Comes a Stranger (3 page)

By the terms of his will, however, Mr. Kayne, always haunted by that vision of a possible spendthrift husband for his daughter, or of one more interested in the cash value of books than in the books themselves, had given a right of inspection to the ultimate heir, his brother, Nathaniel Kayne, and to Sir William Winders, a rival collector, part dearest friend and colleague, part deadliest enemy and hated and dreaded rival. These two had power, acting jointly, if they were not satisfied with the upkeep of the library or the general results of the sales and purchases effected, to ask the Courts to order a formal inquiry, though with the provision that they were to be personally responsible for the costs if the investigation proved without reasonable grounds.

The general effect was that the library remained the sole property of Miss Kane for life except on clear proof of serious mal-administration and that all her rights and powers were in fact exercised in her name by Mr. Broast.

After her death, if she died unmarried or without male issue, the library was to pass to Nathaniel Kayne, the testator's brother, to him and his heirs direct in the male line, always under the same strict precautions to provide for proper maintenance. On any failure in administration, or any failure in the male Kayne line, the library passed to the University of Wales, that being selected as a young foundation comparatively badly off and by no means likely to let slip any chance of securing such a treasure as the Kayne library.

In drawing up his will, old Mr. Kayne had evidently had two main ideas: one that for as long as possible the Kayne family, and the other that it should never suffer the usual fate of private libraries and be dispersed by public auction. The testator's brother, the Nathaniel Kayne mentioned in the will, had been dead a good many years, but his rights and duties under the will had passed to his son and heir, the Nathaniel Kayne mentioned by Miss Perkins to Olive, and of whom it was generally believed, since he was known to be in need of money, that the moment he came into possession he would sell his rights, as the will permitted to be done, to the Welsh University.

In spite of a general belief that Mr. Broast held his position by right under the will, that somewhat lengthy and verbose document made no mention of him, except once or twice in reference to the advice that might be given by the librarian. He remained, as he had been under old Mr. Kayne, an employee subject to the usual notice of dismissal, but in practice he acted as the owner, merely asking Miss Kayne for her signature to documents when it was necessary in law, but otherwise acting entirely on his own responsibility. He even resented the monthly inspections Sir William Winders and Mr. Nathaniel Kayne had power to carry out, and that they seldom omitted, for Sir William lived in hopes of finding out something which would enable him to get Mr. Broast dismissed, and himself, or a nominee of his own, placed in charge, and Nathaniel would have been equally glad of a chance to negotiate on a cash basis with the university authorities. Inspection days, therefore, tended to be days of open battle, and on them, as Mr. Broast's secretary and assistant, Miss Perkins, had remarked, Mr. Broast's temper was apt to be distinctly uncertain.

So far, however, the hopes of Sir William, the expectations of Nathaniel, had remained unsatisfied. Impossible to find any fault with a management at once scholarly, efficient and financially successful. Mr Broast seemed, indeed, to have inherited old Mr. Kayne's flair for sensational discoveries in the book world, and only two or three years previously had purchased for a low figure and sold for a sum large enough to cover all library costs for some years, the prayer book used by Bishop Juxon at the execution of Charles the First together with the Bishop's own copy of that one time best seller; the
Eikon Basiliké
, of which some sixty editions and translations appeared within a year of the king's death, a record to arouse the envy of even a twentieth century best selling novelist. The copy had, too, a feature of extraordinary interest in that on the fly leaf, beneath the Bishop's signature, had been written the word ‘Remember' by apparently the Bishop's own hand. It was a word, since it presumably referred to the one mysterious injunction given by the king to the bishop on the scaffold itself, that according to report had added a couple of thousand pounds to the value of the book. True, the authenticity of the prayer book had been disputed, but the pedigree of the
Eikon Basiliké
seemed satisfactory, though it was only Mr. Broast who had appreciated the unique interest of that ‘Remember', or had identified the crabbed, difficult signature as that of the Bishop.

