by Ellery Adams
“It contains numerous references to the Knights Templar.” Uncle Aloysius looked at Parrish. “Because your order stole the suitcase, didn’t they?”
Parrish didn’t bother trying to refute the remark. “My grandfather, to be specific. However, he didn’t return to England with its contents as instructed. He continued his travels and, not long after his African trip, met with a fatal accident climbing the Alps.”
Jane nearly choked on a piece of grilled shrimp. “Can’t you see? There are too many deaths in our families. The way things have been done is wrong. Seriously wrong.”
Uncle Aloysius put a hand over hers. “This is not the time, my dear.”
“George Vanderbilt was once a Guardian,” Parrish said, ignoring Jane’s outburst. “After his death, his collection was moved from Biltmore to one of his homes in New York. A cousin became the new Guardian. Mr. Cecil knew Vanderbilt’s secret, and because he was an honorable man, he kept it to himself. He was later recruited to join Mr. Alcott’s faction.”
Jane focused on Parrish. “How soon after your grandfather wrote that letter to Cyril did he have his accident?”
“A week after it was postmarked.”
Jane sucked in a breath. “The two men must have met. Your grandfather gave Cyril the contents of the lost suitcase, and Cyril hid those papers somewhere in Storyton Hall. For whatever reason, they saw eye-to-eye on the need to hide Hemingway’s work. You need to share your theory on the contents of that suitcase, Mr. Parrish. We’re missing something. So tell us, what had to be hidden?”
Parrish scanned the room. Historians occupied every table. They were all eating and chatting. No one was even looking their way.
“I believe that war is the key,” said Parrish. “Hemingway was a war hero. He was a war correspondent. My guess is that he’d written something the United States government would disapprove of. It’s just a theory.”
Because Parrish had shared his nugget of information, Jane decided to reward him with one of her own. “I have a theory too. I believe your grandfather and Cyril met at Giant’s Castle in South Africa. Afterward, Cyril flew home and hid the papers. Your grandfather continued his travels.”
A greedy gleam surfaced in Parrish’s eyes. “Giant’s Castle. Of course.” He turned to Uncle Aloysius. “The clue to Hemingway’s work must be somewhere in the Safari Room. Not in a book, though. We’ve searched every book. Where else could a man hide a roll of papers?”
Jane had never heard such emotion in Parrish’s voice, but his excitement was contagious. Uncle Aloysius swallowed the last bite of his sandwich, gulped down some tea, and told Jane to stop by the Safari Room when she could.
As much as Jane wanted to poke around her ancestral home in search of a literary treasure, she had too much to do to help the staff prepare for the Victory Gala. The historians had booked nearly every room in Storyton Hall, and she wanted their final event to be memorable.
She took a quick peek in the Great Gatsby ballroom and saw that six men had mounted high ladders to string a huge net holding red, white, and blue balloons to the ceiling. The decorations were simple. There were balloons, paper flowers, and crepe streamers. The tables surrounding the dance floor were covered with white cloths and patriotic bunting. The same bunting hung from the long tables where the kitchen staff would set out punch bowls, water pitchers, and colorful cocktails.
Other than centerpieces of roses, mixed greens, and small American flags, there were no other decorations. Jane found the end result amazingly festive. She could almost hear the band playing and see couples gliding across the dance floor.
Suddenly, she felt a presence behind her and swung around.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” said Michael Murphy. “I was just sticking my head in. I’m supposed to take pictures for the club newsletter.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Jane said. “There’s something I want to say to you.”
Michael, who’d been surveying the room with approval, looked at Jane. “Oh?”
Jane nodded. “I figured out that you’re one of Parrish’s creatures. Frankly, I was surprised to learn this because I believe you truly care about Robin. Why would you put his life in danger by aligning yourself with Parrish?”
Michael arranged his face into a mask of confusion, but Jane raised her hand. “Don’t bother lying. We’ve spoken with the super of your building.”
