According to Their Deeds (24 page)

“So that’s what’s been cut out.”

“It would make a nice picture on a wall,” Jacob said, very sarcastically. “I hate book breaking.”

“I know your opinions on the subject. What do you think of it being the Alexander Pope translation?”

“That’s an odd one, too, isn’t it, Charles? That’s an odd one. Long out of fashion by that point. Mostly. But it had a small following. Tutors used it. Private tutors.”

Charles’s eyes had not left the volume on the desk in front of him. “A wealthy child around 1830, studying Homer with a private tutor. A name springs to mind . . .”

Jacob cackled. “Don’t get your hopes up, Charles! But that would be a catch if it were.”

“There is an unreadable signature. I’m going to compare it to a few specimens. And I might run it up to the Library of Congress, to see what they think. It will just be so disappointing when they tell me I’m wrong.”

“Have them call me, and I’ll tell you. I’d look forward to it.”

“I’m always glad to give you something to live for. Except I’m going to run out sooner or later.”

“It’s touch and go, Charles, but this will keep me going for a week or so. And say, what happened to that matchmaker you were after?”

“I met him, Jacob. A very interesting person. The story isn’t over yet, but if you can stay alive for a couple more weeks, I might be able to tell it to you.”

“You’ve been down here a long time,” Dorothy said.

“I’m on the hunt,” Charles said.

She sat beside him, worried. “I hope you haven’t found more secret papers.”

“No!” He had to laugh. “No, dear, not that at all. This is far more interesting.”

“That’s your
Odyssey
?”

“Literally, and literally literally. And literately. This
Odyssey
is my odyssey. Come, look at this signature. The first letter. What is it?”

“My first thought was an
A
, but it isn’t. Maybe a
V
.”

“Yes! That’s what I think. An expensive leather set, 1830s, that includes Homer in a classic translation that was already out of date. And the letter
V
. Any guess?”

“No . . .”

“Possibly a private printing for a child, a student, per Jacob Leather-man. On vellum. Now compare that signature to this.” Regally, he set a paper on the table next to the book, a printed image of a signature. “Do they look the same?”

“I—Charles—it couldn’t be.”

“Do they look the same?” he said again.

“Yes.”

“Exactly the same.” He sighed deeply. “Victoria.”

“I don’t believe it!” Dorothy said. “What are you going to do?”

“Going to do?” Charles laughed. “Just enjoy it as much as I can before I find out I’m wrong.”

“Will you try to get it authenticated?”

“I might. I can call the Library of Congress and ask if they would inspect it.”

“Would the title page have had her name?”

“That would be worth breaking out, don’t you think? Jacob says it would have been done in the 1920s, which would have been about when our seller’s grandfather would have received this as a gift.”

“Would he have done it?”

“I think not. I think it was sold after it was broken. At that point, it was just another book. Now—I wonder whatever became of Victoria’s library?”

“It must still be in England. In a castle or palace.”

“This sounds like a job for Morgan.”

He was up and moving, two steps at a time, with Dorothy far behind.

“Morgan?”

“Yes, Mr. Beale?”

“I am sending you on an odyssey.”

“Yes, sir!”

“Start with Queen Victoria.”

“Not Troy?”

“Start with young Vicky in her schoolroom reading about Troy, her stern classics tutor lecturing her on Homer and the legends of the Greeks.”

Morgan rubbed his hands and grinned. “Yes, sir.”

“And on her desk, a schoolbook fit for a queen, a private printing in deluxe leather and vellum.”

“I can see it,” Morgan said.

“And right beside it are matching volumes.”

“How many?”

Charles squinted. “It’s hard to tell. At least an
Iliad
. Probably an
Aeneid
. Possibly others.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But the question is about the
Odyssey
. Where is that book today?”

“I’ll find it. I’ll start in that schoolroom, and I’ll trace it as far as I can. I’ll find it, sir.”

“Good. I hope, Morgan, that you’ll find it in our basement. And find the others, too, if you can. I think they all want to be back together.”

