Lost in a good book by Jasper Fforde Read Free Book Online

himself. That’s him over there.”
    We stopped on the landing and Bowden and I looked at the deceased earl with interest. With his favorite gun in the crook of his arm and his faithful dog at his feet, he stared blankly out of the glass case. I thought perhaps his head and shoulders should also be mounted on a wooden shield but I didn’t think it would be polite to say so. Instead I said:
    “He looks very young.”
    “But look here, he was. Forty-three and eight days. Trampled to death by antelope.”
    “In Africa?”
    “No,” sighed Volescamper wistfully, “on the A30 near Chard one night in ’34. He stopped the car because there was a stag with the most magnificent antlers lying in the road. Father got out to have a peek and, well look here, he didn’t stand a chance. The herd came from nowhere.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “Sort of ironic, really,” he rambled on as Bowden looked at his watch, “but do you know the really odd thing was, when the herd of antelope ran off, the magnificent stag had also gone.”
    “It must have just been stunned,” suggested Bowden.
    “Yes, yes, I suppose so,” replied Volescamper absently, “I suppose so. But look here, you don’t want to know about Father. Come on!”
    And so saying he strutted off down the corridor that led to the library. We had to trot to catch up with him and soon arrived at a pair of steel vault doors—clearly, Volescamper had no doubts as to the value of his collection. I touched the blued steel of the doors thoughtfully.
    “Oh, yes,” said Volescamper, divining my thoughts, “look here, the old library is worth quite a few pennies—I like to take precautions; don’t be fooled by the oak paneling inside—the library is essentially a vast steel safe.”
    It wasn’t unusual. The Bodleian these days was like Fort Knox—and Fort Knox itself had been converted to take the Library of Congress’s more valuable works. We entered, and if I was prepared to see an immaculate collection, I was to be disappointed—the library looked more like a box room than a depository of knowledge; the books were piled up on tables, in boxes, arranged haphazardly and in many cases just stacked on the floor ten or twelve high. But what books! I picked up a volume at random which turned out to be a second-impression copy of Gulliver’s Travels. I showed it to Bowden, who responded by holding up a signed first edition of Decline and Fall.
    “You didn’t just buy Cardenio recently or something, then?” I asked, suddenly feeling that perhaps my early dismissal of the find might have been too hasty.
    “Goodness me, no. Look here, we found it only the other day when we were cataloguing part of my great-grandfather Bartholomew Volescamper’s private library. Didn’t even know I had it. Ah!—this is Mr. Swaike, my security consultant.”
    A thickset man with a humorless look and jowls like bananas had entered the library. He eyed us suspiciously as Volescamper made the introductions, then laid a sheaf of roughly cut pages bound into a leather book on the table.
    “What sort of security matters do you consult on, Mr. Swaike?” asked Bowden.
    “Personal and insurance, Mr. Cable,” replied Swaike in a drab monotone. “This library is uncatalogued and uninsured; criminal gangs would regard it as a valuable target, despite the security arrangements. Cardenio is only one of a dozen books I am currently keeping in a secure safe within the locked library.”
    “I can’t fault you there, Mr. Swaike,” replied Bowden.
    I looked at the manuscript. At first glance, things looked good, so I quickly donned a pair of cotton gloves, something I hadn’t even considered with Mrs. Hathaway 34 ’s Cardenio. I pulled up a chair and studied the first page. The handwriting was very similar to Shakespeare’s with loops at the top of the L’s and W’s and spirited backward-facing extensions to the top of the D’s; and the spelling was erratic, too—always a good sign. It all