Sophie Medina: Ghost Image Part 9

"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 t.i.tled "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 penmans.h.i.+p 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 gla.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+pment 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 a.s.sertion & 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 doc.u.ment 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 Was.h.i.+ngton and Jefferson for the proposed American Botanic Garden in Was.h.i.+ngton 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 a.s.sistance 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 s.h.i.+pment with great Antic.i.p.ation and I pray you accept a.s.surances 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 b.u.t.ton. "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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumed 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 ill.u.s.trated book."

"This copy is," Max said.

"Do me a favor and have another look at the t.i.tle 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 gla.s.s from his desk and slowly pa.s.sed 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."

"Fine," Max said. "We'll be right here."

"The suspense is killing me," I said after Bram hung up.

"Have another macaroon," Max said. "They're good for the nerves."

I grinned and took one, pa.s.sing him the plate as the phone rang again.

"That was quick," I said, as Max hit the speakerphone b.u.t.ton.

"All right," Bram said. "I just wanted to confirm a few dates, and it turns out I was right. The founder of the Chelsea Physic Garden was a man named Hans Sloane, a wealthy physician and an avid collector. When Sloane pa.s.sed away in 1753, he bequeathed his collections to his country and they became the foundation for the British Museum. But he also served as secretary of the Royal Society, an organization of the world's finest scientists who came together in the late 1600s with a common interest in experimentation and scientific discovery. It still exists, as a matter of fact. But at that time the president of the Royal Society happened to be-anyone care to guess?"

"Sir Isaac Newton," I said.

"Precisely. It would seem that Isaac Newton obtained a copy of William Coles's book, but what could make it especially valuable is that perhaps it was Coles's personal working copy, one of a kind, since you say the prints are originals."

"Is there any way you can trace provenance that far back?" I asked. "How did Francis Pembroke get hold of it and how did it end up in Leesburg?"

"We can certainly look into all that for you," Bram said. "However, I would need to have the book here at Asquith's. If you'd be interested in leaving it with me, I could send a courier to Max's place straightaway with all the necessary paperwork."

Max looked over at me and nodded, mouthing, Let him.

"As I said, it's not my book. I'm fairly sure it belonged to Brother Kevin Boyle, the Franciscan environmentalist who died yesterday," I said. "I sort of came across it by accident."

If Bram Asquith was surprised by my vague explanation, he didn't let on. Instead he said in a smooth voice, "That shouldn't be any problem. We could get it directly to the legal owner on your behalf, if you wish. But as I said, this book may be an original-the only such copy in existence-so perhaps that person would be interested in having an appraisal of its worth, either for insurance purposes or in the event that he or she would consider the possibility of selling it."

"Someone else may be looking for this book," I said.

"It wouldn't surprise me in the least. However, if it's at Asquith's, not only do you have my promise of complete discretion, but since it will be in our vault, I a.s.sure you it will be as safe as houses."

Which is exactly what Kevin would have wanted: the book to be stored in a safe place.

"Then by all means, please send your courier to pick it up," I said. "And, even though it's not mine, I'd still be interested in knowing what you find out about the provenance."

"I'm sure that won't be a problem. And I'm glad you mentioned those colored plates. They change everything."

"So this book is quite valuable after all," I said.

"Indeed," Bram said. "To a collector, it would be priceless."

"How soon can you send a courier?" Max asked, giving me a warning glance. "I believe Sophie's book ought to be secured in your vault as soon as possible."

"I'll take care of it myself. Our armored truck will be there within the hour."

After he hung up the phone, Max turned to me. "Well, there's your answer."

"Yes," I said. "It is a book worth killing for."

9.

Before Bram Asquith sent his courier to pick up Kevin's book, I took photographs of each of the hand-colored botanical prints and asked Max to make me a copy of John Fairbairn's letter to Francis Pembroke. He gave me the photocopy in a plum-colored folder with M. Katzer Fine Antiques embossed in gold and, after I signed the paperwork turning the book over to Asquith's, he added those doc.u.ments as well.

It was four o'clock by the time he walked me to the front door of the gallery.

"I'm supposed to call Thea Stavros, or she's going to call me and ask what I found in the locker at the Natural History Museum," I said. "What am I going to say?"

"Thea and Bram know each other, you know, since they're both antiquarian book experts. I think you can trust her to be discreet. Frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if the Library of Congress might be interested in acquiring the book, given what we just found out."

"Acquiring it from whom? I don't know who owns it."

"Presumably Kevin's heirs."

"I think all of his possessions now belong to the Franciscans. But there's another possibility. Maybe Kevin didn't buy the book, so it's not his."

Max gave me a sideways look. "Then who did buy it?"

"Edward Jaine was underwriting all of Kevin's research expenses," I said. "He was Kevin's benefactor."

"Oh, Lord," Max said. "I hope Kevin kept good records. If the book wasn't worth much, it wouldn't be a big deal. But now-"

I nodded and chewed my lip. "Kevin and Edward Jaine were arguing the night before he died. I overheard them at a party at the Austrian amba.s.sador's residence. Kevin didn't want to talk about it, but I wonder if it had to do with the book."

"Money's a powerful motivator, sugar." Max gave me a significant look. "Believe me, in my business I've seen my share of squabbles over estates and who owns what. People become very proprietary and petty over the smallest things. I've seen siblings argue over who gets Mom's special pickle fork."

He kissed me goodbye, and I walked back to the Vespa, hoping Max was right about Kevin's record keeping. Even a billionaire like Edward Jaine would be interested in acquiring the only existing copy of a book with the unique provenance this one had. When I worked for IPS in London, I'd occasionally photographed a rare treasure that had come to light-a work of art, a book, or a piece of jewelry, and most recently two lost Faberge imperial eggs-before one of the big houses like Asquith's or Sotheby's auctioned it off on behalf of the owner. Those events always attracted the Edward Jaines of the world, the rarified cla.s.s of billionaire whose hobby was collecting one-of-a-kind items for the sheer pleasure of knowing they had something no one else possessed.

Had Kevin realized what he owned, and if so, had Edward Jaine been aware of the book's value as well? And if Jaine did know, what would he do to acquire it, especially if Kevin didn't want to give up the book?

Would he commit murder?