What Time Devours

by A. J. Hartley

  Thomas started to nod and then caught himself.

  “You’ve been reading up on me.”

  “Let’s say you’ve left quite the paper trail over the years,” she said. It could have been a wry observation, almost a joke, but her eyes said otherwise.

  “Man’s got to speak his mind,” Thomas said, taking a sip of his beer. He had once had a habit of holding forth on everything he thought wrong with the city and the school system to whoever would listen, particularly to journalists. They were impolitic rants, often fueled by other kinds of disappointment and failure, and one of them had finally cost him his job. For a year or so.

  “You didn’t make the papers last year for speaking your mind,” she said.

  “Not most recently, no,” he conceded. The strange stories that had come out of the Philippines the previous Easter had made for screaming headlines, and though there was a lot people didn’t know, the story of what he had found as he worked to unravel his brother’s death had gotten a lot of attention. At school he had refused to discuss the bizarre blend of paramilitary fanatics and ancient archaeology that had led him from Italy to Japan, or the spectacular and bloody chaos of that Philippine beach where his brother had died and the whole business had finally ended, but the city would remember him for a while. Being at the center of such sensational events, it could hardly be otherwise.

  Ironically, those very events had turned his life around. Without them, he would never have gotten his job back, would never have reconnected with Kumi. It didn’t make up for the loss of his brother, but it helped that good things had come out of all that death.

  Thomas matched Polinski’s stare and shrugged.

  “If you think I’m some publicity hound trying to relive last year’s fifteen minutes of fame, you’ve got me all wrong,” he said. “I went through a lot of stuff last year, as you know, and yes, it was all as overblown, as intense, as crazy as the papers made it sound. But I’ll tell you, I didn’t look for any of it, certainly not the tabloid response, and if I could trade it all in for the life of my brother and my friend, I would do it in a heartbeat.”

  She listened, and then nodded, giving ground, but some of her reserve remained.

  “Tell me about Escolme,” she said.

  “He was a good student,” said Thomas. “This was ten years ago. Bright. Hardworking. Socially a little . . . awkward . Not the most popular kid in school. Unathletic. Pimply. But, as I said, very academic. Got great SATs. I wrote him a reference and he got into several good schools. He went to Boston University to do an English degree. Wrote to me once or twice: one of those thanks-for-inspiring-me kinds of letters teachers get from time to time, then . . . Nothing. I hadn’t heard from him in about eight years till he called yesterday and said he wanted to see me.”

  “Did he give you an address?”

  “Not a home address, no, but I have his business information.”

  Thomas fished in his wallet and drew out the VFL card. Polinski glanced at it, but didn’t pick it up. She still seemed wary, like she was testing him.

  “And he claims to have had a lost play by William Shakespeare that he got from Daniella Blackstone.”

  “Love’s Labour’s Won, yes.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “I don’t know,” Thomas admitted. “He said that he and Blackstone had it and were going to get it printed so that they could hold copyright on the only modern edition. Copyright only lasts for a limited amount of time—seventy years, I think, in the United States—before the work becomes public domain. After that, it’s only the individual edition that can be copyrighted. Even if Shakespeare had living descendants, which he doesn’t, they wouldn’t make any money off his plays anymore.”

  “So Blackstone was trying to get an edition published without the original leaking out? Is that possible?” said Polinski.

  “I have no idea. Writers manage to keep their stories secret until publication, I guess. But in this case the value of the book would hinge on it being clearly by Shakespeare. She’d need outside confirmation of that by experts, which she couldn’t get without showing it to scholars, any one of whom could leak it. Once the original manuscript was out there, say photocopied and posted on someone’s website, then the play would become public domain, and any edition Blackstone released would have to compete with others by other people. I think. Escolme didn’t say she had any scholarly background as a Shakespearean, so you have to assume that her edition would have been basic, to say the least. If actual academics had been able to put together other editions, hers would be worthless. It had to be kept secret.”

  “What about that outside confirmation?” said Polinski. “You can’t just say something’s by Shakespeare, right?”

  “If the publisher felt it could make that claim in good faith, I don’t think they’d be prosecutable if it turned out not to be. I figure they were going to publish the play as Shakespeare’s quickly, let the scholars fight over its authenticity for a while, and rake the money in off the book sales while they did so. Unless it was blindingly obvious that it wasn’t Shakespeare, they’d make quite a profit for a while and then the whole thing would go away. But so long as there was a controversy over the text, they’d be coining it, and if enough scholars came out in favor of its authenticity, they’d make a mint, at least until better editions came out, which would probably take years.”

  “For a high school teacher you seem to know a lot about this.”

  “Most of this is from Escolme, so you can ask him yourself when you see him.”

  “Right,” she said, and there it was again, that slightly sardonic skepticism in her long face and thin, wide mouth.

  “What?” said Thomas. “Have you spoken to him already?”

  “No,” she said. “In fact, we’ve no idea where he is.”

  “Did you call Vernon Fredericks Literary?” said Thomas, nodding at the business card.

