Authors: Ellen Pall
Slightly Abridged (9 page)
“Too bad,” said Juliet.
“Yes,” agreed Dennis. “Too bad. It was my explanation of just that very regrettable fact that made Ada Caffrey so angry with me. Once I assured her the manuscript was almost surely legit, she insisted the couplet had to be Byron, a fragment of unpublished Byron. And that should make the manuscript very valuable indeed, she thought. Which it would, if it could be proven. I suppose the manuscript might go for as much as a hundred thousand, if the Byron link proved authentic.
“But there seems to be no way to authenticate it. So it remains a curiosity. According to Bourne, the last anyone heard of the rest of Wilson's manuscript of the memoirs was late in the 1840s, when Stockdale's widow wrote to Brougham to say she had it. The crossed-out passages were still legible, she kindly informed him, and though she'd hate to have to publish them, she did need money badly. She also had Harriette's letters to her late husband, she said, detailing who had bought out and should be excised, and who had not. Bourne speculates that Brougham purchased the whole thing from her and burnt it. Quiddenham's pages may be the only ones that survived.
“Now, Harriette Wilson was not Byron. She wasn't Thomas Moore, either, or Leigh Hunt, or even John Hunt. The manuscript is short and of limited scholarly interest. I offered Mrs. Caffrey five thousand, an entirely appropriate amount considering that the Byron can never be authenticatedâif anything, it was a little generous, I'd say. When she questioned me, I admitted that I hoped to sell it for more than thatâmaybe twice that, which again is a perfectly ordinary proportion, ask any dealer.
“Well, Mrs. Caffrey saw red. Why should I get twice what she
got? And why should it only be worth ten thousand anyway, why not a hundred thousand, a thousand thousand? Byron wasn't writing more poems now, she knew that!
got? And why should it only be worth ten thousand anyway, why not a hundred thousand, a thousand thousand? Byron wasn't writing more poems now, she knew that!
“I explained my profit was recompense for my expertise, for knowing what it was, how to research it, what to do with it, how to sell itâand for selling it. I offered to take it on consignment. I told her if she could wait a bit, let me build up some interest, I'd be willing to keep just 15 percent of whatever it fetched. But by then she was in a fury. I was chiseling her, I was bilking her, I was holding out. It wasn't a very nice scene, our little visit.”
He said this with his eyes on Juliet, who immediately began to apologize for having brought him into the business in the first place. Dennis had already told her some of this part of the story when Mrs. Caffrey had first gone missing. She had apologized to him then, as well.
“Oh, well, don't apologize!” he said. He put a large hand over hers. “You couldn't have had any idea. What was unfortunate was that, at that very moment, John Fitzjohn dropped in for a visit. He's a client I've had for a long time,” he explained to Suzy, “who collects nineteenth-century erotica. I called him the same day Juliet brought me the manuscript because I thought that, at age eighty-four, Mrs. Caffrey might like a nice, quick sale. Fitzjohn said he'd stop by in the next day or two and take a look. It was just pure bad luck that he happened to do it right in time to hear Mrs. Caffrey throwing a fit in my living room.”
Dennis shook his head at the recollection of that fraught, uncomfortable moment. “God, how I wish you'd still been in when I called to say I'd come down to you,” he told Suzy.
Suzy looked uneasy. “Did youâdid you leave a message?” she said tentatively. “Maybe my answering machineâ
“No, I didn't leave a message.” Dennis gave her a controlled glare, fully aware she was questioning his word. The police had raised this matter, too. “What would have been the point?”
He took a sip of coffee, trying to compose himself.
“Fitzjohn phoned me a couple of hours ago, by the way,” he went on presently, “completely enraged. The police questioned him today, too. They didn't even tell him Mrs. Caffrey was dead till they'd been at him for an hour. He thought she was missing, bent over backward to give them all the details, never thought of calling a lawyer ⦠Well, he's called a lawyer now.”
“Jesus, how many people did they talk to today?” asked Suzy.
Dennis shrugged. “It's because he left here with Mrs. Caffreyâmuch against my wishes, I may add, but she insisted on getting into the elevator with him. He was the last to see her. Now he's calling other dealers to complain about the zoo I run. Oh, he's a lovely man.”
“Maybe he did it,” Juliet said.
“Fitzjohn? Killed her?”
She nodded.
