—
The inquest into the death of Phillip Gardner was held in the drawing room of Evenlode House. Reginald Alderson had arranged for fires to be lit, as the servants had mysteriously disappeared. He did not dwell on this fact or on the disappearance of Mrs. Gardner during the course of his questioning the one witness—the builder who had found the deceased’s body on a pile of limestone blocks. Aside from the constable, the assistant constable, and the witness, the deceased’s younger brother and heir to the estate was the only other person in the room to hear Reginald’s quickly rendered verdict of accidental death. Reginald thought such a verdict would be the best way of preventing further investigation that might reveal his collection of forgeries or even his blackmailing of Gardner. Since Reginald had in his private possession the only evidence that Gardner had, in fact, committed suicide, no one questioned the verdict.
Phillip Gardner was buried just outside the family chapel. The single mourner, Nicholas Gardner, saddled with the debts of an estate that he had never wanted, had neither the money nor the inclination to erect a headstone.
—
Reginald Alderson placed first the Pandosto and then the rest of his ill-gotten collection of forgeries into a wooden box that he labeled NEVER TO BE SOLD and locked in a cabinet in his library. For the rest of his days, which were many, he wore the key to that cabinet on a leather cord around his neck—a constant reminder of how he had been fooled.
He would not be fooled again. Reginald spent the rest of his life moving from one shrewd business deal to another, building up the coffers of the family estate while Evenlode House, abandoned and neglected by Nicholas Gardner, fell into disrepair. During a gale on Boxing Day, 1898, all of Kingham and people as far away as Chipping Norton heard the great boom of the unfinished west wing of Evenlode House collapsing. Reginald Alderson walked over the next day to silently gloat over the Gardners’ downfall.
Three days later, Reginald, who should not have ventured out in the cold at his age, lay on his deathbed. For the first time in nearly twenty years he untied the cord that held the key around his neck, solemnly presenting it to his son. He then told Edward Alderson the story of the Pandosto and the forged documents, making him swear to guard the key with his life and to share the secrets of the hidden box only with the heir to Evenlode Manor.
Edward Alderson lived to be nearly ninety—long enough to see his son killed in the Great War and his grandson killed in World War II. Not until 1955 did he finally pass the secret of the Evenlode documents to his great-grandson, John Alderson, who had just turned eighteen. John had always been rather fond of the watercolors that hung in his childhood bedroom, and had been shocked to discover their place in a family secret.
For forty years John had kept that secret, but in the early 1990s he had lost a fortune in junk bonds, and as debts on the family estate mounted and his own son began to ask about his inheritance, John considered the possibility that the long-hidden box might prove his salvation. And then Miss O’Hara had returned from the shop one day and mentioned in passing that an American rare-book dealer was living in Kingham.
Kingham, Wednesday, February 22, 1995
The bells of St. Andrew’s tolled midnight as John Alderson waved the gun lazily toward Peter. “Perhaps you’d better pour,” he said. “I’ll keep the gun on your girlfriend in case you decide to try some foolish heroics.”
Peter rose and crossed the room. There were two crystal glasses on the silver tray next to the decanter. Peter was glad to have his back to Alderson for a moment. “Whiskey?” he asked as he took the stopper out of the bottle and slowly set about the job of pouring the drinks.
“I find it settles my nerves when I’m in a tight spot,” said John. “Perhaps it will do the same for yours.”
“Who said I’m nervous?” said Peter, still surprised that he wasn’t.
“Facing death most people are a bit jittery,” said Alderson.
“So you have experience with this?” said Peter.
“Only Graham Sykes. I wouldn’t describe him as nervous so much as belligerent, though. He actually bit my arm before I was able to dispatch him.”
Peter tried to hide his disgust as he pictured the stubborn old man fighting for his life. He turned and handed a tumbler to his host.
“You misunderstand,” said Alderson. “The drinks are for the two of you.”
