CHAPTER 1
November had arrived in Cambridge, bringing with it crisp, cool air, the emergence of mufflers and wool coats from closets, and—new to me, as an ex-pat American—Guy Fawkes Day. Almost six months earlier, my mother and I had made the move from Vermont to Cambridge, joining my great-aunt Violet in running Thomas Marlowe—Manuscripts & Folios, one of the oldest bookshops in this historic city with its more than thirty colleges.
“Explain Guy Fawkes Day to me,” I said to Kieran Scott, my significant other, while opening my laptop. “I want to be ready for tonight’s celebrations.”
We were in the library at Hazelhurst House, a once-moated manor and Kieran’s childhood home, located in a village near Cambridge. His mother, Lady Asha, had offered me a side job cataloguing a five-hundred-year-old collection stuffed with first editions and eclectic subjects. With the usual dip in sales before the Christmas ramp-up, the bookshop could use the income, and as a former librarian, I relished the challenge and treasure hunt.
Leaning against the table beside my chair, Kieran folded his arms, brown eyes twinkling. With his mop of curly dark hair and the lean, strong build of an avid cyclist, he was ridiculously good-looking. “Do you want the long version or the short?”
I eyed the floor-to-ceiling shelves, a gnawing sensation warning me I needed to get to work. Today’s task was to tour the library and decide how to approach the project. “The short for now.” I pressed a few keys and logged into a cataloguing software program. Project name: The Library at Hazelhurst Manor, founded in—“When did your ancestors start buying books?”
Rubbing his chin, Kieran looked thoughtful. “Not exactly sure, but we have an illustrated Book of Hours purchased around 1500.” He grinned. “That’s not our most cherished book, though.”
“What is?” I took the bait, realizing we were veering off our original topic but too fascinated not to follow up. Guy Fawkes could wait a minute. I entered founded in 1500 to my project description, figuring that was good enough for now, until we uncovered a more accurate date.
“Have you ever heard of The Fatal Folio, as popular in its day as The Castle of Otranto?” Kieran asked.
I flipped through the library catalogue in my brain. The Castle of Otranto was considered to be the novel that launched the gothic genre in the mid-eighteenth century, soon followed by The Monk, The Mysteries of Udolpho, Frankenstein, and yes, The Fatal Folio, the story of a book that killed its owners. “Selwyn Scott,” I said, the pieces falling together. “He was your ancestor?”
Kieran nodded. “Whoever he was.”
“Selwyn was a pen name?” Not surprising. Horace Walpole, author of The Castle of Otranto, had first published under a pseudonym, “William Marshal, gentleman.” Walpole, a member of Parliament, historian, and architect, had presented the story as a found manuscript, an interesting literary device. Like Walpole, the Scotts had been members of Parliament as well, a tradition that extended through the centuries to Kieran’s father, Lord Graham Scott. Kieran’s older brother, Alan, who was living and working in Hong Kong, was next in line for the title and the position. Before meeting Kieran, I hadn’t really been aware that a functioning aristocracy still existed beyond Charles, William, and Harry.
“No one has ever identified the author,” Kieran said. “Though many have speculated.” He leaned close, whispering seductively, “Want to see the original manuscript?”
I laughed. “You sure know the way to my heart.” I pushed back in my chair, eager to view the historic document, which was even more enticing due to its personal connection to the owner.
Kieran led me across the spacious room, which was carpeted with fine Persian rugs and furnished with gold brocade upholstered chairs and sofas and long oak tables. Faded red silk wallpaper and carved paneling adorned the walls, and hanging crystal chandeliers provided light along with deep-set diamond-paned windows. As a book nerd, though, the sliding ladders used to reach high shelves were my favorite feature.
Instead of guiding me to a bookshelf, he slid aside a hanging tapestry near the fireplace to reveal a hidden door. Pulling a ring of brass keys from his pocket, he said, “This is where we keep the family papers and records.” He inserted the key and turned. “I’m warning you, it’s a bit of a mess.”
My heart skipped a beat at being allowed into this inner sanctum. As I’d experienced at the bookshop, nothing could beat the thrill of delving into family histories and mysteries. Still awed that our bookshop was established in 1605, I was as likely to come across an ancient bill of sale as a packing slip from last week.
Kieran twisted the knob and pushed the door open, revealing a larger room than the closet I expected. Wooden shelves lining the windowless walls held a jumble of faded ledgers, file holders, banker boxes, and in one section, several archival storage boxes. They drew my attention like a magnet.
“We’ll take this into the library,” he said, choosing one of the acid-free boxes. “The light is better.”
I peered at the others with curiosity. “What’s in those?”
“The Book of Hours I told you about, for one thing,” he said. He tapped the largest box. “This is a family Bible with dates of birth, marriages, and death, starting in the early 1700s.”
Interest leaped. “Including Selwyn’s generation?” If so, perhaps we could identify some possible authors and dig into their background. What a thrill it would be to solve this long-standing literary mystery.
