The Bookman's Tale: A Novel of Obsession

The Bookman's Tale: A Novel of Obsession Page 7

by Charlie Lovett

  As the last two acts unfolded, Bartholomew watched in awe as he, so it seemed, took over the play in the character of Autolycus. This rogue did not sell books, but he did sell ballads. Bartholomew at first took some slight offense when Autolycus, deciding not to help out young Perdita and her beloved, said, “If I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t. I hold it the more knavery to conceal it, and therein I am constant to my profession.” Was knavery really Bartholomew’s profession? Surely the proudest moments of his career did not drip with honesty, but Bartholomew did not believe he had ever done anyone real harm, nor, he was glad to see as the play raced toward its conclusion, did Autolycus. As Perdita was restored to her father and Hermione brought back to life to give the play the happy ending Bartholomew had suggested, the schemings of Autolycus ultimately contributed to the happiness of the characters.

  As the crowd surged into the street after the performance, Bartholomew pulled Cotton toward the George and Dragon. Most of the playgoers were heading back toward the bridge, but enough spilled into the taverns of Southwark that Bartholomew was glad he had made arrangements in advance with the barman for a private nook to await him. A mug of ale for himself and a cup of wine for Cotton stood on the table as the two men took their seats.

  “Did you hear that crowd’s roar of approval?” said Bartholomew.

  “Hardly a surprise,” said Cotton. “Shakespeare is popular. But you still haven’t told me what this afternoon is all about. I enjoy a good play as much as the next man, but you led me to believe there was an acquisition in the offing.”

  “And so there is, but patience, good friend. Now tell me, will you grant that Will Shakespeare is the greatest playwright of our time?”

  “I would not argue the point,” said Cotton.

  “I would say he is the greatest playwright of any age,” said Bartholomew, “and that he is likely to remain so.” He could imagine the laughter of his old friend Robert Greene if he had heard such a claim, but Greene had not lived to see the meteoric rise of the upstart crow.

  “I have some medieval manuscripts of the Greek dramatists that might belie that assertion,” said Cotton. “But I will grant you he is an important writer. Though I do not think today’s effort was his best.”

  “There’s a reason for that,” said Bartholomew, sensing his opening. “The word among the players is that Shakespeare is ill. He plans to retire to Stratford at the end of the season and is not likely to survive the winter.” Bartholomew had heard no such rumor, though it occurred to him that it might be useful to start one.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” said Cotton. “He used my library once, years ago. I believe he was working on Henry V. One of his best, I thought. Stirring. He was a quiet man—not taken to drunken carousing and immoral behavior like so many of these theater folk.”

  Bartholomew reflected that it was just as well that Cotton was unfamiliar with the less savory of Will Shakespeare’s escapades. He took a draught of ale and wiped his mouth on his sleeve with a broad gesture. “There will be quite a scramble for his manuscripts when he dies,” he said. “Some will want to publish them, I imagine, but as many will want to destroy them.”

  “Destroy them?” said Cotton. “Why would anyone want to do such a thing?”

  Bartholomew knew that Cotton would view the destruction of any literary relic as heresy. “Jealousy, of course,” he said. “We certainly saw the power of that emotion in today’s performance. But perhaps you don’t know what the other playwrights think of Shakespeare—a grammar school boy outshining the finest lights that Oxford and Cambridge can offer. And why should the King’s Men object? If the plays are published they can be performed by anyone. As it stands, the players know their roles. Why should they not destroy the manuscripts and ensure themselves a monopoly?”

  “But his plays have been published. I’ve seen them,” said Cotton.

  “Some have,” said Bartholomew. “A dozen perhaps. But there are at least thirty more that have not.” He knew that no fewer than eighteen of Shakespeare’s plays had been published, and the rest numbered no more than twenty or so, but Bartholomew trusted in the power of exaggeration. “And there are others,” he went on, warming to his deception, “not yet performed. I have seen the pages of a tragedy that will eclipse even Hamlet and King Lear. And it can be yours.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Cotton, not realizing that Bartholomew had finally arrived at the crux of the matter.

  “I have an opportunity, a brief one, to acquire all of Shakespeare’s manuscripts. He has debts in Stratford he would like to see settled before his death, and he wishes to provide for his family.”

  “And you are offering to obtain these manuscripts on my behalf?” said Cotton, leaning forward for the first time in the conversation.

  “Precisely,” said Bartholomew.

  “But you know I don’t collect contemporary literature.”

  “Think of the future. You could be the man who saved the works of England’s greatest playwright. Think how those manuscripts would look on your shelves next to your beloved Greeks. They belong in your library, not in someone’s kitchen fire.” Bartholomew had years of experience in salesmanship, and he knew when a customer had passed the point of no return. Cotton teetered on the edge. “If not for the glory of your own collection,” he said, “do it for England. So that the world will know none can outshine our poets.”

  This twin appeal to patriotism and poetry seemed to tip the balance, for the salesman caught that familiar twinkle in the eye of his victim. Cotton bit his lip for a moment and then asked, “How much?”

