Murder at Teatime (11 page)

The group’s attention shifted to the vault, whose gaping emptiness lent a jarring note to the otherwise tranquil atmosphere of the room.

“Then there’s the casual thief, who steals because the opportunity arises. The janitor who accidentally comes across a valuable document, the visitor who is left alone in a room with an unlocked vault full of early printed herbals. This kind of thief is easy to catch. He usually tries to sell the book, but goes about it so ineptly that he gives himself away.”

“The vault wasn’t locked?” asked Tracey, turning to Daria.

“Well, that’s the thing,” she replied. “It wasn’t. Not when Dr. Thornhill was here, and he was here most of the time. He only locked it when he went down to Boston. He put the books in the vault more to protect them from light and dust than to protect them from theft.”

“So anyone could have taken them,” observed Tracey.

“I suppose so,” said Daria in a tone of puzzlement. “But he’s here most of the time, and even when he’s not, there’s usually someone around.”

Charlotte remembered Stan’s comment that Thornhill was in the habit of spending long hours in his library huddled over his books like a miser over his gold. The room was almost a separate apartment: there was a cot, an adjoining bathroom, and a kitchen corner with a small refrigerator and a microwave. French doors opened onto a terrace overlooking the rose garden, where a crude cross marked Jesse’s grave. Beyond the rose garden was an arbor, and beyond that, the herb garden. A light breeze carried the spicy scent of herbs.

“What about last night?” asked Tracey. “Could someone have entered the library while you were at the hospital? I see that it’s not very secure,” he said, nodding at the open doors to the terrace.

“Yes, that’s a possibility,” said Daria. “The doors are never locked. Fran and Grace and I were all at the hospital.”

Tracey made a notation in his notebook.

“Shall I continue?” asked Felix.

“By all means,” said Charlotte.

“Finally there’s the thief who steals out of anger. He harbors a grudge against an institution, or, in the case at hand, an individual. Usually he destroys a book rather than selling it. He is rarely caught, but we can take some solace from the fact that he rarely repeats his act.”

“Then it’s possible that the books were taken by someone with a grudge against Dr. Thornhill,” said Charlotte. “For instance, a member of the Citizens for the Chartwell Corporation.”

“Very possible indeed,” said Felix, taking another puff of his cigar.

Or
, Charlotte thought,
a disaffected colleague
. John certainly qualified in the grudge category. But she couldn’t imagine him destroying books that he believed to be among civilization’s greatest treasures.

“What kind of thief do you think is involved, Mr. Mayer?” asked Tracey.

“I doubt it’s the thief who steals for gain,” replied Felix. “This kind of thief is usually very professional: he knows which books are the easiest to sell. And the rarer the book, the more difficult it is to dispose of.”

“But wouldn’t it be possible to sell the books to an unscrupulous dealer?” asked Daria. “I’m sure there are dealers who wouldn’t hesitate to pass a stolen book off on an unsuspecting customer.”

“
Ja
,” replied Felix. “I am afraid there are as many unscrupulous people in the bookselling business as in any other. I doubt, however, that such a dealer would sell the books to an unsuspecting customer. It is more likely that he would have a particular customer in mind, a bibliomaniac, perhaps, for whom the pride of possession would outweigh any moral scruples he might have about accepting stolen merchandise.”

Pulling a monogrammed linen handkerchief out of one of his many pockets, he wiped his shiny forehead. Charlotte noticed that the toe of his foot, clad in white doeskin, tapped a nervous tattoo. Was he nervous because Daria’s question challenged the integrity of his profession? Or was he nervous because he had stolen the books? He had access to them, and he knew the market. She looked down with a shudder at the little gray heaps of cigar ashes at the side of his chair. She could imagine what his apartment looked like. She knew it was ridiculous of her to think so, but to her his sloppiness alone made him worthy of suspicion. She had always had a passion for order. Even as a child she had been tormented by something as trivial as a wrinkle in her blouse or a grass stain on her skirt. But although she recognized that her fastidiousness was excessive, experience had nevertheless confirmed her opinion that sloppiness can sometimes be a manifestation of weakness of character. Besides, Felix’s sloppiness wasn’t all that made her uneasy about him. He also seemed to be playing a role: he was almost a caricature of himself—a shade too unctuous, too jovial, too much the
bon vivant
.

