But it was the illustrations that were most fascinating. Parker had brought to his attention the differences between the plates in the book and their equivalents on the Internet, but Johnston regarded the Internet as the devil’s work, even though it made his profession easier by reducing the necessity of contact with actual human beings, who had a tendency to try to remove volumes from shelves by the headcap or the delicate spine, and couldn’t understand why his titles cost more than the ones at their local used bookstore, or, God forbid, on Amazon. So instead of making comparisons between page and screen, Johnston found in his own collection a later edition of Grimm containing Rackham’s illustrations, and the two books now rested side by side on his desk, carefully illuminated and positioned so he could move the magnifier easily over each.
Johnston had to admit that he’d never encountered any book quite like this one before. It was clear that the lithographic plates of the illustrations had been altered at some point, thus allowing the printing of the alternate versions with their additional figures, but he struggled to find any record of their creation. It seemed a great deal of trouble to take just to put together a one-off with botched lettering, especially given the exquisite detailing to the panels. In fact, Johnston thought, the closer he examined them, the clearer the additions became, so that his explorations took on a certain rhythm; a primary perusal, followed by a break to rest his eyes, followed by a closer study, which invariably yielded a different, odder result: Horns glimpsed here, a second set of eyes there; a torso, a tail.
The additions were not Rackham’s work; of this much Johnston was certain. They were almost medieval in execution, but with none of the flatness that he associated with the period. Some were almost familiar to him: in the background of the depiction of Rumpelstiltskin was a creature that Johnston might initially have mistaken for a bull, were it not for the brightness of the animal’s coloration. Now the richness of its blues was becoming more noticeable under the light, and the oddness of its form more apparent. The beast definitely had a bull’s head with sharp yellow horns, but its skin was scaled, and it walked upright on its hind legs.
The illustration nagged at Johnston. Like many dealers in antiquarian books, he had accumulated a certain knowledge of diverse matters, most of it deeper than he revealed but shallower than he might have wished. Just as someone with even a casual interest in great art will be able to identify the Mona Lisa, or Michelangelo’s David, so was Johnston able to recognize masterpieces across a variety of ages, styles, and media. He had seen the blue bull – no, blue demon, because that was what it most assuredly was – somewhere before, but in a less alien context than a folk tale. He stared at the figure again through the magnifier, the shadows surrounding it continuing to fall away so that it, rather than the more traditional aspects of Rackham’s genius, became the focal point of the plate. Back to the infernal Internet, back to searches, and there it was: the Parish Church of St Mary the Virgin in Fairford, England.
A church had existed in Fairford since the eleventh century, but the present incarnation, built in the Perpendicular style, dated from the late fifteenth century. What distinguished St Mary’s, apart from its great age, was a complete set of late medieval stained glass windows created between 1500 and 1517 by glaziers from the Netherlands, almost certainly under the supervision of Henry VIII’s own glazier, Barnard Flower. The most famous of these was the Great West Window, or more particularly the lower part of it, since the upper half had been damaged during a storm in 1703 and was now largely a nineteenth-century replacement. The window depicted the Last Judgment, with the elect being escorted to heaven on the left, and the damned being consigned to hell on the right. Seven panels in total, of which the most interesting to Johnston was the third from the right. There, in the bottom right-hand corner, stood the same blue demon, a twin-pronged fork in its hands, and one of the damned on its shoulders. Behind it lurked a similar creation, this time in red, scourging another poor soul with a spiked mace.
Johnston proceeded to the tale of the Frog Prince, and Rackham’s drawing of the princess carrying the titular royal up a flight of ornate wooden stairs. Hanging on the wall to the right of the princess was a tapestry with hints of scarlet. In the original illustration, a figure was barely discernible on the material, but in the alternative version contained in the disordered book, the scarlet was more vivid, the horned shape clearer. Even the spiked mace in its hands could be identified.
So, Johnston wondered, why had someone taken such care to add elements of late medieval stained glass art to a series of unconnected twentieth-century plates? And why also stitch additional blank folios into the binding? The answer, perhaps, might be found in those vellum insertions themselves.
Johnston placed the book back in its box and carried it down to his workshop, where he could begin the process of disassembling it. So engrossed was he in his new project that he did not register how deep the darkness had become; how muffled his footsteps, as though lost in fog; how silent the night beyond.
He was lost in the book.
And lost, perhaps, to the book.
Parker poured Louis a glass of wine, but stuck to coffee himself. He replayed the events in Cadillac, returning again and again to the Englishman, sitting calmly in Dobey’s with his book of poetry, waiting for his chance to interrogate, and kill, the diner’s owner.
‘You’re sure it was the same guy?’ Louis asked.
‘Unless he has a brother with eyes of a different color, in which case they’re in it together.’
‘Doesn’t sound likely.’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘So what are you planning to do?’
‘Flush him out. I’ve seen him up close. I know what he looks like. First thing in the morning, I go to Corriveau and give her a full description, suggesting that this man may be a person of interest in the murder of Maela Lombardi, as well as a suspect in a possible arson attack leading to a fatality; a disappearance; and an attempted abduction, all in Cadillac, Indiana, and all linked to the discovery of a body now believed to be that of one Karis Lamb. We get the description out on TV, in newspapers, on the Internet. We make it hard for him to hide, and see how he reacts.’
‘And the woman with him?’
‘Probably the same one who tried to take Leila Patton. I’ll give Corriveau a description of her as well.’
‘But you’re not going to tell Corriveau about the book?’
‘No, or not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Curiosity. Let’s see what Bob Johnston comes up with first.’
‘Curiosity, hell,’ said Louis. ‘You want to keep it to yourself in case you can use it as bait.’
‘Maybe.’
‘No maybe about it. You are an untrustworthy motherfucker.’
‘Harsh.’
‘Okay, I take back “motherfucker.”’
‘Appreciated. You speak to Angel?’
‘Yeah. He’s disassociated, needy. Same as always, except he now has more scars.’
‘Seriously.’
‘He sounded better than before. I was planning on going back tomorrow, but I might stick around here, see what happens with your book and the visitor from overseas. Nothing I can do for Angel that one of the nurses can’t do better.’
Parker set aside his coffee cup. It was time to sleep. But he had one more question for Louis.
‘You ever think about what it is you’re running from?’
‘You mean with Angel?’
‘Yes.’
Louis finished his wine.
‘Not death,’ said Louis. ‘I never paid much mind to death.’
‘Then what?’
‘The aftermath. Grief, if you want to give it a name; even the possibility of it. I don’t want to grieve for him.’
‘Which is why he’s going to live.’
‘Exactly, because I’d never forgive him otherwise.’
Parker stood.
‘I won’t tell you that you should go back to New York,’ he said. ‘You make your own choices. And if I’m being honest, I’m glad you’re here. I get the sense that the Englishman and the woman with him are as bad as people come.’
‘You don’t think he’ll run when we start pasting his picture around town? You know, bide his time before coming back when we’re not expecting it?’
‘No. He’s too close to getting the book.’
‘Which he doesn’t know you have.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which means, somewhere down the way, you’re going to have to find a way to let him know you have it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which will be risky.’
‘Yes.’
‘Which means I may get to hurt someone.’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘You know,’ said Louis, ‘things are looking up already.’
107