Page 3 of The Devouring Time

The encounter disturbs me—and God knows, my mind is disturbed enough already. This strange place between land and sea, with its eerie sculptures and odd inhabitant, is grating on my damaged nerves. The next time James can’t meet with a collector, I’ll refuse to go in his place. Nothing Hart has in his library is worth going back to the hospital over.

I keep looking back at the odd man, until he’s lost in the distance. Thankfully, the land begins to rise and the marsh narrow. The reeds give way to marsh elder and switchgrass, and a few trees appear. The ruts climb up what turns out to be a spit of land reaching toward the sea.

Sitting atop it, overlooking the desolate marsh and the encroaching waves alike, is the estate I’ve been searching for.

Wind, sun, and salt have battered the brick structure, a gothic revival mansion that might have begun life as some rich family’s summer house. The shutters are in need of painting, and the cedar hedge planted around it has grown wild and unkempt. Gaps interrupt the diamond patterns made by the slate shingles on the roof. Two horses graze in a corral, raising their heads as I approach.

The ruts give way to a drive of crushed oyster shells in desperate need of replenishing. There’s a Ford Model T truck parked next to a gas pump, and a wagon near the somewhat dilapidated stable. There’s also a new Studebaker Big Six, its red paint sadly splashed with sand and mud, so out of place next to the rest of the estate it’s almost startling.

Whatever glory days Hart’s Leap once had are clearly long gone. No wonder Mr. Hart wants to sell off his collection; money must be something of an issue for him.

If the library is as old as everything else, there might be some first editions, or other rare volumes. Though if their condition is the same as the house…

Perhaps the new Studebaker is a good sign, though. Trying to keep an open mind, I ring the bell and wait on the front step. After enough time passes that I consider ringing again, a heavy tread approaches from inside.

The door swings open to reveal a middle-aged man in old-fashioned livery that looks like it was stitched around the same time he was born. The black coat has faded to a sort of mottled rust, and one of the silver buttons on his vest is missing, loose strings left dangling in its place. Everything about him, from his physique to his head, is square, and his crooked nose and cauliflower ear seem more appropriate to a boxer than a butler.

“Yeah?” he demands.

No doubt they don’t get many visitors here. Still, I’d expected a better welcome than this.

Taking out my card, I say, “I’m Sterling Caine of Forgotten Folios. I have an appointment with Mr. Hart, to look over his book collection.”

The butler glowers, as though my very existence has inconvenienced him. “Come on.”

He wouldn’t make it as a doorman in New York, let alone a butler. Though given the isolated location, Mr. Hart may not have much choice in employees.

The interior of the house is dim and stifling, with drapes pulled tight over the windows, keeping out both sunlight and the breeze. The furniture seems to date from the era the house was built: heavy, dark wood with threadbare upholstery. A fine coating of dust lays over everything; apparently Hart doesn’t employ a housekeeper.

At the rear of the house waits a sitting room, its large windows open to the sea. I’m so glad of the refreshing breeze after the stuffiness of the rest of the house, it takes me a moment to notice the two men inside.

One must be Zebulon Hart. His withered body seems undersized in the gothic-style chair, his gray hair faded to a few strands over a liver-spotted skull. A suit as outdated as his butler’s garb threatens to swallow him whole.

Standing a few feet away from him, hands tucked respectfully at the small of his back, is a handsome man with tawny brown skin, his curly hair gelled into neat waves. His simple suit appears stylish in comparison with his surroundings; the Studebaker must be his.

“Of course, Mr. Hart,” he says as we enter. The smile on his face is a touch strained. “My employer is the very soul of discretion. None of the paintings he acquires are for public display, and he is very…selective…about those he invites to viewings.”

The butler leading me coughs loudly. When both men turn toward us, he says, “This is Mr. Caine, the book man.”

Hart’s wizened mouth twists into a scowl. “Caine? Where’s Mr. Olden?”

I paste on a smile. James is the charming one; a conversation with him might start with scowls, but even the most avowed grouch is usually happy by the end. The rare book business sees more than its share of curmudgeons, and he’s grown adept at handling them.

“He was unavoidably detained. I’m his partner, Sterling Caine.” I pause—James would let the matter of the car go. But I’m not James. “I waited for some time at the train station, under the impression a car was being sent for me.”

“Was that today?” Hart looks around, as if a calendar might appear to confirm or deny the appointment. “The mind loses its sense of time after enough years—you’ll understand yourself someday. If you’re lucky.”

The favor James owes me for coming here is getting bigger with every passing minute. “Of course.”

The other man turns to me, an affable smile on his face. “That was quite a walk, sir—I can offer you a ride back to the station. Adrian Evans, at your service.”

I shake his hand; his skin isn’t as soft as I somehow expected it to be. “Sterling Caine, Forgotten Folios, New York.”

“Myers can drive him back once he’s done,” Hart interrupts. “Evans, tell your employer I’ll think about it. You can go.”

I catch the slightest tightening of Evans’s full lips, but his smile doesn’t falter. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hart.”

Myers follows him out, heavy steps retreating back toward the front of the house. I’d far rather ride back with Evans than Myers, but at least I won’t have to walk.