Kieran’s eyes widened when he got my drift. “Yes, as a matter of fact.” He stacked the manuscript box on the Bible box and picked them both up. I let him leave the room first, giving the family papers a lingering, longing look as I followed. To me, this collection of dusty documents was a window into history, a topic that continually fascinated me. Even more so here in England, where we were immersed in it.
I joined Kieran at the table, standing next to him as he opened the smaller box. “The author didn’t sign his or her real name?” I sort of joked. If only it were that simple.
“No, unfortunately.” Kieran placed the lid to one side and motioned toward the box. “There we have it.”
A stack of pages lay inside, inscribed with flowing, curling script on creamy rag paper. “The Fatal Folio,” I read from the top page. “By Selwyn Scott. This looks like the copy that went to the printer.”
“That’s what we think,” Kieran said. “Every page is perfect, no cross-outs or blots.”
We had it so good in modern times, when it came to publishing, at least. Using computers, we could easily make changes and spit out an error-free copy without spending days and hours trying to use our best penmanship. Even typewriters had been more difficult.
“There you are, old sweat.” We looked up from staring at the manuscript as a tall blond man about our age strode into the library. With chiseled features and a flop of hair over his brow, dressed in a tweed blazer and jeans, he resembled many of the academics I saw around Cambridge. “Aunt Asha said I’d find you here.”
Kieran gestured. “Oliver. Come meet my girlfriend, Molly. Molly, this is my cousin, Oliver. Don’t mind him, he’s a bit of a prat.”
Oliver grinned as he thrust out his hand and shook mine. “Nice to meet you, Molly.” Blue eyes studied my face, in a nice way, not creepy, and then lit with recognition. “You’re from Thomas Marlowe, right? I pop in there now and then. Great shop.”
Now that he’d mentioned it, I was fairly sure I’d seen him there. He was attractive enough to notice. “You live in Cambridge?”
“I’m at St. Aelred.” One of Cambridge’s smallest, oldest, and most charming colleges. “Professor of Literature.”
“Dr. Scott, I presume,” Kieran said and by the way they both laughed, I guessed it was one of their inside jokes. “How are things at the college?”
Oliver rolled his eyes and sighed, then seized on the topic of the manuscript. “The Fatal Folio. The Scott family’s claim to literary fame. At least so far. Did I tell you I’m writing a novel?” He plopped down at the table and began tapping his fingers.
“No,” Kieran said as we both sat. “What about?”
Oliver nodded toward the box. “A gothic, of course. Inspired by Selwyn, but updated. A modern gothic.” He turned to me. “Ever since Kieran and I discovered The Fatal Folio here in this library, I’ve been fascinated by the genre. I wrote my dissertation on haunted objects, with The Fatal Folio as the centerpiece. About five years ago, a colleague and I founded the Gothic Literature Institute, which is why I swung by, Kieran. The symposium starts tomorrow, with a lecture by me, right here at Hazelhurst. Today I’m making last-minute arrangements with your mother.”
“I’d love to sit in,” I blurted. “If that’s all right.” Maybe it was invitation only.
“Of course you can, Molly.” Oliver pulled out his phone. “Give me your digits and I’ll shoot you the agenda. Many of the events are open to the public, like tomorrow’s, so feel free to pass it along.”
“I know someone,” I said after giving Oliver my number. “George Flowers.” I was referring to my aunt’s friend, who often did small repairs around the bookshop. “He’s a huge Brontë fan.”
Oliver nodded, his fingers tapping the screen. “Part of the canon, for sure.”
A soft throat-clearing caught our attention. Kieran’s mother stood in the library doorway. “I hate to interrupt,” she said, “but lunch is ready.”
I was still slightly in awe of Lady Asha, who was gorgeous as well as impeccably elegant and well mannered. Today she wore her long, glossy hair in a messy bun and half-glasses were perched on her nose, both touches that made her slightly more approachable.
“Coming, Molly?” Kieran asked as he got up.
“Well…” I glanced at the bookshelves awaiting my attention. I hadn’t gotten anything done, unless you counted viewing the Scotts’ most prized literary possession. One book down, only a thousand to go.
“Please feel free to join us,” Lady Asha said. “I was counting on it.”
In that case … I stood. “Thank you. I’d love to have lunch with you.”
Oliver went ahead of us, slinging his arm around his aunt’s shoulders and speaking into her ear. Judging by their laughter, I gathered he had said something amusing.
“I like your cousin,” I said to Kieran as we made our way to the dining room. “He seems like a lot of fun.”
Kieran smiled. “He is. We used to get up to all kinds of mischief when we were kids. We’d dash around here pretending to be knights or invading Vikings.”
I pictured miniature versions of Kieran and Oliver rampaging around. Talk about a place to spark a child’s imagination. Although growing up in Vermont had been wonderful. Woods, fields, lakes, and barns had been our playground.
“We’re in the small dining room,” Lady Asha called over her shoulder before she and Oliver turned a corner.
Kieran took my arm, then as the other two vanished out of view, halted me for a kiss. “Are you busy later?” he asked, his lips close to mine.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, enjoying this aspect of the cataloguing job very much indeed. “What did you have in mind?”
