The Bookman's Tale (14 page)

“He just did it to annoy Mr. Alderson,” said Martha.

“He certainly did that,” said Louisa with a laugh.

“So what happened to the collection?” asked Peter, almost certain he knew the answer.

“I’ve no idea,” said Louisa.

“Do you think they might have sold it to the Aldersons?” asked Peter.

“A Gardner would sooner burn them in the grate, no matter what they were worth,” said Louisa.

“And you told all this to the man from Cornwall?” asked Peter, now almost certain he had stumbled into the scandal that Liz Sutcliffe was so eager to spring on the Victorian art world.

“Oh, yes,” said Louisa. “Older gentleman, but still young from my point of view.” Louisa and Martha laughed and Peter joined in as best he could, for his mind was pulling at the strands of Louisa’s story and trying to unravel them into a narrative that fit all the evidence.

“You don’t happen to remember the gentleman’s name, do you?” asked Peter.

“Oh yes,” said Louisa. “His name was Graham. Had a big white beard.”

“And his surname?” asked Peter.

“His surname,” said Louisa, suddenly scowling. “Oh, I’ve no idea.”

“Nor have I,” said Martha.

P
hillip Gardner stepped out of the Oxford train into the glass-and-steel cavern of the recently completed Paddington station. He was twenty-four years old and it was the first time he had visited London alone. Under his arm he carried a portfolio of paintings, which he hoped would launch his career. He strode down the platform to the station entrance and hailed a hansom cab.

“Royal Academy of Arts,” he told the driver, and with a crack of the whip, the cab clattered away, bearing Phillip toward his future.

—

B
enjamin Mayhew arrived at Paddington ten minutes before his train was due to depart. He was bound for a book auction at Oxford’s Holywell Music Room—the dispersal of the library of a recently departed don. Benjamin knew from a contact in Oxford that there would be a substantial number of important books under the hammer, but when one of his fellow booksellers had come in to Benjamin’s shop yesterday, asking if the sale was worth the trip to Oxford, Benjamin had claimed the library was nothing more than a collection of dull religious tracts—no point in having more competition than necessary.

With a few minutes to spare before his departure, Benjamin strolled over to W H Smith, one of a chain of bookstalls that had become ubiquitous in England’s railway termini. Benjamin perused the racks of newspapers and books, and his eye happened to fall on a small pamphlet written by William Henry Smith himself. It was not this coincidence but the title—
Was Lord Bacon the Author of Shakespeare’s Plays?
—that caught his eye. Benjamin Mayhew had never come across the notion that someone other than William Shakespeare had written the plays attributed to that name. Curious to see what the kingdom’s most successful newsagent had to say on the topic, Benjamin bought a copy of the pamphlet, along with the
Times
, and was soon ensconced comfortably in a first-class carriage bound for Oxford.

In
Was Lord Bacon the Author of Shakespeare’s Plays?
Benjamin read Smith’s argument for Francis Bacon as the author of the Shakespeare canon. Smith called Shakespeare “a man of limited education, careless of fame, intent upon money-getting, and actively engaged in the management of a theater,” but said that this was not enough for us to suppose “from the simple circumstance of his name being associated with these plays, that he was the author of them.” Of Bacon, however, Smith wrote, “His history is just such as we should have drawn of Shakespeare, if we had been required to depict him from the internal evidence of his works.” Smith conjectured why Bacon would have wanted to disassociate his name from the theater and how his training as a lawyer could explain the obviously extensive legal knowledge of the author of Shakespeare’s plays.

By the time the train steamed into Oxford, Benjamin had read the pamphlet over three times. A wealthy merchant with an interest in literary controversy might make an excellent client for an antiquarian bookseller, he thought. That afternoon he bought heavily at the sale in the Holywell Music Room. He paid more than he wanted for a first edition of Malone’s
An Inquiry into the Authenticity of Certain Miscellaneous Papers
, in which Malone exposed the great Shakespeare forger William Henry Ireland. It seemed a good book, he thought, to offer to Smith at a low price—and in Benjamin Mayhew’s experience there was no better way to hook a regular customer than by tantalizing him with an underpriced copy of a book closely related to his passion.

