Road in Ambleside, a town at the north end of Windermere. Mr. Darnwell would arrange to call at a convenient time to have a look at the collection. For this preliminary examination, no fee would be charged. If Lady Longford decided to put the books up for sale in his shop, however, he would require a certain percentage of the price they brought.
Since this arrangement allowed her ladyship to feel that she was getting something for nothing (at least at the present moment), she saw no reason not to permit it. And that was why the portly Mr. Darnwell, his pince-nez perched on his nose and his mutton-chop whiskers bristling with pleasure, was going carefully and methodically through Lord Longford’s collection, under Lady Longford’s watchful eye. In one hand, Mr. Darnwell held his lordship’s little black book. He was checking the list against the titles of the books on the shelves, making notes in his own little black book, and muttering under his breath, whilst her ladyship watched to be sure he didn’t slide anything into one of his capacious pockets. Vicar Sackett had said that the fellow was reputable, but one could never be too sure.
The work required the better part of four hours, but by teatime Mr. Darnwell was finished. He put his notebook into his pocket, took his pince-nez off his nose, and announced in a gruff voice that in his opinion (“My expert opinion,” he added severely), the books in the collection could, if offered at his shop, be expected to fetch around ten thousand pounds sterling.
“Perhaps more,” he said, “if an auction were to be announced and certain collectors of my acquaintance invited. Of course, then there would be the expense of an auction, so you might consider direct sale to be more . . . profitable.”
Ten thousand pounds! This figure quite took her ladyship’s breath away, and she stared at Mr. Darnwell for a moment, unable to speak. At last she managed to cough out a few words. “You are sure of the amount?”
“Indeed.” Mr. Darnwell inclined his head. “The amount would be much higher—in fact, I daresay it would be ten times as much, or more—if I had been able to locate one of the titles in your husband’s catalog. And if the item truly is what it purports to be, which of course one cannot be certain without actually seeing it.” Mr. Darnwell lowered his voice, becoming confidential. “I wonder . . . perhaps your ladyship is keeping the item elsewhere. In a safe, perhaps, or a bank vault.” He coughed. “If so, that is a good idea, for it is quite valuable. Quite.”
“Ten . . . times?” Lady Longford whispered. Ten times ten thousand pounds was . . . The calculation made her dizzy.
“Just so,” said Mr. Darnwell emphatically. He turned several pages in the black book. “Your husband has noted the disposal of several items in his collection by striking them through and detailing the name of the purchaser and the amount paid. There are no such notations for this particular item. I must therefore infer that it was in his possession at his death.” He smiled in a cold-fish sort of way. “I shall need to see it, of course, in order to determine whether it is what the catalog listing describes. So if you will be so kind as to get it for me, or tell me where I may go to examine it, I should be most grateful.”
For once in her life, Lady Longford found herself at a complete loss.
“I don’t think I—” Ten times ten thousand pounds. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. She swallowed. “What . . . What is the title?”
“It is called The Book of the Revelation of John . It is a book that—as it is described in your husband’s catalog—came from the library of Sir Robert Cotton. That is to say, Sir Robert collected it. It originally came from the monastery of Lindisfarne, by way of the Tower of London.” He smiled thinly. “The Lindisfarne books were held there for some time, after Henry the Eighth confiscated the lands and treasuries of the
Since this arrangement allowed her ladyship to feel that she was getting something for nothing (at least at the present moment), she saw no reason not to permit it. And that was why the portly Mr. Darnwell, his pince-nez perched on his nose and his mutton-chop whiskers bristling with pleasure, was going carefully and methodically through Lord Longford’s collection, under Lady Longford’s watchful eye. In one hand, Mr. Darnwell held his lordship’s little black book. He was checking the list against the titles of the books on the shelves, making notes in his own little black book, and muttering under his breath, whilst her ladyship watched to be sure he didn’t slide anything into one of his capacious pockets. Vicar Sackett had said that the fellow was reputable, but one could never be too sure.
The work required the better part of four hours, but by teatime Mr. Darnwell was finished. He put his notebook into his pocket, took his pince-nez off his nose, and announced in a gruff voice that in his opinion (“My expert opinion,” he added severely), the books in the collection could, if offered at his shop, be expected to fetch around ten thousand pounds sterling.
“Perhaps more,” he said, “if an auction were to be announced and certain collectors of my acquaintance invited. Of course, then there would be the expense of an auction, so you might consider direct sale to be more . . . profitable.”
Ten thousand pounds! This figure quite took her ladyship’s breath away, and she stared at Mr. Darnwell for a moment, unable to speak. At last she managed to cough out a few words. “You are sure of the amount?”
“Indeed.” Mr. Darnwell inclined his head. “The amount would be much higher—in fact, I daresay it would be ten times as much, or more—if I had been able to locate one of the titles in your husband’s catalog. And if the item truly is what it purports to be, which of course one cannot be certain without actually seeing it.” Mr. Darnwell lowered his voice, becoming confidential. “I wonder . . . perhaps your ladyship is keeping the item elsewhere. In a safe, perhaps, or a bank vault.” He coughed. “If so, that is a good idea, for it is quite valuable. Quite.”
“Ten . . . times?” Lady Longford whispered. Ten times ten thousand pounds was . . . The calculation made her dizzy.
“Just so,” said Mr. Darnwell emphatically. He turned several pages in the black book. “Your husband has noted the disposal of several items in his collection by striking them through and detailing the name of the purchaser and the amount paid. There are no such notations for this particular item. I must therefore infer that it was in his possession at his death.” He smiled in a cold-fish sort of way. “I shall need to see it, of course, in order to determine whether it is what the catalog listing describes. So if you will be so kind as to get it for me, or tell me where I may go to examine it, I should be most grateful.”
For once in her life, Lady Longford found herself at a complete loss.
“I don’t think I—” Ten times ten thousand pounds. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. She swallowed. “What . . . What is the title?”
“It is called The Book of the Revelation of John . It is a book that—as it is described in your husband’s catalog—came from the library of Sir Robert Cotton. That is to say, Sir Robert collected it. It originally came from the monastery of Lindisfarne, by way of the Tower of London.” He smiled thinly. “The Lindisfarne books were held there for some time, after Henry the Eighth confiscated the lands and treasuries of the
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