Behind the Veil
Kathryn Nolan
Copyright © 2019 Kathryn Nolan
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Faith N. Erline
Cover by Kari March
ISBN: 978-1-945631-45-0 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-945631-46-7 (paperback)
061219
This book is dedicated to my dog Walter, whose adoption day (December 8th) was right in the middle of Behind the Veil’s many drafts. Thank you for distracting me, ripping up half of my writer’s notebook, eating my couch and sitting on my laptop when you wanted my attention.
I couldn’t have done it without you.
Contents
1. Henry
2. Henry
3. Henry
4. Delilah
5. Henry
6. Delilah
7. Delilah
8. Delilah
9. Henry
10. Delilah
11. Henry
12. Henry
13. Delilah
14. Henry
15. Delilah
16. Henry
17. Delilah
18. Delilah
19. Henry
20. Henry
21. Delilah
22. Henry
23. Delilah
24. Delilah
25. Henry
26. Delilah
27. Henry
28. Delilah
29. Henry
30. Henry
31. Delilah
32. Henry
33. Delilah
34. Henry
35. Delilah
36. Henry
37. Delilah
38. Delilah
39. Delilah
40. Henry
41. Delilah
42. Henry
43. Delilah
44. Henry
45. Henry
46. Delilah
47. Henry
48. Delilah
49. Delilah
50. Henry
51. Henry
52. Delilah
53. Henry
Epilogue
Dear Readers
A note from the author
Acknowledgments
About Kathryn
Hang Out With Kathryn!
Books By Kathryn
1
Henry
Oxford, England
“More whiskey, Henry?” Bernard asked, holding up a tumbler of amber liquid.
“Certainly,” I replied, gripping the glass to keep my fingers still. Part of me needed the liquor to quiet my rattling nerves.
Part of me worried I’d never keep the whiskey down. Not with what I was about to do.
“Lovely conversation as always,” Bernard mused, standing up with his cane to place another log in his fireplace. I was the remaining guest at tonight’s dinner party; an event he held every week for a variety of distinguished faculty and visitors. But I was usually the last person to leave, content to share a glass of whiskey with my mentor as the fire died down. “Elizabeth seems able to discuss Plato until we’re all blue in the face, although I love a good debate over The Republic as much as the next person.”
“I agree,” I managed, even as my heart leapt in my throat. Bernard Allerton was the most famous librarian in the world. He was remarkably brilliant and possessed a visionary spirit that had done more for the field of antiquities than any other. For the past decade, he had also been my boss and close personal mentor.
And tonight I was here to accuse him of being a thief.
I watched him struggle to lift the log with gnarled fingers and spotted hands. At seventy, Bernard Allerton still commanded the attention of everyone in the room; he had a silver mustache and piercing eyes that never missed a single detail. But his limp had increased this past year, the hunch in his back more pronounced. His cane was an ever-present accessory now. It was hard to believe such a man would ever have the audacity to age—yet even I had to admit his spryness was ebbing away.
The effort it took him to lift a single log evoked such a wave of sympathy I almost didn’t say the words.
“Maybe next week,” he began, slightly out of breath, “I’ll invite that new history professor—”
“Tamerlane is missing, Bernard,” I said.
There was a distinct shake in my voice. Even so, the words hung like a solitary gunshot in the air. He went absolutely still at the fireplace, the log forgotten.
“I’m sorry?” he said. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
He didn’t turn around. A few seconds ticked by as I gathered my courage.
“The library’s copy of Tamerlane and Other Poems is missing. Gone. Unless you stored it someplace different and forgot to tell me?”
He drummed his fingers on the mantle. “A book can’t just disappear, Henry. It must be somewhere.”
“That’s the thing,” I continued. “It was supposed to be stored for cleaning for another few months, per the conservation calendar.” A calendar that I kept. “But a professor at Oxford requested a viewing so I went searching for it earlier than scheduled.”
It was a crucial misstep on Bernard’s part; a vital unraveling of the threads of fate that had me exposing the flaw in his careful crime.
“I don’t know how—” he said, sounding frail. He hunched over as though I’d struck him.
“I know you took it.”
Regret tightened my throat. I’d practiced those words in the mirror a dozen times this morning, but they still sounded foreign to my ears. Because I wanted Bernard to be innocent.
My mentor was curved over the fireplace, looking sickly.
“I know you stole it. And I’ve been watching you. You’ve taken much more than the Tamerlane. You’ve stolen—”
“Stop talking.”
Bernard’s tone was sharp as glass.
