Ghost image, p.10
Ghost Image, page 10
The gallery was a secondary business, opened to appease his many admirers who clamored for it. But he’d made his reputation and his fortune as one of D.C.’s top interior designers, thanks to a client list that included diplomats, politicians, wealthy socialites, and even the First Family.
The Tibetan wind chimes hanging on the front door of his gallery tinkled as I walked in half an hour later cradling my camera bag with Kevin’s book inside. Max’s business partner—and, if you believed the rumors, a former lover—glanced up from a catalog she was reading behind an antique walnut-and-glass display cabinet.
She smiled. “Sophie, how nice to see you. Go on through, he’s in his office.”
Max was sitting at a mahogany desk that dated from one of the Louises—fourteenth or sixteenth, I could never remember—frowning at something on his computer screen. When he saw me in the doorway, the frown vanished and he switched off the display and came around, smiling, to give me a kiss.
He was dressed as though he’d just come from a meeting at the White House: impeccable charcoal suit, pale blue dress shirt, blue-and-yellow silk tie, and black wingtips polished to a military shine. He was tall and slim, with an air of erudition and seriousness and the bearing of someone who grew up surrounded by privilege and luxury on a grand estate or a historic plantation, a first-class private education, summer holidays abroad. The truth—and he was proud of it—was that he was the only child of a single mother who worked in a school cafeteria in rural Kentucky. The military paid for his college education.
“Sweetheart, do come in. Let me take that from you.” He set my camera bag on an English sideboard. “I made Earl Grey. And we’ve got macaroons from Patisserie Poupon.”
I’d completely forgotten about eating lunch. “Sounds wonderful,” I said. “And thank you again for the note you left this morning about Kevin Boyle.”
He shook his head in dismay. “I read his book. A real shame about his passing. He wasn’t that old.” He indicated a chair. “Have a seat, darlin’. Your tea’s ready.”
I sat in a moss-green velvet slipper chair in front of his desk and took the bone china cup and saucer he handed me. Max sat in the matching twin chair across from me and passed me a plate piled with macaroons. When he crossed one leg over the other, I noticed he was wearing socks with a pirate skull and crossbones on them.
“Hazelnut or raspberry?” he said. “Never mind, take one of each.”
I took one of each and said, “I love your socks.”
“I like ’em, too. Always do one thing that keeps people guessing about you. It’s boring being predictable. Suit from Savile Row, socks from Target.” He grinned, and stuck out a leg, admiring his sock. “So tell me about this book. We have some time before Bram calls. He won’t be free until three o’clock.”
“Bram?”
He dipped a hazelnut macaroon in his tea. “Bramwell Asquith. You must know Asquith’s, the British auction house? Their Washington gallery is on Cady’s Alley.”
It was one of the oldest auction houses in Britain, founded in the late 1700s.
“Of course.” The studio I briefly worked for was also located on Cady’s Alley, a little cul-de-sac in lower Georgetown next to the C&O Canal. “When I lived in London I used to stop by their gallery on Bond Street.”
Max nodded. “I know it well. Bram is their senior vice president—and heir apparent to take over—but he’s also Asquith’s expert on rare and antiquarian books. He works here in Washington, though. I’m not sure how much he’ll be able to tell us over the phone, but at least you might be able to get a rough idea of the value.” He gave me a questioning smile. “I’m presuming that’s what you’re after, isn’t it?”
“Yes and no. I believe someone is searching for this particular book, and I want to know why.”
“Can you be any more specific?”
“I’m fairly certain it belonged to Kevin Boyle. He hid it in a locker at the Natural History Museum, or at least I think he hid it, though I don’t know from whom.”
Max brushed imaginary crumbs from his perfectly creased trousers and looked as though we were discussing something as innocuous as what fabric to choose for my living room drapes. “I see,” he said in his languid drawl. “Do you believe there’s a connection between Brother Kevin’s death and the book?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m so curious about it.”
Max set his cup and saucer on his desk as though I still hadn’t said anything that surprised him. But in his line of work, he probably saw his share of surprises—some of them no doubt jaw-dropping—peeking into the bedrooms, offices, and private lives of his powerful and wealthy clients. I figured he had a lot of practice perfecting that poker face.
