Whatever was there, he must first find the release mechanism. It proved no easy matter. As if to make up for allowing the presence of something unusual to be visible, the carpenter had employed great ingenuity in hiding the release. It took Foxe near thirty minutes of pushing, pulling and pressing various books to decide that approach was not going to work. At last he did what he should have done at the start. He stood back, stared at the shelves and considered what he might do in the same situation.
The release must be in a position that would be convenient for use. That ruled out those shelves too high to reach without a ladder, or too low to be seen without bending. None of the wooden framing showed any marks that might indicate a place to press or pull. What was left? The books, of course, but he had tried all of those.
But had he? He had followed the pattern of the alderman’s library shelving, despite Halloran’s warning. He should have known that the carpenter never used the same method of concealment twice. He had pivoted books forward and backward. He had tried pushing on their spines or feeling along the tops for some hidden lever. What he had not done was take any out of their places altogether.
That was it, of course. On removing the fifth or sixth book from the middle shelf, he felt the wood beneath where it stood and touched metal, not wood. His finger hooked neatly into a gap that allowed part of the metal to be raised like a lever. There was a satisfying click and the right-hand edge of the bay of shelving swung outwards by a space of maybe two inches. Just enough to slide his hand behind.
Another minute or so of feeling around the gap located another metal lever. When he pulled that forward, the whole bay of shelving could be swung outwards like a door. Behind was a space deep enough to contain shelves of a normal size.
To Foxe’s relief, the bulk of the hidden books were not erotica. The few that were lay on the topmost shelves. All the rest were unfamiliar to him. Some were in English, some in French, one or two in Latin. None, to his disappointment, had dates within that were more than a hundred years ago. Many had been printed in places like Amsterdam, Leiden or Geneva within the past fifty years or less. They seemed to be books of philosophy, which puzzled him. Why hide philosophical books? Then he stumbled on one book in plain binding with no title. When he opened it, all became plain.
What he had found was a work called ‘The Treatise of the Three Imposters’. It was said to be written by an Irishman called John Toland, though that was not established. Foxe had never had a copy in his hands before, but he knew it was a book valued highly by freethinkers. More conventional persons judged it a repository of the rankest blasphemy.
Maybe the rest were books of radical, even revolutionary, ideas. That would be reason enough to hide them. Well, Alderman Halloran had indicated an interest in the works of freethinkers. Foxe would make a list of some of the authors and titles and take it to show him. If these were books of such a nature, he would be the most likely purchaser, since Foxe knew no one else with similar tastes.
He closed up the shelves again. Then he applied himself to finding another dozen or so volumes that he knew he could sell swiftly and for a good price. Those he placed on the central table with the same care as before. He estimated he had now taken books that might fetch some four hundred pounds. That was enough to cover the amount of the draft he had given to the earl. It did not quite match his usual margin of profit, but Foxe was not a greedy man. He could find the five hundred pounds the earl needed and still provide himself with a satisfactory return.
#
He had finished his selection of books for that day and was about to call for the footman, when he noticed something else odd. On the shelving devoted to books on alchemy, the books stood in the normal order of size. The smallest were on the topmost shelves, the largest at the bottom. Yet at the far edge of the top shelf, two slim volumes were far taller than all the books around them. Indeed, they were so tall that Foxe, standing uncertainly on a library ladder, had the greatest difficulty in extracting them. The only way he could do it was to remove several other volumes first, then tilt each larger book sideways until it was almost flat. They must have been inserted that way, on their sides, then turned upright. That meant several inches of them were hidden behind a band of wooden decoration that fitted between the upper edge of the bookshelf and the ceiling.
Why put these two books onto the shelves in such a way that they could not be removed without the greatest difficulty? The lettering on the spines indicated nothing unusual. Two volumes of yet another set of obscure works on alchemy. Not even a respectable area of enquiry. Foxe thought it was little more than wishful thinking and a desire to claim knowledge that others could not contest.
When he began to leaf through the first volume, he had another surprise. He was used to the habit of some men to add notes of their own to the books they read. Usually, this reduced their value at once. Only in a few cases, where the person making the annotations was famous, was the value of a book increased. Yet what he could see before him was not the normal type of annotation. Most of the pages were free of any kind of note. But where there was a large empty space, or the binder left a blank page to make sure the next chapter opened on a right-hand page, there was writing enough. What these notes might be was obscure. They looked like the receipts used by those wishing to cook a special dish. Or maybe the reminders used by apothecaries in making medicines. Each began with a list of ingredients, then instructions on how to prepare them. That was followed by the right time for steeping the mixture and the amount of boiling water and cold water to use.
It was not foodstuffs. That was clear soon enough. No one adds urine or flowers of sulphur to something to be eaten. Some of the ingredients were also minerals, by the look of them. Others had odd names that meant nothing to Foxe.
