The Bookman's Tale: A Novel of Obsession

by Charlie Lovett

  “I don’t suppose you remember the names of the people who brought them in,” said Peter, wondering if John Alderson was in on the deception with his sister. “I thought I might try to find out something about the provenance.” It wasn’t exactly kosher for one dealer to ask another about his sources, but if the reason was scholarly rather than commercial, rules could be bent.

  “Let me see,” said the man, pulling a large register out from under the counter and flipping the pages. “She was a quiet lady, not much personality, if you know what I mean.”

  “Mousy?” said Peter.

  “Exactly that,” said the man. “That’s exactly what I’d call her. But I made the check out to him. Ah, here it is,” he said, running his finger along an entry in the register. “Fellow by the name of Thomas Gardner.”

  Ridgefield, 1985

  Everything about his loss of virginity had felt safe to Peter—not just the familiar surroundings of the Devereaux Room and the familiar arms of Amanda, but even the residual role-playing that served as a protection against too much revelation of his most intimate self. As for other sorts of protection, Amanda had taken care of that, as she took care of so much. As they made love on the soft carpet amid their discarded costumes, she had guided him as she had guided him on the dance floor. Afterward he had curled up against her and rested his hand on her bare belly, feeling her skin gradually cool under his touch. They lay in a silence broken only by their breathing in unison, and Peter felt a sense of belonging deeper than any he had ever felt.

  Finally Amanda placed her hand on top of his and spoke softly, her voice muffled by the carpet in spite of the cavernous space above them. “That was my first time,” she said.

  “Mine, too,” said Peter.

  She took his hand gently in hers and moved it lower across her smooth flesh. “Let’s see if the second time is just as good,” she said.

  —

  On Saturday morning, two days after Halloween, Peter was walking across campus to the library, his head down, his shoulders hunched, and his books clasped tightly against his chest—a posture with which he had successfully shielded himself from the outside world since middle school—when he heard a cheerful voice at his side.

  “Good morning, Romeo. Do you recognize me with my head attached?”

  Peter had no choice but to look up and see Amanda’s friend Cynthia, who had fallen into step next to him, smiling broadly.

  “Morning, Cynthia,” he muttered. “I’ve really got to get to the library.” He picked up his pace, but Cynthia matched his stride and kept smiling at him. It was unnerving.

  “Me, too,” she said brightly. Peter knew this must be a lie. He was practically the only student at Ridgefield who went to the library on Saturday mornings. “It’ll give us a chance to talk. It’s so hard to have a real conversation at that masquerade.” Peter was thinking that this was exactly what he had liked about the ball. “You know Amanda talks about you all the time, but it’s always ‘Peter and I did this’ or ‘Peter and I did that.’ She’s very cagey when it comes to telling me what you’re actually like.”

  “I guess I’m kind of a private person,” said Peter, gripping his books a little tighter. Although he wanted to escape this conversation as soon as possible, he couldn’t deny the thrill that rushed through him when Cynthia said that Amanda talked about him all the time. Then he suddenly felt a jolt in his stomach when it occurred to him that Amanda might have said to her friend, Peter and I made love. He stared intently at the patterns of the bricks in the path as they walked.

  “Well that’s okay,” said Cynthia. “To be private. I mean, I’m not that way. Everybody always knows how I’m feeling, whether they want to or not, but then I guess Amanda has always been a little on the private side.”

  “I guess Amanda and I are alike that way,” said Peter.

  Cynthia put a hand on Peter’s arm and gripped lightly, pulling him to a stop. He felt it would be rude to keep staring at the ground, so he looked up at her, but still avoided making eye contact. His hands began to sweat and he was afraid he might drop his books. “Listen, Peter,” said Cynthia. “I understand you’re a private guy, and I’m sure you have your reasons. But I’d like to be your friend, I really would, and there’s a real simple reason for that. I’ve known Amanda since we were six. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had. And I’ve never seen her as happy as she’s been since she started seeing you. Now maybe you haven’t dated a lot, so you don’t have much to compare Amanda to.”

