According to Their Deeds Read online

  Until, finally, Dorothy set her book on the table beside her.

  “Why are you reading A Separate Peace?” Charles asked.

  “I want to decide if Gene meant to do it.”

  “If he rocked the branch on purpose?”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” she said. “Why did you pick this book for our outing last Friday?”

  “It’s about a young man who dies.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” she said again. “Gene resents Finny because he’s athletic and popular, but they’re still friends. At that one moment, though, on the tree branch, somehow Finny falls and breaks his leg, and it isn’t set right, and he doesn’t recover. Then Gene is forced to admit that he might have made Finny fall on purpose. Finny is so upset he runs off and breaks his leg again falling down the staircase. Then he dies during the operation to set it again.”

  “Gene didn’t mean for Finny to die. He didn’t know that he would.”

  “But Gene never really knows whether he meant for Finny to fall. Charles . . . what did we mean with William?”

  “We didn’t mean for him to die.”

  “We resented him.”

  “How could we not have?” Charles said, wryly. “We did love him, Dorothy, but you know how difficult he became.”

  “Were we glad when he died?”

  “You know we weren’t. But where would we be if he hadn’t? Would we be sitting here now? Would we have the shop? We might not. We might have used all our money on legal costs, or we might have had to move somewhere remote to get him away from the city. Of course, I don’t mean that I wouldn’t trade anything to have him back.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Well, then yes, I knew that if I picked that book, an English major would realize what I was saying. So let me know whether Gene did it on purpose or even what that means, and we’ll understand ourselves better for it. That’s what books are supposed to do.”

  “Sometimes they explain us too well,” Dorothy said.

  “Derek Bastien said once that it was all chemistry, that behavior is just from the way a person’s brain is wired.”

  “So why was William’s wired that way?”

  “That’s what we don’t know.”

  “What did you say to Derek?”

  “I told him chemistry couldn’t explain anything as complex as a human soul. Or as sublime.”

  “Ah, de Tocqueville. Democracy in America. Wonderful, Charles.”

  “You are expanding your range, Derek.”

  “Quite. What the Enlightenment sowed, the nineteenth century will now reap.”

  “But they will still bake their own unique loaf from it.”

  “You don’t let anyone off the hook, do you, Charles?”

  “We’re all responsible for our own actions, Derek. De Tocqueville had America and France to compare. They both grew out of the Enlightenment, but very differently.”

  “And he was hardly the first—or the last—to compare them. Here is a challenge, Charles. Think of an original comparison.”

  “Between France and America?”

  “In this period, yes. One that will surprise me.”

  “You never let me off the hook, do you, Derek? All right, I believe one springs to mind. John Adams and Lamoignon-Malesherbes.”

  “Malesherbes—he defended Louis the Sixteenth at his trial in the National Assembly, didn’t he?”

  “To no avail, of course. Compare him to Adams, who defended the British soldiers at the Boston Massacre, and got them acquitted.”

  “A slim comparison, Charles.”

  “But what became of them? Adams was elected president, while Malesherbes was guillotined a year after Louis.”

  “A bit more interesting. But I’m thinking more of the years after, when America stayed a democracy and France returned to monarchy.”

  “That’s where I’m going, Derek. Adams’s son became president himself, of course.”

  “And what about the family of Malesherbes?”

  “His daughter and granddaughter were also executed with him, but his great-grandson, Alexis, grew up and went in search of a better democracy than France.”

  “Charles—don’t tell me.”

  “That’s his book in your hand, Derek. He compares France and the United States.”

  “A clever comparison yourself, Charles. Congratulations. But of course, he predicts many of the problems that American democracy would face.”

  “I admit it, Derek. We’re responsible for our actions, but we’re also still human.”

  “And who is responsible for that?”

  FRIDAY

  MORNING

  Even before Charles had the lights on and the alarm off, Morgan was sprinting down the stairs.

  “Mr. Beale? Could you look at this?” Morgan was excited. Very excited.

  “Here I come.”

  “It wasn’t hard,” Morgan said. “This one letter is the key. It’s from Victoria to her great-granddaughter, Alexandra, in 1895. Alexandra was seven years old.”

  “How did you find it?”

  “The London Museum had an archive.” Morgan smirked. “It cost you two hundred dollars to subscribe to it.”

  “Money well spent, Morgan. What does it say?”

  “It’s this one line: ‘I am sending you some books and toys from my own childhood.’ That’s all. But after Victoria died, there were no schoolbooks in the inventory.”

  “So there is a chance those are the books.”

  “Yes, sir, a chance. In 1912, Alexandra married this guy, Lord Bost-wick. Then she died thirteen years later, in 1925.”

  “She was thirty-seven,” Charles said.

  “Influenza. Her husband sold off all her belongings.”

  “How?”

  Morgan’s grin got even bigger. “Sotheby’s.”

  Charles’s grin matched Morgan’s. “Oh, how wonderful. Perfect. I will call them immediately.”

