Murder at Teatime (7 page)

“One of the legendary moments in book-collecting annals,” said Felix.

He proceeded to tell another tale involving a rare seed catalogue that MacMillan needed to complete a collection of early American nurseryman’s catalogues, a special interest of his. Thornhill was the victor in an auction room duel for the catalogue, but he paid a price many times more than what it was worth. “In the huddle following the sale, our dear host was asked why he paid so much,” Felix wound up. “He replied, ‘Because MacMillan wanted it.’”

“Ha,” said Thornhill, slapping his thigh with delight at the conclusion of the story. “I got him, didn’t I?”

Thornhill was a man for whom revenge was sweet, thought Charlotte.

“But my dear Herr Professor, he got the better of you later on, didn’t he?” said Felix. “With
Der Gart.
”

“What’s the story of
Der Gart?
” asked John eagerly.

“You tell it, Felix. You do it so much better than I,” said Thornhill, who was obviously enjoying himself.

“The book was
Der Gart der Gesundheit
, or
The Garden of Health
, an herbal printed in Mainz in 1485 by Peter Schoeffer, Gutenberg’s son-in-law,” said Felix. “A book of extraordinary beauty and rarity, indisputably the most important of the herbal incunabula.”

“Incunabula?” said Charlotte.

“It refers to the earliest printed books—those books printed before 1500,” explained Thornhill.

She nodded.

“It was to go on the block at a London auction house,” Felix continued. “It was the kind of book that comes on the market perhaps only once in a decade.” He suddenly brought his fist down on the table like a gavel, rattling the silverware. “Within seconds of opening, the bidding was up to five thousand pounds. Which was all well and good except for one thing: two people had bid the same amount simultaneously and neither of them would yield.”

“MacMillan and Dr. Thornhill?” asked Daria.

“Exactly. Mr. MacMillan held tight because he thought a break in the deadlock would run the price up, and our dear host held tight because he had promised himself he wouldn’t pay any more than that. The auctioneer bullied, he wheedled, he told stories—nothing worked.”

Thornhill was sitting with his forehead cradled in his palms as if the mere memory of the event were painful.

“What happened?” asked Daria.

“First I’ll tell you where each of them was sitting. Mr. MacMillan was sitting at the front of the room and our dear host was sitting at the back. What happened was this: the auctioneer invoked an obscure rule which holds that the lot goes to the bidder who is sitting
nearest
the platform.”

“And MacMillan got the book,” said Daria.

“
Ja
. But what was so galling to our dear host was that he was outsmarted. You see, Mr. MacMillan knew about the rule.”

“I vowed that from that day forward I’d never lose my nerve again when it came to a book I wanted,” said Thornhill. “And I never have.”

“‘It is not the yielding to temptation that oppresses me, but oh, the remorse for the times I yielded not,’ eh Herr-Professor?” said Felix with a chuckle.

Thornhill nodded.

“The upshot of the story is that this precious book is now a part of our dear host’s collection, along with four other prize herbals from the MacMillan collection,” continued Felix. “They are worth at least five times as much today. They are the
crème de la crème
of the early herbals.”

“How did they come to be part of your collection?” asked John.

“That’s another story,” replied Thornhill as he refilled his pipe with tobacco from a leather pouch. “I had offered many times to buy MacMillan’s early herbals, but he had always turned me down. Until he astonished me one day by calling me up and offering to sell them to me.”

“Why?” asked Daria.

“He was dying, but I didn’t know that at the time. He had no descendants to leave his collection to. So he sold me the herbals, and left the rest of his collection to the botanical society.”

“It has always puzzled me, this decision to sell his prizes,” said Felix. “Especially to his rival. The real collector would rather give his collection away intact than sell it piecemeal. Many of our greatest libraries owe their existence to a collector’s reluctance to break up a lifetime’s work.”

“Yes,” agreed John. “It seems out of character.”

“He thought they’d be going to someone who’d appreciate them,” explained Thornhill. “I’ll never forget him sitting in his wheelchair in his library in that big old barn of a mansion in Worcester. ‘Frank,’ I remember him saying to me, ‘Take care of them. They are my children.’”

