A Fugitive Truth (23 page)

“Margaret, now I know,” I whispered.

Realizing that I couldn’t properly do work on the hallway floor, I gathered up my papers and computer into my bag and bounded up the stairs. I had a long night ahead of me, but at least I knew that I would be in the best of company.

A
DREADFUL POUNDING WOKE ME THE NEXT MORNING
, and it took a moment before I could determine whether it was a real noise or a product of the eerie dreams I fled. Vague images of a shadowy forest with fluttering letters pinned to every tree fled irrevocably as the banging persisted on the door to my room. With an effort, I pried open my eyes and was brutally assaulted by bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.

Over the racket at the door, I could hear Michael calling my name. I froze, trying to gather my wits. Harry had unconsciously made some pretty damning comments about Michael’s proximity to all of the events here. In spite of Michael’s apparent willingness to share his theories with me, I had only just started to consider his role when I had been distracted by Brian’s call and my epiphany that led to breaking Margaret Chandler’s code.

Shaking myself awake, I decided I needed to keep my suspicions hidden until I had better evidence. “Hold your horses, I’m coming,” I called grouchily. The clock told me that it was after nine o’clock. I’d had only five hours of sleep and was exhausted, and it took a huge effort to shove myself upright on the bed. As I did so, a cascade of printed pages slid off my chest, where apparently they’d rested all night after I fell asleep reading them. They sailed gracefully along the floor until they were hampered by a pile of dirty clothes. I kicked the whole mess to one side and, with a grunt, managed to shove my desk aside and open the door before it splintered under another burst of hammering.

Michael stood there, panting slightly, looking red-faced and expectant. His hair was curling every which way; his eyes were bloodshot, but that didn’t detract from their appeal.

“Well?” I said.

He was practically hopping. “Don’t you ‘well’ me! Where the hell have you been?”

I could tell he was really ticked off, but why, I didn’t know. “Well, what do you think, Michael? I’m in sweats, in a locked room, where I retired last night. To sleep in a little. What do you think I was doing?”

“I just came back to make sure you were okay,” he answered pettishly. “When no one saw you arrive at the library at your usual time, I wanted to make sure you weren’t languishing in a ditch somewhere. Around here lately, being absent could mean being dead. That’s something you of all people should have thought of, you know.”

And why was he so suddenly interested in my whereabouts? That “should” and the fact that he was right only nettled me further. I’ve always hated the “you should know better” sort of remonstrance more than any other.

“For a change, I thought I’d work on my
real
work, what brought me here in the first place. Sue me,” I said, feeling prickly.

He ran his hand through his hair and I was startled to discover that I wanted to do the same thing. “Snipe all you want, but in spite of Detective Kobrinski’s optimism, nothing’s been conclusively solved yet. I prefer to know your whereabouts. Purely for safety’s sake, if not yours, then mine.” With that he turned and headed downstairs, but called coldly over his shoulder, “If you want the luxury of forgetfulness, you might leave here.”

Again, he seems to want me out of here, or at least accounted for, I thought. I was so beleaguered with confused thoughts of retort, apology, and suspicion that he got away before I could say anything, which was probably all to the good. I didn’t have time for him, anyway, not until I had some better proof, because Sasha had promised that the Chandler letters would be ready today. At the thought of being able to learn more about the trial of Madam Chandler, I didn’t even bother showering, but tied my hair back into a short pony tail, dressed fit to be seen, grabbed my notebook and jogged to the library.

Sasha was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was still recovering from her ordeal at the station yesterday, maybe she was on break, but there was no way I was waiting for her, so I took a chance and headed upstairs to Harry’s office. As soon as I got there and raised my hand to knock, I almost turned around and left—Harry was obviously on the phone, speaking in an angry, choking voice. As much as I knew I shouldn’t listen, I couldn’t help myself. It sounded as though his world was coming to an end.

“—You can’t do that! It’s a travesty! We’ve discussed this already, and you swore to me…No, that won’t work. How can you even consider…? This is outrageous!…No, no, I’m coming right down.”

I heard the phone slam and had just decided that I wouldn’t bother knocking, in fact, I would scurry away as quickly as possible when the door was flung open. Harry was as tidily dressed as ever, pulling on a smart gray over-coat, but the real evidence of his emotion was in his eyes. They were red-rimmed and agony-filled.

