by Bart Casey
“He started with a letter from Lord Burghley thanking Anne and Sir Henry for sending him some venison,” began Stephen.
“Yes, he said lots of people sent him venison,” said Margaret. “So I should just frame it and hang it on my wall.”
“Who exactly was sent the letter. You know, whom did Burghley send it to?” asked Soames.
“It was either sent to my ancestor, Lady Anne Vavasour”—Margaret surprised herself by giving lowly Anne a title—”actually, she turned out to be not so much of a lady—or to her boyfriend, Sir Henry Lee. He was a courtier and was indeed friends
with Burghley.”
Stephen added, “There was a rumor that Sir Henry might have been an illegitimate son of Henry VIII, Rowe told us. And I did find that rumor mentioned in a biography of Lee written by Sir Edmund Chambers, although it’s not at all clear that he was what they called the King’s ‘natural child.’”
“Chambers wrote a biography of him?” asked Soames. “I thought he only published about Shakespeare and the Elizabethan stage. I have those sets written by him at the shop.”
“I guess it was a minor work of his. I didn’t know about it either, but old Rowe did. I’ve just finished reading it. Chambers thought Lee should be written up as an example of the sturdy yeoman stock that kept England together: to supplement all the attention given to princes, dukes, and earls. Lee was a very wealthy landowner and well-known courtier. He’s credited with starting the tradition of anniversary day jousts and tournaments for Queen Elizabeth. Lee was her ‘champion’ at those jousts.”
“Strange, I never have heard of these people—including your Lady Anne,” Soames said, turning to Margaret.
“When I was a child my mother always told me she was the black sheep of the family. Her life story told by Rowe made her sound more like she was Queen of the Bordello,” said Margaret. That got Margaret another glance from silent Mandy.
“Margaret, you don’t seem the right type to be the descendant of a working girl,” said Soames. “I thought you a better fit as the vicar’s daughter.”
Soames had said that in such a gentle and joking way that the three of them all chuckled again, somewhat mystifying Mandy.
Returning to their topic, Stephen continued, “There were also longer documents: two commonplace books, a masque and play or two that were put on for some court occasions, and a scroll we can’t quite figure out.”
“A scroll? I thought everything was sixteenth or seventeenth century. Was there some much older artifact?” asked Soames.
“No, it’s from the same time. All of the handwriting on it is contemporary to Lady Anne. Several different hands were writing on it. Small pages were pasted together onto a long scroll—must be ten or fifteen feet long. I haven’t really gone over it all closely because it’s a bit of a mystery and there are other things I can get on with. I’m writing out a crude inventory of all the papers; I mean, there are well over one hundred items. Perhaps you can look it over when it’s finished?”
“Sure, your inventory would be very useful. I’d love to see it when you’re done.”
Margaret added, “We actually brought a few things for you to look at firsthand, Soames. Might you have some time to take a look?”
“Yes, wonderful. We can go over to my shop after lunch. It’s just over the road near all the shops on Museum Street.” Out of the corner of his eye, Soames saw Mandy shift uneasily in her chair. “I have some great brandy we could try there. You know, something for really special occasions.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” said Mandy, suddenly more attuned to their conversation.
“But that’s enough business for now—we can take it up again later. May I recommend you try the Surrey snails? You don’t see them on the menu very often and they are great.”
“No, Stephen had mentioned them to me,” said Margaret. “And you don’t see them listed like that on menus. I think the French would be horrified to see the English pushing themselves into their escargot territory.”
~
True to his word, Soames’s rare bookshop was just five minutes away as they strolled from the quiet of a Sunday afternoon on Greek Street, past the cinema marquees at the gaudy intersection of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street and down a small side street. Just before that road joined the bookshop-filled Museum Street, Soames’s store was tucked into a narrow storefront, with a small-paned front shop window that looked as if it had fallen onto the ground from a movie set for Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.
The cozy quaintness continued inside. The walls were all deep green, with white and wood trim, and walls of expensive leather-bound books glistened from the glow of the brass table lamps. There was no shop counter. Instead Soames or his store helper would sit at a large partners desk facing a brown leather chesterfield sofa, with matching chairs flanking a wide antique coffee table. Another room with more walls of books was visible behind the front room. The whole effect was one had entered the Victorian man-cave of some duke or earl who was very fond of books. It certainly seemed to be the type of shop where one could relax with a fine book and some brandy—which is exactly what they all did as they sat in the front room.
Stephen had brought his overnight case, from which he now extracted a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Carefully unfolding the paper, he revealed the embroidered commonplace book, with its pearls and the gold-threaded “AV” on the front cover medallion.
“Good lord,” said Soames. He tried to calm himself somewhat and said, “That looks like Princess Elizabeth’s book at the British Museum, the one she made for Catherine Parr. She copied out some inspirational work—Mirror of the Synful Soule, or something—in a really fine italic hand inside it.”
“I don’t think that was an accident,” said Stephen. “Anne’s family was grooming her to be a close companion to the Queen. She even followed the same curriculum as Elizabeth did with her own tutor, Roger Ascham—you know, learning Latin and Greek and translating Virgil, Cicero, Aesop, and so on. Needlework would have been part of the program as well.”
