CHAPTER NINE WHAT THE SCHOLAR STOLE #2
Her final page carried the correct translation: Hermes carries the sealed word beyond the western gate.
Across it, in her father’s ink, appeared the altered phrase.
Mercury bears the silent debt beneath the evening star.
A note beside the change read: Approved.
Retain for oral delivery. Private correction to follow. Gabriel leaned closer.
“That is his hand?”
“Yes.”
“Then he inserted the code himself.”
“At someone’s instruction.”
“Or upon agreement.”
Eleanor opened the next bundle. Receipts.
Some came from Harcourt’s publishing office.
Others bore the names of intermediaries already identified through the Mercury ledger.
Each payment referenced an edition, correction or private commentary.
The sums increased over time. Fifty pounds.
One hundred. Three hundred. Seven hundred and fifty.
Her father had recorded them carefully. He had recorded nothing paid to Eleanor.
Gabriel picked up one receipt by the edge. “This corresponds to the payment Hargreaves traced.”
“The commentary upon damaged passages.”
“Your commentary.”
“Yes.”
The word barely carried. Gabriel set down the paper. His hand remained close to hers upon the desk, near enough to offer contact and far enough to preserve refusal. Eleanor continued. The earliest letters contained threats. One had been written nine years before in an unidentified hand.
Dr. Finch,
The corrected pages attributed to your scholarship bear marks proving another author’s involvement. Publication of those pages would invite questions concerning how much of your celebrated work belongs to the young woman residing beneath your roof.
Provide the requested alterations, and the matter will remain private.
Another promised to reveal Eleanor’s handwriting to rivals unless Dr. Finch prepared a special edition containing specified errors.
A third threatened to inform the Antiquarian Society that the reconstruction praised as his most original contribution had been completed by his daughter.
Eleanor read each letter twice. Her father had been blackmailed.
The knowledge did not bring relief. It complicated hatred, which was almost worse.
“He may have believed exposure would destroy you as well,” Gabriel said.
“Do you believe that?”
“I believe frightened men often call self-preservation protection when another person’s welfare provides a useful disguise.”
Eleanor looked at him. He had not defended her father. He had not condemned him before she finished reading. He simply remained. The later letters changed. The anonymous writer no longer needed threats. Dr. Finch began requesting larger payments.
The alterations demanded in the forthcoming edition require substantial revision and place my professional reputation at risk. The previous compensation is insufficient.
Another:
Access to the original notes will be granted only after confirmation of the appointment discussed.
Another:
My daughter’s Thessalian work remains unpublished and therefore untraceable. Its value exceeds that of the Hermes material. I will not provide copies at the present rate.
Eleanor’s vision narrowed. Her unpublished research.
The Thessalian manuscripts represented five years of work.
She had gathered obscure references, translated damaged fragments and developed an argument concerning women’s religious rites that contradicted three influential scholars.
Her father had dismissed the project as too speculative.
He had been negotiating to sell it. Gabriel read over her shoulder. His face hardened.
“Keep going.”
The final document was a contract. It promised Dr. Edmund Finch a prestigious appointment at the Institute of Classical Studies in Vienna, a substantial annual salary and private accommodation suitable for a scholar of international reputation. In return, he would provide:
Eleanor’s complete Thessalian research.
All original drafts connected to coded editions.
Continued preparation of false translations.
Public denial of any female contribution to his work.
Testimony identifying Eleanor as an unstable copyist should questions of authorship arise.
The contract had not yet been signed. Her father had made corrections in the margins.
He had objected to the salary. Not the lie.
Not the surrender of her work. The salary.
Eleanor lowered the document. For a moment, she heard nothing.
Not the faint ticking of the mantel clock.
Not Gabriel’s breathing. Not even the blood beating in her ears.
Her father had begun as a victim. Perhaps he had been afraid.
Perhaps Vesper had threatened the reputation upon which their household depended.
But at some point fear had become negotiation. Coercion had become opportunity. He had discovered that betrayal paid better than scholarship and begun pricing his daughter’s mind accordingly. Gabriel said her name. Eleanor placed the contract inside her satchel.
“The original manuscripts too,” she said.
“All of them?”
“Everything in my hand.”
“That will take time.”
