With those swift, sure movements of his, light on his feet for all his white hairs as any youthful athlete, he passed on a few yards and paused before other shelves, beckoning Bobby and Olive as he did so to follow him.
“There,” he said, pointing to one of the higher shelves. “You see those Miltons? Now they have a money value, more accidental than real in a sense. I expect you know there were eight issues of the first edition of the Paradise Lost.”
Bobby tried to look as if this fact had been familiar to him since childhood. Olive however said:
“I thought a first edition meant it all came out at once?”
“All printed at once,” Mr. Broast corrected her. “There was no demand at first. Perhaps you do know,” he added, with a sidelong, slightly malicious look at Bobby, “the story that Milton sold the poem for £5. He was probably still suspect as an adherent of the Puritan party and no one wanted to have too much to do with him or his writings. So when Paradise Lost was printed, only a few copies were issued for sale. When they had all been bought then a few more were bound up and put on the market. There were eight of these issues altogether, each with a different title page, during the two years from 1667 to 1669 till the whole printing was disposed of. Well, copies of each issue are on that shelf. That has what I call genuine value—genuine bibliographical value. But they have, too, a very much increased money value because each single copy has association value from having belonged to some celebrated man. The signature of Lord Shaftesbury is in one volume, the bookplate of Samuel Pepys is in another, though I had to take off one or two of no interest that had been put over it. There’s the bookplate of his friend, William Hewer, in another, and the last of the series has Dryden’s signature. If it is ever necessary to sell—I hope it won’t, but maintenance costs are heavy and of course we’re private and independent so we don’t get any help. But if sale is ever necessary, and I would rather part with association books than others if I have to, I expect the set would fetch a big price. I’ve been offered £5,000, but I was able to say ‘No, thank you’ at the time. If I have to sell, it will be at auction, and we shall see what we shall see. Probably some rich fool,” he added, looking vicious, “will buy them just for showing off and boasting and publicity.”
“Isn’t it rather wonderful to have found them all belonging to famous people?” Olive asked.
“It is indeed,” said Mr. Broast and chuckled as if he found his luck amusing. “Now I’ll show you something of real interest, the Mandeville leaves—money value and real interest in them,” he said and slipped away.
“They’re his chief treasure,” Olive whispered to Bobby. “They’re only shown to special people—you must have made a good impression, darling.”
“I didn’t think I had,” confessed Bobby. “You never know where to have him. One minute he talks of nothing but how much the things are worth and the next he snaps your head off if you mention money.”
“I think he has two standards,” Olive said, “two standards and two moods. Sometimes he’s the perfect bookman and sometimes the complete book dealer. But the book lover is fundamental. He’s awfully proud of having the complete set of the eight Milton issues, but if he had to he is quite willing to cash in on their accidental value because they all once belonged to famous people.”
“I used to be awfully fond of Dryden,” Bobby said. “I got him for a prize once—the other chaps in my Form had influenza so I came in on top. I remember I spouted that thing about none but the brave deserve the fair one speech day.” He put up a long arm to the shelf above that Mr. Broast had pointed to, and took down the last of the eight volumes. He opened it and in a puzzled tone he said: —“The fly leaf’s blank, there’s no name at all.”
With his swift eager step, as of one who knew there was little time so every passing minute must be used, Mr. Broast came quickly back to them, and when he saw what Bobby had in his hand, he gave him a look so fierce, so deadly in what seemed an intensity of rage, that Bobby fairly jumped.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I just wanted to look at Dryden’s signature.”
“It isn’t there, is it?” Mr. Broast said softly, yet the anger in his eyes unabated. “No, I’ve just remembered. I took it to show a friend and put another copy in its place.”
CHAPTER V
MURDER REPORT
Though nothing more was said, though Mr. Broast plunged at once into a description of the Mandeville leaves, as he called them, yet there still persisted a faint atmosphere of restraint, of unease. More than once Bobby thought he perceived the librarian’s swift, piercing glance flashed at him for an instant and then away again. It was as though something of suspicion, of doubt, even of fear conveyed itself in those quick, flashing looks.
