by R D Hathaway
She easily found a parking place, grabbed her bag and headed for the Administration Building. Her long legs reached out in strong steps as she swung one arm to match her stride.
“Excuse me,” she said to a student. “Where is the admin building?”
The student turned without stopping and pointed at the castle-like structure. “There,” he said.
Reaching the entrance, she jerked open one of the large wooden doors and stepped into a quiet, cold marble reception area. She scanned the interior for an office to begin her inquiry.
She walked up to a counter where a petite woman who looked about sixteen stood on the other side. She was sorting ledger-sized sheets of paper on the counter and humming.
The girl looked up. “Hi, can I help you?”
“Yes, thanks. I need some information on a professor. He worked here a long time ago. Back in the 1920’s, I think. How would I get that information?”
The student’s smile drifted away. She turned and looked at a large, older woman wearing a bright blue sweater, a dark brown skirt extending several inches below her knees, and white athletic shoes.
“Mrs. Knoche, this lady needs some information about a professor —” She interrupted herself and turned to Rennie. With confusion on her face she asked, “— in the Twenties?”
Mrs. Knoche looked over her reading glasses and plodded toward the counter. Her ample size and side to side tilting as she moved seemed to make every step an effort. She offered a polite but cool smile.
“How can I help you?”
“Hi, my name is Rennie Haran. I’m with the Des Moines Record and I’m doing some research on a professor who was with Simpson back about 1920. His name was Matthias Justus.”
“How do you spell that?” the old woman asked with an old coffee-flavored breath.
“Matthias? Well, I …” Rennie began.
“No, miss, The last name. Is it Justice as in the legal system? J-u-s-t-i-c-e?” The woman slowly removed her reading glasses and folded them.
“I don’t recall, but I don’t think so,” Rennie responded.
“Well, it might be,” the woman offered with a hint of sarcasm.
“Then again, it might be J-u-s-t-u-s, for I believe we had a professor with that name.”
Rennie’s jaw tightened. “Let’s go with that Miss, what’s your name again?”
“Knoche, and that’s Mrs. Knoche.”
“What can you tell me regarding Professor Justus?”
“When and what did you need, Miss? We’re closing out the semester and there is much to do for our students.” A cool smile curled Mrs. Knoche’s lips.
“Just the basics would be fine; when he was here, what he taught. That stuff.”
“Fine. You can sit on the bench over there while I see what we have.”
The woman turned, walked to a microfiche machine and sorted through small pieces of film in a wooden box. She examined one through her glasses and slipped the film into a machine tray. A bright light lit up the screen, and Mrs. Knoche maneuvered the film around the screen.
Rennie stifled a laugh. Easing onto the bench, she checked her phone for calls and messages while glancing to see if dear old Mrs. Knoche had something for her.
After several minutes, Rennie heard her say, “Ah, yes. Here it is.”
Rennie hurried to the counter and watched the woman write a few items on a slip of paper.
She returned to the counter and read from her notes.
“Mr. Justus, J-u-s-t-u-s, was with Simpson from July of 1917 until August of 1923. He was chair of the Department of Religious Studies, taught Greek, and he was a guest lecturer at Iowa State University on the languages of ancient Greek, Latin, Aramaic, and Coptic.”
Rennie jotted a few notes. “Is that it? Anything about his death or heirs or belongings? Where’s he buried?”
“That’s what we have. Personal details are not in our records If you would like more information, I recommend you go to the library and ask for Miss McGrady. She’s Chief Librarian and responsible for the archives.”
Rennie put away her notebook and took a few steps to leave. The words “Oh, miss,” hit her in the back of the head. She looked back at the woman and returned to the counter. This time Mrs. Knoche did not attempt to fake a smile.
“Please keep in mind that the stories of our faculty are not the story of this college. This is a good United Methodist school. We don’t get involved in such things.”
Mrs. Knoche looked to the side to see how close the student was to her. “There’s a sort of history understood here regarding questions that were raised about the professor. So, no shall we say ‘remembrance’ of him is in the college records. Professor Justus may have come in touch with something evil, miss. It should be left alone.”
Rennie studied the woman’s face, seeking clues to a sudden mystery. “What do you know that I should leave alone?”
Mrs. Knoche shifted some papers around and pursed her lips. “I wasn’t here at the time of course, but reports were that two women from England returned with his remains and oversaw a memorial service and his burial. Two women from England. The professor’s wife and child had died just months earlier.”
Rennie and Mrs. Knoche held direct eye contact for what seemed like a long time.
Finally, Rennie said, “men.”
She backed away. “Thanks. If I need to check back with you, should I call or stop by?”
Mrs. Knoche’s expression remained serious. “This is where I am.”
Rennie exited and stopped after going down a few steps. She looked up at the sky. “Such things?” she said softly. “Two women from England? What the heck —?” her voice trailed away.
She asked a couple of students walking by for directions to the library. “Oh, Dunn? That’s my favorite place,” the young woman gushed. “It’s right down there.”
