An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [40]
“I’m waiting on the folder there on the table.”
He passes it to me and I sign the slip on top. He brings me to a table behind the counter. The white gloves remind me that my hands are much longer than most people’s. The disorganized pile of letters, maps, illustrations, diary entries and ship logs remind me that I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. Now and then, I stop to read transcribed pieces like the diary entry from 387 years ago to the month.
April 21, 1613
Today we executed two atrocious villains for sodomy
and another six for mutiny. Yet another 8 were given
70 lashes each. During the executions, the First
Lieutenant concerted with the crew in argument
against me for acquittal due to want of evidence. This
traitorous behaviour won him favour from the men.
Likewise, it made more ardent their disaffection
towards me and gave them further pretence to
mutiny. I sought no redress nor did I make him
answer for his seditious conduct and for his design
to place my authority at hazard. Newfoundland
remains 5 or 6 days out of reach. The winds and
current conspire against progress towards land.
My brain takes fire at the worry of the schemes
against me.
After more than an hour of sorting, I still don’t know what I’m searching for. I hand the material to the clerk. He writes something on my request slip. Before I go back upstairs, I make a detour past Francis’ office. His door is ajar. I saunter by, knock, wait, knock, then poke my head inside. I see it right away on the shelf near the door – the same photo at Norah’s house. Will and a young boy – Francis and Will. There’s another photo of Francis, smiling, with his arm around Norah. I move towards it for a closer look.
“You don’t give up do you, Brunet?” his voice says from behind me.
“It’s not what you think. I wanted to talk to you about Special Collections inventories. Your door was open.”
He’s not smiling. “I’ve already explained about my inventories. I thought you would have remembered our meeting on the stairs–”
“Eventually, you’ll have to give me access whether you want to or not, Francis. Things are changing around here and it’s for the good.” I edge my way out through of the door.
“Listen, Brunet. Let me give you some advice. Just because you have an accent and a PhD doesn’t make you welcome around here. On the contrary. Now get the fuck out of my office.” He starts closing the door before I’m even all the way out. The sign reads: Francis Hickey, Special Collections Head. I’m tempted to cross off Head and put Ass in its place, but the hall’s surveillance cameras would never let me get away with it.
When I tell Henry about the incident, he replies with his usual “I told you so.” I shouldn’t have said anything about the photos in Francis’ office. That only gives Henry ideas. “There’s a cook at the Faculty Club who moonlights in security and surveillance,” he says. “Put him on Francis’ scent. Find out what he’s up to after hours.”
“Maybe I could convince the cook to poison him,” I propose.
“Wouldn’t bode well for his career as a cook. I have a better idea. Why don’t you have him keep one eye on that Reading Room woman at the same time?”
“You mean Norah?”
“I mean the woman I hope you’re not shagging round with. The woman in the photo with Francis. The woman whose father was caught stealing. The woman you saw stealing in the Reading Room. Do you need me to read you the textbook on this, Carl, or are you waiting on the footnotes?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
blowed up and pickled
MERCEDES AND CYRIL INVITE ME for supper to celebrate my first summer in Newfoundland. On the menu is jigg’s dinner with a side plate of flipper pie and fresh greens. I have no idea what I’m eating but they’re so enthusiastic I can’t refuse. “It’ll give you a powerful spring cleaning,” Cyril proclaims.
Mercedes describes it as a tonic. “There’s more fortifying iron in that meat than in any