The Bookman's Tale

by Charlie Lovett

  “ ‘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.’ ”

  “That and the imprint of Graham Sykes’s teeth on your brother’s arm should be more than enough to get a conviction,” said Peter. There was another lull in the conversation as the implication of the tape settled onto the room.

  “Can we take my brother to the hospital?” said Julia at last, her entire demeanor deflating in defeat.

  “Call an ambulance,” said Peter to Liz. “Tell them Mr. Alderson has had an overdose of anxiety medication.”

  —

  By the time Peter and Liz had given their statements to the police, the southern sky was beginning to lighten. John Alderson had been taken to the hospital, where he would be arrested a few hours later for the murder of Graham Sykes. Julia Alderson was marched out of the house and charged with conspiracy to commit murder. The police had taken all the documents—forgeries and originals—along with Peter’s recording of John Alderson’s confession into evidence.

  “There’s more than just a murder here,” an officer had said to Peter as he loaded the documents into the back of the car. “Someone has to decide who all these things belong to.”

  “Don’t forget this,” said Peter, handing the officer Phillip Gardner’s brilliant forgery of Pandosto. He felt only a slight pang of loss as the officer tossed the Pandosto into the car and it disappeared from view.

  The police offered to drive Peter and Liz back into Kingham and drop them off at Peter’s cottage.

  “What about our room at the Mill House?” said Liz as the car pulled away from Evenlode Manor.

  “I have a very nice guest room,” said Peter. “It’s never been used.”

  But neither of them felt much like sleep when they arrived at the cottage, so Peter made a pot of tea and poured them each a cup.

  “You know you saved me back there,” said Liz, after taking a long drink of tea.

  “I did?”

  “In that bloody tunnel. I never could have made it through that without you.”

  “You never would have been trapped down there without me,” said Peter.

  “Nevertheless,” said Liz, “you saved me. So thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Peter. “And thank you for breaking Alderson’s arm.”

  “It was nothing,” said Liz, laughing. “I do it all the time. So what was that stuff you slipped him?”

  “It’s a sedative,” said Peter. “I have a panic disorder.”

  “You could have fooled me,” said Liz. “Seems like I was the one who was panicking.”

  “Wait until tomorrow when the adrenaline wears off,” said Peter. “Anyway, I had an envelope of pills in my jacket pocket and I guess they got crushed when I was wriggling through that hole in the chapel floor. I thought about giving you one in the tunnel—that’s when I realized they were nothing but dust. So when Alderson offered me a drink, I just imagined myself in an Agatha Christie plot and slipped the powder into the glass.”

  “And then challenged him to drink it.”

  “I really didn’t think he was stupid enough to fall for it,” said Peter.

  “I guess he doesn’t read enough mysteries,” said Liz, laughing again.

  “I wonder what set him off?” said Peter.

  “Who, Alderson?”

  “No, Phillip Gardner. Why did he decide to commit suicide? Do you think he felt guilty about the Pandosto?”

  “Probably it was Miss Prickett’s letter,” said Liz.

  “What letter?”

  “You never let me read it to you,” said Liz, pulling an envelope out of the pocket of her overcoat. “Remember I told you there was something else in the box you found in Gardner’s tomb? It was this. I read it while you were talking to the police.”

  “What’s it say?” asked Peter.

  Liz unfolded the thick paper. “Well, on one side Gardner has written another confession.” She read.

  On receiving this letter I reposed to my workshop where I painted the only true work of art that has ever flowed from me, a portrait of my beloved Isabel. Like the rest of my creations, I shall hide her in the library of Reginald Alderson. There, until some lucky soul looks into her eyes once more, she shall stay, safely escaped from Evenlode House, and as immortal as I can make her.

  “So my portrait . . .”

  “Is of Isabel,” said Liz. “Phillip Gardner’s mistress.”

  “What does the letter say?” asked Peter.

  Liz turned the paper over and read:

  My Dear Mr. Gardner,

  I write to share with you news of great sadness to us both. A month ago Miss Isabel fell ill and last night she slipped away from this life, which has brought her such joy and such grief. I spoke with her in confidence a few hours before she left us, and her thoughts were only of you. You must know that she does not blame you in any way for what happened, and she asked me to write and tell you that at the last she felt only love for you. Should you ever wish to contact your son, you may write to him through me, for the Devereaux family has graciously agreed to keep me on as Phillip’s governess. I know that you loved Isabel and she loved you; I loved her, too, and I hope you will know that I share in your loss.

  Yours,

  Evangeline Prickett

  “What was the name of the family?” said Peter.

  “Devereaux. Why, have you heard of them?”

  “Oh my God,” said Peter. “You remember Gardner’s will? How he said he left his books and documents to his son’s youngest living heir?”

  “I remember,” said Liz.

  “I think that might be me.”

  As soon as she had said the name, Peter remembered the family tree he had found among Amanda Devereaux’s papers. Amanda’s father was Phillip Devereaux; his mother was Isabel and his father had been listed simply as “unknown.”

  “You could be the legitimate owner of all those documents?” said Liz.

  “Not just of those, but of the Pandosto, too.”