EVENING

The evening was warm and the windows were open. The breeze, dark and handsome, waltzed with the curtain, showing off its white lace to the whole room. In their chairs, Charles and Dorothy read, the turning pages keeping slow time in a dance of their own.

Until, finally, Dorothy set her book on the table beside her.

“Why are you reading
A Separate Peace
?” Charles asked.

“I want to decide if Gene meant to do it.”

“If he rocked the branch on purpose?”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” she said. “Why did you pick this book for our outing last Friday?”

“It’s about a young man who dies.”

“I don’t think it’s that simple,” she said again. “Gene resents Finny because he’s athletic and popular, but they’re still friends. At that one moment, though, on the tree branch, somehow Finny falls and breaks his leg, and it isn’t set right, and he doesn’t recover. Then Gene is forced to admit that he might have made Finny fall on purpose. Finny is so upset he runs off and breaks his leg again falling down the staircase. Then he dies during the operation to set it again.”

“Gene didn’t mean for Finny to die. He didn’t know that he would.”

“But Gene never really knows whether he meant for Finny to fall. Charles . . . what did we mean with William?”

“We didn’t mean for him to die.”

“We resented him.”

“How could we not have?” Charles said, wryly. “We did love him, Dorothy, but you know how difficult he became.”

“Were we glad when he died?”

“You know we weren’t. But where would we be if he hadn’t? Would we be sitting here now? Would we have the shop? We might not. We might have used all our money on legal costs, or we might have had to move somewhere remote to get him away from the city. Of course, I don’t mean that I wouldn’t trade anything to have him back.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Well, then yes, I knew that if I picked that book, an English major would realize what I was saying. So let me know whether Gene did it on purpose or even what that means, and we’ll understand ourselves better for it. That’s what books are supposed to do.”

“Sometimes they explain us too well,” Dorothy said.

“Derek Bastien said once that it was all chemistry, that behavior is just from the way a person’s brain is wired.”

“So why was William’s wired that way?”

“That’s what we don’t know.”

“What did you say to Derek?”

“I told him chemistry couldn’t explain anything as complex as a human soul. Or as sublime.”

“Ah, de Tocqueville.
Democracy in America
. Wonderful, Charles.”

“You are expanding your range, Derek.”

“Quite. What the Enlightenment sowed, the nineteenth century will now reap.”

“But they will still bake their own unique loaf from it.”

“You don’t let anyone off the hook, do you, Charles?”

“We’re all responsible for our own actions, Derek. De Tocqueville had America and France to compare. They both grew out of the Enlightenment, but very differently.”

“And he was hardly the first—or the last—to compare them. Here is a challenge, Charles. Think of an original comparison.”

“Between France and America?”

“In this period, yes. One that will surprise me.”

“You never let me off the hook, do you, Derek? All right, I believe one springs to mind. John Adams and Lamoignon-Malesherbes.”

“Malesherbes—he defended Louis the Sixteenth at his trial in the National Assembly, didn’t he?”

“To no avail, of course. Compare him to Adams, who defended the British soldiers at the Boston Massacre, and got them acquitted.”

“A slim comparison, Charles.”

“But what became of them? Adams was elected president, while Malesherbes was guillotined a year after Louis.”

“A bit more interesting. But I’m thinking more of the years after, when America stayed a democracy and France returned to monarchy.”

“That’s where I’m going, Derek. Adams’s son became president himself, of course.”

“And what about the family of Malesherbes?”

“His daughter and granddaughter were also executed with him, but his great-grandson, Alexis, grew up and went in search of a better democracy than France.”

“Charles—don’t tell me.”

“That’s his book in your hand, Derek. He compares France and the United States.”

“A clever comparison yourself, Charles. Congratulations. But of course, he predicts many of the problems that American democracy would face.”

“I admit it, Derek. We’re responsible for our actions, but we’re also still human.”

“And who is responsible for that?”

FRIDAY

MORNING

Even before Charles had the lights on and the alarm off, Morgan was sprinting down the stairs.

“Mr. Beale? Could you look at this?” Morgan was excited. Very excited.

“Here I come.”

