some reason it's ignored in this city."
"Intellectual snobbery, no doubt."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"But I can. I know my own city. They're happy with stories about silly young women in poke bonnets, but the greatest of all monster novels is about as welcome here as a cowpat on the cobbles. Well, congratulations, Professor. You evidently found a bargain in Hay. Would it be indiscreet to ask how much it cost you?"
"Twenty pounds. I, em, rubbed out the price."
"Sensible, in the circumstances. Twenty is about right, going by the state of it. You can probably add several zeroes if you can prove the ownership beyond all doubt. Intrinsically, it's nothing special." He opened the book at the front. "Do you see where some of the fly-leaves have been cut out? Rather neatly, I have to say—but it matters to a collector."
Joe had not noticed before. "Why would anyone do that?"
"Paper was harder to come by in the old days. Expensive, too. Blank sheets had their uses for notepaper, or whatever." He closed the book carefully and handed it back. "I suggest you get that inscription authenticated. There are scientific tests for ink. Then if you want to make a tidy profit I would offer it to one of the London auction houses."
"I don't know if I'll sell it," said Joe.
The blue eyes glittered in approval. "There speaks a true book man."
"Would you remember who you bought it from?"
"You're hoping to trace the provenance?" said Oliver Heath, his eyebrows peaking in surprise. "I don't think that's very likely with a book as old as this, unless it's been in a private library for many years."
"Any chance of that?"
He spread his hands to gesture that he had no answer. "I'm trying to remember who sold it to me. Not one of my regulars, I'm sure of that. I have the feeling he was not a bookish person at all." He tapped the end of his nose with his forefinger as if that might stimulate thought, and apparently it did. "I believe it was Uncle Evan."
"Your uncle?"
"No, no. He's about fifty years my junior. He's the puppeteer."
"Would you mind saying that again?"
"The puppeteer, Uncle Evan. He runs a puppet theatre for children. He's quite well-known in Bath. Very talented. Built the theatre himself, makes his own puppets, paints the scenery, writes the scripts and works the strings as well."
"Is he interested in poetry?"
"I couldn't say. You can never tell with people. He has depths, but I wouldn't have thought he troubled with things like Paradise Lost, unless he was planning to turn it into a puppet show."
Professor Joe Dougan winced at the concept. "But he definitely owned this book before you did?"
"Yes, I'm certain it was Evan, no doubt needing to raise some funds for one of the shows."
"Where do I find this theatre?" Joe asked.
"Lord only knows."
"Doesn't it have an address?"
"It's not a building. It's a mobile thing. Collapsible. He drives it around in a van, doing shows for schools, hospitals, birthday parties and so on. I don't know where you'll catch up with him."
"Do you know his surname?"
"If I did, it's gone. You could ask at the Brains Surgery. He's well known there. I think he gets some of his bookings through them."
There was a long, uneasy pause. "You did say 'Brain Surgery'?" Joe sought to confirm.
"Brains, with an ‘s’."
"That's where I should go to ask for Uncle Evan?" he queried the advice slowly, spacing the words. He was beginning to have doubts about the competence of Oliver Heath's brain.
"Don't look so shocked. It's a Welsh pub. In Dafford Street, Larkhall."
"A Welsh pub in Bath? You wouldn't be putting me on?"
"My dear chap, Brains Bitter is a beer brewed in Cardiff. The pub's name is a play on words."
"I understand now." Joe grinned. "I had a mental picture that was truly bizarre."
"Dare I suggest, professor, that you read a little less of Frankenstein?'
THE ANTIQUES trade is big in Bath. Go window-shopping in any direction and it isn't long before you are looking at Stafford-shire dogs
"Intellectual snobbery, no doubt."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"But I can. I know my own city. They're happy with stories about silly young women in poke bonnets, but the greatest of all monster novels is about as welcome here as a cowpat on the cobbles. Well, congratulations, Professor. You evidently found a bargain in Hay. Would it be indiscreet to ask how much it cost you?"
"Twenty pounds. I, em, rubbed out the price."
"Sensible, in the circumstances. Twenty is about right, going by the state of it. You can probably add several zeroes if you can prove the ownership beyond all doubt. Intrinsically, it's nothing special." He opened the book at the front. "Do you see where some of the fly-leaves have been cut out? Rather neatly, I have to say—but it matters to a collector."
Joe had not noticed before. "Why would anyone do that?"
"Paper was harder to come by in the old days. Expensive, too. Blank sheets had their uses for notepaper, or whatever." He closed the book carefully and handed it back. "I suggest you get that inscription authenticated. There are scientific tests for ink. Then if you want to make a tidy profit I would offer it to one of the London auction houses."
"I don't know if I'll sell it," said Joe.
The blue eyes glittered in approval. "There speaks a true book man."
"Would you remember who you bought it from?"
"You're hoping to trace the provenance?" said Oliver Heath, his eyebrows peaking in surprise. "I don't think that's very likely with a book as old as this, unless it's been in a private library for many years."
"Any chance of that?"
He spread his hands to gesture that he had no answer. "I'm trying to remember who sold it to me. Not one of my regulars, I'm sure of that. I have the feeling he was not a bookish person at all." He tapped the end of his nose with his forefinger as if that might stimulate thought, and apparently it did. "I believe it was Uncle Evan."
"Your uncle?"
"No, no. He's about fifty years my junior. He's the puppeteer."
"Would you mind saying that again?"
"The puppeteer, Uncle Evan. He runs a puppet theatre for children. He's quite well-known in Bath. Very talented. Built the theatre himself, makes his own puppets, paints the scenery, writes the scripts and works the strings as well."
"Is he interested in poetry?"
"I couldn't say. You can never tell with people. He has depths, but I wouldn't have thought he troubled with things like Paradise Lost, unless he was planning to turn it into a puppet show."
Professor Joe Dougan winced at the concept. "But he definitely owned this book before you did?"
"Yes, I'm certain it was Evan, no doubt needing to raise some funds for one of the shows."
"Where do I find this theatre?" Joe asked.
"Lord only knows."
"Doesn't it have an address?"
"It's not a building. It's a mobile thing. Collapsible. He drives it around in a van, doing shows for schools, hospitals, birthday parties and so on. I don't know where you'll catch up with him."
"Do you know his surname?"
"If I did, it's gone. You could ask at the Brains Surgery. He's well known there. I think he gets some of his bookings through them."
There was a long, uneasy pause. "You did say 'Brain Surgery'?" Joe sought to confirm.
"Brains, with an ‘s’."
"That's where I should go to ask for Uncle Evan?" he queried the advice slowly, spacing the words. He was beginning to have doubts about the competence of Oliver Heath's brain.
"Don't look so shocked. It's a Welsh pub. In Dafford Street, Larkhall."
"A Welsh pub in Bath? You wouldn't be putting me on?"
"My dear chap, Brains Bitter is a beer brewed in Cardiff. The pub's name is a play on words."
"I understand now." Joe grinned. "I had a mental picture that was truly bizarre."
"Dare I suggest, professor, that you read a little less of Frankenstein?'
THE ANTIQUES trade is big in Bath. Go window-shopping in any direction and it isn't long before you are looking at Stafford-shire dogs
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