“She actually did get very close to the Queen,” added Margaret, “but she got closer to the Earl of Oxford, unfortunately. And then she got pregnant, had a baby, and was thrown into the Tower.”
“Margaret, that sort of story would only add to the value today. I’m beginning to really like your Lady Anne,” said Soames. “May I see it?”
Stephen handed over the book to Soames, who walked over and rested it in a book cradle on his desk, gingerly looking inside.
“That’s a handy thing,” said Margaret.
“Yes, Margaret—one of the tools of our trade,” said Soames. “It’s called a book cradle and you use it for paging through old volumes without opening them too much and cracking the spine. It just holds them nicely so you can look at the pages while your hands are busy with something else, like translating or taking notes. They are essential for things like illuminated manuscripts. In fact, you probably have one somewhere in your church: your father might have used one if he was reading out prayers in a formal church service.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Margaret. “We do. On the altar.”
“Well, you’ll need one at home now, with a collection like yours. It’s critical you take close care of them, you know. Condition really affects value—as I’m sure you understand. Look, I’m sorry for the lecture,” said Soames, standing up again and taking another swig of brandy from his glass on the table. “You’ve just thrown me off my game with this.” He glanced over at Mandy who looked absolutely bored to tears. “Mandy, I’m sorry. I just have to spend a little more time with this now. Shall I meet up with you over at Ronnie Scott’s? There’s an early set tonight at six and we can start over again with a little jazz.”
“Sure, love. That makes sense.” Mandy said.
She stood up, finished off her last hit of brandy, and extended her right hand, first to Stephen and then Margaret, as if she had practiced in front of a mirror with an etiquette bo
ok. “Lovely to meet you. Hope we will see each other again soon.” Turning to Soames as she slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she finished, “You, I’ll see later.” Then she pivoted and walked out the door.
~
They finished at the bookshop about an hour later and they went back to Margaret’s flat. The meeting had ended on a high point, with Soames offering Margaret thirty-five thousand pounds on the spot for the collection, based on what he had seen of the commonplace book.
Margaret’s immediate response was that she had to think about it. Hearing that, Soames calmed down a bit. He was a bit too excited, he said. The right thing to do was to see the whole collection, because Margaret would have to make a major strategic decision if she wanted to sell.
“Should you keep it together as a single collection, or sell parts of it off in separate lots? Map dealers have the same sort of issue when they have a rare atlas: Would the entire book be more of a treasure than its fifty maps inside sold one by one? Buyers like the University of Texas might make an astronomical bid for all the papers, since it would essentially give them an entire collection as a new credential on the academic stage. Or would individual buyers somewhere like Christie’s bring more during the excitement of a bidding war? But we can talk about all that after Stephen has finished his inventory.”
“Oh, I see,” said Margaret. “That all makes sense.”
“Well, I should have it done by the end of the week,” said Stephen. “Then we can follow up with you about it—maybe next weekend?”
“Good,” said Soames, reaching for his jacket. “Let me know and we’ll get together then.”
Much to think about indeed and what a weekend it had been: Sarajevo, the British Museum, love, fine food, wine, brandy, and a thirty-five thousand pound offer.
Monday morning, there was no drama when Stephen came to the museum with his annual pass in hand. After passing through a metal detector at initial security, he presented himself and his pass at a front desk marked Library, and he was directed up to a corner of the brightly lit top floor, where a sign declaring Manuscripts Students’ Room—Private stood in the center of the outer hall. Behind the sign stood a somewhat forbidding entrance to a completely dark corridor. When he went into it, he discovered it quickly snaked to the left, and then the right, to lose all of the glare from the skylights back out in the main hall.
Entering the final windowless sanctum sanctorum, he noticed how the light that finally did come up in there was like early twilight. His eyes adapted to it quickly, but it underscored the fact that he was again in a world where too much light would damage the ancient materials within, as at the National Portrait Gallery with its Tudor pictures.
He stopped to read the rules posted outside the cloakroom just short of the dimly lit Manuscript Service Desk farther down the hall. First, all outerwear, jackets, and umbrellas were to be hung in one of the pale wood lockers provided there. The locker keys were imposing, oversize things, to remind you to remember your belongings, and to set off a storm of hell at the last metal detectors if you tried to leave the building with one. Second, briefcases, book bags, or satchels must also be deposited in the locker; just a single notebook or pad was allowed beyond that point. Then thirdly, and most important, no pens, markers, scissors, X-Acto knives, magnifying glasses, or such could be carried in either—all had to be left in the lockers, or preferably
at home.
Stephen chose an empty locker, stripped himself of all that, and then proceeded lightly along to the service desk, which was manned by a somewhat prim and mousey-haired young woman.
It was at this point he had to explain the basic nature and scale of his project, and clarify that he wanted to see only primary material—not copies or transcriptions—because the details of the handwriting and the appearances of the paper, watermarks, and inks were all very important to his research. To the librarian, that also meant Stephen would have to be watched very carefully. Nevertheless, she speedily assigned him a numbered seat and handed over a clear plastic shopping bag to hold his notebook, eyeglasses, tissues, and whatever other approved item he wanted to carry in, all of which would be clearly visible to the staff. She also dropped a few pamphlets in the bag, which, she said, would serve as an introduction to using the collections.
