Clive Cussler - Crescent Dawn

“This was originally a surplus pantry,” he said, reaching for the bolt before realizing it had already been pulled aside. “They sealed it up tight to keep out the rats.”

He flicked on an exterior light switch, then grabbed a pull handle and yanked the heavy door aside, revealing a ten-foot-long compartment lined with shelves on either side and a wooden cabinet at the far end. The shelves were jam-packed with cardboard boxes, mostly filled with documents and estate records.

“Emily’s things should be right down here,” he said, stepping to the rear and pointing at a waist-high shelf where three boxes were marked “E.J. Kitchener.”

“Emily Jane Kitchener,” Aldrich said. “Might be easiest for you to simply look through the boxes in here. Will you need an escort back upstairs?”

“Thank you, Aldrich, but that won’t be necessary,” Julie replied. “We’ll lock things up and find our way out.”

“I hope you both can join us for dinner tonight. We’re having a fish fry in the garden.” The old caretaker then turned and shuffled out of the pantry.

Summer smiled as she watched him leave. “He is the cutest little fellow,” she said.

“An old-fashioned gentleman,” Julie agreed, pulling two of the boxes to the front of the shelf. “Here you go, one for you and one for me.”

Summer stepped over and flipped open the top of the box, which she noted was not sealed shut. The contents were a disheveled mess, as if someone had hastily thrown the items in the box or it had subsequently been rifled through. She smiled to herself as she pulled out a baby blanket and laid it on an empty shelf. Next to that she laid some children’s dresses, a large doll, and several porcelain figurines. At the bottom of the box, she found some costume jewelry and a book of nursery rhymes.

“Box number one is filled with childhood memories,” she said, carefully repacking the items. “Nothing of relevance, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not faring much better,” Julie replied, setting a pair of sequined boots on the shelf. “Mostly shoes, sweaters, and a few evening gowns here.” From the bottom, she pulled out a flat tray of dinnerware. “And some tarnished silverware,” she added.

The women replaced the two boxes, then jointly opened the third box.

“This looks more promising,” Julie said, retrieving a thin packet of letters.

As she began scanning the letters, Summer inventoried the rest of the box. Most of the contents were prized books of Emily’s, along with a few framed photos of herself and her husband. At the bottom of the box, Summer found a large envelope that was stuffed with old photographs.

“No luck here,” Julie said, finishing the last letter and inserting it back into its envelope. “These are all old letters from her husband. No mention of our mystery girl. I guess the secret of Sally just isn’t meant to be revealed.”

“It was an admitted long shot,” Summer replied, pulling the photographs out of the envelope and spreading them across the shelf for Julie to see. They were all sepia-tinted images from nearly a century before. Julie held up one photo of a young woman in a riding outfit, holding the reins of a horse.

“She was a pretty young woman,” Summer remarked, noting a delicate face set with penetrating eyes similar to her famous uncle.

“Here’s one with Kitchener,” Julie said, pointing to an earlier photo in a garden setting. Kitchener stood in his uniform next to a couple with their young daughter, clutching a large doll, between them. Summer recognized the toddler as a younger version of Emily from the horse picture.

“She looks about four years old there,” Summer said, picking up the photo and flipping it over to see if a date was written on the back. She nearly choked when she read the inscription.

“April, 1916. Uncle Henry and Emily with Sally at Broome Park.”

She shoved the photo in Julie’s face. Julie read the inscription, then flipped it over and studied the image with a wrinkled brow.

“But that’s Emily with her parents. Her mother’s name was Margaret, I believe.”

Summer looked at her and smiled. “Sally is the doll.”

By the time the lightbulb clicked on in Julie’s head, Summer was already tearing through the first box of Emily Kitchener’s possessions. In an instant, she pulled out a porcelain-faced blond doll that was dressed in a checkerboard apron. Holding the doll up in the air, Summer compared it to the one in the photograph.

It was the same doll.

“He said the Manifest was safeguarded with Sally,” Julie muttered. “And Sally is a doll?”

The two women studied the doll, whose clothes and extremities were well worn from the attentive play of a young girl nearly a century earlier. With tentative fingers, Summer turned the doll over and pulled off its checkerboard apron and matching calico dress. A heavy seam was visible along the doll’s back, which kept the stuffing inside. Only the stitching was crude and uneven, not matching the workmanship of the rest of the doll.

“This doesn’t look like the work of an expert seamstress,” Summer noted.

Julie rummaged through one of the other boxes until producing a tarnished silver dinner knife.

“You care to perform the surgery?” she asked nervously, handing Summer the knife.

Summer laid the doll facedown on the shelf and began sawing at the topmost stitch. The dull-edged knife was a poor match for the tough catgut thread, but she eventually cut through the first few stitches. Setting the knife aside, she pulled apart the remaining seam, opening up the back side of the doll. Inside was a compressed mass of cotton wadding.

“Sorry, Sally,” she said, carefully pulling out the wadding as if the doll were an animate object. Julie peered anxiously over Summer’s shoulder, but slumped when she saw that the doll’s torso was filled with nothing but cotton. She closed her eyes and shook her head as Summer pulled out a large ball of it.

“Silly idea,” she muttered.

But Summer wasn’t through. Peering inside the cavity, she felt around with her fingertips.

“Wait, I think there may be something in here.”

Julie’s eyes popped open as she watched Summer reach into the doll’s left leg and grab hold of an object. Summer worked it back and forth until pulling out a linen-wrapped tube several inches long. Julie leaned closer as Summer set the object on the shelf and gently unwrapped the linen. Inside was a thick piece of parchment rolled into a scroll. Summer held the top edge down, then carefully unrolled it across the shelf as both women held their breath.

The parchment proved to be blank. But they soon saw it was protecting a smaller scroll rolled inside. It was a bamboo-colored papyrus leaf with a single column of script running down its center.

“This… this must be the Manifest,” Julie uttered quietly, her eyes locked on the ancient document.

“It appears to be written in some sort of ancient script,” Summer noted.

Julie stared at the lettering, finding it familiar. “It appears similar to Greek,” she said, “but it’s nothing that I’ve seen before.”

“That would most likely be Coptic Greek,” thundered a male voice behind them.

The women jumped at the unexpected assertion. Spinning their heads toward the door, they were shocked to find Ridley Bannister standing in the entry. He was dressed in a thickly padded black leather jacket and pants favored by dirt-track motorcycle racers. But neither woman noticed his unusual attire. Their attention was focused instead on the snub-nosed revolver he held in his hand, aimed squarely at their chests.

You are the one that attacked me in my hotel room,” Julie blurted, finally recognizing the leather outfit.