Another clause in the will provided that the library had to be open to the public once a month, so that the ordinary citizen, too, might have a chance to wonder at and admire so many bookish treasures. It was not a privilege, however, that the ordinary citizen ever showed any great eagerness to exercise. On some of these monthly open days only one or two visitors put in an appearance, though occasionally there would be an influx when char-a-bancs would arrive with bands of tourists or sometimes with chattering companies of schoolgirls.

These days, too, were a sad trial to poor Mr. Broast, interfering with his work, breaking in on the solitude and peace he loved, keeping him in a flutter of anxiety lest some precious book or manuscript might disappear or some act of vandalism be perpetrated. He mobilized the whole household on these occasions to act as watchdogs. Even poor Miss Kayne herself, grumbling and reluctant, was uprooted from her favourite chair to sit at the entrance and see that all visitors duly signed the great visitor's book, while Mr. Broast, his little secretary, Miss Perkins, Briggs, the butler, kept constant watch and ward. Even the cook and the maids were called on at times, though Mr. Broast never felt that they were a remedy likely to be much better than the disease. As for Miss Perkins, she generally ended the day under notice of dismissal, though that was never mentioned again, since it would have been impossible to find anyone else so willing, so industrious, so prepared to be entirely at Mr. Broast's beck and call—and above all, so cheap.

“A fool, a giggling little fool,” Mr. Broast would snort indignantly; “totally uneducated—doesn't know a word of Greek or Hebrew, didn't even know what a colophon was or a signature when she came. But no worse than most other giggling fools of girls.”

He never added that she was content with a salary of twenty-five shillings a week, was prepared to work all hours and every day, and seemed willing to endure the worst edge of his sharp tongue and general bad temper.

In fairness, though, it must be agreed that Mr. Broast's monthly fits of nervous anxiety had some justification. There was the awful occasion when a young woman visitor had been found lighting a cigarette in one of the book recesses!! One prefers not to dwell upon the subsequent scene. Mr. Broast's pet nightmare was fire. He even refused to have artificial lighting in his beloved library. Work after dark had to be done by the light of portable electric torches, of which a supply was always kept on hand—though in the house, not the library. Warmth in winter, recognized as necessary, not for the human element but to preserve the books from the effects of damp, was provided by hot water pipes, Mr. Broast feeling that hot water was little likely to cause fire. One can imagine, therefore, his emotion when he was someone actually holding a lighted match to a glowing cigarette, the match no doubt to be thrown, still burning, on the floor, the cigarette end destined most likely for some waste paper basket.

There had been further complications, too, when the girl's father brought an action for assault and battery. Altogether a most unfortunate episode. Again, only three or four months ago, the glass of the show case enclosing the
Second Glastonbury Psalter
had been mysteriously broken, nor had the culprit ever been discovered. The sound of the smash had brought Mr. Broast and Miss Perkins and one or two visitors, those near enough to hear, running at full speed, in time certainly to frustrate any attempt at theft if that had been contemplated, though the Psalter itself did not seem to have been touched, but not quickly enough to catch the culprit. Presumably the guilty person had instantly fled elsewhere, perhaps down to the cellar where an old fifteenth century printing press was always an attraction. Anyhow, he had never been identified, but the incident had been disquieting. It had to be admitted, therefore, that Mr. Broast had some excuse for his displays of nerves on open days, though, as little Miss Perkins remarked between two giggles, that was no reason for being rude to visitors or for refusing permission to use the library to readers and scholars whose credentials did not happen to quite satisfy him.

Bobby, only mildly interested in even the rarest and most precious of books, would have preferred a quiet stroll with Olive to the library inspection, for which Mr. Broast had just given what was apparently so rare and gracious a permission. But for one thing rain was threatening, and after all the Kayne library was famous the world over and worth a visit. Besides, certain reminiscences of libraries he had known in his Oxford days suggested that this one, too, might provide quiet and unobserved nooks and corners, where it would be possible to persuade Olive to turn her attention from bibliographic to more personal subjects. As they made their way down the long corridor that led from the room where Miss Kayne usually spent her days to the door—fireproof—admitting to the library annexe, he said to Olive:

“Miss Kayne seems a queer old bird. She informed me she had committed a murder once.”

