The Beastly Island Murder. Carol W. Hazelwood

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      As they stood in the dimly lit hall, he introduced himself. “I’m Harold McBain, the groundskeeper.”

      “Oh, I expected a Mr. Peabody to meet me,” she said.

      “Mr. Wedgeworth’s secretary is on vacation. However, Mrs. Wedgeworth gave me detailed instructions concerning your visit.”

      The temperature was only slightly warmer inside, and she drew her jacket closer about her.

      With a hint of a smile playing on his lips, Harold said, “It’s chilly inside, but Mr. Wedgeworth wants to conserve energy when he’s away. Please follow me.”

      The large tapestries hanging on the walls did little to muffle the echo of their footsteps as they crossed the pink terrazzo floor. He walked with a slight limp, and Jennifer wondered how he managed the expanse of grounds at his age. Of course, he most likely had help. She gaped at the paintings and the French provincial furniture in the expansive sunken living room. Skylights, high in the domed ceiling, brightened the room despite the cloudy day.

      Harold stopped in front of a door and turned to her. “Mr. Wedgeworth keeps this room secured. He’s very particular and insists the humidity be at fifty percent and the temperature at sixty-five degrees. I’ll lock the door behind me, but there’s an intercom on the desk, and you can contact me when you wish to leave.” His gnarled hands fumbled with the key he inserted in the lock. When he swung open the door, the lights came on automatically.

      She took three steps and stopped, stunned by the floor to ceiling bookcases wrapping the room. Two large tan leather chairs sat on a cream-colored rug, laid on top of dark red Brazilian wood floors. The massive scale of the ornately carved mahogany desk, as well as a table with an old world globe, lent an aura of rich antiquity.

      My God, all these books couldn’t be part of his collection. She turned to Harold. “He wrote there were twenty-three books to be appraised.”

      Harold pointed to the desk. “Perhaps those will answer your question.”

      She walked over and put her laptop, briefcase and purse on a chair upholstered in a jade color. A key, thin white gloves, a sealed letter and a note were on the desk. She picked up the note. In flowing script, it read:“The books in question are in the locked glass case behind the desk. When you’re finished, give the key to Harold. Per our agreement, deliver your report to the post office box and your payment in cash will be delivered to your house. C.W.”

      Harold remained standing by the entrance; his brown eyes curious and alert. Jennifer turned around and studied the bookcase, then reached for the ivory letter opener and slit the sealed envelope. This message was typed on Wedgeworth’s letterhead. “My books are sorted according to their acquisition date; do not change their order. Wear gloves. Harold will check your belongings when you leave. Clifford Wedgeworth.”

      Odd that he left two separate notes in such different styles, she thought.

      “How long will you be, Miss?” Harold asked.

      Jennifer looked at her watch. “I’m hoping to get all the information transcribed today so I won’t have to return, but I’m not sure how long it will take.”

      “You can call me,” he nodded toward the intercom. “There’s a bathroom off to your right. Mrs. Wedgeworth suggested you might like hot tea or coffee now and some refreshments later.”

      “Tea would be lovely. Black, unless you have lemon.”

      He nodded and walked out, shutting the doors behind him.

      The unnerving sound of the lock click made her think of the character imprisoned in a room for years with access only to books in Anton Chekov’s, The Bet. She shivered and it wasn’t just from the cold. There were no windows. Despite having the world of literature at her fingertips, the room felt claustrophobic.

      Before investigating the designated bookcase, she wandered around and marveled at the various tomes. Most were leather bound collections of authors like Dumas, Whittier, Burroughs and Emerson, but she doubted if they were first editions. These seemed to be decorator books meant to impress. Yet there were other titles that intrigued her. One section had post World War II books: On The Road by Jack Kerouac, Hangman’s Holiday by Judith Sayer, Imaginary Letters by Ezra Pound. If these were in fine to very fine condition, they were worth a great deal. She remembered an alert from the Antiquarian Booksellers Association that a copy of On The Road had been stolen.

      Intrigued, she donned the white gloves before pulling out the book even though she realized she wouldn’t be able to identify it as the stolen copy. It was a first edition and perhaps valued in the thousands in today’s market. She wondered if Wedgeworth ever sold some of his books or merely collected them, or was he one of the few who believed by collecting books he was saving knowledge for future generations? From what she knew about him, money was not an issue. He was a collector, not a dealer. She returned the book to the shelf.

      Pacing on farther, she noted a book by Flaubert from a collection titled A Century of French Romance with fine leather, well-dressed and supple. Either Wedgeworth, or his secretary, probably used British Museum Leather Dressing to maintain their condition, an unpleasant, but necessary chore.

      The room held an astounding array of literature, probably worth millions. He definitely had catholic taste. Many collectors specialized in one area, but Wedgeworth’s ran the gamut of children, art, and history from various centuries.

      Surely, he must have had all his books appraised for insurance purposes. If so, why hadn’t he had this other collection appraised until now? Were they new additions or did their value need updating? As her gloved hand stroked several of the leather bindings, something caught her eye.

      Above the entry door, an oil painting of a mournful clown gave her a jolt. It elicited feelings of nostalgic sorrow with its tilted head, down-turned mouth, and a teardrop on one cheek. It was out of place among the antique tomes and classical writings. Clifford Wedgeworth was obviously a man of many interests and most likely a complex individual.

      Refocusing her attention on the books, she noted two insets with locked glass doors. She peered into one and gasped. They were incunabula books, written before 1501. She had no expertise in the field, but figured them to be priceless. One was an early bible she had never seen, but the other caused her to stand transfixed. The American Bible, known as the “Natick Bible,” had been put up for sale and obviously Wedgeworth had bought it. Printed in 1663 it was an Indian Language translation. She couldn’t even estimate its worth in today’s market.

      Her stomach fluttered. What would she find in the bookcase she was to appraise? She circled the desk, admiring the carvings on its side panels and removed the gloves. As she laid her things out on the desk, the entrance door lock clicked and Harold entered carrying a small tray with a tea pot under a cozy and a china cup and saucer.

      “The lack of humidity makes it feel colder,” he said, nodding at how she was rubbing her hands together. He was about to set the tray on the desk, but she stopped him.

      “Please, no. I’ll be working here. Set it over there.” She pointed across the room and smiled at his perplexed look. “It’s safer in case of a spill.”

      “I usually have nothing to do with this room,” he said and followed her directive. I’m unfamiliar with the proper etiquette.” As he set the tray down, a clap of thunder resounded through the house. “Thunder and lightning were forecast, but the storm’s moving СКАЧАТЬ