Bland Beginning (7 page)

“Perfectly right,” Jebb piped. “I have just checked. He is an observant young man.”

“And was the name of Letts and Ableton – or Letts and Willcox – used in any of the other forgeries you’ve traced?”

“No.” Jebb jerked his head down and looked at them. “But that proves nothing,” he said almost fiercely. “It is one of those pieces of carelessness that I’ve just mentioned. Yes, he must be an observant young man, your friend Mr Basing-stoke.”

Anthony grunted. He was equally annoyed to be called Basingstoke’s friend, and to hear him praised for acuteness.

“There is another test – that of typography, and that is more fruitful in your case. In the nineteenth century there was a ‘ring’ of eight large firms of typefounders who had the trade to themselves. By thorough investigation of their practice, I have been able to establish certain interesting facts. The most important concerns the queer case of the kerned ‘f’.

“The what?” Anthony asked.

Miss Cleverley’s face was puckered with amusement. “Remember that you’re not lecturing to an audience of typographers, Arthur. Do you need to go into all these technical details?”

“I suppose not,” Jebb said reluctantly. “Well – to put it simply, Mr Shelton, different type faces (what we call ‘old style’) were used in the nineteenth century from the faces (which could be called ‘modern style’) used today. There are particular differences in some letters, and one of them is the ‘f’.
The letter ‘f’ in your copy of
Passion and Repentance
is printed in a form which did not exist in 1860, and which in fact was not used until the eighteen-eighties.
In other words,” said Jebb, who had again reached a crescendo of excitement, “this book on the table, sir, is a forgery.”

Anthony passed his hand across his forehead. It was slightly damp. “But a few minutes ago you said it was only a matter of suspicion.”

“True, true.” The cripple looked remorseful. “Excitement is carrying me away. I should have told you that
I
am convinced, Mr Shelton, of all the things I am telling you. I have yet to convince other book-collectors. If you went to see any bookseller, or so-called book expert, and told them what I am telling you, they would think it a garbled story, because the evidence to support it is here.” He tapped his large forehead. “Until my book is published, your copy of
Passion and Repentance
will be accepted as genuine.” His fingers touched the little book again, with something like a caress. “I am most grateful to you for permitting me to examine this book. I have been interested in it for a long time, but very few copies are extant and I have not been able to obtain one for testing. My enquiries have been fruitless, both to so-called experts and to the family. James Cobb and Blackburn both wrote me rude letters, and Martin’s son was courteous but unhelpful.” He pondered again. “There is one curious point about your book. All of the forgeries I have discovered – which are still circulating as genuine first editions – were the works of one printer, using one particular fount of type.
Passion and Repentance
is set in a different type. It is still a modern type, and still in my opinion a forgery, but it is a curious circumstance.”

There was silence. Anthony sat looking round the quiet, hot room in a kind of daze. Miss Cleverly watched him with quizzical amusement. Jebb took up his magnifying glass and pored over
Passion and Repentance.
He spoke again.

“There is also, of course, the test of paper. Before 1861 the raw material used for the manufacture of paper was rags. In that year esparto grass was introduced from Spain and Northern Africa, and used successfully, and in 1874 paper containing chemical wood was used. Paper tests are difficult to apply – differences are sometimes minute – and it is because they are complicated that I should like to borrow this copy of your book. Since it is dated 1860, it should, as you realise, be a rag paper. There will be a further strong presumption of forgery if it should prove to contain esparto grass or chemical wood.”

Anthony seemed not to be attending. “What do you advise me to do?” he asked, and the cripple was taken aback.

“Do?”

“If what you say is right, I’m a hundred guineas out of pocket. My father will be furious.”

Jebb’s high-pitched laugh was not soothing. “I am very sorry to hear that. But you are not quite correct in your statement. Say rather that you will be a hundred guineas out of pocket in two or three years’ time, when my book is published. In the meantime you have a marketable commodity. You can always accept Lewis’ offer.”

“But that would be dishonest.” Anthony was indignant. He said with a blush, “Look here, Mr Jebb, all these things you’ve told me – this stuff about type faces and so on – I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s all a bit vague. That chap Henderson seemed to think –”

“Henderson,” said Ruth Cleverly, “knows nothing about first editions.”

