dozen or so doors down the Lady’s Walk from where his office was located. Logan let himself in with a key provided by Dr. Olafson, closed the door behind him, let his bag drop to the floor, and stood still a moment, taking in the feel of the space beyond. It was just past nine p.m., and the chamber was dark, its furnishings mere dull shapes. After about a minute, Logan turned on the lights.
He hadn’t known what to expect, and the room he was standing in—apparently a combination library and parlor—was a pleasant surprise. The furniture was upholstered in mahogany-colored leather, well lived in and equally well cared for. One wall contained recessed bookcases which—Logan noted—were devoted to a wide variety of subjects: nineteenth-century English novels;Latin classics in translation; a few recent whodunits; biographies; and numerous books on sailing, architecture and design, and the history of computing. The books were not just for display: Logan pulled a few from the shelves and found them to be lovingly read. Several displayed marginal glosses in Strachey’s small, meticulous hand. The Edwardian trappings of the mansion had been tastefully accentuated in this room by a hundred additional touches—vintage sconces, Astrakhan carpets, oil paintings of the English romantic school. There was an old mechanical doll; a vintage wooden radio; a worn sextant—apparently, Strachey was a collector of antique technology. A rolltop desk sat in one corner, with several old fountain pens lined up at one side. Another corner was monopolized by a Steinway Model B, its glossy black finish shining in the mellow light. The room exuded the warm, welcoming feeling of a London gentleman’s club from the turn of the last century. It had taken money to create this atmosphere—Olafson said money wasn’t a problem for Strachey. But it had taken more than that: it had taken time, and patience, and loving care. It was subtle; it was refined; it was delightful. Logan could imagine himself living in a place such as this.
He moved through the rest of the apartment. It was not especially large—a dining room, a compact but expensively supplied kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom—but each space displayed the same care and consideration as the library had. Nowhere did Logan find any evidence of Strachey’s work: that was left in his office, down the hall. Rather, these rooms were devoted to private relaxation with the man’s many avocations: sailing, art, industrial design.
Logan had spent almost the entire afternoon in Strachey’s office, going through his papers, notes, manuscripts, sometimes on his own and sometimes with the assistance of Kim Mykolos. It had been as expected: there were clear signs that the pace of Strachey’s research had been slowing. But as Mykolos had told him, the man had been in essence sealing the cap on a lifetimecareer, and greatly enjoying the process. Nowhere among the man’s various notes and writings was there any indication of disappointment: just quiet satisfaction at having made significant accomplishments in his field. Logan now felt certain that, whatever might have prompted Strachey’s suicide, it had nothing to do with the twilight of his career.
There had also been several large folders in the office relating to the West Wing renovation, and—feeling overwhelmed—Logan had packed these up and sent them back to his own rooms for later examination. He had then gone to speak with Lux’s doctor in residence. The two spent twenty minutes going over Strachey’s physical and psychological history. As Olafson had indicated, all tests and examinations showed Strachey to have been in excellent health for a man of his age, emotionally stable, with no indications of either preexisting conditions or future complications.
Now he returned to the parlor. He’d held out mild hope that Strachey had kept a diary or private journal, but there was no sign of any. So instead he reached into his duffel, removed
He hadn’t known what to expect, and the room he was standing in—apparently a combination library and parlor—was a pleasant surprise. The furniture was upholstered in mahogany-colored leather, well lived in and equally well cared for. One wall contained recessed bookcases which—Logan noted—were devoted to a wide variety of subjects: nineteenth-century English novels;Latin classics in translation; a few recent whodunits; biographies; and numerous books on sailing, architecture and design, and the history of computing. The books were not just for display: Logan pulled a few from the shelves and found them to be lovingly read. Several displayed marginal glosses in Strachey’s small, meticulous hand. The Edwardian trappings of the mansion had been tastefully accentuated in this room by a hundred additional touches—vintage sconces, Astrakhan carpets, oil paintings of the English romantic school. There was an old mechanical doll; a vintage wooden radio; a worn sextant—apparently, Strachey was a collector of antique technology. A rolltop desk sat in one corner, with several old fountain pens lined up at one side. Another corner was monopolized by a Steinway Model B, its glossy black finish shining in the mellow light. The room exuded the warm, welcoming feeling of a London gentleman’s club from the turn of the last century. It had taken money to create this atmosphere—Olafson said money wasn’t a problem for Strachey. But it had taken more than that: it had taken time, and patience, and loving care. It was subtle; it was refined; it was delightful. Logan could imagine himself living in a place such as this.
He moved through the rest of the apartment. It was not especially large—a dining room, a compact but expensively supplied kitchen, a bathroom, a bedroom—but each space displayed the same care and consideration as the library had. Nowhere did Logan find any evidence of Strachey’s work: that was left in his office, down the hall. Rather, these rooms were devoted to private relaxation with the man’s many avocations: sailing, art, industrial design.
Logan had spent almost the entire afternoon in Strachey’s office, going through his papers, notes, manuscripts, sometimes on his own and sometimes with the assistance of Kim Mykolos. It had been as expected: there were clear signs that the pace of Strachey’s research had been slowing. But as Mykolos had told him, the man had been in essence sealing the cap on a lifetimecareer, and greatly enjoying the process. Nowhere among the man’s various notes and writings was there any indication of disappointment: just quiet satisfaction at having made significant accomplishments in his field. Logan now felt certain that, whatever might have prompted Strachey’s suicide, it had nothing to do with the twilight of his career.
There had also been several large folders in the office relating to the West Wing renovation, and—feeling overwhelmed—Logan had packed these up and sent them back to his own rooms for later examination. He had then gone to speak with Lux’s doctor in residence. The two spent twenty minutes going over Strachey’s physical and psychological history. As Olafson had indicated, all tests and examinations showed Strachey to have been in excellent health for a man of his age, emotionally stable, with no indications of either preexisting conditions or future complications.
Now he returned to the parlor. He’d held out mild hope that Strachey had kept a diary or private journal, but there was no sign of any. So instead he reached into his duffel, removed
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