continuing value,” Ms. Berrigan said, still proceeding in a measured fashion. “Collectors now seek out the forgeries for their own sake.”
“And I’m implying something in addition to that.”
“I gathered you were.”
“Would you like me to go on?”
“You’re a lawyer acting for a client who has in his or her possession a copy of the Reading Sonnets? Or at least something that is represented as being a Wise and Forman Reading Sonnets? Is this what we’re now talking about?”
“You’ve put your finger on my dilemma, Ms. Berrigan,” I said. “I’m actually representing the agent for the collector who owns the supposedly genuine Reading Sonnets, but you and I are talking about the same principle.”
Ms. Berrigan paused while she ran her tongue across her upper lip. “You know, Mr. Crang,” she said, “a library is a great place for gossip.”
“Not unlike a law office.”
“And what we’ve been whispering about for the last month or so at the Fisher is the possibility that someone is marketing a fake of the Reading Sonnets.”
“How interesting.”
“A fake of a fake.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve heard the expression before.”
Ms. Berrigan looked like she was having trouble keeping a check on herself. I was beginning to gather the notion that all the talk about a contemporary forgery must be cause of major outrage for a librarian.
“According to library gossip,” I said, “is there a particular piece of supposition that maybe justifies the suspicions?”
“You bet your boots,” Ms. Berrigan said.
“And what’s that?” I said. “The supposition?”
“The new fake, the version of the Reading Sonnets that has recently come on the market, it’s thought to have originated from an unexpected source.”
“The source is something that definitely would not pass the smell test?”
“That would necessarily be true, but what I’m saying is that the single source isn’t in London or New York, as one would naturally expect.”
“If not London or New York, then where?”
“Right here,” Ms. Berrigan said, her voice rising. “In Toronto. At least, that’s the location we suspect.”
“Really?” I said. “Based on what kind of evidence?”
“For the most part it’s the flimsy kind. None of our associates at important libraries in England or the United States have heard a whisper from the collectors they have connections with of any sort of trade in Reading Sonnets. It seems to be strictly a Toronto phenomenon.”
“And not widespread in Toronto, I’m betting.”
“Just one collector at the moment as far as we’ve divined,” Ms. Berrigan said, speaking cautiously again and giving me an eagle-eyed look.
“And you’ve got a name for the collector in question?”
“If it isn’t the client of the person you represent, I’ll be very surprised.”
“We’re talking Meg Grantham?”
Ms. Berrigan shifted in her chair. She’d lost the eagle-eyed look, and when she spoke again, it was in a more relaxed tone.
“Meg Grantham’s name was known to everybody around here at the library. I mean, who hasn’t heard of the richest woman in Canada? But she doesn’t have a reputation as a collector of any kind of books. So when she emerged as the potential owner of a supposed Reading Sonnets, all of us in the Fisher were at a complete dead end.”
“You don’t have any ideas about where Ms. Grantham bought the forgery?”
“We’re quite sure it wasn’t by way of dealers in Europe or the United States.”
“You made inquiries through your contacts in libraries abroad?”
Ms. Berrigan nodded. “Such a sale was news to them.”
“What about Fletcher Marshall?”
Ms. Berrigan paused, looked me in the eye, and smiled. “Well,” she said, “now I assume you’re revealing to me by implication the identity of your client in whatever negotiations are going on over the Reading Sonnets, real or faked?”
“Fletcher, yes,” I said with a smile.
“You’re asking if I think he might have sold the document to Ms. Grantham?”
“I guess I am.”
“Mr. Crang, do you take me for a nitwit?”
“That’s the last thing I’d take you for,” I said. “But Fletcher’s the only person I know who’s independently in the antiquarian book trade.”
“There have been a few more, but that’s not the issue.”
“It isn’t?”
“All of us Fisher people have heard it said that Fletcher’s the man hired by Ms. Grantham to verify the validity of her Reading Sonnets.”
“So your reasoning is that Ms. Grantham wouldn’t hire the man from whom she’d bought the sonnets to do the independent validating job on the same sonnets?”
“Not unless Fletcher was a truly Machiavellian manipulator.”
“He’s good, but probably not that good is what you’re saying?”
“Approximately.”
“I haven’t asked about price,” I said. “What do you suppose a copy of the Reading Sonnets would go for today, if authentic?”
“Close to two hundred thousand dollars, we think. Say one hundred and seventy-five at the most conservative estimate.”
“Not an immodest figure,” I said.
I moved a little in my seat, providing a different angle on my view up to the soaring heights of the library. Any way I looked at it, this was a glorious building.
“What about the other Toronto traders in antiquarian books you referred to a minute ago, presumably Fletcher’s contemporaries?” I said. “Anybody I should look into?”
“You’re asking me to, ah, finger somebody?”
“Do you read police procedurals?”
“You’re wondering where I got the jargon?
“‘Finger’ is good.”
“Well,” — Ms. Berrigan looked like she was putting deep thought into the question — “there are fewer dealers than ever these days, especially those who have a particular fondness for Victorian literature.”
“I’m not going to accuse anyone of anything,” I said. “I’m just looking for people who might have some ideas that’ll lead me to a useful path.”
“If you put it that way, there’s of course old Christopher Thorne-Wainwright. You must know of him.”
“You’ll have to enlighten me,” I said.
“He’s generally considered a kind of long-time wizard of the business.”
“You don’t know what he’s currently up to?”
“He let his store go four or five years ago,” Ms. Berrigan said. “Since then, he’s not been that much in evidence, not to me at any rate. I’ll ask about him among my colleagues here at the library and let you know if I learn anything that might help you.”
I