“Hang it all,” Bobby said to himself irritably, “what’s the matter with the fellow?”
Mr. Broast went on talking. It appeared that no record existed to suggest that Caxton had ever printed an edition of Sir John Mandeville’s Travels and yet it had always seemed likely that a work of such popularity must have passed through his press. Something, some quite obscure reference in which Mr. Broast had seen a significance no one else had noticed, had put him on the track. He had followed it, he explained, from one faint indication to another.
“Just like a detective following up the clues in a murder,” declared Mr. Broast with another of those quick, searching glances that Bobby had come to expect.
These clues had taken him to the south of France, to an old château there, to the farm to which most of the château furnishings had been removed at the time of the French revolution, on to another château where these furnishings had gone on the Bourbon restoration, finally to an old house in Le Puy where the last survivor of the family lived with many of the old family relics.
There in an attic, in an old chest, Mr. Broast told how he had discovered, used as packing for the broken binding of an ancient housekeeping book containing old recipes, these precious leaves. He had paid the price, a quite exorbitant price, demanded for the housekeeping book—it was old and interesting and worth in itself a pound or two, and Mr. Broast had paid, after suitable bargaining to avert suspicion, the £20 demanded for it, thereby confirming the expressed opinion of the owner that the Paris dealer who, when consulted, laughed at such a figure, was of an ‘indélicatesse extrême.’
Bobby gathered, however, that great care during these negotiations had been taken to avoid any hint escaping concerning the precious packing that was in fact the sole object of Mr. Broast’s desire, and whereof the value ran into four figures. Again Bobby wondered whether that sort of thing was quite honest. Most collectors, he supposed, would argue that their superior knowledge deserved reward, but was not that a little like the argument of the robber baron that his superior strength deserved reward? No such scruples, however, troubled, it was plain, Mr. Broast, who chuckled cheerfully over his own cleverness in buying for so little something of such rare value without the seller ever suspecting for one moment what he was parting with. Indeed, it was true that but for the acumen and perseverance shown by Mr. Broast these precious pages would probably have remained for ever lost and unknown, their value unsuspected.
“What the whole book itself, intact, would have been worth,” he said, “I hardly dare think. Probably it got worn out in time, came to pieces, and no one was going to bother much about an old book in a foreign language that probably by that time no one could read. Finally most of it would disappear and these few leaves got used for packing. Twelve are consecutive, part of the epilogue, including, by a miracle of good luck, the colophon. Eight were odd leaves. We had to sell those,” added Mr. Broast regretfully, “though I must say we got a whacking price. But the consecutive pages, including the colophon, are here.”
Bobby and Olive duly admired the almost sacred relics, and Mr. Broast explained that the chief value of the colophon was that it gave the date; it showed that this book was the first ever printed anywhere in English.
“
It antedates both the Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers—we have a superb copy of that, by the way—and the History of Troy printed in Bruges, and supposed to have been actually the first book printed in English as it was also the first book printed in French. Now the Mandeville Travels comes first, in English and in England, and incidentally proves that Caxton was at work in England before he set up the ‘Red Pale’ press. There is the Dictes,” he added, pointing to a locked case. “I believe I’m right in saying it’s the finest copy known—mint condition. The book next to it is a copy of the 1557 edition by Tottel of poems by the Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyatt. The Bodleian has the only other known copy, but it’s not in such good condition.”
He went on to show others of his treasures, including an indulgence granted to a knight of Surrey, whose name and that of his wife had been written in in now faded ink.
“A trial sheet for the Dictes, as I’ve proved conclusively,” Mr. Broast told them, and pointed out various small technical details on which he relied for proof of the Dictes connection. “No doubt drawn off preliminary to beginning the actual printing of the Dictes. A precaution to make sure everything was right. Name and date left blank, you see, to be filled in later on. In fact, a printed official form issued in blank to be filled up as required.”
