MQM coming together...

More of chapter one...

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Olivier was London born and bred. Short, stocky, always impeccably dressed in bespoke clothing, he’d been born into money. He also had the face of a wicked elf and spoke very fast in a West End accent another British dealer had referred to as about as faux as you can be. 

They had met when he came into Veriman’s some years before to purchase a nice East of the Sun, West of the Moon illustrated by Kay Nielson as well as a Grimm’s Fairy Tales done by Arthur Rackham. He had also come close to purchasing a framed leaf from Rackham’s Das Rheingold but didn’t want to pay the five percent VAT for import into the UK. 

Tomas and Harold had known him for years but usually had dealt with him at book fairs. Then he had opened an outlet in New York City so began showing up when he was stateside. On the occasions where Simon had dealt with him, he had never caused problems and had actually paid to have him pack a couple of small private libraries he’d bought. He would have been one of those Simon visited en route to the Bodleian. In fact, that was the only reason he accepted the call. 

“I’ve bought a collection,” he said, “not so very far from you. Can you help me with it?” Not even a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him. 

“Where is it?”

“Barrington.”

“Um, Olivier,” Simon replied, “that’s nearly four-hundred miles. Not, not so very far.”

“Closer than I am, and I won’t be in the States for another three weeks, but this has to be done now, now, now. I’ll need an itemized list. You know the drill. Title, author, date, where published, no need for individual values. We’ll pop it to the NY shop, easy peasey.” 

“Is it of high value?” 

“Only about six-fifty...” 

That made Simon blink. “Six-hundred and fifty thousand dollars!?” 

“Pounds. They belonged to Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked Simon didn’t already know. 

Simon had already suspected that was to whom Olivier was referring. He’d had to deal with the woman on a few occasions, at Veriman’s. The first time being when she had loudly complained that the books he’d shipped to her were not packed well-enough. She’d wanted them wrapped in tissue, then in Kraft paper, with bubble wrap around each one and put in a box with biodegradable peanuts. 

All of which Simon had done. But on top of that, the box should have gone into another box and, since the value was exceptionally high, that box should have been in another. Like a Russian Doll. 

He had packed her orders that way ever since, when she had ordered online, and no further complaint had been given. Of course, no compliment, either. Instead, her snarling turned to how incomplete the description was. 

The last time she had set foot in the shop...all ninety-eight pounds of her, in very high-priced couture with silver hair that was short and stiff enough to cut you...she'd complained the air conditioning was too cold, the lighting was too dark, the Perrier she was given was lemon instead of lime...and so on and so on... 

She also took her time paying, usually ninety days instead of the normal thirty, and then only after Tomas had given her two reminder calls. She was not someone Simon wanted to deal with. 

Olivier must have sensed it, because he quickly said, “There are only around a hundred titles.”

As if the number mattered.

“Mrs. Northridge is selling her books to you?” Simon asked. Veriman’s was still going strong so by all rights that should have been the first place she'd contact about selling. 

Olivier sighed and said, “She’s passed away.” 

Simon was surprised. He'd thought her impervious to the laws of existence. “I hadn’t heard.” 

“Her husband wants it kept low-key. I knew them both well-enough to be informed of her passing, so got the jump on the collection. I’d also like a condition report on the books, with photos...” 

“Oh, Olivier, that is so time-consuming...”

“Nothing seriously detailed. Just be certain she took care of them. They haven’t been trashed. Some of the books have fine illustrations in them, which you know how to handle. Especially verify they’re still in them.” 

Just a minute! “She broke books to remove illustrations?!” 

“Don’t know. But I’d not put it past her.” 

“Then it’s good she’s gone.” Which burst from Simon before he could even think to stop it. He hated people who destroyed books just for the pretty pictures.