Could they be the secret formulae of some alchemist? If that was the case, it might account for any special interest in these volumes. Foxe could find no name or identification of a past owner. Nothing to say whether the person who wrote down these formulae, if that was what they were, was famous or not.
For a while, Foxe continued to leaf through the pages, musing on possible solutions to the mystery. Then, almost on a whim, he put one of the books in the pocket of his coat. He would take it home to examine. He might also show it to one or two people whom he knew had some interest in chemical experiments. They might be able to tell him enough to set a value on these mysterious books and their annotations.
He checked the books on the central table – another dozen – and called the footman. ‘Have these volumes packed and delivered as before, if you would be so good. I have also selected one small book to take with me now. It is not easy to identify and value, so I will take it to my shop and allow myself time to consider it in greater depth. Please tell His Lordship that I will reckon up all. Then I will send him another banker’s draft to cover what amount goes beyond the last one I left with him.’
‘Very good, sir. May I enquire whether the first box of books was packed to your satisfaction?’
‘Certainly. All arrived quite undamaged.’
‘Then I will see these are packed in the same way. Please remain at your leisure here while I call the earl’s carriage to take you home again.’
On his way back into Norwich, Foxe took the mystery book from his pocket. It had been printed and published in Geneva in 1666. He would wager also that some at least of the writing dated from close to that time. There was something old-fashioned about the means of forming the letters and the ink was much faded. That would make what was written here over a hundred years old. And, while the text of the book itself was in French, the notes were in several languages. Sometimes French, sometimes what he thought must be Flemish and once or twice in English. If he was right, these notes had been begun about a hundred years ago in France, then continued in Flemish and English, probably at various times between then and now. The few English notations showed up by their blacker ink and more modern form of handwriting.
The pict
ure he was building was of a secret notebook, used and added to over more than one generation. It was, he thought, written in blank spaces in printed books as another means of keeping its contents hidden. They must have been quite valuable to the ones who wrote them. Even so, they might have no value today. Few in this modern world held alchemy to be more than a primitive form of the chemical science. A sad mixture of genuine experiment with wild phantasies and dreams of infinite power and immortality.
Foxe cursed himself under his breath. The earl had promised to look out the records of book purchases that his father and grandfather had kept. Foxe had forgotten to ask the footman whether this had been done. If he could discover who had sold them these two strange books and when, it might go a long way to help understand such value as they might have.
Almost on a whim, Foxe rapped on the roof of the carriage with his stick to signal a halt. Then he asked the driver to detour so that he could call at the alderman’s house. He would leave this annoying book there for his patron to see. He might know what, if anything, these annotations could mean.
9
Losing Heart
The next morning, at about eleven, Foxe stepped into the building that housed the presses and offices of The Norfolk Intelligencer. At once he felt himself taken back to the sights and smells of his childhood. His father had been a printer and bookseller. Young Ashmole spent many an hour amongst paper, presses and inks. There he learned the intricacies and secrets of the printer’s trade. That should still have been his trade today, had not a near-forgotten uncle made a vast fortune in the sugar plantations of the West Indies. When the uncle died childless, he left all to his nearest male relative, who happened to be his nephew Ashmole.
The young Foxe had no wish to live in such a colonial outpost. Nor did he relish the idea of being the owner of hundreds of slaves – especially if he was not on hand to see how his overseers might treat them. First he sold the plantations and the rum distillery. Then he determined never to put his money where he could not keep a close eye on how it was used in the world.
To become a gentleman with a grand mansion, sweeping parkland and thousand of acres of land under tenancies did not entice the young Foxe either. By this time, in his chosen profession of bookseller, he had known too many such men. Hunting, gambling and racing horses bored him. Being a magistrate and local dignitary repelled him. The very notion of being a Member of Parliament disgusted him. He was not interested in becoming a lecher, nor in drinking to excess. These were what brought many of the gentry to the point of bankruptcy. Their grand inheritances in land were also prey to the uncertainties of harvest and climate. There might be outbreaks of disease amongst their animals. Even the willingness of tenants to pay what they owed could not be relied upon. It was men of this class, like the eighth Earl of Pentelow, who most often called Foxe to help them sell books. Only thus could they stay out of the hands of their creditors.
Foxe’s principles of investing were simple. He put his money into things people needed regardless of circumstances. He also kept a close eye on all who handled money on his behalf.
For the first principle, he turned to solidly-built properties. His favourites were buildings occupied by merchants, members of the professions and well-to-do people of the middling sort. He owned several such in Norwich itself, though not one of his tenants knew their landlord’s identity. Both Kitty and Gracie Catt lived in houses he owned. So did nearly a dozen of the lawyers, doctors, merchants and prosperous shopkeepers of the city. He was owner of a major share in a brewery and maltings. With his friend Brock, he was a silent partner in a fine fleet of barges and Norfolk wherries. He had also bought a good amount of government securities and placed significant deposits with the prime bankers of the locality.
