Nice joint, this place you’re going, Jack said. It’s got all the charm of Sing Sing.
CHAPTER 2
The Fall of the House of Chesley
I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” 1845
I SHIVERED AS I stepped out of the warm automobile. A gothic-style portico shielded the entrance to Prospero House from the brute force of the wind and rain, but the night air was downright frigid.
Side by side, Sadie and I climbed the three stone steps that led to the mansion’s carved front doors. Flanking the entrance were two bronzed mermaids with long flowing hair and angelic faces, their scabrous tails encrusted by a green patina.
Before I located the doorbell, I heard the click of a bolt. Gradually, arthritically, one heavy door opened, its hinges moaning as if protesting the painful movement. Then a lashing burst of rain drummed the east wall of the portico, and a sudden bone-white flash revealed our host.
Tall but flimsy as a scarecrow, Peter Chesley’s sallow flesh was the color of old parchment, his once-blue eyes milky and bloodshot. His hair, no longer thick and golden, was nearly gone, save for a bristle-brush of gray ringing his pasty scalp. His ashen cheeks appeared caved in, giving his face the look of a deflated soccer ball.
Swathed entirely in black, the man’s soft velvet coat was natty and moth-eaten, with badly frayed sleeves. His threadbare pants hung too loosely over his thin hips, the cloth shiny with wear and stained with old food. The old man stood unsteadily on scuffed velvet slippers. The chipped and dented black cane he clutched in his gnarled left hand was more than an affectation.
This high-toned fruitcake’s dirty with more than money, Jack groused. He’s got enough cabbage to own this palace, but he can’t even clean up for his guests.
“Take it easy, Jack,” I silently replied. “He’s old. And he doesn’t look well.”
Well, stand back, this geezer looks like he’s going to peg out any second now.
At first glance, Chesley’s gaze seemed almost fearful. But the man brightened with recognition when he saw my aunt.
“Sadie,” he whispered.
The old man’s rheumy eyes shined, and, for a moment, I could see a glimpse of that brilliant blue Sadie had mentioned from her memories.
Leading with his cane, Peter Chesley stumbled forward to greet us. Only then did I realize how frail he truly was. I felt my aunt stiffen when he confronted us, heard her catch her breath in surprise. But she quickly recovered from her initial shock. With a sincere smile Sadie Thornton stepped forward to take her old lover’s thin arm.
“Peter, how good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too, my dear, dear, Sadie.”
Chesley’s voice was as wispy as his frame, his lungs barely providing enough air for his words to be heard over the howl of the storm.
“Let’s get out of the cold. We can talk inside,” Sadie said.
Deftly, she turned the man around and led us back into the house. I expected (and hoped for) light, warmth, hot tea—perhaps even a cozy fire roaring in a welcoming hearth. But my first sensations upon entering Prospero House were the pervasive smell of mildew, the oppressive feelings of cold and dampness. My surroundings more resembled a crumbling tenement than a century-old Newport mansion. Once stately, the house was literally disintegrating through age and neglect.
The interior entranceway was dominated by a grand staircase, which flowed down from a second-floor balcony in a gentle curve. The carpeted steps, obviously a deep burgundy at one time, had become a muddy brown, the cloth frayed and dotted with patches of mold.
The theme of the décor was obviously nautical. The bare stone walls were decorated with odd maritime knickknacks, including a harpoon, and massive oil paintings of tall ships from three centuries. On a heavy oak table, I noticed an antique brass ship bell. Next to it a glass display case brimmed with yachting cups and sailing trophies, their silvers and golds faded under countless layers of dust.
A drumming noise beat against our ears, a staccato thump like the beating of a heart. The sound came from a steel tub in the corner, placed there to catch large drops of water that plunged in a steady stream through a hole in the ceiling high above the stairs.
Peter Chesley noticed my stare. “The upper wings are sealed off. There’s no one up there. It’s quite uninhabitable.” He said this in a conversational tone, but when his pale eyes glanced at the stairs, a shadow crossed his face. “I haven’t been able to climb stairs for a year or more. Arthritis.”
