point out that real 1945 characters would have handled all that with the ease of experience, but Harriet did not agree. She maintained that the British scientist was meant to be inexperienced with removing female clothing.
We moved on to the act of lovemaking while partially clothed in 1945 fashions. This got off to a bad start when Harriet was hit in the face by my braces, then took a turn for the worse when one of my fly buttons got caught in a suspender strap. About three hours after I had arrived, we were at last fully divested of the clothing of 1945, seduced several times over, and drifting away to sleep.
Although my wife was by now nine years dead, and although this had not been my first experience of Harriet's literary researches, I still felt unease at being with someone else. Over and over I told myself that Emily was dead, and that all this particular exercise was to save another life. Emily had been a policewoman, she had died in a shootout, there was nothing that I could have done. We all have to fight in our own ways and with our own weapons, and this was my way of defending the innocent and defeating darkness. Sleep claimed me while I argued with my conscience.
It was the following morning that I had really come for. I did not start work until the mid-afternoon, and Harriet did not work at all. Thus I had roughly six hours free to spend with her.
“Harriet, I wonder if you would help me with a little project of my own?” I asked as we sat drinking coffee to the sound of London commuting to work outside.
Mister Brandel arrived in the library at three weeks to the very minute from our previous meeting. Instead of going to the stacks he came straight to the reference desk. I cannot describe his manner as nervous, so much as brisk and confident. Yes, his clothing was two hundred years out of date, but his manner made up for that. Look as if you belong, act as if your presence is beyond challenge, and everyone but a trained security guard will accept even a substantial degree of strangeness in your clothes.
“Three weeks have passed, I must have my reserved books,” he said, as if he had only left the library moments earlier.
I looked up at him, hoping that my smile did not look too forced. I very nearly called him Mister Brandel, but caught myself in time.
“Mister Goldsmith, I have your biographies of Elizabeth Crossen, but I'm afraid there was a problem,” I explained.
“You have my books but there was a problem?” he asked, frowning.
“I had to get them in from Nunhead on inter-library loan. The student who borrowed our own copies has not returned them as yet.”
“You—but you do have the books?”
“Oh yes, I knew you have a keen interest in Elizabeth Crossen's life, and I noticed that your time here seems to be limited, so I did not want you to be disappointed. I had them sent here only an hour ago. They are the latest editions.”
I could see the relief in Mister Brandel's face, even though not much of his face was actually visible.
“That is very kind of you,” he whispered. “Such kindness is all too rare.”
Pausing only to check that the books were the same titles that he wanted, he hurried over to the reading tables, opened his folder, laid his pen across it, and picked up the first book.
Sweat trickled from my armpits and ran down my rib cage. The man was a killer, quite possibly he had been an assassin for the East India Company. He could travel through time, meaning that he could move about at will and kill with impunity, whether in the Nineteenth or Twenty First Centuries. He was clearly obsessed with Elizabeth Crossen, and by now I was able to guess at his agenda. A time machine cannot make you young again, but it can allow you to travel to a time when your much younger beloved is closer to your own age. The only problem would be if she happened to marry someone in the meantime, but there were ways to deal with that as well.
Mister Brandel had conducted his
We moved on to the act of lovemaking while partially clothed in 1945 fashions. This got off to a bad start when Harriet was hit in the face by my braces, then took a turn for the worse when one of my fly buttons got caught in a suspender strap. About three hours after I had arrived, we were at last fully divested of the clothing of 1945, seduced several times over, and drifting away to sleep.
Although my wife was by now nine years dead, and although this had not been my first experience of Harriet's literary researches, I still felt unease at being with someone else. Over and over I told myself that Emily was dead, and that all this particular exercise was to save another life. Emily had been a policewoman, she had died in a shootout, there was nothing that I could have done. We all have to fight in our own ways and with our own weapons, and this was my way of defending the innocent and defeating darkness. Sleep claimed me while I argued with my conscience.
It was the following morning that I had really come for. I did not start work until the mid-afternoon, and Harriet did not work at all. Thus I had roughly six hours free to spend with her.
“Harriet, I wonder if you would help me with a little project of my own?” I asked as we sat drinking coffee to the sound of London commuting to work outside.
Mister Brandel arrived in the library at three weeks to the very minute from our previous meeting. Instead of going to the stacks he came straight to the reference desk. I cannot describe his manner as nervous, so much as brisk and confident. Yes, his clothing was two hundred years out of date, but his manner made up for that. Look as if you belong, act as if your presence is beyond challenge, and everyone but a trained security guard will accept even a substantial degree of strangeness in your clothes.
“Three weeks have passed, I must have my reserved books,” he said, as if he had only left the library moments earlier.
I looked up at him, hoping that my smile did not look too forced. I very nearly called him Mister Brandel, but caught myself in time.
“Mister Goldsmith, I have your biographies of Elizabeth Crossen, but I'm afraid there was a problem,” I explained.
“You have my books but there was a problem?” he asked, frowning.
“I had to get them in from Nunhead on inter-library loan. The student who borrowed our own copies has not returned them as yet.”
“You—but you do have the books?”
“Oh yes, I knew you have a keen interest in Elizabeth Crossen's life, and I noticed that your time here seems to be limited, so I did not want you to be disappointed. I had them sent here only an hour ago. They are the latest editions.”
I could see the relief in Mister Brandel's face, even though not much of his face was actually visible.
“That is very kind of you,” he whispered. “Such kindness is all too rare.”
Pausing only to check that the books were the same titles that he wanted, he hurried over to the reading tables, opened his folder, laid his pen across it, and picked up the first book.
Sweat trickled from my armpits and ran down my rib cage. The man was a killer, quite possibly he had been an assassin for the East India Company. He could travel through time, meaning that he could move about at will and kill with impunity, whether in the Nineteenth or Twenty First Centuries. He was clearly obsessed with Elizabeth Crossen, and by now I was able to guess at his agenda. A time machine cannot make you young again, but it can allow you to travel to a time when your much younger beloved is closer to your own age. The only problem would be if she happened to marry someone in the meantime, but there were ways to deal with that as well.
Mister Brandel had conducted his
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