Ghost Image (10 page)

Max picked up the envelope and turned it over and we both saw the return address on the back. John Fairbairn, Chelsea Physic Garden, London, England.

“One of the books in Kevin's research carrel was a history of
the Chelsea Physic Garden,” I said. “And he was in London a few months ago to give a talk at Kew Gardens.”

Max unfolded the letter, which resembled a small booklet, and held it open with gloved fingers. The ink had faded to the color of old blood, and the spidery penmanship was hard to decipher.

“Well, the date explains why there was no stamp,” he said. “London, 4 April 1807. Stamps weren't invented until the mid-1800s.”

“Can you read the handwriting?”

“I believe so.” He reached for his glasses again.

London, 4 April 1807

My esteemed Doctor Pembroke,

This is in reply to yours of 12 December to inform you that I am in receipt of the most recent shipment of Seeds intrusted to you by your cousin Capt. Lewis. Regrettably the Plant you refer to as Hesop arrived in poor condition and the one tender Specimen that germinated is not of the genus hyssopus. We therefore entreat you to send additional Seeds, as we are most interested in your assertion & that of Capt. Lewis that it produces wondrous, indeed miraculous, Results in restoring forgotten Memories to your Patients.

At your request, I am sending herewith the final volume of Flora Londinensis to complete your Collection. As you know, it was the Life project of my predecessor, the Praefectus Horti William Curtis, to document all wild Flora within the environs of the City of London. I commend your decision to undertake a similar Project to record the Native American flora chosen by Presidents Washington and Jefferson for the proposed American Botanic Garden in Washington and would be most interested to know a more complete list of the plants and herbs that have been selected.

As ever, we stand ready to offer any Assistance as regards the
planning of this new American Garden. Additionally, since your Hesop is to be included among the Medicinal Plants, I will provide details concerning its proper nomenclature and properties once I am in receipt of additional Specimens.

I await your next Shipment with great Anticipation and I pray you accept Assurances of my Best regards.

Most sincerely Yours,

John Fairbairn, Curator, Chelsea Physic Garden, Swan Walk, London

Max looked up. “Well, I guess that answers a few questions. The book probably belonged to Dr. Francis Pembroke, and I would imagine he put the plant he believed was hyssop in the book to preserve it. Maybe it was his medical reference book.”

“Kevin was also reading about Lewis and Clark,” I said. “He had their diaries and some books and articles on their expedition in his study room. That letter says Francis Pembroke was a cousin of Meriwether Lewis and the plant came from seeds Lewis and Clark brought back or sent back from their trip to West.”

I gave Max a hopeful look, but he pursed his lips and shook his head. “Sorry. Obviously knowing about the owner contributes to the book's history and provenance. But if Francis Pembroke, a nineteenth-century American doctor, is the one who wrote in the margins, it doesn't do anything to increase the value.”

“Then why did Kevin go to all the trouble of hiding it?”

“Good question.” The phone on Max's desk rang. He walked over and glanced at the number. “Here's Bram. Maybe we're missing something. He might be able to tell us.”

Max hit the speakerphone button. “Bram, thanks so much for calling back. I've got Sophie Medina here with me now, and we've had a chance to look at the book she's brought.
Adam in Eden: or, Natures Paradise. The History of Plants, Fruits, Herbs and Flowers.
The author is William Coles, Herbalist. Published in London in 1657.”

Bram Asquith's pleasant baritone with its cultured British accent filled the room. “Not a problem, Max. Good to speak with you again. Ms. Medina, how do you do?”

“Sophie, please. Fine, thank you, Mr. Asquith. And thank you for taking the time to do this.”

“A pleasure. Anything for a friend of Max Katzer's. And it's Bram. Give me just a quick second and I can look up the most recent sale information for you.”

A chair creaked, followed by the sound of computer keys clicking. Max and I exchanged glances. It didn't take Bram long to find what he was looking for.

“Here you are,” he said. “The last time a copy of
Adam in Eden
was sold it went for $495. Before that, $267, another one went for $1,100 . . . I'm just scrolling through the records here and . . . well, nothing over $2,000. Only £1,200 five years ago for one in excellent condition, so about $1,800 give or take. Even though it's a rather old book, it's not a rare one. Of course, I'd need to actually see your copy to give you an idea of what it might fetch if you decided to sell it.”

So that was it. Max had been right and Bram Asquith had just confirmed it. The book was valuable, but not precious, probably worth a few hundred bucks, a thousand, at most.