“Why don’t I pour us some more tea?” he said. “And maybe you can start at the beginning.”
I told him everything, including finding Kevin’s study room trashed, Thea Stavros’s asking to keep the key, and Logan’s suggesting it possibly opened a locker at the Natural History Museum.
Max’s eyebrows went up when I mentioned Thea. “So you met La Stavros? How interesting. I haven’t spoken to her in ages. In fact, I didn’t realize she was still at the library.”
“You know her?” I asked, as he gave me a practiced innocent grin that fooled no one. “Why am I asking? You know everyone.”
“You flatter me. But Thea … a fascinating woman, to say the least. We met years ago when a client asked me to create a one-of-a-kind hand-painted wallpaper of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American botanical prints.” He picked up his teacup again and drank, his eyes crinkling as he started to laugh. “Let me tell you, Thea saved my bacon. Refused to let me use two of the prints I absolutely loved because she said they would look like we’d put big green phalluses all over the walls once they were enlarged. Lord, it was a distinguished room in a rather famous home.”
I laughed, too. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me which rather famous home?”
He gave me a look like a cat that just drank all the cream. “Have another macaroon, Sophie, darlin’.”
I took one, and he stood up. “Let me wash my hands and we’ll have a look at your book.”
I cleaned up our dishes while he disappeared into the small bathroom that adjoined his office. Then I took the book in its canvas cover out of my camera bag. Max returned holding a pair of white cotton gloves. He removed the cloth-covered box from the bag and set it on the sideboard.
“Well, the fact that it’s in a Solander box already indicates that it’s of some value.” He took reading glasses out of the inside pocket of his jacket and put them on.
“Why is it called a Solander box?” I asked.
“Because it was invented by Mr. Solander.” He opened the box. “I don’t recall his first name, but he was a botanist, interestingly enough, who needed a sturdy container to protect a collection of prints … let’s see what we have here. Adam in Eden: or, Natures Paradise. The History of Plants, Fruits, Herbs and Flowers by William Coles, Herbalist.”
He lifted the yellowed book out of the box and set it on a piece of cloth he’d laid out on the sideboard. I took a look inside the box.
“There’s an envelope in here,” I said. “It must have been underneath the book. No postage stamp and it seems to be quite old. Addressed to Dr. Francis Pembroke of Leesburg, Virginia.”
“We’ll have a look at that in a minute.” Max slowly began turning the pages of Adam in Eden. “Well, first off, there’s no leather binding, no cover of any sort, just bound pages. Whoever owned this particular volume—it looks like a medical reference encyclopedia of plants and herbs—annotated it extensively. Look at the marginalia. But these beautiful plates of flowers and plants are originals … they’re hand drawn and hand colored … quite unusual.”
William Coles had done his homework. The book was nearly 650 pages long, and every chapter referenced a particular plant, herb, or tree in exhaustive detail—its description, history, Greek and Latin names, and a long explanation of its medical uses, which Coles referred to as “the virtues.” Chapter one was titled “Of the Wall-nut Tree.”
“Does the writing in the margins decrease the value?” I asked.
“Depends on whose handwriting it is. We’ll have to ask Bram … What a pity. Someone pressed a plant between the pages. Stained the paper so badly you can’t read the text underneath.” He shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. “It’s called foxing when there’s spotting or staining like this.”
“It’s in the chapter about hyssop. Do you think someone pressed a hyssop plant and put it there?”
“Possibly, or just picked this page because there would be enough weight to press the plant flat.”
“The stain is at least twice the size of those leaves. It looks like part of the plant is missing.” I leaned over his shoulder and started reading: “A decoction of rue and honey, being drunk doth help those that are troubled with coughs, shortness of breath, wheezings, and rheumatic distillations upon the lungs.”
“Hyssop does seem like a cure-all for everything.” Max turned the page. “Taken with oxymel—I believe that’s honey mixed with vinegar—it purges gross humors of the stool, worms in the belly, expels wind, it helpeth those that are stung by serpents, the oil killeth lice.” He turned more pages. “It appears to be the only thing preserved in these pages, so that’s good. Let’s have a look at that letter. It might give us a clue about the owner. It would make sense for a doctor to own a dictionary of herbal plants.”
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.”
