The Bookman's Tale: A Novel of Obsession

by Charlie Lovett

  “It’s dark up here without the flashlight,” said Liz, hysteria in her voice.

  Peter stopped and pointed the flashlight behind him. “Well, come on then,” he said. There was silence for a moment, and then he heard slow footsteps on the stairs above him. In another minute he felt Liz’s hand on his shoulder, and he started forward again as she guided herself behind him.

  “Did I mention I have claustrophobia?” said Liz. “Oh wait, I did—when you lured me into this hellhole.”

  “I have it, too,” said Peter, but as he continued to descend he felt strangely calm. “This isn’t so bad.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Liz.

  The stairs curved slightly as they descended, so by the time Peter reached the bottom, he had no idea what direction they were facing. In front of him the flashlight revealed a low, narrow passage sloping down and disappearing around another curve. The tunnel was just high enough for Peter to stand up in, and barely wider than his shoulders.

  “That was fifty-two steps,” said Liz, her hand gripping Peter’s shoulder tightly.

  “You counted?”

  “How deep do you think we are?” said Liz. “No, don’t answer that.”

  Peter started forward but was jerked back by Liz grasping his shirt.

  “Are you sure we should do this?” she said. “I don’t like this, I really don’t.”

  “It looks perfectly harmless,” said Peter.

  “I can’t see,” said Liz. “You’re blocking out all the light from the bloody flashlight.”

  “Actually there isn’t much light from the flashlight, so we better get moving,” said Peter.

  “Well, I feel so much better now,” said Liz, but this time she followed Peter as he started forward, though she did not loosen her grip on his shirt. “At least you’re taller than I am,” she said, forcing a laugh. “So it will be your head that gets cracked on the ceiling.”

  Peter had actually considered this possibility, and he waved the flashlight gently up and down as he shuffled forward, illuminating the floor and the ceiling in turn. He pressed forward a bit more quickly, almost pulling Liz along behind him, hoping they might reach an exit before the flashlight completely died.

  “I wonder if this is where they hid all those soldiers in the Civil War,” said Peter.

  “I wonder if any of them died down here,” said Liz. After another minute of walking she added, “We’re going down pretty steeply.”

  “Maybe we have to get under the river,” said Peter.

  “Bugger,” said Liz, stopping again. “I can’t do this. I can’t walk under a fucking river. We have to go back.”

  “Haven’t you ever driven through the Lincoln Tunnel?” said Peter.

  “No I have not driven through the bloody Lincoln Tunnel,” said Liz. “I’m from London. We have bridges.”

  Peter felt the envelope of pills nestled in his jacket pocket and wondered if he ought to give her one but decided it was best to simply keep pressing forward. “Come on,” he said. “You can do this. I’m with you. Here, hold my hand.”

  Peter reached his free hand behind his back and Liz gripped it tightly, almost crushing his fingers, but Peter did not complain. If he could somehow communicate his calm to her through this contact, it was worth a little pain. “Ready?” he said.

  “No,” said Liz. “But let’s go anyway.”

  They walked on without speaking for several minutes, Liz’s shallow breathing and their shoes sliding across the stones the only sounds in the tunnel. Peter did not mention that the flashlight beam had faded to the point of uselessness and that only by holding his satchel in front of him could he hope to detect any sudden barrier. Every few seconds Liz would squeeze his hand sharply, and Peter found himself relishing her need for him. As long as she needed him to calm her, he thought, he wouldn’t panic himself.

  “I think we’re starting to go up again,” he said after a few more minutes.

  “Toward the light?” said Liz. “Do you see any light?”

  “Not yet,” said Peter, trying to pull her along more quickly. He had felt a sudden chill, as if the cold of the river were seeping into the tunnel, but he hoped it had been only that they had reached the deepest part of the tunnel, where centuries of cold lurked.