There was a long pause as Michael decided how to handle Jane’s accusation. Finally, he moved his hand over his beard and said, “Parrish knows about Robin. That’s why I have to do exactly as he asks. I don’t enjoy answering to that British Beelzebub, but I have to do what he wants to protect the man I love.”
Jane shook her head. “I could understand dying for love, but murdering for it? That’s not exactly noble. Do you think Robin would approve of your being a killer?”
Michael stared at her in horror. “I’ve never hurt anyone. My role is to observe and report. That’s all. I had nothing to do with Ray’s death.”
“Do you steal materials for Parrish? Is your university library missing a few rare books?”
Michael took a step closer, and Jane tensed. She was ready to defend herself if need be. “You have to keep my secret. Please. For Robin’s sake. I’m leaving tomorrow. Just let me go.”
“Who killed Ray?” Jane demanded.
“I don’t know. And even if I did, I couldn’t tell you.”
Jane’s anger, which was never far from the surface as of late, surged through her veins. She thought the force of it must make her glow a bright red. “What about the people who loved Ray? Do they matter less than Robin? What about the lovers and family and friends of all of the people Parrish has had killed? I was at Biltmore for less than seventy-two hours, and during that time, a kind old man died. What if he was someone’s Robin? How can you be so selfish?”
“Because there’s no way out!” Michael’s voice was a desperate whisper. “I joined the order before I met Robin. I thought the Templars were the gallant knights from the books I’d read as a boy. I had no idea how wrong I was until it was too late. By then, I’d fallen for Robin. Men in our order aren’t supposed to have relationships. We’re supposed to be lone wolves. But the heart is a willful organ. Mine insisted on loving Robin, no matter what the cost.”
“My heart is willful too. And my children’s lives were put at risk a few weeks ago. Did you know that your order sanctions the kidnapping of children?”
Michael had the decency to be mortified. “No . . . I . . .” He glanced around the room once more. “I want out, believe me, but I can’t get out.”
“I’ll help you,” Jane said. “I have something Parrish wants very badly. Before I give it to him, I’ll make your freedom part of the bargain.”
“Why?” Michael almost touched her arm but thought better of it and lowered his hand. “Why would you help me after I just admitted to spying on you?”
“If you stay in New York and live happily ever after with Robin, then you’re one less threat I have to worry about,” Jane said. “And despite my better judgment, I like you. You make a mean apricot charlotte.”
Michael managed a small smile. “How do you foresee this going down?”
Jane waved him over to one of the tables. “Have a seat. We have lots to talk about.”
* * *
The attendees of the Victory Gala had been asked to dress their best. Period costume was optional but encouraged. At the time of the 1918 armistice, ladies’ fashion had not yet evolved into the flapper style of the 1920s. Jane wore her flapper dress anyway. It allowed for free movement, and she felt beautiful in it. Mabel, who’d made the dress two years ago, had outdone herself with the detail work. The dress included a formfitting bodice embellished with gold sequins giving way to a skirt of pink fringe. Since the skirt nearly touched the floor, Jane could wear ballet flats instead of heels. It also had two pockets, which meant Jane had a place to store her phone and a small folding knife.
Leaving Sinclair at her house with the twins, Jane walked across the great lawn. The evening air seemed charged with a strange energy, and Jane pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. If Edwin were here, he’d draw her in close, comforting her with his touch.
However, Jane had asked him to meet her in the lobby when it was time to be seated. There was something she needed to do before dinner. And she had to do it alone.
The Isak Dinesen Safari Room was empty. Lamps cast a soft light on the leather reading chairs and sofas, and a fire burned in the hearth. Jane paused for a moment to take in the scent of woodsmoke and pipe tobacco. Of all Storyton’s reading rooms, this was the most masculine. Its wood paneling, dark furniture, and mounted heads sent most of the female guests in search of cozier corners. However, Jane had always liked the exotic feel of the space. She liked the leopard-print pillows and faux zebra-hide rug, the African drums and masks. And though she disliked both the elephant tusks flanking the fireplace and the animal-head trophies, Uncle Aloysius left them intact as proof of his relatives’ folly. He’d also hung framed letters of thanks from various animal-conservation groups as evidence that the Stewards had changed their ways.
