Chapter One #2
knew much about it, but among those who did, it was very well respected; it was also exceptionally well funded.
I did a little research myself. The Institute’s website was bare bones, but I studied the staff’s headshots and short bios.
I hadn’t met any of them before, or seen them speak at conferences, though I was aware of an excellent publication by one of them: Karen Lynch.
I also couldn’t find them mentioned on sites where students review their professors, which I found curious, but Trevelyan shrugged it off.
“Students tend to leave reviews when they have something to complain about. Maybe theirs don’t. ”
Maybe, I thought, happy to let Trevelyan call that one for me, a decision that seems painfully na?ve to me now.
Professor Cornish arranged to meet me the following week at the offices of The Wimpole Magazine, on the corner of a cobbled, pedestrianized street in Bloomsbury lined with Georgian houses. At street level their elegant,
bowed shop fronts were beautifully kept, and the old streetlamps gave the scene the half-real quality of a film set.
The magazine occupied a whole house, on the corner, five stories tall. A brass plaque beside the door announced it discreetly.
I was curious to see inside, because the magazine was over a century old and highly esteemed in niche academic circles. The
joke went that it had more footnotes than subscribers.
I rang the buzzer at 11 a.m. precisely. It was genteel and shabby inside, two small, cluttered offices downstairs, a staircase
in the narrow hallway between them. I climbed to the second floor, as directed. Professor Cornish stepped onto the landing
as I reached the top, as if she’d been listening for me.
“Dr. Brown?”
“Yes. Anya Brown.”
Her smile was warm, and her handshake firm. She was poised, a slender brunette, with smooth, olive skin and lively eyes. I
guessed she was in her late thirties. Her hair hung long and loose in soft, glossy curls, and she was darkly chic, wearing
all black except for a colorful silk scarf tied at her neck.
“Diana Cornish,” she said. “Call me Diana.”
She showed me into a corner room with windows on two walls, looking south and west. Leather-bound collections of the magazine
going back a hundred years filled rows of bookshelves. We sat in high-backed armchairs on either side of an elegant fireplace,
its marble surround carved with a riotous frieze of Bacchanalian figures. It was out of place among the stiff furnishings.
She fixed me with a bright gaze. “I expect it’s very likely that on paper St. Andrews may not be your first choice for the
next step of your career, but I’m hoping I can convince you to change your mind.” Her half smile hinted that she knew something
I didn’t. “We recruit very rarely, because we can afford to wait years for the right candidate, Dr. Brown, and we think that’s
you.”
Mortifyingly, I blushed and muttered, “Please, call me Anya.”
“Our institute is unusual because we’re the recipient of a substantial endowment, which gives us valuable independence and
the opportunity to be extremely selective when we recruit staff and students. We make outstanding offers, but only to the
people we really want. Our offers include very generous remuneration and exceptional accommodation. You won’t find that anywhere
else.”
She more than had my attention now. I was as flat broke as any PhD student, and the other universities were offering amazing
jobs but at the usual low salaries.
“Your PhD is remarkable. The sort of breakthrough that happens once in a generation. It makes you a perfect fit for us. As
well as a generous package, we want to offer you the opportunity to develop at St. Andrews. We’ll keep your teaching duties
very light so you can focus on your personal research projects. Whatever you need, including travel, we’ll fully support you.
The endowment ensures that you won’t find yourself in competition for any resources and there’ll be no pressure to publish
frequently. We prioritize quality over quantity.”
“May I ask who endows you?”
“They prefer to remain anonymous.” She smiled warmly. “Any questions?”
“What’s the accommodation like?”
“It’s a very pretty cottage, with two bedrooms, the perfect size for one person, or for a couple. Do you have a partner?”
“My boyfriend is finishing his PhD in computer science at Oxford.”
“We can explore opportunities for him at the university here, if it’s something you’d both like.”
“I’ll talk to him about it,” I said. “That could be amazing.”
“Let me know.” She smiled. “The cottage faces the sea. When you lie in bed you can hear the waves. St. Andrews is a magical
place, Anya.” She had a look in her eye as if she was talking about something she really loved. It was powerful. “There’s
one more thing I should mention: our benefactor has made it known that if we recruit you, and only you, they’ll make available for study an outstanding collection of manuscripts. They’ve been in private hands for centuries
and will be yours to devote your research time to if and only if you accept our offer.”