“My children,” harrumphed Felix. He continued: “A great collector. The irony is that he had begun work on a catalogue of his collection shortly before he learned of his illness. In fact, I think it was about to go to the printer’s when he died. Christmas Eve, 1959, as I recall.”

“What’s ironical about that?” asked John.

“That he began work on it when he did. You see, the decision to publish a catalogue often signals the end of a collecting career. It stamps a collection with the imprimatur of completeness. Alas, in his case, this was sadly true.”

Thornhill looked up. “Aha, here comes Mrs. Harris with our lunch.”

The entire length of the rear of the house was taken up by a screened veranda whose columns of native stone supported a series of second-story porches. A gray-haired woman with a bouffant hairdo was unsteadily trying to maneuver a tea wagon through one of the veranda doors.

Thornhill jumped up to help her. “Let me give you a hand, Grace,” he said, taking charge of the wagon.

“Why, thank you, Frank,” she replied in a deep Southern drawl. Removing her rhinestone-studded glasses, she fluttered her eyelashes at Thornhill.

Charlotte pegged her as the type of Southern woman for whom flirting is as natural as breathing, whatever the age or social position.

Replacing her glasses, Grace turned back to the wagon. She wore a blue pants suit and a flowered blouse with a pert bow at the throat. Clearly she considered herself a cut above the ordinary domestic servant.

“Mrs. Harris, I’d like you to meet Miss Charlotte Graham,” said Thornhill as they reached the table.

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” she said with a shaky half-curtsy. She smiled blankly at Charlotte.

Also the kind of cook for whom sampling the sauce is as much a part of the job as salting the stew, thought Charlotte as she returned the greeting.

“Well, Grace,” said Thornhill, resuming his seat. “What’s it to be today?”

Reaching into her pocket, Grace withdrew a slip of paper and read in a high, quavering voice: “Rosemary and sorrel soup, chicken fricassee with tarragon, herb pilaf, mint puff biscuits, and strawberry-rhubarb pie.”

“Everyone is in for a big treat,” said Thornhill as Grace served the dishes. “Mrs. Harris is one of the finest cooks north of the Mason-Dixon line.” He went on to explain that she had run a small restaurant in town that was famous for its home cooking. When the restaurant became too much for her (Charlotte translated this to:
when the booze became too much for her
), she’d gone to work at Ledge House, where she had taken an interest in cooking with herbs. She had published several pamphlets of herb recipes.

“Upon my word, Frank, you do go on so,” said Grace after he had finished praising her talents. Then she addressed the guests: “Now, you all enjoy your dinner.” With that, she pivoted on her heel and headed into the house, as if exhausted by the strain of social intercourse.

“I think you’ll find it delicious,” said Thornhill. “Even up to your gourmet standards, Felix.”

“What is the most expensive book you’ve ever handled, Mr. Mayer?” asked Daria as the guests turned to their meal, which was as delicious as promised.

“That’s easy. The Gutenberg Bible—the most coveted of all books. I consider it the high point of my career. There are only forty-seven copies extant, all of which are now in institutions.”

“May I ask how much you sold it for?” asked Charlotte.

“Ach, that’s a sensitive point, Miss Graham.”

“Why is that?”

“I sold it to a German museum for two point two million.”

“That seems like a substantial enough sum to me.”

“But you see, I had purchased it for the same price.” He sighed. “The economy turned sour after I bought it, and I was unable to sell at a profit. I held onto it for as long as I could, but I finally had to say to myself: ‘Felix, you are a bookseller, not a book collector.’ So I sold.” He washed down a mouthful of chicken with a swallow of Scotch. “But meanwhile, I had the pleasure of being the owner of the most beautiful book ever printed.”

“I agree that it’s the most beautiful book ever printed,” said Thornhill. “But I am proud to say that I am the owner of the second most beautiful book ever printed:
Der Gart
, printed by Gutenberg’s son-in-law. The herbals were the first books to be printed after the Bibles,” he explained. “But unlike the Bibles, they didn’t survive in large numbers. They were used so heavily that they fell apart. Those that did survive are often in poor condition.”