“She doesn’t drink,” said Peter, shooting Liz a silencing look that had exactly the effect he intended. “And frankly I’m not sure I should myself. How do I know you haven’t poisoned the whiskey?”
“You’re just like every other American,” said Alderson. “You’ve read far too many murder mysteries set in old English houses. What Agatha Christie has done to the image of this country!”
“Still,” said Peter, offering a glass to Alderson.
“Very well,” said Alderson. “Cheers.” He drained the glass at a single go and set it down hard on a table by his chair. “You see—no convulsions, no foaming at the mouth. Just a nice stiff jolt of scotch.”
“I notice you didn’t drink to my health,” said Peter, sipping his drink and setting it back down.
“That would have been a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? Now, you will please return my Pandosto.”
Peter reached into his satchel and withdrew the book whose history he had been chasing for the past several days. Pulling it from its protective envelope, he held it out to Alderson. “Maybe the forgery really is yours,” he said, “but I’m sure there will be quite a debate over who owns the original.”
“There is no original,” said Alderson, snatching the book from Peter. “That is to say, there was one, but it was destroyed long ago.”
“On the contrary,” said Peter. “I’ve held the original in my hands. It’s not far from here.”
“I doubt that,” said Alderson.
“Doubt all you wish,” said Peter “but it’s true.” Liz looked at Peter with a questioning expression and he shook his head imperceptibly at her.
“It’s true, I’ve seen it as well,” said Liz.
“Now I know you’re lying,” said Alderson. “Listen to the way your voice is shaking.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re about to kill me,” said Liz.
“Actually she is lying,” said Peter evenly. “But I’m not.”
“As it happens,” said Alderson, rising and crossing to the desk in front of the curtained windows, “I have proof right here that the original was destroyed.” He opened the drawer from which his sister Julia had taken the key to Pandosto’s cabinet the previous week and withdrew a small, browning envelope. “The last letter from Phillip Gardner to my great-great-grandfather. Perhaps you’d like to read it.” He flung the letter toward Liz, still keeping the gun steady in his other hand. As she picked up the envelope from the floor, Alderson returned to his chair.
Liz slipped the letter out of its envelope, unfolded it, and paced in front of the fire as she read the now familiar script of Phillip Gardner.
Mr. Alderson,
By the time you read this, I will have ended my life, and so there will be no way for you to take your revenge for what I have done. Each of the documents you have so viciously extorted from me over the past two years is a forgery. I must thank you for helping me find my true calling as an artist. The proof is in my masterpiece, the Pandosto that you recently received.
Each document in your collection includes a clue to its own falsehood, and should you or your heirs ever attempt to sell any of these items, they will undoubtedly be revealed for what they are. The originals are safely put away for my own heirs. The exception to this, sadly, is the Pandosto. Although the original did belong to me, it was destroyed by Benjamin Mayhew, he wishing to protect the reputation of another client.
And so, Mr. Alderson, I have won. I now go to my rest, and you shall be left to live with the knowledge that your blackmail has been for naught.
“So it was destroyed,” said Liz.
; “Sadly yes,” said Alderson, who seemed quite relaxed in his chair now.
“Balderdash!” said Peter. “All that letter proves is that Gardner thought Mayhew destroyed it.”
“It was destroyed,” said Alderson, in an almost dreamy voice.
“Bollocks,” said Peter, trying out the English idiom. “Mayhew was a bookseller. He may have wanted to protect William H. Smith’s little fantasy about Francis Bacon, but he was still a bookseller. You can’t possibly understand him the way I can.”
“Because you’re a bookseller, too?” sneered Alderson.
“Exactly,” said Peter. “And I’m telling you that no bookseller, even one who was involved in forgery and cover-ups, would ever destroy a treasure like the Pandosto.”
“You’re so arrogant,” said Alderson. “You think everyone in the world thinks the same way you do. You’re such an American.”
