Free Bland Beginning by Julian Symons Page A

would be dishonest.” Anthony was indignant. He said with a blush, “Look here, Mr Jebb, all these things you’ve told me – this stuff about type faces and so on – I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s all a bit vague. That chap Henderson seemed to think –”
    “Henderson,” said Ruth Cleverly, “knows nothing about first editions.”
    “That’s what you tell me – but he seemed awfully confident – and how am I to know what’s right? I want to know about this thing. Isn’t there anything I can do myself to find out?”
    Ruth Cleverly raised her expressive eyebrows. “What about taking Henderson’s advice, and seeing Blackburn?”
    Anthony looked at her with an almost dog-like eagerness. “But you said he was a – dilettante.”
    “So he is, but he’s an authority on Martin Rawlings too. He may be able to tell us something useful – eh, Arthur?”
    The cripple’s fingers played with the little blue book, and put it down. “Possibly, possibly. You see, Mr Shelton, there is also the evidence of the author himself, of contemporary references he made to his own work – that kind of thing. Let us say that there is a letter in existence from Martin Rawlings, dated 1860, making reference to this first edition which I believe was produced much later – well, that would be very disconcerting. Disconcerting for me, I mean,” he added with the ghost of a smile. “In most of the other cases in which I suspect forgeries I have checked author’s references, presentation copies, that kind of thing – and there are remarkably few cases in which they exist. I’ve done no checking with Passion and Repentance , because I haven’t been able to get hold of a copy. It can do no harm for you to see Blackburn, though he wrote me an impolite letter in response to my own enquiries. But I must ask you,” he sat forward again in his chair, and his eyes glared with monomaniacal intensity behind the great spectacles, “I must insist that you say nothing of what I have told you in confidence about my researches.”
    “That is understood.” Anthony was stiff. “But if we are going to see Mr Blackburn, I shall need to take this to show him.” Rather nervously, he picked up the little blue book on the desk.
    Jebb glared at him. “Do you mean you are not prepared to trust me with –”
    Miss Cleverly laid a hand on the cripple’s arm. “Arthur, this young man is a babe in the literary wood. He doesn’t know where he’s going. You can’t blame him if he looks out for wicked uncles.”
    “I suppose not,” Jebb said. He sank back in the chair with a curious air of being deflated. His fingers moved nervously on the desk. The spots on his cheeks were bright. He spoke faintly. “Ruth, the little brown bottle in the medicine chest on the right of the cupboard. Ten drops in a glassful of water. Down the passage.” Ruth Cleverly took the bottle from the cupboard, ran to the door and came back in a few moments with a glass of water. She measured out ten drops of the liquid and touched Jebb on the arm. He was sitting back in the chair, breathing heavily. His eyes were closed, and the edges of his mouth were bluish. Mrs Upton stood in the doorway, and commented on the scene like a Greek chorus.
    “’E’s been talking too much. Works himself up like when ’e talks about ’is books.” She looked round with an air of distaste. “Never did like books. Doctor warned ’im to avoid excitement – got a dicky ’eart.”
    Faintly but clearly, Jebb said, “That will do, Mrs Upton,” and she shrugged and withdrew. They sat and watched while his face changed to its apparently normal waxen colour, and his breathing became easier. When he spoke again it was in his usual reedy voice. “She’s an infernal nuisance, Mrs U, but she’s quite right. It’s heart. I must avoid excitement. It would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it, if I died before my book was in print.” He spoke perfectly seriously.
    “If there’s nothing we can