P
eter’s mind was aswirl as he headed out of Kingham toward Hay-on-Wye, the
Pandosto
nestled in an acid-free envelope inside his leather satchel on the backseat. Phillip Gardner had been a frustrated painter who blamed his failure on his neighbor Reginald Alderson. Gardner married a rich widow and took up document collecting to annoy Alderson. Four years later he was dead, with rumors of a mistress and murder circulating around the neighborhood. Somewhere in this mysterious narrative Peter felt sure was the key to both the stolen watercolor and the authenticity of the
Pandosto
. Might Reginald Alderson have murdered Phillip Gardner in order to get his hands on the collection of documents? Or was Alderson in cahoots with the mistress? And what secrets lay in that family chapel?

Of one thing Peter was nearly certain. Somehow Phillip Gardner’s collection of rare documents had ended up in the hands of his enemy. After Peter left Martha and Louise’s cottage, as he was walking down the lane, he suddenly remembered the interlacing initials E.H. penciled on the corner of each of the documents at Evenlode Manor. He had thought it had been the monogram of a previous owner; now he realized that E.H. stood for Evenlode House. And the
Pandosto
resting securely in his satchel bore the same initials.

—

P
eter loitered in front of the window of Church Street Books in Hay-on-Wye, feigning interest in the same display he had stared at just four days earlier and hoping for someone to enter the shop and distract the shopkeeper. He had no interest in being subjected to an unnecessary conversation beginning with,
Aren’t you the fellow who stole that watercolor?

Five minutes later a customer went into the shop and attracted the book dealer’s attention. Edmond Malone’s book
was still where Peter had reshelved it four days ago. Next to it were two volumes by William Henry Ireland detailing his forging of Shakespeare manuscripts and a copy of Ireland’s play
Vortigen
, which he had tried to pass off as Shakespeare’s. All four books had the interlacing
E.H.
on the front endpaper.

The next two books on the shelf were by another famous Shakespeare forger, John Payne Collier. Again, both books were marked with the monogram of Evenlode House. Peter was detecting an unsettling pattern. In all likelihood, Julia Alderson had removed this collection of books by and about Shakespeare forgers from the library of Evenlode Manor to avoid casting suspicion on the authenticity of the
Pandosto
. These books had all the hallmarks of the library of a forger in training, a forger whose greatest achievement was in the satchel next to Peter’s feet.

The next book on the shelf only increased Peter’s suspicions:
Notes and Emendations of the Text of Shakespeare’s Plays
—the book that Collier based on his boldest forgery, which bore a strong resemblance to the
Pandosto
. In 1852, Collier had announced a remarkable discovery. He had obtained a copy of the Second Folio of Shakespeare’s plays, printed in 1632. In the margins of this volume were thousands of notes and textual annotations. Collier claimed these annotations came from “purer manuscripts” of Shakespeare’s plays. The folio promised fodder for generations of Shakespeare scholars. Collier, however, refused to submit the volume to scrutiny, hiding it away in the library of the Duke of Devonshire. When the old duke died, his son allowed the British Museum to make a careful examination of the volume. The marginalia were clearly forged, and all evidence pointed to Collier as the perpetrator.

Peter now held a copy of Collier’s notorious book, lushly rebound in green morocco. In a corner of the inside back cover was a small stamp in the shape of a butterfly—the binder’s mark. On the front endpaper was the familiar E.H. monogram and something that cast the greatest doubt yet on the marginalia in the
Pandosto
. At the top of the page, in an uneven script, was the inscription,
JOHN PAYNE COLLIER TO PHILLIP GARDNER, 1877
. Collier, the notorious forger of Shakespearean marginalia, had known Phillip Gardner, Peter’s most likely candidate for the painter B.B. and onetime owner of the
Pandosto
. Was the
Pandosto
another forgery by Collier, hidden among Gardner’s documents as he had hidden the Second Folio in the Duke of Devonshire’s library? Did Collier never “discover” the
Pandosto
because he had, long before 1877, been unmasked as a forger?

Peter still hoped the
Pandosto
might be authentic, but he had already begun to adjust his expectations. Discovering an unrecorded Shakespeare forgery by Collier, especially one of this audacity, would make a small ripple in the pond of Shakespeare studies, rather than the tsunami that the marginalia would cause if genuine, but it would be a discovery nonetheless, worthy of an article in a scholarly journal. The book might still attract spirited bidding, especially if it was, in fact, a complete first edition. Even without the priceless Shakespearean marginalia it would be a unique copy of an important book.