  “One hundred pounds,” said Bartholomew calmly. “Half on deposit, the rest on delivery.”

  “One hundred pounds!” said Cotton. “This is highway robbery. You are as much a rogue as the salesman in that play.”

  Cotton’s shock did not concern Bartholomew. He knew that once the customer began to complain about the price, the sale had been made. “What can I say, the man has debts. I assure you my share of the price is a pittance. I only do this out of friendship with Shakespeare and a love for English literature.”

  “You know I do not carry fifty pounds with me through the streets of Southwark.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And I shall need some indication that you can actually provide the merchandise.”

  “A sample,” said Bartholomew.

  “Tuesday then,” said Cotton, rising from his seat. “Bring your sample to my house. If it suits, I shall be prepared to make the first payment, but only if the balance of the materials is delivered within the week.” He did not wait for Bartholomew to bid him good-bye, but pushed his way through the crowded bar toward the door.

  On the table where Cotton had left it stood his cup of wine, untouched. Bartholomew thought perhaps he should try his hand at acting on the stage of the Globe. Without script, costumes, or props he had pulled off the performance of a lifetime. And his audience had been as sober as a bishop.

  London, Friday, February 17, 1995

  “Mr. Byerly,” said Liz, taking off her glasses, laying the watercolor on the table next to her glass of wine, and leaning toward Peter conspiratorially. “Peter. My world is a small world. It may not seem very important to anyone who does not inhabit it, but I assure you for those of us who do, it is all important. You apparently do not inhabit this world. Your late wife perhaps did, or at least she understood it. Mine is the world of Victorian art. It’s a world of collectors and professors and dealers and amateur enthusiasts and a few people like me—editors at sm
all publishing houses hoping to find that one manuscript that will leave a lasting mark. There are not many secrets left in the world of Victorian art. So can you imagine what it would mean for a person like me to be involved in the publication of a secret that will rock this little world, a scandal people will be talking about for years to come.”

  Peter thought he could imagine exactly what it would be like. It would be like finding an undiscovered edition of Hamlet that predated the bad quarto. It might not mean much in the larger world, but in the world of rare books it would leave a mark forever. “Yes,” he said. “I can imagine that.”

  “Well,” said Liz, “B.B. is supposed to be my bombshell.”

  “So you know who painted this?” said Peter, suppressing a quaver that tried to slip into his voice.

  “Not exactly,” said Liz. “You see, we have a member who lives down in Cornwall, an older gentleman who’s quite the amateur scholar. My company has published two of his monographs—well researched, well written, and dull. Two years ago he rang me and told me he had a lead on a Victorian painter who signed himself ‘B.B.’ He wouldn’t tell me much about it, only that if his hunches were right, this book would not be boring. It would be sexy. That’s the word he used. Since then he’s been teasing me with clues once in a while—always on the phone, never anything written down—and from what he’s told me I can tell two things. B.B. was involved in some sort of scandal that will make a little monograph about an obscure painter into a book that people might actually read.”

  “And that’s why you’re glad I didn’t show the painting around at the meeting?” said Peter.

  “If Richard Campbell had seen your watercolor, he might have started sniffing around trying to find out about B.B.”

  “What’s the second thing?” said Peter.

  “My Cornish scholar would kill to have your bloody painting as an illustration in his book. Apparently he’s had trouble getting permission to reproduce B.B.’s works.”

  “Who was this B.B.?” asked Peter

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  “It’s not that. It’s that I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you—just enough to know it’s a good story.”

  “So you propose that I hand over this painting to you and then wait patiently until the book comes out to find out how my late wife managed to be in two centuries at once?”

  “I wouldn’t have to keep it. I would just get it photographed and return it to you in a couple of days.”

  “And how long do I have to wait to read this scandalous story?”

  “Actually I’m expecting the finished manuscript in the mail any day. We’ll put a rush on it, so it should be out in about six months.”

  “Miss Sutcliffe,” said Peter, leaning on his crossed arms and preparing to make a speech of his own. “I am a man of passions, some might even say obsessions. From what you say about your infatuation with Victorian art, I think you can understand that. I’ve had two passions in my life. No, that’s not a strong enough way of putting it. For a decade, two passions were my life; there was nothing else. Those passions were rare books and Amanda Byerly. Since my wife died, my life has been empty. My capacity for passion died with her, or so I believed. Now, just when I begin to feel the faintest glow of my passion for rare books returning, I discover this.” He tapped his finger on the watercolor. “Inside a rare book, I find a portrait of my wife that cannot be my wife. My two passions united in a single square of paper. And this paper—well, somehow I feel it has the potential to release me from one of those passions and launch me back into the other. It’s already accomplished incredible things. It’s made me excited and curious again; it even made me sit here and talk to you, a perfect stranger. So you see, this is not idle curiosity, Miss Sutcliffe. This is not a casual chat. This is a matter of life and death for me; or if not life and death then at least life and no life. Because living the way I’ve been living for the past nine months is no life.”

  “How did you know it was Miss Sutcliffe?” said Liz, smiling.

  “No ring. I just assumed.”

