She turned to leave.
“Uh, Susan, if we do figure this all out, do you want us to contact you, let you know about Jonathan?”
She faced him. “I think I should let the past stay right where it is. In the past.”
“I just thought you’d like to know. Losing a spouse that way, you don’t really get over it.”
“You sound like you speak from experience?”
“My wife. It was a long time ago.”
“Had you two divorced?”
“No.”
“It wasn’t the same with me and Jonathan. He decided to end our marriage. I’m not sure why I even came here.”
“I see. Well, could I have the picture back, then?”
“What?” she said, appearing startled.
“The picture of Jonathan. I wanted to return it to his home.”
“Oh, I . . . I don’t have it with me.”
“Well, when you get to wherever you’re going, you can send it along.”
“You’re far too trusting, Oliver. There’s nothing to make me send it back to you.”
“That’s right. Nothing at all.”
She gazed at him curiously. “You’re one of the most unusual people I’ve ever met, and let me tell you that’s saying something.”
“You should get going, don’t want to miss your flight.”
She glanced around at the tombstones. “You’re surrounded by death here. Way too depressing. You really might want to think about getting another job.”
“You see death and sadness in these sunken patches of dirt, I see lives lived fully and the good deeds of past generations influencing the future ones.”
“That’s way too altruistic for me.”
“I thought that once too.”
“Good luck.” She turned to leave.
“If you ever need a friend, you know where to find me.”
Her shoulders tensed for an instant as he said this. Then she was gone.
Stone put the lawn mower away and sat on the porch gazing solemnly at his tombstones as a chilly wind started to sweep across.
CHAPTER 43
CALEB ROSE AND GREETED THE man as he came into the reading room.
“Can I help you?”
Roger Seagraves showed Caleb his library card, which anyone could obtain in the Madison Building across the street by showing a driver’s license or passport, fake or not. The name on the library card was William Foxworth, and the photo on the card matched the man. The same information had been loaded into the library’s computer system.
Seagraves glanced around at the tables where a few people sat. “I’m looking for a particular book.” Seagraves named the one he wanted.
“Fine. Do you have a particular interest in that era?”
“I have lots of interests,” Seagraves said. “That’s just one of them.” He studied Caleb for a moment as though thinking of what he wanted to say. Actually, the script had been carefully planned, and he had done his homework on Caleb Shaw. “I’m also a collector but a novice one, I’m afraid. I have a few recent purchases in English literature that I’d like someone to evaluate for me. I guess I should have had that done before I bought them, but as I said, I’m just starting out collecting. I came into some money a while back, and my mother worked at a library for years. I’ve always had an interest in books, but serious collecting is a whole other ball game, I’ve found.”
“It absolutely is. And it can be quite ruthless,” Caleb said, and then hastily added, “In a dignified way, of course. As it happens, one of my areas of expertise is eighteenth-century English literature.”
“Wow, that’s terrific,” Seagraves said. “My lucky day.”
“What are the books, Mr. Foxworth?”
“Please, call me Bill. A first-edition Defoe.”
“Robinson Crusoe? Moll Flanders?”
Seagraves said, “Moll Flanders.”
“Excellent. What else?”
“Goldsmith’s The Life of Richard Nash. And a Horace Walpole.”
“The Castle of Otranto, 1765?”
“That’s the one. It’s in pretty good shape, actually.”
“You don’t see many of those. I’d be glad to take a look at them for you. As you can imagine, there are many variations in editions. And some people buy books thinking they’re true first editions, but they turn out to be something else altogether. It even happens with some of the better dealers.” He added quickly, “Inadvertently, I’m sure.”
“I could bring them in the next time I’m here.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Bill, because you’d have a hard time getting them past security unless prior arrangements have been made. They might think you stole the books from us, you see. You don’t want to be arrested.”
Seagraves paled. “Oh, right, I hadn’t thought of that. My God, the police. I’ve never even had a parking ticket.”
“Calm down, it’s okay.” Caleb added a little pompously, “The world of the rare book can be very, how shall I say, sophisticated, with a spice of danger. But if you are serious about collecting in the eighteenth century, you’ll need to make sure you have a number of authors represented. A few that come to mind are Jonathan Swift and Alexander Pope; they’re regarded as the masters of the first half of the century. Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, of course, David Hume, a Tobias Smollett, Edward Gibbon, Fanny Burney, Ann Radcliffe and Edmund Burke. It’s not an inexpensive hobby.”
“I’m finding that out,” Seagraves said glumly.
“Not like collecting bottle caps, is it?” Caleb laughed at his little joke. “Oh, and of course, you can’t forget the eight-hundred-pound gorilla of that era, and the master of the second half of the century, Mr. Samuel Johnson. It’s not an exhaustive list by any means, but a good start.”
“You certainly know your eighteenth-century lit.”
“I should, I have a PhD on the subject. As far as evaluating your books, we can always meet someplace. Just let me know.” He fished in his pocket and handed Seagraves a card with his office number on it. He clapped Seagraves enthusiastically on the back. “And now I’ll get your book.”
When Caleb brought the tome out to him, he said, “Well, enjoy.”
Seagraves glanced at Caleb and smiled. Oh, I will, Mr. Shaw, I will.
By prior arrangement Caleb met Reuben, and the pair went to DeHaven’s house after Caleb got off work. They searched for two hours. While they found receipts and bills of sale for all his other books in his desk, they discovered nothing supporting the slain librarian’s ownership of the Psalm Book.
Caleb next went down to the vault. He needed to check the Psalm Book for the Library’s secret coding: That would prove whether Jonathan had stolen it. And yet Caleb made no move to enter the vault. If the code was there? He couldn’t face that prospect. So Caleb did what came naturally when he was under pressure: He ran for it. The book would keep, he told himself.
“I just don’t understand this,” Caleb said to Reuben. “Jonathan was an honest man.”
Reuben shrugged. “Yeah, but like you said, people can really get into this collecting stuff. And a book like that one might make him do something on the shady side. And that would explain why he kept it a secret.”
Caleb replied, “But it would eventually have come out. He had to die sometime.”
“But he didn’t expect to die that suddenly, obviously. Maybe he had plans for it but never got a chance to carry them out.”
“But how do I auction off a book that he has no ownership documentation for?”
“Caleb, I know he was your friend and all, but it seems to me that the truth has to come out at some point,” Reuben said quietly.
“There’ll be a scandal.”
“I don’t see how you get around it. Just make sure you don’t get swept up in it.”
“I guess you’re right, Reuben. And thanks for your help. Are you staying here?”