“
Ja
”, said Felix. “The Thornhill collection not only includes some of the greatest prizes among the herbal incunabula, it also includes copies in unusually fine condition. Unfortunately,” he continued between bites, “good copies are disappearing from the market. The day is rapidly approaching when all the early herbals will be in institutions as well.”

“In my opinion, that’s where they should be,” interjected John. “With all due respect to Frank, I think it’s a shame these books are still in private hands. Some are the only copies in the country.”

“Ach, my dear young man,” said Felix, wagging his finger under John’s nose. “You are being most ungracious. Scholars such as yourself owe a debt of gratitude to collectors such as our dear host. Private collections have formed the foundations of the world’s greatest libraries.”

“It’s true,” said Daria.

“If it weren’t for collectors,” continued Felix, “books such as these would be scattered all over the world, of little use to anyone.”

“Of what use are they here?” asked John with a lopsided grin. “Stuck away in an unlocked vault. In addition to being inaccessible, they are vulnerable to deterioration and theft. There are no climate controls here, no security precautions. In my opinion, they’d be much better off in a library.”

“In a library,” snorted Thornhill. “That’s where they’d be vulnerable. If they weren’t stolen, they’d be defaced by some juvenile delinquent. I know what you think, John,” he continued as he passed around the serving dishes for seconds. “But you forget that my collection is not inaccessible.”

John looked skeptical.

“You, young man, are a case in point. Anyone—scholar or not—is welcome to apply to use my collection.”

“Apply. That’s just my point,” said John. He leaned his gangly frame back in his chair and crossed a lean, pale leg over a knobby knee. “Besides, you can hardly say that your collection is accessible in such a remote location.”

“First, young man,” said Thornhill patronizingly, “I have never denied anyone access to my collection. Second, geographic inaccessibility is a relative concept. My collection is more accessible to someone from New England than a collection in California. And third, by granting you the liberty”—he stressed the word
liberty
—“of computerizing the contents of my herbals, I am making them more accessible than they would be in a public institution.”

With the exception of Felix, who looked as if he could go on forever, the guests had finished eating. Charlotte leaned back: she was unusually relaxed amid the interesting conversation, good food, and delightful surroundings.

Thornhill collected the empty plates, along with congratulations for the cook, and took orders for pie and coffee, which were waiting on a serving tray.

The debate continued over dessert, with Thornhill and John tilting at each other with the academic’s dispassionate enjoyment in argument for argument’s sake. Taking advantage of a lull in the verbal jousting, Felix asked John about his work.

“Before my esteemed colleague launches into his self-serving paean to the computer age,” interjected Thornhill, “may I ask who would like more coffee?”

Receiving answers in the affirmative, he poured the coffee and cut another slice of pie for Felix—his third.

“It’s very simple,” replied John finally. “My esteemed colleague, while acknowledging that these herbals have provided us with some of the most potent drugs in our pharmacological armory, views them as historical curiosities: quaint repositories of superstition, magic, and folklore, whose usefulness to mankind has long been exhausted. I, on the other hand, see them as guides to the wealth of therapeutic possibilities that still lie hidden in nature.”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” said Felix. “Do you mean these herbals are important in helping science to find new drugs?”

“Don’t worry,” said Daria. “He speaks academicese. If you stick with it long enough, you’ll get a translation.”

“Sorry,” said John. “Yes. And in helping to test the old ones. Most of the world still relies on herbs to treat disease. Western medicine is simply too expensive to meet the world’s health needs. Instead of dismissing herbs as hocus-pocus, Western scientists have to face the fact that herbal medicine constitutes a health-care system and that, as such, it deserves to be scientifically analyzed for safety and effectiveness.”

“Very interesting,” said Felix, who was still eating.

“Much more progress along these lines is being made in the Communist countries, where the development of new drugs isn’t dependent on the profit-making motive,” John continued. “The Communist governments are backing a concerted effort to search the plant kingdom for new therapeutic agents, particularly those with anti-viral and anti-cancer properties.”

He cast a sidelong look at Thornhill, who was puffing pensively on his pipe. Charlotte bet that praising the Communists would be equivalent to waving the red flag in front of the bull in more than just one sense. Thornhill was a diehard old Yankee conservative if ever there was one.