Dennis closed his eyes and cocked his head, thinking. Or rather, Juliet couldn't help noticing, looking like somebody who was thinking. Like a caricature of thought. She couldn't see what required so much cogitation: To her mind, Fitzjohn seemed an ideal suspect. Right place, right time, good motiveâthe manuscriptânasty sort. In a few words, she said as much.
“I suppose it's possible,” Dennis finally conceded.
“But why?” This from Suzy. “Couldn't he have bought the manuscript if he'd wanted it? You said he was rich.”
“Yes, he is. And, as a matter of fact, he told me that when they went downstairs together, Mrs. Caffrey offered to sell it to him directly.”
“See? How much did she want?” Suzy asked curiously.
“Twenty thousand dollars.” Dennis shook his head again and gave a gloomy laugh. “I guess she really did think I was trying to cheat her. But Fitzjohn had taken a look at the pages even while she was berating me, and he wasn't very intrigued. That's not so surprising;
collectors of erotica generally want something with pictures, something a little less genteel than what Mrs. Caffrey had to offer. I only thought of him because he is big on the nineteenth century. And he spends pretty freely when he sees something he wants. It's more likely a university would buy it, for a women's studies collection, say. But probably not so quickly, and not for as much money as Fitzjohn would pay.
collectors of erotica generally want something with pictures, something a little less genteel than what Mrs. Caffrey had to offer. I only thought of him because he is big on the nineteenth century. And he spends pretty freely when he sees something he wants. It's more likely a university would buy it, for a women's studies collection, say. But probably not so quickly, and not for as much money as Fitzjohn would pay.
“Not that it will sell to anyone now,” he added darkly, “considering that it's missing.”
“You don't think the police will track it down?”
“If someone tries to sell it to a reputable dealer, yeah, they'll probably nab it. I gave them a copy of my photocopy. They've put it out through their art theft unit on the NCIC, and the Antiquarian Booksellers Association will alert their members. But that only works if whoever has it tries to sell it. The police seem to think the thief will keep it. In fact, they wanted to come over here and look around. See if she left it here by accident, is what they said. But my lawyer said no way should I let them.”
“You called a lawyer?”
“Didn't you guys?”
Suzy shook her head.
“Me, neither,” Juliet said.
“Why not? Didn't they question you?”
“Oh, God, yes,” Juliet replied. “How did I meet Ada, when did she arrive, what did we do together, how long was the manuscript in my hands, why did I suggest she take it to you, why did I still have the receipt, where was I on FridayâI already said in the missing persons investigation that I never left my house that day; you would think they could look it upâwho did she mention when we were talking, who did I think might want to kill her, where was I on Friday, where was I on Friday, where was I onâwell, you get the picture.”
“And you never thought to call a lawyer?”
“Well, you know, I thought of it, of courseâbut they were perfectly polite. And they said if I had nothing to hide, why would I need a lawyer? And I don't have anything to hide, so ⦔
As she heard her own answer, Juliet began to wonder if she had, after all, been very foolish indeed.
More defensively, she added, “It was just an interview. I was there of my own free will. And I couldn't help feeling that as long as I didn't call a lawyer, I was merely a friendly source of information. But once I did, I'd be a suspect.”
“You already are a suspect,” Dennis said. “We all are.”
“You think?” asked Suzy.
“Are you kidding?” Dennis's normally pink cheeks went a little pinker, and he stood up abruptly from the table. “Of course we are. What did they ask you?”
“Oh, pretty much what they asked Juliet, I guess,” Suzy said, her small, pale face looking rather dazed. “Except I did go out on Friday, of course. They asked me about Parker, too. I guess they'll talk to him.”
“Parker's the man who Suzyâ” Juliet began to explain for Dennis's benefit.
But he cut her off. “Yes, you told me. Listen, both of you should talk to lawyers,” he said, with what seemed to Juliet unusual decisiveness for him. “It's naive not to. If you want, I'll give you my guy's name.”
Suzy, who didn't particularly have the money to consult a lawyer, said nothing. Juliet, wondering what business it was of Dennis's whether she hired one or not, murmured that she'd think about it. Privately, she decided to ask Murray what he recommended.
