who died in 1942, ever published—we learn of a rare book that providentially survived German air raids in London and made its way over to safety in the United States. Until the war is over and the book’s true owner is located, pronounces one of the characters in the story, good care must be taken of it: ‘The precious little volume is also a refugee, and a refugee is ever a sacred trust.’ Wells did not herself survive the war, passing away in her eightieth year, and her books shortly afterward went out of print for many decades, but today vintage mystery fans can in one volume read both ‘The Shakespeare Title-Page Mystery’ and Murder in the Bookshop, a pair of bibliomysteries that are among the rarest works in Wells’s vast—and once vastly popular—corpus of crime fiction.
CURTIS EVANS
February 2018
MR PHILIP BALFOUR was a good man. Also, he was good-looking, good-humoured and good to his wife. That is, when he had his own way, which was practically always.
When they came to live in New York, Philip Balfour wanted to live on Park Avenue and Alli, his wife, wanted to live on Fifth Avenue. They lived on Park Avenue.
Then, Balfour wanted a duplex apartment, and Alli was all for a penthouse. So they had a duplex.
To be sure, they could have found an apartment which combined the two horns of the dilemma, but they didn’t. Philip didn’t favour a penthouse.
And in her three years of married life Alli had learned that compliance is the best policy. She was a darling, Alli was, with soft, short brown curls and soft, big brown eyes. Tallish, slender and carelessly graceful, she devoted her energies to the not-too-easy task of being Philip Balfour’s wife. With full realization of what she was doing she had thrown over, actually jilted, a young man she was engaged to in order to become Mrs Balfour.
And had seldom regretted it. Although her husband was twenty years older than herself, she was naturally adaptable, and save for one problem that was at present engrossing her attention, she was quite happy.
She adored her home and lavished time and money on its adornment and improvement.
The main room, intended as a drawing room or living room, was enormous and was Balfour’s library. He was a retired Real Estate man and an enthusiastic collector of old and rare books. He had a capable and experienced young man for his librarian, but Alli did much to assist in the care of the books.
Of late, Balfour had noticed that Keith Ramsay, his valued librarian, was not quite as effective as he had been. The young man sometimes forgot to attend to an order or seemed unsure as to his collations or translations.
And when, one evening, he sat listening to his employer talk, he showed such a brooding air and such a vacant countenance that Balfour said:
‘Whatever is the matter, Ramsay? Are you ill? Are you worried about something?’
‘Yes, I am, Mr Balfour. Shall—shall I tell you about it?’
‘If you like,’ was the indifferent reply, for the speaker somehow sensed that the matter was unconnected with his books.
‘Then, to put it plainly, I am giving you what is, I believe, called “notice”.’
‘You’re not leaving me, Ramsay?’ Balfour was roused now. ‘That will never do! Want more salary? Anything wrong in the house?’
‘That comes near it. Something wrong in the house—with me.’
‘Out with it, then, and we’ll soon settle it.’
The two men were alone in a small room adjoining the library. This was used as an office and also held a small specially built safe, which housed the most valuable volumes.
‘I wish we could, Mr Balfour, but I doubt it. To state my case in a few words, I am in love with your wife and, therefore, I have decided to leave you as that seems to me the only honourable course.’
‘You are indeed frank. You are acting nobly, I have been told angels do no more than that. And may I inquire if Mrs Balfour returns your affection?’
‘I have not asked her. I am told that to run away from danger is considered a cowardly act, but that is what I propose to do. It will be best for us all.’
‘Pardon me, if I disagree with that statement. It may, of course, be better for you—and possibly for Mrs Balfour—to see no more of one another, but don’t undertake to say what is best for me. You are very necessary to my well-being—I cannot so readily dispense with your services. I never can find an assistant who is so perfectly fitted to look after my books, my future purchases and my collection generally. I have no intention of letting you go because of a silly flirtation between you and Alli. In fact, I think you overestimate your own charms. I doubt my wife is seriously interested in you or your attentions. So just drop the idea of leaving me. I’ll speak to the lady herself concerning this, but I desire you to stay with me in any case.
‘I appreciate your taking the stand you have, it is a manly thing to do. But I can’t take the matter seriously, and I’d rather send her away than see you go. Now, put it out of your head until tomorrow, anyway. Tonight, later on, I want you to go over to Sewell’s with me on that little marauding expedition we have planned. Good Lord, Ramsay, I couldn’t possibly get along without you! Don’t be silly!’
‘I’ll go to the bookshop with you, Mr Balfour, but don’t consider the other matter settled. We’ll speak of it again.’
‘All right; I’ll choose the time for the conversation. We’ll go over to Sewell’s about ten. Be ready.’
‘What are the books we’re after?’
‘Two small Lewis Carroll books. Not stories, they are mathematical works. One is Symbolic Logic and one is A New Theory of Parallels, Part I. Not very valuable, yet hard to find and necessary to keep my collection up to the mark. Also, he may have the Button Gwinnett. If so, we’ll annex it.’
Philip Balfour went into his library and was at once absorbed in his books. He was a true bibliophile. Every time he looked over his treasures it seemed to him he saw new beauties and new glories in his possessions. Pride entered into his satisfaction, but just for his own gratification he loved his books and cherished their beauty and rarity.
Keith Ramsay was entirely in sympathy with him and they had worked together happily, until the loveliness of Alli had blurred the title page or the errata of the volumes he was examining or collating.
It had been a tremendous effort for him to tell his employer, and the way Philip Balfour took the confession so amazed him that he was bewildered at the situation.
But he had no intention of changing his plans and was still fully determined to leave the next day. He went upstairs to do a little more packing and in a dimly lighted corridor met Alli.
Unable to resist, he took her in his arms and she laid her head against his shoulder as they stood in utter silence.
Then, ‘You spoke to him?’ she whispered.
