by Otto Penzler
All, that is, except the Caxton Private Lending Library.
The town hall in Moreham proved to be a source of little illumination on the matter. The library building was owned by the Caxton Trust, with an address at a P.O. Box in London. The Trust paid all bills relating to the property, including rates and electricity, and that was as much as Mr. Berger could find out about it. An enquiry at the library in Moreham was met with blank looks, and although he spent hours searching back issues of the local weekly paper, the Moreham & Glossom Advertiser, from the turn of the century onwards, he could find no reference to the Caxton Library anywhere.
It was already dark when he returned to his cottage. He cooked himself an omelette and tried to read, but he was distracted by the fact of the library’s apparent simultaneous existence and non-existence. It was there. It occupied a space in Glossom. It was a considerable building. Why, then, had its presence in a small community passed relatively unnoticed and unremarked for so long?
The next day brought no more satisfaction. Calls to booksellers and libraries, including to the grand old London Library, and the Cranston Library in Reigate, the oldest lending library in the country, confirmed only a general ignorance of the Caxton. Finally, Mr. Berger found himself talking to the British representative of the Special Libraries Association, an organization of whose existence he had previously been unaware. She promised to search their records, but admitted that she had never heard of the Caxton and would be surprised if anyone else had either, given that her own knowledge of such matters was encyclopedic, a judgment that, after an hour-long history of libraries in England, Mr. Berger was unwilling to doubt.
Mr. Berger did consider that he might be mistaken about the woman’s ultimate destination. There were other buildings in that part of town in which she could have hidden herself to escape his notice, but the Caxton was still the most likely place in which she might have sought refuge. Where else, he thought, would a woman intent upon repeatedly reenacting the final moments of Anna Karenina choose to hide but an old library?
He made his decision before he went to bed that night. He would become a detective of sorts, and stake out the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository for as long as it took for it to reveal its secrets to him.
8
As Mr. Berger soon discovered, it was no easy business being a detective on a stakeout. It was all very well for those chaps in books who could sit in a car or a restaurant and make observations about the world in a degree of comfort, especially if they were in Los Angeles or somewhere else with a climate noted for warmth and sunlight. It was quite another thing to hang around among dilapidated buildings in a small English town on a cold, damp February day, hoping that nobody one knew happened by or, worse, some passing busybody didn’t take it upon himself to phone the police and report a loiterer. Mr. Berger could just imagine Inspector Carswell smoking another cigarette and concluding that he now most definitely had some form of lunatic on his hands.
Thankfully, Mr. Berger found a sheltered space in the old cooperage and chandlery that afforded a view of the end of the laneway through a collapsed section of wall while allowing him to remain relatively concealed. He had brought a blanket, a cushion, a flask of tea, some sandwiches and chocolate, and two books, one of them a John Dickson Carr novel entitled The Crooked Hinge, just to enter into the spirit of the thing, and the other Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens, the only Dickens he had yet to read. The Crooked Hinge turned out to be rather good, if a little fantastical. Then again, Mr. Berger considered, a tale of witchcraft and automatons was hardly more outlandish than apparently witnessing the same woman attempt suicide twice, the first time successfully and the second time less so.
The day passed without incident. There was no activity in the laneway, the rustle of the odd rat apart. Mr. Berger finished the Dickson Carr and started the Dickens, which, being the author’s last completed novel, meant that it was mature Dickens, and hence rather difficult by the standards of Oliver Twist or The Pickwick Papers, and requiring considerably more patience and attention. When the light began to fade, Mr. Berger set aside the book, unwilling to risk drawing attention by using a torch, and waited another hour in the hope that darkness might bring with it some activity at the Caxton Library. No illumination showed in the old building, and Mr. Berger eventually gave up the watch for the night, and took himself to the Spotted Frog for a hot meal and a restorative glass of wine.
His vigil recommenced early the next morning, although he chose to alternate Dickens with Wodehouse. Once again, the day passed with little excitement, the appearance of a small terrier dog apart. The dog began yapping at Mr. Berger, who shooed it ineffectually until its owner gave a shrill whistle from nearby and the dog departed. Still, the day was warmer than the one before, which was a small blessing: Mr. Berger had woken that morning with stiff limbs, and had determined to wear two overcoats if the new day proved as chilly as the last.
Darkness started to descend, and with it doubts on the part of Mr. Berger about the wisdom of his course of action. He couldn’t hang around laneways indefinitely. It was unseemly. He leaned into a corner and found himself starting to doze. He dreamed of lights in the Caxton Library, and a train that rolled down the laneway, its complement of passengers consisting entirely of dark-haired ladies carrying small red bags, all of them steeling themselves for self-destruction. Finally he dreamed of footsteps on gravel and grass, but when he woke he could still hear the footsteps. Someone was coming. Tentatively he rose from his resting place and peered at the library. There was a figure on its doorstep carrying what looked like a carpet bag, and he heard the rattle of keys.