  “You assumed right. But you’re not right about everything. It doesn’t sound to me like your capacity for passion is dead. I admire passion, Peter, and you have it. So I propose a compromise.”

  “A compromise?”

  “Exactly. You let me borrow this painting and photograph it for my Cornish gentleman’s book. I’ll return it to you next week and as soon as the page proofs of the book are ready, I’ll send you a set. You’ll see it before the reviewers.”

  “That sounds fair,” said Peter, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice. He was not feeling particularly patient.

  “That’s not the whole deal,” said Liz.

  “Oh?”

  “You also have to finish having dinner with me, start calling me Liz, tell me honestly what you think of the vindaloo, and take me for a walk on the Embankment before you catch your train home.” She smiled and whisked the watercolor off the table as a waiter set down two dishes of fragrant curry.

  And so Peter had done exactly that. He had forgotten all about the watercolor and rare books and Amanda and spent a pleasant evening with Liz Sutcliffe. After dinner they had walked down to the river and along the Embankment toward Westminster. The wind had died down and the moon came out from behind the clouds just as Big Ben struck ten o’clock.

  “It must be nice living in London,” said Peter. “To be able to walk along the river, watching the boats and looking at that amazing view of Parliament.”

  “I suppose,” said Liz. “The truth is I hardly ever come here. I live in Hampstead and work in Bloomsbury and it’s pretty rare that I go anywhere else.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Peter, who immediately felt like a hypocrite for criticizing someone else’s cocooned existence.

  “Well, that’s the thing about London,” said Liz. “Everything you need is right in your neighborhood. The sights we just take for granted.” She stopped at the top of the stairs to Westminster Bridge and looked up at the famous clock face glowing overhead. “But you’re right—it is pretty wonderful.”

  —

  It was just past midnight by the time Peter turned his latchkey and stepped from a cold drizzle into his sitting room, lit only by the flashing message light on his answering machine. He nearly fell over the box of book repair supplies that he had left in the middle of the floor, as he stumbled toward the light switch. Quietly cursing the electrician who had seen fit to put the switch across the room from the front door, he flicked on the lights and began to fumble with the thermostat. The cottage’s heating system was temperamental at best. Right now it felt more like twenty degrees Fahrenheit than the twenty degrees Celsius claimed by the thermostat. Amanda would never have put up with this. Too tired to wait and see if his fiddling would return heat to the house, he filled a hot-water bottle in the kitchen and trudged upstairs to a cold, empty bed. Downstairs, the answering machine flashed in the darkness.

  Peter didn’t receive messages often, and when he did they were usually from Francis Leland or Hank Christiansen or Amanda’s best friend Cynthia. Peter could imagine the three of them meeting for coffee and drawing straws to see whose turn it would be this week. Whoever it was always had a legitimate-sounding question, but Peter knew their real reason for calling was to check that he was alive and capable of returning a phone call. He never did. On rare occasions, a client would call, asking advice on a purchase or for help in finding a particular volume. Those calls he sometimes returned.

  Not until Peter finished breakfast the next morning did he think to check the answering machine. He hoped the message might be from a customer giving him some excuse to return to Hay. He had awoken early and as he lay in bed listening to the rain, he couldn’t get the copy of Malone’s Inquiry, the book in which he had found the watercolor, out of his mind. Why had he not looked through every page for margin notes? Why hadn’t he just bought the thing? He cou
ld certainly afford one overpriced book. And it would have kept him from being a thief.

  The message was left by an unfamiliar voice—English, male, crisp, and upper class. “Mr. Byerly,” said the voice. “I hope I’ve reached Peter Byerly. My name is John Alderson. I’ve heard from a friend that you know a little something about rare books. Do a bit of dealing I gather. And to think you’re right here in Kingham. I’ve been thinking of selling a few choice items from my library and wondered if you might like to handle the job for me. I’m home most mornings. Feel free to drop by for a cup of tea and you can see if you’re interested. It’s John Alderson, We’re on the road toward Cornwall. Evenlode . . .” The machine clicked off. Like the heating system, it seemed to have a mind of its own and did not like being overworked.

  Could he have meant Evenlode House, the dilapidated manor house that Martin Wells had told him about? John Alderson had not sounded like the sort of man to keep visitors away with buckshot. The rain had stopped and Peter had been in England long enough that by midmorning on a cold day he rather fancied a cup of tea. Cornwall was only two miles away, so Evenlode House must be closer. He decided to walk it.

  The road to Cornwall was barely wide enough for a single vehicle and lined with tall hedgerows that shut out not only the wind but the world. Peter felt a delicious solitude as he walked the mile to a rusted iron gate on which a sign in large red lettering proclaimed EVENLODE HOUSE—KEEP OUT! The gate hung loosely from two crumbling stone pillars and Peter easily stepped inside, hoping the sign did not apply to invited guests. He followed a deeply rutted mud track uphill across a field and then down through another hedgerow where it turned suddenly to the left, revealing what was left of Evenlode House. It appeared to have once been a grand Jacobean manor, but was surely not habitable in its current state.

 

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