Tooth and Nail: A Novel Approach to the SAT (A Harvest Test Preparation Book)

by Charles Harrington Elster

  Leo was considering how to respond to the corpulent professor’s bombastic greeting when the conference room door closed abruptly. He looked over and saw that the fifth and final member of the executors’ committee had entered the room.

  Professor Harold Hargrave, chief curator of Tillinghast Library, was a man of medium build. He was dressed in a conservative gray business suit and staid tie. His thinning hair was parted low on one side and plastered across the top of his head in a futile attempt to cover a conspicuous bald spot. His nose was sharp and pointed and his lips were slim. There was a furtive quality about his expression that reminded Leo of the drawings of Templeton the rat in E. B. White’s Charlotte’s Web.

  “Welcome, everyone,” Hargrave said crisply, saluting his fellow professors and exchanging a formal handshake with Leo. He walked to the far end of the conference table and set down his oversized briefcase. “I apologize for my tardiness. It couldn’t be helped. Let’s get down to work, shall we?”

  The five executors took their seats. Hargrave removed a file from his briefcase, laid it open before him, and drummed the tips of his long, bony fingers on the tabletop for a moment.

  “To begin with, I apologize for calling you together on a Sunday morning. I know it’s an unusual time for a meeting, especially with classes beginning tomorrow, but we all have busy schedules, and certain matters need to be addressed before the dedication of the new Prospero wing.

  “The first matter before us,” Hargrave continued, “is the disposition and role of the executors. I have here the codicil to Prospero’s will that establishes this committee and sets forth its bylaws. I received it last week from Merrilee Shylock, Prospero’s attorney and legal executor. For your convenience, I have made photocopies for each of you.”

  The chief curator paused to pass out the copies. When Leo received his, he began reading the document:

  Codicil A

  Last Will & Testament of Edward Anthony Prospero

  I hereby declare that my literary estate, by which is meant the books, manuscripts, and all other written or printed materials now owned by me or in my possession, shall be given separate consideration from the rest of my estate and shall become, upon my death, wholly and entirely the property of Tillinghast Library at Holyfield College, in accordance with the terms and conditions set forth in my prior agreement with the trustees and officers of the college, which provides for the establishment of Prospero Memorial Library as an adjunct to Tillinghast Library, to be used to good purpose and made available to the faculty and students of the college, and the general public, for their benefit and edification.

  What a complex, convoluted sentence, Leo thought. Legal writing is like philosophical writing: the more precise the intention, the more ponderous the prose. He read on:

  In light of the foregoing, I hereby appoint the following persons as executors of my literary estate, to assure its safekeeping, and, in all other matters, to exercise full authority over its contents as they see fit:

  Harold Hargrave, who shall be principal executor, in recognition of his academic achievement and estimable position as chief curator of Tillinghast Library;

  Theophilus Bibb, the proficient scholar and bibliophile upon whose expertise in evaluation and authentication I have many times relied, in recognition of our long and provocative intellectual association;

  Bartholomew Martext, the innovative artistic director who revitalized theatrical production at Holyfield College, in recognition of his creative talent and his willingness to heed the advice of an officious old man;

  Carmen Torres, whose career I have watched with great interest since she first came to the college, and whose collaboration on De Gustibus: An Inquiry into Modern Literary Style was invaluable, in recognition of her devotion to the pursuit of knowledge and her surpassing ability as a teacher; and

  Leo Kabnis, who without doubt or reservation is the most able and promising student I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, in recognition of his superior intelligence, good character, and wit.

  Leo smiled. Wit, he thought. That’s nice.

  “As you will see on page three,” Hargrave was saying, “Prospero stipulates that all five executors must be present to conduct any business concerning the collection, and a minimum of four votes is required to sell or transfer or otherwise dispose of any of its contents. Beyond that we are free to adopt rules, determine priorities, and proceed in this enterprise as we deem appropriate. Are there any questions?”

  “Yes,” Carmen Torres said. “I must confess I’m sitting here on pins and needles wondering what sort of literary material we’ll be responsible for superintending. Can you give us an idea of what Prospero’s collection contains?”

  “That is the second matter on my agenda,” Hargrave said. “When I met with Ms. Shylock, she also briefed me on the status of the collection. As you know, Prospero was an extraordinarily affluent man. He built his literary estate over many decades, often augmenting his holdings by purchasing whole collections from book dealers and fellow connoisseurs. Thus, because of its magnitude and scope, it is difficult to say with any specificity what the Prospero collection contains. I can, however, provide a few details that may prove enlightening.”

  “Please do. We’re all ears,” Martext said.

  Hargrave cleared his throat and went on. “According to Ms. Shylock and a Mr. Augustus H. Murray, an independent book specialist assigned by the probate court, Prospero’s literary estate comprises about fifty thousand books and manuscripts, of which roughly fifteen thousand items may be classified as fine or rare. The value of these fine pieces varies considerably, from as little as a hundred to as much as a hundred thousand dollars. There are also a number of exceptional pieces—most notably certain incunabula, or books printed before 1500 A.D.—that are worth up to half a million dollars or more.”