  “But the Pandosto’s a fake,” said Liz. “We proved that ourselves.”

  “Not the one the police have,” said Peter, “the real one.”

  “Yeah, what was all that back there about knowing where the real Pandosto was? You were just bluffing, right?”

  “I don’t care how crooked Benjamin Mayhew was,” said Peter. “No bookseller would destroy anything as spectacular as the Pandosto. And I wouldn’t say I know where it is, but I have a pretty good idea.”

  Peter reached into his bag and withdrew his lifting knife. On the table in the conservatory lay the elaborate folding box in which the Pandosto had been stored. It seemed months ago that Peter had identified this box, built up to make the Pandosto look like a much thicker book, as a Victorian construction. He opened the innermost folding flap and inserted the lifting knife into the joint where this flap met the body of the box. With one swift motion he sliced cleanly through the cloth. He turned the box and repeated this motion on two other sides, leaving a flap of loose cloth attached on one side. Peter lay down his knife and peeled back the flap. There, snuggly nestled where it had been placed over a hundred years earlier, was a brown and battered book, the same size and shape as the Pandosto that Peter had been carrying around England for the past several days.

  He turned the folder over and the book fell out onto the table. The binding was more worn than that of the forged Pandosto and Peter gently opened the cover. Liz leaned over his shoulder as they read a list of names on the endpaper—a list that included Wm. Shakspere, Stratford, but that made no mention of Mayhew, Smith, B.B., or E.H. The final name on the list was Phillip Gardner. On page sixteen there was no mention of the death of Walter Raleigh.

  In the center of the rear pastedown was a rectangular impression.

/>   “What’s that?” said Liz.

  Peter slipped his lifting knife under a loose edge of the pastedown and pulled the paper away from the binding. He held up the rear cover and a folded piece of paper fluttered to the table. Peter set down the book, unfolded the paper, and read:

  Harbottle,

  Pardon the messenger, but I have business in Stratford. I think you will find something of yourself in A Winter’s Tale. I beg forgiveness for defacing your Pandosto, but return it herewith with my thanks.

  W. Shakespeare

  “It’s the real thing,” said Liz in whispered awe.

  “So it would seem,” said Peter, smiling. “So it would seem.”

  Kingham, Friday, June 23, 1995

  Peter straightened his tie one more time in the mirror before running downstairs for a quick breakfast and a cup of tea. The train for London didn’t leave for an hour but it was such a lovely summer morning that he wanted to walk to the station.

  It had taken four months for teams of lawyers and genealogists in Oxfordshire, Louisiana, and North Carolina to reach the same conclusion that Peter had reached that morning in his cottage—that the youngest living heir of Phillip Devereaux, illegitimate son of Phillip Gardner, was none other than Peter Byerly. According to a bill of sale found among the papers in his tomb, Phillip Gardner had been the legal owner of the true Pandosto; the forgery was determined to have been his property as well.

  During that time Peter had returned to North Carolina for a long stay with the Ridgefields. He and Sarah had taken walks together nearly every day in Ridgefield Gardens, watching the daffodils blossom and then the dogwoods and the azaleas. Sometimes they spoke of one or the other of the Amandas, but often they spoke of nothing important. They were friends, Peter discovered, and he liked that.

  Peter had brought the Pandosto to Ridgefield to show to Francis Leland, who had been properly awed. With the help of Hank Christiansen he had done some minor repair work on the volume so it would be ready for this morning. The forged Pandosto he had given to Francis to be shelved in the Devereaux Room along with forgeries of Thomas Wise. Peter had also donated Gardner’s portrait of Isabel Devereaux to the Special Collections department, where it was now displayed in the case below the significantly more imposing portrait of Isabel’s granddaughter, Amanda.

  Cynthia had come to visit at the end of April and she and Peter had stayed up late watching old movies on television. One night she sidled next to him on the sofa and slipped an arm around him, pulling him toward her and kissing him gently. It was pleasant enough, thought Peter, but he had no desire to take things any further.

  “Is it Amanda?” said Cynthia.

  “No,” said Peter, “it’s just . . .”

  “You don’t like me,” said Cynthia.

  “No, I like you. As a friend I like you. You’ve been great, Cynthia.”

  “Well it doesn’t have to be anything more than friends having a little fling. I mean, it is the nineteen nineties.”

  “I know,” said Peter. “It’s just that—”

  “Oh my God, there’s another woman, isn’t there,” said Cynthia, grinning and punching Peter on the shoulder. “You’ve got a girlfriend.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly call her a girlfriend,” said Peter.

  “Okay,” said Cynthia, “tell me all about her.”

  —

  When Peter had returned to England in June, there were still only a handful of people who knew of the existence of the Pandosto, but that would all change in a few hours at an internationally televised event where he would present the volume to the British Library as a memorial to Amanda Byerly. After the ceremony it would be housed in the library’s permanent exhibit, in a case including items from the collection of Robert Cotton. Cotton, after all, had been the last legitimate owner of the Pandosto, as far as Peter could tell.

