The Ludwig Conspiracy(3)

The distinguished old gentleman with glasses and an ivory walking stick that morning, however, had been different. He had shown a great deal of interest in Steven’s life in the antiquarian book trade, and he had asked him many questions about an early copy of the diaries of Samuel Pepys. Experts considered particularly valuable the rare work that Steven had acquired only recently.

But knowledgeable as he was, the man had seemed to Steven slightly distracted—indeed, almost as if he were being hunted. His hands had been nervously clutching a package done up with gray wrapping paper and string, obviously a fairly large book. When Steven mentioned it to him, the man just smiled and whispered something that made no sense.

The royal line is at stake . . .

He had also been intrigued by the stranger’s nervous glances. Several times, the man had looked through the display window as if expecting something to happen. When Steven went into the stockroom behind the shop for a few minutes to fetch the Pepys diaries, he came back to find that the old gentleman had simply disappeared without so much as a goodbye.

The memory made Steven smile.

Oddballs and old fools, he thought. No one else comes into my shop anymore. If I don’t watch out, I’ll be turning into an oddball myself. Maybe I already am?

He went on clearing the crate, distributing books around the appropriate shelves by subject, climbing up a narrow ladder again and again, and humming the theme of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden.

Suddenly he stopped.

Level with his head, in between an old, leather-bound Bible and an antique edition of Molière’s works, there was a large tome, almost as wide as a man’s hand, that he had never seen before. He took the book off the shelf and saw, to his surprise, that what looked like a folio volume wasn’t paper at all, but was made of cherrywood glued together. Only the back, made to look like the spine of a book, was leather. The fake book seemed to be one of those camouflaged containers in which, back in the old days, good, respectable middle-class citizens used to hide their bottles of liquor or their cigars in the family library. Steven was reminded of the kind of small treasure chest where little boys sometimes kept their marbles, penknives, and Lego figurines. Surely he’d had a very similar little box for his treasures when he was a child.

Feeling curious, he opened the little box and suddenly sensed an odd tingling that he couldn’t explain. Briefly, everything went dark before his eyes, and he almost fell off the ladder. It was as if a misty hand were reaching out to touch him. Then he had himself back under control. Only an acrid, almost burning taste was left clinging to his palate.

What the hell was that? Some kind of aroma that I don’t tolerate? The smell of some varnish or something? Or have I turned allergic to something, just like that?

Carefully, Steven climbed down the last few rungs and looked inside the box. It was lined with dark fabric and had a musty smell. Inside, there were a few faded photographs and a lock of black hair tied with a silk ribbon—as well as a handsomely designed little book. Bound in blue velvet, adorned with ivory ornamentation, it looked like an enchanted book of spells. Steven traced the outline of a knight with a sword who seemed to be riding on a swan, stroked the blue velvet of the binding, and ran his fingertips over the intarsia work of white flowers and leaves. When he blew into the little treasure chest, a cloud of dust flew up; the smell of it made him dizzy again.

Once again, he felt a misty hand reach out for him; he closed his eyes and opened them again. His throat was suddenly dry, as if he’d been up all night drinking. Steven shook himself and tried to concentrate.

Don’t be silly; pull yourself together. It’s only an old box, that’s all.

The photos were the first thing he saw. They seemed to have been taken in the last third of the nineteenth century, and in matte gray colors and various positions they showed a young man of about thirty sitting on an adjustable wooden stool. Beside him stood an older, rather portly gentleman, wearing a black coat; in some of the pictures his left hand was resting almost caressingly on the younger man’s shoulder. He looked like a kindly giant. Did the dry lock of hair in the little box come from one of the men? They both had dark hair, anyway.

Thoughtfully, Steven put the pictures and the lock of hair back in the container, then focused again on the book with its valuable ivory intarsia work. When he began turning the pages, he stopped short in surprise. The fine handmade paper was covered not with letters and words, but with curious scribbles and hieroglyphics, like some kind of secret code. Could this really be an old book of magic spells? Steven’s heart beat faster. He knew that amazing sums were offered for grimoires, as such things were called. Self-styled “white witches” and others with a yen for esotericism competed to get their hands on them. The title page, however, did seem to be legible. Frowning, Steven took out his reading glasses and inspected the faded writing.