Chapter Sixty-Three
Violet and Theo stepped outside Bartley’s and began to walk down Mass Ave.
“Do you smell that?” Violet stopped in her tracks.
“We’re in front of Leavitt and Peirce. So yeah, I smell tobacco.”
“But it’s a specific blend,” she said. “I’ve smelled it before. When I was in Harry’s study at Widener.”
“Well, that’s super weird,” he said. “Maybe somebody had been in the room just before you who was a pipe smoker and used the same blend?” he surmised. “It’s not inconceivable. Leavitt’s is the best shop around if you’re into that kind of thing.”
“I really don’t think so,” she answered. “The first time I smelled it, I was the only person there. And the second time, I was in the reading room and I followed it all the way back to Harry’s study. I was actually afraid there might be a fire in the library!”
“That would be a disaster. Much worse than the book slasher guy.”
“Let’s not even get started on that.” She shook her head. “Do you have time to go inside?”
Violet’s head tilted upward, glancing at the carved female masthead above the shop who clutched a bundle of cigars in her right hand.
Theo smiled. “Absolutely.”
They entered the small shop that appeared steeped in another time.
Around the perimeter of the store, long glass display cases were filled with an array of different pipes in a variety of exotic woods, old-fashioned shaving accessories, bars of soap, and bottles of cologne.
Some of the memorabilia could be traced back from when the store was founded in 1884.
Black-and-white photographs of Harvard men, many of them from the early twentieth century, lined the walls. Both Violet and Theo looked for one that might have Harry in it, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“You know it’s crazy, even though this place is such a landmark of Harvard Square, I’ve actually never been in here before,” Theo admitted.
His eyes scanned the footballs that were displayed on a shelf close to the ceiling, marked with white painted letters memorializing the scores of the Harvard–Yale games over the years. In another area, oars from past Head of the Charles regattas were affixed to the wall.
“I was here once before with Hugo,” Violet said. “He bought some tobacco for his grandfather as a Christmas gift. There’s a place upstairs where you can play chess. He tried to teach me afterward.”
They walked deeper into the store and she pointed out the staircase that led to the second level.
“Hugo told me at one time there used to be a billiard room up there back in the day.”
“It probably hasn’t changed much since Harry went to Harvard. Gentlemen coming in to get their favorite tobacco or a new bottle of cologne.” His eyes fell on the large glass containers on a table that had all of the different varieties: Cherry Cavendish, Blond Shag, Twainberry, and Black Ribbon.
He picked up one of the lids and inhaled the aroma.
“Weird question. But is the tobacco smell that you noticed in the library and outside the shop the same one as Hugo’s?”
“No. I actually remember what Hugo ordered for his granddad because it had such a funny story attached to it. It was called ‘Cakebox.’”
“Cakebox? Is it tobacco with frosting mixed in or something?”
“No,” Violet said with a laugh. She led Theo back to one of the long display cases and waved toward one of the young men working there. “Any chance my friend here can smell some Cakebox?”
“Of course,” said the salesman. He opened the case and scooped a small amount for Theo to smell.
Violet smiled. “If I recall the story correctly, this particular blend came about after the owners left an open tin of tobacco scraps on the counter next to their cooking stove. After experimenting with the leftovers for a bit, it turns out they had inadvertently created a blend that became quite popular with the students.”
She gazed over at the sales clerk and smiled. “So did I remember that correctly?” she asked.
He laughed. “For the most part, yes. But you’re burying the lead. It’s called ‘Cakebox’ because they packed it up in cake box tins to take home.”
“Ahhh,” Theo said. “Hence, the name.”
“Yep,” the salesman said as he closed the case. “Anything in particular I can help you folks with today?”
“Actually, yes…” Violet’s eyes lit up. “I noticed a particular tobacco blend wafting outside your store. It’s not Cakebox. Is it something else?”
“Well that’s going to be hard to narrow down. We have hundreds here.”
“Did anyone recently smoke something inside the store?”
He shook his head. “No. We can’t let customers do that. Do you want to describe it to me?”
“I’m hardly an aficionado, but maybe it reminded me of oak leaves. Or vanilla? I’m really not sure.”
“That could be a few kinds,” he said.
“Is there any chance that Leavitt and Peirce kept records of what their past clients ordered over the years?” Violet asked. “I know that’s probably something you do now, but in the beginning. Like in the1900s?”
“They might have had one they called ‘Gentleman accounts.’ You know, where some of the undergraduates had their bills sent home to their parents and they just bought on credit. But I’m not sure.
You’d have to ask the owner.” He scribbled down the number.
“So feel free to call him. He loves this kind of thing.”
Violet folded the paper. “I’ll do that, thanks.” She really needed to know if the scent of tobacco she kept smelling was truly Harry’s. Maybe one couldn’t actually see ghosts, but that didn’t mean they didn’t leave traces of themselves in the air.