A Rare Murder In Princeton (16 page)

“Chester-Natty,” she wrote. This was another vague accusation, she thought. There had been cross words. Had Philip Sheridan exchanged cross words with all of them lately, or did he always snap at people? Was it possible that Natty had become enraged at his principal donor and stolen his paper knife and stabbed him with it later? It seemed so uncharacteristic that McLeod flipped the notebook shut. Good heavens! she thought. It made no sense.

 

SHE LOOKED OUTSIDE, and was relieved to see that it had not snowed after all.

WHEN MCLEOD LOOKED out of her window on Monday morning, she was relieved once more to see it still wasn’t snowing. She walked to her office and checked her e-mail. Among the messages was one from Clark Powell, thanking her profusely for the dresses. They were awesome, he said.

What good manners he had, McLeod thought. Then the mention of the dresses reminded her of the things she had found packed in the carton with them. How could she have forgotten them? Well, a murder did tend to distract one from everything else. “It concentrates the mind wonderfully,” someone, possibly Samuel Johnson, had said. He seemed to have said everything familiar.

She unlocked the bottom drawer of the file cabinet and looked at the book, the crucifix, and the box again. They still looked old and rare and beautiful. They also reeked of monetary value. How could she have forgotten them? At least she could take the book over to Rare Books; Natty Ledbetter or Buster Keaton would be able to tell her something about it.

She called to make sure Rare Books had reopened. Molly said yes, they were open and Mr. Ledbetter and Mr. Keaton were both in. McLeod took the book downstairs to the Humanities Council Office to see if she could find something to wrap it in, and was delighted when Frieda offered her a huge padded envelope.

“Just the thing,” she said. “Frieda, you never fail us.”

“ ‘Failure’s no success at all,’” said Frieda. “That’s from a Bob Dylan song.”

“Very good,” said McLeod, who found the quotation puzzling. Of course failure was no success. Oh, well.

Carrying her padded envelope as well as her check for the Friends’ dues and the dinner, she walked across the court to the library. Pausing in the exhibition gallery, she looked at the window of the Belcher display and saw that a shade had been discreetly pulled across it.

In Rare Books, Molly greeted her. “Mr. Ledbetter is expecting you,” she said.

McLeod went straight to Natty’s office. Natty, courtly as usual, rose from behind his desk and invited her to sit down. She laid the check and the padded envelope before him on his desk and sat down.

He looked at the check and thanked her.

“Open the big envelope,” she said.

Natty sat down and reached inside the envelope and pulled out the manuscript. He laid it before him on his desk, and opened it, turning the pages gently. As McLeod watched him, he seemed to be gasping for air. When he turned to her, he looked almost frantic.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

“I found it in a box of old clothes that had been in the garage at George’s house for twenty years.”

“Then it was Jill Murray’s, I guess. Now it’s George’s—he bought the house and contents, I presume.”

“I have no idea,” said McLeod. “He doesn’t even know I found it.” She told him about the box of dresses, bringing them to Clark Powell, finding the book and forgetting about it until this morning.

“I guess the murder investigation drove the book and the other things right out of my mind,” she said.

“What other things?” asked Natty.

She told him about the crucifix and the heavy ivory box.

“Where are the other things?”

“Locked in a file drawer in my cubicle in Joseph Henry House,” she said.

“Anybody can jimmy a file drawer,” said Natty. “Bring them over here and we’ll keep them in the safe in the vault.”

“Oh, good. But tell me about the book.”

“I can’t tell you much at first glance. It’s medieval. It’s valuable. I don’t know its provenance. You have no idea where it came from, do you?”

“Of course not,” said McLeod.

“Let me get Buster in here. He knows more about this kind of thing than I do.” He dialed, waited, and asked Buster to come to his office. “I have something spectacular to show you,” he said.

Buster was there almost instantly. He pulled up a chair to Natty’s desk and took the book that Natty handed him. He looked at it a long time, examining the cover, and carefully turning pages. He was whistling, not whistling a tune, but saying, “Whew, whew, whew,” ever so softly. His dark eyes glittered when he looked up, and his dark hair seemed to quiver.

“Where did this come from?” he asked. “Is it ours?”

Natty, with occasional help from McLeod, told him all they knew about the manuscript.

“It’s early and it’s of exceptional quality—I can tell that,” said Buster. “It’s the four Gospels. It’s written in gold and it’s illuminated with unusual skill. It’s immensely valuable—worth millions, I’d say. Is there any way we can claim it for Princeton?”

“I don’t see how we can claim it,” said Natty.

Buster turned to McLeod. “Is it yours?” he asked.

“Heavens, no,” she said. “Natty said he thought it would be George’s since he bought the house and contents.”

“George is a loyal alumnus and employee—he’ll give it to us,” said Buster.

“Do you have any idea where it came from?” Natty asked.

“No, not offhand. It’s medieval—” Buster began.

“That’s what I said,” interjected Natty.

“Tenth century, maybe ninth century. Where was it done? Since it’s in Latin, it’s hard to say immediately what its origin is. But books do tell secrets. Let me think. Let me look at it.” He was studying the book closely.

“You can leave it with us, McLeod,” said Natty. “And bring the other things over here, too. I would say that box is a reliquary.”

McLeod promised that she would.