Passing through what seemed to be a metal detector, Stephen finally arrived into a large study room, thirty feet wide and fifty feet long, yet strangely not claustrophobic even without any windows. The walls were white. The bookcases, desks, and chairs were all blond wood, and the wall-to-wall carpeting was light gray. The result was an unexpectedly modern look, like a Scandinavian furniture showroom. At one end of the room was a large wall clock, which was useful because there was no way to tell what time it might be by looking outside. It was a pleasant enough setting, but also, fittingly enough, it seemed as if they were all buried in a vault underground rather than sitting on the top floor of the British Museum.
This morning, the place was absolutely quiet, although about twenty scholars were dotted around the room, with open spaces for probably thirty more. Stephen’s assigned study place was quite spacious, with about forty inches of desk space. There was a clutch of sharpened pencils, erasers, and a supply of manuscript call slips to be completed with name, seat number, and the catalogue number and title of any manuscript being requested. One of his pamphlets explained completed call slips were to be taken over to the Requests counter (but no more than three at a time would be accepted). Eventually, when someone had retrieved an item from the stacks within, a small light at the researcher’s desk—like the Check Engine light on a car dashboard—would turn on; this meant that one or more of the requests had arrived.
Stephen soon realized the librarian had seated him in the corner of the room next to the catalogues of Elizabethan-era materials—so there was a method to their madness. He’d already brought a list of materials to request, starting with letters of Sir Henry Lee in the Burghley Papers, which were actually stored on shelves right in this room, since that collection was studied so often.
Some requests could be ready for you within an hour. Others would arrive the next day. The most obscure might take three to five days to show up because they were stored at some remote storage facility in Brighton—or even in Scotland. Stephen realized he would have to develop a strategy for his requests to be a mix of short and long-term retrievals so he could have a steady flow of things to look over. This was going to take a while, he thought. He’d probably get to know this place very well.
Stephen started by filling out call slips for the letters from Sir Henry Lee to Lord Burghley. There were quite a lot listed in the catalogue and he made separate requests for three at a time.
He was disappointed that he would have to wait to see the museum’s material on John Heminge until the next week, because it had to be retrieved from deep storage, but he found out that the Theatre Archive at the Royal Shakespeare Trust in Stratford also had Heminge items in their collection. Perhaps he’d go up there.
To pass the time waiting for his first items to show up, he also filled out a call slip for one of the museum’s real treasures, an old manuscript play thought to include three pages written in Shakespeare’s own handwriting. As he later told Margaret, he felt as if he was asking the staff to bring the Elgin Marbles up in a wheelbarrow, but somehow they did accept his request after staring him rather closely in the eye. In fact, the librarian offered to set up an appointment with one of their Elizabethan experts to talk him through it. Perhaps Margaret could sit in with them for that.
~
Meanwhile, across town, Margaret presented herself at 9:30 a.m. at the New Scotland Yard offices in a boxlike glass and steel building buried on Victoria Street, just down the road from Big Ben. The man at the reception desk took her picture, printed it out on a laminated lapel pass for her to wear, and directed her to the lift that would take her up to the sixth floor, where she was to meet with Detective Sergeant Desmond Harris of the speci
alized Art and Antiquities Unit.
The sixth-floor receptionist announced her and Margaret had to wait only a minute or two before Detective Harris came out.
“Good morning, Miss Hamilton. Thanks for coming in to see me.” He was a very fit, well-dressed man in his late forties with a gray suit, white shirt, and regimental striped tie. Margaret thought she looked more like a successful business executive than a policeman as he led her down the hall to his comfortable-office looking out over the rooftops toward the Houses of Parliament.
“No problem, detective. Honestly, I knew I was to come to Scotland Yard, but I did not know I was being summoned by the Art and Antiquities Unit. I hope you can tell me a little about what you do,” said Margaret, seeming bemused.
“Of course, come in and sit down.” He motioned Margaret to sit in one of two chairs in front of his desk, while he took the other one next to her. “I suppose the simplest way to explain ourselves is that we are that part of British law enforcement that deals with illicit trade in art and antiquities—which usually means art or other cultural artifacts which might be stolen, looted, trafficked, forged, and so forth.”
“I see. And how have I fallen within your sphere of interest?” Margaret asked.
“We’ve been asked to join the ongoing investigation around the recent events involving your father, Vicar Hamilton. I’ve reviewed the local and county police reports and want to discuss all that with you. First, please let me say how sorry I am for your loss. Your father was a well-respected member of your community. The local chief wrote up quite a laudatory note for the file so everyone getting involved with this would know that.”
“Oh, that’s very good to hear,” said Margaret, quite relieved and relaxing a bit more.
“First, I’d like to just talk through a quick recap of what’s happened from your point of view—to make sure we’re on the same page. Can you tell me that in your own words?”