In slow motion, I watched him pull his spine straighter than I’d seen it in years. He let his cane fall to the ground with a whack. Then he turned to me with a look of mocking bemusement. If a herd of zebras had swarmed through the room, I wouldn’t have been more surprised, more appalled at the transformation happening before my eyes.
My frail, benevolent mentor appeared to be aging backward. And when his narrowed, piercing eyes assessed me, they clearly found me lacking.
He laughed.
My fingers gripped the chair, attempting to tether myself to some kind of reality. “I’m hard-pressed to find the humor here, Bernard.”
“For someone so young, you certainly do have poor short-term memory,” he said, smiling. He strode confidently through his flat into a back office. He returned with a sheet of crisp, white paper. “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to remind you of this. But you’ve left me no choice.”
I sat forward in my chair. “What are you talking about?”
With one finger—and a taunting arch of his brow—he slid the paper across the gleaming mahogany table until it was right in front of me. “I’m surprised you’ve forgotten.”
I read the words on the page. Fear slithered up my spine.
“This is to confirm that the following work, Tamerlane and Other Poems by Edgar Allen Poe, has been officially withdrawn from the McMasters Library of Oxford as part of a recent de-accession.”
Books that had been withdrawn from libraries were free to be sold and bought by the public—a rare book dealer would take this as proof that the manuscript had been purchased legally.
And at the bottom of the sheet, my signature: “Dr. Henr
y Finch, Special Collections Librarian.”
I looked up at Bernard, who seemed to flutter before my eyes like a bad hologram.
Blink: Bernard the visionary. My mentor. My professional hero.
Blink again: Bernard the criminal. Bernard the forger.
A deluge of contradicting memories washed over me. He was the consummate host, and these weekly dinners were like a modern-day salon—a place where philosophy and politics were discussed over glasses of fine wine. It wasn’t odd for him to refer to me as his “young successor” at these dinners, confirming what every staff member at the McMasters Library already knew.
But I had thought Bernard Allerton had taken me under his wing for a purpose: to ensure I could take his place as Head Librarian when the time came for him to retire.
And now the truth hit me in the face like a bucket of freezing ice water.
Bernard had taken me under his wing so I could take the fall for him if he needed it. He had made me complicit in these crimes.
“I’ve…I’ve been watching you,” I said, voice shaking harder now. “I have proof. I’ll tell the police I didn’t sign this.”
Bernard shrugged, removing a piece of lint from his cuffs. In the span of three minutes, Bernard now appeared ten years younger. “That’s of no concern to me, Henry. I’ll tell them that you did.”
My mouth was dry. “There are others. I’ve been inventorying our collection. Pages, sections, whole books are gone now. You took them.”
Even as I’d prepared to confront my boss this evening, I had doubted myself. I wasn’t a detective, I wasn’t a police officer—what did I know about gathering evidence? And I’d seen this man cradle rare manuscripts as though they were newborn infants: with the greatest care, with the greatest love. He inspired me to seek greatness every single day, to value rarity above all else.
Had that been fake too?
“And I have similar letters with your signature for every single item.” He took a deliberate sip of whiskey. When he leaned forward, his next words dripped with condescension. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m an amateur, Dr. Finch.”
A powerlessness shuddered through my entire body. I hadn’t considered anything past my confrontation with Bernard—because deep down, I’d hoped to be either wrong or witness to a tearful confession and a promise to change.
So stupid.
“This is bigger than you,” he continued. He stared at me, pinning me to the spot. The air crackled. How could I ever have thought this man was weak and frail? “And I know you have student loan debt from your many advanced degrees. I know how little librarians make when they’re first starting out.” He shook his head dramatically. “Poor Henry, living far away from his family in England, trying to make some extra money to pay the bills.”
Bernard’s face was blank, chilling, as he lied.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I croaked.
“I’m reminding you of the story I’ll be glad to tell the police, should you do what I believe you are about to do.”
“None of that is true, and you know it.” I reached for my phone, prepared to call the police anyway and give them everything I had on my boss. I expected to see him panic, but my move only seemed to strengthen that bizarre smile.
“Henry, in the ten years we’ve known each other, have I ever led you astray? Professionally-speaking?” he asked, crossing his ankle over one knee.
“No,” I replied, my voice a wispy thread now.
“So, listen to me when I tell you that what you think you uncovered is happening throughout our industry in record numbers,” he said softly. “We have a very special occupation, Henry, with very special access. The works we are responsible for are an expensive commodity.”
I leaned forward, matching his tone. “The works we are responsible for belong to the public and should be free for anyone to see.”
“Five million dollars,” he replied.
