Chapter 4
With Duncan gone, Sharyn carefully lifted the Saxton Atlas from its pillow and returned the large tome to its acid-free storage box. She then collected her things, shouldered her backpack, and drew the heavy box under both arms. Holding it aloft like a tea tray, she headed out of the reading room.
The research librarian noted Sharyn struggling with the door and came to help. As Sharyn exited, the older woman touched her arm. “I’m the last one here. Could I trouble you to carry the box to the strongroom for me? I can lead you there.”
Sharyn understood the reason behind this request. The Saxton’s atlas, large and unwieldy, weighed close to twenty pounds. The thin-limbed woman, while prim and tidy, would certainly struggle with the load.
Sharyn noted her nametag: Margaret Peele.
“Of course, Ms. Peele. Put me to use.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
Actually, Sharyn needed little goading. She had always wanted to peek into one of the library’s many strongrooms. In those temperature-controlled chambers, the most valuable and rare collections were preserved and protected.
Sharyn had already spent weeks searching through the library’s catalogs, retrieving material that she would never have access to back in the States.
She had spent days reviewing the library’s Syon Abbey Collection, which consisted of rare books and manuscripts gathered from a monastic order founded in the fifteenth century.
Many richly illuminated books included gilded illustrations of the Virgin Mary.
It surprised her to discover several pages showing examples of mirror writing, with the script written backward across a page.
Such writing was both a crude means of encryption and a way to force a reader into a deeper introspection into what was written so challengingly.
She remembered Duncan’s treatise on coded texts.
Maybe I should let him know what I found . . .
Then again, maybe not.
She still recalled him thumping his chest in triumph when his team won the pub’s quiz match.
Putting such thoughts aside, she followed Ms. Peele, who paused to lock the front doors before continuing deeper into the library.
Sharyn glanced to the exit. This deep into autumn, the sun had already set.
Outside, lampposts glowed across a twilit park.
A few figures rushed by on foot or bicycle, likely hurrying off to enjoy the start of the campus festivities.
Even inside the library, only a few lights illuminated the maze-like spread of rooms. The staff had squandered little time in shutting the place down. Sharyn glanced across the shadowy rows of shelves and spotted no other movement.
A shiver of misgiving shook through her. The night had always held a particular fear for her. A dread not born of superstition, but from real danger: the crash of a door in the dark, the stumble of heavy feet, the slurred burst of accusation, the sharper cry of the assaulted.
She pulled her box closer.
It didn’t help matters that they passed a cabinet displaying an Agatha Christie exhibit. Many items came from the library’s heritage collection, including letters and early drafts of the mystery writer’s work—where murder was only a page away.
As they continued deeper into the library, Sharyn studied Ms. Peele, taking a cue from the other’s calmness. The woman showed no twinge of discomfort as she headed off the main hall.
“The Rare Books strongroom lies this way.”
Sharyn kept close on her heels. “Who guards this place after hours? Is there a nightwatchman?”
Ms. Peele turned and peered over the top of her glasses.
“This isn’t the British Museum, young lady.
The building is alarmed, of course, and monitored by CCTV cameras.
Plus, campus security regularly sweeps by and checks doors.
” She squinted at Sharyn with an amused smile.
“Aren’t planning on robbing us, are ya, miss? ”
“Not on Halloween. Wouldn’t want to disturb any ghosts.”
“Wise. Especially as Exeter is the most haunted city in all the UK.”
Sharyn glanced over. “Is that true?”
“That’s what they say. And if they’re right, you definitely don’t want to get on the bad side of this place.”
“I’ll try my best.”
They finally reached a door stenciled with the words Rare Books on it. Ms. Peele slipped out a keycard and tapped the glowing lock. A brief chime sounded, followed by a whisper of sliding bolts.
Before the door could be opened, a muffled crash rose from inside. Sharyn stepped back, ready for a fast retreat, but Ms. Peele yanked the door open.
A flare of light momentarily blinded Sharyn, but the older woman barged across the threshold. “Why didn’t someone tell me you were back here?” Ms. Peele blurted out.
Sharyn got drawn in the librarian’s wake. Still, adrenaline spiked through her, tightening her chest. Raised in an alcoholic household, her body had honed a quickfire fight-or-flight response when it came to a threat.