  “Yes,” she said, and she smiled at last, a humorless, knowing smile that left her eyes hard and fixed.

  “And?”

  “Well, it’s interesting,” she said.

  “How so?” said Thomas. He was beginning to feel toyed with.

  “They’ve never heard of him,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t work there. Never did. And nobody with the name of David Escolme has been registered at this hotel. Ever. See,” she added, smiling again, “that’s why it’s interesting.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It was like walking into a room and finding yourself on the ceiling.

  “No,” he said for the third time. “Escolme. E-S-C-O-L-M-E. First name, David. He was here last night in room 304.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the concierge, “but he wasn’t. There’s no one of that name in the system.”

  “I was in there with him,” Thomas insisted.

  “He wasn’t registered in that room.”

  “But when I called this morning I was told he had checked out,” said Thomas.

  “If that was, in fact, what you were told,” said the concierge with a look at Polinski, “the desk clerk made a mistake. I suspect that all she actually said was that he wasn’t registered and you assumed she meant he had checked out. We’re pretty careful about keeping guest information private around here.”

  Thomas knew the woman was probably right, but he couldn’t let it go.

  “Right,” he said, marching away and calling to Polinski over his shoulder. “Come with me.”

  The policewoman said nothing as he led her into the elevator and hit the button for the third floor. She remained silent when they got off and made their way down the hallway to room 304, where Thomas rapped incisively on the door.

  They heard movement almost immediately, and Thomas turned his stare on Polinski, as if certain he was about to be proved right.

  He wasn’t. The door opened slowly and a woman in her seventies peered anxiously into the hallway.

  “I’m looking for David Escol
me,” Thomas snapped.

  “Who?” the woman said, through the crack. She looked alarmed, and though Thomas couldn’t do anything about it, he knew it was his manner that was bothering her.

  “David Escolme,” he barked. “Medium height, midtwenties . . .”

  The woman was shaking her head.

  “When did you check into this room?” Thomas tried.

  “This morning,” she said.

  “That’s enough,” said Polinski. “We’re sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.”

  She took Thomas by the arm and began to propel him down the hallway. He shrugged out of her grasp with a splutter of irritation, but the old woman was already closing the door.

  Thomas fumed silently as the elevator descended, and when he felt Polinski’s eyes on him, he turned on her.

  “You think I made it up?” he spat. “What kind of lunatic would come up with a story like this? He was here, Goddamn it. Right there in that room. I could describe the pictures on the walls, the color of the drapes, anything to show I was in there last night.”

  “You know that those kinds of details would prove nothing,” said Polinski. “You could have been in there anytime.”

  “Why would I make this up?” he demanded as the doors opened. “Obviously it doesn’t get me off the hook as far as Blackstone is concerned. If anything, it just puts me in the frame more. I came to you about Escolme, remember?”

  The two of them stood there, staring at each other, until they became aware of a woman, preposterously dressed in mink, with a bellhop waiting at her elbow. They walked out.

  “Come here,” said Thomas, leading her back to the concierge’s desk. She followed a couple of steps behind as Thomas tapped the computer screen.

  “Is this hooked up to the Internet?” he demanded.

  “Sure,” said the concierge, with another look at Polinski.

  “Can I just . . .”, Thomas began, moving around the desk and inserting himself into the concierge’s chair. He felt the other two looking at each other, but he didn’t care. He Googled VFL and pulled up their home page.

  “See,” he said, “look at the New York office.”

  “What?” said Polinski, now at his shoulder.

  “The list of agents . . . ,” Thomas began.

  But there was no list of agents. And as he clicked hurriedly on the other branches, none of them listed their agents.

  “His name was right here,” he said. “He had his own page.”

  There it was again, that sense of walking on the ceiling: chandeliers where coffee tables should be, all the doors upside down. It made no sense.

  “Can I use your phone?” said Polinski.

  “Knock yourself out,” said the concierge, who was watching all this like she’d stumbled into a sideshow.

  Thomas typed Escolme’s name into the search engine.

  “There!” he said, triumphant. “David Escolme, Vernon Fredericks Literary.” He clicked on the link.

  The computer hesitated, then loaded the page. It was instantly clear that this was not what Thomas had consulted before. At first he thought it was a weather site, but then realized that the weather map was merely filling space. The key piece of information was underneath it:

  “Site unoccupied. If you are interested in purchasing this domain name . . .”

  Beside him, Polinski was giving Escolme’s name to another switchboard operator. After a moment she said, “So it’s not company policy to post any information on agents? And this has not changed over the last few days?” There was a pause and she nodded and then said, “No, that’s fine. Thanks.”

  She hung up.

  “This is crazy,” said Thomas. “The page was right here.”

  “Look at the URL,” said Polinski. “It’s not part of the VFL site. If there was a page for Escolme here, someone just copied the style of the agency, placed some links to it from their own page and posted it through some other provider. And there’s something else. We ran Escolme’s New York address.”

  “And?”

  “Seems he moved out. No forwarding.”

  Thomas felt outmaneuvered. Nothing made him angrier.

  “And you were planning to mention that, when?”