“That’s what you tell me – but he seemed awfully confident – and how am I to know what’s right? I want to
know
about this thing. Isn’t there anything I can do myself to find out?”

Ruth Cleverly raised her expressive eyebrows. “What about taking Henderson’s advice, and seeing Blackburn?”

Anthony looked at her with an almost dog-like eagerness. “But you said he was a – dilettante.”

“So he is, but he’s an authority on Martin Rawlings too. He may be able to tell us something useful – eh, Arthur?”

The cripple’s fingers played with the little blue book, and put it down. “Possibly, possibly. You see, Mr Shelton, there is also the evidence of the author himself, of contemporary references he made to his own work – that kind of thing. Let us say that there is a letter in existence from Martin Rawlings, dated 1860, making reference to this first edition which I believe was produced much later – well, that would be very disconcerting. Disconcerting for me, I mean,” he added with the ghost of a smile. “In most of the other cases in which I suspect forgeries I have checked author’s references, presentation copies, that kind of thing – and there are remarkably few cases in which they exist. I’ve done no checking with
Passion and Repentance
, because I haven’t been able to get hold of a copy. It can do no harm for you to see Blackburn, though he wrote me an impolite letter in response to my own enquiries. But I must ask you,” he sat forward again in his chair, and his eyes glared with monomaniacal intensity behind the great spectacles, “I must
insist
that you say nothing of what I have told you in confidence about my researches.”

“That is understood.” Anthony was stiff. “But if we are going to see Mr Blackburn, I shall need to take this to show him.” Rather nervously, he picked up the little blue book on the desk.

Jebb glared at him. “Do you mean you are not prepared to trust me with –”

Miss Cleverly laid a hand on the cripple’s arm. “Arthur, this young man is a babe in the literary wood. He doesn’t know where he’s going. You can’t blame him if he looks out for wicked uncles.”

“I suppose not,” Jebb said. He sank back in the chair with a curious air of being deflated. His fingers moved nervously on the desk. The spots on his cheeks were bright. He spoke faintly. “Ruth, the little brown bottle in the medicine chest on the right of the cupboard. Ten drops in a glassful of water. Down the passage.” Ruth Cleverly took the bottle from the cupboard, ran to the door and came back in a few moments with a glass of water. She measured out ten drops of the liquid and touched Jebb on the arm. He was sitting back in the chair, breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, and the edges of his mouth were bluish. Mrs Upton stood in the doorway, and commented on the scene like a Greek chorus.

“’E’s been talking too much. Works himself up like when ’e talks about ’is books.” She looked round with an air of distaste. “Never did like books. Doctor warned ’im to avoid excitement – got a dicky ’eart.”

Faintly but clearly, Jebb said, “That will do, Mrs Upton,” and she shrugged and withdrew. They sat and watched while his face changed to its apparently normal waxen colour, and his breathing became easier. When he spoke again it was in his usual reedy voice. “She’s an infernal nuisance, Mrs U, but she’s quite right. It’s heart. I must avoid excitement. It would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it, if I died before my book was in print.” He spoke perfectly seriously.

“If there’s nothing we can get you, Arthur,” Miss Cleverly said, “I think we should go. But I don’t want to leave you alone. Does Mrs Upton stay with you all day?”

“She cooks my meals. Don’t worry about me. These bouts are not unusual.”

“Oh.” Miss Cleverly hovered. It was the first time Anthony had seen her uneasy, and he was surprised too by the tenderness in her voice. “Goodbye then, Arthur. We’ll let you know what news we get from Blackburn.”

“Goodbye, Mr Jebb. And thank you for all your help.” Anthony held out his right hand. The left gripped firmly the copy of
Passion and Repentance.

Jebb’s eyes were still closed, and his hands did not move from the arms of his chair. They left him in the quiet room, with the Cona machine standing on the table by his side, like an instrument of medieval torture.

Stuart Henderson crossed one grey-trousered leg over the other, and looked at them with amused condescension. “And what had the highly scientific Jebb to say?”

“He thinks it’s a forgery,” said Anthony heavily.

“Does he really? After that, Miss Cleverly here will no doubt tell us, we can do nothing but bow our heads. Does he give any reasons for his remarkable conclusion?”

