The Bookman's Tale: A Novel of Obsession

The Bookman's Tale: A Novel of Obsession Page 26

by Charlie Lovett

  “You bet your ass they’d be wrong,” said Charlie. “You know that and I know that, but right and wrong don’t matter in this game, son. All that matters is what people think, and the minute they find out who you’re married to it’s game, set, and match. Welcome to the Ridgefields.” Charlie drained his glass and stood up. “See you at the altar, son,” he said, and staggered across the patio into the house, leaving Peter alone in the darkness.

  —

  Peter and Amanda lay breathless and tangled in the sheets on their third night in London and their fifth night as man and wife. Amanda’s parents had insisted on paying for the honeymoon, and the newlyweds had enjoyed first-class tickets to London and a suite at The Ritz. Through it all, Peter had tried, without success, to forget his conversation with Charlie Ridgefield.

  “Beds are fabulous,” said Amanda. “Beds are even better than the carpet in the Devereaux Room.”

  “We’ve made love in a bed before,” said Peter.

  “Yes, but these are, like, eight-hundred-thread-count sheets. I love you and I love this bed.”

  “Can I ask you something?” said Peter.

  “You can ask me anything, Mr. Byerly,” said Amanda. “After all, I’m Mrs. Byerly. I like the sound of that. Mrs. Amanda Byerly wrapped in the arms of Mr. Peter Byerly and a set of eight-hundred-thread-count sheets.”

  “Would you love me even without the eight-hundred-thread-count sheets?” said Peter.

  “Of course. What are you talking about?”

  “It’s just something your dad said to me the other night.”

  “After the rehearsal dinner? God, I’m sorry. He was drunk, wasn’t he? He doesn’t get drunk very often, but when he does he tends to get morose.”

  “He wasn’t morose,” said Peter, “just honest.”

  “What did he say?” Amanda asked, tracing lazy circles on Peter’s chest with her manicured fingernail.

  “He said . . . well, I guess he said that people are going to think I married you for your money.”

  “But you know that’s not true.”

  “Sure I do,” said Peter. “But he said that people won’t . . . they won’t take me seriously—as a bookseller, I mean. They’ll think I’m just doing it as a hobby, that I’m living off your money.”

  “Well, that’s just silly,” said Amanda.

  “Is it?” said Peter. “If we live in a big house and drive nice cars and fly first class to England whenever we want, people are going to know it’s not bookselling that pays for all that.”

  “What are you saying, that Daddy is a kept man?”

  “He feels that way sometimes, yes.”

  “When he’s drunk,” said Amanda, rolling away from Peter.

  “Look,” said Peter, “it’s great that we don’t have to worry about money, that we can afford to live where we want and do what we want, but it’s just . . .”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that I’d like to know that we can make it on our own. That we would make it even if you weren’t a Ridgefield.”

  Amanda lay silent for a long moment. “Peter,” she said at last, “would you still love me if I wasn’t pretty?”

  “You know I would,” said Peter.

  “And would you still love me if I had some horrible disease or if I were crippled?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course you would. Because the way I look and the way my body works, that’s all part of who I am. Well, being a Ridgefield is part of who I am, too. For a long time I tried to deny that, but you’re the one who helped me understand it was okay. And now you’re asking me to hide who I am.”

  “I’m not asking you to hide who you are,” said Peter. “I love your family, you know that. And I want them to be a part of our lives. I just think it would be nice to try . . . well, living on the money we actually earn. Would it be so terrible to start out in an apartment like most married couples?”

  “No,” said Amanda softly. “That wouldn’t be terrible at all.” She slipped her hand into his. “Can I decorate the apartment?”

  “You don’t mind?” asked Peter. “I mean, if we just set the family money aside for now?”

  “Peter, I can give up eight-hundred-thread-count sheets and first-class flights and fancy cars and houses and everything else that goes with Ridgefield money. I mean, those things are nice, but who cares about nice. It’s not the money that matters to me, it’s my family and you—especially you. I love you. You, Peter Byerly, are what I need.”

  “But these are nice sheets,” said Peter.

  “Yeah, I think if I’m going to be living in a tiny apartment and shopping at Kmart, I definitely need to make love a few more times in these sheets.” She pulled him into her arms and Peter felt a surge of love so intense he thought he might explode.

  Kingham, Tuesday, February 21, 1995

  It was dark by the time Peter and Liz rolled into Kingham. Peter was afraid someone might be watching his cottage, so he turned off West Street after passing the green and drove on through the village, crunching to a halt in the gravel car park of the Mill House Hotel. Peter had never actually been inside the hotel, though he had passed it often enough on his way to the train station.

  At a small reception desk in the stone-floored foyer, he asked for two rooms and gave his name as Robert Cotton. Liz had suggested that, if the cottage was being watched, the local hotel might not be entirely safe either. When Peter reached for a credit card, she pulled him away from the desk and whispered, “Don’t you ever watch crime dramas? They can trace those, you know. How much cash have you got?”

  As it turned out, Peter had only enough cash for one room, and was just thinking that the King’s Head, a mile away in Bledington, might be less expensive when Liz stepped forward and said, in a remarkably convincing American accent, “One twin-bedded room, please. My brother and I are used to sharing.”