“Then begin with the oldest boxes. I will photograph—”
She stopped.
Gabriel’s brows rose. “You will what?”
“Copy the receipts.”
“You intended another word.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“This is not the moment to interrogate my vocabulary.”
“Agreed.”
Together, they worked. Eleanor packed original manuscripts into the canvas satchel and a larger document case Gabriel had concealed beneath his coat.
Gabriel copied payment dates, replaced empty spaces with blank paper and resealed bundles so the cabinet would not immediately reveal how much had been removed.
He followed her instructions without attempting to improve them.
When she said leave a letter, he left it.
When she told him to take a receipt, he took it.
When the document case became too full, he did not decide which papers mattered more. He asked her.
The cooperation steadied Eleanor. Her work was moving into her control one bundle at a time.
She had nearly cleared the second shelf when the front door opened downstairs.
Both froze. A male voice spoke in the hall.
Her father. Eleanor looked at the clock.
Half past ten. The German scholar had apparently discussed papyrus with unforgivable efficiency.
Footsteps crossed the entrance hall. Gabriel gathered the loose documents.
“Servants’ stairs,” he whispered.
Eleanor looked at the open cabinet. They could not restore everything in time.
“Take the cases.”
“Eleanor.”
“Do it.”
Gabriel closed the document case and moved it behind the curtain near the window.
Eleanor placed the remaining letters into the cabinet and pushed the door shut, though the lock had not reset.
Footsteps approached the study. Gabriel crossed toward the side door leading to the small map room. Eleanor stopped him.
“No.”
“We cannot be found together.”
“My father will discover the missing papers within minutes.”
“Then we leave before he enters.”
“I am done leaving rooms while men decide what belongs to me.”
The study handle moved. Gabriel’s expression hardened.
He stepped to Eleanor’s side. Not in front of her.
Beside her. The door opened. Dr. Finch entered carrying his gloves and a silver-headed cane.
He had removed his evening hat but still wore formal black, the ribbon of an academic order pinned at his chest. He stopped.
His gaze moved first to Eleanor. Then to Gabriel.
Then to the concealed cabinet behind the desk.
The door stood slightly ajar. Her father’s face lost colour.
“What are you doing here?”
Eleanor looked at him. For years, the question had belonged to him. What was she doing in his study, his lecture, his correspondence or the margins of his career? Tonight, she returned it.
“Reading my work.”
Dr. Finch closed the study door. His hand remained upon the knob.
“Lord Ashcombe.”
Gabriel inclined his head. “Dr. Finch.”
“This is a private family matter.”
“No,” Eleanor said. “It ceased to be private when you sold my translations to a criminal organisation.”
Her father’s gaze snapped toward her. Gabriel remained silent. Dr. Finch walked to the desk.
“Whatever you believe you have found, you do not understand it.”
“I found the threats.”
A flicker of relief crossed his face. It vanished when she continued.
“I also found your negotiations.”
His eyes moved to the satchel at Eleanor’s side.
“You had no right to enter that cabinet.”
“The manuscripts are mine.”
“They were produced beneath my supervision.”
“No.”
“You were a child.”
“I was twenty-two when I completed the Callimachus commentary.”
“I directed your studies.”
“You told me which books you required copied. You did not understand half the corrections.”
Dr. Finch’s mouth tightened. Gabriel shifted slightly. Eleanor felt the movement and lifted one hand without looking at him. Stay. He did. Her father noticed.
Humiliation sharpened his expression. “You have brought this man into my study to witness your disobedience?”
“I brought him because the men to whom you sold my work may decide to protect their investment.”
“I did what was necessary to protect this family.”
“You accepted six payments.”
“I accepted compensation for work published under my name.”
“My work.”
“Work no publisher would have printed from you.”
The bluntness of his answer shocked her more than denial might have done. Dr. Finch placed his cane upon the desk with careful precision.
“You possess talent,” he said. “Considerable talent, which I cultivated at great expense. But talent without position is useless. A young unmarried woman could not submit corrections to Harcourt and expect them to be read. My name granted the work authority.”
“Your name granted you payment.”
“It granted the work influence.”
“Did influence require removing every reference to me?”
“Recognition would have invited ridicule.”