With extreme awe Bobby regarded this progenitor of all those official forms that since have filled the world with their monstrous brood.
There were other treasures to be shown, though none that quite so keenly interested Bobby, whose whole life indeed was cribbed, cabined and confined, by endless printed forms, stretching out as it were to the crack of doom, or at any rate till long after he ought by rights to have been able to sign off.
None the less, though all this was very interesting, Bobby was not sorry when the tour of inspection drew to an end. There were so many things he wanted to say to Olive, and so far he had hardly a chance to be alone with her for more than a few minutes at a time. He had managed to wangle permission to leave duty early and had got down here in good time, before lunch indeed and with a strong hope that he might get an invitation to have that meal at Wynton Lodge. But when he rang up from the village inn, the Wynton Arms, to announce his arrival, instead of the invitation to lunch he had so optimistically hoped for, he merely received the information that Miss Kayne and Miss Farrar were lunching out.
So he had been obliged to get his meal at the Wynton Arms in the little, low-beamed dining-room, in the company of Mr. Adams, the stooping, dim-eyed scholar in horn rimmed spectacles who had, it appeared, quarrelled so violently with Mr. Broast, and of the tall young American who, like Mr. Adams, had discovered from local gossip that Bobby was connected with Scotland Yard and had tried, not very successfully, to engage him on the subject of police work.
Now therefore that this duty tour of the Kayne library seemed to be drawing to a close, Bobby began to indulge in hopes that he might soon get a chance to have Olive to himself for a little. He was due back in town that night, but there was no need to make too early a start, so there was still time they could spend together if opportunity were permitted, and then they heard once more Miss Perkins’s apologetic giggle.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said as she fluttered towards them through the shadows that lay so thickly and so heavily in this home of learning and of gloom, “Briggs has just brought a memo from Miss Kayne It’s a message from Sir William Winders, Miss Kayne took down when he rang up. He says he is going to run over in the car after dinner, and he wants to be sure of finding you disengaged.”
“Oh, very well,” Mr. Broast answered, though Bobby thought he looked for the moment a little annoyed or disturbed, as if this proposed visit were not too welcome. “I’ll ring him later perhaps. There are several letters I ought to write to-night,” he added in a vexed tone.
“Yes, Mr. Broast,” said Miss Perkins, and fluttered away again into the shadows from which she had emerged.
They were indeed so heavy now that Mr. Broast had to produce his pocket torch to light Bobby and Olive to the door, and Bobby thanked him very much and said how interesting it had all been, and when they were safely outside, with the heavy fireproof door closed behind them, Olive said with some surprise in her voice:
“I’ve hardly ever known Mr. Broast be so nice and take such trouble.”
“Didn’t look so awfully amiable,” observed Bobby, “when he saw me with that Milton. Did he think I was going to pinch the thing?”
“I expect so, darling,” Olive answered cheerfully. “He did look furious, didn’t he? He’s always in a panic about fire or burglary or visitors—especially visitors. He suspects them all, like cats in a dairy. He’s got a revolver somewhere for protection against burglars, and I’m sure he would use it.”
“Has he though?” said Bobby. “Hope he’s got a licence. I thought he was never going to stop showing us things—awfully interesting of course, but I came along to see you, not a lot of old junk.”
“Bobby,” protested Olive, horrified at this description of treasures and rarities famous all the world over. She added: “Ever since he heard about you, he has been calling himself a detective. I expect that’s why he was so nice.”
Bobby felt a little doubtful whether ‘nice’ was quite the word.
“Got a temper of his own,” he remarked. “Looked as if there had been been a good old row with those other two.”
