Book of Stolen Tales (7 page)

T
he sun vanished behind a heavy bank of cloud, and London, one of the most beautiful cities in the world, felt desolate. Amy hadn't actually seen the book itself, of that I was sure. Had she also been warned it was dangerous, or had she trusted Ewan Fraser too much? At this point it didn't matter. It was my word against hers. Amy and I liked each other, but she was in a very junior position. The entire issue would swiftly move to the chief curator and Sherrods' lawyers. If they could divert some of the blame by fingering me, they wouldn't hesitate.

I had no real proof the theft in my hotel room even took place. If anyone had noticed a man lingering in front of the hotel, they'd hardly have paid him any heed. I could see the wheels churning at Sherrods right now. They'd claim that I'd stolen it myself with the intent to sell it on the black market. And worse, with the book gone, who was to say the copy they offered at auction was the same one listed by Interpol?

I had a prearranged appointment with Arthur Newhouse, the solicitor who originally wrote to me, to hand over the book, assuming I was the successful bidder. I hadn't told him about the theft and fully intended to keep the appointment to learn the identity of my anonymous client and unravel this mystery.

En route to his office I stopped off at a couple of bookstores to see whether I could buy a translation but met with no success. At a printing shop I faxed my theft report to New Scotland Yard and did a quick check of my email. A well-intended message came in from a business friend in New York saying word had already leaked out about my involvement with Sherrods and a stolen book.

I swore under my breath. It had been only a couple of hours since I talked to Amy. Bad news travels faster than the speed of light.

My last experience dealing with a stolen relic from Iraq proved to me that once a rumor grabs hold, it's hard to control it even when you're close to the source. From this far away it would be impossible. My only hope lay in recovering the volume that had touched my hands so briefly and finding the other four.

I entered Lincoln's Inn through a gatehouse, a handsome red-brick structure accented with white limestone and two turrets joined by a crenulated wall bearing the Lovell coat of arms.

The Newhouse chambers occupied a prestigious spot on the third floor of a posh bank of buildings at New Square. Framed by a double archway, a wide, formidable iron door buttressed with rivets and topped with sharp pikes formed the entrance. A handsome coach house–style lamp with a flickering gas flame hung overhead. Did all this fortification protect the lawyers from the screaming mobs or the disgruntled clients from their lawyers?

One of Newhouse's clerks came out to greet me in the reception room. “I regret to tell you Mr. Newhouse has been delayed,” he said. “He'll be back by 2 P.M.” He gestured toward the giant grandfather clock stationed beside an umbrella rack as if I wasn't aware of the time.

“That's fine. I'm happy to wait.”

“Glad you're able to accommodate us, sir. Would you take a seat? Might I ask our Jennie to bring you some tea?” Our Jennie, a sharply attractive, narrow-faced young woman seated at the reception desk, looked up without smiling. She appeared to think pouring tea was about as enticing a proposition as doing overtime on Christmas Eve.

“I'm fine. Thanks anyway,” I said.

The fellow gave me a brief nod, excused himself, and disappeared down the hall. The only seat on offer was a rose damask settee so uncomfortable it felt as though it had been stuffed with cement. Jennie typed away on her desktop in silence. The grandfather clock chimed the half hour and ticked away the minutes. I wondered whether the police had already told Newhouse about the theft.

On my phone, I launched a browser and searched for the author under his real name. For his work to become a sensation in his lifetime was remarkable enough, but Basile had accomplished the near impossible—his words were still read and lauded centuries after his death. He was both a poet and court administrator, and also, most notably, one of the earliest Europeans to collect and transcribe oral folk tales.

Shunted from one patron to another, Basile was often treated miserably by his wealthy sponsors. He opined that “no life could be more unstable or fuller of anxiety,” and “you serve now, you serve later, you serve today, you serve tomorrow and then … suddenly it's night for you. You're told to turn yourself around and get out!”