  In the years to come some of the older anti-Stratfordians would continue to deny the authenticity of the Pandosto marginalia, but it passed every test, including the ion migration test that finally exposed Mark Hofmann’s forgery of “Oath of a Freeman.” Professor Kashimoto did, as promised, recant his position, first in a private phone call to Peter and later at a literary conference in San Francisco. Many others followed suit, and the few who continued to proclaim the Earl of Oxford or Christopher Marlowe or Francis Bacon as the author of the plays dwindled in number as the years went by. The English majors of the world, most of whom had seen the Pandosto either in person or in one of its widely published facsimiles, no longer offered fertile recruiting ground for the anti-Stratfordians, and by the end of the decade those who denied William Shakespeare his rightful place were only a handful of eccentrics, guilty of just what they had accused academia of for so many years—reaching conclusions without regard for the evidential record.

  —

  Sarah and Charlie Ridgefield had flown to London the previous morning and were staying at the Russell Hotel along with Francis Leland, Hank Christiansen, and Cynthia. Peter had insisted on paying for suites for everyone.

  Peter was just finishing washing up the breakfast dishes when he saw Amanda standing in the corner of the kitchen. He hadn’t seen much of her in the past few months, though they had had a chat after Cynthia had kissed him.

  “It’s a big day for you,” she said.

  “For us,” said Peter. “It’s a gift in your honor.”

  “It’s what you always wanted,” she said, “to find a book that would change literary history.”

  “I wish I could share it with you,” he said.

  “I’ll be there,” said Amanda.

  “I miss you,” said Peter, “but it hurts a little less than it used to.”

  “You won’t see me anymore,” said Amanda.

  “I know,” said Peter.

  “I’ll always love you,” said Amanda, “but I have to go now, and so do you.”

  And she was gone.

  Peter took a deep breath and then had one more look around the kitchen. After the ceremony Liz was coming up for the weekend and he wanted everything to be perfect. The counters were clean, the dishes put away—the only bit of clutter was the curling paper of Dr. Strayer’s list pinned to the message board. Peter read quickly over the list and chuckled. In one deft motion he yanked it from the board and threw it into the rubbish bin.

  Two minutes later he was striding toward the station, the Pandosto under his arm, and the warm summer breeze sweeping him toward the center of life.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am grateful to scores of people who helped inspire, grow, and hone this book, particularly to my mentors in the world of book collecting, Bob Lovett, Stuart Wright, the late Stan Marx, and Justin Schiller; to those who nurtured my writing life, especially Phyllis Barber, Chris Noël, Walter Wetherell, Diane Lefer, Sandra Adams, and Peggy Elam; to early readers Janice Lovett, Stephanie Lovett, and Nina Weigl for their excellent advice; to David Lovett for introducing me to my agent; to Anna Worrall for her early support; to David Gernert for his faith in the book and his insightful advice on revisions; to all those at the Gernert Company who have helped bring the book to the world; and to Kathryn Court and Tara Singh for their kind guidance and brilliant editing.

  Thanks to all those librarians around the world who inhabit places like the Devereaux Room and who have assisted me with research and welcomed me into their sanctuaries over the years.

  I would like to thank the people of the real Kingham, which is a more lovely, welcoming, and peaceful place than I could ever hope to portray in its fictional counterpart. In particular thanks to the Stockwell family for their love and friendship over many years.

  Just as scores of people are responsible for the book you hold, so did scores of sources help create the historical sections of the novel. I am particularly indebted to the following—for details on William Shakespeare and his fellow Elizabethan writers,
Judith Cook’s Roaring Boys: Shakespeare’s Rat Pack, Stephen Greenblatt’s Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare, and Bill Bryson’s Shakespeare; for her descriptions of book repair, restoration, and binding, Annie Tremmel Wilcox’s A Degree of Mastery: A Journey Through Book Arts Apprenticeship; and for the saga of Mark Hofmann’s forgeries, Linda Sillitoe and Allen Robert’s Salamander: The Story of the Mormon Forgery Murders. All the books quoted in the text were, needless to say, important sources and those quotes are, with minor editing, taken from the original sources.

  Above all, I wish to express my gratitude to my children, Jordan and Lucy, for their love and inspiration, and to my wife, Janice, whose love and faith supports me daily.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  All the published books mentioned in the text and their bibliographical details are real, though obviously some individual copies, inscriptions, and marginalia have been invented for this narrative. No complete copy of the first edition of Robert Greene’s Pandosto, upon which Shakespeare based A Winter’s Tale, is known to survive. Only two copies of the bad quarto of Hamlet are known.

  I have invented scenes, actions, and dialogues for historical characters, but the basic biographical details of the following real people are more or less as stated in the text: the Elizabethan writers and their acquaintances William Shakespeare, Robert Greene, Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Nashe, George Peele, John Lyly, Emma Ball (and her son Fortunatus), Mrs. Isam, and Richard Burbage; the book collectors and librarians Robert Cotton, John Bagford, John Warburton, Humfrey Wanley, Robert and Edward Harley, and Henry Clay and Emily Jordan Folger; the forgers William Henry Ireland, Thomas Wise, John Payne Collier, and Mark Hofmann; and the bibliographers and scholars Edmond Malone, John Carter, Graham Pollard, William Henry Smith, and Charlton Hinman.