Anthony was silent. How could you talk about conclusions unless you gave the train of reasoning? And he had promised not to do that. Miss Cleverly had returned to her usual brusqueness. “He said something about the type faces being wrong period.”

“Rather a
slender
basis for such a
vast
conclusion, isn’t it? Is this Jebb, by the way, the same man who writes chit-chat for the
Peoples’ Literary Weekly
? And does odds and ends of reading for publishers? He is?” Mr Henderson dabbed his damp lips with a handkerchief. “My
dear
Miss Cleverly, as you know, I have the utmost respect for your
terrifying
perspicacity, but I should hardly have thought the view of such a man should be preferred to that of somebody like Michael Blackburn.”

Ruth Cleverly rubbed her nose with a dirty hand. “All right then. Let’s see Blackburn. You said you could arrange it.”

Henderson trilled musically with head thrown back, and then smiled coyly and confidentially at Anthony. “Excuse me, Mr Shelton. I’m sure Miss Cleverly regards me as a terrible dilettante myself, so I can’t help feeling a
teeny
bit pleased that the cold hand of science has referred this question back to the – more
elegant
touch, shall we say – of the dilettante. But just let me see if I can arrange this little matter for you.” He picked up the telephone and asked for a number. “Would you be free for tea today?” Anthony nodded. The publisher left him almost dumb. “
Hullo
,” said Mr Henderson and his rather podgy features seemed almost to melt, and his voice became extremely girlish. “Michael? Guess who. This is Porky Henderson. Yes,
Porky.
How
are
you, you old sinner? I so much enjoyed that piece of yours in the
Spectator
the other day – it was one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever done. Oh yes, it was. Listen, Michael. A young friend of mine here has a problem which I think will fascinate you about that old scoundrel Martin Rawlings. Oh, a literary problem, of course. Yes, he’s fascinating, too.” He smiled archly at Anthony, who had gone very red. “I wondered if I might bring him along to talk about it. Today? Oh, Michael, are you sure? That
is
sweet of you. And may I bring a dragon as well? A female dragon, I mean – if there
is
a female of dragon. She works in my Production Department, and has the most
terrifying
technical knowledge.” The sound at the other end of the line was not enthusiastic, but it was apparently not wholly condemnatory. “About half-past four then. So nice of you. Bye-bye, Michael.” Mr Henderson spoke these last three sentences on a dying fall, so that his “bye-bye” was hardly audible. “Half-past four in Hampstead,” he said to them. “You’ll love Michael. Will you pick us up from here at about four o’clock? I can’t help regarding this, Miss Cleverly,” Stuart Henderson said with a wriggle, “as a triumph of Art over Science.”

Anthony breathed a sigh of relief when they were outside Henderson’s door. “I say, are you free for lunch?”

“Yes,” said Miss Cleverly without hesitation. “Five minutes.”

He noted with admiration that she rejoined him in four minutes, and after one look at her more womanly, and almost demure, appearance, decided to take her to Scott’s. He presented a grim profile to her at the wheel of the Bentley. “How on earth do you put up with him?”

“Henderson? He’s really not bad to work for.” She added slyly: “You bring out the worst in him, you know.”

Anthony was startled. “Do I? Why?”

She said maliciously, “Because he thinks you look like Shelley or Rupert Brooke. Know what Rupert Brooke looked like? A young Apollo, golden-haired, dreaming on the verge of strife. That’s the kind of thing Henderson thinks of when he sees you.”

“Good Lord, does he?” Anthony was genuinely alarmed. “And what about this chap Blackburn? Will he be the same?”

“Don’t know him, but I shouldn’t think so. Don’t be deceived by my calling him names. He’s really a well-known figure, written three or four books of essays and gossip about books and authors. You know the kind of thing – how Henry James patted him on the head when he was five and said, ‘I hope, my dear young friend, that you will always retain your present fine awareness of simple, and in fact incommunicable, emotion which it is the endeavour of a lucky few, quite simply, to communicate.’” Anthony listened, completely bewildered. “Sorry,” she said. “You
don’t
know the kind of thing. Lucky you. I say – you’re A W Shelton, aren’t you? Played in the University match last year?”