“You’re supposed to log in and out,” Ms. Peele scolded whomever was inside. “You should know better. Just because you were once the director of the libraries does not give you the right to flaunt our rules.”
“I apologize.” The voice rose from behind a stack of wooden crates, well over a dozen. One box had toppled over and lay broken—likely the source of the noise a moment ago. A crowbar rested on the floor next to it. “I had thought I’d only be here a few minutes.”
A tall gray-haired man with a matching goatee straightened from a crouch beside the cracked crate.
He swiped a fall of hair from his sweaty brow.
He was dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows.
A suit jacket hung on a nearby dolly. He dusted off his hands and stepped over to greet them.
Ms. Peele admonished the man. “I could’ve accidentally locked you inside.” She waved to Sharyn. “If not for a student who checked out the Saxton Atlas, I would’ve never known anyone was still in here.”
The man offered a slight bow of his head in apology. “Fear not, I still have my own keys to the building. I could’ve freed myself if need be.”
“Still, I should’ve been informed.”
“Of course. It was an inexcusable lapse.”
He stepped over and hugged Ms. Peele, which warmed the woman’s scowl into a soft smile. Clearly, they knew each other well.
Once free of the man’s arms, she wagged a finger at him. “Don’t do it again.”
“Never, my dearest Ms. Peele.”
The man’s eyes fell upon Sharyn with a slight raise of his brows. “Ms. Karr, is it not?”
Sharyn struggled to respond, shocked that the former director of the libraries knew her name.
He stepped closer and relieved her of the boxed atlas, which he placed on a nearby cart. “I remember your application to our MA program in Magic and Occult Sciences. We’ve not formally met. I’m Professor Julian Wright.”
He held out his hand, which she took reflexively, and finally freed her tongue. “You’re the head of the Exeter program.”
“Indeed. Next spring, I’ll be teaching coursework on paleography.”
She nodded, anxious to delve into this very subject. Paleography, the study of ancient writing systems, covered everything from deciphering languages to dating texts. It also explored the history of illuminated drawings, a particular interest of hers.
Ms. Peele interrupted with her hands on her hips, staring at the crates, especially the broken one. “I heard there was a delivery this morning, a donation of books.”
“A bequeathment,” Wright corrected and turned to the stacks, his eyes taking on a haunted cast. “From a friend and colleague of mine. To expedite cataloging, I had the crates delivered and secured in the Rare Books Collection. I came to retrieve the lading slip and take it to my office for review. I thought I’d be in and out. ”
Sharyn eyed the crowbar on the floor.
“You’ve been doing more than that,” Ms. Peele scolded.
“True. A quick glance down the list revealed several extremely rare books that I thought should be set aside before we bring in archivists to catalog the collection.”
Sharyn noted most of the boxes had their lids pried off, revealing cloth-wrapped books packed inside and cushioned by dry hay.
Many of the volumes had been unbound to reveal dusty texts with faded titles.
She found herself frowning, recognizing the work had been done hastily.
Several books looked as if they had been haphazardly tossed to the side.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” Ms. Peele asked.
“Not everything.”
Ms. Peele scowled. “If you’re so determined in this pursuit, I can stay until you’re finished.” She waved an arm. “All these heavy boxes. And with your heart condition. You shouldn’t be doing this alone.”
“I’m fine. I can’t ask this of you, my dear. It’s All Hallow’s Eve. It was foolish of me to even begin this task so late. You go home. As I said, I have my own keys. Once done, I can secure the building.”
“Very well, but don’t forget to set the alarm.”
Ms. Peele motioned for Sharyn to accompany her out, but Sharyn nodded to the broken box. “Professor Wright, Ms. Peele is right. This isn’t a task you should be doing by yourself. I’m happy to stay. In fact, I’d love to be the first to see these new books.”
And that wasn’t her only reason.
It’ll be the perfect excuse to skip the night’s party.
“In truth, I could use an extra hand,” Wright admitted. “But perhaps—”
A cell phone rang in his pocket, cutting him off. He pulled it out, checked the number, then stepped aside. “Excuse me. I must take this.”