She made a mental note to ask her friend Tom Plummer to check Felix out through his contacts in the New York book world. Tom was the journalist who had written
Murder at the Morosco
. He had connections everywhere, or could make them. If Felix had stolen the books, he must have needed the money, in which case Tom’s snooping would turn up some evidence of financial trouble.

“Now for the big question,” said Tracey. “How much are the books worth?”

“It’s hard to say,” replied Felix, still puffing on his cigar. “In the book business, we say that a rare book is worth what someone will pay for it. There are no hard and fast prices. For instance, it’s very difficult to estimate the value of a rare book if no one will take it off your hands.”

“I shouldn’t think that would be the case with these books,” said Charlotte impatiently.

“This is true. In fact, it’s difficult to estimate the value of these books for precisely the opposite reason: they are so desirable. Usually, one studies dealers’ prices and auction house records to get an idea of a book’s value, but some of these books haven’t been on the market in decades.”

“Mr. Mayer,” said Charlotte with a polite smile, “can you give us a rough estimate of their value, please?” He was obviously milking his opportunity to show off to the last drop.

“Of course,” he said, unperturbed. “I’m only explaining the difficulties involved so that you’ll understand that my estimates may not reflect the true market value of the books.”

Charlotte nodded.

Leaning his head back against the chair, he stared at the ceiling, his liver-colored lips moving in silent calculation.

“The earliest is the
Herbal of Apuleius
, printed in Rome in 1481. The first illustrated herbal ever printed. A copy in poor condition sold in London last year for twenty thousand pounds. Franklin’s copy could expect to bring seventy thousand dollars.”

Tracey let out a low whistle. “How do you spell that?” he asked as he made a notation in his notebook. Charlotte, too, was stunned at the amount. Felix had talked about
Der Gart’s
being very valuable, but she had thought it unique in being worth so much.

“Next is the
Herbarius Latinus
, printed in Mainz in 1484 by Peter Schoeffer, Gutenberg’s son-in-law,” he continued. “This is a
very
rare book. There haven’t been any copies on the market since the fifties. I’d have to say seventy thousand dollars as well.”

“Were any of these books insured?” asked Tracey.

“I doubt it. The cost of the premiums would have been prohibitive.”

Tracey nodded and made another notation in his notebook.

“Der Gart der Gesundheit,”
continued Felix. Turning to Charlotte, he said: “This is the book we were talking about the other day. The first book printed in any language other than Latin. Very rare and
very
valuable. A minimum of a hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”

He really did have a prodigious memory for books, thought Charlotte as he again tilted his head toward the ceiling.

“Next:
Hortas Sanitatis
, printed in Mainz in 1491,” he went on, spelling the title for Tracey. “Not as beautiful as
Der Gart
, but unusual because of the large number of illustrations—more than one thousand. I’d have to say eighty thousand dollars.”

He paused to allow Tracey time to catch up.

“The last book,
Gerard’s Herbal
, isn’t an incunabulum—it was printed in 1597,” Felix continued. “But it was the first great herbal printed in the English language.”

“What’s an incunabulum?” asked Tracey.

Charlotte explained, amusing Felix and Daria with her newfound expertise.

“That’s Gerard,” continued Felix, nodding at the portrait that had concealed the vault. “He was a friend of Drake and Raleigh. They brought him plant specimens from the New World, including the potato. That’s a potato plant he’s holding in his hand—he was the first to describe it.”

“How much is
Gerard’s Herbal
worth?” asked Tracey.

“Six thousand or so, ordinarily. But Franklin’s copy was what we call an association copy, which means that it came from the library of a distinguished owner. In this case the owner was the herbalist John Parkinson, who published his own herbal in 1640. That’s Parkinson there,” he said, nodding at a portrait of a man wearing an Elizabethan skullcap and holding a flower. “Franklin’s copy was annotated with Parkinson’s notes, which makes it valuable indeed. Say, ten times it’s usual value, or sixty thousand dollars.”

Tracey added up the figures in his notebook. “According to my calculations, the books are worth about four hundred thousand dollars.”

“That sounds about right,” replied Felix.

Charlotte was astounded at the total. “Then this must be one of the largest book thefts in history,” she said.

“Certainly among the top ten,” replied Felix matter-of-factly. “Now,” he continued, turning to Daria, “the authorities will require detailed descriptions of the missing books to help potential buyers identify the stolen material. Will you be able to see to that, Miss Henderson?”

