Authors: Linnet Moss

London Broil (24 page)

BOOK: London Broil

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"I owe you a
great debt. I believe it is quite likely that had you not mailed
that letter, Hamish would have done away with me in another week
or so."

"Why didn't you
tell Ellen? Or ask to see me?" she asked.

"Ellen would not
have been able to keep a secret from Hamish. She trusted him
more than her old father; she and I have had one too many
battles over her conduct. I feared that if I tried to see you in
person, Hamish would act against one of us. And forgive me, but
I'd never met you. I preferred not to entrust my family business
to a complete stranger."

"Wasn't there
anyone else? Anyone who would be suspicious if Hamish turned
them away?"

"I have a son
from my first marriage, Galen. When I married Helen, he took it
badly. Our relationship has been... strained, and in any case,
he lives in New York. He inherited my interest in books, just as
Hamish did."

"And Ellen too,"
said Laura. "Did you know she loved the library?"

"No," he said. "I
should have taken a greater interest in her education. I have
many regrets, Miss Livingston."

She took a deep
breath. "Mr. Porteous, I feel responsible in a way for what
happened. Hamish came to me after the solicitors were here and
asked if I'd spoken to you. I said no, and withheld the fact
that I'd sent the letter. If he and Charlotte were working
together, he must have assumed that it was Ellen who helped
you."

He nodded slowly.
"Yes. I changed my will so that he would receive nothing, and
then I told him that unless he stopped blocking my calls and
correspondence, the terms would stand. I was foolish enough to
think I could control him. I never thought for a moment" --his
voice broke as he said this-- "that he would learn the money had
been left to Ellen, or that he would turn on her. They have
always been so close." He took her hand. "But you mustn't blame
yourself, my dear. You saved my life, and then you did what had
to be done, what I lacked the courage to do. I knew that it must
have been Hamish, but I couldn't bear to accuse my own son of
murder. I wasn't thinking clearly. Now, of course, I see that he
might have gone on to do that to some other young woman." He
shuddered and let go of her hand. Her eyes dropped from his hand
to the small book lying at his side. It was a beautiful object,
only about five inches tall, with an intricate blind-tooled
binding and silver clasps. He saw the direction of her gaze,
smiled slightly, and handed her the book.

The clasps were
open, as though he'd been reading it before the nurse entered to
check on him. She turned to the title page. It was a Giunta
imprint from Florence, 1507. Boethius'
Consolation of Philosophy
.
She felt tears spring to her eyes. Boethius had written the book
while in prison awaiting a cruel, painful death. It was a
dialogue between the author and Lady Philosophy on how a human
being might find happiness in a world filled with evil.

"Is it helping?"
she asked.

"I don't share
Boethius' faith in Divine Providence," he said, "but I love a
beautiful book with a history. This one once belonged to
Coleridge." He pointed proudly at the ownership signature, and
she caught her breath and then let it out slowly as she examined
the handwriting. "Now tell me about your work," he said.

Laura described
how his note about the Patterson sale had led to further
discoveries at Belmont Hall. "Your Pine's Horace is definitely
Pope's copy," she said. "The sliver missing from the top of the
title page must have contained his signature. Autograph-seekers
often cut it from the books he inscribed. This is his
handwriting," she said, showing him a photograph of the missing
pages she'd found at Belmont Hall. "I would know it anywhere."

"Excellent!" His
haggard face looked transformed for a moment. "Miss Livingston,"
--"Please call me Laura," she interjected-- "Laura. Where do you
live?"

"In Parnell,
Pennsylvania. North of Philadelphia. I teach at Parnell State
University."

"Ah yes, I
remember that from John's letter of introduction."

Laura glanced up
and saw the nurse standing at the door and giving her a look
that said her time was up. She rose. "I'll be going, then. I'm
leaving for home in a few days. Thank you for sharing your
treasures with me." He nodded, and lay back against the pillows.
"Good bye, Laura."

30.
A Truth
Universally Acknowledged

"Time to come
home, kid. You've been through a lot." June's face on Skype
looked sympathetic. "We'll go to Revels and get a bottle of
something bubbly to celebrate your Pope discovery, and then you
can sleep for a week."

"I'll probably
cry for a week," said Laura. She'd said all her goodbyes, to
George and Babur and Fahran and Simon and her neighbors Cassie
and Leila. She still hadn't allowed herself to fall apart, even
when a young man appeared at her door with a large box of pink
roses. She'd given him a generous tip and told him to let Mr.
Whelan know that delivery was refused.

"Men are
assholes," said June. "It's a truth universally acknowledged
among the superior half of the human race. You really should
play for our side, kid. Jillian has some cute friends."

"Thanks, but no
thanks. I think I'll take a vow of celibacy for six months or
so. Spend some time alone."

"Not completely
alone," said June. "Looky here." The picture on the screen
veered crazily. It looked like June was carrying the computer
down a hallway, and then the camera pointed at a basket filled
with five tiny, mewling kittens. Their eyes were open, but only
just barely. They wobbled about, climbing over one another.
There were two calicos, an orange one, and two tabbies.

"The momma cat
was a stray who got hit by a car," said June. "It was right
outside my house. The mess was frigging awful. I had to get a
shovel and-- "That's okay," said Laura hastily. "I don't need to
hear the details. How did they end up with you?"

"After the momma
died, Mr. Peterson came over and said the litter was under his
porch and could I take them. I'm forcing them on all my friends,
and the last two left are the smaller calico and the orange."

"I don't know,"
Laura said doubtfully. She liked cats, and Sake, her beloved
oriental shorthair, had died two years before at the advanced
age of twenty. Not having a pet had given her more freedom to
travel. But she felt drawn to the tiny, fragile forms moving in
the basket. "I'll adopt them, but only if you promise to look
after them when I'm away."

"Deal! They'll be
waiting for you when you get home. I'm bottle feeding them now
--Christ, what a pain in the ass!-- but you can take them as
soon as they're weaned."

"Have a good
holiday, Dr. Livingston." As the last of her students left the
classroom on the final day of the Fall semester, Laura breathed
a sigh of relief. Now all she had to do was grade exams, and
she'd have the winter break to herself. Except for the usual
round of family visits. Though she enjoyed the rituals of
Christmas, she cringed slightly at the thought of being
confronted with her brother Donald's three loud and boisterous
children.

On the way back
to her office, she passed a tall, black-haired male student
whose walk brought James to her mind. As it turned out, she had
not cried over James for the full space of a week. Only for five
days. But she had lost her appetite for physical pleasures,
including food. Her work alone held interest now. And every
morning there was an all too brief interval between sleeping and
waking, before she remembered it all. The fact that it was over,
and the way she had left him.

Wrapped in her
thoughts, she tripped as usual on the uneven pavement outside
Chester Hall, and slid erratically for a moment on the ice left
from an early December freeze. Regaining her balance, but with
her heart still pounding from the near-fall, she entered the
building and went to her desk to record the last day's
attendance grades on her spreadsheet. An email message from June
appeared in her box with the subject line
Holy Crap. You won't
believe this.
The message was a link to a story from the
New York
Daily Messenger
,
a tabloid style paper that June followed religiously. The
headline read:
London's
James Whelan to be new
Messenger
Food Critic.