“Thank you,” I said. “You've been very helpful.”

“Pleasure. Please do be in touch if you want to sell it.”

“Thanks, but it's not my book. It belonged to a friend who passed away. But I'll let the new owner—whoever that is—know about your offer.”

“I'm truly sorry,” he said. “I realize this isn't what you were hoping to hear, but unfortunately we're the bearers of disappointing news more often than not and it's never enjoyable. Someone brings us a piece of furniture or jewelry or a work of art they've discovered in a grandmother's attic that they're sure is an original by Chippendale or Cartier or an undiscovered Rembrandt. It's a terrible letdown when we have to tell them their treasure is just
some bog-standard item that has more sentimental value than monetary worth.”

“I'm sure you're right, but my friend was a scientist and a scholar. I'm fairly certain he believed this book was valuable, so I don't understand how he could be so wrong.”

There was a long pause before Bram said, “I see. Well, then, if you or the new owner would care to come by the gallery sometime and bring it along, I can take a look at it. Maybe we missed something.”

“As a matter of fact,” Max said, “we neglected to mention that there are a number of what look like hand-drawn and hand-colored botanical plates. Also the margins have been annotated. There was a letter in the bottom of the Solander box from 1807 addressed to a doctor in Leesburg who was a cousin of Meriwether Lewis of the Lewis and Clark expedition. We assumed the book belonged to the doctor. His name is Francis Pembroke.”

I heard Bram's computer keys clicking again. “You're sure those prints are originals?”

“Quite sure,” Max said.

“That's rather puzzling . . . it wasn't an illustrated book.”

“This copy is,” Max said.

“Do me a favor and have another look at the title page. I wonder if whoever owned this book wrote his name somewhere. Look near the author's name. It might be rather faded.”

William Coles's personal copy? I caught my breath.

“Give us a moment.” Max got a magnifying glass from his desk and slowly passed it down the page. Near the bottom next to the quote from Genesis he pointed to something written in ink that was so pale I hadn't noticed it before.

It wasn't William Coles's name. Disappointed, I said to Max, “Can you make out what that says?”

After a moment he said, “It's very faint. I think it's ‘Js. Newbon.'”

“Js. Newbon. Perhaps it could be Isaac Newton?” Bram asked.

Max sucked his breath between his teeth like a small hiss. “You mean, Sir Isaac Newton? Good Lord, wouldn't that be a find. Do you have a facsimile of his signature so we can compare?”

“There's an app for that, believe it or not,” Bram said. “Hang on, I'm sending you a link. Check your e-mail.”

Max pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed it on. He found the message and showed me the display.

“It matches,” I said.

“You're right, Bram,” Max said. “The book did belong to Sir Isaac Newton.”

“Well, now.” Bram sounded as though his level of interest had just gone up a few notches. “That rather changes things. Tell me about this letter you found.”

“Sophie, you tell him,” Max said.

When I was done, Bram said, “Let me check something. I'll ring you back.”

“Fine,” Max said. “We'll be right here.”

“The suspense is killing me,” I said after Bram hung up.

“Have another macaroon,” Max said. “They're good for the nerves.”

I grinned and took one, passing him the plate as the phone rang again.

“That was quick,” I said, as Max hit the speakerphone button.

“All right,” Bram said. “I just wanted to confirm a few dates, and it turns out I was right. The founder of the Chelsea Physic Garden was a man named Hans Sloane, a wealthy physician and an avid collector. When Sloane passed away in 1753, he bequeathed his collections to his country and they became the foundation for the British Museum. But he also served as secretary of the Royal Society, an organization of the world's finest scientists who came together in the late 1600s with a common interest in experimentation and scientific discovery. It still exists, as a matter of fact. But at that time the president of the Royal Society happened to be—anyone care to guess?”

“Sir Isaac Newton,” I said.

“Precisely. It would seem that Isaac Newton obtained a copy of William Coles's book, but what could make it especially valuable is that perhaps it was Coles's personal working copy, one of a kind, since you say the prints are originals.”

“Is there any way you can trace provenance that far back?” I asked. “How did Francis Pembroke get hold of it and how did it end up in Leesburg?”

“We can certainly look into all that for you,” Bram said. “However, I would need to have the book here at Asquith's. If you'd be interested in leaving it with me, I could send a courier to Max's place straightaway with all the necessary paperwork.”

Max looked over at me and nodded, mouthing,
Let him.

