Magic Lantern (Rogue Angel) (32 page)

Edmund grinned. “Exactly. It came to me as I went back through the original auction I attended that the lantern might not have been the only thing Dutilleaux left behind. There was an assortment of magic books, and I had all those, but—as it turns out—there was a diary.”

“But it wasn’t his.”

A frown knitted Edmund’s brows. “You’re more magician than I am. How are you coming up with this?”

“I didn’t know there was a diary until you told me. I was hoping there might at least be papers or letters.”

“I don’t know if there were any papers or letters. I should probably ask.”

“Tell me about the diary.”

“What? Don’t you already know?”

“It’s written in Chinese.”

Edmund shook his head in disbelief. “Perhaps I should venture up to the rooftop, as well.”

“And so…?” Annja prodded him.

“The sellers were going to list the lantern and the diary together. Those items, after all, were discovered together. But they had no way of knowing that Anton Dutilleaux had ever owned the diary. In fact, I was only guessing that he might have. I was looking for anything written that had been in that lot. The sellers thought they might get more money offering the lantern and the diary separately. But I should have thought of that.”

“You went there looking for the lantern.”

“I did.” Edmund scowled. “Once I’d heard of it, and of its possible history, I’m afraid that was all I could think of. Blindness on my part.”

“Why would you have wanted a diary written in Chinese, and probably not even written by Dutilleaux?”

“True. There was nothing in his past that mentioned his knowledge of written Chinese.” He shook his head. “Though, in retrospect, given my awareness of his history as a banking employee in Shanghai, I should have at least considered that.”

Annja grinned. “Tell me about the diary.”

“Not much to tell, I’m afraid. The diary popped up with the lantern when Robertson’s assistant’s things were found in an old boardinghouse three months ago, and is listed as having belonged to Dutilleaux, but that’s all that’s really known about it.”

“No one’s had it translated?”

“No one’s cared to. It’s over two hundred years old. The sellers figured that whatever was in the pages of that diary surely weren’t of interest to anyone in this day and age. They thought it was a keepsake. Nothing more. Possibly a volume of Chinese literature or a family history.”

“It may yet be that.”

“I know. I can’t imagine what it might be, but surely it must be something. Anton Dutilleaux wasn’t the kind of man who would travel from the Orient carrying things that were useless to him.”

Annja nodded. “Where is the diary now?”

Edmund frowned. “It was sold. I asked the sellers if they could let me know the name of the person who bought the diary. They’re not in the habit of disclosing information, but I pointed out that Jean-Baptiste Laframboise certainly got hold of
my
information.”

“Did they admit to that?”

“Not even, but it cut some difference with them. Their resolve weakened. They’re certainly more receptive to the idea of putting me in touch with the purchaser.”

Fiona spoke up from the other corner of the room. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

Annja had almost forgotten about Fiona. She smiled. “Of course you can.”

“I’ll put Ollie on it right now.” Fiona took out her sat-phone. “I’ll just need the particulars of that sale, if you please, Professor.”

* * *

WAITING FOR OLLIE’S IMMINENT success was hard. Annja occupied her time with her work. Chiefly, the Mr. Hyde investigation back in London. Detective Chief Inspector Westcox was the star of a half-dozen media interviews, four on television and two on radio, and he was collecting a lot of ink and rising in Google stats as more and more people wrote about the murders and speculated on the killer’s identity and continued interest. And the helplessness of the London Metro Police Department.

Annja felt bad for the dead women. She looked at their faces and wished she hadn’t. The photographs revealed on the various websites were garish.

You’re not a detective. She had to remind herself of that. You’re an archaeologist. There might be some overlap in skills, but you don’t have the resources of a police department. Westcox will find the murderer. He’s good at that sort of thing. If there was something in that investigation you could help with, you would.

There were several emails from Doug, letting her know he was collecting the media reports for her, covering for her while she was off trying to find the magic lantern.

Mr. Hyde continued to taunt the police. He’d written in twice more, claiming his victory, that they wouldn’t catch him and that he would kill again.

Soon.

Annja felt torn. She knew she wasn’t equipped to help out with the police investigation, but she still felt a need to be there. Despite her lack of police training, she’d gotten involved in the search for the killer and that chafed at her.

“Why so pensive?”

Startled, Annja looked up to see Fiona standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” The woman was developing an irksome habit of popping up without Annja knowing.

“No wonder, what with the material you’re looking at.”

Guiltily, Annja closed her computer down. “I shouldn’t be. Keeping up with all of that just makes me feel useless.”

“Those murders aren’t something you can do anything about.”

“I’ve been reminding myself of that.”

Fiona regarded her. “But you feel guilty, anyway.”

Annja hesitated and wanted to deny that, but she couldn’t. “Yes.”

“Because of your involvement through the television show?”

After everything she’d seen Fiona do in the past two days, Annja wasn’t surprised the woman knew about her Mr. Hyde investigation for
Chasing History’s Monsters
even though it hadn’t been mentioned. “Yes.”

For a moment, Fiona was silent. “Have you always been so aware of this need to feel responsible for people?”

“What do you mean?”

“Most individuals wouldn’t take on the responsibilities that you shoulder, Annja. If they’d met someone like Edmund Beswick, they would have felt badly for him and wished him well, maybe drop a donation into a bucket, but that sense of responsibility would have ended there.”

