The garage was empty when I pulled in, and no cars lined the street in front of the house. That meant Diesel and I had the house to ourselves. While the cat visited the utility room, I headed upstairs. I felt like putting my feet up for a bit and doing my best to think about something other than Carrie Taylor’s untimely death.
Diesel returned from his pit stop, hopped on the bed beside me, and stretched out while I made myself comfortable, propped up against a couple of pillows. I picked up The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion and found my place, the beginning of the second chapter.
Veronica felt a chill creep along her spine as Mrs. Eden uttered those ominous words. What kind of danger did the poor woman fear?
The plucky girl’s sturdy common sense took hold. Mrs. Eden’s appearance proclaimed her an invalid of some years’ standing. Perhaps she suffered from a nervous disorder, and her mind was disturbed by fears that came only from a fevered imagination.
The girl decided she must ascertain as adroitly as possible the truth of Mrs. Eden’s claims. If the poor lady was truly in terrible danger, then Veronica resolved to do her best to assist Mrs. Eden. Should the danger prove imaginary, however, Veronica would need to use every ounce of her considerable tact. Adversity had tempered the girl with a maturity beyond her years.
Veronica spoke gently to the woman. “What is the source of your danger, Mrs. Eden? And why do you dare not leave the house? Does the danger come from without?”
A small moan escaped Mrs. Eden’s quivering lips. “Oh, Miss Derivale! Dare I trust you? I feel so alone, betrayed by those who should instead tend to my well-being.” She gazed hopefully into Veronica’s eyes.
Veronica knew she must gain Mrs. Eden’s trust if she were to be able to help her. Therefore she decided to make a bold move and declare her true identity. “You are under a misapprehension, Mrs. Eden, one I did not bother to correct until now. I am not Miss Derivale, whoever she may be. I am Veronica Thane, and I happened upon this house when I needed refuge from the storm.”
“Veronica Thane,” Mrs. Eden gasped. She gazed more intently into her guest’s eyes. “I believe I have heard of you. Were you not the girl who aided Mrs. Finison Webster in tracking down her lost jewels?”
“Yes, I was able to assist Mrs. Webster,” Veronica replied modestly.
“Then I will trust you,” Mrs. Eden said impulsively, her hands clutching at Veronica’s. “I need a friend so desperately, and there is none in this accursed house.”
Unbeknownst to the two conferring on the chaise longue, there was a secret listening post, constructed in the days of the War Between the States, when Spellwood Mansion was the home of a notorious Confederate spy. As Veronica and Mrs. Eden talked, an unseen presence listened to every word spoken between them.
“Veronica Thane.” The listener barely whispered the name. Recognizing the threat implicit in the girl’s true identity, the listener stole softly away to make certain nefarious preparations. The girl must be dealt with, and at once!
“Tell me, Mrs. Eden, the source of the danger,” Veronica urged once again.
I turned the page, thinking I remembered the sad tale of Mrs. Eden’s situation, but my cell phone interrupted my reading. Mrs. Eden and Veronica would have to wait, because I recognized the public library’s main number.
Bronwyn barely waited for me to say “Hello” before she spoke. “Sorry to bother you, Charlie, but I wondered when you were going to bring the books you promised me for the exhibit. I don’t have to have them today, unless you just happen to be out and about this afternoon. Monday morning would be fine.”
I couldn’t believe I hadn’t remembered to take the cartons this morning as I’d originally planned. The thought of running over to the library this afternoon didn’t appeal much. “If you’re sure Monday morning is soon enough,” I said, “I can bring them by first thing, before I go to work at the college.”
“Sure, that’s fine,” Bronwyn said. “But I really do need to have the books that morning. All I have left is to make labels for them before I put them in the exhibit cases.”
I felt guilty because I should have taken them today. She would have to rush on Monday morning to get things done if I waited until then. But I so didn’t want to get in the car again right now.
Inspiration struck—a solution good for each of us. “I tell you what, I’ll e-mail you with the titles and authors and a brief note about each book. How does that sound?”
“That would be great.” Bronwyn sounded relieved and happy. “That way I can cut and paste to make the labels. So much faster, and besides, you know more about the books than I do, Charlie. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “I’ll get on it right now.” I glanced regretfully at The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion when I ended the call. Instead of finding out about Mrs. Eden’s terrible danger, I would have to work.
No reason I couldn’t be comfortable while I did work, however. The two cartons were here in my bedroom. All I had to do was retrieve the laptop from the den, and I’d be set.
“No need for you to come with me.” I grinned at Diesel, dozing on his side of the bed. He opened one eye, yawned, closed the eye, and appeared to doze off again.
I chuckled as I headed down the stairs.
A few minutes later, I had one of the cartons at hand and the laptop booted up and ready to go. I pulled a book from the carton and set to work.
For each book, I typed in the title, the author, the series, and the basic publication information. If I knew the name of the illustrator, I added that. One of the best known was Russell H. Tandy, a professional artist who did the covers and the internal illustrations for the first twenty-six Nancy Drew books. As I typed that information for an early printing of The Secret of the Old Clock, the first Nancy Drew book, I felt the faint stir of memory. Something about Russell Tandy and a particular Nancy Drew book. What was it?
