Book of Stolen Tales (8 page)

“Well, I appreciate your candor, Mr. Newhouse. Could you arrange for me to see him as soon as possible?”

Newhouse turned even paler. “I'm afraid not. Charles's shop was burgled last night and no one can find him. Terrible business. Blood at the scene. He's feared dead.”

Seven

N
ewhouse set up an appointment for me with Renwick's business partner, Tye Norris, at the publishing house they ran together. Norris reluctantly agreed to meet me later in the day after the police cleared the crime scene. With almost two hours to kill before I met him, I found a pub, and with a draft of crisp Wolf Ale before me, checked Interpol to see whether any of the volumes had been recovered. They hadn't.

I was quickly running out of options. I turned my attention to the topic of fairy tales in an attempt to discover why someone would go to such lengths to possess a rare and early version. The sum total of my knowledge about them is comparable to most people's: I first heard the stories as a child when I wouldn't have thought to question their meaning. Evelyn lovingly read to me from picture books every night before bed. I didn't know at the time that she couldn't read English. She made up the stories based on the illustrations. According to her, the Pied Piper kept rats as pets and stopped them from biting children with his music; Sleeping Beauty died because of her sins; Oscar Wilde's selfish giant was an evil Jinn. I realized how far some of her versions missed the mark only when I saw Disney's cartoons for the first time.

On my cell's Web browser, I used the rest of the time to refresh my memory about fairy-tale authors. People chatted amiably away in the background of the pleasant, old-fashioned pub as I settled into the comfortable leather bar stool, my elbows propped up on the mahogany counter, and began to read. According to one article, the first folklorist to put together a collection of tales was another Italian, Giovanni Francesco Straparola. His anthology,
The Facetious Nights of Straparola
, was divided into sections of twelve stories referred to as “nights,” similar to Basile's division of each volume into a “day.” Although I'd never have recognized it from the title, Straparola's story “Biancabella and the Snake” was a version of “Beauty and the Beast.” This in itself I found interesting. Like most people, I'd thought the famous fairy tales originated with the Grimm brothers.

I was on firmer ground when it came to Charles Perrault and remembered reading somewhere that his inspiration for Sleeping Beauty's castle was the Château d'Ussé overlooking the Indre Valley. His most famous stories included “Red Riding Hood,” “Cinderella,” “Puss in Boots,” and “Bluebeard.”

But when I think of fairy tales, it's still the Grimms who come first to my mind. I knew their stories although not much about their lives. The article described the brothers as serious scholars who promoted German culture and shared a mission to popularize folk literature, initially for adults. They collected oral stories from friends and colleagues and began to publish anthologies. Wilhelm did most of the writing and editing and transformed many of the tales by giving them a Germanic feel, adding Christian motifs and elements of pagan mythology. Apparently, the dark and explicit sexuality in some tales caused a furor among many German readers, so later, the Grimms tamed the stories and added moral lessons to them. I found the contrast between the two countries fascinating. Two hundred years earlier, far from offending any of his countrymen, Basile's own book of sensual tales was a runaway bestseller.

A Web search turned up portraits of both the author, Giambattista Basile, and the illustrator, José de Ribera.

I gasped at Basile's portrait. My theory about Alessio being a descendant of Basile's was spot on. They were mirror images of each other. Clearly, Alessio had stolen an object he considered his birthright.

By now it was late afternoon and the pub lights switched on. I shut offmy phone, finished my drink, and headed for the nearest tube stop.

After a long ride on a train crammed to the gills, I arrived at Southwark station and headed to the address where Newhouse told me I'd find Charles Renwick's business partner.

Southwark was so old it was referenced in the
Domesday Book
of 1086. Buildings burned to the ground in the Southwark fire of 1212 and hundreds of people died on the newly constructed London Bridge, caught between raging fires at both ends.

Home to the bawdy and licentious, the area once hosted both the red-light district and the infamous Marshalsea Prison, as well as the Rose and Globe theaters. The new Shakespeare's Globe Theatre and the Tate Modern set off a wave of gentrification. Pockets of rundown buildings remained, not yet assembled by some ambitious realtor. Renwick's business was located near Chancel Street in one of these, a dim corner composed of residences and aged commercial outlets.

C. Renwick Fine Books did not appear to be a thriving publishing house. It was an old two-story structure of bricks so sooty it looked as if the facade hadn't been touched since the Great Fire. The front window was streaked with dust; a dirty white blind obscured the view inside. The nameplate beside the door had the dull greenish tinge of brass that hadn't seen a cleaning cloth for years.

Something else sparked my interest. A small carved stone figure dangled from an aluminum bracket over the door, a Babylonian amulet intended to ward offdemons. Strange to see such an exotic charm hanging here. I tapped the enameled horse-head knocker and waited.

