by R D Hathaway
Rennie sat up, staring for a moment at the page. She turned to the next blank page of her notepad and wrote at its top, “Key Players.” She wrote “Priscilla” and drew a line beneath it. Then, she resumed reading.
“There have been times when, in a competitive discourse on some issue of faith, I sensed something ominous in the intensity of his passion. I’m not sure if he has always controlled it. Some people of authority can escape irresponsible behavior.
The power of the church can be a great gift of God or a tool of those who hold the office, and his views tend to suggest the latter is what captures his interest. For him, it is almost as though God’s very presence on Earth exists as the church, and that the good reverend is most ready to assume a divine role in putting heavenly law into effect.
I told him once that I agreed with him on the role of obedience among the faithful but suggested that this is true when the church lives in accordance with Scripture. I was quite surprised when he suddenly tensed. He quickly posited that God’s Holy Spirit flows through the church and its authority, and therefore it cannot be questioned.
I then asked if he considered that he and I were reasonably well schooled in not only the Holy Scripture but its source and surrounding documents. He immediately agreed, lifting his chin high. I asked him if he thought we may disagree on what certain passages may say or mean. He laughed with glee. “Of course!” he exclaimed. So, I quickly followed with the idea that real truth can only rest with the Word and not with those who interpret it.
He was so stunned his eyes seemed to bulge slightly. He turned and walked out of the room without a sound.
I offer no judgment on him, of course, and I accept with humility the many ways God chooses to bring His will into the world. Not only is the harvest great and the workers few, but we need many different skills to bring that harvest in. I am sure God has chosen Reverend Worthy for some special purpose.”
Rennie set the journal aside and turned to her notes. She wrote “Reverend Worthy” on a line, underlined it, and returned to the text.
“A difficult question for all of us is to ask, what was the purpose that God chose us for, and will we honor it or invent one of our own? Sometimes, I wonder if I was created for some little thing, some comment to another in need, or some insignificant duty that later has great portent.”
Rennie sat up and shook her head. “Oh man, not this purpose thing again,” she muttered.
“Men look to great deeds or high office to justify their existence, but Jesus needed neither. That is not to say that healing the blind and lepers and raising the dead are not magnificent beyond what any mortal has ever done. Rather, he did them out of love and to glorify God, not himself. If I, or any of us, know our mission in life, how easy it would be and how well defined our energy would be expressed! So, why am I here?”
Rennie picked up her pen and wrote “Purpose?” in her notebook. She circled it twice. She tapped the pen point on the underlined names and then wrote “Why?” in a margin. Releasing the pen onto the notebook, she looked down at the journal.
“Priscilla is undoubtedly a woman with a mission, and she lives it with gentle goodness, yet focus. I find that to be one of countless admirable traits in her. I am occasionally amused if not shocked with my own hopeful prospect each morning, not for the ancient treasures that I get to examine, but for the mere presence of Priscilla at a nearby desk and for our moments together at lunch.
There is a joyful tension between us. I believe our hopes are not indifferent to where this could ultimately lead. This journey far from Iowa has been restorative to every aspect of my being, and I am grateful beyond measure. What lies ahead can only be good. I feel as though God is preparing me for something wonderful. I am appreciative of the incremental and deliberative way in which God has removed the shroud from my soul and allowed the light of Priscilla and this place to refresh me.
As though nibbling at the crumbs of the most delicious pastry, I have come to learn of Priscilla’s origins and her presence with me at the British Museum. It is a story that we Americans would call true grit. It is astonishing how someone born in poverty, actually living on the grounds of Bethlem, a simple girl as she calls herself and given no encouragement or opportunity, lifts herself up to such a respectable place in society.
She succeeds on attitude and vision. Her intelligence and her manner indicate nothing less than the finest of families as the garden from which she grew. Her delicacy, charm, awareness, and strength, create a purity that leaves all else a mere shadow of being. It would be a grave error for anyone to underestimate her dedication to her vision of a better life for herself and, I am sure, for those she loves.
Our mutual attention to discretion at the museum recently permitted us to take the step of having dinner together on several evenings after work. Here am I, a small town college professor from Iowa walking the streets of London with a most beautiful and enchanting young woman on a summer evening. This is truly what the heart hopes for but can never fully imagine in its glory.
On those evenings, my senses are so heightened that every sound, every taste, every fragrance seemed new and exciting. Even the breeze on my face felt like a caress. I take note of the finest details of her hands and face when I can in discreet ways.
Even at rest, the corners of her mouth appear to be slightly curved up as though a smile was about to break loose. Her nose makes a subtle twitching motion when we are discussing some issue and her mind becomes particularly focused. Her hands and her arms express her ideas in the way a ballerina defines the spirit of the composer. When she sits down at the table and rises again, and when I hear her walk through our work room, the mere sound of her clothing rustling against itself raises within me feelings that I thought were long gone.”