The second principle was equally simple. He kept his holdings local, so that he could watch over them in person and he employed committed Quakers as his agents and clerks whenever he could. Such people had the best reputation for honesty. Their modest style of life rendered them nearly immune from the main causes of fraud and peculation – gambling, whoring and indulging in strong drink.
His own lifestyle, though grandiose for someone who claimed to be a mere provincial bookseller, was also relatively modest. Thus his fortune was still increasing. His only significant indulgences were the Catt sisters and he took good care that they above all should not suspect the true extent of his wealth.
That day Foxe was once again a simple bookseller and son of a local printer visiting an old family friend. A man who just happened to be the editor of one of Norfolk’s principal newspapers.
He found Sebastian Hirons, the editor of the newspaper, sitting surrounded by piles of journals, open books and handwritten notes. How the man ever found anything on his desk, or made sense of what he did find, was a rare mystery. Still there was little that passed in the city of Norwich that escaped his eye, even if he took care that much of it should not appear in his newspaper. Those who bought copies would not care to find too many of their personal dealings amongst the stories they read over their breakfast things or in the coffee house.
‘Hello, young Foxe,’ Hirons said when he noticed him. ‘What do you want to know this time?’ He was not a man given to polite pleasantries when they were not essential.
‘Hello Hirons. Who says I want to know anything?’
‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m a busy man. Tell me what it is and I will give you the answer, if I know it. Otherwise go back to peddling old books and leave me to get on with bringing out the next edition.’
‘Bonneviot,’ Foxe said. ‘Why was he laying off out-workers when the other master weavers seem to be prospering as rarely before.’
‘Easy! Bonneviot had picked one fight too many with the London merchants who bought his cloth. All determined not to do more business with him. That left a huge hole in his book of orders and large stocks in his warehouse.’
‘No more than that?’
‘Wouldn’t you say that was bad enough? The vast majority of shipments of this city’s worsteds and other fabrics go to London. If you can’t sell them there, where are you going to sell them?’
‘Abroad?’
‘Sounds easy, doesn’t it, Foxe? Isn’t though. You need contacts, agents, commercial travellers, heavy insurance and the ability to wait many months to get payment. Even the payment you do get will have passed through the hands of some banker. All such are eager to make money on changing a draft drawn on a foreign bank and in the local currency into English pounds. Bonneviot had none of these necessities in place. All his success had come from managing his costs, bullying his out-workers and negotiating with the London dealers.’
‘Do you know what he was going to do?’
‘I know what he wasn’t going to do: eat humble pie and try to repair his reputation with those he had sold to before. Not his style. Bonneviot always had to win, whatever it cost him – or those around him. I suspect he was trying to find a way to open up new markets, in much the same way the merchants of Halifax and Bradford have done in recent years.’
‘Could he have done that?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Unless, of course, he found two things first.’
‘Don’t play with me, Hirons. You always did love to drag a story out. If you’re so busy, get to the point and I’ll leave you alone.’
‘Bonneviot needed a banker willing to lend him a good sum. He also needed a partner with the knowledge and contacts to set up enough steady orders from around the country and abroad. The word is that he had found both. Before you ask, I have no idea who the banker was. The partner is easier. If I were you, I should look carefully at a certain Mr. James Hinman. Until recently, he claims to have been the right-hand man of a merchant in Halifax. Now he aims to set up on his own account in Norwich. I hear he is eager to find a source of cloth to sell in the countries bordering on the German Ocean.’
‘So, Bonneviot supplied the cloth and Hinman supplied the knowledge and contacts and managed t
he sales. That might save Bonneviot’s business. Is that the way of things?’
‘I believe it may be.’
‘What do you know of Hinman? Is he honest?’
‘Probably as honest as most men who sell to others for a living. That is as much as to say devious, conniving and prone to exaggerating his prospects.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Hinman only appeared in the city maybe three weeks ago. He seems wealthy enough to make a show in the coffee houses. He makes sure all should know of his plans and abilities. Yet I wager few of our sober master weavers would have given him the time of day. A regular braggart, many say. No, his problem was much worse than that.’
‘Hirons! I declare you will drive me insane with your hints and prevarications. I am not some reader who must be tempted into turning the page. Speak plainly, I beseech you.’
‘Hinman may be what he says he is. Only time will tell. What is far plainer is that he is a man in a hurry. He is, perhaps, closer in age to your tender years than my mature ones. Old enough to feel he should have made his fortune by this point in his life. Young enough to believe he may still do so, if he but moves quickly enough. Such thoughts make a man prone to every kind of rash action. It is my understanding that the Halifax merchants spent decades building up their overseas trade. Maybe Hinman convinced Bonneviot he could do the same here. Of course, Bonneviot was desperate, ready to believe anything that would offer him a way out of the morass he had put himself into.’
‘So … Bonneviot takes Hinman as a partner in this new venture and tries to survive long enough to benefit from the results.’
‘You have it in a nutshell. Have you ever thought of writing for a reputable newspaper?’
The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2) Page 8