam quickly around the chamber in which he now stood. A few feet away stood a heavy oak table. He managed to shove this under the hole and climb atop it.

  “Look,” he said. “Now I can help you down. It’s not any smaller a space than where you are.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better,” said Liz. “On the other hand, you do have the flashlight.” She sat on the edge of the hole, her feet dangling above Peter’s head, then took a deep breath and slowly lowered herself. Peter grabbed first her feet and then her calves, and then as she released her grip on the world above, he let her body slide through his arms until she was standing safely on the table. She kept her arms wrapped around him for a long minute, and Peter felt her trembling. He hugged her tightly, to comfort her, he thought, but when she returned his embrace with equal pressure, he felt an electricity in his veins. For a second he forgot his quest and wondered if he should kiss her.

  “So how do you plan to get out of here?” said Liz, breaking the embrace and climbing off the table.

  “I’m sure the police will help us out when they come to arrest me for murder,” said Peter, shaking the ridiculous thought of romance out of his mind.

  “What is this place?” said Liz, when they had both climbed off the table. Peter had not looked closely at the room yet, in his hurry to get Liz safely down. Now he moved the flashlight beam slowly across every surface as they stood in the center of the chamber taking it all in. They were in the crypt of the chapel. The ceiling was highest directly overhead where they had entered, elsewhere low arches created a series of nooks. The first few of these into which Peter shone his light were furnished not with altars or tombs but with tools, bottles, tables, and chairs.

  “It looks like some sort of workshop,” said Liz.

  “That’s exactly what it is,” said Peter. “Or what it was.” He crossed to one of the tables and examined a series of corked bottles next to which lay a row of ancient-looking pens and quills. In the next alcove was a small hand printing press; beyond that another table with tools carefully laid out on it. Peter recognized a lifting knife among the other tools arrayed before him. “Now why would someone need a printing press, old pens and ink, and a bunch of bookbinding equipment?”

  “Sounds like everything you’d need to forge a sixteenth-century book,” said Liz.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” said Peter.

  “So you think the Pandosto really is a fake?” said Liz.

  “It’s looking more and more that way,” said Peter, as he made his way through the alcoves that ringed the chamber. One was empty except for some old lumber stacked against the back wall; in the next was an unadorned stone sarcophagus. “Come hold the light for me,” he said. “I think this is someone’s tomb.”

  Liz shone the flashlight on the lid of the sarcophagus but Peter could not see what was carved there without climbing onto the tomb and running his fingers along the letters as he read aloud: “Having made his mark, Phillip Gardner eighteen thirty-two to eighteen seventy-nine, beloved brother, and all his secrets rest here.”

  “Beloved brother?” said Liz.

  “B.B.,” said Peter. “We’ve found him.”

  “What does it mean ‘all his secrets rest here’?” said Liz.

  “We’ve got to look inside,” said Peter.

  “But it’s a tomb. You can’t desecrate a tomb.”

  “I’m not desecrating it,” said Peter. “But more than Phillip Gardner is entombed here, and as long as I’m sitting around waiting to be arrested, I’m going to find out his secrets. Hand me the lug wrench.”

  Peter’s initial attempts to pry the top off the tomb resulted in little more than a few scratches on the stone. He tried banging on the stone slab with the wrench, hoping it might break like the entrance stone to the crypt had done, but this slab was much thicker. After fifteen minutes of straining to no effect, Peter slumped against the wall, panting and sweating.

  “How are we going to get this thing off?” he asked, gasping.

  “I don’t think we are,” said Liz.

  “Don’t you see,” said Peter. “I have to know. If I’m going to rot away in an English prison for a murder I didn’t commit, I at least have to know the whole story of the Pandosto.”

  “You’re not going to prison,” said Liz.

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Peter.

  “Besides,” said Liz, “I thought what you really wanted to know about was a watercolor that looked like . . .”

  “That looked like Amanda,” said Peter softly. He had almost forgotten what had started this whole business. It had been Amanda who had led him here. What would she have done? When he looked up, she was sitting at the table where the bottles of ink and pens were laid out.

  “You can’t solve everything by force, Peter,” she said.

  “I know,” said Peter.

  “You know what?” asked Liz.

  “That I can’t solve everything by force,” said Peter as he watched Amanda fade away.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” said Liz, who was now on her hands and knees with the flashlight, examining the base of Phillip Gardner’s tomb.

  “So what do we use if we don’t use force?” asked Peter.

  “A key,” said Liz.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There’s something here that looks like a keyhole.”

  “I didn’t see any keys down here,” said Peter.

  “Well, I doubt he’d just leave the key lying around.”

  “Wait a minute, what did the first part of the inscription say again?” asked Peter.