Buster looked up. “I’ll find out about it,” he said. “Let me do a little research. I wonder how it got to Princeton.”

“All paths lead to Princeton,” said Natty. “Take the book and find out about it. I’ll walk McLeod back to her office and get the other two things.”

“Let me get something from conservation to keep this glorious thing in,” said Buster as he left.

Natty found a shopping bag from Barnes & Noble in a cabinet and took it with him as they left. McLeod had intended to spend more time in Rare Books, but decided it was a good idea to get all the treasure into the safe hands of Natty Ledbetter.

“Any news on the murder?” she asked as they walked across the court to Joseph Henry House.

“Not that I know of,” said Natty. “At least the police are no longer all over the place.”

 

WHEN SHE HANDED over the ivory box to Natty, he took it reverently and said, “I’m sure it is a reliquary, and it probably has a shard of some saint’s bones in it.” He put it and the crucifix in his shopping bag and departed.

McLeod sat down to check her e-mail and phone messages. When she found nothing crucial, she decided to trail back over to Rare Books and see if she could pick up anything new about the murder. And she might even do a little work on van Dyke, who somehow didn’t seem as interesting as he had once. Still, at least she could finish reading that box of papers she had planned to finish last Wednesday. She would dearly love to talk to Nick Perry and find out what the police had learned about the times when people left Rare Books on Tuesday. Could she ask people herself? Possibly. She put on her coat and set out once more for the library.

 

“BACK AGAIN?” ASKED Molly when McLeod came into Rare Books.

“I’m back again but this time I’ll hang up my coat and sign in formally. I shall try to do a little work on van Dyke. How’s it going, Molly? Everything back to normal?”

“Hardly,” said Molly. “How can things be normal where there’s been a murder. Who did it? Are we safe? Is it a maniac? A serial killer?”

“Oh, it can’t be a serial killer,” said McLeod. “It can’t be an outsider. It was somebody that works here. So relax.”

Molly digested this. “But that’s even worse,” she said after a minute. “I should relax because somebody in this office where I work every day is a murderer?”

“I see what you mean,” said McLeod. What could she say to reassure a very young woman in the circumstances? “I’m sure we’re all safe. Isn’t that a proctor over there?” She nodded her head and smiled at a man in a black blazer with the Princeton crest on the pocket who sat in the shadows of the reception area. Princeton’s Public Safety Office called its plain clothes officers by the old academic name of proctor.

“Oh, yes, that’s Derek. Derek, this is McLeod Dulaney, one of our patrons, so to speak.”

“How do you do?” said Derek.

“So you’re guarding the staff, aren’t you?” asked McLeod. “They’re safe?”

“That’s right,” said Derek. “There are two of us here. We’re helping out the Borough. Nothing else is going to happen here—staff
and
patrons, they’re safe.”

“See, Molly. You’re safe. Well, I’ll get to work. I’ll stop off and speak to Chester—I’ve become quite fond of him. You know, Molly, he’d be a nice beau for you.”

“Oh, yes,” said Molly. “I’m sure. But he hasn’t come in this morning.”

“I hope he’s not sick,” said McLeod.

“I don’t know,” said Molly. “He hasn’t called in.”

“Hasn’t called in? That’s odd.”

“I know,” said Molly, “but everything’s out of whack.”

MCLEOD CARRIED HER pencil and sheets of paper to the Reading Room, where Diane greeted her warmly. “Nobody else here?” McLeod asked.

“Nope, you’re the only one.” Diane was a young black woman with a smile as welcoming as sunshine. McLeod always felt cheered when she entered the Reading Room.

“And it’s late. I thought Barry Porter was so anxious to get on with the O’Neill stuff,” said McLeod. “Didn’t Natty call him? And where’s Miss Swallow?”

“I don’t know about either one of them,” said Diane, “but they’re not here.”

McLeod filled out a call slip for the box with all the letters about the writing of “The Other Wise Man” and gave it to Diane, who summoned a page and passed it on to him.

Since there was no one else in the Reading Room, McLeod decided it was all right to talk to Diane. “How’s your little boy?” she asked. “Have you heard anything from that school?”

“No, I’m still waiting—and hoping.”

“Good luck, Diane. How did you get along with the police last week?”

“Good. I guess,” said Diane. “At least they didn’t try to blame me for the murder. Everybody knew I left way before it happened. I think I was the first one to leave.”

“That’s great,” said McLeod. Things had come to a pretty pass, she thought, when you felt like congratulating somebody because they weren’t under suspicion of murder. She rolled her pencil between her fingers and asked Diane a question she had long wanted to ask: “Do you ever catch anybody actually trying to steal anything?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Diane. “It was a couple of weeks ago. There was this Greek Orthodox priest that was coming in here working with some old English books that had some woodcuts in them. Later, one of the curators made a routine check of the books when he finished and discovered some plates were missing. She looked at the call slips and the register and saw that this Greek Orthodox priest had used the books last. So she told Mr. Keaton and Mr. Ledbetter and they went to see this priest—he lives real near here—and he had the prints! He admitted it right away. Apologized. Said he just wanted to look at them at home. He had taken them out under all those black robes.”

“And they got them all back?” asked McLeod.

“Every single one.”

“That’s amazing. But how did the priest get the prints out of the books?”