  Hargrave paused, as if for dramatic effect. The muscles around his mouth tightened, and his thin lips grew thinner still. “Shortly before his death, Prospero estimated the worth of his entire collection at fourteen to fifteen million dollars. Mr. Murray’s estimate adjusts that figure to seventeen to twenty million dollars.”

  An audible and collective gasp of astonishment issued from Leo, Torres, and Martext. Bibb sat calmly, hands folded on the table, looking at Hargrave.

  “At my request, Professor Bibb has consulted with Mr. Murray and has been attempting to corroborate these estimates and compile more information on the collection,” Hargrave continued. “He’s spent a good deal of time cataloguing and appraising material that has been moved into Tillinghast in preparation for the opening of the new wing. He has also been studying Prospero’s notes on his holdings, which unfortunately are sketchy and incomplete.”

  “What have you ascertained so far, Theo?” Torres asked. “May we expect a report from you?”

  Bibb nodded. “At present there’s not much to add to Harold’s summary. My preliminary report will be ready for your inspection at our next meeting.”

  “Excuse me, Harold,” said Martext, “but what I’d like to know is where are all the books right now? And when are we going to be able to have a look at them?”

  “If any executor wishes to examine the collection, he is welcome to do so at any time,” Hargrave said. “Or she is,” he added with an apologetic nod to Torres.

  “Thank you, Harold,” Torres said stiffly.

  “Professor Bibb has informed me that he will make himself available as a docent, should you wish to avail yourselves of his expert services,” Hargrave continued. “As to your other query, Bart, regarding the location of the books and manuscripts, I’m afraid that’s a more complicated matter.

  “About half the material is already here at Tillinghast, being held temporarily in the special collections archive. Another substantial portion is still at Inverness, the Prospero mansion, waiting to be properly packed and transported. Two other smaller portions are at Prospero’s summer house on Martha’s Vineyard and his villa in northern Italy. That acc
ounts for about ninety percent of the collection. The remaining ten percent is at present diffused, on loan to various museums and libraries around the world, and will be recovered in due time.”

  The chief curator leaned back in his chair and touched the tips of his spidery fingers together. “And now, if there are no further questions, I would like to move on to the third item on the agenda, which is a matter of grave concern.”

  The executors shuffled their feet, shifted in their chairs, and gave Hargrave their full attention.

  “As principal executor, it is my duty to apprise you of all news germane to the collection or to the endeavors of this committee. I regret to inform you that recently we received some very bad news indeed.”

  Leo, suddenly prescient, sat up straight in his chair. Some beta wave was sending him warnings about what was coming next.

  “On Friday,” Hargrave said, “I received a letter from an attorney representing Edward Anthony Prospero III—otherwise known as Teddy Prospero, the grandson of Old Man Prospero and a senior here at Holyfield College. Some of you, I am sure, are well aware of the reputation Teddy has for flouting authority and causing all kinds of malicious mischief.”

  Leo’s beta wave pulsed like a garish neon sign: I told you it was Teddy! I told you it was Teddy! I told you it was Teddy!

  Bibb sighed loudly. “What is the young rascal up to now, Harold?”

  Hargrave leaned forward and cleared his throat. “He’s planning to contest the will and file suit against the college for a share of his grandfather’s literary estate.”

  “How much of a share?” asked Martext.

  “The attorney’s letter didn’t specify,” Hargrave said, checking one of the papers in his file. “It simply said, and I quote, ‘significant damages commensurate with the pain and suffering my client has undergone as a result of the collusion between the late Edward Anthony Prospero and Holyfield College to defraud him of his rightful inheritance.’”

  “Poppycock!” sputtered Bibb. “The old man could dispose of his estate however he wished. Teddy has no more right to his grandfather’s money—or his books—than I do.”

  “Quite true, Theo,” Hargrave said calmly, “but listen to what the letter says next: ‘My client further states, and I am prepared to prove his assertion in court if necessary, that each and every one of the appointed literary executors had a selfish interest in seeing him stripped of his legacy, an interest prompted by cupidity and a warped desire for self-advancement. To this end they fostered a sycophantic association with the senior Prospero, which, like Iago’s insidious corruption of Othello or the undermining of King Lear’s innocent daughter Cordelia by her callous and wicked sisters, turned the grandfather unfairly against his defenseless grandson.’”

  Listening to the ostentatious allusions in the lawyer’s letter, Leo wondered if Teddy Prospero had hired someone who had cut as many English classes in college as Teddy had and who was now trying to pass off a paltry knowledge of Shakespeare as a badge of intellectual achievement.

  While Leo ruminated on this point, the rest of the table erupted in protest.

  “This is preposterous!” bellowed Bibb.

  “It’s farcical!” raged Martext.

  “It is appalling,” Torres concurred.

  Hargrave frowned and stroked his chin. “Whether the charge has merit is of little import. What matters is that it’s a nuisance suit—call it legal blackmail, if you will. It presents us with a classic dilemma. On the one hand, it would be imprudent to capitulate and settle with Teddy and his mercenary attorney simply because they categorically demand it. On the other hand, the exorbitant expense and adverse publicity that might attend a protracted court proceeding could have dire consequences, not only for the future of the Prospero Memorial Library but for each of us as well.”