  “I haven’t dated at all,” mumbled Peter.

  “Well, let me tell you, what Amanda feels for you—that’s not just what a girl feels for some guy she’s dating. She’s head over heels, Peter. And here’s the thing. Either you’re head over heels, too, in which case I’d really like to be friends with the man who’s going to spend the rest of his life with my best friend; or you’re not, in which case I need to know right now so I can tell Amanda that I had to kick your ass for breaking her heart.”

  Cynthia didn’t stop smiling, but Peter sensed that this final threat was not a joke. He also realized that, at some point during this speech, his hands had stopped sweating and he found himself looking directly into Cynthia’s eyes.

  “It feels a little weird to be telling you this,” said Peter. “I mean, I hardly know you. But yes, I’m head over heels. She may not know it yet, but I am the guy who’s going to spend the rest of his life with your best friend.” Peter felt his cheeks grow hot with the pride of this declaration, but he did not drop his gaze from Cynthia.

  “Good,” she said, linking her arm with his and pulling him down the path toward the library. “Then I won’t have to kick your ass.”

  “And even though I’m not very good at it, I would like to be your friend.”

  “Peter,” said Cynthia, “I think you’re going to make an excellent friend.” They walked the rest of the way to the library in companionable silence, and Cynthia deposited him on the doorstep with a kiss on the cheek before heading back across campus toward the dormitories. Peter laughed as he pushed his way through the heavy doors and wondered how long she had been lying in wait for him.

  —

  Peter was surprised to see the light on in Francis Leland’s office as he tossed his books onto a table in the Devereaux Room. He had expected to have Special Collections to himself until Francis came in for his afternoon of work. Peter slid into his usual chair and noticed a copy of that day’s New York Times open on the table and folded back to an article with the headline, “Gallery Said to Possess First American Imprint.” He picked up the paper and began to read.

  The article described how a Salt Lake City rare-documents dealer named Mark Hofmann had discovered a copy of the earliest document printed in America, a broadside titled “Oath of a Freeman.” Supposed to have been printed in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1638 or 1639, the “Oath” had been recorded but no copy was known to have survived.

  “It’s the Holy Grail of Americana,” said Francis, as Peter lay the paper back on the table.

  “Is it really worth a million and a half dollars?” asked Peter. This was the asking price of the New York book dealers who were handling the “Oath” for Hofmann.

  “Who’s to say what it would sell for at auction,” said Francis. “It’s the only one. I’d say a million and a half is a bullish price, but not ridiculous. The question is, who can afford it?” According to the article, the Library of Congress and the American Antiquarian Society had performed extensive forensic tests and concluded that the “Oath” was authentic.

  The article also described how Hofmann, who had exhibited a penchant for digging up historical documents, especially those related to the Mormon Church, had recently been injured in one of three pipe bomb explosions in Salt Lake City. The local police seemed to be considering Hofmann a suspect in the bombings but did not draw any connections between the violence and the amazing discovery of the “Oath.”

  “What would you do if you found something lik
e that?” Peter asked Francis.

  “I’d do the same thing these folks have done,” said Francis, tapping the newspaper with a pencil. “I’d suspect it and send it to the experts.”

  “Do you think these experts used the same techniques as Carter and Pollard?” asked Peter.

  “Forensic science is a little more advanced now than it was fifty years ago, but yes, I’d imagine basically they looked at three things. First is provenance, the history of ownership. With something that old and valuable you have to ask where it came from and how it remained undiscovered for so long. Next you have to look at the content. Is there anything in the text that’s inconsistent with the time period—spelling, word use, anachronisms, and so forth? That’s not so much of an issue with this piece because the text of the “Oath” is recorded in historical sources. Anyone can look it up. Last is materials. Is the ink as old as it purports to be? Is the paper from the right time period? Do the printing process and the typeface fit the timeline as well?”

  “So you think it’s authentic?” said Peter.

