The Bookman's Tale (15 page)

H
e saw her for the first time seated before a canvas by John Everett Millais at the Royal Academy exhibit of 1875. He had come to the exhibit on his way to meet with his favorite bookseller, Benjamin Mayhew, with whom he would arrange the purchase of a rare document. Phillip Gardner had once hoped that his own work might hang on the walls of a London gallery, but he had come to accept, after repeated rejections by both the Royal Academy and the Historical Watercolour Society, that he had no great talent as an artist. His technical abilities were unmatched—and had he not had the foresight to marry as he did, he might have scratched out a reasonable living as a copyist—but he lacked the artist’s vision to create original work. Rejected by the art world, he painted his mediocre watercolors in private, hung them on the walls of his country home, and paid an annual visit to the Royal Academy to remind himself of his own shortcomings. Every year he walked through the rooms, occasionally stopping at a canvas that had attracted a crowd to see if he could detect what made it so special. He never could.

In her gloved hands she clutched a small booklet that appeared to be heavily marked with underlinings and marginalia. She was a tall woman, stately, Phillip would have said, with dark hair and an intensity to her stare that he found both riveting and unnerving. The lines of her face were sharp and angular, yet her dress clearly contained the curves of a woman. Phillip was not in the habit of staring at women in public. Though his marriage was a sham that provided him with an income and his wife with a country home, he was able to obtain whatever sexual relief he required with a few shillings and a walk to a certain street near Covent Garden. So he could not have said why, exactly, this woman fascinated him—perhaps because she was as still as the figure in the painting, or because she seemed so confidently self-possessed. Or because she was so obviously alone.

Her eyes were fixed on the canvas, and did not seem to flinch when another exhibit goer juxtaposed himself between her and the image of a man, who looked something like a toreador, carrying a woman up a rocky path. The woman’s hands were linked behind the man’s neck, and her face, visible over his shoulder, did not seem to indicate, as far as Phillip could tell, whether she was being kidnapped, rescued, or merely carried up the hill from a picnic because she had hurt her ankle. Phillip must have spent longer than he had intended trying to puzzle out the possibilities, for when he heard a voice at his side, he realized that the woman he had been watching had risen from her seat and was addressing him.

“Ruskin doesn’t like it,” she said, still looking at the painting but holding up her booklet. “He says it’s a defect of industry that one lover should have a body without a face and the other a face without a body.” Phillip was taken aback that an unaccompanied woman should so brazenly address an unaccompanied man in public, but this breach of protocol was tempered in his mind by other factors. First, she was, much to his surprise, an American. Second, she was clearly intelligent—and intelligent conversation with a woman was something he sorely missed since the twin tragedies of his sister’s death and his own wedding. Third, and perhaps most overpowering, was her intoxicating aroma—he didn’t know how to describe it, but her scent enveloped him as he turned to look at her, and he knew at that moment that he had to have her.

“Are they lovers?” he asked. “I wasn’t sure.”

“Well of course they are,” she said with a laugh. “It’s called ‘The Crown of Love.’ ” She took a step closer to the painting and squinted at the canvas, then turned back to him and fixed him with her eyes for the first time. “But I see what you mean. They could just as easily be enemies. It’s a fine line.”

Phillip Gardner was too delighted to have his own ignorance misconstrued as a keen critical eye to realize that he had an uncanny ability to confuse love and danger.

P
eter spent the night at an anonymous hotel near Heathrow airport—he had driven from Hay toward London but had no wish to navigate the metropolitan traffic. He would park his car at the airport and take the tube into town. He slept little, and not just because he was trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the supposedly mortal enemies Julia Alderson and Thomas Gardner were apparently in cahoots. Had the man at church who had cited
Romeo and Juliet
in describing the “ancient grudge” between the two families been more accurate than he knew? Peter felt he was beginning to detect a plot.

Somehow Julia and Thomas meet and fall in love. They are kept apart not just by their families’ feud but by Thomas Gardner’s poverty. Julia uncovers a rare book in which a famous Victorian forger has scrawled marginalia in the hand of William Shakespeare. She hears that an American bookseller is living nearby. She and her beloved plot to dupe this American into selling the
Pandosto
at an enormous price to an unsuspecting client, so they can afford to rebuild Evenlode House and live happily ever after, despite the scorn of their surviving kin. But what if the American bookseller detected the forgery? How far would they go to protect their plan? Peter needed to find out everything he could about the
Pandosto
, but he also needed to go back to Evenlode Manor as soon as possible and pretend nothing was wrong.

That morning Peter would go to the one place where he might be able to get some answers—the British Museum. When he and Amanda had first come to England on their honeymoon, Francis Leland had arranged for Peter to meet Nigel Cook, a librarian at the British Museum. “You’ve got to have a contact there if you’re going to deal in English literature,” Francis had said. “They have things there you won’t find anywhere else.” It had seemed odd to spend an afternoon of their honeymoon in the musty rooms and cluttered offices of the book department—not exactly as romantic as the boat ride to Kew Gardens or the dinner at the Savoy—but Peter had indulged Amanda’s passions as she made her first visit to the Tate and the Victoria and Albert Museum. She was happy to do the same for Peter, letting him grip her hand with nervousness and excitement as Nigel Cook led them through a maze of rooms into his office.