“As I said, it's not my book. I'm fairly sure it belonged to Brother Kevin Boyle, the Franciscan environmentalist who died yesterday,” I said. “I sort of came across it by accident.”

If Bram Asquith was surprised by my vague explanation, he didn't let on. Instead he said in a smooth voice, “That shouldn't be any problem. We could get it directly to the legal owner on your behalf, if you wish. But as I said, this book may be an original—the only such copy in existence—so perhaps that person would be interested in having an appraisal of its worth, either for insurance purposes or in the event that he or she would consider the possibility of selling it.”

“Someone else may be looking for this book,” I said.

“It wouldn't surprise me in the least. However, if it's at Asquith's, not only do you have my promise of complete discretion, but since it will be in our vault, I assure you it will be as safe as houses.”

Which is exactly what Kevin would have wanted: the book to be stored in a safe place.

“Then by all means, please send your courier to pick it up,” I said. “And, even though it's not mine, I'd still be interested in knowing what you find out about the provenance.”

“I'm sure that won't be a problem. And I'm glad you mentioned those colored plates. They change everything.”

“So this book is quite valuable after all,” I said.

“Indeed,” Bram said. “To a collector, it would be priceless.”

“How soon can you send a courier?” Max asked, giving me a warning glance. “I believe Sophie's book ought to be secured in your vault as soon as possible.”

“I'll take care of it myself. Our armored truck will be there within the hour.”

After he hung up the phone, Max turned to me. “Well, there's your answer.”

“Yes,” I said. “It is a book worth killing for.”

9

B
efore Bram Asquith sent his courier to pick up Kevin's book, I took photographs of each of the hand-colored botanical prints and asked Max to make me a copy of John Fairbairn's letter to Francis Pembroke. He gave me the photocopy in a plum-colored folder with M. Katzer Fine Antiques embossed in gold and, after I signed the paperwork turning the book over to Asquith's, he added those documents as well.

It was four o'clock by the time he walked me to the front door of the gallery.

“I'm supposed to call Thea Stavros, or she's going to call me and ask what I found in the locker at the Natural History Museum,” I said. “What am I going to say?”

“Thea and Bram know each other, you know, since they're both antiquarian book experts. I think you can trust her to be discreet. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if the Library of Congress might be interested in acquiring the book, given what we just found out.”

“Acquiring it from whom? I don't know who owns it.”

“Presumably Kevin's heirs.”

“I think all of his possessions now belong to the Franciscans. But there's another possibility. Maybe Kevin didn't buy the book, so it's not his.”

Max gave me a sideways look. “Then who did buy it?”

“Edward Jaine was underwriting all of Kevin's research expenses,” I said. “He was Kevin's benefactor.”

“Oh, Lord,” Max said. “I hope Kevin kept good records. If the book wasn't worth much, it wouldn't be a big deal. But now—”

I nodded and chewed my lip. “Kevin and Edward Jaine were arguing the night before he died. I overheard them at a party at the Austrian ambassador's residence. Kevin didn't want to talk about it, but I wonder if it had to do with the book.”

“Money's a powerful motivator, sugar.” Max gave me a significant look. “Believe me, in my business I've seen my share of squabbles over estates and who owns what. People become very proprietary and petty over the smallest things. I've seen siblings argue over who gets Mom's special pickle fork.”

He kissed me goodbye, and I walked back to the Vespa, hoping Max was right about Kevin's record keeping. Even a billionaire like Edward Jaine would be interested in acquiring the only existing copy of a book with the unique provenance this one had. When I worked for IPS in London, I'd occasionally photographed a rare treasure that had come to light—a work of art, a book, or a piece of jewelry, and most recently two lost Fabergé imperial eggs—before one of the big houses like Asquith's or Sotheby's auctioned it off on behalf of the owner. Those events always attracted the Edward Jaines of the world, the rarified class of billionaire whose hobby was collecting one-of-a-kind items for the sheer pleasure of knowing they had something no one else possessed.

Had Kevin realized what he owned, and if so, had Edward Jaine been aware of the book's value as well? And if Jaine did
know, what would he do to acquire it, especially if Kevin didn't want to give up the book?

Would he commit murder?

• • •

My phone rang when I was halfway back to the Vespa, which I'd chained to a streetlamp on Reservoir Road. Caller ID flashed
TOMMY
, along with a photo I loved of my half brother standing outside a clinic in a remote mountain village in Honduras where he'd worked on a medical mission during a gap year between college and medical school. His arm was draped around a sweet-faced young girl whose arms ended as two tapered stubs below her elbows. Both of them were grinning like a couple of fools without a care in the world.