  “I’d like to see the forensic reports myself,” said Francis, “before I decide for sure it’s not a forgery. But it looks like it could be the real thing.”

  “The first document ever printed in America,” said Peter. “That would be something.”

  “Yes,” said Francis, “it certainly would.”

  London, 1875

  He saw her for the first time seated before a canvas by John Everett Millais at the Royal Academy exhibit of 1875. He had come to the exhibit on his way to meet with his favorite bookseller, Benjamin Mayhew, with whom he would arrange the purchase of a rare document. Phillip Gardner had once hoped that his own work might hang on the walls of a London gallery, but he had come to accept, after repeated rejections by both the Royal Academy and the Historical Watercolour Society, that he had no great talent as an artist. His technical abilities were unmatched—and had he not had the foresight to marry as he did, he might have scratched out a reasonable living as a copyist—but he lacked the artist’s vision to create original work. Rejected by the art world, he painted his mediocre watercolors in private, hung them on the walls of his country home, and paid an annual visit to the Royal Academy to remind himself of his own shortcomings. Every year he walked through the rooms, occasionally stopping at a canvas that had attracted a crowd to see if he could detect what made it so special. He never could.

  In her gloved hands she clutched a small booklet that appeared to be heavily marked with underlinings and marginalia. She was a tall woman, stately, Phillip would have said, with dark hair and an intensity to her stare that he found both riveting and unnerving. The lines of her face were sharp and angular, yet her dress clearly contained the curves of a woman. Phillip was not in the habit of staring at women in public. Though his marriage was a sham that provided him with an income and his wife with a country home, he was able to obtain whatever sexual relief he required with a few shillings and a walk to a certain street near Covent Garden. So he could not have said why, exactly, this woman fascinated him—perhaps because she was as still as the figure in the painting, or because she seemed so confidently self-possessed. Or because she was so obviously alone.

  Her eyes were fixed on the canvas, and did not seem to flinch when another exhibit goer juxtaposed himself between her and the image of a man, who looked something like a toreador, carrying a woman up a rocky path. The woman’s hands were linked behind the man’s neck, and her face, visible over his shoulder, did not seem to indicate, as far as Phillip could tell, whether she was being kidnapped, rescued, or merely carried up the hill from a picnic because she had hurt her ankle. Phillip must have spent longer than he had intended trying to puzzle out the possibilities, for when he heard a voice at his side, he realized that the woman he had been watching had risen from her seat and was addressing him.

  “Ruskin doesn’t like it,” she said, still looking at the painting but holding up her booklet. “He says it’s a defect of industry that one lover should have a body without a face and the other a face without a body.” Phillip was taken aback that an unaccompanied woman should so brazenly address an unaccompanied man in public, but this breach of protocol was tempered in his mind by other factors. First, she was, much to his surprise, an American. Second, she was clearly intelligent—and intelligent conversation with a woman was something he sorely missed since the twin tragedies of his sister’s death and his own wedding. Third, and perhaps most overpowering, was her intoxicating aroma—he didn’t know how to describe it, but her scent enveloped him as he turned to look at her, and he knew at that moment that he had to have her.

  “Are they lovers?” he asked. “I wasn’t sure.”

  “Well of course they are,” she said with a laugh. “It’s called ‘The Crown of Love.’ ” She took a step closer to the painting and squinted at the canvas, then turned back to him and fixed him with her eyes for the first time. “But I see what you mean. They could just as easily be enemies. It’s a fine line.”

  Phillip Gardner was too delighted to have his own ignorance misconstrued as a keen critical eye to realize that he had an uncanny ability to confuse love and danger.

  Hounslow, England, Monday, February 20, 1995

  Peter spent the night at an anonymous hotel near Heathrow airport—he had driven from Hay toward London but had no wish to navigate the metropolitan traffic. He would park his car at the airport and take the tube into town. He slept little, and not just because he was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the supposedly mortal enemies Julia Alderson and Thomas Gardner were apparently in cahoots. Had the man at church who had cited Romeo and Juliet in describing the “ancient grudge” between the two families been more accurate than he knew? Peter felt he was beginning to detect a plot.