  Peter fell onto his bed exhausted as soon as they had closed the door, but Liz paced in front of the window, which she had opened to let in the cool night air. “All the answers are right out there,” she said, peering into the darkness. “It’s going to drive me crazy to just sit here all night.”

  “You could sleep,” Peter suggested.

  “Are you kidding?” said Liz. “I’ve never been so awake.” She leaned out the window and took a deep breath. “By the way,” she said, “thanks for coming to my rescue. That was very gallant.” She sat on the edge of Peter’s bed and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  Peter had not thought of himself as gallant, but he found the kiss surprisingly pleasant. Just as he felt himself beginning to blush, Liz stood up and said, “I think I’ll go down to the bar and get us some sandwiches. Nobody in Kingham knows me, so it should be safe.”

  When Liz had left, Peter kicked off his shoes and pulled the duvet over himself. He was just drifting off to sleep when he saw Amanda lying on the other bed, gazing at him across the small gap. “Sleeping with another woman, I see,” she said.

  “It’s not like that,” said Peter.

  “I don’t mind,” she said.

  “I know. But it’s not like that,” Peter repeated, barely able to focus on Amanda’s eyes.

  “I want you to be happy, Peter,” she said.

  “I am happy,” said Peter.

  “Peter,” said Amanda in a scolding tone.

  “Okay, maybe not happy,” said Peter, “but these last few days, I’ve felt more alive than I have since . . .”

  “Alive is good,” said Amanda. “Alive is a start.” Peter lay for several minutes, struggling to keep his eyes open so he could take in the sight of Amanda. “Liz is nice,” she said at last.

  “She’s just a friend,” murmured Peter.

  He had no idea how much time had passed when Liz sh
ook him awake. Where Amanda had been he saw only a tray of sandwiches. “I’ve got news,” Liz said, as Peter hoisted himself into a sitting position. She thrust a cheese and pickle sandwich at him and he began to nibble the bread.

  “I think I met your sisters in the bar,” Liz began. “The two old ladies you told me about. I didn’t ask their names because I didn’t want to look like I was prying, but it must have been them. Apparently Tuesday is their night out. Well, they were just filled with gossip. It seems you missed quite the little country drama while you were gone. Evidently Thomas Gardner was hunting pheasants out behind what’s left of Evenlode House, and pheasants aren’t even in season, though I wouldn’t have known that, but I guess everyone else in the village did, because they kept dwelling on that particular aspect of the story—that Thomas Gardner was hunting bloody pheasants out of season—not on what actually happened to Thomas Gardner while he was hunting pheasants out of season.” Liz paused to take a breath.

  “Is there a point here?” asked Peter hopefully.

  “Sorry, sorry,” said Liz. “I chatter when I’m excited. Anyway, this was two days ago and apparently Thomas dropped his gun or something and it went off, I’m not sure exactly how, there was some argument over the details, but basically he shot himself in the leg.”

  “Thomas Gardner shot himself in the leg?” Peter suppressed a laugh as he recalled running full speed down the drive from Evenlode House to avoid the business end of Gardner’s shotgun.

  “Two days ago Thomas Gardner shot himself in the leg. He limped out to the main road and collapsed on the verge where the vicar found him. He’s been lying in a bed in hospital up at Chipping Norton ever since.”

  Peter exhaled loudly. “So he couldn’t have killed Graham Sykes.”

  “Thomas Gardner and Julia Alderson both have alibis,” said Liz, taking a bite of her sandwich and staring at Peter with a grin. “You don’t see what else this means, do you?” she said.

  “What?”

  “Thomas Gardner is in hospital in Chipping Norton. Rumor is he may come home tomorrow, but for tonight Evenlode House is unguarded.”

  “The chapel,” said Peter, feeling a surge of energy course through his veins.

  “Exactly,” said Liz. “If we want to see the inside of that chapel, tonight’s the night.”

  —

  By climbing his back neighbor’s wall, Peter and Liz were able to enter Peter’s cottage through the conservatory, well hidden from the street in case anyone was watching. They did not turn on any lights, but a pale moon gave enough light for Peter to find what he needed—a flashlight, an Ordnance Survey map, a plastic zip bag full of antianxiety medicine, and his lifting knife. This last he found in the box of binding supplies that Liz fell over in the sitting room.

  “You could have bloody well picked up before you left,” she said.

  “I didn’t know I’d be sneaking back in the middle of the night,” said Peter, “with company.”

  When he slipped the knife out of the box and into his satchel, Liz asked him what it was for. “I don’t know,” said Peter, “but it’s the sharpest thing I own and it might come in handy.” Just as they were about to leave, Peter noticed the flashing light on the answering machine. He turned the volume down and pressed Play.

  “Peter, it’s Nigel at the British Museum. I’ve got those test results back for you. The paper is definitely late sixteenth century. The ink is more of a bother. Without sending it out for more extensive testing than we can do here, all I can say for sure is that it’s not modern. Could easily be sixteenth century as well, but I can’t say for certain. If you’d like, I can send it for carbon dating, but that could be a bit expensive. Just let me know. Cheerio.”