The collection of books on Shakespeare forgeries formerly of Evenlode House, and presumably most recently of Evenlode Manor, numbered ten. The final three titles were the books that had unmasked Collier and revealed his forgeries. Peter carried all ten books in a neat stack to the front room and set them on the counter.

“Ah, come back then, have you?” said the shopkeeper.

Peter kept his head down as he pulled out his checkbook. “Yes, I have a new customer who’s interested in literary forgery and I remembered seeing these. I’ll take the lot.”

“Yes, quite a nice little collection that is. Funny couple brought it in about two months ago. Not exactly literary types. But I don’t imagine they’re stolen. Titles are a bit obscure for a book thief.”

“I don’t suppose you remember the names of the people who brought them in,” said Peter, wondering if John Alderson was in on the deception with his sister. “I thought I might try to find out something about the provenance.” It wasn’t exactly kosher for one dealer to ask another about his sources, but if the reason was scholarly rather than commercial, rules could be bent.

“Let me see,” said the man, pulling a large register out from under the counter and flipping the pages. “She was a quiet lady, not much personality, if you know what I mean.”

“Mousy?” said Peter.

“Exactly that,” said the man. “That’s exactly what I’d call her. But I made the check out to him. Ah, here it is,” he said, running his finger along an entry in the register. “Fellow by the name of Thomas Gardner.”

E
verything about his loss of virginity had felt safe to Peter—not just the familiar surroundings of the Devereaux Room and the familiar arms of Amanda, but even the residual role-playing that served as a protection against too much revelation of his most intimate self. As for other sorts of protection, Amanda had taken care of that, as she took care of so much. As they made love on the soft carpet amid their discarded costumes, she had guided him as she had guided him on the dance floor. Afterward he had curled up against her and rested his hand on her bare belly, feeling her skin gradually cool under his touch. They lay in a silence broken only by their breathing in unison, and Peter felt a sense of belonging deeper than any he had ever felt.

Finally Amanda placed her hand on top of his and spoke softly, her voice muffled by the carpet in spite of the cavernous space above them. “That was my first time,” she said.

“Mine, too,” said Peter.

She took his hand gently in hers and moved it lower across her smooth flesh. “Let’s see if the second time is just as good,” she said.

—

O
n Saturday morning, two days after Halloween, Peter was walking across campus to the library, his head down, his shoulders hunched, and his books clasped tightly against his chest—a posture with which he had successfully shielded himself from the outside world since middle school—when he heard a cheerful voice at his side.

“Good morning, Romeo. Do you recognize me with my head attached?”

Peter had no choice but to look up and see Amanda’s friend Cynthia, who had fallen into step next to him, smiling broadly.

“Morning, Cynthia,” he muttered. “I’ve really got to get to the library.” He picked up his pace, but Cynthia matched his stride and kept smiling at him. It was unnerving.

“Me, too,” she said brightly. Peter knew this must be a lie. He was practically the only student at Ridgefield who went to the library on Saturday mornings. “It’ll give us a chance to talk. It’s so hard to have a real conversation at that masquerade.” Peter was thinking that this was exactly what he had liked about the ball. “You know Amanda talks about you all the time, but it’s always ‘Peter and I did this’ or ‘Peter and I did that.’ She’s very cagey when it comes to telling me what you’re actually like.”

“I guess I’m kind of a private person,” said Peter, gripping his books a little tighter. Although he wanted to escape this conversation as soon as possible, he couldn’t deny the thrill that rushed through him when Cynthia said that Amanda talked about him all the time. Then he suddenly felt a jolt in his stomach when it occurred to him that Amanda might have said to her friend,
Peter and I made love
. He stared intently at the patterns of the bricks in the path as they walked.

“Well that’s okay,” said Cynthia. “To be private. I mean, I’m not that way. Everybody always knows how I’m feeling, whether they want to or not, but then I guess Amanda has always been a little on the private side.”

“I guess Amanda and I are alike that way,” said Peter.

Cynthia put a hand on Peter’s arm and gripped lightly, pulling him to a stop. He felt it would be rude to keep staring at the ground, so he looked up at her, but still avoided making eye contact. His hands began to sweat and he was afraid he might drop his books. “Listen, Peter,” said Cynthia. “I understand you’re a private guy, and I’m sure you have your reasons. But I’d like to be your friend, I really would, and there’s a real simple reason for that. I’ve known Amanda since we were six. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had. And I’ve never seen her as happy as she’s been since she started seeing you. Now maybe you haven’t dated a lot, so you don’t have much to compare Amanda to.”