“Would I have heard of this collection?”
She shook her head. “I doubt it. How about you come and see for yourself?”
The bait she’d cast was irresistible.
“I’d love to.”
Diana
Professor Diana Cornish watched through the window as Anya Brown walked away from the offices of The Wimpole Magazine in the direction of Bloomsbury Square. She had her phone out; she was barely paying attention to where she was going.
The interview had gone well, Diana felt. You couldn’t mistake the spark in Anya’s eye, especially when she’d heard about the collection of manuscripts. Diana was hopeful that she’d done enough to lure Anya to St. Andrews.
In truth, so much work had gone into making this interview happen that failure wasn’t an option.
She picked up her phone. Using an encrypted chat, she sent a message to Professor Alice Trevelyan at Oxford.
It went well, I think. Let me know when you hear from her.
I just did. She’s very excited. Well done!
Diana exhaled lightly, with relief. She was confident in her abilities, but you could never be certain.
She looked up as the magazine’s editor in chief slipped into the room and joined Diana at the window. They watched as Anya
Brown reached the end of the street and waited to cross the road.
“How did it go?”
“Alice and I are hopeful.”
“Alice has heard from her already?”
Diana nodded. “Yes, and it was very positive.”
“That’s a good sign.”
The editor in chief was named Charlotte Craven. Her silver hair was cut into a bob and blown dry in soft waves. She wore a
fitted soft-pink cashmere sweater, discreet yet expensive jewelry, and beautifully cut trousers. Nobody knew quite how old
she was, but her contacts included very influential names from as far back as the seventies.
Charlotte had access to powerful people and back rooms all over the city. She knew everybody who was anybody in the world
of art and antiquities. When she socialized, she dined in the most private of homes. If she went to an exhibition, it was
usually outside of visiting hours, by invitation. In public she was seen only at the most exclusive viewing parties.
In secret, she was also a senior member of a society of women called the Fellowship of the Larks.
Since the Larks considered it safer not to have an official meeting place, when appropriate Charlotte occasionally allowed their business to take place at the magazine.
Anya Brown’s interview was one of those times.
“So, she’ll come to St. Andrews?” Charlotte asked.
“I think so.”
“Any concerns?”
“We need to reassure her that she can take leave in the event her mother’s health deteriorates.”
“Of course.”
“And I dangled an opportunity for her boyfriend, as discussed. Anya’s pretty reserved, but I got the feeling he’s very important
to her, and Alice agrees.”
“We can use that, but can we deliver on the promise of a job for him?”
“Absolutely,” Diana said. “The head of the computer science department at St. Andrews made some unfortunate choices when he
was at a conference recently. We have video he won’t want his family to see, so I’m sure he can come up with something.”
“Could the boyfriend be a danger to us? Given his specialty?”
“Anyone could be a danger to us, and we’ll be keeping a very close eye on them both to make sure things don’t turn out that
way. If you look at it another way, there’s a best-case scenario where we could make use of his skills, depending on how things
turn out, of course.”
“True. I like your optimism. Let’s hope it’s not misplaced. We should get Anya up to St. Andrews as soon as possible to seal
the deal.”
Diana nodded.
Charlotte took her seat behind the desk. “I have news.”
“What news?”
Charlotte smiled. “Eleanor Bruton is dead.”
Diana felt a rush of emotions: relief and elation that the Kats had been so stupid as to let Eleanor be found so easily, and regret that she’d been denied the chance to tell Eleanor what a talentless, dreary little dishwasher she was before she died.
“Now, that is good news,” she said.
“I thought you’d be pleased.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Where did they find her?”
“A privately owned island in the Western Isles.”
“Did she have the embroidery?”
“Yes. Do you want to see it?”
“Of course.”
Charlotte removed a slender box from her desk drawer and handed it to Diana. Nestled inside was a fragile fragment of embroidery,
the upper edge ripped away along a diagonal. What remained was decorated with three complete roundels, one in the center and
the others lower left and lower right, each containing a profile of a different woman. A partial roundel, upper right, contained
just a woman’s neck; her head had been torn away. The roundels were surrounded by densely sewn and very detailed foliage.
Beneath each one was a letter—an initial relating to the women depicted?—woven into the foliage, almost obscured by it. She