The Book of Air and Shadows

e were expected at the prison, welcomed even, by the deputy warden herself, Mrs. (not Ms.) Caldwell, a dame of Thatcheresque dimension, polish, and accent. I wondered at the time how long prior to this visit Paul had arranged things. Did he foresee the need to visit prisoner Pascoe as soon as he learned about my involvement with Bulstrode and the various secreted manuscripts? Unlikely, but it would not entirely surprise me. As I noted, Paul is very smart, and subtle with it. His predecessors in the Society of Jesus used to run whole nations, so that outsmarting a bunch of Russian thugs, even Jewish ones, might not be a major challenge. Is that a logical statement? Perhaps not and perhaps also a little reverse anti-Semitism in there: Jews are smart, therefore tricky, got to watch yourself around them,
jew
still a verb in many parts of my nation, nor am I immune to the cozy embrace of casual anti-Semitism. Rather the opposite, in fact, as Paul has often pointed out.
    The prison was a class D facility, which is what Her Majesty calls her minimum-security facilities or, as we might say, her country club joints. Springhill House had actually been a private home at one time and all in residence were, according to Mrs. Caldwell-Thatcher, rehabilitating themselves fit to be tied. And of course we could see Mr. Pascoe, a model prisoner. Take as long as you like.
    Pascoe was a small, unattractive little man, carefully dressed in a blue silk shirt, a fawn lamb’s-wool sweater, tweed slacks, and polished slip-ons. His small monkey eyes shifted behind thick clear-rimmed eyeglasses and he wore his thin hair (dyed a deplorable shade of yellow) swept back to his collar. He spoke in what Brits call a posh accent and suffered from the sin of pride. It was Paul’s religious duty to point this out and offer the opportunity for repentance; I’m sorry to say he did not, but exploited it, for our advantage. Or for the greater good, depending on one’s point of view. As I say, a subtle fellow, my brother.
    We met in Pascoe’s room, a comfortable nest that could have been in one of those cozy-shabby hotels the English seem to like. The furniture was dorm-room institutional, but Pascoe had tarted it up with framed pictures and manuscript reproductions, an art deco bedspread, colorful throw pillows on his bed, and a worn Oriental carpet, perhaps genuine. He reclined on a pile of these pillows while we sat upon straight chairs. He made tea for us, fussing.
    We began by discussing old Bulstrode. Pascoe had heard of his death and was avid for more information, which we supplied, although we did not deny the police theory that he had fallen prey to rough sex. Then there was some business I didn’t then understand about “was the payment through” and Paul said it was and handed him a slip of paper, which he examined, folded, and put away. After this he leaned back in his cushions like a pasha, folded his long delicate hands, and looked dreamily up at the acoustic tiles.
    And proceeded to tell us exactly how he brought off the scam: that is, he told us that the Bracegirdle manuscript was a forgery (here he included copious detail about the source of the paper, the recipe for the ink, how to fake or subvert dating technology, etc.) and that someone, who he did not name, had contacted him, given him the text, and provided him with the appropriate materials. In prison? I asked. A piece of cake, Father. I could run ten-pound notes off in this rest home and no one would be the wiser. He’d done the job and smuggled the pages out and payment had been received. He’d also advised his mystery client about how to run the scam. The important thing was to string it out, make the mark work a bit, so that he thought he’d found it himself. So your first hint had to be produced into evidence as coming from an old book or books before a naive witness through legerdemain; and afterward bring in Bulstrode, the expert.
    Why Bulstrode? Pascoe laughed nastily at this: once bitten twice shy is a load of bollocks, my son. Your best mark is a man who wants to recoup his loss-the poor bastards never learn. Prompted by Paul’s questions, he described just how he generated the supposed ciphered letters (nothing more intriguing than a cipher, gentlemen, as I said, you want to give the marks something to do), including the “discovery” of the indispensable grille, and then, almost smacking his lips, he laid out how to arrange the finding of the long-hidden