  Somehow Julia and Thomas meet and fall in love. They are kept apart not just by their families’ feud but by Thomas Gardner’s poverty. Julia uncovers a rare book in which a famous Victorian forger has scrawled marginalia in the hand of William Shakespeare. She hears that an American bookseller is living nearby. She and her beloved plot to dupe this American into selling the Pandosto at an enormous price to an unsuspecting client, so they can afford to rebuild Evenlode House and live happily ever after, despite the scorn of their surviving kin. But what if the American bookseller detected the forgery? How far would they go to protect their plan? Peter needed to find out everything he could about the Pandosto, but he also needed to go back to Evenlode Manor as soon as possible and pretend nothing was wrong.

  That morning Peter would go to the one place where he might be able to get some answers—the British Museum. When he and Amanda had first come to England on their honeymoon, Francis Leland had arranged for Peter to meet Nigel Cook, a librarian at the British Museum. “You’ve got to have a contact there if you’re going to deal in English literature,” Francis had said. “They have things there you won’t find anywhere else.” It had seemed odd to spend an afternoon of their honeymoon in the musty rooms and cluttered offices of the book department—not exactly as romantic as the boat ride to Kew Gardens or the dinner at the Savoy—but Peter had indulged Amanda’s passions as she made her first visit to the Tate and the Victoria and Albert Museum. She was happy to do the same for Peter, letting him grip her hand with nervousness and excitement as Nigel Cook led them through a maze of rooms into his office.

  Nigel had given Peter one of the great bibliographical thrills of his life—on a par with his first encounter with the bad quarto of Hamlet. He had allowed Peter to handle a manuscript from the library of Robert Cotton—an eleventh-century stunningly illuminated Psalter that, according to a Latin inscription, was connected to Winchester Cathedral and Bishop William of Wykeham. Nigel had also given Peter and Amanda a brief tour of the facilities—the cataloging rooms, the areas for visiting researchers, a laboratory for testing ink
and paper, and a conservation lab much like the one at Ridgefield.

  “If there’s ever anything I can do for you,” said Nigel as he bade them good-bye back in the public galleries, “don’t hesitate to call.” He had presented a business card and Peter had stashed it in his wallet. Seven years later it was still there.

  —

  Peter phoned Nigel from the hotel room at 9:05. He hesitated to press the final digit of the number, the familiar fear of contact rising within him, but he wiped his damp palm on the duvet, and completed the call. Nigel remembered him immediately and unquestioningly agreed to provide what Peter asked for. Of course Peter had not told Nigel the whole truth. It would have been unfair to make the librarian keep such a secret.

  “I have an early edition of Pandosto,” Peter said, “possibly unrecorded.” Nigel had agreed to provide Peter with the museum’s unique but incomplete copy of the first edition and a Hinman collator. The lab, Nigel said, would be happy to do a paper and ink analysis. They should be able to get results in a few days.

  “And, Peter,” said Nigel, “it’s nice to hear from you. I spoke to Francis a couple of months ago and he seemed worried about you. Are you all right?”

  Peter was surprised at the careful consideration he gave this question. He had certainly made great strides in the past few days—striking up conversations with total strangers on purpose, delving back into the book world, allowing a new passion to pull him out of his secret lair. But to say he was all right—that was taking things a bit far. After a long pause, he answered the question the best way he knew how. “I don’t know,” he said.

  Peter’s hesitation before dialing the next number was considerably longer. Though he had always hated making phone calls to anyone other than Amanda, he at least knew that Nigel would be receptive to his inquiries. He had no such reassurance about Liz Sutcliffe, in fact, quite the contrary—he needed to ask her for something she had already refused him. After ten minutes of sitting on the bed staring at her card, he gave up planning what to say and dialed the number, picturing the way she had smiled at him over the vindaloo. He was both startled and comforted to hear Amanda’s voice.