Miranda James - Classified as Murder

“Except in this case, it’s a costly joke—at least in terms of time,” I said.

Diesel had finished his first tour of the library and came back to settle down on the floor beside me. As was my habit, I bent to stroke his head, and he warbled softly.

“Indeed.” Mr. Delacorte’s face reddened—not much, but enough to make me fear a repeat of Saturday’s episode.

“I’m sure we can soon make headway with returning the collection to its proper arrangement.” I put as much conviction in my voice as I could muster.

“I devoutly hope so,” Mr. Delacorte said as the red faded away. “Perhaps now you understand my fears about thefts from the collection. At first glance, it might seem simply a thoughtless prank.”

When he paused, I finished the thought. “But it could have been done to conceal a theft and make it harder to uncover.”

Mr. Delacorte nodded.

A thought struck me, and I felt sheepish. “There’s one important question I forgot to ask. Do you keep the library locked when you are not in here?”

“I do,” he said. “The only other key to the room is in Nigel’s safekeeping.” He held up a hand. “And before you ask, no, I do not believe he is responsible. It was another member of the family.”

There was no use arguing with him on that point, I could tell by his tone. “Was there any sign of forced entry?”

Mr. Delacorte shook his head. “No. I have no idea how the miscreant obtained it, but he—or she—must have a key.”

I agreed. “The first thing is to determine whether anything has actually been stolen. If a theft has occurred, you can call in the police.”

“I would prefer not to involve the police,” Mr. Delacorte said, his expression pained. “I have little affection for my family, I will admit, but I would like to avoid the unpleasantness of a police investigation.”

That was his call, and I wasn’t about to argue with him. I figured he could be preparing himself for the worst by saying that items had been stolen. Then when we discovered everything was still here, only jumbled around, he would be relieved.

“I think we should start on the inventory, then,” I said. “But one more thing—the items in the cabinets. Are they in the inventory, too?”

“No,” Mr. Delacorte said. “They are mostly maps and letters, things like that. I have a separate inventory for them. At the moment I’m not concerned about that part of my collection. It’s the books that are the most important overall.”

“Then the books take priority.” I regarded my employer for a moment. “Let me start with the first volume of the inventory and do some searching, see what I can find. It might not be as extensive as you fear.”

“Thank you, Charlie,” Mr. Delacorte said with a slight smile. “I am pleased to have your help with this. I confess I considered it a daunting task to undertake on my own, and I didn’t want to involve Nigel. He has many other duties, and I knew he would fret about them while he was helping me in here.”

“I’m more than happy to help,” I said as I stood. I didn’t remind him that he was paying me quite well for the work. “Now, the shelf—the one that signaled someone mixed up the books. Did you replace any of them in their proper positions?”

“I started to,” Mr. Delacorte said. “I was so angry, however, that I found myself unable to think, and I decided to leave them alone until I found a capable assistant.” He paused a moment. “ The Bay Psalm Book is in its proper place, however. That was as far as I got.”

He extracted the inventory volume on the bottom of the pile on his desk and handed it to me.

“The hard part for me with such a marvelous collection,” I said, “is going to be focusing on the task at hand, rather than sitting down with each and every item and poring through it.”

Mr. Delacorte nodded. “I understand. And I promise, once we are done, you have an open invitation to come here and look over anything you like, for as long as you like.”

“Thank you.” I hefted the inventory ledger in my right hand. It weighed four or five pounds. “Oh, and I suppose an explanation of how the ledgers correspond to the shelves would help. I should have asked that already.”

Mr. Delacorte said, “Of course.” He rose from behind the desk and headed for the wall to the right of the door as one exited the library.

The first ledger started with the first book on the top shelf and proceeded in order through five ranges of shelves. That took us down the wall and on to the next, almost to the end, where the second ledger started. That was enough for now, I decided. One ledger at a time.

This was going to be tedious. I rather relished the challenge, I had to admit. To bring order out of chaos—well, librarians have lived for that for thousands of years.

I stood in front of the first shelf and opened the ledger while Mr. Delacorte returned to his desk. He said he was going to work on his correspondence while I started the inventory.

The first page of the ledger was a title page that read simply “Collection of James S. Delacorte,” followed by his address. The handwriting was clearly and precisely formed, the letters neat and orderly. I turned the page to the first entry and found that it took up the entire page. I skimmed through the information on the copy of The Bay Psalm Book and whistled softly when I saw what Mr. Delacorte paid for it. A bargain. Then I realized he bought it fifty years ago. Adjusting for inflation, he had paid a hefty sum, even for a later edition.

I verified that the book was indeed on the shelf. I was tempted to pull it off the shelf and delve inside, but I resisted. I turned the page to get to the second item, and I almost dropped the ledger because the title listed was a three-volume first edition of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice , published in London in 1813. This was one of my all-time favorite novels, and the thought of holding a first edition thrilled me.

That particular thrill would have to wait, I realized, when I examined the second book on the shelf. It was not part of a three-volume set, and it was also too tall—probably about thirty-seven centimeters, or fourteen-and-a-half inches, according to my trained eye. The binding was ravaged by time, and no title was visible. Before I handled it, I needed to be prepared.

I retrieved my satchel from the chair where I’d been sitting, opened it, and extracted a box of cotton gloves and set them on the work table. I smiled to see Diesel now occupying my former place. He was curled up and twisted partway onto his back, sleeping. I set the satchel down and put on the gloves.

With gentle care I pulled the volume from the shelf and held it so that I could open it. I read the title, Tabulae Anatomicae , by Bartolomeo Eustachi, published in Rome in 1728. Nearly three hundred years old. I marveled that it was still intact in what might have been its original binding.

I set the book down on a nearby work table and went back to the ledger. I skimmed through the next twenty-five or thirty entries, but I didn’t find this book among them. My head began to ache a little at that point, because the enormity of this task hit even harder.

I would have to set aside each volume incorrectly placed on the shelf, search out the volume that did belong in that spot, and then move on. Place after place after place, through the inventory. Would there be enough room on the table?

One thought did encourage me, however. Perhaps the idiot who did this hadn’t had time enough to do extensive swapping. Or else got tired of it and quit.

I consulted the ledger and read Mr. Delacorte’s description of the set of Pride and Prejudice . His volumes had been rebound at some point in dark brown sprinkled calf, with green leather labels on the spines. Those should be easy enough to spot. Setting the ledger aside, I began to scan the shelves.