Миранда Джеймс - Arsenic And Old Books

“Yes, that’s pretty much it.” She laughed. “I guess I can’t fool you.”

I didn’t respond to that comment. For one thing, I didn’t fully trust her. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something about her that didn’t ring quite true.

She must have picked up on my doubts somehow. She leaned forward in her chair and stared hard at me. “Look, I know this must sound crazy to you, but this is politics after all. You know how weird they can get in this state. Old Southern families and their precious images are golden. The Beckwiths and the Longs have been Athena royalty since before the Civil War, and the Grimes family were poor tenant farmers back then and pretty much still are.” Her gaze turned somber. “I’m proud of who I am. I worked hard to get an education, and I’m doing my darnedest to make the best of it, and of myself.”

I understood her sentiments, and I sympathized with her to a certain extent. I simply couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something she wasn’t telling me.

“Are you going to let me look at those diaries or not?”

“I am,” I said, “but not today.” I held up a hand to forestall the protest I could see forming on her lips. “The mayor asked me to give Dr. Steverton exclusive access to them for three weeks. I have to abide by her wishes on this.”

Kelly Grimes’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “That sucks, you know. That really and truly sucks big-time.”

“I understand that,” I said. “But I haven’t finished. I will talk to the mayor again about letting another person have access, without giving anything away about your purpose or your connection to her son.”

“Fair enough.” The writer bounced out of her seat and stuck her hand across my desk. “Mr. Harris, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. And in the long run, Andrew will appreciate it, too.”

I shook her hand. “I hope the diaries will prove to be worth all this trouble. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get to work.”

“I know my exit cue when I hear it.” Ms. Grimes offered me a broad smile before she turned and loped out of the office with her long-legged stride.

If I were a drinking man, I would have a bottle of bourbon in the desk drawer. Right about now, I’d pull it out and pour myself a shot and knock it back. Then do it again.

I wasn’t a drinking man, however. Instead I settled for getting a cup of water from the cooler and downing a couple of the aspirin I’d brought with me. Thanks to the combined efforts of Marie Steverton and Kelly Grimes, I discovered, I had a raging headache from all the morning’s tension.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for a couple of minutes. My attempt at relaxation helped ease the throbbing in my forehead.

During my talk with Kelly Grimes my mind had not been completely focused on the conversation. I was thinking of some way to make access to the diaries simpler for everyone concerned. From my cursory perusal of them yesterday I didn’t think they were good candidates for photocopying. The paper wasn’t brittle, thankfully, but the bindings wouldn’t hold up being flattened on the bed of a photocopier.

The archive did possess an overhead scanner to capture images of the pages, and a researcher could also use a digital camera for the same purpose. Both were tedious and time-consuming processes, but in the long run this might be the best option for both Marie Steverton and Kelly Grimes. My half-formed thought was to discuss this with Mayor Long and see whether she would allow it. It was a reasonable request, I figured, and I didn’t think she would have any serious objections.

Before I could reach for the phone, Melba appeared in the doorway with Diesel. “Here we are,” she said. She hung Diesel’s harness and leash on a coat hook near the door.

Diesel ambled forward and around my desk to jump into the broad window ledge behind my chair. This was his favorite spot while I worked, and he had an ongoing feud with the squirrels and birds who appeared in the large oak right outside the window.

Melba made herself comfortable in the chair recently vacated by Kelly Grimes. “I really will call Dr. Newkirk about the Steverton witch if you want me to. He owes me a favor from years ago. I hate to think of you being stuck with that lump of misery in your office while she does whatever it is she thinks she’s doing.”

One thing I loved about Melba: Her loyalty was absolute. I knew all I had to do was say the word, and she would do whatever she could to get Marie banned from the archive. I didn’t dare imagine what Dr. Newkirk had done in order to incur a debt to Melba, and I knew better than to ask. Melba loved gossip, but she understood the importance of discretion when it came to her friends.

“I appreciate the offer,” I said. Behind me, Diesel warbled loudly. He wouldn’t be happy with Marie in the office, either, but we would both have to live with it. “Although I don’t think we need resort to such a drastic measure just yet.”

“I get why Dr. Steverton wants to poke around those diaries, but what’s in it for the writer?” Melba asked.

I couldn’t divulge the complete story, but I could share part of it, I reckoned, without violating Kelly Grimes’s trust. “Background for the state senate race between Beck Long and Jasper Singletary.”

“That’s reaching pretty far back.” Melba frowned. “I don’t see the point, because frankly I don’t think Jasper Singletary stands a chance. Not against Beck Long. Jasper’s basically a nobody, even though his family’s been here in Athena since before the Civil War.”

“Maybe delving into the glorious past of the Long clan will help Beck Long keep his lock on the race,” I said. “Between you and me and the cat, I don’t see much point in it, either, but it’s not my decision.”

“Guess not,” Melba said after a moment. “I’d better get back downstairs before Peter realizes I’m not there. See y’all later.”

Peter Vanderkeller, the director of the library, leaned heavily on Melba, and he tended to get antsy if she wasn’t nearby the moment he needed her.

“Later,” I called to her retreating back. Diesel added a loud meow, and Melba turned to flash a grin at us before she disappeared into the hallway.

I thought again about calling the mayor to propose my compromise, but after further consideration I decided I ought to spend more time examining the four volumes of the diary first.

Diesel watched with sleepy-eyed interest as I pulled the archival boxes from the shelf and set them on my desk. He yawned, then put his head down on his front paws and appeared to go to sleep.

Smiling, I put on some cotton gloves before I opened the first box and extracted the initial volume of Rachel Long’s diary.

As I had noted yesterday, the paper appeared to be the usual linen-and-cotton rag, typical of writing paper from the first part of the nineteenth century. I recalled that I had not spotted significant blemishes or other problems on the pages from my hasty skimming. Now that I had time for a closer, more thorough examination, I realized there were issues with the condition.

These problems stemmed largely from the ink. The standard ink used at the time was iron gall, or oak gall, ink, made from a combination of iron salts, tannic acids, and vegetable matter. The latter tended to be the galls, formed by wasps that infested oak trees and caused the plant tissue to swell. The resulting ink is acidic and sometimes caused so-called ghost writing on the obverse side of the writing surface, usually vellum or paper.

Iron gall ink, due to the ease of its composition and its durability, had been in use since at least the early fourth century A.D. One of the earliest—and vaguest—recipes, I recalled, came from Pliny the Elder, who lived during the first century A.D. I had seen medieval English manuscripts written in this ink, and the clarity of the writing, even after several centuries, amazed me.