David Ambrose - Superstition

“You say this woman's been involved in work you've been doing? What kind of work is that, Dr. Towne?” Joanna asked.

Dr. Towne is an investigator of the paranormal,” Ralph said with a faintly disparaging smile. “I have a feeling he suspected there was some kind of doppelganger at work here.”

He caught the flash of response in Sam's eyes. “Good God,” he said, “I believe that's what you did think, isn't it?”

Joanna spoke before Sam could find a reply. “Dr. Towne looks as though he has a lot on his mind. I think the least we can do is ask him to sit down and offer him a drink.”

“Thank you-your husband has already offered. If you don't mind, though, I will sit down. And with your permission ask a couple of questions. I won't take up much of your time.”

“Please, go ahead.”

Sam resumed his place on the sofa where he'd been when she arrived. “Can I ask first,” he said, “if the name Adam Wyatt means anything to either of you?”

“Well, of course it does,” she said, as though mildly surprised that he should ask, but at the same time pleased. She crossed over to a shelf and took down one of several identical white-bound paperbacks. “Here's a proof copy of my book. It's due for publication in the spring.”

Sam took the book she held out to him. On its cover he read in plain print:

ADAM WYATT

An American Rebel in Revolutionary Paris by

Joanna Cross

Hoping that he was concealing the astonishment he felt, he thumbed through its three hundred or so pages, its print broken here and there by illustrations and portraits reproduced in color.

“How do you know about Adam?” she asked, happily intrigued by the conversation now. “I thought he was my secret-at least until the book comes out, then I hope he'll be everybody's.”

“Oh, I…I don't know a great deal about him,” Sam lied awkwardly. “It's just that I've come across several references to him recently…”

“There you are, it's what I always say,” she said with a triumphant glance toward her husband. “When a subject's time has come, it's just in the air, up for grabs. It's simply a question of who gets to it first.”

“To be honest,” Sam said, “I wasn't sure whether Adam Wyatt was a fictional character or a real one.”

“Oh, he was real all right,” she said with the brief laugh of someone utterly certain of what they were saying. “When I started to research him I came up with an extraordinary amount of documentation. He was quite a character. When he was hardly more than a boy during the War of Independence he wormed his way into a friendship with Lafayette-risked the whole Battle of Yorktown to fake an incident with a runaway horse that made him look like a hero. Years later he almost certainly murdered the only surviving person who knew what he'd done. Meanwhile he'd persuaded Lafayette to take him back to France, where he married an aristocrat who was a close friend of Marie Antoinette's, and got mixed up in every kind of wickedness you can imagine. Despite all of which he died old, rich, and apparently happy, thereby proving,” she added with another laugh, “that, as we all know, there really is no justice in this world.”

Sam had been watching her as she spoke. She had an innocent and lively effervescence, quite obviously a spoiled and privileged young woman, but one whose advantages not even the hardest heart could easily resent. Something about her made him say to himself that this was a charmed life. Pain, misery, and meanness would somehow never touch her. She would survive them. She was born to be, and always would, he felt, be happy, just as surely as some were fated not to be.

“D'you remember how exactly you came across Adam Wyatt in the first place?” he asked her.

She answered with a slight frown. “I'm not sure I do now. I think it was a casual reference in some local history of the place where I was born in the Hudson Valley.” She broke again into a bright, enthusiastic smile. “The amazing thing is he turned out to be an ancestor of Ralph's, on his mother's side. In fact it was Adam who brought us together-literally.”

As she spoke she reached out for Ralph's hand. Sam noticed that they touched each other with an easy spontaneity and total lack of self-consciousness. They looked, he thought, like a couple very much in love.

“My parents still live there and I've always gone up to see them quite often. Ralph was renting a house nearby, but we didn't know each other until one morning we were both out riding, and we met literally over Adam's tomb in this little churchyard. I was there for research, and Ralph was curious about where this notorious ancestor of his was buried…”

“Excuse me,” Sam interrupted, “that was the first time you met? Do you mind telling me how long ago this was?”

Ralph gave a smile and looked at his wife with undisguised adoration. “Exactly twelve months and three days ago,” he said. “But may we know why you ask?”

He was relaxed now, apparently over his initial distrust of Sam and untroubled by his questions, but still curious.

“I…I just wondered,” Sam said lamely. “That would make the date…” He did a rapid calculation and confirmed it with them-chiefly to assure himself that he and they were working within the same time frame. They were. Today's date for him was the same as for them. Somehow the meeting between this Joanna Cross and Ralph Cazaubon had predated the meeting between his Joanna and Ralph Cazaubon by exactly one year.

“Anyway,” she said, “the coincidence of our both being in that tiny churchyard at the same time and looking for the same grave was so extraordinary…” She made a gesture that implied she need elaborate no further. “It just seemed sort of inevitable.”

“And so you wrote your book,” Sam prompted her.

“I wrote my book with the subject's great-great-several-more-greats-grandson correcting my spelling and making sure I was no more horrible about his family than I had to be.” She gave Ralph's hand a squeeze.

“Had you published anything before?” Sam asked her.

“Heavens, no. I'd been working in a brokerage firm-incredibly dull, just a job. I'd always dreamed of becoming a writer, but never had the confidence to start. Now I'm hoping I can make a career of it. I've got a few more ideas for biographies, then maybe a novel.”

“Now come on, Dr. Towne,” Ralph said, “you must tell us something about what's behind all this. Are you working on something about Adam yourself? Or has he come up in one of your psychic investigations? It wouldn't surprise me, he was a pretty dark character-used to dabble in black magic by all accounts.”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact he has come up in connection with my work-in a way.”

“How exciting! Do tell all,” Joanna said, like a little girl eager to hear the latest gossip from a friend.

Sam hedged delicately. “I'm afraid it's difficult to go into detail right now. But I'll be glad to tell you whatever I can as soon as I'm able.”

Joanna looked faintly disappointed at his evasiveness, but said nothing.

“Do you think I might borrow a copy of this book?” Sam asked tentatively. “I'd be happy to buy one, but if it isn't published yet…”

“Take that one as a gift,” she said at once, and gestured toward the shelf behind her. “As you can see, I've got plenty.”

“That's very kind of you, thank you.” Sam got to his feet.

“Now I really mustn't trouble you any longer.”

“Just one thing,” Ralph Cazaubon said, frowning like someone tripping over an awkward detail that he'd briefly forgotten, “when you got here, you said something about two men dying. What exactly was all that about?”

The question took Sam by surprise. He too had pushed the matter from his mind.