Jane walked past the gun case, the glass armoire of Africa weapons, and the bookshelves. She continued on to the farthest corner of the room. She then stopped to gaze up at a mounted antelope head.
Unlike the other heads, this one was missing the plaque listing its name, the date, and the place where it had been brought down. Jane stared into the animal’s glass eyes and scanned the length of its dark horns. It was an eland. She’d read about the animals that morning while researching San rock art. The eland was a major food source for the San people and had always been treated with the utmost respect.
In a room like this, with its impressive elephant tusks and massive buffalo heads, the eland was easily overlooked. Jane had overlooked it for years. She’d never been curious about it at all. She’d never wondered why it didn’t have a plaque like the other trophies, or why it had been stuck in this shadowy corner.
“You came home with Cyril Steward, didn’t you? We thought you were just another hunting prize, but you’re so much more.” Jane carefully removed the head from the wall and pried it off its wooden base. “I’m sorry to have to do this,” she said to those doleful black eyes. They stared back at her until she turned the head around, nose pressed against the carpet.
Holding the head by the left horn, Jane took out her knife and plunged it through the piece of felt stretched across the back of the eland’s neck. She repeated the motion again. And once more. When the tear in the fabric was big enough, she thrust her hand into the opening.
Inside the cavity, her fingertips brushed against treasure.
A treasure made of paper.
Chapter Fifteen
Jane felt like the heroine of a mythical tale. After everything she’d been through, she’d found the prize.
Pulling the tight roll of papers out of the opening, she realized that some people wouldn’t consider Hemingway’s lost writing the least bit valuable. But to book lovers, it was more precious than a mountain of diamonds.
Jane removed the rubber band encircling the papers, and they sprang open. Carefully flattening them with both hands, her eyes latched onto the first sentence of the top page.
“‘Nick Adams was in the boat with his father,’” she read aloud. “‘His father rowed while Nick watched the sun rise through the trees.’”
She paused to take in the enormity of this moment. In her hands was an original, undiscovered work by Ernest Hemingway. Nick Adams was one of Hemingway’s first characters, and many literary critics believed Nick’s stories were a reflection of Hemingway’s own coming-of-age experiences.
“The published stories came from a later draft,” she said to the papers. “You’re the originals.”
The roll contained typewritten pages, carbon copies, and handwritten pages. Seeing the cursive letters that had flowed directly from Ernest Hemingway’s pen was overwhelming. Jane was so moved that tears beaded her eyes.
“You found them,” came a voice from the center of the room.
Jane looked up to find Parrish standing on the faux zebra rug. With the fireplace behind him, he was little more than a dark silhouette, but Jane could see the feverish glint of his eyes.
Parrish started walking toward Jane. “Give them to me.”
His movements were predatory, and Jane heard his unspoken threat.
“I will,” she said, getting to her feet as fast as she could in her dress. “I just want to see what’s here. I already read through this pile”—she held out a thin stack—“so you can take a look at that. I’ll be done with the rest in a moment.”
Parrish snatched the proffered papers from her hand. Gone was the genteel calm. Gone was the emotionless veneer. Parrish’s true nature was on full display. His avarice. His ruthlessness.
He’s my enemy, Jane thought. That will never change.
While Parrish was preoccupied with the papers, Jane reached into her pocket and pressed the call button on her phone. She then pulled out her folded knife. She opened it behind her back, revealing the short but deadly blade.
Parrish was oblivious to all but the thin sheaf of papers Jane had given him. He drank in the words, his face radiant with triumph. His fingers were trembling, and the soft rustle of pages echoed the crackle of the fire.
If Jane liked Parrish even the tiniest bit, she would have enjoyed seeing how much pleasure this discovery gave him. He was a bibliophile. But more than that, he was a collector. He would keep Hemingway’s words to himself. He would never share this treasure with the world.