I did a quick Internet search and found the Nancy Drew Sleuth website. It didn’t take long to find the information. Tandy had not illustrated the eleventh book in the series, The Clue of the Broken Locket. That was what that little niggle of memory was about. I revised my information in the e-mail and moved on to the next book.
By the time I finished the books in the first carton, I had begun to realize I’d pulled too many for Bronwyn to use effectively. There were sixteen in the first carton and probably as many in the second one. I pictured the exhibit cases in my mind and figured that twenty books would be about right for the space, by the time Bronwyn added the labels.
I set the laptop aside and went over to the second carton. After a quick examination of the items in it, I pulled three to go with the sixteen I had already written up.
Fifteen minutes later I was finished with those three. I read back through the e-mail, checking the titles and authors represented. I discovered that among the titles were two Veronica Thanes, but not the first, Spellwood Mansion. That one had to be included because it launched the series. Maybe I could finish rereading it over the weekend. Otherwise I would have to wait until the exhibit came down.
I picked up the book and examined it carefully. I pulled off the dust jacket to look at the binding. I frowned. There was no silhouette of Veronica and her two sidekicks, Lucy Carlton and Arthur “Artie” Marsh, on the front cover. That was strange. From what I recalled, all the books had sported the silhouette as part of the design.
I did another search, this time on Veronica Thane, and found a website with several pages devoted to the series. With the enthusiasm for these series books, I figured someone must have researched the publication history, and I was right. There was a page with pictures of the covers of every book in the series, and there were examples of the variations in binding.
And there it was, a picture of a Veronica Thane book sans silhouette. I scanned the long paragraph of information and learned that this particular binding was used only on so-called
breeder sets for the first two titles in the series. There was an explanation of breeder sets, which sounded vaguely familiar. The publishers brought out the first two or three volumes in a limited print run to test the waters with readers, to see if the series might catch on. According to the website, the technique worked for Nancy Drew in 1930. The series was an immediate hit. Veronica had a more modest debut two years later.
What I read next made me sit up and whistle.
Diesel muttered in protest. I supposed my whistling disturbed his beauty nap. He rolled over on his back and stretched, and his tail switched back and forth. He stayed in that position with his head twisted to one side and went back to sleep.
I reread the paragraph that had piqued my interest.
A few years ago a collector and expert on the history of the Veronica Thane series, Jennifer Fisher, brought to light a little-known variant in the first printings of the first volume in the breeder set. This was recently confirmed by Mrs. Carrie Taylor, the publisher of The Thane Chronicles, the newsletter devoted to the author and her works, who reported that she has a copy in her extensive collection. In the final paragraph of this variant edition, the next volume of the series is named as The Clarevoyant’s Clew. The correct title is, of course, The Clairvoyant’s Clue. The error must have been caught quickly and corrected, though a number of the volumes with the wrong title did make it into the hands of readers. Copies of the book with the incorrect title have rarely surfaced, but recently a collector was reported to have paid over twenty thousand dollars for a near-pristine copy of the highly sought after item. Though the price seems extravagant, the purchaser certainly has the satisfaction of knowing he (or she) possesses a true rarity.
I wondered uneasily whether I had just discovered the motive behind Carrie Taylor’s murder.
TWENTY-ONE
Would anyone really kill in order to obtain a rare copy of The Mystery at Spellwood Mansion? Even if a collector had paid twenty thousand dollars for one?
I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew people murdered for far less and for even more bizarre reasons. Kanesha needed to know about this. I copied the link for the page and e-mailed it to her with a brief explanation. All she had to do was check Carrie Taylor’s collection, and if the copy with the incorrect title turned up, then the book wasn’t the motive. If it was missing, she might have a lead on why Mrs. Taylor was killed.
What about Aunt Dottie’s copy? My hand shook a little as I reached for the book. I opened it and found the last page of the text.
I almost dropped the book.
Aunt Dottie’s copy was one of the rare ones. There it was, right on the page. The Clarevoyant’s Clew.
I examined the book. Beautiful condition, I thought. Not exactly pristine, because it had obviously been read a few times. The dust jacket was intact, no tears or chips, and the colors were bright and crisp. My late aunt had loved her books and always took great care of them, even as a child. She had helped instill that love in me.
I had better look after this copy, I realized. There was no way I would ever sell it, and I decided against lending it for the exhibit. I would feel better knowing it was in its place on the shelf upstairs. It would probably be perfectly safe in a locked exhibit case in the library, but I didn’t want to take the chance of having it stolen or damaged.
I wondered idly if both Aunt Dottie’s copy and Carrie Taylor’s had come from a bookstore in Athena. I remembered my aunt telling me about one on the square when she was a child, back in the late thirties. At some point she must have told me the name, but it had gone out of business by the time I came along.
My laptop beeped to let me know I had new e-mail. I set the book gingerly aside and checked the screen. I had a response from Kanesha. Terse, as usual: “Thanks. We’ll check for it.”