  “Why is it so dark?” said Liz a moment later. “It seems really fucking dark. Peter stop. Stop, it’s too dark.” She once again came to a halt, pulling hard on Peter’s hand and, with her free hand, on his shirt. Peter felt her arm slip around his chest and her head press against his back as the flashlight finally faded away. They were in absolute darkness. He heard Liz begin to cry softly.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Just close your eyes and let me lead you.” Peter took a deep breath and let his back relax into Liz. He suddenly remembered the way Amanda used to sneak up behind him and slip her arms around him, pulling him tight to her chest so he could feel her breasts pressed into his back.

  “Keep going,” Amanda said now. “You can do this. You can make it to the other end. You can make it out.”

  He stepped forward and let Liz loosen her grip on him, still holding her hand. Her breathing seemed to be steadier now.

  “Eyes closed?” said Peter.

  “Yes,” whispered Liz.

  “Now, you’re just walking down the corridor of your flat late at night. Just take one step at a time.” They walked for what seemed to Peter like an eternity. He didn’t dare speak, for fear he would trigger more panic in Liz. The slope of the floor gradually steepened, but in spite of the climb he increased his pace as much as he dared. He tried not to think about the possibility that there might be no exit, that they would have to turn around in these cramped confines and retrace their steps.

  “How far do you think we’ve come?” said Liz, her voice steadier than it had been since they entered the tunnel.

  “We must be nearly there,” said Peter, who had no way of knowing this but could think of nothing else to say. Had they come a mile? Two? Certainly if they had been walking this long aboveground they could have reached Chipping Norton by now. Peter had tried not to think about either time or distance, but he had to guess it had been over an hour since they had descended the stairs from the crypt.

  “Peter,” said Liz.

  “What is it?” said Peter, still moving forward.

  “It sounds different.”

  “Are your eyes still closed?” said Peter.

  “Yes, and it sounds different. More hollow or something.”

  “Maybe we’re coming to the end,” said Peter.

  “What if we can’t get out?” said Liz, shaking Peter’s hand in hers. “What if we come to the end and we can’t get out?”

  “We’ll be able to get out.”

  “You don’t know that,” said Liz, her voice rising. “How can you know that? What if we have to go back? I don’t think I can go back. Oh, Jesus fuck, we’re going to die in here, aren’t we? We’re going to die in this fucking place.” She stopped again, forcing Peter to stop as well, and now he could hear her sobbing in great heaves.

  “We’re not going to die,” said Peter.

  “How do you know?” wailed Liz, her voice echoing down the tunnel. “How can you possibly know?”

  “I’ll tell you how I know,” said Peter, gently squeezing Liz’s hand. “Just take a deep breath and listen and I’ll tell you.” He listened as her breathing slowed and the choking sounds of her sobs faded.

  “Tell me,” she whispered.

  “I’ve never told anyone this before, but I can trust you, right?”

  “Yes,” said Liz softly.

  “Okay,” said Peter. Still holding her hand, he began moving forward again as he spoke. “Ever since Amanda, my wife, ever since she died, sometimes she talks to me. I don’t mean that I imagine her voice or that I remember things that she said, but she just shows up and says things. Sometimes it’s when I really need her, and sometimes it’s when I least expect it. Like when we had lunch at that Italian
restaurant, remember that?”

  “Yes,” said Liz.

  “Well, she was there. Just for a second, she was standing across the room and she told me to tell you that story about going to the opera.”

  Liz was silent.

  “I know it sounds like I’m crazy, but believe me I’m not. And whenever she tells me to do something, it turns out to be the right thing. Anyhow, she was here a while ago, not long after we started, and she said that we would make it. She said we would make it to the other side and we would get out.”

  “Really?” said Liz, and Peter was relieved to hear in her voice not skepticism or sarcasm but hope.

  “Really,” said Peter. And as he voiced the word, he hit something hard with his toe and nearly toppled forward.

  “What is it?”

  “I think it’s another flight of steps,” said Peter, feeling in the darkness with his foot.

  “I can’t go down again,” said Liz. “I just can’t do it.”

  “They don’t go down,” said Peter. “They go up.” And they began to climb.