“There’s always some sort of upset when it’s Inspection,” Olive told him. “He hates it so, and then it takes him away from his work and he has to answer all sorts of questions. They would be only too glad to catch him tripping. They are always as rude to each other as they can be, especially Mr. Broast to Mr. Nat, because Mr. Nat doesn’t know anything about it, and so Mr. Broast gets chances to score off him. I expect that’s what’s happened to-day, and why Mr. Nat went off in such a paddy. All Mr. Nat wants is to sell, so he can get his share of the money.”
“Would Miss Kayne consent? Has she the power?”
“I think Mr. Nat says they could apply to the Courts for permission, I don’t know exactly. He’s tried to talk her over and Mr. Broast was simply furious. Of course, if anything happened to her, it would be different. He would have a much stronger position then.”
“Funny sort of business,” observed Bobby. “I suppose there’s never been any talk of Miss Kayne marrying, has there?”
Olive stopped and stared at him.
“Bobby,” she asked in a small, slightly-awed voice, “you do ask such funny questions.”
“Why, what’s there funny about that?” he asked, puzzled, puzzled, too by something indefinable in Olive’s tone.
“It’s just—” she said and paused. “It’s because—” she said again and paused once more. “Somehow,” she said slowly, “you always ask just the questions that count.”
“Does that count?” he asked. “If it does, I didn’t know.”
Olive was still looking at him a little strangely.
“I suppose it’s being a detective,” she said. “I suppose things must come together in your mind and then you ask just the one question that matters.”
“My dear girl,” Bobby protested, “I don’t in the least know what you are talking about.”
“Yes, that’s just it,” Olive explained. “You don’t know, you couldn’t know, and all the same… Bobby, Miss Kayne told me something. It’s a sort of secret, she doesn’t want anyone else to know.”
“Olive,” said Bobby gravely, “you must remember I am a man under authority. Anything told me—”
But Olive laughed and interrupted, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze.
“You old silly,” she said, “it’s nothing to do with that sort of secret. Only it’s so funny you should ask that just when I was thinking about it. Because Miss Kayne began to talk about our being engaged and she wanted to know if I was awfully happy, and of course I said I was—Bobby, be quiet, of course I had to say that, even if I was breaking my heart in secret, when I am mo
st likely—Bobby, when you’ve quite finished, and if you don’t, I shan’t say another word. She said she had been engaged, too, once, and, well, it’s rather sad and I did feel so sorry for her. She said the man she was engaged to was awfully clever and wrote wonderful letters and lovely poetry in them, But her father didn’t approve, and then he died—I mean the man she was in love with. And she fretted so much her father always wanted to burn the letters, and so to keep them safe she buried them.”
“Buried them?”
“Yes, that’s the secret, in a tin box, in a waterproof wrapping. Now she thinks she would like to dig the up and have them published in a book. She thinks they were such lovely letters and some of the poetry so beautiful, they oughtn’t to be lost. So she told me whereabouts she buried them, that’s the special secret I’m not to tell anyone, even you, until she makes up her mind. Only she said if anything happened to her or anything special happened, then I was to tell you and ask you to help me get them and you and I are to decide.”
“Morbid sort of idea,” Bobby said. “Reminds one of Rossetti burying his poems with his wife and then digging them up again.”
“Oh, it’s not like that,” Olive exclaimed. “This isn’t a grave.”
“Good thing, too,” said Bobby, “only what does she mean—we’re to decide. Decide what?”
“Publication, that’s what she said. About publication,” Olive answered.
“Well, it’s about the rummiest idea I ever heard of,” Bobby grumbled. “I don’t see why she picks on you for the job either. Why can’t she do it now herself, or put it in her will or something?”
Olive had no explanation to offer, and Bobby, a little tired of the Kayne library and everything connected with it, was glad to direct the conversation to more personal matters.
They managed to secure an hour or two to themselves, and then came dinner. It proved but a dull meal. Miss Kayne hardly spoke, and Mr. Broast, talkative as he had been in the library, was not equally taciturn, though Bobby caught now and again sharp glances thrown at him with that curious intensity of expression of or expectation he had seemed to detect before.
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