Classified As Murder

“Not quite,” Mr. Delacorte replied. “What I should have said was that books were moved to shelves where they don’t belong. I noticed it because I spotted my copy of a later printing of The Bay Psalm Book, one of my earliest acquisitions, on a shelf containing items I purchased, oh, perhaps eight years ago.”

How exciting, I thought. The Bay Psalm Book, metrical translations of the Psalms into English, was the first book still in existence printed in the American colonies. From what I could remember, there were only eleven known copies that have survived from that first edition printed in 1640 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I was impressed that Mr. Delacorte owned a copy of even a later printing.

I was so caught up in thinking about this one book that I had to force my attention back to the conversation at hand. “Do you have any sense of how extensive the rearrangement is?”

“No,” he said. “But the shelf on which I found my Bay Psalm Book contained several other items from different periods of acquisition. My guess is that the rearrangement is fairly extensive.” His expression turned grim with that last statement.

I certainly couldn’t blame him for that. His assumption made my stomach sink even further.

“What day did you make your discovery?”

“Wednesday,” Mr. Delacorte said promptly. “I returned home from a brief business trip to New York late Tuesday night. When I came into the library the following morning, I realized a mischievous hand had been at work in my absence.”

“Did you confront your family about the prank?” That was a mild word for it, in my opinion.

“Naturally, because they were all here while I was away,” Mr. Delacorte responded. “They all professed ignorance. I observed them as carefully as I could, and the only one whose reaction I found patently insincere was Stewart’s. He was quite a jokester as a child and adolescent. I thought he had grown out of it, but this is in line with the kind of joke he used to pull.”

“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.”