The Bookman's Tale by Charlie Lovett Page A

. The iron gate was open, and a neat gravel drive led through a row of trees to the crest of a small hill. Peter turned his car into the drive and shortly crunched to a stop in front of Evenlode Manor. It was no Blenheim Palace, but it was a far cry from its decrepit neighbor. Looking up at the three-story Georgian facade, with stairs sweeping up to the huge wooden doors, Peter felt as if he had entered a Jane Austen novel. The grass was immaculately trimmed and a croquet lawn to the left of the house was backed by ornamental shrubs that led into further gardens. Peter felt confident that this time he had come to the right place.
    The door was answered by a housekeeper who led him into a drawing room and told him in a deep Irish brogue that he should make himself comfortable while she informed Mr. Alderson of his arrival. The furnishings were a little French for Amanda’s tastes, Peter thought, but the view she would have loved. Tall windows looked out across the wide green Evenlode valley. He wondered why, during the summer they had spent in Chipping Norton, Amanda had never come here on a Tuesday, and then he thought perhaps she had, some day when he was deep in a book and she had announced only, “I’ll be out for a while.”
    “Mr. Byerly,” said a crisp, friendly voice behind him. Peter turned to see an exceptionally tall man with a neatly combed wave of white hair.
    “I’m John Alderson,” said the man, extending a hand.
    “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Alderson,” said Peter, taking Alderson’s firm handshake.
    “Please, call me John. We don’t stand on formalities here at Evenlode Manor, despite what Miss O’Hara might have told you.”
    “She was most kind,” said Peter.
    “I won’t waste your time, Mr. Byerly. The fact is I’d like to sell some books. I happened to mention that fact to the vicar on Sunday and he said there was an American chap in Kingham who was in the book business. I presume that’s you.”
    “It is,” said Peter, pulling a card out of his pocket and presenting it to John. It was the only one he could find that morning, a bit crumpled and with one corner torn off, but it would do the job.
    “Well,” said John, “I have a modest library filled with old books that I have no use for, and I have three bedrooms in which I’ve piled all my books on gardening and art and the law—books I actually read. The present arrangement seems a rather inefficient use of both funds and space. So I thought perhaps you could take a look through the library and see if there are some things there worth selling. Clear out a case or two, perhaps.”
    “I’d be delighted,” said Peter, who suddenly felt a familiar, but nearly forgotten, excitement pulsing through his veins—that anticipation of a treasure hunt. Rarely had he bought books in an environment that seemed as conducive to treasure finding as Evenlode Manor.
    John showed Peter into the library where eight bookcases of deep cherry lined two walls of the room, while two others flanked the fireplace. On a large table in the center of the room lay a stack of oversized volumes. The cases by the fireplace ran from floor to ceiling; the others extended to the ceiling from solid built-in cabinets.
    Most of the bindings looked nineteenth-century, though some were clearly older. Peter knew immediately that he would have no trouble moving a case or two of these books fairly quickly. Even if they turned out to be mediocre in content, he could sell them to another dealer for the bindings. It seemed likely he would find a few rarities. Only one shelf was not filled. From the lack of dust, Peter guessed that some books had been removed recently. Then he remembered the strict face of Miss O’Hara, and decided she must dust the library at least twice a week.
    “Well,” said John, “if you’re perfectly happy having a look around, I’ll get back to my work. Perhaps we could meet for tea in a couple of hours.”
    Peter knew it would take a lot