It was out of my hands now. I knew Mrs. Taylor’s house would be subjected to a thorough and painstaking search. If the book was still there, they would find it. The question was, would Kanesha tell me one way or the other? Without my having to annoy her by asking, that is.
If the book was potentially the motive, then who would want it badly enough to kill for it?
My prime suspect was Gordon Betts—a notion based more on my antipathy to the man than on anything concrete. He boasted he had the largest collection in the world of Mrs. Cartwright’s books. Did he have a copy of the variant printing of the first book, though?
A whisper of memory teased at me. What was it Mrs. Taylor had said the last time I saw her? Something to do with Gordon Betts.
I thought hard and finally dredged it up. I heard her voice in my head saying, Gordon may think he has everything, but I know better.
Could she have been talking about her copy of Spellwood Mansion?
No, it couldn’t be that, surely, because her possession of it was right there on the Web for anyone to see. Gordon Betts, obsessive collector that he allegedly was, surely wouldn’t overlook a piece of information as significant as that.
No, I decided after further thought. There had to be something else Mrs. Taylor had that he didn’t.
If he killed her then, he probably did so for a different reason.
Another idea struck me. Unless she had a better copy than he did. I knew serious collectors would trade up, as it were, replacing an inferior item in their collection with one that was in better condition in some way. Gordon Betts could have wanted her copy for that reason.
I was tempted to e-mail Kanesha with these speculations, but I came to my senses before I did. I doubted she would thank me for complicating the issue. Better to wait until I knew whether Mrs. Taylor’s copy was missing.
A glance at the laptop screen reminded me I hadn’t quite finished my e-mail to Bronwyn. I had better get back to work and finish it.
Twenty minutes later I hit Send then shut down the laptop. In my earlier excitement I hadn’t realized that my neck and shoulders ached from hunching over the computer. I rubbed the back of my neck with both hands, and that helped. A hot shower would help even more, but I thought I’d stretch out on the bed for a bit first.
I made myself comfortable and picked up Spellwood Mansion. I probably should have put it away without finishing my reread, but I would be careful with it. I needed to get Mylar jacket covers and put them on all the books, I decided. That would protect them much better.
I found my place and began to read.
“Tell me, Mrs. Eden, the source of the danger,” Veronica urged once again.
“The story is a long one.” Mrs. Eden spoke in a low voice. “I can hardly bear to think of the horrible, vicious man who is at the root of all my troubles. But I must share the details with someone.” She paused for a deep, sobbing breath.
Veronica was concerned that Mrs. Eden might lose her fading strength altogether, unless she had some kind of restorative to bolster her strength and her spirits. “Might we ask for some tea? I am quite thirsty myself, and I believe the hot tea would revive us both.”
Mrs. Eden nodded gratefully. She pointed with a trembling hand to a bell pull on the wall by the fireplace. “If you will be so kind as to summon Bradberry, he will see that refreshments are brought.”
Veronica complied with the request and immediately resumed her place beside her hostess. Moments later the door opened, and the butler entered the room noiselessly.
“What do you require, Madam?” He gazed intently at his employer, and Veronica found his expression slightly menacing.
“Tea, if you please, Bradberry, and a few sandwiches, if Cook will be so kind.” Mrs. Eden’s voice died away to a mere whisper on the final words.
“Certainly, Madam.” Bradberry inclined his head before he turned and glided quietly out of the room.
Mrs. Eden lay back on the chaise, the back of her hand against her forehead and her eyes closed. Veronica hesitated to rouse the invalid, but if she were to help Mrs. Eden, she must he
ar what her hostess had to say about her danger.
“Mrs. Eden, please, continue your story,” Veronica urged in a quiet tone.
The invalid’s eyes fluttered open. “Yes, of course, my dear. I was about to name my persecutor.” She paused. “He is none other than Langley Braddock.”
Veronica gasped. Langley Braddock was a well-known financier and socialite of the highest reputation. He moved in the best circles and called many an important man his friend. Yet Mrs. Eden claimed him as her oppressor. How could this be?
Mrs. Eden nodded weakly. “I see you recognize the name.” Her tone was bitter as she continued. “To the rest of the world he is a paragon, a leader of society, but to me he is a heartless, cold tyrant. He is the executor of my late husband’s estate, and he has stolen almost everything my husband left me to further his own dark schemes.”
Veronica found herself in a quandary. Langley Braddock was an acquaintance of her own guardian and had been entertained by Aunt Araminta on at least three occasions. She recalled him as a distinguished man of somewhat cold and regal bearing. She had not warmed to him herself but knew her guardian admired him. Yet Mrs. Eden claimed him as the source of her danger. Perhaps the woman was deranged after all.
“I see you are doubtful.” Mrs. Eden sighed heavily. “That is my great misfortune, because he is such a plausible rogue. I alone know the truth, yet no one will believe me.”
Veronica spoke hesitantly. “Have you any proof of his crimes against you?”
Mrs. Eden nodded wearily. “The evidence lies in my late husband’s papers, but the villain has them in his own keeping. He has taken great pains to discredit me, and no lawyer will go against him. So you see, my plight is desperate. He means to sell my house and force me into utter penury. I will soon have nothing left.”
The Silence of the Library Page 12