Rennie hurried through the double door entry into the library and paused. Off to the right was a small pool with a fountain spraying softly onto the surface of the water. She walked to a long counter on the left and told the young man behind it that she was looking for Miss McGrady.
“Sure, hold on,” he said and turned and walked through a doorway.
Rennie tapped on the counter and adjusted the strap of her bag. She thought about Mrs. Knoche’s reference to “something evil.”
A woman about thirty came through the doorway and approached the counter. Her blond hair was pulled back in a stereotypical librarian bun. She wore heavy, navy blue framed glasses. She moved with grace but also a sense of determination.
“I’m Angie McGrady. How can I help you?” Rennie introduced herself and explained what she was looking for.
“I’ll see what I can find and then call you. May I have your number?”
Rennie took a business card out of her leather case and set it on the counter. “Do you have any idea how long it may take? I could wait a few minutes.”
“I’m tied up with something right now, but I can call you tomorrow. May I ask why you need this information?”
Darned good question lady.
“Well, my editor heard that this professor was an interesting story, and he asked me to look into it. I really don’t know anything about the guy. If you could help me with a little information, I’d appreciate it. I have more contemporary stories to pursue.”
A point of curiosity shot through Rennie’s mind. “Angie, has Mrs. Knoche been with Simpson for a while?”
“Oh, my gosh, yes,” she said brightly. “She’s been here since the sixties. In fact, the woman before her had been here for about fifty years. The two of them handled the whole twentieth century.” Angie’s eyes widened.
“I’ll bet they knew about everybody and everything.”
“Maybe so,” Angie said. “I’m afraid I need to get back to something. I’ll call yo
u soon about those records.”
The drive back to Des Moines seemed much longer than the trip to Simpson. Rennie wondered what Mrs. Knoche knew about Professor Justus. She appeared to be worried that something might come out that could harm the college, or even worse. What did this person do, or what did the college do to him? He died or was killed in London. She spoke of something evil.
“Now, what’s up with that?” Rennie demanded of her windshield.
Back at the office, she called her friend John in the newspaper’s archives section. Rennie told him of the annoying assignment she had received and that she could use a little help with any information the paper might have on the professor. He said he would see what he could find. Rennie hung up and felt a growing rush of energy for other projects.
By five o’clock, she had forgotten about her mystery professor. She was ready to say “goodbye” to Monday. As she lifted her bag, her telephone rang. She looked back at the phone and closed her eyes for a moment. When it rang again, she grabbed it.
“Rennie Haran.”
“Miss Haran, this is Angie McGrady. I found a lot of material here on your professor. Newspaper clippings, some old leather files, books. Three good-sized boxes of stuff. It’s rather musty, but it does look interesting. For example, did you know that British royalty came here for his burial?”
Rennie stiffened.
She continued. “I’ve set it all up in a workroom here. It’s locked and you can look at it whenever convenient. Just ask at the counter for the key. They have your name.”
Rennie’s eyes darted with interest. “Okay. Thanks, Angie. I’ll be down soon.”
British royalty, in Indianola, Iowa?
San Francisco, CA
The Present
I / 4
“Mr. Sfumato, Michael is on line one.”
“Thank you, Tina.”
For a man of seventy, Charles Sfumato moved swiftly and with grace across his expansive, walnut-paneled office. The plush carpeting muffled each step. His fingers grasped an ornate, gold telephone receiver, lifting it from the cradle. The movement was reflected off the polished, black marble surface of a large desk.
He eased into the burgundy leather comfort of his chair. His other hand, speckled with brown spots across long hills of veins, reached up to display manicured fingertips. Gently tugging on the cuff of a fine linen sleeve, he appreciated an ancient, silver coin framed in a circle of gold holding the cuff together.
Sfumato placed the telephone against his ear. The silver hair of his sideburn swept back against the gold edge of the phone. A slight smile parted his lips. “Hello, Michael, how are things in London?”
The man on the line expressed his frustrations with working through bureaucracies and unhelpful people.
Sfumato lifted an ivory pen from a notepad made of parchment. “Yes, I understand. I appreciate your recent efforts to find the documents. I’m not surprised there is such disarray in the records of the British Museum. For all the decades we have been searching for this holy treasure, their custodians have probably stacked another undocumented and dusty relic on top of it.”
“That would not be a surprise, sir. Finding any consistent records is a challenge, as well.”
“Yes, and the warehouses are as bad. Our people who have been inside were baffled by what they found in the storerooms. We must not give up, though. Nothing in all of history compares with these documents. Nothing is more holy.”
Adjusting the reading glasses over his tired eyes, he listened to Michael’s continued report on their efforts. Disappointed, he laid down the pen without putting ink on the pad. “It’s okay, Michael. We’re not the only ones who haven’t been successful in this hunt. I’m pursuing another avenue of opportunity. It’s here in the States. I’ve been in contact with a friend in the vicinity of a college in Iowa, where the professor came from. I’m embarrassed I had not thought of it before.”
“But, sir,” Michael queried, “didn’t you have someone go to the college long ago?”