I shook my head, picked up my phone again.
“Five million dollars is what I expect to receive from the Tamerlane. There’s a reason why I have four houses in four countries, Henry. The travel, the thrill, the excitement, all the bloody money.” He was grinning wildly now, practically vibrating. “You have two intriguing options this evening. You can call the police—and I will provide them with all of those signed letters you forged before selling off the library’s books.” Bernard held up one finger, then a second. “Or you and I can sell this book together.”
My mind blazed with thoughts of piles and piles of money. Five million dollars was an amount I couldn’t truly comprehend. Not once in my entire career had I ever considered simply taking one of the rare manuscripts I was responsible for. It was as if Bernard had suddenly developed the ability to control my mind—showing me images and desires I’d never once entertained.
My thumb hesitated on my phone, lulled by the siren song of millions of dollars.
“Did you really intend on being a librarian your entire life?” he prodded.
But I refused to answer him, even as the growing restlessness I’d felt this past year tugged at his words. A restlessness I hadn’t quite known what to do with—this sudden need for adventure was shaped so differently from my other passions. I’d left Philadelphia for England to complete my PhD in Library Science at the University of Oxford working at various libraries throughout Europe before securing the job with Bernard at the McMasters Library. So this recent agitation didn’t entirely make sense to me because I’d just spent the past ten years traveling through famous cities and handling some of the rarest manuscripts in the entire world.
“Suit yourself, then,” he finally sighed. “It’s only truly a crime if you get caught.”
I took in the man in front of me—famous in his own right, rich as sin, a celebrated philanthropist. A beloved academic.
That sense of powerlessness reared back, but I shook my head, standing up. Bernard didn’t control my mind.
And he couldn’t control what I was about to do. “I don’t care what you say,” I said harshly. “I’m going to the police now. And I’m calling Louisa.” She was the president of our board. And now I was cursing my own cowardice with not going to her first, cursing the respect I’d carried for Bernard Allerton that had apparently been blinding me for years.
With a smirk, he reached beneath the table, as if pressing something.
His phone rang—a shrill explosion of sound in the hushed room. Someone knocked on his door.
“Enter,” he called to the space behind me. Then he answered his phone with a casual, “Good evening, Louisa. We were just talking about you.”
Goosebumps broke out over my skin.
Bernard’s sharp gaze narrowed past my shoulders. He crooked his finger, and the skin on the back of my neck prickled.
“Oh,” he said—and even I could hear the mock sympathy. “I am so sorry to hear that. How absolutely awful.” I strained to listen, then stopped when I turned and was confronted with a scowling bodyguard that towered over me.
Since when did Bernard have bodyguards?
“Louisa,” I said loudly, hoping she could hear me over the phone, “Bernard has taken the—”
He tapped the paper—the forged document that implicated me in the theft of a book so rare only fifty copies existed in the world.
With a growl, I reached forward to grab it.
The guard stopped me.
Bernard wagged his finger like I was a petulant child. Fury, anger, shame, guilt—all of it welled up inside of me, causing my fists to clench and my vision to darken.
But Bernard was smug and safe with the guard looming behind him.
“So, you’re saying our intern just discovered the Tamerlane is missing?” Bernard said. My mind leapt with this new information. I started to back away, toward the door, toward whatever decision I was going to make next. “Louisa, I hate to jump to conclusions, but this kind of theft usually starts with the staff. The lower staff.”
I was awest
ruck at how deeply off the rails this confrontation had gone.
In the middle of the room, Bernard Allerton stood like a newly crowned king, surrounded by his many books, a decadent fire roaring behind him.
“Yes, I know,” he said soothingly into the phone, “it is horrible when we discover how few people in this world we can truly trust.”
He arched his brow again and held up the forgery.
And I turned on my heel and ran.
2
Henry
Louisa believed I was a liar.
I’d called her as I left Bernard’s flat, barely able to form a coherent sentence. She ordered me to meet her at the library. It was past midnight, and the library glowed with an almost eerie light. I was used to the tranquility of its quiet hallways—but without any patrons, the absence of sound felt menacing.
In her office, I found Louisa frantically digging in a top desk drawer. Pens, rubber bands, sticky notes went flying.
I rubbed the back of my neck as I caught my breath, attempted to pull together the threads of my bizarre tale. As she sifted through desk drawers, nodding along, I confessed my first suspicions of Bernard that had begun a month earlier, tracing them all the way to tonight’s confrontation at his dinner party: the forged letters, his smug confession. Even as I told the story, it felt like it belonged to another person, another life.
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