  Peter hadn’t felt out of breath during their whole underground journey, but he found himself gasping for air as the steps curved round and round, on and on.

  “That’s fifty-two,” said Liz. “That’s how many we came down.” But still the steps went up and up in the darkness. Finally Peter stopped.

  “I’ve got to rest,” he said.

  “Keep going,” said Liz. “I can take the pain in my legs if we can just get out of here.” And so they climbed on. “That was two hundred,” said Liz a few minutes later. By the way, I have my eyes open now.”

  Peter lifted his foot for the next step and felt nothing. “I think we’re at the top,” he said, sliding his foot forward across smooth stone. He took two more steps forward and his satchel hit something solid. He stopped, and over the sound of his panting he could hear Liz.

  “Let there be a way out,” she said. “Let there be a way out.”

  Peter set down his bag and dropped Liz’s hand. She grasped his shirt as he felt the wall in front of him.

  “It’s wood,” he said.

  “Is it a door?” said Liz.

  “It must be,” said Peter, though he knew it might just as easily be a solid wall. He ran his hands across the barrier starting at the top and working his way down, lightly touching the wood with his fingertips to avoid splinters.

  “Come on,” said Liz. “Find the way out.”

  Just as he heard her breathing speeding up again, Peter felt something cold and hard.

  “Hang on,” he said. “This feels like a handle.” Peter pressed down on what felt like an iron latch and pushed his shoulder against the wood. In the next instant he was stumbling forward into warmth and blinding light as Liz pushed him through the door. For a moment Peter could see nothing and could hear only Liz crying and laughing simultaneously. Before his eyes had adjusted sufficiently for him to recognize his surroundings, he heard the voice of John Alderson.

  “Ah, Mr. Byerly. How good of you to drop in. And I see you’ve brought a friend.”

  Peter did not realize he had been tensing his muscles for the past hour, but he felt a wave of relaxation wash over him as Alderson invited him to have a seat and then helped Liz to a spot by the fire. She was still shaking, but she looked up at Peter and smiled and he knew she would recover. He had not voiced to her his fear that if the passageway did lead to Evenlode Manor, they would be met by Julia Alderson brandishing her lover’s shotgun. To be met, instead, by her brother’s kindness was relief indeed.

  “You look as if you’ve had a harrowing evening,” said John. Peter realized he was covered in mud and scratches. The pain from his twisted ankle, forgotten in the intensity of the underground trek, now surged back.

  “It’s a tunnel,” said Peter. “A tunnel all the way to the Gardner family chapel.”

  “Extraordinary,” said John.

  “My friend here is a bit claustrophobic,” said Peter. “And we were in there quite some time.”

  “I’d heard of such a passage,” said John. “My grandfather used to tell tales about secret commerce between the Aldersons and the Gardners—cooperation going on underground while the feud raged above. I never believed it until Thomas Gardner showed up drunk in my library one night.”

  “Then you knew?” said Peter.

  “Oh yes,” said John, “though I never had the courage to take the trip myself. Like your friend, I’m not fond of tight spots.” He closed the door to the passage, which disappeared seamlessly into the paneling, and handed Peter his satchel. “Mr. Gardner used the tunnel on several occasions, though he never found what I’d hoped he would in his family crypt.”

  Before Peter could catch her eye to silence her, Liz, who seemed much recovered, said, “Do you mean Phillip Gardner’s document collection? We found it.”

  “You did, did you?” said John, smiling. “I had rather hoped you might when I locked you in.”

  “You . . . ,” said Liz, unable to articulate the rest of her thought and struggling to apologize to Peter with her eyes.

  “I suppose you’d like to see them,” said Peter, as calmly as if they had been discussing a simple business deal. He opened his satchel and reached in, gathering together the bulk of the documents and pulling them out.

  “Feel free to set them on the table,” said John, reaching into his jacket pocket. “And don’t think about going anywhere.” He withdrew a pistol and waved Peter toward the library table on which he had first examined the Pandosto. It hardly seemed possible that had been less than a week ago.