I heard a shuffling sound inside. A hand shifted the blind. A gnome-like, white-haired fellow peered out at me and promptly dropped the blind. After much clicking of locks and sliding of bolts the door opened. The man stood to one side so I could enter. “Do come in, Mr. Madison,” he said. “I was told to expect you.”

In stark contrast to the exterior, the front room was attractive and orderly. A polished oak floor and elegant William Morris Acanthus wallpaper of intertwined leaves fit well with the room's antique furniture. Edwardian lamps with cut-glass shades cast a gentle ambient light. Against the back and east walls handsome walnut display cases held what I presumed were the firm's published books. They stood on tilted wooden stands to reveal illustrated pages. My eye caught an edition of Hans Christian Andersen's
The Little Mermaid
, its gorgeously designed first letter,
F
, with a mermaid ingeniously curled around its tail.

Smashed glass on one of the cases reminded me about last night's violence. Purplish dust lay over many of the surfaces in the room.

Norris saw me observing it. “Newhouse told you about our burglary, I understand. The police technicians have been over everything for fingerprints. That purple stuff will be the devil to clean off. They've cleared it now—the police—and given me permission to get on with things. Not that I have the heart to without Charles, mind you.”

I smiled sympathetically, imagining how shaken up the old fellow must be. “Arthur Newhouse told me about the break-in. Is there any news yet of Mr. Renwick?”

The poor man looked as if he hadn't slept for a week. When he spoke, his lips quivered. “No word. Nothing at all. I'm not quite sure what to do.” His glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them back with a weary sigh. “Charles was here at the time of the robbery—that much we do know. I spoke to him on the phone right before it happened. He was just putting on his coat, getting ready to leave.” He looked around. “I've not been able to touch the floor, although he would be most distressed if he saw this mess.”

Glancing at the shards of glass on the hardwood, I noticed a rivulet of dried blood in one corner. It ran underneath the display case.

“We'd best talk in the shop,” Norris said flatly. “I find it too upsetting to stay for long in this room.”

Norris locked up and led me through a double set of leaded-pane doors. The “shop,” as he called it, yawned in front of us, a vast space at least sixty feet deep. Two massive, antiquated printing presses stood off to one side. Norris explained that a large copper vat sitting on a heating coil was a paper digester. One wall held high banks of narrow metal trays in different sizes. These were shut, so I couldn't see what they contained. I guessed printing plates and movable type. Several large rectangular tables had been placed side by side and stacked with papers of all kinds, colored leather hides, spools, cutting tools, and implements associated, I assumed, with various elements of the printing process. The place had the vaguely musty but pleasant smell of an old bookstore, the only modern touch, rows of Phantom LED linear lighting strips overhead.

“Those lights are the closest approximation to sunlight we could find,” Norris said when he noticed me looking at them. “Charles abhorred fluorescents. He believed they distorted one's vision and hence affected the quality of the final printed page. Candescents are just as bad and ultraviolet destroys books.” He looked at me over the top of his glasses. “Before we get started, may I offer you a cup of tea? I've just made a fresh pot.”

“That would be great. Th anks.”

He went over to a small cabinet that held a sink for washing up, a hot plate with a kettle, and a coffee maker. Something about him bothered me. He seemed familiar but I was certain I'd never met him. And then it struck me. He bore an astounding resemblance to Pinocchio's Geppetto. The kindly Geppetto with the black brows, glasses tucked on his bulbous red nose, sturdy mustache, and constant expression of delighted surprise. Norris was practically a carbon copy.

“Did Newhouse tell you about the theft when he called earlier? Of the book I won for Mr. Renwick, I mean.”

Norris, I sensed, was normally a cheerful person and likely had trouble expressing negativity; still my question caused him to purse his lips in a slight frown. “Yes, indeed he did. Two thefts in one night. And both associated with Charles. Just awful. Not a coincidence, do you think?”

“Far from it. In fact I think they may have been committed by the same man.” I thought of the woman posing as a New York cop and corrected myself. “If not one man then a group working together.” The room felt cool and I felt glad of the hot tea. I wrapped my hands around the mug to warm them. “Were valuable books taken from here as well?”

“Just a minute, and I'll show you what they stole.” Norris opened one of the lower trays in a cabinet, pulled out a file, and handed it to me. “Not books. But they did take this. One of the valuables Charles had from the time he was a boy living in the Orient—the Near East rather; I suppose that's the correct term to use now. He kept it on display in the front room.”

I looked at the photograph. I had no idea what to make of the strange-looking circular stone, although I immediately recognized the markings as cuneiform writing. I held the photograph up to the light to get a better look. “Do you know what it is?”

Norris shook his head. “Can't tell you. Renwick himself didn't know its exact purpose but it was a prized object. He went over there this past August.”