“I may be,” said Peter, “but I’m also right, and you know I’m right. If you didn’t think there was at least a chance that the original had survived, you would have killed me by now.” Peter sat on the edge of the desk, forcing Alderson to turn slightly in his chair in order to keep the gun trained on him. It seemed an effort for Alderson, whose arm wobbled as he tried to aim the gun.
“If what you say is true,” said Alderson, “if booksellers are so keen to preserve treasures, then you’ll tell me where the original is, even if you know I’m going to kill you. You’ll do anything to be sure the Pandosto is discovered and survives.”
“That’s true,” said Peter, standing and pacing in front of the desk as he nodded discreetly to Liz. “And so I’m going to tell you. But in exchange I want you to spare the life of my friend here.”
Alderson turned toward the hearth to see Liz, but he was too late. As Peter had talked, she had crept up behind Alderson’s chair. In the second before she took action, Alderson seemed to be trying to stand up, but his body wasn’t responding and his hand flailed wildly, still clutching the gun. Before he could wrench himself around to see her, Liz brought the iron poker down hard on his arm, making a sickening crunch. Alderson howled in pain as the gun fell from his hand and skittered across the floor toward Peter.
Peter picked up the gun just in time to point it at Julia Alderson as she came rushing into the room. No longer the mousy girl he had met the previous week, Julia, self-possessed and tensely alert, seemed ready to take command of the situation, but when she saw the barrel of her brother’s pistol pointing at her, she turned for the door. Peter took two quick strides across the room and grabbed Julia’s arm, dragging her back into the room and shutting the door.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said. For a moment there was no sound but Liz’s panting, the even breathing of the others, and an occasional crackle from the dying fire. John Alderson had lost consciousness.
“Miss Alderson,” said Liz at last, “I’m afraid I’m a little early for tea.”
“I’ve rung the police,” snapped Julia. “You may have outsmarted my brother, but you’ll still be convicted of murder.”
“That seems unlikely,” said Peter, releasing Julia’s arm, but keeping the gun trained on her. “I think this will tell the police who the real murderer is.” Peter reached into his open satchel and withdrew the mini-cassette recorder he had used to take notes at the British Library. He pressed a button and the squeal of the tape rewinding filled the room. He hit another button and the squeal was replaced by the voice of John Alderson.
“ ‘I’m the one who killed Graham Sykes, ransacked this young lady’s office and apartment looking for his blasted book—yes, I did all of that.’ ”
“That and the imprint of Graham Sykes’s teeth on your brother’s arm should be more than enough to get a conviction,” said Peter. There was another lull in the conversation as the implication of the tape settled onto the room.
“Can we take my brother to the hospital?” said Julia at last, her entire demeanor deflating in defeat.
“Call an ambulance,” said Peter to Liz. “Tell them Mr. Alderson has had an overdose of anxiety medication.”
—
By the time Peter and Liz had given their statements to the police, the southern sky was beginning to lighten. John Alderson had been taken to the hospital, where he would be arrested a few hours later for the murder of Graham Sykes. Julia Alderson was marched out of the house and charged with conspiracy to commit murder. The police had taken all the documents—forgeries and originals—along with Peter’s recording of John Alderson’s confession into evidence.
“There’s more than just a murder here,” an officer had said to Peter as he loaded the documents into the back of the car. “Someone has to decide who all these things belong to.”
“Don’t forget this,” said Peter, handing the officer Phillip Gardner’s brilliant forgery of Pandosto. He felt only a slight pang of loss as the officer tossed the Pandosto into the car and it disappeared from view.
The police offered to drive Peter and Liz back into Kingham and drop them off at Peter’s cottage.
“What about our room at the Mill House?” said Liz as the car pulled away from Evenlode Manor.
“I have a very nice guest room,” said Peter. “It’s never been used.”
But neither of them felt much like sleep when they arrived at the cottage, so Peter made a pot of tea and poured them each a cup.