“I haven’t dated at all,” mumbled Peter.

“Well, let me tell you, what Amanda feels for you—that’s not just what a girl feels for some guy she’s dating. She’s head over heels, Peter. And here’s the thing. Either you’re head over heels, too, in which case I’d really like to be friends with the man who’s going to spend the rest of his life with my best friend; or you’re not, in which case I need to know right now so I can tell Amanda that I had to kick your ass for breaking her heart.”

Cynthia didn’t stop smiling, but Peter sensed that this final threat was not a joke. He also realized that, at some point during this speech, his hands had stopped sweating and he found himself looking directly into Cynthia’s eyes.

“It feels a little weird to be telling you this,” said Peter. “I mean, I hardly know you. But yes, I’m head over heels. She may not know it yet, but I am the guy who’s going to spend the rest of his life with your best friend.” Peter felt his cheeks grow hot with the pride of this declaration, but he did not drop his gaze from Cynthia.

“Good,” she said, linking her arm with his and pulling him down the path toward the library. “Then I won’t have to kick your ass.”

“And even though I’m not very good at it, I would like to be your friend.”

“Peter,” said Cynthia, “I think you’re going to make an excellent friend.” They walked the rest of the way to the library in companionable silence, and Cynthia deposited him on the doorstep with a kiss on the cheek before heading back across campus toward the dormitories. Peter laughed as he pushed his way through the heavy doors and wondered how long she had been lying in wait for him.

—

P
eter was surprised to see the light on in Francis Leland’s office as he tossed his books onto a table in the Devereaux Room. He had expected to have Special Collections to himself until Francis came in for his afternoon of work. Peter slid into his usual chair and noticed a copy of that day’s
New York Times
open on the table and folded back to an article with the headline, “Gallery Said to Possess First American Imprint.” He picked up the paper and began to read.

The article described how a Salt Lake City rare-documents dealer named Mark Hofmann had discovered a copy of the earliest document printed in America, a broadside titled “Oath of a Freeman.” Supposed to have been printed in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1638 or 1639, the “Oath” had been recorded but no copy was known to have survived.

“It’s the Holy Grail of Americana,” said Francis, as Peter lay the paper back on the table.

“Is it really worth a million and a half dollars?” asked Peter. This was the asking price of the New York book dealers who were handling the “Oath” for Hofmann.

“Who’s to say what it would sell for at auction,” said Francis. “It’s the only one. I’d say a million and a half is a bullish price, but not ridiculous. The question is, who can afford it?” According to the article, the Library of Congress and the American Antiquarian Society had performed extensive forensic tests and concluded that the “Oath” was authentic.

The article also described how Hofmann, who had exhibited a penchant for digging up historical documents, especially those related to the Mormon Church, had recently been injured in one of three pipe bomb explosions in Salt Lake City. The local police seemed to be considering Hofmann a suspect in the bombings but did not draw any connections between the violence and the amazing discovery of the “Oath.”

“What would you do if you found something like that?” Peter asked Francis.

“I’d do the same thing these folks have done,” said Francis, tapping the newspaper with a pencil. “I’d suspect it and send it to the experts.”

“Do you think these experts used the same techniques as Carter and Pollard?” asked Peter.

“Forensic science is a little more advanced now than it was fifty years ago, but yes, I’d imagine basically they looked at three things. First is provenance, the history of ownership. With something that old and valuable you have to ask where it came from and how it remained undiscovered for so long. Next you have to look at the content. Is there anything in the text that’s inconsistent with the time period—spelling, word use, anachronisms, and so forth? That’s not so much of an issue with this piece because the text of the “Oath” is recorded in historical sources. Anyone can look it up. Last is materials. Is the ink as old as it purports to be? Is the paper from the right time period? Do the printing process and the typeface fit the timeline as well?”

“So you think it’s authentic?” said Peter.

“I’d like to see the forensic reports myself,” said Francis, “before I decide for sure it’s not a forgery. But it looks like it could be the real thing.”

“The first document ever printed in America,” said Peter. “That would be something.”

“Yes,” said Francis, “it certainly would.”