Instantly Mr. Berger was on his feet. He climbed through the gap in the wall and emerged into the laneway. An elderly man was standing before the door of the Caxton Library, his key already turning in the lock. He was shorter than average, and wore a long grey overcoat and a trilby hat with a white feather in the band. A remarkable silver handlebar mustache adorned his upper lip. He looked at Mr. Berger with some alarm and hurriedly opened the door.
“Wait!” said Mr. Berger. “I have to talk to you.”
The old gent was clearly in no mood to talk. The door was wide open now, and he was already inside when he realized that he had forgotten his carpet bag, which remained on the ground. He reached for it, but Mr. Berger got there at the same time, and an unseemly tug-of-war began with each man holding on to one of the straps.
“Hand it over!” said the old man.
“No,” said Mr. Berger. “I want to talk with you.”
“You’ll have to make an appointment. You’ll need to telephone in advance.”
“There’s no number. You’re not listed.”
“Then send a letter.”
“You don’t have a postbox.”
“Look, you must come back tomorrow and ring the bell.”
“There is no bell!” shouted Mr. Berger, his frustration getting the better of him as his voice jumped an octave. He gave a final hard yank on the bag and won the struggle, leaving only a handle in the grip of the old man.
“Oh, bother!” said the old man. He looked wistfully at his bag, which Mr. Berger was clutching to his chest. “I suppose you’d better come in, then, but you can’t stay long. I’m a very busy man.”
He stepped back, inviting Mr. Berger to enter. Now that the opportunity had at last presented itself, that worthy gentleman experienced a twinge of concern. The interior of the Caxton Library looked very dark, and who knew what might be waiting inside? He was throwing himself at the mercy of a possible madman, armed only with a hostage carpet bag. But he had come this far in his investigation, and he required an answer of some sort if he was ever to have peace of mind again. Still holding on to the carpet bag as though it were a swaddled infant, he stepped into the library.
9
Lights came on. They were dim, and the illumination they offered had a touch of jaundice to it, but they revealed lines of shelves stretching off into the dis
tance, and that peculiar musty smell distinctive to rooms in which books are aging like fine wines. To his left was an oak counter, and behind it cubbyholes filled with paperwork that appeared not to have been touched in many years, for a fine film of dust lay over it all. Beyond the counter was an open door, and through it Mr. Berger could see a small living area with a television, and the edge of a bed in an adjoining room.
The old gent removed his hat, and his coat and scarf, and hung them on a hook by the door. Beneath them he was wearing a dark suit of considerable vintage, a white shirt, and a very wide gray-and-white striped tie. He looked rather dapper, in a slightly decaying way. He waited patiently for Mr. Berger to begin, which Mr. Berger duly did.
“Look,” said Mr. Berger, “I won’t have it. I simply won’t.”
“Won’t have what?”
“Women throwing themselves under trains, then coming back and trying to do it again. It’s just not on. Am I making myself clear?”
The elderly gentleman frowned. He tugged at one end of his mustache and sighed deeply.
“May I have my bag back, please?” he asked.
Mr. Berger handed it over, and the old man stepped behind the counter and placed the bag in the living room before returning. By this time, though, Mr. Berger, in the manner of bibliophiles everywhere, had begun to examine the contents of the nearest shelf. The shelves were organized alphabetically, and by chance Mr. Berger had started on the letter ‘D’. He discovered an incomplete collection of Dickens’ work, seemingly limited to the best known of the writer’s works. Our Mutual Friend was conspicuously absent, but Oliver Twist was present, as were David Copperfield, A Tale of Two Cities, Pickwick Papers, and a handful of others. All of the editions looked very old. He took Oliver Twist from the shelf and examined its points. It was bound in brown cloth with gilt lettering and bore the publisher’s imprint at the foot of the spine. The title page attributed the work to Boz, not Charles Dickens, indicating a very early edition, a fact confirmed by the date of publisher and date of publication: Richard Bentley, London, 1838. Mr. Berger was holding the first edition, first issue, of the novel.
“Please be careful with that,” said the old gent, who was hovering nervously nearby, but Mr. Berger had already replaced Oliver Twist and was now examining A Tale of Two Cities, perhaps his favorite novel by Dickens: Chapman & Hall, 1859, original red cloth. It was another first edition.
But it was the volume marked Pickwick Papers that contained the greatest surprise. It was oversized, and contained within it not a published copy but a manuscript. Mr. Berger knew that most of Dickens’ manuscripts were held by the Victoria & Albert Museum as part of the Forster Collection, for he had seen them when they were last on display. The rest were held by the British Library, the Wisbech Museum, and the Morgan Library in New York. Fragments of Pickwick Papers formed part of the collection of the New York Public Library, but as far as Mr. Berger was aware, there was no complete manuscript of the book anywhere.
Except, it seemed, in the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository of Glossom, England.
“Is it—?” said Mr. Berger. “I mean, can it—?”