  “Mr. Beale?” Alice had arrived. “You have a telephone call. Mr. John Borchard.”

  “Hello, this is Charles Beale.”

  “Charles, John Borchard here.”

  “Good morning, John.”

  “Good morning! I hope it is for you.”

  “It is so far,” Charles said.

  “Very good! Charles, I wanted to call to follow up on our discussion yesterday morning. A specific point.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “Good. Thank you. The point is in regard to Patrick White. You may have wondered why I haven’t taken stronger action against him for the things he’s been saying about me.”

  “I think you’ve been very gracious so far, John.”

  “I have tried. There is a limit, of course, and some people might say he has already exceeded it, but I’m still reluctant to press charges. Let me tell you a story, Charles.”

  Dorothy was just sitting at her desk. Charles looked at his watch. “Go ahead, John,” he said.

  “Thank you. I want to tell you about a man I knew, back in my early days in Kansas. He was a fellow prosecutor in a neighboring county.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember you mentioning Kansas.”

  “Quite. This friend was quite zealous. He was young, idealistic, wanted to make his mark. He was even overzealous.”

  “I see,” Charles said. “That’s a little dangerous in a prosecutor, isn’t it?”

  John’s answer was a little slow in coming. “Perhaps. In this case, a few lines were crossed.”

  “In what way?”

  “Maybe we don’t need to go into details,” John said. “In fact, as this all happened to an acquaintance, I don’t think I really know the details. Suffice it to say, there were a number of cases he prosecuted successfully but that later were overturned because these lines had been crossed.”

  “Were the people actually guilty of the charges he prosecuted?”

  “He felt quite sure that they were, which would be why he felt justified in overlooking the nice
ties. However, the law is the law. The convictions were thrown out.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I’m not really sure. I’ve lost touch. He had already left the county, and at this point there wouldn’t be any need to stir up his past. It could even be detrimental to his career. Um, for all I know, at least. As I’ve said, I’ve lost touch.”

  “And what does this have to do with Patrick White?” Charles asked.

  “My friend later told me something he’d learned from the incident. He said he’d resolved to be much more careful in bringing charges against other people.”

  “Just more careful?” Charles asked. “So that he’d have more complete cases against them?”

  “No, not exactly. We’ll say he learned to be less anxious to see others punished.”

  “Something like mercy, John?”

  “Yes. Something like mercy, Charles.”

  “I see. Well, that is a very interesting story. It does explain your lenience toward Patrick White.”

  “Good. I hoped it would. And I won’t take any more of your time.”

  “I’m always at your service, John. And I actually have a quick question for you.”

  “Of course! What can I do for you?”

  “Yesterday, you mentioned having gone on a camping and rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. I was thinking it might be just the thing for Dorothy and me.”

  “Absolutely, Charles! I would recommend it to anyone.”

  “Did you do it through a travel agency?”

  “I did. I’ll have to have my secretary dig that up. I’ll have her send that over to you right away!”

  “Thank you very much. I’d appreciate it.”

  Dorothy’s eyes were as wide as the Grand Canyon when he’d hung up. “Camping and rafting?”

  “John Borchard told me he was on vacation in the Grand Canyon when Derek was killed, and I was just curious about it. But I would take you! Would you like to?”

  “I think I’d rather just see it from the top.”

  “Then let’s do. When would you be ready? I’ll take you anywhere!”

  “I think I’d prefer Paris. But what are you curious about?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “And what were you talking about before that?”

  “His old friend, who was a prosecutor in Kansas. Actually, it was the person in Derek’s paper.”

  “It wasn’t John, then?”

  “Oh, yes, it is John Borchard. He said it was a friend, but he was really describing himself.”

  “That sounds very complicated.”

  “It is very complicated. It will take me a while to work it out, and I have to call London.” He looked at the computer screen on his desk. “And, I see that John Borchard’s secretary is very efficient.” He copied a telephone number from the screen. “I will be in the basement.”

  “Sotheby’s,” the telephone said, and it sounded just like it.

  “Good morning,” Charles said. “Or, it would be afternoon there, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s 4:15.”

  “Good afternoon, then. My name is Charles Beale and I’m doing some research on an item that was sold through your house in 1925.”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Beale. I’ll put you through to our records department.”

  “Thank you.”

  He waited, for a very short time.

  “Mr. Beale?”

  “Yes, this is Charles Beale.”

  “Good afternoon. I am Anthony Prescott.” He sounded just like it, too. “How may we help you, sir?”

  “I’m calling from Virginia in the United States. I am a rare-books dealer and I have a book, which I’ve just bought through eBay, and I’m trying to get more information about it. I believe the book may have been sold at a Sotheby’s auction in London in 1925. Is there any information you can give me that might verify that?”

  “I can look, sir. Could you describe the book or the auction?”

  “It would have been a Lord Bostwick, selling the possessions of his deceased wife. The book itself is an Alexander Pope translation of Homer’s Odyssey. I’m estimating the publication date to be in the 1830s. I don’t know how it would have been described in the auction catalog.”