I could relate to that. The more I read, the more I found myself intrigued by the man. He was the life of the party wherever he went. His poems and bawdy, comic stories were much sought after. One of his early translators described the anthology as being among the “oldest, richest, and most artistic of all books of popular tales.” Basile wrote literary versions of folk tales in the opulent, overblown Baroque tradition. But some of his fables were scurrilous and brutal, reminiscent of Swift's dark, sharp-pronged satire.

“Mr. Madison?”

I'd become so engrossed in Basile's life I hadn't realized Arthur Newhouse stood before me. I clicked off my phone. We shook hands and he showed me to his office.

The solicitor knew how to make an impression. Although I preferred the flair of Italian design, Newhouse was impeccably turned out in a British-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit and twill silk tie. A cabinet with a computer and files sat against one wall, the only sign this room was actually used for work. He took his seat behind a beautiful Georgian-era mahogany desk that held photographs in silver frames and a quill pen in a holder.

A Francis Bacon painting hung on one wall among several other works by well-known artists. I'd always found Bacon's portraits shocking. He painted the condemned soul, his wraithlike figures with howling mouths and tormented anatomies so convincingly rendered, just looking at them was painful. Bacon suffered from terrifying bouts of asthma all his life. I'd often wondered whether those contorted mouths expressed his own awful feelings of suffocation.

The grotesque image seemed out of place in a solicitor's office; then again, owning an original Bacon was a symbol of status and wealth and perhaps that's what he wanted to convey. It must have set him back millions.

Newhouse opened with an apology. “I'm terribly sorry to be so late. It's not my habit, I assure you. I do hope our Jennie made you comfortable in the interim.”

“Yes, of course.”

Apropos of nothing he waved a pale hand toward the quill. “Used by Jonathan Swift. The nib broke as he was finishing a passage. You can still see the spray of ink in the original manuscript.”

I assumed this was intended to set me at ease and perhaps demonstrate he was a man of means if I hadn't been sharp enough to conclude that from his art.

“That's fascinating,” I said politely. “But I'm curious about your client. Why did he choose me to represent him … or her, as the case may be? Why pay for me to come all the way from New York when there are dozens of talented London dealers?”

He tossed back a sweep of flaxen hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Come, Mr. Madison, your talents are well regarded even on this side of the pond. My client—and it is a ‘him'—was very determined, perhaps I could say, even desperate, to acquire the book. And yet his funds were limited. He put aside every penny of his capital to buy it.

“To win the auction he needed someone with a quick mind. A skilled bidder. He'd heard about your success last year when a George Stubbs equine painting was auctioned.” Newhouse had rested his arms on the desk. He leaned forward and clasped his hands. “To be perfectly frank, I advised against hiring an American. And you a kebab, no less.” He punctuated this slur with a wink as if to show it was all in good fun. “As you pointed out we have a surfeit of talent right here. All the same, my client made up his mind and wouldn't hear of anyone else.”

The insult about my Turkish origins proved that for all his expensive trappings, Newhouse lacked class. And I didn't buy his explanation. The Stubbs purchase involved some sleight of hand but it was hardly earth shattering. “He chose me solely because of that?”

“You must have realized my client's desire to remain anonymous already telegraphed a very private nature. Discretion was paramount. He was afraid a London dealer might, well, indulge in chatter, as it were.”

Here then was the real reason. “What was so important about the book that your client felt the need to hide his purchase of it? And the reference to a malevolent history in your letter—what did you mean by that?”

“Afraid I can't tell you. I'm not privy to that information.”

It felt frustrating to make so little headway. As Newhouse was my only contact, I'd hoped for more.

In an obvious effort to change the subject, he brought our talk sharply around to the purpose of our meeting. “Were you successful in acquiring it?” His heavy, reddish eyelids blinked rapidly. “I'd be happy to take possession of the article now if it's all the same to you.” He opened a desk drawer, removed a small bottle of ink and a booklet, and reached for the quill. “Excuse this little penchant of mine. I like to use the quill for my official signature.”

“With a broken nib?”

