watercolours, pencil drawings, oils – one of which I recognise instantly. ‘John Constable,’ I observe, gazing at it as we pass. By the slight tilt of her head, I can tell she’s impressed.
We approach that alluring staircase, and I force my eyes forward, refusing to give in to the overwhelming temptation to peek up to the dark space. Thankfully, Mrs Potts drops a gear in pace until she’s beside me, distracting me, like she can sense my inner battle. She smiles. ‘We keep all the client files in the library. They’ve become jumbled up over the years.’
I return her smile, grateful for her intervention. ‘Are there many?’
She laughs. ‘Just a few. Here we are.’ She indicates for me to open it, so I swipe my card as I gaze up at the wooden doors that stretch to the ceiling.
‘Done,’ I say, taking the handle. The doors are solid and heavy, so I have to physically put all my weight against them to push them open.
‘The library,’ Mrs Potts declares.
‘Oh my goodness,’ I breathe as I step over the threshold, in awe as my eyes scan the room. I wander into the centre and spend a few moments taking it all in, slowly pivoting. There are no windows, leaving every wall adorned in floor-to-ceiling bookcases, all built in a rich, dark wood. The room must be forty-feet high, similar to the Grand Hall, and there’s a gold balcony circling halfway up with ladders leading to various sections. There’s not an empty space, every shelf is loaded with books, binders, files. And the smell. I breathe in hundreds of years’ worth of history from the pages surrounding me as I look up, seeing an intricately carved cornice framing the ceiling, and within it, a mosaic of millions of pieces of broken tiles, forming a stunning picture. ‘Heaven and hell,’ I whisper to myself, rapt by the illustration adorning the ceiling.
‘Good and bad,’ Mrs Potts replies, standing patiently by, allowing me to absorb the magnificence of the room. I could be a while. I’m spellbound.
The extravagance isn’t the only thing that blows my mind. I bet the wealth of information found on these shelves couldn’t be read in a lifetime. Possibly not even ten lifetimes.
‘More or less every morsel of history the Hunt Corporation has amassed in over two hundred years of trading, dear,’ she says fondly. ‘Every client we’ve had, deal we’ve made, sale we’ve agreed to, item we’ve sold, as well as hundreds of antique reference books to boot.’ She smiles at my flabbergasted face. ‘Not to mention travel guides, map books, and encyclopaedias.’
It’s making my head spin in the best possible way. ‘It’s wonderful.’
‘I’ll leave you to have a look around, dear. Mr H needs his medication.’ She whips her duster out and gives the gold handle of the door a quick dust. ‘The client files are on the far wall, dear. Top and bottom.’ She indicates to one of the ladders. ‘The reference books are over there.’ She points across the room. ‘You’ll find your way around soon enough.’ Mrs Potts disappears out the door, leaving me alone in the immense, quiet space.
I spend a good five minutes inspecting the room before I make my way to the far wall. As I near, the spines of the books become clear, and I’m soon close enough to read the text. Record books. They’re deep red in colour, with gold type, and they’re labelled alphabetically with years in brackets. I reach forward and select one, slowly sliding it out. The title reads: K (1961–1964)
Opening the cover carefully, I become immediately engrossed in the pages, my eyes scanning and absorbing the information while I stand at the foot of the towering bookcase. There’s a page for each deal, every detail imaginable neatly scrolled in black ink. The client’s name, address, interests, even a photograph of them – some posed, some caught in a moment. The pictures are all black and white, too, and the attire the figures wear is indicative of the date on the spine. Then there are the pieces bought, the value, the price paid – all figures that blow my mind.
I glance across the page and see a familiar face. ‘JFK,’ I gasp, running a finger down the picture of him laughing in the Oval Office. ‘Incredible.’ I force myself to snap the book closed and replace it on the shelf. The Hunt Corporation’s dealings have always been cloak-and-dagger. And seeing what I’m seeing now – the values, the