as an advisor.
He looked back to see Jessica slipping away into the stacks of shelves. Clever girl, to take advantage of the diversion this way. He was tempted to follow her, for she was probably off to check on the St. Germaine trunk. But he had to play through his role of the Regent's consultant, erudite and enterprising, and always on the lookout for books. He even managed to keep from flinching at the state of the adjacent restoration room—the basin full of rags soaked in old mineral oil and paint, the broken books stacked haphazardly on the floor, a cup of tea abandoned on a shelf of vellum scrolls, a window open to London's sooty air. But he couldn't resist closing the Caxton edition of Canterbury Tales on the windowsill and spiriting it away to a shelf while Wiley's back was turned.
But the librarian showed no shame at the disorder around him, instead pointing to the set of cabinets that held his favorite pieces. Even hermits, John supposed, liked to show off their caves, and Wiley chattered like a debutante as he cleared a work table by pushing aside a dissembled copy of John Milton's pamphlet Areopagita . Then, reverently, he opened a cupboard, pulled out a page with a pair of tongs, and laid it on the table. His hands were unexpectedly graceful, delicate and quick as he blocked the sheet with a leather-covered steel frame. "Forgers have magician hands," Monsignor Alavieri once instructed John. "It's all sleight of hand."
Finally, his elaborate preparations concluded, Mr. Wiley stepped back to let John examine the braced page. It was a ledger sheet, lined and cross-lined—Bacon's annual household accounts for 1612.
Wiley's voice was hushed. "You can see that he was not a profligate man. Expenditure for candles, only £2 for an entire year. Yet that same year, he records spending £50 on books."
This seemed little enough to marvel over, but at least it provided John with an opening. "He had quite a library, I expect. It is evident from the breadth of his writing that he was a well-read man."
"Well-read?" Wiley's eyes were hazy behind his spectacles, but this brought out the fire in them. "Well-read? The man was the greatest thinker of his time! The soul of the age!"
That ringing phrase rippled across John's nerves, and with its echo faded any lingering notion that Jessica had imagined Wiley's hypothesis. Soul of the age! John didn't react immediately, first taking a cotton glove from his pocket and pulling it over his right hand. "May I?"
When Wiley nodded, John picked up the accounts page and tested the texture. It was the cheapest of paper, another example of Baconian thrift. Shakespeare, John thought with some defiance, would be as profligate with paper as he was with poetry. "Soul of the age, was he? No, no, I can't agree with that. That is how Ben Jonson eulogized Shakespeare."
Wiley chuckled. It was an unnerving sound, like the squeak of an old metal gate in the wind. "Precisely so. Precisely so. That man Shakespeare—have you ever come across a volume from his library?"
John shrugged and replaced the page on the table. "Books he owned? No. I've always been more interested in finding his manuscripts. I never have. Perhaps none exist."
Wiley showed no reaction to this last leading comment. Probably he didn't know about the lost play; then again, perhaps he knew enough to hide such knowledge. "You haven't found any of his library, because he had no library!"
"How do you know that?" So that he wouldn't appear more interested than he ought, John started to assemble the abused Milton pamphlet. He noticed the anomalous type on the third page, and with a bit of his mind realized that such an egregious mistake must indicate a pirated version—perhaps one using some stolen plates from the official printing in 1644. He made a mental note to check this sometime, and brought his awareness full back to Wiley's response.
"I went through Warwickshire years ago, looking for books with his name on it. It's
He looked back to see Jessica slipping away into the stacks of shelves. Clever girl, to take advantage of the diversion this way. He was tempted to follow her, for she was probably off to check on the St. Germaine trunk. But he had to play through his role of the Regent's consultant, erudite and enterprising, and always on the lookout for books. He even managed to keep from flinching at the state of the adjacent restoration room—the basin full of rags soaked in old mineral oil and paint, the broken books stacked haphazardly on the floor, a cup of tea abandoned on a shelf of vellum scrolls, a window open to London's sooty air. But he couldn't resist closing the Caxton edition of Canterbury Tales on the windowsill and spiriting it away to a shelf while Wiley's back was turned.
But the librarian showed no shame at the disorder around him, instead pointing to the set of cabinets that held his favorite pieces. Even hermits, John supposed, liked to show off their caves, and Wiley chattered like a debutante as he cleared a work table by pushing aside a dissembled copy of John Milton's pamphlet Areopagita . Then, reverently, he opened a cupboard, pulled out a page with a pair of tongs, and laid it on the table. His hands were unexpectedly graceful, delicate and quick as he blocked the sheet with a leather-covered steel frame. "Forgers have magician hands," Monsignor Alavieri once instructed John. "It's all sleight of hand."
Finally, his elaborate preparations concluded, Mr. Wiley stepped back to let John examine the braced page. It was a ledger sheet, lined and cross-lined—Bacon's annual household accounts for 1612.
Wiley's voice was hushed. "You can see that he was not a profligate man. Expenditure for candles, only £2 for an entire year. Yet that same year, he records spending £50 on books."
This seemed little enough to marvel over, but at least it provided John with an opening. "He had quite a library, I expect. It is evident from the breadth of his writing that he was a well-read man."
"Well-read?" Wiley's eyes were hazy behind his spectacles, but this brought out the fire in them. "Well-read? The man was the greatest thinker of his time! The soul of the age!"
That ringing phrase rippled across John's nerves, and with its echo faded any lingering notion that Jessica had imagined Wiley's hypothesis. Soul of the age! John didn't react immediately, first taking a cotton glove from his pocket and pulling it over his right hand. "May I?"
When Wiley nodded, John picked up the accounts page and tested the texture. It was the cheapest of paper, another example of Baconian thrift. Shakespeare, John thought with some defiance, would be as profligate with paper as he was with poetry. "Soul of the age, was he? No, no, I can't agree with that. That is how Ben Jonson eulogized Shakespeare."
Wiley chuckled. It was an unnerving sound, like the squeak of an old metal gate in the wind. "Precisely so. Precisely so. That man Shakespeare—have you ever come across a volume from his library?"
John shrugged and replaced the page on the table. "Books he owned? No. I've always been more interested in finding his manuscripts. I never have. Perhaps none exist."
Wiley showed no reaction to this last leading comment. Probably he didn't know about the lost play; then again, perhaps he knew enough to hide such knowledge. "You haven't found any of his library, because he had no library!"
"How do you know that?" So that he wouldn't appear more interested than he ought, John started to assemble the abused Milton pamphlet. He noticed the anomalous type on the third page, and with a bit of his mind realized that such an egregious mistake must indicate a pirated version—perhaps one using some stolen plates from the official printing in 1644. He made a mental note to check this sometime, and brought his awareness full back to Wiley's response.
"I went through Warwickshire years ago, looking for books with his name on it. It's
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