That’s what a saint looks like, I thought, the instant before he’s accepted his martyrdom. I was so stunned by the force of this pain that I was rooted to the spot.

For a moment, I didn’t think that Harry would recognize me, or even stop, but to our mutual embarrassment, he did. “Emma. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat; he took off his glasses and carefully began rubbing at them with a clean linen handkerchief and I was reminded of how a cat washes itself to cover embarrassment. “Have you been waiting long to see me?”

I couldn’t believe his voice was as normal, as calm as it was. Not with those eyes. “Er, no, Harry. I was just going to knock.” Fortunately, my hand was still raised, preparatory to that action.

“What can I do for you?” He sounded insistent, as if he wasn’t going to allow his unseemly show of emotion to interfere with his work.

“No, sorry, it can wait. You look like…” Hell, I thought to myself. “You look like you’re on your way someplace. I’ll wait ’til I can find Sasha. I was just going to ask for the Chandler correspondence, that’s all.”

“Oh, I can get you that.” He started off for the conservation room and I followed dumbly behind.

“You don’t have to do that, Harry,” I protested. Though I was desperate to see the letters, I didn’t want to add to whatever was dismaying him so.

Harry sighed as he unlocked the door. “Between you and me, I need a moment to count to ten, if you know what I mean. I just got a call, and well…You know. You think you’ve got something important settled, finally, and then someone comes along and ever so casually upsets the apple cart. Hard not to feel like Sisyphus, some days. But I’ll get it straightened out.”

I was considering how large a rock it was he was pushing, or whether the tipped cart contained the golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides, to evoke that kind of response. And yet, here he was obliging me on his way to remedy the situation, above and beyond the call of duty.

“How’s work on the diary going?” Harry asked briefly as he handed me the folder.

“Harry, I managed to decipher Madam Chandler’s code!” Even as I said it, I marveled. I hadn’t even said the words out loud since I’d done it. It almost was like I was realizing the implications for the first time myself.

Harry looked shocked, then a delighted smile broke through the clouds in his face. He grabbed my hand and began pumping it enthusiastically. “Congratulations! My God, congratulations! Emma, that’s wonderful! This is extraordinary! Tell me, tell me all about it!”

“I
did
it, didn’t I?” I sat down suddenly at a table and tried to collect my wits. “Well, it was based on the quote with which she started the diary. It was there all the time. Waiting for me. Or, you know…whoever.”

“Emma, this is a discovery of the first water! I don’t know what to say.” Harry was as dazed and happy for me as I could have been for myself. He shook my hand again, encasing it with his left hand as well, grinning with childish excitement. “Thank you, Emma! I have to go now, but you…you know, you’ve just about managed to restore my faith in humankind!” And it was with a great lightness of step that he went off on his delayed errand.

Still dazed by Harry’s warm response to my news, I realized that Christmas wasn’t over, that there was one more package under the tree with my name on it. I composed myself hastily, found an empty carrel, and opened the folder. On top of a pile of sheets of heavy linen paper, each encased in its own clear plastic conservation envelope, was a type-written conservator’s report, prepared, no doubt, by Sasha, who had been hard at work in the little conservation lab.

I took a look at the report to prepare myself for the goodies that lay beneath. Under the Shrewsbury laboratory’s letterhead it read:

In careful, faint pencil beneath, Sasha had left a note to herself: “See also Fielding, Emma J., 200–(article? book?).”

Bless the girl, she was already anticipating my own work on the subject! I thought gleefully. I wouldn’t disappoint her, not when I had to live up to Madam Chandler’s own high standard. I picked up the first envelope, feeling the plastic folder buckle a little as I examined the letter inside, hoping for the answers to all the questions I had about the trial. I recognized Margaret’s clear, elegant hand and was immediately disappointed to find that the first letter was a fragment; the first two pages were missing:

I realized with a sharp pang of disappointment that the first part of the letter probably had contained a description of the trial and Margaret’s escape from a death sentence. I read on, hoping to find some other clue.

I sat stunned for a moment: there was not a scrap about the trial. I hurried on to the next, shorter, letter, not in Margaret’s hand; the writing was not as well formed, but was still readily readable. Maybe there would be some reference there.