Hobbling with obvious pain, the man led us through a large door to the left of the stairway. “I’ve moved my bedroom down to the first floor,” he remarked. “It’s a small room off the kitchen, but it suits me just fine.”
Despite his unkempt appearance and the dilapidated condition of his home, I was struck by Chesley’s dignity, the air of shabby gentility he carefully maintained. Yet there was also a furtive nervousness about the man, which I found baffling. I suspected the tension might be caused by our presence—since it was fairly obvious Mr. Chesley didn’t make a habit of entertaining guests.
We stepped through the archway with carved oak supports and found ourselves in the manor’s library. Illuminated by the flicking fire in a massive stone hearth, the library was nearly the size of our display floor at Buy the Book. It boasted a vaulted ceiling with oak cross beams and a tall grandfather clock, which ticked loudly in one corner, its oddly shaped pendulum swinging in an arc behind cut leaded glass.
The sheer size of the manor’s collection was impressive. Thousands of books lined the dark oak shelves. Along one shadowy wall near the clock, some portraits had been strategically hung—framed oils and old, posed photographs of men and women I assumed were Chesley ancestors.
This dump is duller than a gravesight, Jack complained in my head. And I should know.
“Take it easy, Jack.”
I haven’t seen a joint this wrecked since I was hired to make a drop at a run-down tenement for a blackmailed client.
“One of your cases?”
Yeah, baby, you can look it up.
“Why don’t you tell me now? This place is creeping me out. Frankly, I could use the distraction.”
Well, let’s see now, how did that case start?…I got a visit from the vice president of a hat company. Short guy with a dopey face. Had a proclivity for two-toned shoes and carnations in his lapels. He was stepping out on his wife, who also happened to be the daughter of the company’s owner.
“What a winner…”
Turns out Mr. VP had been doing the horizontal tango with a real piece of work. The floozie had secret photos taken of their hot dates, and she threatened to send the photos to his wife unless he cooperated.
“What did she—the floozie, I mean—want?”
In exchange for the incriminating photos and their negatives, Mr. Exec was supposed to pack five thousand dollars in small bills into a grocery bag and slap a few heads of lettuce on top—I gotta say, that piece of the puzzle did crack me up.
“What?”
Lettuce on lettuce.
“I don’t get it.”
What’s not to get, baby? Lettuce is the lingo for money.
“Oh…yes, that’s right, you’ve used that term before.”
Jack sighed. Try to keep up with me, doll, would you? So, anyway, Mr. VP is supposed to prepare this bag, then leave it in front of an apartment house door and knock three times. The door’s supposed to open, the bag goes in, and if the money counts up okay, then an envelope with the photos is supposed to come sliding out right to him from under the same door.
“Sounds straightforward.”
Sure, but when the exec hears the address, he gets spooked and hires me to make the drop. So I dress in Mr. VP’s tailored overcoat and matching fedora and take the bag of lettuce to the designated address.
“Where was it?”
Coney Island, Brooklyn. Guys l
ike my VP client don’t cross the East River. Bridges and tunnels scare them worse than dwindling dividends.
“What happened, Jack? Did you exchange the money for the photos?”
Nope.
“You didn’t get the photos.”
No, baby, I got the photos, the negatives, and without giving up one leaf of the client’s green. They weren’t too happy, but then they didn’t have much choice after I got through with them.
“They?”
Sure, you think some cheap floozie would have worked out that blackmailing con on her own? Naw, she had muscle. Three Brunos were waiting for me the day I showed. Only I didn’t go in the front door of that crumbling wreck of a tenement. I went in the back—got the drop on them. The element of surprise; usually works like a charm, key word being usually.
“Got it…going in the back door when they expect you in the front. I’ll have to remember that.”
Great, doll, but it’s too late for that now. You’re already inside this musty mausoleum. How does gramps pass the time in this crypt, anyway? Watching mold grow?