  “ ‘Having made his mark,’ ” said Liz. “What does that mean? What sort of mark? Does he mean the Pandosto?”

  “Having made his mark,” Peter murmured to himself as he ran a finger along the table of bookbinding equipment. On a series of shelves above the table lay row after row of wooden-handled brass tools, like the ones he had used to decorate the binding of Amanda’s At the Back of the North Wind. “I wonder if it could mean a binder’s mark?”

  “What’s that?” said Liz.

  “Bookbinders sometimes have a special mark that they put on all their bindings to identify the work as their own.”

  “So we have to go through all those tools,” said Liz.

  “No,” said Peter. “I’ve just realized it. I’ve seen Gardner’s mark. His copy of Collier’s book, the one that was inscribed to him—it was a rebind. Gardner must have bound it himself.”

  “What was the mark?”

  “Sort of a butterfly shape,” said Peter. “He put it just inside the back cover. Give me the light.”

  It took Peter no more than five minutes to find the butterfly stamp among Gardner’s tools. “Try this,” he said, handing the stamping tool to Liz. He trained the flashlight on the tiny hole in the stone as Liz inserted the tool.

  “It fits,” she said, “but it doesn’t turn.”

  Peter thought about how Hank had taught him to use the brass stamps on a piece of fresh le
ather. “Press on the handle with the heel of your hand,” he said, “and then rock it back and forth very gently, starting from the right and moving toward the left.”

  “What makes you think that—”

  “Just try it, okay?” Peter interrupted impatiently.

  “Okay, okay,” said Liz. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Peter held his breath and watched as Liz’s shoulders tensed while she applied pressure to the stamp. Nothing happened.

  “Now gradually increase the pressure,” said Peter, closing his eyes and remembering the sensation of the leather yielding to the stamp. “Not too hard, though, or you’ll tear the leather.”

  “What do you mean I’ll . . .” But Liz was interrupted by a loud click that echoed through the chamber. Peter opened his eyes and saw that a wide crack had appeared between the stone slab on top of the sarcophagus and the tomb beneath.

  “What was that?” asked Liz.

  “I think you just unlocked Phillip Gardner’s tomb,” said Peter.

  “I’m sure he’s going to be so pleased about that,” said Liz, standing up.

  Peter had already begun to push on the stone top and found that it now slid easily off, so easily that before he could stop it, the slab toppled to the floor where it broke in two with a thundering crash. It took several seconds for the noise to subside and several more for the dust to settle.

  “Wonderful,” said Liz. “Now we’re trapped in a crypt with a dead body we have no way of re-entombing. I’m feeling more comfortable all the time.”

  “There’s no body,” said Peter, shining the flashlight into the tomb.

  “What do you mean there’s no bloody body?” Liz asked, taking a tentative step toward the tomb.

  “There’s no body in here. There’s nothing but a metal box.”

  “A metal box? What is it, his ashes?”

  “Doubtful,” said Peter as he pulled the heavy box toward him. It struck him that the box, scraping loudly across the stone as he pulled it, was about the size and shape of a Shakespeare First Folio. He hoisted it out of the tomb and carried it to the table in the center of the room. There was no lock, and Peter pulled back the hinged top with ease.

  “A bunch of papers?” said Liz, gazing into the box.

  “We’ve got some time before the flashlight batteries die out,” said Peter. “Let’s read, shall we?”

  Atop the pile of papers lay a sealed envelope addressed in a neat slanting script only to “Phillip.” Peter took his lifting knife out of his satchel and slit the envelope open with one smooth slice. He pulled out the contents, unfolded the four sheets of paper, and read aloud. The first page was written in the same script as the outside of the envelope.

  I, Phillip Gardner of Evenlode House, Kingham, here direct that my estate shall pass to the children of my brother Nicholas. I do not include in this bequest the contents of this box, or other items from my collection of rare books and documents, which, wheresoever they may be, I leave in their entirety to my son, born Phillip Gardner, or to his youngest living heir.

  “That must have been the bastard child,” said Liz. “Otherwise why the secret will?”

  “So Sykes was right,” said Peter, perusing the testament again. “And what’s this about ‘wheresoever they may be’?”

  “Could that be because some of them were in Reginald Alderson’s collection?” said Liz.

  “It must be,” said Peter. “I wonder if the son has any living heirs. I can’t imagine John Alderson would be too happy to have the terms of this will enforced.”

  “But how could you prove that Alderson’s documents really belonged to Phillip Gardner?”

  “This might help,” answered Peter, holding up a letter with the words EVENLODE MANOR printed at the top.

