Classified As Murder

As I searched, I noted many titles that I wanted to examine, but I steeled myself against the impulse to stop what I was doing. I worked my way through six ranges of shelves, into the items from the second ledger of the inventory, before I found the Austen set.

At least the idiot had not separated the volumes. They nestled together between two novels by obscure antebellum Southern writers. I removed the three books and carried them to the proper shelf. I restored the second and third volumes to their place, but I couldn’t resist opening the first volume.

A faint, musty hint of age tickled my nostrils as I turned to the somewhat browned and foxed title page and stared down at it. First published about two centuries ago, this book remained relevant, delighting generation after generation of readers. With great care I turned to the first page of the novel and whispered to myself that famous opening line: “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

I had never stolen anything in my life, but I had the overwhelming urge to sneak those three volumes into my satchel and carry them home with me. Only another bibliophile could understand that impulse. I would never yield to it, of course, but, oh, how I longed to. I closed the book and held it for a moment before putting it where it belonged.

I picked up the ledger and turned to the third entry, a four-volume set of George Eliot’s Middlemarch, first published in book form in 1871 and 1872. I couldn’t help sighing. This was another favorite of mine, from a long-ago class in English literature at Athena College with the inimitable Dr. Maria Butler. I don’t think I ever worked harder in a class in my entire scholastic career, and I enjoyed every minute.

Stop woolgathering, I told myself. Focus.

I glanced up at the shelf, relieved to see Middlemarch present and accounted for. This time I wasn’t going to expose myself to temptation. I left the book where it was.

On to item number four.

Absorbed in my task, I worked for more than two hours without a break, except for an occasional absentminded scratch of Diesel’s head or back with my elbow. I couldn’t get cat hair on the cotton gloves.

Diesel was on his best behavior, though I did notice him approach Mr. Delacorte once. That didn’t seem to bother my employer, so I left them to it.

There was one brief interruption. After I had been working about an hour, the butler entered the room bearing a tray, which he placed on the desk in front of Mr. Delacorte.

“Your mid-morning tea, Mr. James,” he said.

“Thank you, Nigel.” Mr. Delacorte laid his papers aside as the butler poured a cup of tea.

I resumed work, anxious to make as much progress as possible this morning.

The butler spoke again, his voice pitched so low I could barely make out the words. “About the matter we discussed earlier, Mr. James.”

Mr. Delacorte spoke at normal volume when he replied. “I gave you my answer already, Nigel. Not another penny. You’ll have to sort it out for yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

I heard Truesdale leave the room. I kept my back to Mr. Delacorte. I couldn’t help but hear the previous exchange, but I would try to pretend I hadn’t.

Mr. Delacorte called out to me. “How about some tea, Charlie? Why don’t you take a break for a few minutes?”

“Thank you, but I’m fine. I’ll just push on ahead if you don’t mind. This is so fascinating. You have some amazing items in your collection.” I was babbling, but I felt awkward, having overheard what should have been a private conversation.

“Very well,” Mr. Delacorte said. “If you should change your mind, I will have Nigel bring fresh tea, or anything else you’d care to drink.”

“Thank you,” I said with a quick smile. I focused on the job and was soon absorbed in it.

I stopped when Mr. Delacorte tapped me on the shoulder and announced that it was time for lunch. Startled, I almost dropped the ledger on his feet.

“You’ve made good progress, Charlie,” he said. “I can’t believe you’re halfway through the first range.”

“Thank goodness whoever did this didn’t switch that many volumes thus far,” I said. I pointed to the books arranged on the work table nearby. “Those are the ones I found placed incorrectly, and so far I haven’t found their proper spots. I hope I don’t have a third of your collection off the shelves before I can start replacing some of these.”

“I’m pleased you’re coping with this so well,” Mr. Delacorte said with a weak smile. “Watching you at work has exhausted me, I must admit.”

He did look a little gray around the mouth. I hoped he was only a bit tired, and not on the verge of another heart episode.

“Why don’t you go on to lunch? Diesel and I will run home to eat, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Delacorte frowned. “You’re welcome to lunch here, Charlie. There’s no need to go all the way home.”