Annja hadn’t thought about that. “Maybe.”

“There’s no maybe to it.” Fiona’s voice was soft. “You stepped right into the young professor’s battle without an instant’s hesitation.”

“Seems to me you did the same thing.”

Fiona arched her brows. “The pot calling the kettle black?”

“Something like that.”

“Not so. I took you on at the express request of an old friend. You didn’t even know the professor, except for a few phone calls and a couple meetings.” Fiona shook her head. “Not the same thing at all. Furthermore, I’m in the business of dealing with other people’s troubles. You are an archaeologist.”

“And a television personality.” Annja smiled.

“I rather think you happened into that one and are using it to your own ends. I don’t believe for an instant that being a television personality was ever an ambition of yours.”

Annja couldn’t disagree.

“What I have to wonder, though, and I am concerned, is how much that sword influences your sense of judgment.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m thinking perhaps it pushes you in the direction of helping others rather more than you would if left to your own devices.”

“Couldn’t I just be a good person?”

“I wouldn’t think you could be anything else.” Fiona was silent for a moment. “But I saw you with that sword up on the rooftop. It was like…like you and that sword know each other. As if you’re in a relationship.”

Annja would never have considered using those words.

“I know about the
troubled
things that Roux searches out. I know how bad they can be for people, and the horrible things that some of them can do.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Then you’re fortunate.” Fiona shivered. “My point is that perhaps that sword might carry some trouble with it, as well.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I didn’t think you would, but I wanted you to at least consider the possibility. The things you do, Annja, the bad situations you’re drawn into, they may be brought on by that sword. It may well be that the sword doesn’t push you toward these troubles, but perhaps it draws them to you.”

Annja took a deep breath. “I’ve thought about that, Fiona. But I’m more of the opinion that—if anything—the sword lets me see the bad things that are happening. There’s no forced involvement. The choice is mine.”

“I hope that’s true.”

“Let me ask you a question.”

“Of course.”

“You searched for the sword with Roux, even found a few of the pieces.”

“That’s not a question, and you already know that I did.”

“Here’s my question—how do you know that the search you went on with Roux, that the contact you had with those sword fragments you helped him find, didn’t somehow influence you and what you’re choosing to do?”

Fiona held Annja’s gaze, then smiled uneasily. “That sword was put here to change the life of one young woman.”

“I’ve met several people whose lives have been changed because I was able to help them.”

“Touché.”

Annja smiled. “Did you just come up here to offer advice?”

“To pry, you mean?”

“If I thought you were prying, you wouldn’t have gotten a word out of me. I was raised by nuns. I know how to keep my mouth shut, and when to shut it and disavow all knowledge of anything.”

Fiona laughed. “You are a treat, Annja. I can see why Roux is drawn to you.”

“I don’t think
drawn
is the word he would use. The last conversation I had with him? I called him an asshat.”

Fiona laughed. “I wish I had been there.”

“I had to explain the term to him. That kind of took some of the sting out of it.”

“No worries. I’m sure Roux was still considerably stung.”

“I hope so.” Annja sighed. “Roux can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“Yes, he can. He is only a man, after all, and proof that even if a man lives five hundred years—or more—he is limited in what he can learn.” Fiona shook her head. “I came up here to let you know Ollie has located the missing diary.”

33

Night had fallen over Paris. The glow of the City of Lights pulsed against the windows of the flat as Annja took a seat on the couch beside Edmund. She hadn’t realized how late it had become.

Fiona sat on the other side of Edmund. The professor’s computer was open on the coffee table, displaying Ollie Wemyss, as immaculate and unflappable as ever, center stage in Fiona’s office back in London. The view showed him from the waist up, and Annja was certain the man had staged it.

“Good evening, Ms. Creed.”

“Hello, Ollie.”

“As I was telling Ms. Pioche and Professor Beswick, I have had a bit of luck locating the contents of the diary you people are looking for.”

“Wait.” Annja held up a hand. “The
contents
of the diary?”

A small frown turned down the corners of Ollie’s mouth. “Yes, you see, there was a problem with the diary. At about the time Professor Beswick went missing and Laframboise’s people were breaking into his storage unit—with Puyi-Jin’s people vectoring in at that moment as well, all very exciting—the purchaser of the diary had her house burgled. The diary appears to have been the target of the invasion.”

“Was the woman harmed?”

“No. Fortunately she was out of the house when the theft occurred.”

“Then how did you end up with the contents?”

“Ms. Creed, when you’re about to deliver a lecture, do you allow the audience to pester you with questions—which you plan to answer in their proper due course—at the outset?”

Chagrined, Annja restrained her curiosity. “I apologize.”

“We’ll have time for the Q and A afterward.” Ollie smiled. “As I said, the original document was lost. Whatever secrets might be in the architecture of the book itself, I’m afraid, are beyond us at this point. Though, I am told, the new owner had checked the volume quite thoroughly.”

Annja curbed her impulse to point out that a hidden message could have been contained in the weave of the material comprising the cover, or that there could have been bumps or irregularities, or any of a dozen different things. If Ollie knew about such things, and she was almost certain he did, then he knew what they had lost. And if he didn’t know for a fact, he was too clever not to realize that a facsimile wasn’t as good as the original document.