  “That’s right, Harold,” said Martext. He leaned forward and looked around the table. His eyes were like two smoking coals. “No one is immune to frivolous lawsuits, and the innocent are the most vulnerable. That’s because people like Teddy Prospero enjoy making others’ lives miserable and watching them squirm. They crave the sadistic thrill of it!”

  Bibb slammed his plump fist down on the table. “I agree most emphatically. Teddy Prospero was the most incorrigible student I’ve ever had—when he came to class, that is.”

  Torres looked at Hargrave. “Harold, the suit seems so outrageous and ill-conceived. Obviously Teddy Prospero and his attorney have fabricated these charges to scare us into a settlement. Can’t we just call their bluff?”

  Torres’s question went unanswered, for at that moment the door to the conference room opened and a big man in a smartly tailored blue suit stepped inside. His sturdy build, erect posture, and stiffly waxed handlebar mustache lent him an air of self-contained sophistication. A stranger might have guessed his age at forty-five, but he was actually closer to sixty.

  “Is this an appropriate time, Harold?” the man asked in a crisp English accent.

  Leo jumped up from his seat. “Reggie, what a nice surprise! I didn’t know you were coming.”

  “Hullo, Leo. It’s good to see you too,” the man said with a gracious smile. “Professor Hargrave asked me to come at ten-thirty, and it’s ten-thirty on the button, so here I am.”

  Hargrave stood up. “I presume all of you know Mr. Reginald Burton-Jones, Prospero’s manservant?”

  “Valet, if you don’t mind, old chap,” Burton-Jones said.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Burton-Jones and the other executors exchanged greetings and began chatting amiably.

  Hargrave rapped his knuckles sharply on the table. “Excuse me, everyone, but if you would please take your seats again, Reggie is here to preside over the final piece of business on our agenda today.”

  The committee came to order. Burton-Jones stood at the head of the table opposite Hargrave, who gestured for him to proceed.

  “Of course you know that Prospero thought highly of you all,” Burton-Jones said. “But what you may not know, because it was not part of his formal will, is that he provided a special gift for each of you, in consideration of your services as executors of his collection and as a token of his esteem. It is my pleasure to be here today as the emissary of his largess. Harold, would you do me the honor, please?”

  Hargrave nodded and stepped to a closet door in the corner of the conference room. He produced a set of keys from his jacket pocket and unlocked the door. From a shelf within he retrieved several packages wrapped in brown paper and placed them, one at a time, on the table in front of Burton-Jones.

  When the librarian had finished and returned to his seat, Burton-Jones handed him one of the packages and said, “Let’s begin with the principal executor, shall we?”

  “Thank you, Reggie,” Hargrave said. He unwrapped his gift slowly and carefully. “My lord,” he muttered when he saw what he had received.

  It was an original edition of the Authorized Version of the Bible, commonly known as the King James Version, published by Robert Barker in London in 1611. Unfortunately, it was not in good condition. As Hargrave delicately examined the fragile old book, Leo could see that the binding was decayed and many of the deeply yellowed pages were nicked or tom.

  “I’m honored,” Hargrave said at last, setting the book down on the table in front of him. “This is an extraordinary thing to bestow.”

  Bibb leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It’s too bad it’s so damaged, Harold. As you know, a fine copy would easily fetch anywhere from $125,000 to $150,000 in the open market. In that tattered condition it’s probably worth between $5,000 and $10,000.”

  “Its monetary value doesn’t concern me, Theo,” Hargrave said in an edgy voice. “As the saying goes, it’s the thought that counts.” He opened a small white envelope that had been included with the package and removed the card it contained. As he read it, he frowned.

  “What does it say?” Torres asked.

  “It’s just a well-known passage from the New Te
stament, Matthew 5:38–41.” Hargrave cleared his throat and read it aloud.

  Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth:

  But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.

  And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also.

  And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.

  Martext snorted. “That’s it? No other words of wisdom from the old man?”

  Hargrave shook his head. “Just ‘Best wishes, Prospero.’”

  “How odd,” Torres said. “What do think he meant by selecting that quotation?”

  Hargrave’s face was blank. “I honestly have no idea. He could be a very strange bird at times.”

  “Something about it seems prophetic,” Torres said, shaking her head thoughtfully.

  Martext chuckled. “Probably because it’s a quotation from the Bible, Carmen. Jesus was a prophet, you’ll recall.”

  “Let us move on now to Theophilus Bibb,” said Burton-Jones, handing the stout professor his package.

  Bibb tore off the plain brown wrapping paper with glee, revealing a large, uncut volume: Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur, illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley, J. M. Dent’s first limited edition, 1893—one of a run of only three hundred copies, Bibb informed the group. The accompanying card, which Torres urged Bibb to read aloud, said, “You should find salutary recreation in these pages if you rarefy your magnanimous propensities at the side of the noble King Arthur and cultivate your hedonistic ones at the feet of the decadent Beardsley.”

  “A most flattering gift indeed,” Bibb remarked coolly when everyone’s laughter had subsided, “valued as it is at about six thousand dollars. I shudder, however, to think what it would be worth had Beardsley signed it.”