Nigel had given Peter one of the great bibliographical thrills of his life—on a par with his first encounter with the bad quarto of
Hamlet
. He had allowed Peter to handle a manuscript from the library of Robert Cotton—an eleventh-century stunningly illuminated Psalter that, according to a Latin inscription, was connected to Winchester Cathedral and Bishop William of Wykeham. Nigel had also given Peter and Amanda a brief tour of the facilities—the cataloging rooms, the areas for visiting researchers, a laboratory for testing ink and paper, and a conservation lab much like the one at Ridgefield.

“If there’s ever anything I can do for you,” said Nigel as he bade them good-bye back in the public galleries, “don’t hesitate to call.” He had presented a business card and Peter had stashed it in his wallet. Seven years later it was still there.

—

P
eter phoned Nigel from the hotel room at 9:05. He hesitated to press the final digit of the number, the familiar fear of contact rising within him, but he wiped his damp palm on the duvet, and completed the call. Nigel remembered him immediately and unquestioningly agreed to provide what Peter asked for. Of course Peter had not told Nigel the whole truth. It would have been unfair to make the librarian keep such a secret.

“I have an early edition of
Pandosto
,” Peter said, “possibly unrecorded.” Nigel had agreed to provide Peter with the museum’s unique but incomplete copy of the first edition and a Hinman collator. The lab, Nigel said, would be happy to do a paper and ink analysis. They should be able to get results in a few days.

“And, Peter,” said Nigel, “it’s nice to hear from you. I spoke to Francis a couple of months ago and he seemed worried about you. Are you all right?”

Peter was surprised at the careful consideration he gave this question. He had certainly made great strides in the past few days—striking up conversations with total strangers on purpose, delving back into the book world, allowing a new passion to pull him out of his secret lair. But to say he was all right—that was taking things a bit far. After a long pause, he answered the question the best way he knew how. “I don’t know,” he said.

Peter’s hesitation before dialing the next number was considerably longer. Though he had always hated making phone calls to anyone other than Amanda, he at least knew that Nigel would be receptive to his inquiries. He had no such reassurance about Liz Sutcliffe, in fact, quite the contrary—he needed to ask her for something she had already refused him. After ten minutes of sitting on the bed staring at her card, he gave up planning what to say and dialed the number, picturing the way she had smiled at him over the vindaloo. He was both startled and comforted to hear Amanda’s voice.

“She likes you,” said Amanda. “She’ll be happy to hear from you.” Peter thought he sensed encouragement to do more than just make this phone call, but before he could respond to Amanda, Liz answered the phone.

“Peter Byerly, what a surprise,” she said. Peter found himself without a voice and the line was silent for a moment. “You’re not having second thoughts about our arrangement, I hope,” Liz prompted.

Peter felt overwhelmed by the sudden feeling that the phone was inadequate for what he needed. If he was to have any chance of convincing Liz to help him, he had to talk to her face-to-face. “I’m coming to London today,” he managed to say at last, “and I wondered if you might like to have lunch. I mean, you know, have lunch with me.”

“Lunch would be brilliant,” said Liz. “My office is in Bloomsbury, but I could meet you anywhere you like.”

“I’ll be working at the British Museum,” said Peter.

“How would it be if I meet you on the steps of the museum at one o’clock?”

“Fine,” said Peter. “That would be fine. I’ll see you at one, then.”

“Super,” said Liz cheerfully, and hung up.

Peter stopped by W H Smith for the morning paper, then settled himself into a seat on the Piccadilly Line train into London. Only after he had read the entire front page of the
Times
did Peter realize that Liz Sutcliffe might think he had asked her on a date.

—

T
he morning fog had burned off and the winter sun shone on Russell Square when Peter emerged from the tube. He gulped in the crisp air as he walked briskly the few blocks to the British Museum. It was ten-thirty when he presented his reader’s pass to the attendant at the door leading to the book department.

“It’s excellent to see you, Peter,” said Nigel, as he showed Peter into a modest-sized reading room with a library table in the center and books lining the walls. “It’s been far too long.”

“Seven years,” said Peter. He was afraid for a moment that Nigel might ask him what had transpired in those years, but he needn’t have worried. Nigel, Peter should have remembered, was quintessentially British, and thus only one topic of conversation would suffice with a relative stranger.

“Remarkably fine weather today,” he said, “though I don’t expect it will last.”

“Still, we can enjoy it for now,” said Peter, knowing that deep in the bowels of the British Museum, neither man was likely to do anything of the sort.