We grinned at each other, then he put his arm around my waist and we continued on. “You were asking about Guy Fawkes,” he said. “It all began in 1605.”
“The year Thomas Marlowe was founded,” I said, noting the coincidence.
Kieran nodded in acknowledgement. “The plot was hatched after King James the first disappointed the Catholics by refusing to support the religion after Elizabeth the first died. A group of dissidents met at the Duck and Drake in London and plotted to blow up the Houses of Parliament on opening day, the fifth of November. Guy Fawkes was one of them.”
As we wandered toward lunch, he relayed how Guy had rented a cellar under Parliament—under a false name, Guido—and was sitting there, with matches and thirty-six kegs of gunpowder, when he was arrested. The Gunpowder Plot had been foiled.
“A day of thanksgiving was instituted in 1606,” he concluded, “which soon became the holiday we now know, with bonfires, fireworks, and the burning of effigies.”
“Kind of like our July fourth,” I said. “Without the effigies. Sounds like a good time.” We were attending the main event in Cambridge, held on Midsummer Common.
“It will be,” he promised. We had reached the small dining room, which held a table seating eight or ten, in contrast to the main dining room, which sat upward of forty. A fire was crackling in the fireplace and thick velvet draperies made the space seem even cozier.
Along with Lady Asha and Oliver, Lord Graham was at the table, all politely waiting for us to arrive. “Good afternoon, Molly,” Lord Graham said, a trace of a smile on his austere features.
I think he liked me, although it was hard to tell. “Good afternoon, Lord Graham. It’s lovely to be here.” Kieran’s father had been ill and staying out of public view lately, so I was extra glad to see him. I sat, smiling up at Kieran, who was holding my chair. Not a typical courtesy of his but one that seemed appropriate here.
Once we were settled, Lady Asha picked up a ladle. “Red lentil soup?” Oliver was already passing around a plate of naan bread. In addition, assorted sandwiches were stacked on a platter.
“Please,” I said, inhaling the mouth-watering mix of spices wafting from the soup.
Soon we were all digging in, the conversation focused on light topics, which thankfully didn’t include my progress—or lack of same—on the catalogue job. After lunch, I’d insist that Kieran and Oliver leave me to it so I could get on schedule and stay there.
“Molly is going to figure out who Selwyn Scott actually was,” Kieran said. He patted my knee. “If anyone can solve the mystery, it’s you, love.”
Everyone turned to look at me with curious interest. I put down my spoon. “Am I? I mean, I thought we could try…”
Oliver pointed a finger at me. “What an incredibly good idea. We can unveil Selwyn’s identity when my book comes out. We’ll get all kinds of press and publicity, maybe even a write-up in The Sunday Times book feature—”
“They’ll want you for the talk shows,” Lady Asha put in. “Everyone loves a mystery.”
“You’d be compensated, of course,” Oliver said, knocking aside another concern I was harboring. “Plus mentioned in my acknowledgements.”
“Molly should be interviewed as well,” Lady Asha said. “She can explain the steps she took to learn Selwyn’s identity.” Her eyes shone with certainty that yes, I would solve the puzzle that had eluded others for centuries.
Talk about being pushed into the deep end. On one hand, I really liked the project—and money was always a bonus; on the other, I was feeling a ton of pressure. In ordinary circumstances, I could hold my own, assertively tell pushy people to back off—tactfully of course, but this was Kieran’s family. I didn’t want to overpromise and let them down.
I also have to admit, the idea of media appearances where I wasn’t the “Vermont beauty” Kieran was dating appealed to me.
“Um,” I temporized. “How about this? I’ll do some preliminary investigation and we’ll talk specifics after that.” Not only did I need time to determine the likelihood of success, I needed to estimate how much time it would take so I could charge appropriately. I didn’t want to overcharge—or undercharge. “It is a fascinating project and I want to make sure I can do it justice.”
“No worries, Molly,” Lady Asha said. “From what Kieran has told me about you, I’m sure it will be a piece of cake.” She twinkled at me, her expression so like her son’s I was momentarily stunned. Then she moved on. “Speaking of cake, we have mini éclairs for dessert and I’ve brewed a pot of coffee.”
Despite groans around the table, we all indulged. After lunch, shooed away by Lady Asha, who insisted on cleaning up, Kieran and I waddled back to the library. Oliver wandered off, saying he had to make some calls.
I was about to suggest that Kieran let me get to work when he opened the box holding the Bible. “Let’s take a quick look,” he said, setting the large, thick book on the table.
The cover was leather embossed with gold lettering, much of it worn. Kieran reverently opened the cover, gently leafing through the pages. “Woodcuts,” he said, referring to the illustrations.
“What a great heirloom,” I said, thinking of the generations of Scotts who had cherished this Bible.
He reached the family register at the back and we studied the faded, rusty entries. “Ah, here we go. Samuel Scott was born in 1812, so he would have been thirty when The Fatal Folio was published in 1842.”
Copyright © 2023 by Elizabeth Penney.
