Chapter 10 #3
Celia couldn’t prevent her gasp of surprise. “Yes. But she’s really three Janes. Jane Austen to Daphne. And Jane Eyre to Olivia.”
They were interrupted by Daphne’s return.
“She’ll be right down.” Daphne barely got the words out of her mouth before the grinding of the elevator cables sounded inside
the brick wall.
Daphne and Celia exchanged looks. Olivia never took the elevator except for the most important customers.
The elevator clanked to a stop; Olivia pushed the grill open and stepped out, barely hesitating before walking briskly toward
them, hand held out in greeting. “Mr. Starling, how delightful.”
“Miss Applebaum. I hope I haven’t disturbed your work.”
“Not at all. Would you like to accompany me to the private showroom for a cup of tea, or something stronger, while we discuss
your client’s interests?”
“Delighted.” Mr. Starling nodded gallantly to the younger sisters and let Olivia spirit him away into the elevator.
Daphne groaned.
“What?”
“Why does the most gorgeous man to come into the store since Mr. Randall’s cousin at Christmas have to be interested in unique
antiquarian volumes. It’s so depressing.”
Celia laughed sympathetically. “We’ll see if he comes back with powdered sugar down his waistcoat,” said Celia and went back
into the office.
She didn’t have long to wait. In less than a half hour, she heard the two of them return. Though via the stairs this time.
They stopped near the front door. Celia put down the magazine she’d been reading as she manned the cash register and slipped
off the stool. There was no sign of Daphne, who had taken a customer back to the “Psychology” section.
Olivia agreed to meet Mr. Starling the following week.
If Mr. Starling was perturbed by that wait, he didn’t show it. He bowed over Olivia’s hand, nodded to Celia, and was out the
door before Daphne returned with her customer and two large tomes.
The customer was taken care of and seen out the door in record time, and the three sisters congregated in the corridor between
the office and the kitchen, where they could see if another customer came in while they conferred.
“Well?” asked Celia.
“Very charming. Very knowledgeable . . . about antiquities, at least.”
“But . . .”
“He presented credentials that seem to be in order, but as we know, not only do credentials not make the man, they are sometimes
forged.”
“And?”
“They seem genuine enough. But he isn’t in the Trade Directory. He says he represents certain anonymous art collectors.”
“Which could either be legal or black market,” Celia added.
“I hope not,” Daphne said.
“We all hope not,” Olivia said. “But we must be very careful. He might have innocently just happened to appear at the same
time as the ‘package.’”
“You mean he might be the thief?” Celia almost moaned the question.
“I don’t know. I will do some further research on the man. He’s knowledgeable and charming, but there have been charming book
thieves throughout history.
“There’s nothing to do but carry on and keep our eyes open. And be diligent about securing the shop. Which we will do forthwith.
Tomorrow is an inventory day. A thorough inventory. There are too many strange coincidences going around this week.”
“You think we’re going to be raided?” asked Daphne. “Is that why there’ve been more raids? Are the raids about this?”
“I have no idea, but whether they are or not, I want to be prepared. You girls will need to go through the first floor with
a fine-tooth comb. Remove anything that might be the least bit ‘warm’ and take it to the cellar. I want to make certain there
is nothing, nothing, that can be considered illegal on the shelves.
“Now, no more questions. We’ll do the inventory, then you may both take Monday morning off.” Olivia smiled.
Celia didn’t trust Olivia’s smiles. Normal people smiled when they were happy or glad to see someone. Olivia’s smiles were always a surprise and a little unsettling, as if she were somewhere else and you weren’t invited to join her there.
Olivia returned upstairs with much to think about. She hated to admit it, but she’d been a little unnerved by her interview
with Mr. Starling.
He was good. He’d asked intelligent questions, showed some interest in her catalogue, explained the kinds of things he was
looking for without actually swapping any real information.
He was good, but she was good, too. Good enough to know that he was sizing her up.
So she hadn’t offered to show him anything in particular. She didn’t want to leave him to his own devices while she fetched
a volume from the wall cases, and she didn’t want him to accompany her. He had a keen eye—too keen—and not just for fine bindery.
She’d noticed it first, how his eyes changed as he carried on casual conversation, taking in more than was obvious, first
of her appearance, then of his surroundings.
She’d recognized that look in his eye—she did the same at every auction or private sale, looking over a lot of books to be
sold, quickly evaluating which pieces were good and which were mere chaff, while also pretending not to show interest; calculating
what the piece would be worth, and if she had a chance of outbidding the other bidders without losing money on the deal.
Perhaps it was just habit that made him take note of the parlor chairs, the windows, the desk; how he’d positioned himself
to be able to watch the door as if he expected Anthony Comstock himself to burst through any minute.
Not edgy, just aware. He didn’t let her know by look, hint, or coded reference that he was interested in anything the Suppression of Vice agents were after. He wouldn’t come to the Arcadia for that; the Applebaum sisters had impeccable reputations.
And yet if this find was what Olivia thought it was, Comstock would indeed be after it, would destroy it without blinking
an eye. Over Olivia’s dead body. This was the discovery of a lifetime. Words of a great poetess who had been officially banned
for over fifteen hundred years. The idea sent a frightening shiver of exhilaration over her. Only a handful of lines had survived;
her huge body of work, mostly sung poems, had been destroyed by medieval monks. Because Sappho’s songs were beautiful, sensuous
love poems, and, if you believed the rumors, addressed most likely to other women as well as to men.
So Olivia bided her time, listening carefully, offering to consult her inventory, then suggested another appointment next
week. That would also give her more time to check his credentials. He merely nodded and said he would certainly do that if
his schedule allowed.
It was all very amenable and polite. So why did she feel so unsettled? As if the rug she was standing on was about to be snatched
from under her feet.