‘Henleaze?’ Ottey asked as she and Cross got into her car.
‘No. The shop,’ Cross replied.
Squire’s Rare Books had reopened for business. But when they got there, they were surprised by two things. Firstly, that the shop seemed incredibly busy and secondly that Sam was there on his own. He was on the ground floor when they got there, ringing up the sale of a new book on the till. He seemed to do this almost reluctantly, as if it were a slight on him.
‘Is Persephone not here?’ asked Cross.
‘No. Just me. Torquil said he can’t face coming back just now. Which is understandable, but he still wanted the shop opening. Someone’s got to be here,’ Sam said.
‘That’s very loyal of you,’ observed Cross.
‘Are you always this busy?’ asked Ottey.
‘No. It’s amazing what murder will do for a bookshop, it would seem. Brings out all the ghouls, who have absolutely zero interest in buying books. They’re just carrion birds hovering over the scene of death,’ he said dramatically. ‘I’ve had to close the first floor.’
‘Why?’ asked Cross.
‘“Where was he killed? Can we see? Oh my god! Is that blood?” I can’t manage both floors on my own. Unpaid stock would be flying out of the door. Let me close up for lunch early, once this lot have gone.’
The shop, it seemed, maintained the rather quaint habit of closing for lunch at two o’clock, after everyone else’s lunch. Once the customers had left, they sat upstairs in the kitchen.
‘It’s remarkable how much crime there is in the book world. I had no idea,’ Cross began.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Sam.
‘Well, the impression it gives, or maybe we as the general public infer, is of a polite, rarefied, well-mannered, possibly old-fashioned, world. But look a little more closely, under the surface, and it’s far from the truth. Fakes and forgeries have been going on for centuries. In modern times you only have to look back at Book Row in New York, theft was rife,’ Cross began.
‘That’s absolutely true,’ Sam agreed.
‘Do you know…’ said Cross, turning to Ottey. This always prefaced a small lecture from him about something which she knew nothing and suspected, at times, that he had only very recently become an expert in. ‘… that in 1920s Manhattan, Book Row was an enormous concern? Dozens upon dozens of second-hand bookstores were situated almost on top of each other. Cinema was in its infancy, no television, no internet. Books were the main cultural currency of the time. There was nothing else. Books had a virtual monopoly on the exchange of ideas. The market for rare books was developing, like the art market. And, as with all markets that have a financial value, the criminal element found a way to exploit it. The thieves of Book Row made a killing stealing from one store and selling to another. Booksellers were also at it. Prowling each other’s stores looking for unidentified, underpriced rare books they knew they could sell at a profit. Or a book they already had a client for. But of course, they became well known to each other and a close eye was kept on them. They could no longer steal from each other for themselves. So, they invented a system where they would walk around a bookstore and pull any books they were interested in slightly out from the shelf, or tilt them at an angle. Shortly after, a professional thief in their employ would follow them and steal the designated books for them.’
‘Again, absolutely true,’ said Sam, who was enjoying Cross’s knowledge.
‘And then there were the forgers. The most famous of all was Thomas James Wise, a well-known collector and businessman, later discovered to have been one of the biggest forgers of literary works of all time.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Sam.
‘It’s fascinating stuff,’ continued Cross, warming to his theme. ‘He was exposed in 1939. He’d sold a volume of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets, claiming it was a first edition from 1847. Two men called Carter and Pollard became suspicious and began an investigation. A forensic analysis of the paper, even back then, revealed that it was composed of chemical wood with a trace of rag, which could not have been manufactured before 1874. Also, the text was printed in a typeface of which certain letters weren’t cut till 1880.’ Cross delighted in this literary trivia. ‘Then there were thefts from university libraries before security was tightened and technology improved.’
‘That still occurs,’ said Sam.
‘Was Ed, to your knowledge, an honest bookseller?’ Cross asked, changing the tone of the conversation in an instant.
‘I’m sorry?’ Sam replied in shock.
‘Did he ever indulge in any, shall we say, shady practices in the rare book world, Sam?’ asked Cross.
‘Whatever leads you to make such a suggestion?’ asked Sam.
‘His murder, perhaps,’ replied Cross.
‘This is a reputable establishment,’ Sam retorted.