“Yes, very long ago. But the library was being renovated and no one could access the records. It was poor timing. Besides, they could find no family and the few on campus who remembered the professor were either discreet or hostile.”
“Might this new inquiry risk disclosure, sir?”
“I’m certain they are unaware of the real story. Only a few of us have that privilege. If anyone else knew of the treasure lying on some shelf or in some old file cabinet, the media would hear of it. There would be a search with the fervor of a reality television show. We, of course, would be characterized as the evil doers, slithering through the dark to destroy the Word of God. Of course, there are some like that.”
Michael laughed, “It’s interesting how so many people get lost in the drama of an issue and miss the purpose.”
“My friend, the emotion of beliefs often gets in the way of pragmatism, but it can also raise the price!”
Sfumato’s voice softened to a whisper. “Let’s not forget our competition and what they’ll do to stop us and anyone else. We need not have any stones thrown in our path or pushed down our throats. That brutality must stop. Seth has demonstrated his ruthless ways from London to Cairo. We must remember that he also has had people placed in the museum. They are dangerous people. You must be safe.”
Extending his free arm and turning his wrist, he studied a large, platinum watch, observing the second hand smoothly sweep across the mother-of-pearl face of time. “It’s time for the morning fog to reveal the Golden Gate. You must come to San Francisco and see it. Let’s look forward to celebrating the addition of the documents to my collection. It will be our little secret, but we will celebrate with enthusiasm. Michael, please be careful. I sense that we may have to finally confront Seth and whoever else interferes. Great harm may be on the horizon for some. Update me on anything new in London. I’ll let you know what I hear from Iowa.”
London, UK
1923
I / 5
Matthias paused to enjoy the smell of fresh bread before he stepped into the kitchen. It was the beginning of his fourth day in London, and he already felt at home. The owner of the boarding house, Mrs. Whitley, had been helpful in getting settled in.
He watched her shove a stick into the oven and then wipe her hands on her apron. A short, plump woman, she moved with quick precision around the kitchen. He took a deep breath, savoring the fragrance of the fresh, hot bread. “Ah, that smells so good!”
Mrs. Whitley whirled around and placed her fists on her hips. “Professor Justus, is that what they do in America?”
Matthias stammered, “Oh, sorry, ma’am. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just enjoying the fragrance of the bread.”
She nodded her approval. “Well then, professor, come in then. What would you like for breakfast? This is a big day for you, your first day on a new job.”
Matthias sat at the kitchen table. “Yes, it is, a very big day for me, indeed.”
She took out a fresh loaf of bread and began to slice it. “Just you don’t let that cousin of mine run you ragged.”
“No, ma’am, I won’t.”
Turning back to the cabinet, she continued with her work. She brought him a plate with two slices of fresh bread and marmalade, a small slab of butter, and an apple.
“Coffee, then?” she asked. “And, I suppose your being from, where is it —?”
“Iowa.”
“Oh, yes, Iowa. Do you drink milk or juice or something more?”
“Yes, ma’am. All those. Thank you.”
Matthias felt like a little boy at his grandmother’s table.
“Professor, what brought you here to London? It’s awful far from America to work for a few months.”
“Yes, America is far away, and I wish the work could be for a longer period. This is a rare opportunity for me to work in what mig
ht be the most prestigious museum in the world and on a project of historic significance. The documents from Oxyrhynchus could offer profound insights into ancient times.”
Deep in thought, he stirred his coffee. “I experienced a tragedy back in Iowa, and the dean of my college thought it might be good for me to have a sabbatical. He learned of the need at the museum for help on this project and made inquiries. With much good fortune, I was accepted.”
Mrs. Whitley moved through the kitchen more quietly than before. Finally, she asked, “Do you know how to get to the museum?”
“Yes, I strolled over there yesterday. It’s an impressive sight.”
Mrs. Whitley cleared vegetables from the counter and wiped it with a small, heavy cloth.
“Mrs. Whitley? I wonder if I may ask you about Mr. Warrington.”
She rinsed her hands in the sink. “Of course, but I can’t talk about Kenny as ‘Mr. Warrington.’”
“I was wondering if you might tell me a little about him. After all, he will be my boss for a few months.”
As Mrs. Whitley sliced carrots and celery for a stew, she tilted her head from side to side as though she was trying to decide what to say. “Well, Kenny is a good chap I suppose. But, he’s well, —.” Mrs. Whitley turned and stuck a fist against her hip. “I guess you might say he’s a bit stale.”
“How’s that?”
“I think he always believed he would be more than what he is, and if he goes much higher, he has to work around blokes who have education and family history, which he doesn’t have.”
The busy woman ambled across the small kitchen to grab a large pot off a hook on the wall. “Kenny’s job is all he’s ever had, and it’s very important to him. He has no children you know. That job is everything to him, but to many people it’s not much.”
“But, ma’am, he’s the Near Eastern Collections Manager for the Egyptian Bureau of the British Museum. That is quite an accomplishment.”
“Well, professor, if you regard him that way, the next few months will be very good for both of you.”
