“What was it?”
“A book, Keats.”
“Book?” Keats glanced around at the walls. “I wonder if―”
“Can’t tell any more. Pages all burned away and what’s left of the binding shows nothing.”
“It must have been a special binding.” Most of the volumes on the shelves were leatherbound. “Don’t they stamp the titles into these fancy jobs?” Keats prodded the remains of the book, turning it over. “Ought to be some indication left.”
“There would have been, except that whoever burned this indulged in a little vandalism before he set fire to it. Look at these slashes on the spine ― and here. The book was mutilated with a sharp instrument before it was tossed into the grate.”
Keats looked up at Delia and Wallace, who were stooping over them. “Any idea what this book was?”
“Damn you! Are you two here again?”
Roger Priam’s wheelchair blocked the doorway. His hair and beard were threatening. His pajama coat gaped, exposing his simian chest; a button was missing, as if he had torn at himself in a temper. His chair was made up as a bed and the blankets trailed on the floor.
“Ain’t nobody going to open his mouth? Man can’t get any shut-eye in his own house! Alfred, where the hell have you been? Not in your room, because I couldn’t get you on the intercom!” He did not glance at his wife.