‘What was Ed like as a bookseller?’ Cross asked.
‘Well, he may have been many things, but he was neither a forger nor a thief, if that’s what you’re trying to imply,’ replied Sam, his outrage still close to the surface.
‘What many things?’ Cross pressed.
‘He was a little lazy, if I’m honest. Didn’t put in the hours. Do the work. You have to do hours of research to make this business a success. But it wasn’t for him. Too boring, I think. He was someone who wanted instant success. So, in many ways, this was the wrong line of work for him. He wanted things to happen fast, and more often than not it caught up with him,’ he replied.
‘In what way?’ asked Ottey.
‘He was very charismatic, Ed. Great salesman. But it was always about the sale, not about the book itself. I don’t really think he loved books in the way his father and I do. He rushed into things. When he got into trouble…’
‘What kind of trouble?’ asked Cross.
‘If a sale went wrong, or he lost money on a deal, he’d always think the next acquisition would sort everything out. There was always something coming round the corner. He was like a gambler thinking there was a dead cert in the next race, which would make up for the losses in the previous three.’
‘Was he in trouble?’ asked Ottey.
‘Financially? I’m not sure,’ he replied uncomfortably. ‘You should really speak with Torquil.’
‘He wasn’t frightened of confrontation, was he? Taking on people or the bookselling establishment, if such a thing exists,’ said Ottey.
‘Oh, it very much exists,’ he said, half laughing.
‘You say that as if it’s something you don’t necessarily approve of,’ she commented.
He said nothing back.
‘What was your view on his anti-price-fixing campaign?’ asked Cross.
‘Ah,’ he almost groaned.
‘You don’t approve?’ asked Ottey.
‘It’s not a question of approving or disapproving,’ he replied. ‘It’s just that it became such an obsession with him, at the cost of everything else.’
‘Like what?’ asked Cross.
‘Well, the business for a start. It became all-consuming for him and wherever he looked he saw this conspiracy lurking.’
‘You’re making him sound paranoid,’ remarked Ottey.
‘I don’t mean to. I just think it got well and truly out of perspective.’
‘Do you think he had a point?’ asked Cross.
‘Yes and no. I thought, in principle, if it was happening then it was wrong. I mean, there’s always been talk of a cartel or a big boys’ club, right from the days of the auction ring.’
‘Some might say this was just a modern version of it,’ Cross remarked.
‘That’s exactly what Ed did say. And Torquil. But the old man tried to persuade him to back down a little, in the end,’ Sam told them.
‘Why was that?’ asked Cross.
‘The wisdom of old age, perhaps? I think he realised from his own battles in the past that there was often little to be won. And even that came at a cost.’
‘What kind of cost?’ asked Cross.
‘A reputation as someone who was difficult. It impacted Torquil’s friendships and relationships in the trade. I think that was why he was always glad to be here in the south-west, away from the hub of booksellers in the capital.’
‘Did it lose Ed a lot of friends? Make him a number of enemies?’ asked Ottey.
‘Again, yes and no. A lot of people thought it was a storm in a teacup and in the end there did seem to be one particular target for his anger,’ he said.
‘Anger?’ Cross picked up on this.
‘Yes, I think he was angry. He’d sometimes work himself up into a complete rage in here.’
‘Who was this main target?’ asked Ottey.
‘Carnegie Books of Bedford Square, in London. Patrick Gibb. The latest in a long line of bookselling Gibbs going back a couple of centuries, he’s fond of telling almost everyone he meets. He got quite het up about Ed’s campaign and threatened legal action, as he thought some of his written accusations were libellous. It felt as if Ed was breaking some kind of bibliophile omertà. But it was like he said. He didn’t owe these people any loyalty. Particularly the big firms, who showed little or no loyalty to the minnows.’
‘Did Ed consider himself to be a minnow?’ asked Cross.
‘No, not in the least. Quite the opposite. More of a freshwater shark,’ he said, laughing. Then his face turned serious. ‘You can’t think all of this had anything to do with his murder, surely? This is the world of rare books we’re talking about here.’
‘People keep saying that,’ observed Cross.
‘Well maybe because the idea of it is absurd,’ suggested Sam.
‘Except for the fact of one murdered bookseller,’ Cross reminded him.