“I think so,” she replied.

“
Gut
. Title, author, date, publisher, number of pages, condition, binding description, illustrations, and so on.”

Daria nodded. “I’ll look through the files,” she said. “I’m sure I can find that information somewhere.”

Charlotte glanced over at the bank of half a dozen filing cabinets in the corner, each of them heaped with stacks of papers, and concluded it wouldn’t be an easy job. Apparently Thornhill’s acquisitive streak extended to papers as well as to books: it looked as if he never threw anything out.

“They will also want copies of any documents pertaining to the books,” Felix continued. “Bills of sale, binder’s reports—that sort of thing.”

Daria nodded.

“I think that’s all we can do for the time being,” Felix said. He turned to Tracey. “I turn the case over to you, my good sir.”

Tracey put his notebook away. Then he rose and crossed the room to shake Felix’s hand. “I’m much obliged for your help, Mr. Mayer.”

“My pleasure.”

“What we have then,” said Charlotte as she also rose to leave, “is a situation in which the books could have been stolen at any time over the past couple of weeks by anyone, from a professional thief to a bibliomaniac to a casual visitor to someone with a grudge against Thornhill.”

“
Ja
, this is true, my dear Miss Graham,” said Felix. “Book thieves cannot be narrowed down to a specific type. They come in all forms—male and female, young and old, rich and poor.”

Charlotte and Tracey thanked Felix and Daria for their help, and headed back to the Saunders’.

Turning onto the Gilley Road a few minutes later, they ran into Wes Gilley, who was coming from the opposite direction. He was driving a battered old pickup filled with new lobster traps.

“Fine day for the race,” he said as he pulled up alongside them. Leaning out the window, he spit a brown stream of tobacco juice over the side.

“What race is that, Wes?” asked Tracey. He looked perplexed, as if there was a race in town he should know about but didn’t.

“The human race,” replied Wes. He smiled broadly at his joke, revealing handsome teeth that were stained brown from chewing tobacco.

“Couldn’t argue with you there,” said Tracey, grinning.

Seeing Wes at close range, Charlotte was struck by the fact that he was a good-looking man, if you could get beyond his red-ringed eyes, three days’ growth of beard, and the wad of chewing tobacco that bulged beneath his lower lip. The broad, unlined face under his navy watch cap was tanned to a deep bronze by the wind and sun, and his large eyes were a pale, delicate shade of blue, as if they’d been bleached by ocean salt and foam.

“They crawling good?” asked Tracey, inquiring about the catch.

Wes uttered an emphatic growl that sounded something like “daow,” and which, Charlotte presumed, answered the question in the negative.

“Got six hundred jeezly traps out,” he said disgustedly. “First time in my life I’ve had that many out. And I still ain’t haulin’ much.”

“Ayuh,” nodded Tracey sympathetically. “And when everybody’s got so many traps out, you can’t really put them where you want to.”

“Jeezum, ain’t it the truth,” said Wes. “Alls you can do is put ’em where somebody else ain’t and hope your guess is better than theirs.” He spat another stream of tobacco juice over the side. “Ayuh,” he continued, staring pensively out over the steering wheel. “Years ago I used to think that anyone who expected to make a livin’ by settin’ a trap in the water and expectin’ a lobster to crawl into it was a damn fool.” He turned to face them with a big smile. “I expect as I was right.”

He spoke in a thick nasal accent. If you didn’t listen closely to the words, you could be carried away by the antique cadence, with its broad
a
’s, dropped
g
’s, and lost
r
’s. Until the fifties, Kitty had told Charlotte, the inhabitants of many of Maine’s outer islands still spoke a little-corrupted form of Elizabethan English, but television had brought the beginnings of cultural homogeneity to even the most remote backwaters. In another generation or two, Gilley’s accent would probably be indistinguishable from that of the evening news anchorman.

Wes put his truck into gear and said goodbye. Tracey had not introduced her, but Charlotte knew that Wes knew who she was. She had sensed him subtly sizing her up. She wondered if he was responsible for the vandalism. Kitty had pooh-poohed her suggestion that he might be the culprit, but Stan had quite another story. On one of his late-night walks—the night the air had been let out of the tires of the Ledge House jeep—he had seen Wes sitting up against the side of the barn where the jeep was garaged, drunk.