  “I wasn’t.” She shrugged. “Because I’m the cop and you . . .”

  “Aren’t,” he concluded for her. “So now what?”

  “I’m going to talk to the concierge some more—privately—find out who was registered to room 304.”

  “Meaning I should leave.”

  “I expect you’ll be hearing from me soon,” said Polinski.

  “Is this one of those ‘don’t leave town’ warnings?” said Thomas.

  “It would be helpful if you made yourself available for further inquiry,” she said.

  Thomas smiled.

  “Of course,” he said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish my beer.”

  But he didn’t go straight to the bar. He swung by the Shakespeare Conference’s notice board, snatched a lime-green flyer for a staged reading of some obscure Middleton play off an adjacent table, and scribbled on the back of it: “David Escolme (in case you’re skulking around here, masquerading as a Shakespearean). Re LLW or anything else. Don’t call me again. Ever. TK.”

  With two furious slashes he underlined the Ever, took a thumbtack from the corkboard, and punched it through the paper with such force that the backing cracked. A heavy woman who had been peering at the board flashed him a look of alarm and backed hurriedly away.

  Thomas walked back to the Coq d’Or, his head low and bullish.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Where’s my beer?” he said to the startled barkeep. “I was sitting there. I had to step outside for a minute and . . .”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I just dumped it. Thought you were gone.”

  “Well, I’m back,” he said. “And I’m thirsty, and I’m a teacher, which means I can’t afford to take two sips of a six-dollar beer and then throw it away.”

  He was still hissing mad, and knowing that he was taking it out on the bartender didn’t make him feel any better.

  “Let me get you another,” said the bartender. “It was one of the Goose Islands, right?”

  “The Honker’s Ale,” Thomas nodded.

  “I’m partial to the Wheatmiser, myself,” said the bartender.

  “Maybe I’ll try that next,” said Thomas.

  “It’s got a punch,” said the bartender.

  “So do I,” said Thomas.

  “I see that.” The barman grinned.

  “Sorry,” said Thomas. “Strange day.”

  “They all are,” said the bartender, putting the freshly poured beer in front of him. “Enjoy.”

  “Cheers,” said Thomas, sipping and savoring. “Good. You know anything about champagne?”

  “Some,” said the bartender. “Our selection’s limited, though. What did you have in mind?”

  “Ever heard of Saint Evremond Reims?”

  “Reims is a town in France, in the Champagne region, specifically,” said the bartender, pleased to have the answer, or part of it. “You know the French don’t think that anything from outside that region can be called champagne? If it’s from California, it’s just sparkling wine.”

  “What about Saint Evremond?”

  “Probably the house, like Moët or Krug, you know? But I’ve never heard of it. Maybe they produce primarily for the French home market, like Mercier.”

  “Thanks,” said Thomas, impressed.

  “We even now?”

  “The moment you poured my replacement pint,” Thomas grinned.

  “Never get between a Shakespearean and his beer,” said a voice to his left.

  Thomas turned. It was a woman, slight, professional looking in a brown pantsuit. Her hair was a straight chestnut tied back in a disarmingly girlish ponytail, but her eyes were cool and mature. She was probably in her midthirties, but the smirk, like the ponytail, took a decade off her. She looked attractive. And f
amiliar.

  “Actually, I’m a civilian,” he said.

  “I thought you said you were a teacher,” she said.

  “High school,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “I’d say something encouraging about your attending the conference, but that would be patronizing, wouldn’t it?”

  “Probably,” he said. “And I’m not actually attending the conference.”

  “Your lapel badge would suggest otherwise, Thomas,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said. “Yes. I was just stopping by.”

  “Hear any interesting papers?” she said, then caught herself. “Wait. Don’t answer that. You walked out during questions after mine, so don’t be too honest.”

  He smiled, recognizing her.

  “A bit over my head,” he said. “I’m sure it was very smart.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Coin of the realm here, isn’t it? Smart, I mean.”

  “That’s the official story,” she said, flashing that slightly impish grin. “We’re all incredibly clever and saying deeply insightful things, and if you don’t understand them, then you obviously aren’t clever or insightful and don’t really belong. It’s a bit like the Emperor’s New Clothes.”

  “I remember,” said Thomas, adding, “I was a graduate student for a while.”

  “In Shakespeare?” she said. “Where?”

  “Boston University.”

  “Who did you work with?”

  “Dagenhart,” said Thomas.

  “My God, did you really?” she said, clearly delighted. “Randy Randall Dagenhart! He’s here, you know.”

  “Yes, I saw him.”

  “Used to be a terror to virginal graduate students everywhere.”

  “The way I remember it, that’s a pretty small constituency,” said Thomas.

  “True,” she said. She looked at him directly as if concluding an assessment, one he passed. “I’m Julia McBride,” she said. “Jules to my friends or what passes for them in academia.”

  “Thomas Knight,” he said, shaking her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Thomas,” she said, toasting him with a cream-colored cocktail in a stainless steel martini glass. “I shouldn’t make fun of Randall. He’s had his share of hardships, after all.”