by David Wood
“Why? He’s not a criminal!”
“Well, I just have my suspicions about his best intentions, that’s all.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s independently wealthy and not just hanging around to gouge an old lady’s bank account, Rose!”
She met his eye at last and her gaze was hard. “I know, but it’s not that simple. I just don’t entirely trust him, okay? Will you simply accept that and bear it in mind? For me?”
He saw that she felt strongly about this, more than a hunch. He’d be an idiot to completely disregard it, no matter how much he thought her concerns misplaced. “Okay, sure. But I think you’re over-reacting. What did jazz find out anyway?”
“I don’t know yet, she didn’t get back to me. I’ll try to catch up with her again today. If you’re off to see Price again, I might as well.”
They kissed and hugged when Crowley set off half an hour later, so he figured there were no real hard feelings between them, but Rose was still clearly annoyed he was going to visit Price. It bugged him how suspicious she was, and that annoyance put him on edge. Overtired, he told himself. But the nagging sensation of wrongness wouldn’t go away.
Price’s apartment building was really something else. It was maybe no Dakota Building, but not far from it. Four blocks west of Central Park on the Upper West Side, Crowley first had a small chuckle at the address. 666 West End Avenue. The devil’s apartments! The building was called The Windermere and that gave Crowley pause for a moment, remembering enjoyable trips to Windermere in the Lake District in England. He made the snap decision to take Rose there for a proper restful holiday whenever they finally returned to Britain. It was easy for her to find distractions in a big city like New York. In the sleepy English countryside, she’d be forced to rest and join him on pleasant strolls through the woods. And he’d be forced to rest too. He had a feeling they both needed it, despite their shared urge for adventure.
The Windermere was a tall, pale beige-brick building on a three-story limestone base, built in the 1920s. Exclusive and fancy in every way, it towered up into the bright blue sky, twenty-two stories high. Relatively small in contrast to New York’s genuine skyscrapers, but imposing and impressive due to its stylish architecture, occasional balconies and terraces, canopied entrance, decorative terracotta façade features, and its even, symmetrical window placement. Crowley smiled. Classy place.
He approached the doors and a concierge smiled and waved him in.
“I’m here to see Matthew Price,” Crowley said.
“Certainly, sir. And you are?”
“Jake Crowley.”
The concierge whispered into a telephone, then turned a hundred-watt smile back to Crowley. “The elevators are around that side. Go on up to the twentieth floor. Mr. Price is expecting you.”
“Thank you.”
As Crowley emerged on floor 20, Price was standing in his apartment doorway. “Good morning, dear boy. How are you?”
“I’m well, thanks. Good to see you.”
“Come in, come in.”
The apartment was epic in scale, and breathably open-plan. A large square window in one wall had breath-taking city views and let in plenty of natural light. There was no TV in the large living area, but two walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases jammed tight with hardcovers and paperbacks of every kind.
“Drink?” Price asked. “It’s a little early, perhaps, but I trust it’s after noon somewhere in the world.”
Crowley paused, thinking perhaps a drink was the worst thing given his lack of sleep the night before. Then again, if he was already thick-headed, what more damage could a drink do? “Sure, but just a small one.”
“Single-malt scotch? I have an excellent Balvenie here.”
“Lovely, thanks.”
While Price poured the drinks, Crowley walked slowly along the bookshelves, running his gaze over the titles. Lots of non-fiction, all kinds of historical and geographical tomes. Several sets of classics – Dickens, Shakespeare, Bronte, and more. Near the end of one shelf was a book turned face out on a small mahogany stand. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, in hardcover and absolutely mint condition. In fact, it looked almost brand new. The dustjacket was midnight blue, stylized female eyes and mouth over a brightly lit city, the title and author name in white text. Crowley had the feeling it was an old book, despite the incredible condition, but he couldn’t recall when it might have been published. He leaned in for a closer look, trying to remember when it was popular.
Price appeared beside him and handed over a cut glass crystal tumbler. Crowley took the drink and gently tapped glasses with his host. “Cheers.”
“Quite the treasure, that one,” Price said, looking at the old book.
“First edition?”
“Indeed. It wasn’t a best-seller when it was released, back in 1925. Only about 25,000 copies had sold by the time of the author’s death in 1940. But a genuine first edition with the dust jacket is a valuable item, especially in good condition. Firsts are always worth more, especially in the top bracket of condition like this one, but there’s another interesting facet to this book. There’s a typo on the back of the dust jacket. It says “jay Gatsby” with a lowercase j. It was corrected by hand with ink or a stamp wherever possible, but some sold without being fixed.”
“This is one of those?”
“It is. It also has quite a romantic history, this particular volume. The original owner bought it for his wife when it was first published, to read aloud to her as she was dying. Fitzgerald was her favorite author. He read it to her just that once, and she died soon after. It’s never been touched again in accordance with his will, except for being moved to this new shelf when ownership transferred after I acquired it.”
“It should be in a vault somewhere,” Crowley said quietly, touched by the tale. “Or at least in a protective case.”
“My apartment is well-sealed and climate controlled. I couldn’t bear to have the thing actually locked away. But it’s cared for, don’t worry about that.”