“What?” exclaimed Olive, startled.

“I suppose it was some kind of joke,” observed Bobby doubtfully. “I couldn't see the point.”

“I don't think murder's anything to joke about,” declared Olive, shivering slightly at memories still vivid.

“She said that was why she was interested in your being engaged to a detective,” observed Bobby. He added complainingly: “Everyone in the blessed place seems to know all about me. There was an old boy at lunch at the Wynton Arms wanted to know if it was true I belonged to the C.I.D.”

“A little man with grey hair and a big nose and horn spectacles?” Olive asked. “That would be Mr. Adams. He came here specially to see something in the library, and Mr. Broast wouldn't let him. There was an awful scene.”

“Why did Broast object, do you know?”

“Oh, it was something rather specially precious, and Mr. Broast says he doesn't know Mr. Adams, and Mr. Adams has no credentials, and he's not going to let every Tom, Dick, and Harry paw over things they don't understand and can't appreciate, and Mr. Adams—well, Miss Perkins says she thought murder was going to be done, only finally Mr. Adams went away, and now he is waiting for credentials to show he really is a serious student. He had to send to America for them, and he's awfully furious. There was another scene with Miss Kayne, but she wouldn't interfere, she never does.”

“I suppose that's what he meant,” Bobby remarked. “I gathered he thought I ought to go and arrest somebody, but I couldn't make out who or why. Then another fellow started to pump me. I had to shut him up. A long-legged fellow, rather good looking, fair. An American, too, I should say.”

“He sounds like a boy I saw in the village last night, after Sir William Winders called to give inspection notice. He has to do that you know, or probably Mr. Broast wouldn't let him in. It's a sort of general armed neutrality among them all, at least when it's nothing worse.”

“Well, this chap seemed to want to know a lot. Told me America was just crazy about Scotland Yard, and I told him that was just too nice, but if he wanted to know anything he must make written application. We weren't allowed to talk. That choked him off, it always does if you talk about written application.”

“I wonder what he's here for,” Olive said. She went on: “I'm not sure, but I think I saw someone like him prowling about outside the library the other night.”

“Did you though? Can he be up to anything?”

“Mr Broast is awfully nervous about burglars,” Olive remarked. “Not so much about fire, though. You don't think this man's a burglar, do you?”

“Oh, I expect he's all right,” agreed Bobby. “I didn't recognize him, and he didn't look like a crook, but then crooks never do. It's only that he seemed to want to know such a lot. It's all a bit queer—and then Miss Kayne making silly jokes about murderers. You've known her a good time, haven't you?”

“Ever since I was quite a kiddy. Poor Peter's father was doing my portrait—it's at the Tate now, but they don't show it because it's supposed to be so old-fashioned. He was doing old Mr. Kayne at the same time, and Miss Kayne used to come to the studio with her father. She used to give me chocolates and pet me, and afterwards she had me here sometimes for holidays, after mother went to live abroad. But after I joined mother I didn't hear of her again for a long time—not till she read about our engagement in one of the papers. When I saw her again I hardly knew her,” Olive added. “She used to be ever so pretty.”

“Who? Miss Kayne?” Bobby asked incredulously.

“Well, come and look,” Olive said.

They had been talking in the corridor, and now she led him back a few steps and into the dining-room. A portrait hung there, above the fireplace. It showed a lively, pleasant-faced, good-looking girl with small, regular features and a rather charming air of friendly eagerness, as of one hurrying to say ‘Yes' to life and all that it might bring Bobby, staring at it wonderingly, could vaguely trace a sort of dim resemblance to the swollen features and enormous bulk of the old woman he had seen, ponderous and silent in her great oak chair. He said:

“That's not Miss Kayne, is it?”

Olive nodded.

“Peter's father did that, too,” she said slowly.

“But—well, how old… I mean…”

He did not say what he meant, but Olive understood.