Winter of Discontent

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “A wedding trip? Not at our age.” Jane’s tone did not invite further questions, so I didn’t mention the atlas.

  “Well, you realize you’ve let yourself in for a big party when the day comes.”

  “If.”

  “No. When. We can’t lose hope, Jane. Look, he’s a sensible man. Something’s happened, that’s certain, but he isn’t a child.”

  “Crippled.” She was determined not to let herself be sweet-talked into optimism.

  “All right. He’s got a bum leg and he’s not young. But he’s smart. Unless somebody’s killed him, for some unimaginable reason, we’ll find him.”

  “Hmph.”

  The rain had slackened off, but we were too tired, and too dispirited, to walk home. I called Alan and he picked us up. As I got in the car, I queried him with a lift of the eyebrows. He shook his head.

  We offered Jane a drink once we got home, but she preferred to go home and brood alone, so Alan and I sat in front of the fire with our bourbon and our cats. We told each other what we’d done all day. It wasn’t much, either of us.

  “I’ve rung everyone I thought might help,” Alan said, setting down his glass with a sigh. “Not a glimmer. Derek’s searching in earnest now. Bulletins are out, and I believe there’s to be an appeal on the evening news.”

  “Alan, it just occurred to me—has anyone searched his old house? Where he used to live when he was a boy? If something happened to confuse him, a stroke or whatever, he might have gone there, mightn’t he?”

  “Derek did think of that. The house is long gone. It was near the university; the fine arts building is there now. And yes, they did ask people in the building, and no, Bill hasn’t turned up, muddled or otherwise. I’m afraid things aren’t looking hopeful. Poor Jane.”

  I’d told him her startling news. “Yes, I think she’s pretty shattered, though she’s trying to keep her cool. She really expected to find something at the museum, and to tell the truth, I did, too. All we came up with was this.” I nodded toward the atlas on the tea table. I’d brought it home simply to give myself the illusion of something to do.

  “Odd thing for Bill to have.” Alan frowned.

  “That’s what I thought. That’s why I was interested. But there’s nothing stuck inside, no dog-eared pages, nothing to tell us what he might have been doing with it.”

  “Is it marked at all?”

  “I don’t know. I never thought to look. Why would it be?”

  Alan shrugged. “I’ve no idea. But if it is, it might give us a lead.”

  “I suppose you’re right. No, you are right. It’s just that I’ve read so many papers today, dusty things in bad handwriting and by a bad light, and my eyes positively tear at the thought of reading any more.”

  “Hand it over, then, love. I’ll take it into the study and have a look while you do something about dinner. Unless you’d rather eat out?”

  “I’m too tired to change clothes. I’ll thaw something.” I dragged myself into the kitchen and searched the freezer, thinking as I did so that it was now only a little over two weeks until Christmas, and I had absolutely nothing in the house to cook for a festive dinner.

  There wouldn’t be a festive dinner unless Bill was found.

  I didn’t feel like cooking, and the only ready-cooked food I could find was the remains of a pot of soup I’d made on the first chilly day of fall. It hadn’t been wonderful then, but I’d thought as I’d frozen it that I’d add a few things later, doll it up a bit. I was too tired now, and besides I didn’t care. I knew, rationally, that food mattered, but I couldn’t make myself believe it. When it was hot and I’d dragged out some rather stale crackers to go with it, I called Alan in.

  He made no complaint about the meal. Either he realized I was in no mood for criticism, or he truly didn’t notice. I suppose if a man has spent quite a lot of his life eating quick meals when and where he can find the time, often from the police canteen, he loses his critical palate. At any rate, he spooned up the soup obediently while I toyed with mine, making desultory conversation. When he had put down his spoon, he cleared his throat.

  “I found some markings in the atlas.”

  “Oh? Notes, you mean?”

  “No. They’re rather odd, really. I hadn’t time, of course, to go through the whole book, and the markings are very faint, but all of them—all I could find, at any rate—are on the map of Indiana.”

  “But, Alan, that is odd! Surely Bill’s never been to Indiana in his life.”

