Paul Robertson - According to Their Deeds

The oboe tune sped in faster circles.

“John Borchard is afraid,” Charles said. “He thinks the other person may still try to kill him. That’s why I need to find out who it is.”

“Why you, Mr. Beale?”

“I think Derek has challenged me to.”

Karen Liu didn’t question his statement. She had a different question. “What have you done, Mr. Beale?”

“What do you mean?”

“What have you done wrong? Everyone else has done something.”

“I’ve done lots of things wrong.”

“What is the worst?”

The oboe dove deep and then flew. “I killed my son.”

Finally, Karen Liu said, “How?”

“His name was William. There was something wrong with him. We never knew what.”

“What happened?”

“As he grew, he became hostile. Then he became violent. And then. .. I’ll be brief. He took his own life. He found a gun, somewhere, and held it to his head.”

“Mr. Beale-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It was a long time ago, and it’s not a secret. I find I can usually talk about it now.”

“But how can you say that you killed him?”

“He was only seventeen. He was still under my care and my protection.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“Whose fault was it?” The oboe was passionate, wailing jaggedly high and low. “We don’t know if it was something hereditary. There are adoptions in our family, you see. Even though Dorothy is on the board of directors at the orphanage, she still can’t get any information about her own family.” He caught himself. “I’m sorry. I lost control for a moment. Maybe I still can’t talk about it.”

“Thank you for telling me. It isn’t the same as what I’ve done.”

“I feel the same way about it.”

They sat for a while, listening, until the notes died.

“I have to go see Angelo,” Charles said. “Maybe he is a redemption for both of us.”

“I’ve never had a congresswoman cry on my shoulder before,” Charles said. He didn’t sit in his chair. “Is Angelo upstairs?”

“Yes,” Dorothy said.

“Have you talked with him?”

“We were waiting for you.”

“I’ll get him.”

“Sit down.” Charles had sat and Dorothy was sitting. Angelo lowered himself to the chair, bending but not yielding. He was absolutely expressionless.

Charles faced the black hair and narrowed eyes and swarthy skin that were all anyone saw of him.

“Do you understand what happened?”

“That judge, he said no more probation.” His voice was as blank as his face.

“Yes. He did.”

“And you said no jail.”

“No jail, no probation. It’s all over. You’re free.”

Silence.

“What will you do, Angelo?” Dorothy said.

More silence.

“You can do whatever you want now,” Charles said.

It was unnerving.

“All right,” Charles said. “We can talk again after you’ve thought about it.”

Angelo stood and left.

“What did that mean?” Dorothy said.

“I don’t know. He’s never been closed up that tight.”

“I’m almost scared, Charles.”

“Mr. Beale?”

“Yes, Alice?”

“Mr. Leatherman is here.”

“Jacob.”

Charles held out his hand. Jacob Leatherman took it, frail as an autumn leaf, his other hand propped on his walking stick.

“Do you have it?”

“I have it. I’ll bring it up.” Charles looked closer at Jacob. “Alice, bring a chair.”

“Whippersnapper.” But he didn’t complain, and he sat, his face the color of yellowed pages and faded ink. Charles knelt down on one knee.

“How are you, Jacob?”

“Just give me a minute.”

“Alice, get Dorothy.”

Jacob’s color was getting better.

“Jacob!” Dorothy flew down the stairs. “Why in the world did you fly overnight? Let me look at you.”

“I’m fine.” He glared at the three of them around him, Charles, Dorothy and Alice. “Just get short of breath once in a while.”

“And do you think you’re flying back tonight?” Dorothy asked.

“It’s this afternoon.”

“Alice. Call Mr. Leatherman’s store and tell them to change his flight to tomorrow. Then get a hotel room. Try the Marriott on Duke Street. Jacob, you need to take better care of yourself.” Dorothy looked him straight in the eye. “You are not as young as you used to be.”

“He never was,” Charles said.

“I’m not staying over the night,” Jacob said, but not firmly. Nothing about him was very firm.

“You need to do what she says,” Charles said. “There’s no use fighting. Believe me.”

“Well.” Jacob took a deep breath. “Maybe I could use a rest.”

“Of course,” Charles said.

“Flight was the worst I’ve ever had.”

“I know the best thing to revive you,” Charles said. “Can you make it downstairs? Dorothy, I think we’ll be all right. Thank you.”

It was a slow process going down the steps. Jacob was recovering, though, and at the bottom he clattered across the floor with his stick as fast as Charles could keep up with him. He put Jacob in the desk chair.

Jacob Leatherman took a few minutes to look around the room, and to breathe it in.

“You have a few nice books down here.”

“They’re all nice,” Charles said.

“Yes. They are. You treat them with respect, Charles, and it’ll show.”

“Let me get you the Homer.” He took it from the shelf and laid it on the desk. “Here it is.”

“Here it is,” Jacob said. He pushed his wrinkled hand into his pocket and pulled out a magnifying lens set in an eyepiece. He took off his glasses and fit the magnifier to his eye and tightened his cheek to hold it in place. “Now I can see.”

Charles was silent as Jacob hunched over the book, the glass only an inch from the gold letters on the cover.

“Hand-stamped, of course. Give me gloves.”

Charles handed him the white cotton gloves and the thin silver page turner. Jacob opened the front board.

For three minutes he stared at the faded signature, first moving side to side, then without any motion.

“Her own hand, Charles. Rested right there. She put her pen to the page and wrote the name of a queen.”

“I assume it was hers. It hasn’t been authenticated.”

“It has been now.” There was no strength in his wavering words, only absolute authority. “It was hers or I don’t know anything.”

“Then it was,” Charles said.

Jacob turned the page. For a while he didn’t move.

“I’ll let you be by yourself,” Charles said.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be back down in a while.”

“Is he all right?” Dorothy asked.

“Yes, he’s fine. I’m still planning to go to New York this afternoon.”

“Charles! With everything else happening? Can’t you reschedule?”

“I can’t. I don’t have any way to communicate with Mr. Smith.”

“If you don’t show up, he’ll call you.”

“I don’t think this is a meeting that I can miss,” Charles said.

“What about Angelo? I… I don’t think you should leave. We don’t know what he might do.”

“I’m going to take him with me. If he’ll come.”

Two quick knocks. The dark head peered out.

“Angelo. I would like you to come with me on a delivery. Would you do that?”

“Now?” He was still in his nice clothes from the morning.

“In a while. We’ll be taking a train to New York.”

“New York City?”

“Yes.”

Angelo didn’t speak. He might have been deliberating or he might just have been waiting.

“You don’t have to,” Charles said.

“You do not want to go alone?”

“I’d rather you went with me.”