  “You locked us in?” said Liz, curiosity and anger mixed in her voice. “You dirty bastard.”

  “I’ve been kept quite busy the past couple of days trying to stay ahead of the two of you,” said Alderson. “Not everything has gone precisely to plan, but things worked out in the end—and you’ve brought me a nice little bonus.” He nodded toward the stack of documents.

  “But those don’t belong to you,” said Liz. “They don’t even belong to Thomas Gardner. Phillip Gardner left them to the descendants of his illegitimate son. We found his will.”

  “My dear, no one but you will ever see that will, and it’s common knowledge among several of the leading document dealers that I have an old family collection I’m ready to sell. I assure you there will be no question of ownership.”

  “But if you locked us in . . .” said Peter. “I mean, we thought that Thomas Gardner and Julia had . . .” Peter let his thought hang in the air.

  “My sister Julia? Yes, she was to have helped out but then that fool Gardner went and got himself an alibi at the worst possible time. Not that I actually trusted Gardner to do the dirty work for me, but he would have made a lovely scapegoat. That’s why I asked Julia to seduce him in the first place.”

  “So you knew about Thomas and Julia?” said Peter.

  “Of course I knew,” said Alderson. “It was my idea. Just as it was my idea to tempt you with the Pandosto. But you proved far too curious and steps had to be taken.”

  “So you’re the one who . . . .” said Peter.

  “I’m the one who killed Graham Sykes, ransacked this young lady’s office and apartment looking for his blasted book—yes, I did all of that. And if Thomas Gardner hadn’t shot himself, he would have taken the blame once Julia testified against him. Lucky for me you managed to leave a raft of evidence at the site of the murder. I should think it will be an open-and-shut case.”

  “I’ll testify for him,” said Liz, standing and taking a step toward Alderson.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Alderson, turning the gun on her and motioning her back to her chair. “There’s not going to be a trial.” Liz sat back down, her face suddenly ashen.

  “Now,” said Alderson, turning to Peter. “I believe you have something else that belongs to me.”

  “The Pandosto,” said Peter.

  “My sister gave you a week to arrange for its sale. Your time is ab
out up.”

  “It’s a forgery,” he said, “but then I guess you knew that or you would have taken it to Sotheby’s or Christie’s.”

  “Yes,” said John, “but it was so much easier to take it to you. I’d hoped that you had neither the resources nor the wit to prove it a fake. And of course your ego made you want to believe you’d found a great treasure. Am I wrong?”

  “Not entirely,” said Peter.

  “It’s a shame really. If you’d been a little less clever, some rich American would be drooling over the Pandosto, you and I would both be quite wealthy, and I wouldn’t be forced to become a three-time murderer and start all over with a new bookseller.”

  “A three-time murderer?” said Liz.

  “Well, I can’t very well let you two live, knowing what you know. When I tell the police that Graham Sykes’s murderer and his accomplice came after me in my own home, naturally they’ll have no qualms about my having defended myself. Shall we have a drink?” Alderson asked, waving his gun toward a cut-glass decanter. “I’m not entirely uncivilized.”

  Kingham, 1879

  As the servants packing Mrs. Gardner’s things banged and clattered unceasingly overhead, Phillip Gardner read again the letter that had brought an end to his marriage and to his hopes of saving Evenlode House from ruin. These losses paled, however, next to the pain that welled in his chest every time he read the words that swam before him. He realized only now that he could have lived with the shame of condemning the family estate to ruin, but to have first wronged and then lost the one woman he ever truly loved was more than he could bear.

  His triumph over Reginald Alderson now seemed childish, and the pain of losing Isabel was twinned with the shame he felt for his complicity in the destruction of a great treasure. Only now did it occur to him that he might have made two forgeries, returning one of them to Mayhew as the original while keeping the true Pandosto for himself. It was not out of greed that he wished he had thought of this plan earlier but out of a sudden and intense desire to preserve a great piece of literary history. But Phillip had been blinded by hatred and arrogance.