“I’ve called up the first edition of
Pandosto
and a few other Robert Greene items for you,” said Nigel. “You’ll find the collator just down the corridor in the room to your right. I’m having an assistant make some printouts of the 1592 and 1595 editions of
Pandosto
—those we only have on microfilm, but you can still do a collation if you need to. I hate to leave you unoccupied, but I really must get back to work. I’ll have the materials sent in as soon as they arrive.”

Thus Peter found himself alone in a book-lined room far below the tourists and the schoolchildren who now surged through the galleries on their way to the Rosetta Stone and the Elgin Marbles. He set his satchel, containing the
Pandosto
, on the table and began to scan the shelves. The books were primarily standard reference works—the thick, heavy volumes of the
Oxford English Dictionary
, shelves of bibliographies, and long rows of the short, squat volumes of the
Dictionary of National Biography
, known to scholars as the
DNB
.

Peter thought he might as well do a little research on the
Pandosto
’s
provenance while he was waiting; the
DNB
might well give him further clues on several of the owners. He took the book out of his bag, wishing as he did so that he had returned it to its folding case before he had left home. The acid-free envelope in which he had placed it seemed insufficient to protect such a treasure. Opening
Pandosto
on the table, he positioned his satchel so that anyone entering the room would not see the book. Once again he read through the list of owners, trying to construct a story that would connect them to one another.

R. Greene to Em Ball

Bart. Harbottle

Wm. Shakspere, Stratford

R. Cotton, Augustus B IV

Matthew Harbottle, Red Bull Theatre

John Bagford

John Warburton

R. Harley, Oxford

B. Mayhew for William H. Smith

B.B. / E.H.

The author had given the book to his mistress who had subsequently sold it to the bookseller Harbottle. Harbottle had then sold or given the book to Shakespeare, who had been inspired by the bookseller to create the character of Autolycus. Shakespeare had given the book to Robert Cotton, perhaps in thanks for allowing him access to his library. Harbottle had then gotten the book back from Cotton, by means legitimate or illegitimate, and passed it on to a relative, probably his son. The younger Harbottle had disposed of the book sometime in the seventeenth century, probably outside of London, thus avoiding the great fire of 1666, and it had eventually been purchased by John Bagford, who then sold it to John Warburton.

Peter pulled down the
DNB
volumes for Bagford and Warburton. Bagford, he confirmed, was a sometime bookseller, who had also compiled a famous collection of printing samples. Warburton’s biography noted that he had, “after much drinking and attempting to muddle Wanley, sold in July 1720 to the Earl of Oxford many valuable manuscripts on Wanley’s own terms.” Humfrey Wanley was librarian to Robert Harley, first Earl of Oxford. The collection formed by Harley and his son was donated to the British Museum and became part of the British Library. So how had
Pandosto
escaped?

Peter took a microcassette recorder from his bag and began to dictate notes. He had gotten into the habit of using the recorder at Ridgefield. Rare-book rooms forbade the use of pens, and Peter had a habit of breaking sharp pencil points almost immediately. A recorder provided him with an easy way to take notes without posing a risk to delicate materials.

Peter could find no listing in the
DNB
for a “B. Mayhew,” and he was on the verge of pulling down the volume containing the Smiths when a young man entered the room with an armload of books.

“Mr. Byerly?” he asked.

“Yes,” Peter answered.

“I believe these are for you,” said the man, setting the books on the table.

Peter left the volumes of the
DNB
scattered on the table and rushed to examine the pile of books. Most were in simple protective folders, nothing like the complex and elegant cases created at the behest of Amanda Devereaux, but sufficient to protect four-hundred-year-old books and pamphlets from the stresses of being pulled off shelves. Despite several tantalizing rarities, Peter searched the pile for the one book that held his interest—the only recorded copy of the 1588 first edition of
Pandosto
.

As Peter saw it, the question of the authenticity of the Evenlode Manor
Pandosto
was twofold: was the printed book genuine and were the marginalia genuine? His task that morning was to begin answering the first question. The British Library copy of
Pandosto
, which he now removed carefully from its folding case, was not complete—it lacked the second signature. If Peter could prove that the Evenlode Manor copy was a complete and genuine first edition, it would be a significant find even if the marginalia proved to have been forged.

Peter carried the two copies of
Pandosto
from the reading room down a narrow corridor to a room not much larger than a closet and almost completely filled by the six-foot-tall, five-foot-wide gray metal bulk of the museum’s Hinman collator. The collator, an optical comparison device, had been invented by Shakespeare scholar Charlton Hinman in the late 1940s to assist with his research in comparing copies of texts to one another. A researcher placed two copies of a book on the machine’s two platforms, then looked through a binocular viewer and adjusted the image so that, through a series of mirrors, the two copies overlapped exactly. In this way one could tell at a glance if the texts were identical or if there were some variation, as differences would seem to dance before one’s eyes. Hinman had used his collator to compare copies of Shakespeare’s First Folio, meticulously cataloging the various changes and corrections that had been made during the course of the press run.