Ms. Peele drew Sharyn aside. “Your offer is very generous. And you should know you have nothing to fear in being alone with him. He is a most honorable man. Plus, his inclination leans not toward women, if you understand.”
Sharyn smiled at this attempt by the older woman—clearly from another generation—to be discreet. “Thank you for letting me know.”
The woman nodded sagely. “Then I’ll leave you to it.” She touched Sharyn’s arm. “But don’t let him keep you all night. You’re too young and pretty to spend Halloween cooped up in here.”
“If that happens, I’ll have those Exeter ghosts to keep me company.”
Ms. Peele patted her arm. “Ghosts don’t keep you warm at night, my dear.”
True . . .
This was something Sharyn knew all too well. She’d not had a proper date in more than a year, and it had been even longer since someone shared her bed.
Sharyn walked Ms. Peele to the strongroom’s exit and said her goodbyes.
As Sharyn closed the door, Professor Wright’s voice rose behind her, sounding both alarmed and angry. He was speaking German or some other Nordic language. All those hard consonants only accentuated his growing agitation.
Sharyn used this time to collect the boxed atlas and cross to the rows of white steel shelves, all hung on sliders, which could be wheeled apart by black winches on their sides.
She checked the box’s catalog number and returned the atlas to its proper spot.
Luckily, the location had already been left open after the book had been retrieved and delivered to the reading room.
Once done, she stepped out and found Professor Wright’s call had ended. He stood with his back stiff, his cell phone clutched at his side. His gaze stared a thousand yards off.
“Is everything okay?” Sharyn asked.
“No,” Wright mumbled. “Not at all.”
Sharyn inwardly winced. Maybe volunteering here had been a mistake. But she had committed herself.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
The professor shook his head, then his eyes focused on her, pinching somewhat. “Maybe . . .”
He turned and crossed to the broken crate. He retrieved the crowbar and pried off the damaged lid with three strong cranks. “It must be in this last box . . .”
She came over to assist him, but he held her off with a raised palm. He hurriedly yanked out books, parted cloth wrappings, while grimacing in frustration. Then finally he freed one book and ripped away its covering. His shoulders sagged with relief, but his hands shook.
“It’s here.”
He stared at the old volume for a long breath, then rewrapped it with some haste. Sharyn only caught sight of its dark cover and a glint of metal.
Wright stood and stepped over. With his eyes pinched, he stared at her, too long, enough to make her uncomfortable.
Then he finally spoke. “Ms. Karr, as program director, I reviewed your application and transcripts. Read your essay explaining your interest in Exeter’s program.
What impressed me most was your dedication to the written word.
As a librarian—like myself—you recognize the importance of preserving that which is threatened, to protect knowledge that should never be lost.”
She nodded, her mouth gone dry.
“To that end, I must ask for your help. It may be a needless safeguard, but I would rather err on the side of caution.”
“I . . . I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?”
He shoved the wrapped book toward her, his expression pained, as if passing over his firstborn. “You must take this.”
She backed a step, her heart in her throat. “What? Why?”
“I fear it’s not safe here.” He closed on her again, still holding aloft the wrapped volume. “You must hide it. Tell no one where you put it. Not even me until I deem it safe.”
His urgency drew Sharyn’s hands up, forced her to take the book. “Why is this so important?”
“I wish I had more time to explain.” He guided her to the strongroom door, then out into the library. “But perhaps the less you know, the better.”
Sharyn hurried alongside him, struggling with this responsibility, wondering if she should refuse it. But she remembered Ms. Peele’s judgment of the professor: He is a most honorable man.
Clutching the book harder, she made her decision. “What am I to do with it?”
“Don’t attempt to open it. Just keep it safe.”
They reached the exit, and Wright unlocked the door. Before Sharyn could step outside, the professor grabbed her arm.
“If something happens to . . . if you don’t hear from me by the morning, call this number.” He shoved a business card into her hand and clutched it there. “I’m sorry to place this burden on you.”
He freed her hand, pushed her outside, and locked the door. She stared back through the glass, his figure now a dark specter. She suddenly sensed there was more to this matter than he had been willing to admit—which became clearer when Wright pressed his palm against the door.
Muffled words reached her.
“Trust no one.”
Then he was gone.