Then, to change the subject, “Did you ever find out if Viscount Quiddenham was related to General Quiddenham?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Dennis answered, calming down almost instantly. He drew out his chair and sat again. “And yes, the general was our viscount's son. As it happens, his great-great-grandsonâI think
that's the right number of greatsâ” He paused and counted on his fingers. “Well, anyway, a descendant, recently published a biography of the general. And yes, you were right, there is a group of people in favor of removing his statue from Pall Mall. I found a news story from a couple of years ago on the Web. It's something Ken Living-stone, the mayor of London, was advocating: sending a whole bunch of Great Marble Men of British imperialism from London to the provincesâor the guillotine.”
that's the right number of greatsâ” He paused and counted on his fingers. “Well, anyway, a descendant, recently published a biography of the general. And yes, you were right, there is a group of people in favor of removing his statue from Pall Mall. I found a news story from a couple of years ago on the Web. It's something Ken Living-stone, the mayor of London, was advocating: sending a whole bunch of Great Marble Men of British imperialism from London to the provincesâor the guillotine.”
“I don't imagine his family are very happy about that,” Juliet said.
“You bet your saber they're not. Oddly enough, there's a Quiddenham descendant living in New York City right now. Son of the general's biographer. I talked to him. Michael Hertbrooke.”
“The gossip columnist?” Suzy exclaimed. Suzy, as Juliet knew, was a loyal reader of the tabloids.
“That's the one. He's mentioned on the jacket flap of his father's book. I called him to see if he'd be interested in buying the manuscript.”
“Was he?” Suzy asked.
“Yes, he was. Interested enough to come and take a look, anyway. He was here Friday morning.”
“The Friday Ada disappeared? You never told me that,” Juliet said, looking at him hard.
“Have I ever told you about
any
of my clients? Except for Fitzjohn, I mean. I don't talk about clients. That's the way this business is; you don't go around telling everybody everything. It's that question of professional discretion again. That's why I never filled you in on my research until now. Until I got the okay from Mrs. Caffrey, I only spoke to a select few potential buyers. I'm particularly careful about keeping my mouth shut and my profile low; I'm known for it. And that,” he added darkly, “is why it's so crappy that John Fitzjohn is phoning around to dump on my good name.”
any
of my clients? Except for Fitzjohn, I mean. I don't talk about clients. That's the way this business is; you don't go around telling everybody everything. It's that question of professional discretion again. That's why I never filled you in on my research until now. Until I got the okay from Mrs. Caffrey, I only spoke to a select few potential buyers. I'm particularly careful about keeping my mouth shut and my profile low; I'm known for it. And that,” he added darkly, “is why it's so crappy that John Fitzjohn is phoning around to dump on my good name.”
“Oh.”
There was a moment of silence while all three contemplated the prospect of Rara Avis in commercial ruins. Juliet had never been quite sure how successful Dennis was. He seemed to do pretty wellâwitness the silver cocktail shaker and the ready supply of raspberriesâbut he had recently let her know he also took on insurance appraisals and odd bits of cataloging for auction houses now and then. That was not the sort of work people did for the love of it. She wondered if Rara Avis was less prosperous than she had thought. She also wondered if Dennis's ideas of professional discretion weren't a bit exaggerated.
Of course, exaggeration of a certain kind seemed to be his stock-in-trade.
Finally, “But what made you call Michael Hertbrooke?” she asked.
“Just routine. Sooner or later, I call everybody I can think of who might have an interest in a property.”
“And did he want to buy it?” Suzy prompted.
“I'm not sure. He asked me the price,” Dennis answered. “I told him I'd have to run it by the owner when she came in later, but I thought about ten thousand. He just laughed. He said I must think gossip columnists are a lot better paid than they are.”
“Did he seem upset?” Juliet asked.
“Upset?”
“Like he thought you were threatening him, holding his feet to the fire?”
“No, he just saidâHolding his feet to the fire?”
“Well, yes,” said Juliet. “I mean, he must have thought you were trying to blackmail him.”
“Blackmail?”
“Sure. Especially with his ancestor's statue in jeopardy, don't you think he'd read your call that way?”
“I never thought of it,” Dennis replied slowly. “I mean, I realized it was sort of funny to call him because he is a gossip columnist.
But I always look for descendants if something comes in with a name on it like that. If Harriette Wilson had had descendants I could trace, I'd have called them, too.”
But I always look for descendants if something comes in with a name on it like that. If Harriette Wilson had had descendants I could trace, I'd have called them, too.”
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