“It wasn’t hard,” Morgan said. “This one letter is the key. It’s from Victoria to her great-granddaughter, Alexandra, in 1895. Alexandra was seven years old.”

“How did you find it?”

“The London Museum had an archive.” Morgan smirked. “It cost you two hundred dollars to subscribe to it.”

“Money well spent, Morgan. What does it say?”

“It’s this one line: ‘I am sending you some books and toys from my own childhood.’ That’s all. But after Victoria died, there were no schoolbooks in the inventory.”

“So there is a chance those are the books.”

“Yes, sir, a chance. In 1912, Alexandra married this guy, Lord Bost-wick. Then she died thirteen years later, in 1925.”

“She was thirty-seven,” Charles said.

“Influenza. Her husband sold off all her belongings.”

“How?”

Morgan’s grin got even bigger. “Sotheby’s.”

Charles’s grin matched Morgan’s. “Oh, how wonderful. Perfect. I will call them immediately.”

“Mr. Beale?” Alice had arrived. “You have a telephone call. Mr. John Borchard.”

“Hello, this is Charles Beale.”

“Charles, John Borchard here.”

“Good morning, John.”

“Good morning! I hope it is for you.”

“It is so far,” Charles said.

“Very good! Charles, I wanted to call to follow up on our discussion yesterday morning. A specific point.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“Good. Thank you. The point is in regard to Patrick White. You may have wondered why I haven’t taken stronger action against him for the things he’s been saying about me.”

“I think you’ve been very gracious so far, John.”

“I have tried. There is a limit, of course, and some people might say he has already exceeded it, but I’m still reluctant to press charges. Let me tell you a story, Charles.”

Dorothy was just sitting at her desk. Charles looked at his watch. “Go ahead, John,” he said.

“Thank you. I want to tell you about a man I knew, back in my early days in Kansas. He was a fellow prosecutor in a neighboring county.”

“Oh, yes. I remember you mentioning Kansas.”

“Quite. This friend was quite zealous. He was young, idealistic, wanted to make his mark. He was even overzealous.”

“I see,” Charles said. “That’s a little dangerous in a prosecutor, isn’t it?”

John’s answer was a little slow in coming. “Perhaps. In this case, a few lines were crossed.”

“In what way?”

“Maybe we don’t need to go into details,” John said. “In fact, as this all happened to an acquaintance, I don’t think I really know the details. Suffice it to say, there were a number of cases he prosecuted successfully but that later were overturned because these lines had been crossed.”

“Were the people actually guilty of the charges he prosecuted?”

“He felt quite sure that they were, which would be why he felt justified in overlooking the niceties. However, the law is the law. The convictions were thrown out.”

“Where is he now?”

“I’m not really sure. I’ve lost touch. He had already left the county, and at this point there wouldn’t be any need to stir up his past. It could even be detrimental to his career. Um, for all I know, at least. As I’ve said, I’ve lost touch.”

“And what does this have to do with Patrick White?” Charles asked.

“My friend later told me something he’d learned from the incident. He said he’d resolved to be much more careful in bringing charges against other people.”

“Just more careful?” Charles asked. “So that he’d have more complete cases against them?”

“No, not exactly. We’ll say he learned to be less anxious to see others punished.”

“Something like mercy, John?”

“Yes. Something like mercy, Charles.”

“I see. Well, that is a very interesting story. It does explain your lenience toward Patrick White.”

“Good. I hoped it would. And I won’t take any more of your time.”

“I’m always at your service, John. And I actually have a quick question for you.”

“Of course! What can I do for you?”

“Yesterday, you mentioned having gone on a camping and rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. I was thinking it might be just the thing for Dorothy and me.”

“Absolutely, Charles! I would recommend it to anyone.”

“Did you do it through a travel agency?”

“I did. I’ll have to have my secretary dig that up. I’ll have her send that over to you right away!”

“Thank you very much. I’d appreciate it.”

Dorothy’s eyes were as wide as the Grand Canyon when he’d hung up. “Camping and rafting?”

“John Borchard told me he was on vacation in the Grand Canyon when Derek was killed, and I was just curious about it. But I would take you! Would you like to?”