“Have you ever opened it, just to peek inside?”
Price smiled, shook his head. “It wouldn’t be right.”
They stared in silence for a moment, feeling the weight of history emanating from the simple object. Simple, Crowley mused, yet altogether magical as well. There was something touching about Price using his wealth on a thing so whimsical.
“Would you like to see the Golding?” Price asked.
“I would.”
Price led him to another set of shelving, with one section covered by glass doors. On a display stand inside was the book. Price opened the door and gestured for Crowley to take a look.
“You sure?”
“Your hands are clean and dry?”
Crowley grinned. “I think so, yes.”
“Then be my guest.”
Crowley gently lifted the book from its stand, marveling at the cover of long-leafed jungle vines. He loved this novel so much, the way it enthralled and disturbed him at the same time. He opened it carefully and sure enough, it was signed. The title page was simple enough. LORD OF THE FLIES across the top, then a stylized graphic, with
a novel by
WILLIAM GOLDING
beneath it. And under that the man’s signature, a clear cursive rendering of his name in pale blue fountain pen ink. Crowley stared, stunned by it. Golding had really held this very volume, put pen to it before he could ever have known how far-reaching this novel would become, what an impact it would have. School children around the world would read it and discuss its meanings, films would be made of the story.
He sensed Price beside him and looked up to see the man smiling warmly. “Quite something, no?”
“Astonishing,” Crowley said, reverently pacing the book back on its stand.
Price closed the door again as Crowley sipped his scotch.
“Would you like to own such a thing?” Price asked.
Crowley laughed. “I would, but I’d be terrified it might
come to harm. I don’t think I’m responsible enough.”
“Do you have a ‘Holy Grail’ book you’d like to own, other than that” Price asked. “If money were no object?”
Crowley thought about that, then said, “I’d love to have the pages of Carrie that Stephen King’s wife famously rescued from the garbage. Do you know the story? He’d been rejected several times, decided he was done with it, and threw the book away. But she took it back out of the bin and urged him to continue trying, to continue writing. And look where he ended up!”
“So many men are all the better for the women who support them,” Price said quietly.
“What about you? What’s your holy grail book? I’m guessing with you, maybe money is no object?”
Price smiled softly. “I’m comfortable, certainly, but I’m sure there are plenty of things I can’t afford. But for me, with books, it’s not a matter so much of cost, but of scarcity. I would love to have Edgar Allan Poe’s Masque Journal. Most people have never even heard of it, but it’s the journal Poe used while he was working on The Masque of the Red Death. Do you know his work?”
“I do. And I’ve read that several times. I have a couple of compendiums of Poe’s fiction at home. Nothing rare, of course, modern editions.”
Price pursed his lips, nodding subtly. “Hmm. Well, this journal reportedly contains his original ideas, research notes, early drafts of the story, and random free-form thoughts. It would be entirely fascinating, don’t you think?”
“I’ve never even heard of it,” Crowley said.
“Very few have.”
Crowley thought back to when he and Rose had first arrived in New York. He hadn’t ever heard of the journal Price referred to, but was it possible he’d seen it? Was it possible the very thing Price desired most in the world had been recently unearthed and Price had yet to hear about it? “You know, Rose and I saw a Poe journal a few days ago,” he said.
Price’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”
“We visited the Poe house on West 3rd Street, do you know it?”
“Of course.”
“Kind of lame, really. Bit of a letdown all around, but they’d just put a new journal on display a few weeks ago. A small, tatty leather-bound thing. They found it during repairs to an older part of the foundations below the house, bricked into a basement wall.” Crowley squinted, trying to remember the details, and realized Price was looking at him with undisguised intensity. “The university, I think,” he went on. “They uncovered a metal lockbox containing several items including the journal. But they said it was mostly indecipherable.”
Price chuckled and sipped at his scotch, though Crowley noticed his hand was trembling slightly. “Well,” he said after a moment. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
Chapter 18
Rose refused to give up on her suspicions about Matthew Price, but she decided to hold them a little closer to her chest in the future. She had to agree that if the man was insinuating himself into Great Aunt Trudy’s life, it was in Jake’s best interests to get to know Price as well as he could. It would be doing his aunt a great disservice to ignore the relationship. She just wished he would treat their new friendship with more caution.
But with this position in mind, she had met back up with Crowley after his visit and they enjoyed lunch together and laughed and joked. She told Crowley that her research had turned up another likely spot for the secret dungeon laboratory, and he had humored her. They decided the following day, they would visit Bannerman Island and its ruined castle. She felt it might be the last chance to unravel this mystery, and hoped it wouldn’t be another dead end. The rest of the day had been spent pleasantly relaxing and sightseeing, simply enjoying the chance to spend time together as if they really were tourists. That had been Crowley’s price for continuing her search and she had gladly paid it.