  Mr. Gardner,

  I have spent a most revealing evening with my dear friend Miss Evangeline Prickett and her young charge. Imagine my shock at discovering that Miss Isabel has given birth to a child and named it Phillip Gardner. I shall not bore you with the unsavory details of the affair that led to this bastard child—you are well acquainted with them already. However, I imagine that Mrs. Gardner would find the story most enlightening. Should you wish to prevent her from learning the truth about her husband, you will transfer to me your collection of historical and literary documents. I realize that the loss of the entire collection might arouse suspicion, so I think it best if you send them to me one or two at a time over the next few months. In that way you can be said to have lost interest and sold the pieces to finance your considerable construction at Evenlode House.

  You will be pleased to learn that I shall not bid against you next week at the auction of royal documents. I shall expect the pieces to arrive at my home within a week of the sale. You should not expect a commission.

  Reginald Alderson

  “The blackmail letter,” said Liz.

  “Exactly,” said Peter. He laid the letter down and excitedly reached for the next item from the envelope. It was a small sheet of correspondence paper, on which a letter was written in a cramped, shaky hand.

  My Dearest Phillip,

  I send this letter through your bookseller Mr. Mayhew as you asked, and I promise it will be the last, but I must tell you that your son and I are safely arrived in America. My family is more understanding than you might believe and so I have not, as you suggested, invented a fiction about a foundling. Both Miss Prickett and myself have been honest with my family about the events of the past months. All my father has requested is that young Phillip be raised with our family name, not the name of Gardner. With all the love and acceptance he has shown to his fallen daughter, I cannot but honor his request. Please know that, whatever I was to you, you shall never be replaced in my affections.

  Always, your Isabel

  “So she moved back to America,” said Liz.

  There was one more sheet of paper lying on the table. “This one is written by Gardner, too,” said Peter, glancing at the signature. But it’s not addressed to anyone. It just starts.” And Peter read.

  I am not in the habit of making confessions, but if I have cared little in this life for my wife or what family is left to me; if I have proven a failure in both my career and my finances; if morals have never been high among my priorities, one thing I have nurtured and cared for: my collection. Whatever dark impulses first impelled me to collect, I have come to realize that in those letters and manuscripts and documents lies my one chance to impart something to the world. Despite the threat of financial and marital ruin that he held over me, I would no more pass these treasures to Mr. Reginald Alderson than I would destroy them. Thus I here confess that through the circumstance of my neighbor’s blackmailing I discovered my true calling as an artist. Some may call it forgery; for me it was merely preservation—preservation of my own peace for a short time, preservation of my collection forever.

  While this confession is for those of my heirs who may one day find it and resurrect that collection, I have written a companion to Mr. Alderson in which it was my great pleasure to inform him that the documents he has extorted from me these past two years are as worthless as my watercolors that he blocked from proper exhibition. A few of these hang on the walls of friends’ homes, the rest I have destroyed, except for a select group I have sent along to Mr. Alderson. I relish the thought of his descendants one day singing their praises. To ensure that Mr. Alderson will not fool others as I have fooled him, I have included in each of my forgeries a clue to its origin; my technique is, I believe, undetectable, but a careful reading of the text of each document will reveal a flaw. Thus the Aldersons, in perpetuit
y, will be forced to live with my duping of their forebear.

  For a few hours after my death, Mr. Alderson may believe he has won, and that he possesses a great literary relic—the book I shall deliver to him shortly. Then, my final letter to Mr. Alderson will arrive, and he will know the truth not just about this greatest relic, but about all the documents he believes are so valuable. Revenge shall be mine at the last.

  I hope that whatever ancestor made the secret of this crypt did so to provide nefarious access to the Aldersons, not friendly commerce. In any case, I shall use that secret not just to deliver my final forgery but also to make a gift to Reginald Alderson of my small collection of books on that art. Whether he shall notice that they have inexplicably appeared on his shelves I may never know.

  To Mrs. Gardner, I make no apologies. To my Isabel, should she ever see this, I profess that at the end, I thought only of you, my beloved. Forgive me my wrongs and be blessed.

  Phillip Gardner, November 22, 1879

  “No wonder the box at Evenlode Manor said ‘not to be sold,’” said Peter. “Every document in there is a forgery.”

  “And these must be the originals,” said Liz, pulling the rest of the papers out of the box.

  “Exactly,” said Peter, looking quickly through the stack of documents. “It’s so bizarre to see these, because I’ve seen them all before.”

  “What about the Pandosto?” said Liz. “Could that be the ‘great literary relic’?”

  Peter pulled the book from his case and opened it on the table. “‘A careful reading of the text of each document will reveal a flaw,’” he said. “I’ve examined the text pretty carefully.”

  “How about the marginalia? Without that it’s just a rare book, right?”

  “I read all that, too,” said Peter.

  “Yes,” said Liz, “but you read it as someone who was excited to discover a great Shakespeare relic, not someone looking for a flaw.” Liz began scanning the margin notes.