Rennie took a deep breath. “Wow. Matthias, chill out baby.” She grabbed a water bottle from her bag for a quick sip. Rennie stood up, removed the gloves, and walked to the end of the table. She looked back at the journal and gazed across the files and Matthias’ black, leather case. “Things are cooking,’ huh Professor?”
She stretched her arms up high, reaching for the ceiling, then slowly turned her head in a circle. She got her phone and checked to see if she had any messages. After half a dozen return calls, she put the phone away and left for a break.
Rennie strolled through the library, occasionally looking at a book on the rack and for the first time simply allowing herself to enjoy being on campus without a mission. She observed students studying, visiting, and doing their research. She thought about Professor Justus and how different his time and his students were from those who are there now.
She realized that even those contemporary differences with the past are just a different coating on the same people; people who wondered what the world held for them, who they were going to be with, what they were going to do, optimistic or sad, embarrassed or prideful. Asking in different ways why they were here.
Rennie looked out at the campus through the large windows and observed what a beautiful place of peace this campus offered for all that self-questioning. Long shadows flowed across the lawn and soft light filled the air. As she took a deep, relaxing breath, Rennie noticed a man sitting on a bench.
Something about him seemed out of place. He wore a suit, but he had no briefcase or papers with him. She squinted. He just sat there, as though he waited for someone. She sensed a threat.
She hurried back to see if she had closed the door to her room. Finding it locked, she felt the need to return and see the man, again.
She paused and thought, This is ridiculous.
She returned to the room, settled into her chair. “Okay Professor, let’s please finish this up.”
She found where she had been reading, put on the cotton gloves, and read the next passage. Matthias’s journal notes were easy to follow because after each entry he drew a delicate line beneath the last sentence. Some
entries consisted of just a short sentence, and others continued for a page or two.
Then, she came upon an entry filled with exclamation points.
“Amazing! Amazing! Amazing! An extraordinary find! I cannot believe it. I cannot write fast enough to put down my excitement. Things were a little slow today, so I went down to the lower level again to read some documents on the shelves and see what other marvels might be lying about. I returned to the Oxyrhynchus section and found the box that I discovered so long ago. I took it to the study desk and opened it again, looking through the personal items, and once again found the small bag of coins.
As I examined them, I noticed some writing in the corner of the box. I lifted up and tilted the box to the desk light and then became breathless upon reading the Aramaic inscription. It said, “Matthias of Antioch.”
I cannot believe it; my name written from that great, ancient city of earliest Christendom. It may have been the box maker or the owner of the box; I do not know which. But in any case, it led me to examine the box further. I had known when I first saw it that it was of the Damascus or New Babylon style.
After removing all the loose items from the box and placing them on the desk, I noticed that the interior was unusually shallow, given the depth of the box. Suspecting that there was in fact a hidden compartment, I lifted the box up high and rotated it, looking for evidence of how one might open such a compartment.
Just then, Mort walked by. He surprised me greatly. He is quiet and has a suspicious nature that presents itself in a bold way. He has made it clear that he does not like my growing relationship with Priscilla. I am certain he admires her but knows that she aspires to someone and something much more than what is in his corner of the world.
My efforts to befriend him have not been successful thus far. In those moments when I stop to chat, he removes the long knife from the sheath at his side, and he uses it to clean beneath his fingernails.
With him hovering in the near distance, it was necessary to return the items to the box and place it on the shelf. I continued my stroll through the lower level as though his presence had meant nothing to me.
At a later, selected time, I went to the lower level again, eager to find that box. First, I checked to see where Mort was so I would not be interrupted. He must have previously told Mr. Warrington something cautionary, because the old man paid me a visit just yesterday. He asked if I would like other assignments in our quiet times. He seemed to be more suspicious than helpful. He reminded me again of the importance of keeping artifacts in their appropriate places and not disturbing them. I think his ultimate wish is to be frozen in time along with everything in the collections.
Finding the box again, I quickly removed the items and began my search for the secret compartment release. It is maddening. I am sure it is quite simple, but I cannot find it. I gave the box a quick shake and felt a heavy movement inside it. The movement was very brief, but it confirmed that something was in there. I must try again tomorrow.
Joy! Excitement! Frustration! Oh, what a day this has been. I only have a moment to jot a few notes on two wonderful events. First, it is Friday evening, and Priscilla has agreed to have dinner again. I have found a special place for us to eat. Second, I was able to go to the lower level and found the release on the box. It allows the entire bottom of the box to slide, revealing an open space beneath. Unfortunately, it has not been open for such a long time that I can only move the base an inch or so. But I know there is something inside.
I must be very cautious. I believe that Mort is tracking my movements, perhaps at the direction of Mr. Warrington.