The next day started gray and overcast, a light drizzle making everything in the city dark and glistening, but it wasn’t cold. A light jacket was enough and they ignored the damp as they headed through the streets after breakfast. They picked up another hire car and Rose drove, following the Hudson River north out of the city up the Croton Expressway. They marveled at the sign for Sleepy Hollow along the way, Crowley wondering if it was the same one as the famous headless horseman tale. Further north they passed Peekskill and some fifty miles out of the city they stopped at Cold Spring where Crowley rented a canoe for the day, and strapped it to the hired SUVs roof rack. He took over the driving for the last bit past the Hudson Highlands, along the alarmingly named Breakneck Road. As they neared their target, Rose read from her research.
“It says here that the ruins on the island are the remnant of a Scotsman’s fortress called Bannerman Castle, which he built as an arsenal for his immense collection of weapons rather than as somewhere to live. There’s a sentence I never thought I’d say aloud. Public access was briefly permitted, but curtailed by Native American and Dutch settler’s fear of resident spirits and goblins.”
“Goblins?” Crowley asked with a laugh. “That’ll be a new one for us.”
Rose grinned, pleased they were having fun. “Fingers crossed, then. Maybe we can get a goblin familiar to help us out.”
“With what exactly?”
“No idea, but goblins must be useful for something, right? Anyway, access has been restricted since 1900 for more contemporary safety reasons.”
“Well, they could hardly admit to still being scared of goblins in this day and age.”
“Jake, will you forget about the damn goblins.”
He smiled, enjoying the absurdity. “You started it.”
“Okay, now I’m finishing it.” She scanned through her research a little further. “Apparently there’s a trust working on stabilizing the ruins now, with the hope of reopening the island to the public. It’s officially called Pollopel Island on maps. Six and three-quarter acres of mostly rock, about a thousand feet from the eastern shore of the Hudson. It says here to watch out for the current and make sure to put in north of the island when the current is flowing south.”
“Okay,” Crowley said. “We can do that.”
“The castle was built by Frank Bannerman VI, a Scottish patriot, proud of his descent from one of the few Macdonalds to survive the massacre at Glencoe in 1692.”
“It’s a hell of a story, that one,” Crowley said. “You know it?”
“Not really.”
“Well, in short, during the 1690s, the King of England demanded allegiance from the all the Scottish clans. Supposedly the Macdonalds were not too keen and delayed in giving the English their oath of loyalty. So on behalf of the Crown, the Campbells, a rival clan, set upon the McDonalds and slaughtered all the able-bodied men. Anyone aged between twelve or fourteen or something, and seventy. So pretty much every male past puberty.”
Rose remembered the story vaguely from history lessons and tapped away at her phone for a minute to check, then nodded. “You’re right. And it says here that one McDonald escaped the massacre and ran to the hills with the clan banner. From that day on, his family name was Bannerman.”
“Well, what do you know!”
“The Bannerman family emigrated in 1854, when Frank was three, and settled in Brooklyn. Frank joined the Union army during the Civil War, when he was only thirteen! But after the war, the U.S. government auctioned off military goods by the ton, mostly for scrap metal. Young Frank came to realize that much of what was being sold had a market value higher than scrap and Bannerman’s became the world’s largest buyer of surplus military equipment. Enterprising lad! Their storeroom and showroom took up a full block at 501 Broadway, and was opened to the public in 1905. According to the New York Herald, ‘No museum in the world exceeds it in the number of exhibits.’ Subsequently, Frank Bannerman married an Irish woman and they had three sons. After the Spanish American War, Bannerman bought 90 percent of all captured goods in a sealed bid, and he needed a secure place to store a large quantity of volatile black powder. His son, Davi
d, saw Pollopel Island in the Hudson, and Frank Bannerman bought it in 1900.”
“Imagine buying an island,” Crowley said. “Just like that, because you needed some space. It would be pretty cool!”
“Right? During the next seventeen years, Frank Bannerman personally designed the all island’s buildings, docks, turrets, garden walls and moat in the style of old Scottish castles, almost all of it without professional help from architects, engineers, or contractors. He’s quite the over-achiever, huh? It was elaborately decorated, with biblical quotations cast in all the fireplace mantles, and a shield between the towers with a coat of arms. The family sold Bannerman Castle to New York State in 1967. They ran tours for a short while, but on August 8, 1969, a fire destroyed all of the buildings. Since then, the Taconic State Parks Commission has declared it off limits. It says here people should not attempt to visit the island as it a full of buried hazards and unsafe walls, despite a lot of scaffolding trying to prop things up. It suggests taking a Hudson River cruise if you want to see it, and enjoying it from the safety of the water.”
“Well, we’re not going to spot dungeons from a river cruise, are we?” Crowley said with a grin.
Rose shared his excitement. Despite the dangers, she loved these adventures with him. “Let’s just be damned careful, okay? Pay special attention to where we step and stay away from the walls wherever we can.”
It turned out that parking the car out of sight and picking a good spot to enter the river far from prying eyes was easier than they thought it would be, and before long Crowley was hauling the canoe up on to the shore of Bannerman Island, breathing hard from the exertion of rowing against the current for the last few yards to make a good landing.
“Well done, soldier,” Rose said.
“Phew! I need to work out a bit more often. I’ve been lazy as hell lately.”
Rose wondered if he meant that or was genuinely unaware of the shape he was in. “Didn’t you recently swim a mile to an island?”
He laughed. “Sure, but I was puffed out.”