The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

Sadie lifted a thick volume with rough-cut pages and a scuffed brown cover. “This is incredible. Is this a Caritat’s edition of Wieland?”

Chesley nodded. “Published in 1798, I believe. The only edition that appeared in Charles Brockden Brown’s lifetime. Alas, this copy is not signed….”

Peter Chesley’s hand rested on an odd, seemingly mismatched set of books. “Considering the theme of your newly renovated bookstore, I think you may find these volumes of particular interest.”

“The Poes?” Sadie observed.

“A complete set of the Eugene Phelps editions of Edgar Allan Poe’s tales and poems. Thirteen volumes edited and published between 1929 and 1931. I understand some of these books are quite rare, though most volumes garner only modest sums from collectors.”

“Why is that?” I asked our host, but it was Sadie who provided the answer.

“The Phelps books were published by a rich New England eccentric on the cusp of the Great Depression,” she explained. “Only the last four volumes in the set are truly valuable because they had a much smaller print run, and because they did not sell when they were first published—”

“Don’t forget the most fascinating part of the story.” Chesley fixed his eyes on mine and lowered his voice. “Your aunt failed to mention that over half the print run was lost when Eugene Phelps committed suicide in 1932. It seems the poor man lost his fortune on the stock market.”

“That’s tragic,” I replied.

To my surprise, Peter Chesley threw back his head and emitted a deranged-sounding cackle.

“Dwelling on the florid, morose writings of a Gothicist like Edgar Poe, poor Phelps was probably insane. Mad as a hatter!” he crowed. “Most bluebloods are, you know. Completely useless, the lot of them.”

I left Peter’s remark hanging. Jack was not so diplomatic.

That’s the first smart thing that dribbled through grandpa’s dentures all night.

“The Phelps books will surely sell,” Sadie said, changing the subject. “But to get the best price I may have to break up the set. It’s a shame but—”

Chesley silenced my aunt with a raised hand. “Do what you have to. That doesn’t trouble me in the least. I inherited these books when I inherited Prospero House. To be perfectly frank, I have about as much interest in Poe as I do in this nautical claptrap you see around the mansion—which is to say, not much.” Chesley scowled. “Yachting was my father’s obsession. Poe my grandfather’s. Which explains the grotesque motif of that clock in the corner.”

I’d hardly paid attention to the grandfather clock. It stood in the shadows next to that cluster of old daguerreo types mounted in square and oval frames that I’d assumed were Chesley ancestors when I’d first entered the library.

Now I walked across the room to survey the antique. At over six feet tall, the heavy, dark wood case towered over me, its face flanked by a black cat and a stately raven, also carved in dark wood. The pendulum behind the glass was shaped like a swinging axe blade.

Cheery, ain’t it?

“The images are from Poe’s poetry and tales,” I silently informed Jack. I hadn’t read Poe since my adolescence, but I recognized some of the carvings in the clock’s case—a heart, a dagger, a beautiful woman wrapped in a shroud, and a primate of some sort. I puzzled over the simian for a minute, until I remembered the identity of the killer in “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” And, of course, I understood the meaning of Prospero House now. It wasn’t a reference to the magician and banished duke in Shakespeare’s Tempest, but the prince in Poe’s “The Masque of the Red Death.”

Chesley spoke up. “That clock belonged to my grandfather. I imagine he had it specially made.” He snorted. “Waste of good money.”

Sadie cleared her throat. “Well, I shall certainly do my best to move this consignment of books in as short a time as possible,”

“Take as long as you like to sell them. And if my illness should overtake me, please consider them yours. Willed to you. A gift.”

As Sadie opened her mouth to protest, a thunderous crash interrupted her, only this crash wasn’t thunder. The noise came from over our heads, a loud bang followed by a lot of little bouncing sounds, like the sound of a heavy metal vase full of pebbles crashing to the floor.

Sadie let out a small scream of surprise.

Peter Chesley glanced up at the ceiling.

“What was that?!” I cried, quickly crossing the room to join them.

Brain it out, doll, Jack warned. Sounds like there’s more than one fruitcake in this nut house.

CHAPTER 3

Turnaround

Listening for noises was no good. The storm was making hundreds of them.

—Dashiell Hammett, “The Gutting of Couffignal,” 1925

“THAT CRASH CAME from upstairs!”

I moved toward the door. But before I took three steps, Peter Chesley rolled his chair directly into my path. His eyes were wide, and in the library’s flickering firelight I swear I saw fear in them.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. McClure. Such sounds are common. The house is in poor condition. Tonight’s rain and the wind have not helped the situation. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt…”

“But—”

“Please. It’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Peter declared. “Merely the walls settling…”

Pops is laying track, baby. He’s taking you for a rube.

“I know, Jack,” I silently replied. “I thought I heard a footstep before. What do I do?”

Don’t bunch your panties up, Jack cautioned. We’re probably talking a clumsy butler here. If gramps wants to pretend we’re alone, play along with his carny act, let him think we’re all conned and make like the shepherd—

“Make like you, Jack?”

Make like the proverbial shepherd, sweetheart, and get the flock out.

The grandfather clock struck nine. Peter Chesley’s shoulders slumped, and his head hung low on his waddled neck. “I’m terribly sorry, but I feel suddenly tired,” he moaned. “It is quite late…”

“Of course, Peter. We understand,” my aunt replied. “Penelope and I should get back on the road, too. I can send someone over in our van tomorrow and pick up these books.”

“No!” Peter cried, strangely reanimated. “I insist you take them now. Tonight. I have boxes right over there, in the corner. I’ll help you pack them up.”

“But, Mr. Chesley, what about the paperwork?” I reminded him. “Both parties should agree on the terms of a consignment contract, and—”

“Young woman, I’ve known your aunt for three decades. I can certainly trust you both to send the paperwork along at a later date. Whatever you decide is fine with me.”

Ten minutes later, I was carrying a box of books out to the car while Peter helped my aunt pack up the rest of the consignment. When I came back inside, I paused at the base of the staircase, listening.

The house was alive with sounds—wind whistling through corridors, the spatter of rain on the slate roof, the rustle of the trees outside, the constant thumping of water hitting the steel pan. But I could hear no more footsteps upstairs, no human sounds up there at all. I resisted the temptation to call “Hello?” and continued on to the library to carry out the next box of books.

After the trunk was loaded up, Peter Chesley escorted us from the library to the front door. I offered to push him in his wheelchair, but, in yet another gesture of chivalry, he insisted on using his cane and seeing us out under his own power.