The Bookman's Tale

The Bookman's Tale Page 26

by Charlie Lovett

  “Don’t worry,” Benjamin had said. “It won’t.”

  Now Benjamin sat poring over just such a document. How it had survived undetected for over 250 years he could not imagine, but he did not doubt that when this copy of Pandosto was made public, Smith’s humiliation would soon follow.

  If Benjamin tried to buy the Pandosto, no doubt the young man who would soon be returning to the library would realize what it was, and in no time every book dealer and collector in the world would be bearing down on Sotheby’s for a very public auction. It was unlikely that he, Benjamin, would make a brass farthing off the book. If, on the other hand, he suppressed the book to prevent Smith’s embarrassment, he might someday be rewarded by the First Lord of the Admiralty. He closed the book and slipped it into his newspaper.

  “I couldn’t offer you what these folios are worth,” he told the new lord of the manor a few minutes later, reflecting that, in a way, this was true.

  “Sorry to waste your time then,” said the young man. “You can show yourself out.”

  Ridgefield, 1988

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Charlie Ridgefield, taking a sip of bourbon. “I love my wife. You understand that because you love her, too, don’t you?”

  “She’s the only mother I have now,” said Peter, staring into his empty glass, “and she understands me better than my own mother ever did.”

  The two men sat in a dim corner of the patio behind the house. The other rehearsal dinner guests had gradually drifted off to bed, some to spare rooms in the house and the guesthouse, others to the Marriott in downtown Ridgefield. The wedding would cap three days of events that had begun with Amanda’s graduation. Peter hadn’t noticed the moment when he and Amanda’s father were left alone, but it had been at least a half hour since anyone else had been on the patio. Whether Charlie Ridgefield had planned this pre-wedding confessional with his future son-in-law, or whether the conversation in which Peter now found himself was merely a confluence of opportunity, emotion, and Jim Beam he could not guess, but Charlie was speaking more freely to Peter than he ever had.

  “It’s just that being married to a Ridgefield . . . well, it’s a challenge,” said Charlie. “This is a small town, Peter, and the world of people as wealthy as the Ridgefields—it’s a small world. I don’t care how much you’re in love, there are a lot of people who will assume you’re marrying a Ridgefield for one reason and one reason only.”

  “Money,” said Peter.

  “Exactly.”

  “I know why I’m marrying Amanda,” said Peter. “I don’t really care what other people think.”

  “Don’t you?” said Charlie. “I was a business major in college and I really like business. When I got married and settled, I decided to go into banking and I loved it. I loved the idea that I could start out at the bottom and work my way up and that every promotion I got would be something I earned with my own hard work. Well, as soon as they found out I was married to Sarah Ridgefield, all that went out the window. My boss assumed I didn’t need a promotion because I was just working as a hobby. When I did get promoted, everyone else assumed it was because of who I was married to, not because I deserved it. I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t. I finally gave up and went to work for Ridgefield Bank. There at least I could keep moving up the ladder and if people wanted to think it was because of who I was, well fuck ’em.” He took another swig of bourbon.

  “But I’m not going into business,” said Peter. “I think the world of antiquarian bookselling is a little different from banking.”

  “Is it?” said Charlie. “Tell me, Peter, why do you want to be a bookseller?”

  “It’s my passion,” said Peter. “I know it might seem silly to some people, but it’s the way I want to change the world. To bring books together with people who will love them and preserve them for the next generation.”

  “Your passion, exactly. And you deserve some respect for that, right?”

  “I suppose,” said Peter. “Like I said, I’ve never been that concerned about what people think of me.”

  “But how would you feel if these people that you’re bringing together with books, the people who share your passion, think of you as a little rich boy just playing a game? The very people that you want to use to change the world look at you and don’t see a passion—at best they see a hobby, something to pass the time between golf games and debutante balls.”

  “They’d be wrong,” said Peter, more loudly than he had intended, for he suddenly understood what Charlie was saying—that his dream of being a well-respected member of the rare-book community could end the moment he said “I do.”

  “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.

&nb
sp; “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 shook 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 i
n 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.

 

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