“We’re not at liberty to say right now. How did you know him?”
“He came in every week or two, usually on a slow day, so he could browse and talk. He could talk your ear off about books and magic, but I liked him. He knew a lot.” She let out a heavy sigh and handed the photograph back to Felipe. “We had some good talks about books over the years. I think he was lonely.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“About a month, month and a half ago. He said he found one of his white whales,” she replied with a good-natured roll of her eyes. “I wished him luck on getting it. When he didn’t come back, I assumed he went out of state for an auction or something. He did that sometimes, and then, he’d come back and tell me all about the books he got. He didn’t come back, but I never thought he might be dead. What’s going to happen to him? As far as I know, he has no family.”
“The society will take care of his funeral and grave, Miss—?”
“Ravencroft. The shop’s my mother’s. If possible, I’d like to pay my respects when the time comes.”
“Miss Ravencroft, when funeral arrangements are made, we will let you know,” Felipe said. “Because Mr. Whitley lived alone and had no close relations, we’re trying to figure out his daily movements, who he visited, where he went, in hopes we can find out who would want him dead.”
“He didn’t have a strict schedule with me, but he’d come in mostly on Tuesday and Wednesday mornings when the shopfirst opened. He’d stay for an hour or two. He ate at his club mostly, or at least, he did when he stopped by to see me.”
“Do you know if he had any enemies?”
“Specifically, no, but I’m sure he crossed more than a few booksellers or bibliophiles in his time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s a cutthroat business. There are only so many rare books to go around, and sometimes, bidding or sales get heated. He also—” Miss Ravencroft paused as if trying to figure out how best to say it. “Oh, hell, he stole from people. If someone put a bullet in his back, there’s a good chance it was because he was running off with one of their books.”
“And you let him come into your shop?” Oliver asked.
“He only tried it once that I know of. He played it off as a mistake when he got caught, but these don’t lie,” she replied, hook her thumb toward the spirit bells hanging over the door. “My mom made itveryclear what would happen if he tried it again. That’s why she enchants the rarer books with a bit of magic. I wipe it off when I’m ringing the books up and wrapping them.”
“By rarer, you mean—?”
“Magic. There are plenty of others who can get their hands on copies of Poe or Defoe, but we stick to popular fiction and magical texts.”
While there were dozens of bookshops on Book Row, surely the owners had to move in similar circles or at least know each other. “There was another bookseller we had hoped to speak to about Mr. Whitley, but appears to have left. Do you have any idea where we might find Mr. Vaude?”
Miss Ravencroft curled her lip as picked up her project and jabbed the needle into the papers. “Ugh, that man. No, I make it a point not to know Mr. Vaude’s comings and goings.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s a horrible snob. Our shop is too lowbrow for his taste, and he has made a point to tell us and our shared customers as much. He doesn’t like that we cater to women and folks like ourselves. He threatened to call Comstock’s cronies on us for selling pornography.”
“Do you—?” Oliver asked quietly.
“Pornography is a very broad term and not one I’d use, but yes, we do, not that it’s any of their business. It isn’t as if the books are hurting anyone. Either way, Vaude’s a nasty old bird who lives in a junkshop but acts like King Midas because he manages to find something on some swell’s desiderata every few years. It’s what keeps him in business.”
“Do you know if Mr. Vaude ever sold magical books?”
“He has. My brother got into a bidding war with him over a lot of magical books at an auction. He was buying them for some college’s library, I think,” Miss Ravencroft said as she slipped and pulled the needle through the leaves of paper in her hand. “Either way, I don’t think Vaude has powers himself, but he is canny to our world or canny enough to profit off it. Plenty of well-off folks are willing to pay for magical books, either for the taboo of it or because they think they can regain what they’ve lost. It doesn’t help that Vaude’s known for being a book hound who can find anything if he sets his mind to it. People come to him when they need to find something odd, and he’s been trying to work his way up to attracting the Grolier Club’s agents for years. The rich don’t care who their agents buy from or where the books come from as long as they get what they want.”
“Do you know if Vaude ever ran afoul of anyone?”
Miss Ravencroft’s brown eyes snapped up to Felipe’s as she scoffed. “Of course he has. I don’t know him very well, but his reputation precedes him and his unfortunate temperament follows him. Anyone who has been doing this for decades makes enemies; it’s inevitable. As I said, the book world is cut-throat.”
“Do you think Mr. Whitley ever stole from him?”
“I’m sure he did. Have you seen Vaude’s shop? You could put a whole stack in your pocket, and it wouldn’t make a dent. If Vaude did realize Mr. Whitley was stealing, he might have been out for his pound of flesh. He’s the type.”
Felipe exchanged a look with Oliver, but he was busy jotting down what she had said. “Thank you, Miss Ravencroft. You’ve been very helpful. If we have any further questions, we’ll be in touch.”
“There is one more thing, miss. Do you know of anyone else who would want to be notified of Mr. Whitley’s death? We would prefer his funeral not be unattended,” Oliver added.