  “Mr. Beale,” Mr. Prescott said. “I do see that sale for 1925. I’ll need to do more research to find anything about that book.”

  “The particular things I’m interested in,” Charles said, “are first, if this book was indeed sold through that auction, and second, if any other books were bought at that auction, and even possibly by whom.”

  “I may be able to help you with your first points, Mr. Beale, but we never release information about our buyers without their permission.”

  “I’m quite familiar with your policies, Mr. Prescott. I’ve bought a few things at Sotheby’s through the years, so I’m one of your buyers myself! But anything I can find out would be useful, especially if I can determine that this book was one of a set. Oh, and one other request, if you don’t mind.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Beale. I see your record here in the computer. We’ll be pleased to assist you.”

  “Thank you. I also wonder if there might have been a framed single page sold in that same auction. It would have been the title page of this book, broken out separately.”

  “I can check that as well, sir.”

  “Thank you so much. I do appreciate it.”

  Charles referred to his note and dialed another number.

  “DuPont Travel,” said another voice, which also sounded just like it.

  “Hello, my name is Charles Beale. I have a friend who recommended your Grand Canyon tours very highly.”

  Smiles poured out of the receiver. “I’m so glad! They’re very nice. Are you interested in one in particular?”

  “My friend spoke very highly of the guides on his trip. I’d like to make sure we have the same ones.”

  “I’ll have to see who they were. When did your friend take his trip?”

  “It was last fall, in the middle of November. My friend’s name is John Borchard.”

  “Let me see what I can find.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “Computers are wonderful things,” Charles said.

  “We couldn’t get by without them! Now let’s see . . . he was on the November seventeenth five-day trip. I’ll have to call the tour operators to see about the guides. But if they’re still available, I’m sure we can work it out!”

  “Thank you so much! That would be so nice.”

  “Sure, Mr. Beale! Now, let me get a phone number and I’ll call back as soon as I have that information.”

  AFTERNOON

  “Have you worked out John Borchard’s story?” Dorothy asked. They had returned to the salad hunting grounds, with similar results.

  “I have worked a dozen different scenarios and ranked them in order of probability.”

  “What is the most probable, then?”

  “None of them.”

  “Most is ordinal,” Dorothy said. “There has to be one.”

  “Probable is qualitative, though, and none of them are.”

  “Charles, I am armed with the English language, and I know how to use it.”

  “Then I surrender! I will describe the least improbable scenario.” He bit, chewed, and swallowed. “John thinks I have Derek’s papers, which are incriminating to certain individuals. He does not know whether any of these papers concerns himself. Therefore, he told the story as if it were about someone else, and as a reason why he hasn’t sued Patrick White over his alleged slanders.”

  “But why did he tell the story at all?”

  “If I do have a paper about it, he wants to justify his actions to me. He wants to give me his side of the story. On the other hand, if I don’t have the paper, I won’t know what he is talking about.”

  “That seems improbable,” Dorothy said.

  “You admit it. You threatened me with the English language. Well, live by the pen,
die by the pen.”

  “It is still the most probable, even if it is improbable.”

  “Just the type of nicety John Borchard would have ignored, and now it is haunting him. In my scenario he had to guess what Derek might have had on him, and that was it.”

  “Then he guessed right.”

  “I’m guessing what he is guessing that I am guessing.”

  “I never liked those.”

  “No, but that’s how the game is played.”

  “What game?”

  “Whatever game we’re in,” Charles said. “Derek’s game. The game he played all the time. We have three papers worked out, I think. Karen Liu’s checks, John Borchard’s prosecutions, and Patrick White’s cheating. There are three to go: The drug arrests, the woman who killed her husband, and the list of numbers and dates.”

  No light but the desk lamp, and the computer off. No one else but three thousand books. No sound but the rustling of papers.

  The maimed volume was open on the desk, its card box removed, and Charles bent over a single sheet of paper.

  He read it again:

  Drug Bust in Fairfax—Fairfax County police arrested more than a dozen members of an alleged drug importing ring. The early morning raids on five residences were the result of a three-month investigation. Drug-sniffing dogs uncovered over seventy pounds of cocaine hidden in furniture in one apartment.

  He picked up the telephone.

  “Hello?” It was the same woman’s voice, worn and plaintive.

  “I’d like to speak with Galen Jones, please. This is Charles Beale.”

  “Just a minute.”

  And then, only a few seconds later, “Beale. What do you want?”

  “I think I’ve found a new tree to bark up. I have a question.”

  “I don’t care if you ask.”

  “Did you build a secret drawer into Derek’s desk?”

  Much longer pause. “That’s one of those questions that I don’t answer.”

  “One more, then. Have you put secret places in other furniture?”

  “I never did like telephones, Beale.”

  “Those are real questions, Mr. Jones. I’m not trying to trap you. I hope there’s some way you could answer them—but I don’t like telephones either, to tell the truth.”

  “I’m hanging this one up.”

  And he did.