“You know you saved me back there,” said Liz, after taking a long drink of tea.
“I did?”
“In that bloody tunnel. I never could have made it through that without you.”
“You never would have been trapped down there without me,” said Peter.
“Nevertheless,” said Liz, “you saved me. So thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Peter. “And thank you for breaking Alderson’s arm.”
“It was nothing,” said Liz, laughing. “I do it all the time. So what was that stuff you slipped him?”
“It’s a sedative,” said Peter. “I have a panic disorder.”
“You could have fooled me,” said Liz. “Seems like I was the one who was panicking.”
“Wait until tomorrow when the adrenaline wears off,” said Peter. “Anyway, I had an envelope of pills in my jacket pocket and I guess they got crushed when I was wriggling through that hole in the chapel floor. I thought about giving you one in the tunnel—that’s when I realized they were nothing but dust. So when Alderson offered me a drink, I just imagined myself in an Agatha Christie plot and slipped the powder into the glass.”
“And then challenged him to drink it.”
“I really didn’t think he was stupid enough to fall for it,” said Peter.
“I guess he doesn’t read enough mysteries,” said Liz, laughing again.
“I wonder what set him off?” said Peter.
“Who, Alderson?”
“No, Phillip Gardner. Why did he decide to commit suicide? Do you think he felt guilty about the Pandosto?”
“Probably it was Miss Prickett’s letter,” said Liz.
“What letter?”
“You never let me read it to you,” said Liz, pulling an envelope out of the pocket of her overcoat. “Remember I told you there was something else in the box you found in Gardner’s tomb? It was this. I read it while you were talking to the police.”
“What’s it say?” asked Peter.
Liz unfolded the thick paper. “Well, on one side Gardner has written another confession.” She read.
On receiving this letter I reposed to my workshop where I painted the only true work of art that has ever flowed from me, a portrait of my beloved Isabel. Like the rest of my creations, I shall hide her in the library of Reginald Alderson. There, until some lucky soul looks into her eyes once more, she shall stay, safely escaped from Evenlode House, and as immortal as I can make her.
“So my portrait . . .”
“Is of Isabel,” said Liz. “Phillip Gardner’s mistress.”
“What does the letter say?” as
ked Peter.
Liz turned the paper over and read:
My Dear Mr. Gardner,
I write to share with you news of great sadness to us both. A month ago Miss Isabel fell ill and last night she slipped away from this life, which has brought her such joy and such grief. I spoke with her in confidence a few hours before she left us, and her thoughts were only of you. You must know that she does not blame you in any way for what happened, and she asked me to write and tell you that at the last she felt only love for you. Should you ever wish to contact your son, you may write to him through me, for the Devereaux family has graciously agreed to keep me on as Phillip’s governess. I know that you loved Isabel and she loved you; I loved her, too, and I hope you will know that I share in your loss.
Yours,
Evangeline Prickett
“What was the name of the family?” said Peter.
“Devereaux. Why, have you heard of them?”
“Oh my God,” said Peter. “You remember Gardner’s will? How he said he left his books and documents to his son’s youngest living heir?”
“I remember,” said Liz.
“I think that might be me.”
As soon as she had said the name, Peter remembered the family tree he had found among Amanda Devereaux’s papers. Amanda’s father was Phillip Devereaux; his mother was Isabel and his father had been listed simply as “unknown.”
“You could be the legitimate owner of all those documents?” said Liz.
“Not just of those, but of the Pandosto, too.”
“But the Pandosto’s a fake,” said Liz. “We proved that ourselves.”
“Not the one the police have,” said Peter, “the real one.”
“Yeah, what was all that back there about knowing where the real Pandosto was? You were just bluffing, right?”
“I don’t care how crooked Benjamin Mayhew was,” said Peter. “No bookseller would destroy anything as spectacular as the Pandosto. And I wouldn’t say I know where it is, but I have a pretty good idea.”
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