Coloring slightly, he said, “The nib was replaced. Some time ago.”

I smiled. “Of course you realize that by repairing it you've degraded its value—that is, if Swift ever did use it. We kebabs know a fake when we see one.”

He ignored my rejoinder and cleared his throat. “Let's get to the business at hand, shall we? What was the book's final price?”

“Well under your client's maximum. One hundred twenty-four thousand pounds.”

Newhouse leaned back in his chair and raised his eyebrows. “Very good. We hadn't dared hope for a decent sum. People seem willing to pay anything these days.”

The praise felt genuine. I smiled in response to his compliment. “I'll take possession of it then.” He bent his head to write in the notebook. When he saw I hadn't reached for my case, he looked up abruptly. “Well?”

“I can't give it to you. Someone stole it from me last night.” I watched his pale eyes closely but didn't find the flash of surprise that should have been there.

He dropped the quill, ink splattering his receipt book. “This comes as a shock, Mr. Madison. Sherrods has our money already?”

“Of course. They wouldn't let the book out of their sight without the funds.”

“I see. Now tell me, what happened
exactly
?”

“A man robbed me. He took the book and some rare gold coins. He knew a great deal about me. My name, my occupation, and the daily routines of family members in New York.” My voice faltered as I recalled the threat against Evelyn. “How did he know I was your point man for the purchase?”

“I've no idea, I can assure you of that. Perhaps a contact at Sherrods?”

“I suppose that's possible.” I remembered how forthcoming Amy had been with me about the other bidders. “I've learned the book consisted of five separate volumes. Was your client expecting to buy the entire book or just one volume?”

Newhouse sat up straighter. “Why, the whole book of course. As it was, the price turned out to be very dear. He'd never pay that much for only part of it.”

“Well, he'll be doubly disappointed then. Sherrods offered only the one volume.”

“This is a disaster! You've reported this to the police and your insurance company, I hope.”

“Of course, right away. I gave the police a preliminary report last night and am due to be interviewed at New Scotland Yard tomorrow morning. As for insurance, you'll have to get in touch with my broker, Jack Edison. He's handling it personally. He'll take a bit of time with this. You know how these companies are. Tons of paperwork. Always is in the case of art theft. In fact, he's out of the country right now.”

This time his cheeks flared to crimson; there was no hiding his anger. “All the same, a significant amount of money is involved. I can tell you, Mr. Madison, I've been practicing law for over twenty years. The book was in your possession and stolen or not, you are responsible. I can assure you I'll press the case to its limit. You have my word on that.”

“I understand it's a difficult situation all around. The onus should be on the auction house to straighten things out.”

“That's a fine thought, Mr. Madison. It disappeared while in
your
possession.” He stared at me accusingly.

“Yes, but it was reported stolen by the owner
before
it was even auctioned. I'll be happy to provide you with the link to the Interpol report. Given the circumstances, I'd like to know who your client is, to tell him this in person.”

I expected Newhouse to refuse my request outright or at least to express dismay at the new information. Instead, he pulled up his gangly frame, took out his cellphone, and abruptly left the room.

His reaction was unusual to say the least. He hadn't pressed me for any more details about the attack in my hotel room, instead immediately mentioned the insurance money. And despite his fit of temper, I'd sensed underlying anxiety in his voice.

After a few minutes the office door swung open. Newhouse didn't retreat behind his desk this time but faced me, quite agitated. The words spilled out of him. “Ordinarily I wouldn't reveal my client's identity; however, new circumstances have arisen that are troubling indeed. His name is Charles Renwick. My firm has represented his interests for many years. He owns a small publishing company producing high-quality, limited-edition books. Illustrated stories, books in great demand by collectors around the world. They sell for substantial sums.”

He paused to sweep his hair back again and I thought what a girlish gesture it seemed. “I've been quite worried about him lately,” Newhouse confessed. “That book went to his head. He'd become infatuated with acquiring the damned thing. Utter foolishness. And look where it's got him.”