Tommy and I were fifteen years apart—I was fourteen when my mother married Harry—but we were close and I adored him, just like I adored Harry. I knew the feeling was mutual, but there was also a special bond between us because Tommy realized, just as I knew Harry did, that deep down inside our mother wished I could be airbrushed out of the family photos and that I'd never been born.

Of course she would never admit it, but there were times when I'd caught her looking at me when she thought I didn't see, and I knew she blamed me for screwing up her life. Her dark-haired, olive-skinned daughter standing next to Tommy and my half sister, Lexie, both of them blue eyed and golden haired, as wholesome and all-American perfect as apple pie. I was the unhappy reminder of her affair with a Spanish soccer player during a study-abroad year in college, a misbegotten marriage, and a dozen hardscrabble years as a single mother after we left Antonio Medina, my father, and moved home from Madrid.

For years I wanted to believe that this broke my father's heart, that he loved me, even if my mother did not. When I was old
enough, I tracked down every poster and photo of him playing for Real Madrid without telling my mother, poring over every detail of his life I could find. The first time I saw his picture, dark and noble looking and dangerously handsome, was like looking into a mirror, and I thought,
I am Antonio Medina's daughter.
For a while I kept a small backpack under my bed, ready to leave the instant he showed up to sweep me into his arms and take me with him back to Spain, a land of heat and light and fiery passion in my young mind. Then one day right before we left New York to move to Virginia so my mother could marry Harrison Wyatt, she told me in a tight-lipped voice that a friend who kept in touch with Antonio said he'd been killed in a motorcycle accident near Seville. I unpacked the backpack and, just in time, Harry came into my life, and his unstinting love filled the empty space in my heart.

Tommy and I talked regularly on the phone and tried to meet for dinner once every few weeks. But since Christmas he had been working part-time at the free clinic in Adams Morgan in addition to taking classes as a first-year med student at Georgetown, and the dinners became sporadic.

“Hey you,” I said. “What's going on? I've missed you.”

“I've missed you, too. Same old same old. Work, school, sleep. Unfortunately not much sleep. Any chance you're free for dinner?”

My brother's schedule is more tightly programmed than most military campaigns. If he was free all of a sudden either something fell through . . . or something important had come up.

“You mean tonight?”

I heard a stifled yawn. “Yeah, tonight.”

“Sure. Is everything all right? You sound beat. Want me to make a reservation somewhere?”

“I thought we could eat at my place,” he said. “It's five thirty now, so how about seven o'clock?”

I knew what was in Tommy's pantry: ramen noodles, boxes of
mac 'n' cheese, a jar of peanut butter, and probably a big bag of Doritos. His refrigerator wasn't much better.

“Shall I cook?”

“I've got chili.”

“That you made?”

“Is that a dig about my cooking?” He managed to sound indignant, but before I could reply, he said, “Relax. It's homemade. Not by me. And before you ask, she's just a friend.”

“You know I never pry. A friend who makes good chili?”

“Actually, she makes amazing chili. You don't pry, but you do what you're doing now, ask an innocent question and then another and another until eventually you find out who I'm seeing. Then Nick probably runs her through the Agency database to make sure she's not on some terrorist watch list or wanted in three states.” Another yawn. “Hey, Soph, I'm still at the clinic, trying to get out of here. See you at seven, okay?”

Tommy hung up before I could say, “Sure, fine.”

I know my brother. Something had happened and he didn't want to talk about it over the phone. Whatever it was, he was saving it to tell me over a bowl of amazing chili.

And that worried me.

• • •

I stopped by Safeway on my way home to pick up a six-pack to bring to dinner. Halfway home my phone rang, and it was Thea. I told her about finding the book and what Bram had said about it. The silence on her end went on so long I checked my phone for a dropped call.

“I would absolutely love to see those prints,” she said finally. “Something that unique comes along once in a lifetime. If William Coles was considering publishing a second edition of
Adam in Eden
that included those drawings, either he never got around to it before he died or perhaps everything was destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666. Thousands of books were lost
when London burned, so it wouldn't surprise me if either the original plates for those prints never survived or all copies of the second edition—if there was one—were destroyed.”