“Jack, have a heart. Think how old you’d be now if you’d lived.”
Baby, you ought to know me by now. I don’t truck with sentiment.
“I’ll alert the media.”
So why not put some egg on your shoes and beat it?
“We can’t leave yet. Not until our business is through.”
Just then, I noticed a large, thick-legged table in the center of the mansion’s library. It was stacked high with old books, some of them folio sized, all of them, I was certain, rare collector’s items.
My eyes forgot to blink, and I knew how Veruca Salt felt the moment she’d stepped into Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. But as I began to move toward that table, Peter Chesley put a hand on my shoulder and asked Sadie and I to take a seat by the fireplace.
I nodded politely and forced myself to turn toward the warmth and light. Unfortunately, both came from an oversized, smoke-stained hearth carved to resemble the gaping, fanged mouth of a gigantic gargoyle. I tried to pretend my shudders were from a chill and not the creepy maw I was walking toward.
Chesley gestured for us to sit. Then, in a touching gesture of chivalry, stood patiently waiting for us to take off our coats, drape them on leather armchairs, and settle into our seats before he sank slowly into his own—a bamboo wheelchair.
On a wide mahogany coffee table sat a silver tea service. Steam rose from a pot of Earl Gray, its aroma competing with the scent of wood smoke. I wondered if Peter Chesley had any servants.
“Forgive the sparse amenities,” he said. “It’s Sunday, the butler’s night off.” Chesley laid his cane across his lap. “Shall I pour?”
Sadie leaned forward. “Allow me.”
She filled one of the bone china cups and passed it to me, along with a few tiny cakes delivered that morning, according to Sadie’s old beau, in honor of our visit.
I thought that was odd, considering we hadn’t consented to come until late afternoon. But then Chesley had known Sadie pretty well at one time. Maybe he knew her well enough to know she’d come to him, no matter what.
“Thank you, Sadie,” said Peter as she passed him his tea. “You remembered how I liked it.”
Sadie smiled—a little sadly, it seemed to me. “Two sugars, no cream, no lemon.”
Chesley gazed openly at my aunt. “You haven’t changed, my love, not one bit.”
Sadie waved her hand. “Get those eyes checked, Peter.”
“Not one bit.”
Sadie shook her head and turned her attention to pouring her own cup of tea, but I could tell she was pleased. And I recalled her taking extra care getting ready for our trip this evening. Over her best pleated brown slacks, she’d worn her new deep green V-neck sweater, which went beautifully with her shoulder-length red-gold hair—dyed and highlighted regularly at Colleen’s Beauty Shop. And, though she wasn’t a fan of makeup, she’d taken pains to put on a bit of blush, lipstick, and gloss, and fasten a cherished gold cross around her neck.
“I seldom partake of such fare these days,” Chesley said with a sigh. “My condition, you see…”
The man’s nervousness seemed to recede as the conversation continued. Sadie and Peter chatted nonstop, catching up on missed years, on the lives and fates of mutual friends, collectors, and their collections.
I only half listened, preferring to sip my tea and watch the lightning flash through the tall leaded windows. The saucer that rested on my lap was easily as old as this mansion—well over a century. It felt as though we were having a late-night tea party in a museum.
“I’ll tell you frankly, Sadie, when I became the patriarch of the Chesley family, no one was more surprised than me. Given the declining fortunes of the family trust over the past few years, it has become my passion to fairly and justly discharge the family legacy—this four-story mansion, the grounds around it, the treasures in this library…”
Chesley paused to take in the portraits and photos on the far wall. Then he gestured to a stack of notebooks on a small desk. They were composition books, the kind college students used. There must have been at least fifty.
“Are those notebooks from your academic days?” I asked. “Research for your scholarly papers?”
“Heavens, no. My work is archived with the university library. No, those notebooks”—he pointed a bony finger—“are the complete catalog of this entire estate. Every painting, antique, sculpture, trophy, and piece of furniture, as well as every book in this library has been accounted for, its history described as best as I could research it. I thought the process would never end, but I’m nearly through now. I merely have the photos and portraits in this room to catalog and I’ll be finished at last.”