Neither of them likes my respect for and growing relationship with Priscilla. If noticed, my activities in the lower level with the box can only add to their concerns. I know not what will come from either discovery, the beauty of Priscilla or the mysterious box from Antioch, but I know I must move forward (I wonder if my casual and indiscreet comment to Mrs. Whitley about Priscilla was conveyed to her cousin Warrington. I hope not.)”
Rennie sat to attention and glared at the blank wall. Her mind raced and her breathing was shallow. She knew the outcome of the story she was reading but could do nothing about it.
She grabbed her phone and called Angie.
“Hey, are you still here at the library? I’m in the work room. I was wondering if you could do your research magic and find the name of an investigative reporter in London. No one in particular, just an investigative reporter. I came across information in his journal, and it occurred to me that we do not have any cause of death report. I wondered if the London police might have such a thing.”
“I can get some names for you. I also asked a fellow with the library association to connect us with people in London who might do background research on any of this for you.”
“Great, you’re a step ahead of me. According to his journal, events are becoming intense. I think I might be on to who did it. It’s too bad. Everything in his life was coming together in a wonderful way.”
“How sad. My little life in the library doesn’t seem too bad.”
“Yep, life is tough and then you die. One other thing, what time would it be over there? In fact, what time is it here?”
Rennie glanced at her watch.
“Oh, my gosh, it’s six o’clock, already. It’s probably midnight over there. I guess we’ve got awhile to chill out here before we contact anyone there. Did I tell you I found what I think is his lunch pail in his attaché case?”
“Yuck! Did you open it?”
“Heck, no. It’s all bound up, and there’s a note on it that says it’s filled with letters he wrote home. He’s a pretty good writer; of course, I might now be in love with him.”
Angie chuckled. “Now, that’s what you call a safe relationship!”
“Yeah, let me know what you find. I’m going home to start writing this up. I’ve got to finish it or my boss won’t let me write the obit notices!”
“Say, did you call Mrs. Knoche. She was eager to give you some information. I’m a little surprised with her interest in this.”
“Oh, I forgot to call dear ol’ Mrs. Knoche. What do you think is up with her? She was so cold to me at first, and now she wants to help. Maybe, she likes the idea that this thing of defending Simpson from some big mystery might get solved, and that looks good to her. Who knows! I’ll check in with her in the morning. Maybe, she can get more than just Mrs. MacDonald. I also need to ask her about the other woman she said came later. Thanks for your help. Have a good night.”
Rennie sat back and removed her gloves, slid the journal away, and looked at the boxes and folders. “So, Professor, just what was your purpose? Why did God put you here? And, is that why you were killed?”
She stared at the journal and sighed again. “And, what is mine?”
Rubbing her eyes, she collected her things, turned off the light, and headed for her car.
***
As she walked away, a man watched her. When she was gone, he took a phone from his suit coat pocket and made a short call.
London, UK
1923
IV - 3
Traffic was jammed down Drury Lane. Matthias’s anxieties grew as his taxi lurched forward and then stopped every ten feet. Extending from Broad Street, just south of New Oxford Street, Drury conveniently connects to Strand via Aldwych.
The privileged citizens of the West End of London leisurely motor in long lines down the street to be seen and to get to the theaters along Strand. On this pleasant Friday evening, Matthias wanted to leap out and push them out of the way for his first visit to Priscilla’s home.
He thought of their lunches and dinners over the past two months at restaurants in the vicinity of the British Museum. They were convenient and informal outings. But this evening, he was on his way to the home address she reluctantly provided to him so he could take her out for a magica
l evening.
She said her home was in the City, not across the Thames, and “it is just East End, nothing grand,” she said. He had toured as far to the east as the Tower, visiting St. Paul’s and The Temple along the way. He thought about those treks and wondered if he had walked past her door.
Matthias leaned forward. “Are we there?”
“Just ahead, sir,” came the bored reply.
When they stopped, Matthias looked around. “Where, where is it?”
“Right there. That building. The one with the fat cat on the step.”
Matthias paid the man and stepped out of the cab, then he turned around and knocked on the window of the cab.
“Can you wait for us?” he yelled at the window. “Or, can you come back in a few minutes?”
“How long?” the cabbie shouted back.
“Come back in ten minutes, no fifteen!”
He flashed a broad grin that made the driver smile. The cabbie gave a quick salute with a hand to his cap and drove off.
Matthias turned to look at the building. It was beautiful. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought. He approached the steps.
“Hey, big guy,” he said to the cat. “Are you in charge here?”
Matthias knelt down and cautiously stroked the furry head. The cat leaned into his hand, and then rolled onto its back. Matthias laughed. He stood up, straightened his tie, wiped his hands on his suit coat, and lightly banged on the door three times with the heavy iron door knocker.
He heard footsteps approaching from the other side. The latch clicked, and the door creaked as it slowly opened. An old man appeared in the early evening light.
“Who are you?” his gravelly voice scratched into the air.
“Sir, Matthias is my name. Matthias Justus. I am here to see Miss Shefford. Is she here?”