I could have told Thea I had photographed each of the prints and could send her an e-mail link to a photo gallery once I downloaded them, or mentioned the Fairbairn letter, but something stopped me. They say three can keep a secret if two are dead. Max assured me Thea could be trusted, but the matter of who owned the book still bothered me. The subject of Edward Jaine being Kevin's patron had never come up between Thea and me, so she probably wasn't aware that it could be a contentious issue.

“Bram's keeping the book in the vault at Asquith's until the new owner claims it,” I said. “So at least we know it's safe.”

“Well, obviously the Franciscans own it now, don't they? Anyway, Kevin's parents are dead, though I believe he has a brother and a sister living in Jersey. Once the formalities of his estate are sorted out, perhaps we can discuss the possibility of them loaning it to the library to put on display.”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

After she hung up, I thought about Jack's remark last night about the dangers of the slippery slope. Once you start down, you really can't turn back.

• • •

Tommy lived in the Ontario, an elegant Beaux Arts apartment complex situated on a couple of acres on a hilltop in Lanier Heights in Adams Morgan. When the Ontario was built for wealthy Washingtonians in the early 1900s, its selling point was the height of its location, guaranteeing pure air that was free from malaria. How times have changed. Now you hope the neighborhood's safe enough for you to walk from your car to your front door after dark without getting mugged.

Tommy's apartment was one of the larger ones on the fourth floor. When I knocked on the door, he yelled, “It's open.”

He was in the galley kitchen, barefoot and in jeans and a gray Georgetown T-shirt, his straight blond hair still damp from a shower, standing at the stove stirring chili in a flame-colored pot with a book propped next to him.

“Is that a cookbook?” I asked, and pulled the six-pack out of a canvas bag.

“
Principles of Biochemistry.
” The kiss that was probably meant for my cheek landed on my ear. “Is that beer cold?”

“Of course.” I gave him a quick hug around the waist. “The chili smells terrific. What can I do?”

“Open us some beers, if you don't mind.” He pointed to the window and what looked like a small brass head of a wolf with its mouth open wide in a scream screwed to the frame. “Use the gargoyle. It's a bottle opener.”

“It even has its own dedicated trash can, I see.” He grinned as I opened two beers and handed one to him. “What else?”

“There's corn bread in the microwave,” he said. “Can you put it on a plate?”

Before Tommy moved in, my mother had furnished the apartment—which Harry owned—in her idea of the perfect bachelor pad. To me it had looked like there ought to be
DO NOT TOUCH
or
DON'T SIT ON THIS CHAIR
signs on every surface until Tommy's weights and his unfolded laundry and his piles of books and papers slowly littered the rooms and the place finally seemed more like a home than a decorator showroom. Somehow I figured Mom hadn't seen the gargoyle beer bottle opener.

We ate in the dining room after I cleared the table of his papers and books.

“The chili's great,” I said. “And when are you going to tell me what's going on?”

He passed me the plate of corn bread and said, “It's Chappy.”

At least he didn't beat around the bush. My chest tightened, and I set the plate down hard on the table. Chappy was the name I'd given Charles Lord, our grandfather, the first time I
met him when I was two years old and he told me that Charles was happy to meet Sophie. I'd melded the words together and he became Chappy. One of the early post–World War II photographers who worked for Magnum, the iconic photo agency, he had been hired by no less than the legendary Henri Cartier-Bresson.

Before my mother married Harry, she had sent me to Connecticut to spend summers with my grandfather since she couldn't afford day care when school was out. Those summers gave me some of my happiest and most carefree memories. Chappy had treated me as an assistant, not a child, letting me help him in his darkroom and experiment with developing my own film. When I was twelve, he gave me my first camera and taught me how to shoot. My grandfather was the reason I was a photographer today.

“Is he all right?” I asked my brother. “How come nobody told me anything before now?”

“Relax, Soph. Chap's okay.” Tommy put down his spoon. He knew I was mad. By “nobody,” he knew I meant our mother, who had put him up to passing on this news. “I mean, he's not in the hospital so it's nothing serious.”

“Then what is it?”

“A neighbor found him wandering around Topstone Park in the middle of the day dressed in his pajamas and carrying his old Leica.”

“Topstone Park used to be Edward Steichen's home. When Steichen was alive, he and Chappy were good friends. He knows that place like he knows his own backyard.”

“Well, Chap, uh, seemed to think he and Steichen were going shooting together, that they had some kind of date.”

I closed my eyes. Edward Steichen, another photography legend who organized the world-famous
Family of Man
exhibition in the 1950s, among many other accomplishments, passed away in 1973. Before I was born.