“My goodness, Peter.” Sadie shook her head. “That’s what you’ve been up to all these years?”
“It’s been quite consuming, I must admit. Some days, I’d take down a book and then find it of interest and spend half the day reading it!” Chesley cackled and shook his head. “In any event, while I do not wish to part with any items in my family’s collection, I know now is the time. I set aside some particular gems you may wish to sell. Some of these items are treasures and should be possessed by someone who will cherish them. I realize many of these books are quite valuable, so I am willing to offer you the lot on commission.”
Sadie blinked. “That’s very fair, Peter, but certainly we can advance you a sum—”
“I am not starving,” Chesley quickly interrupted. “I shall wait for the sale to take place, and accept fifty percent of the gross.”
“Peter! That’s far too generous!” Sadie cried.
“Ah, but you’re forgetting, fifteen years ago you sold me that beautifully preserved, eighteenth-century edition of Poor Richard’s Almanac for a mere two hundred dollars—”
“Did I?” Sadie replied. “I don’t recall—”
“Don’t say you don’t remember. I know perfectly well that physician in Boston offered you over a thousand dollars for the very same copy. You cheated yourself out of eight hundred dollars. That was far too generous.”
Sadie blushed. “You wanted the book much more than Dr. Mellors, Peter. Money isn’t everything.”
“Exactly. Which is why this argument is over.”
Chesley swung his wheelchair around and rolled across the faded Oriental rug. The wheels wobbled and squeaked. Sadie and I rose and followed the man to the goodies table. I felt like a child on Christmas morning, staring at a stack of ribbons and bows wrapped around boxes of possibilities.
But as I stood up, I could swear I heard the sound of footsteps over my head—heavy footfalls, too, as if someone were walking the corridor upstairs. I glanced at Sadie, but she seemed to have missed the sound. Telling myself I’d been mistaken, I followed the pair to the table.
Peter gestured to a large folio tied with silk ribbon.
“As you see, I have an edition of American birds by naturalist John James Audubon.
I believe they were published in 1838.”
I held my breath. The Audubon folios I’d seen before this were relegated to library collections or museums.
Sadie lifted a thick volume with rough-cut pages and a scuffed brown cover. “This is incredible. Is this a Caritat’s edition of Wieland?”
Chesley nodded. “Published in 1798, I believe. The only edition that appeared in Charles Brockden Brown’s lifetime. Alas, this copy is not signed….”
Peter Chesley’s hand rested on an odd, seemingly mismatched set of books. “Considering the theme of your newly renovated bookstore, I think you may find these volumes of particular interest.”
“The Poes?” Sadie observed.
“A complete set of the Eugene Phelps editions of Edgar Allan Poe’s tales and poems. Thirteen volumes edited and published between 1929 and 1931. I understand some of these books are quite rare, though most volumes garner only modest sums from collectors.”
“Why is that?” I asked our host, but it was Sadie who provided the answer.
“The Phelps books were published by a rich New England eccentric on the cusp of the Great Depression,” she explained. “Only the last four volumes in the set are truly valuable because they had a much smaller print run, and because they did not sell when they were first published—”
“Don’t forget the most fascinating part of the story.” Chesley fixed his eyes on mine and lowered his voice. “Your aunt failed to mention that over half the print run was lost when Eugene Phelps committed suicide in 1932. It seems the poor man lost his fortune on the stock market.”
“That’s tragic,” I replied.
To my surprise, Peter Chesley threw back his head and emitted a deranged-sounding cackle.
“Dwelling on the florid, morose writings of a Gothicist like Edgar Poe, poor Phelps was probably insane. Mad as a hatter!” he crowed. “Most bluebloods are, you know. Completely useless, the lot of them.”
I left Peter’s remark hanging. Jack was not so diplomatic.
That’s the first smart thing that dribbled through grandpa’s dentures all night.
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