Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

“If I bid too low, I will not get him; if I bid too high, I will pay more than he is worth. So shall I steer towards Scylla or Charybdis? I will stay the course and hold at two thousand.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good night, Alice.”

“Good night, Mr. Beale. Mrs. Beale.”

“Morgan, we should get a new Christmas Carol in here right away.”

“Yes, sir. And may God bless us, every one.”

“Indeed,” Charles said. “I wonder if Marley had ever been a judge.”

“Do you still want a coffee? Or is it late enough for dinner?”

“Just a salad, I think,” Dorothy said.

“A salad.” Charles set his face resolutely forward. “Fortunately, Alexandria is one of their prime natural habitats. We will hunt one down.”

They hunted, hand in hand. The first two blocks proved barren, but when they reached King Street there were many brightly lit, fern-filled lairs. A single shot brought down a fine trophy pair: plump, spinachy specimens, with grape tomatoes and blue cheese and raspberry glaze, and crusty floury French bread.

“Are we calm?” Dorothy asked.

“Enough.”

“What was all that with Mr. White?”

“I don’t know where to begin. He is a haunt of my philosophic musings.” Charles munched an olive. “I meditate on what it would be like to be brought down by your past misdeeds, and presto, my meditation becomes a reality and walks in the door.” He sipped his water. “It’s rare when any part of philosophy actually becomes real.”

“I think it’s quite a coincidence.” She sounded doubtful.

“Philosophy doesn’t allow for coincidence,” Charles said.

“Then what does it allow for?”

“The evil in human nature. And it only allows for it; it doesn’t explain it.”

“I don’t think that the evil in human nature is the reason Patrick White fell out of the newspaper and into our shop.”

“Oh, it is. You could say it’s the reason for most things. But it would be nice to have something a little more specific in this case.”

“Philosophy or not,” Dorothy said, “I really don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

“You think it’s quite a coincidence, and you don’t think it’s a coincidence at all. Those two statements do not coincide.”

“The first one is made negative by the tone of voice.”

“Then let’s see what connections there could be,” Charles said. “He is-was-a judge. He could know people in the Justice Department, and he could apparently know Karen Liu in Congress.”

“Lots of people know each other, Charles, but not at the same time we’re reading about them in the newspaper.”

“And he is in the newspaper because…” Charles stopped, suddenly somber.

“What?”

“He knew Derek, and he is in the newspaper because someone told them something about him. I need to think about this.” He thought. “Now, say you were reading a mystery novel, and something like that happened. Could it be a coincidence?”

“No,” she said. “Not in a well-written mystery, anyway.”

“In real life, I suppose it could be. It must depend on how well written your life is.”

“I don’t think it is.”

Charles frowned. “My life isn’t well written?”

“I don’t think it is a coincidence, as I have now said several times. Did he say he knew who killed Derek?”

“He said that.”

“Who does he mean?”

“We would have to ask him. Oh, what does it all mean? Checks to Karen Liu. That article about the wife killing her husband.”

“What about the other papers?”

“I’ll need to look at them. I hadn’t wanted to.”

“Charles, I think you should talk to the police. I really do. I don’t like this talk about killing.”

“But what will happen if I do? We’d have the front page of the Washington Post all to ourselves for a month.”

“They wouldn’t have to find out. And is it really your choice to make?”

“So far. Just think about Congresswoman Liu. I like her. She is a driven person, and she is driven by very good things. I might even be glad she got those checks at that critical time.”

“That sounds rather shaky.”

“This is not a firm and stable world we live in. Anyway, I will look at the other papers. Now that I’ve met Karen Liu, and John Borchard, and Patrick White, and Lucy Bastien, the papers might make more sense to me. Once I’ve looked at them, we can discuss what comes next.”

“And I need to get home,” Dorothy said. “There are still calls to make about Saturday evening. Two hundred people are coming to this banquet.”

“A blue-blooded and blue-haired two hundred. Yes, make your calls. We want them all to feel very comfortable and happy.”

“We will. We have a surprise for them, too.”

“Good. Then let’s get moving and shaking, dear. I will tell you about Lucy and Galen tomorrow.”

“Galen?”

“Jones. The matchmaker.”

“Oh, yes” Dorothy said. “Did you have him look at Angelo?”

“No, I had Angelo look at him.”

“Charles, how much would you say that the Enlightenment was based on laws?”

“Laws written by governments?”

“No, I mean natural laws. You mentioned Isaac Newton once.”

“I think natural laws were very important, Derek. Once the Renaissance and the Reformation had overturned so much that people had once accepted, they were looking for something new to base their understanding of the world on. Newton and Pascal and the rest were describing the physical world with mathematic laws, so why not describe mankind the same way? That’s what the Enlightenment fundamentally was: rebuilding the world rationally.”

“Then it was fundamentally flawed. Nothing is less described by rules than human nature.”

“On that, Derek, we completely agree. But what they built is the modern world we live in. We seem to govern ourselves and keep a semblance of order.”

“Barely. Just barely. It’s touch and go, and we live an inch from catastrophe. Charles, the reason there are no laws that govern human nature is that it is ungovernable.”

“Some people are less governable than others.”

“You’re speaking of your own experience?”

“Yes, my son, as you know.”

“I do. I know it isn’t an easy subject for you.”

“No, Derek, but it’s all right. He would be a good example for a discussion of the ungovernable human spirit, but I don’t think I would be objective.”

“How old was he?”

“Seventeen. That was fifteen years ago.”

“Fifteen years might not heal much.”

“Believe me, Derek. It doesn’t.”

“Let me describe what Derek Bastien looked like.”

The night had passed, the morning had come, and Dorothy, at her desk, looked very nice herself.

“Yes?” she said, peering over her reading glasses.

“I hope you’re not too busy,” Charles said.

“Please, dear,” she said, “tell me what he was like.”

“I’d be glad to.” Charles’s gaze drifted. “Did you ever see him?”

“You introduced me once, but I don’t remember now.”

“Exactly. Oddly nondescript for such a personality. Or maybe chameleon-like. He could just disappear in a room of people if he wanted.”

“There must have been something not ordinary.”

“First was his eyes. They were always studying. When you finally noticed it, it was unsettling for a while. Then his voice. It was deeper than you would think. Rumbly.”

“And what did you talk about on your visits?”

“We played chess and discussed human nature. He studied it like a geologist would study rocks. His job was his laboratory.”

“He said that?”

“No. I was studying his nature a little myself.”