Jane glanced down at the top page of the stack she’d held back from Parrish. It wasn’t a piece of fiction but an article. Hemingway had been a war correspondent at the time he’d written it, and its contents would have shocked the readers of the Toronto Star and many Americans as well.
Hemingway had always claimed that he moved to Paris to be in the middle of the literary scene—not because he was disenchanted with America. He declared himself to be a staunch patriot. However, this article made it clear that his experience with war, including his injury, had changed him. He criticized the treatment of veterans and described the terrible effect war had on civilians. He also wrote that while war was meant to bring justice and restore order, he saw no proof of that. The more he knew of war, the more he witnessed injustice and chaos. The article was a brutally honest piece that would have no doubt created an uproar had it been published.
“What did you just read?” Parrish asked.
“An article,” said Jane. “You were right. He wrote a controversial piece on war.” She passed over the article while holding back the remainder of the pages. “Why Hemingway?”
Without glancing away from the paper in his hands, Parrish said, “What?”
“You’re British. There were Lost Generation writers from England. Why not collect Aldous Huxley? And why did your grandfather and Cyril Steward feel the need to hide Hemingway’s article?”
Parrish smirked. “You can’t understand the effect the Great War had on my country. The loss of life. Of income. Of security. My family lost our house and factory in a German airship raid. That day, we lost everything. Our home, our collection of priceless art and books.” He shook the pages. “Something like this might discourage men from enlisting in the next war. Where would that have left England? What was needed were headlines shouting “Halt the Hun” and “Back the Empire.” Not this lily-livered ‘war is hard’ nonsense. The soldiers in my family—the men who’d seen all the things Hemingway saw—they had to sign up for the next war. If not them, they had to send their sons. We couldn’t have them cowering in their closets. Hemingway’s duty was to paint military men as heroes. He did that better than anyone. That’s why I collect his work. That’s why this had to stay secret.”
Parrish was right about her lack of experience with war. Jane hadn’t lost a family member to war. S
he hadn’t spent terrifying nights huddled in a bomb shelter. And she hadn’t watched an air raid turn her home into a pile of rubble.
“Hemingway once said that the first draft of anything is shit.” Jane pointed at the pages in Parrish’s hands. “The loss of that suitcase didn’t break him. He kept writing. He held on to the ideas from these pages and rewrote them. He went on to write his first novel. He wrote dozens of other articles.”
“Do you have a point, Ms. Steward?” Parrish’s voice was a contemptuous growl.
Jane considered covering Parrish’s smug face with the eland head, but she mastered her annoyance and said, “Hemingway didn’t write any of this for you. He wanted his writing to be read. Hide the article if you must. But the rest of his work? It’s unconscionable to lock it away.”
Parrish responded by holding out his hand and crooking his fingers in a “gimme” gesture.
“If I give these to you, you will leave my family alone for the rest of your days.” Jane gave Parrish a hard stare. “And you will also release Michael Murphy from your order.”
“He has proven to be such a disappointment.” Parrish narrowed his eyes. “Give me the papers. Now.”
Jane didn’t flinch. “This is just the beginning for you, isn’t it? One Storyton Hall treasure will never be enough. I’ll never be rid of you.”
“If you don’t hand them over, you’ll die. It’s quite simple, really.”
Setting the papers down on a side table, Jane brandished her knife. “I don’t think so.”
Parrish flicked his eyes at her weapon before pulling a pistol from the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Haven’t you heard the line, don’t bring a knife to a gunfight?”
“Looks like she brought both,” said the man standing behind Parrish.
Parrish swung around to find Michael Murphy aiming a revolver at his chest.
Jane could have used the distraction to plunge her knife into Parrish’s side. She could have driven her blade right between his ribs. Except she wasn’t Parrish. She was not a killer. Despite everything Parrish had done—orchestrating the abduction of her sons, imprisoning Edwin, and ordering the deaths of multiple people, she couldn’t hurt him. Instead, she scooped up some of the white paper that had been stuffed inside the eland head and shoved it into her pocket. She had another plan to stop her enemy.
