knocked on their door. Ellie was about to leave, already late for a class she was taking, something to do with home organization and freeing your spirit by getting rid of clutter. I hoped she didn’t get rid of too much; I loved her eccentric arrangements of shells and stones, the tables strewn with old magazines and dishes of hard candy, postcards and photos propped against the books on the bookshelves, and her kitchen, which seemed not to have two matching anything, each plate and cup apparently a lone survivor of a set an aunt or a friend had formerly owned.
Max was more than happy to have company, so I hustled Henry into the tub, extracting from him a promise that he would go to bed without any drama if nine o’clock came and I still wasn’t home.
Max was setting up the chessboard when we arrived. Henry pulled over his favorite chair, piling it up with the pillows he needed to be able to see the board. A package of Oreos, two glasses, and a quart of milk were on the table. I bit my tongue, thanked Max again, and promised to be back as quickly as I could.
“Don’t hurry,” Max said.
“Yeah,” Henry chimed in.
It took me half an hour to get to Sylvia’s. I’d been stunned to hear that the manuscript had disappeared from her apartment, not the bindery, but that was all I knew so far. I had convinced her not to touch anything or to call anyone—not the police, not the Athenaeum, nobody—until I got there. Having a detective in the family, at least
sort of
in the family, can be handy. My plan was to get in touch with Declan as soon as I got the lay of the land.
Sylvia lives in a well-kept brick building near Cleveland Circle in Brookline, on a street lined with elegant postwar apartment buildings. In the downstairs lobby, unlocked from the street, were eight brass doorbells and mailboxes. Anyone could walk right in and follow a resident into the inner stairwell, or even be buzzed inside by a careless resident of one of the other apartments. I pressed her button, waiting on the polished-granite landing until I heard her buzz me in. I paused inside to see if the inner door closed all the way on its own. It did.
I climbed to the fourth floor, where Sylvia stood in her doorway. She launched right in as she led me into her living room, a floral, feminine nest that looked out onto the treetops.
“My door was locked, like nothing was wrong,” she began. “I must have been home for half an hour before I realized something had happened. I can’t believe it. I feel sick.”
She sat down on the sofa, looking pasty and distraught.
“It’s okay,” I said. “My … son’s dad is a Boston cop, a detective.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “I’ll call him in a minute. Just tell me what happened.”
I sat down beside her. She closed her eyes, as though trying to collect her thoughts.
“I don’t know where to start,” she finally admitted. “I’m just—”
“I thought the book was at the Athenaeum,” I interrupted.
“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “After you left on Tuesday, I went back to talk to Amanda. Let her know you were going to be starting.”
“Who were those people she was showing around?”
“Two guys from Oxford and a rare books dealer from Sussex. And a
viscount
. Lord Brisley or Risley or something.” Sylvia shrugged. “They’re in town for a conference at Harvard.”
“The same one?”
She gave me a puzzled look.
“The same what?”
“The symposium at Harvard? The reason James Wescott said he was coming over.”
Her expression went blank and she let out a deep sigh. “Oh my God. I never put it together. Maybe that’s where Sam’s been.”
“You’re losing me. Back up.”
“Sorry.” She took another breath and started over. “I worked in the bindery until about five thirty. Chandler was there all afternoon, so I couldn’t get the manuscript out of the back room. He’s so nosy; he would have been all over me. I had to wait until he left, which he did,
Max was more than happy to have company, so I hustled Henry into the tub, extracting from him a promise that he would go to bed without any drama if nine o’clock came and I still wasn’t home.
Max was setting up the chessboard when we arrived. Henry pulled over his favorite chair, piling it up with the pillows he needed to be able to see the board. A package of Oreos, two glasses, and a quart of milk were on the table. I bit my tongue, thanked Max again, and promised to be back as quickly as I could.
“Don’t hurry,” Max said.
“Yeah,” Henry chimed in.
It took me half an hour to get to Sylvia’s. I’d been stunned to hear that the manuscript had disappeared from her apartment, not the bindery, but that was all I knew so far. I had convinced her not to touch anything or to call anyone—not the police, not the Athenaeum, nobody—until I got there. Having a detective in the family, at least
sort of
in the family, can be handy. My plan was to get in touch with Declan as soon as I got the lay of the land.
Sylvia lives in a well-kept brick building near Cleveland Circle in Brookline, on a street lined with elegant postwar apartment buildings. In the downstairs lobby, unlocked from the street, were eight brass doorbells and mailboxes. Anyone could walk right in and follow a resident into the inner stairwell, or even be buzzed inside by a careless resident of one of the other apartments. I pressed her button, waiting on the polished-granite landing until I heard her buzz me in. I paused inside to see if the inner door closed all the way on its own. It did.
I climbed to the fourth floor, where Sylvia stood in her doorway. She launched right in as she led me into her living room, a floral, feminine nest that looked out onto the treetops.
“My door was locked, like nothing was wrong,” she began. “I must have been home for half an hour before I realized something had happened. I can’t believe it. I feel sick.”
She sat down on the sofa, looking pasty and distraught.
“It’s okay,” I said. “My … son’s dad is a Boston cop, a detective.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “I’ll call him in a minute. Just tell me what happened.”
I sat down beside her. She closed her eyes, as though trying to collect her thoughts.
“I don’t know where to start,” she finally admitted. “I’m just—”
“I thought the book was at the Athenaeum,” I interrupted.
“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “After you left on Tuesday, I went back to talk to Amanda. Let her know you were going to be starting.”
“Who were those people she was showing around?”
“Two guys from Oxford and a rare books dealer from Sussex. And a
viscount
. Lord Brisley or Risley or something.” Sylvia shrugged. “They’re in town for a conference at Harvard.”
“The same one?”
She gave me a puzzled look.
“The same what?”
“The symposium at Harvard? The reason James Wescott said he was coming over.”
Her expression went blank and she let out a deep sigh. “Oh my God. I never put it together. Maybe that’s where Sam’s been.”
“You’re losing me. Back up.”
“Sorry.” She took another breath and started over. “I worked in the bindery until about five thirty. Chandler was there all afternoon, so I couldn’t get the manuscript out of the back room. He’s so nosy; he would have been all over me. I had to wait until he left, which he did,
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