The old gentleman gently removed the volume from Mr. Berger’s hands and placed it back in its place on the shelf.
“Indeed,” said the gentleman.
He was looking at Mr. Berger a little more thoughtfully than before, as though his visitor’s obvious appreciation for the books had prompted a reassessment of his probable character.
“It’s in rather good company as well,” he said.
He gestured expansively at the rows of shelves. They stretched into the gloom, for the yellow lights had not come on in the farther reaches of the library. There were also doors leading off to the left and right. They were set into the main walls, but Mr. Berger had seen no doors when he had first examined the building. They could have been bricked up, but he had seen no evidence of that either.
“Are they all first editions?” he asked.
“First editions, or manuscript copies. First editions are fine for our purposes, though. Manuscripts are merely a bonus.”
“I should like to look, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Berger. “I won’t touch any more of them. I’d just like to see them.”
“Later, perhaps,” said the gent. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
Mr. Berger swallowed hard. He had not spoken aloud of his encounters since the unfortunate conversation with Inspector Carswell on that first night.
“Well,” he said, “I saw a woman commit suicide in front of a train, and then some time later I saw her try to do the same thing again, but I stopped her. I thought she might have come in here. In fact, I’m almost certain that she did.”
“That is unusual,” said the gent.
“That’s what I thought,” said Mr. Berger.
“And do you have any idea of this woman’s identity?”
“Not exactly,” said Mr. Berger.
“Would you care to speculate?”
“It will seem odd.”
“No doubt.”
“You may think me mad.”
“My dear fellow, we hardly know each other. I wouldn’t dare to make such a judgment until we were better acquainted.”
Which seemed fair enough to Mr. Berger. He had come this far: he might as well finish the journey.
“It did strike me that she might be Anna Karenina.” At the last minute, Mr. Berger hedged his bets. “Or a ghost, although she did appear remarkably solid for a spirit.”
“She wasn’t a ghost,” said the gent.
“No, I didn’t really believe so. There was the issue of her substantiality. I suppose you’ll tell me now that she wasn’t Anna Karenina either.”
The old gent tugged at his mustache again. His face was betrayed his thoughts as he carried on an internal debate with himself.
Finally, he said “No, in all conscience I could not deny that she is Anna Karenina.”
Mr. Berger leaned in closer, and lowered his voice significantly. “Is she a loony? You know … someone who thinks that she’s Anna Karenina?”
“No. You’re the one who thinks that she’s Anna Karenina, but she knows that she’s Anna Karenina.”
“What?” said Mr. Berger, somewhat thrown by the reply. “So you mean she is Anna Karenina? But Anna Karenina is simply a character in a book by Tolstoy. She isn’t real.”
“But you just told me that she was.”
“No, I told you that the woman I saw seemed real.”
“And that you thought she might be Anna Karenina.”
“Yes, but you see, it’s all very well saying that to oneself, or even presenting it as a possibility, but one does so in the hope that a more rational explanation might present itself.”
“But there isn’t a more rational explanation, is there?”
“There might be,” said Mr. Berger. “I just can’t think of one at present.”
Mr. Berger was starting to feel light-headed.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” said the old gent.
“Yes,” said Mr. Berger, “I rather think I would.”
10
They sat in the gentleman’s living room, drinking tea from china cups and eating some fruitcake that he kept in a tin. A fire had been lit, and a lamp burned in a corner. The walls were decorated with oils and watercolors, all of them very fine and very old. The style of a number of them was familiar to Mr. Berger. He wouldn’t have liked to swear upon it, but he was fairly sure that there was at least one Turner, a Constable, and two Romneys, a portrait and a landscape, among their number.
The old gentleman had introduced himself as Mr. Gedeon, and he had been the librarian at the Caxton for more than forty years. His job, he informed Mr. Berger, was “to maintain and, as required, increase the collection; to perform restorative work on the volumes where necessary; and, of course, to look after the characters.”
It was this last phrase that made Mr. Berger choke slightly on his te
a.
“The characters?” he said.
“The characters,” confirmed Mr. Gedeon.
“What characters?”
“The characters from the novels.”
“You mean: they’re alive?”
Mr. Berger was beginning to wonder not only about his own sanity but that of Mr. Gedeon as well. He felt as though he had wandered into some strange bibliophilic nightmare. He kept hoping that he would wake up at home with a headache to find that he had been inhaling gum from one of his own volumes.
“You saw one of them,” said Mr. Gedeon.
“Well, I saw someone,” said Mr. Berger. “I mean, I’ve seen chaps dressed up as Napoleon at parties, but I didn’t go home thinking I’d met Napoleon.”
“We don’t have Napoleon,” said Mr. Gedeon.
“No?”
“No. Only fictional characters here. It gets a little complicated with Shakespeare, I must admit. That’s caused us some problems. The rules aren’t hard and fast. If they were, this whole business would run a lot more smoothly. But then, literature isn’t a matter of rules, is it? Think how dull it would be if it was, eh?”