Pepper laced his thick fingers together on top of the desk. “Now then, what’s this about my copy of Milton? Have you become a collector, sir?”
“No,” Anthony said. “I wish to acquire it for a very good friend.”
“I see.” Pepper assumed a sly expression. “Well, I’m not sure I can be of assistance. That book is one of my most valuable possessions. In fact, I keep it in my Apollo.”
It was the answer Anthony had expected. He settled into his chair and prepared to go after the information he really wanted.
“I understand, sir,” he said. “Obviously I shall have to look elsewhere for a gift for my friend.”
“You won’t find another copy of a first edition of that particular Milton in such excellent condition,” Pepper said proudly. He nodded in the direction of the safe. “I spent years trying to obtain that one.”
“As a matter of curiosity, would you tell me how it came into your hands?”
Diamond-bright satisfaction gleamed in Pepper’s eyes. “I’d heard rumors from time to time that it was in the private collection of a gentleman named George Barclay. I approached him once or twice while he was alive, but he refused to sell.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a rather sad story, I fear. Barclay took his own life, leaving behind a massive amount of debt. His only living relation was his daughter. She was forced to sell off the house and most of the contents, but she managed to keep Barclay’s books. Very few people know it, but the young lady used them to open a small bookshop.”
A chill of awareness made Anthony go very still. “She was the proprietor of a bookshop? Barclay’s Bookshop, by any chance?”
“Ah, I see you’re aware of part of the story. It became quite notorious, of course, after Gavin was murdered there.” Pepper lounged back in his chair, shaking his head sadly. “Shocking, really.”
“The murder?”
“That, too. But I was referring to Miss Barclay’s decline and fall. The Barclays were descended from an old, distinguished family. I’ve no doubt but that George Barclay would have turned over in his grave at the notion of his daughter lowering herself so far as to go into trade.”
“Doesn’t sound like he left her much choice,” Anthony said evenly. “After paying off his debts she would not have had many alternatives.”
“Yes, well, I suppose that’s true. Nevertheless, it was a great pity. You’d think a young lady would have had more self-respect.”
What was she supposed to do? Anthony wondered. Walk the streets? Enter a workhouse? Doom herself to a miserable life of genteel poverty as a governess or a paid companion?
He forced himself to suppress his anger. He was here for information, he reminded himself, not a debate. “Continue with your story, sir. I find myself fascinated.”
“Let me see. Where was I? Ah, yes, Barclay’s Bookshop. It was located in a rather poor part of town, but Miss Barclay knew a great deal about rare books because her father had been an avid collector. She had begun to attract a good clientele and, I believe, must have been turning a profit there at the end. But then, of course, she murdered her lover, Lord Gavin, and committed suicide.” Pepper clicked his tongue against his front teeth in a tsk-tsking manner. “Tragic.”
“Were you acquainted with Miss Barclay?”
“No. The Barclays did not go into Society. Never had occasion to meet the girl.”
“What of Lord Gavin? Did you know him?”
“Not well. He belonged to one of my clubs, but I rarely encountered him. Had a taste for seventeenth-century volumes, as I recall. Not too particular.”
28
Anthony climbed down from a hansom cab, paid the driver, and went up the steps of J. T. Tuttington’s Museum of Murder Most Foul. An older, badly faded sign was still visible over the entrance: BARCLAY’S BOOKSHOP.
A bell rang when he opened the glass-fronted door.
The interior was poorly lit. There were still a few volumes on the shelves. Cobwebs draped the higher sections of the bookcases. The sole occupant was a young woman seated behind the counter. She wore a plain dress and a neat white cap. She surveyed Anthony’s expensive attire and immediately put down the penny dreadful that she had been perusing.
“J. T. Tuttington?” Anthony said politely.
She giggled. “That’s my father, sir. My name is Hannah Tuttington. I look after the museum when he’s not here.”
He inclined his head. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Tuttington.”
Hannah Tuttington blushed at the polite greeting. “May I be of assistance, sir?”
“I understand that this is the scene of a scandalous murder.”
Hannah’s eyes widened. “That it is, sir. A most dreadful, bloody event, it was. A woman murdered her lover in cold blood on these very premises. Would you be wanting the full tour, then?”
“Yes, please.” Anthony took a coin out of his coat and put it on the counter.
Hannah snatched up the money. “This way, sir. We’ll start with the back room. Handsome Lord Gavin used to come around to that door when he called on her late at night.”
She hurried around the end of the counter and led the way into the rear of the old bookshop.
Before following her, Anthony glanced at the magazine she had been reading. The cover featured a lurid drawing of a dead woman lying at the foot of a flight of stone steps. The menacing figure of a man stood at the top of the steps, a knife dripping blood in one hand. The title read: A Complete History of the Dreadful Murder of Frances Hayes, a Prostitute.
He walked into the back room of the shop, taking his time, absorbing the feel of the place.
“I see you kept some of the previous owner’s books,” he said, looking at the cartons of old volumes stacked in the small space.
“Only a few left now. Pa sold most of them right after he took over the shop. In the first few days after the murder all sorts of odd people showed up on the doorstep wanting to buy the books.”
He looked at her. “What do you mean by odd?”
Hannah made a face. “They told Pa they were collectors. You wouldn’t believe the prices they were willing to pay for dusty old books. Who would have guessed that there was a market for that sort of thing? Pa thought we were going to get rich within the month, but after a while that sort stopped coming around.”
“And you were left with these volumes?” He motioned toward the cartons.
Hannah regarded them morosely. “Occasionally someone will buy one as a souvenir of the tour, but our customers aren’t willing to pay as much as the collectors did. Most of the books go for a few pennies now.”
“Do you have a lot of customers for your tour?”
“Not nearly as many as we did in the first few months after the murder.” Hannah sighed. “Business has been slow lately, I’m sorry to say. Pa’s doing his best to promote the museum, but there’s a lot of competition these days. Seems like hardly a week passes without another scandalous murder or suicide in the press. Pa’s thinking of going into some other line.”
“A wise decision, no doubt. Tell me about the murder.”
Hannah cleared her throat and assumed a melodramatic tone. “The name of the murderess was Miss Joanna Barclay. She was very beautiful, with long blond tresses and lovely blue eyes. Her lover’s name was Lord Gavin. He was ever so elegant and handsome.”
“Where did you get the descriptions?” Anthony said.
Hannah blinked at the interruption. “Why, from the newspapers and penny dreadfuls, of course. I assure you, every detail is based on fact, sir.”
“Of course. Please continue.”
“On the night of the dreadful event Joanna Barclay heard handsome Lord Gavin knock three times here at the back door.”