  “So maybe the Pandosto is real,” said Liz.

  “Maybe so, maybe not,” said Peter.

  The second message was from Francis Leland. “I haven’t found anything on Matthew Harbottle or Benjamin Mayhew yet,” he said, “but you’re going to laugh when I tell you about William H. Smith. Give me a call and I’ll give you the details, but the short version is he started a chain of newsagents and he was one of the first anti-Stratfordians.”

  “Don’t I know it,” said Peter, clicking off the machine.

  Back at the Mill House, Peter pored over the map and found, as he suspected, a footpath running toward Cornwall that skirted the bottom of the hill below Evenlode House. “That will be safer than going by road,” said Peter.

  “What about getting into the chapel?” asked Liz. “Don’t you think it will be locked?”

  “Too bad I didn’t have a crowbar at home,” said Peter. “It’s not a standard tool of the antiquarian book trade.”

  “I’ve got a wheel wrench in the car,” said Liz. And with this weapon added to their arsenal, they made their way back through the village and onto the footpath that led out of Kingham and across the dark fields.

  Peter had never been on this footpath. Even in the light of day it would not have been easy to follow, with the frequent interruption of fences and hedgerows where gates or passages had to be found. In the dark it was nearly impossible, but they dared not use the flashlight. A light bouncing across the valley toward Evenlode House would be visible to anyone watching from the ridge—or from the windows of Evenlode Manor.

  After nearly an hour of creeping along, they reached the gurgling River Evenlode. High on a hill to the left they could just glimpse the gloomy silhouette of Evenlode House in the pale moonlight.

  “According to Louisa,” whispered Peter, “the chapel is at the bottom of this hill. So it should be nearby.” They made their way slowly along the riverbank until they reached a stone wall.

  “The edge of Gardner’s property?” asked Liz.

  “Must be,” said Peter. Liz nimbly climbed the wall and jumped to the other side. Peter was less agile and managed to rip the leg of his pants as he leapt to the ground. A short distance in front of them, a small clump of trees and bushes provided the only possible hiding place in the area for a chapel. “Louisa said the chapel was covered with vines,” said Peter as he pulled Liz by the hand toward the trees. “It’s got to be in here.”

  They ducked under low branches and into complete darkness. The limbs of the trees blocked out what little light the moon was still giving off through the mist that was wafting up from the river.

  “Even if we find it, how will we see to get in?” Liz asked.

  “We’ll have to risk the flashlight,” Peter answered.

  He was just fumbling in his satchel for the light when Liz cried out, “Bugger! That was not a tree. What my knee just hit was not a bloody tree.”

  “What was it?” asked Peter.

  “It feels like the corner of a stone wall,” said Liz. “And yes, I’m okay, thanks for asking.”

  Peter turned on the flashlight and held the beam low to the ground. Emerging from the ivy next to Liz’s left knee was a corner of honey yellow Cotswold limestone—not the ragged, unfinished stone of a dry-stacked field wall, but smooth, mason-finished stone. They made their way around the building, tapping the lug wrench against the ivy-covered wall but hearing only the chink, chink of metal on stone.

  “There has to be a door somewhere,” said Liz.

  “Louisa said the chapel was crumbling, but this wall seems pretty solid to me.” Peter reached to tap the wrench on the wall again and he fell forward through the ivy, hitting his hip on hard stone.

  “That hurt,” he said.<
br />
  “Tell me about it,” said Liz. “Are you inside? It’s pretty dark where I am.”

  Peter looked around and realized he was in a small porch. The archway to the outside was almost completely covered with ivy, but on the opposite side of the porch was a heavy wooden door. “I’ve found the way in,” said Peter, reaching back out through the ivy and grasping for Liz. “Give me your hand.”

  “That’s not my hand,” said Liz with a giggle, and slipped her hand into his so he could pull her through the vines.

  “You could at least buy me dinner first,” said Liz.

  “Sorry,” said Peter, blushing in the dark.

  “It’s okay, Peter. I was just teasing you. It’s something friends do. Besides, you have no idea where you grabbed me, do you?”

  “Well, I have an idea,” said Peter.

  “Perv,” said Liz, swatting him on the rump. “Now please tell me the door is unlocked.”

  Peter turned the iron ring that hung from the door and raised the latch. “So it would seem,” he said. He pushed the door open, and they stepped into the Gardner family private chapel.

  The chapel was neither as small nor as dilapidated as Peter had expected, though whether it had been restored since the previous century, or Louisa’s memory was faulty, he couldn’t tell. The nave was ten strides long and four wide, with no transepts and two steps leading up to the tiny chancel. The pitched ceiling was perhaps twenty feet high and supported by wooden beams. High on the walls were narrow, barred windows. There were no furnishings, but in addition to the many memorials on the walls, there were three freestanding tombs on which stone effigies of Gardners past lay in endless sleep.

  Peter and Liz walked slowly toward the one other structure in the room, the stone altar in the chancel. It was unmarked, except for a cross carved into the front. Peter set his bag on the smooth stone and pointed his flashlight down what would have been the aisle if there had been pews in the chapel.

 

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