  “Not using this atlas, at any rate. It’s the current edition.”

  “So what are they, the marks, I mean?”

  “They’re in blue pencil, very faint, as I said, and they’re underlinings of certain towns. Or villages, I should think, by the size of the type.”

  “Could they be places he wanted to visit? Maybe he was planning—I mean, maybe they’re honeymoon ideas. Jane said they weren’t going on a trip, but Bill might have had plans he hadn’t told her about.”

  “Well, I’d have no idea, of course, knowing next to nothing about the state. Perhaps you should take a look.”

  With relief, I left my soup and went with Alan to his study. The atlas, open to the Indiana pages, was spread out on the desk under a good light. I sat down to take a look.

  After a minute or two I looked up at my husband. “Alan, this makes no sense at all. These are tiny places, all of them. I imagine the biggest attraction in town is the grain elevator. Why would anybody want to visit Donaldson, Indiana? Or Tiosa? Or Spring Grove, or Laketon, or Rolling Prairie, for heaven’s sake? I was a lifelong Hoosier till I moved here, and I’ve never even heard of most of these places. The only one I’ve ever been to is Rolling Prairie, and that was because I got lost one time, wandering around the northern part of the state.”

  “There wouldn’t be an historical thread, perhaps? Bill’s an historian. Let’s see—something to do with Indian wars, perhaps?”

  “I have no idea. To tell the truth, I was never much interested in American history, beyond the high points. I know a little about the Indian tribes that lived in the southern part of the state, near Hillsburg, because I had to teach it in fourth grade, but as for battles! The only one I can remember at all was called the Battle of Tippecanoe, involving an Indian they called The Prophet, who was the brother of someone named Tecumseh. And I don’t even remember the details of that one, but I know where it happened, and it wasn’t at any of these places.” I tapped the map. “If Bill is following some kind of historical trail, he knows a whole lot more of the history of my home than I do.”

  “That isn’t impossible, of course, but I admit it’s unlikely. What else could there be? Does he have a hobby, do you suppose? Something obscure, like collecting—um—arrowheads?”

  I held up my hands in despair. “Alan, these are little farming communities, all of them. If there ever were any arrowheads around, they would long since have been plowed back into the soil, or found by the kids in the town. When I was little, I used to find an arrowhead occasionally, but I don’t think any child I taught for at least the last twenty years ever found one, even when we did local history and they were thinking about the Indians.” I yawned desperately. “I’m sorry, I just can’t think. I’m too tired, and I’m too worried about Bill. Maybe I’ll be brighter in the morning.”

  “You’re too worried to sleep, probably. Take a pill, love, or you won’t get any rest at all.”

  I almost never need a sleep-aid, but I keep a supply of the over-the-counter stuff in the house, just in case. Alan was right. That night I needed something that would turn off my mind, with its visions of nice old Bill, out in the cold and wet, in trouble …

  I took the pill and knew no more until Alan woke me next morning with a cup of steaming, fragrant coffee. The sun was shining as brightly as if it had never stopped. I wished I were feeling as clear of mind and spirit.

  The first words out of my mouth were, “Any news?”

  Alan shook his head. I felt l
ike turning over and burrowing back into the soft, comfortable world of sleep, but it was hopeless. My train of thought had already picked up speed and would certainly not let me get off.

  I was hungry. I felt guilty about it, as if not eating would be more appropriate, but I’d had very little yesterday and I wanted food. Alan had fried bacon and scrambled some eggs, so I ate an abundant, if hasty, meal, and then went straight to Alan’s study to confront that atlas again.

  I did everything I could think of to try to wrest meaning from the markings. I made a list of the hamlets that were marked. I consulted the index at the back of the book for population figures. I noted the counties involved. Nothing seemed to form a pattern.

  Pattern. Feeling silly, I put some tracing paper over the map and tried several connect-the-dots routines to see if a picture appeared. It didn’t, at least not any that I could recognize.

  Well, maybe there was some sort of code hidden here. I counted numbers of letters in the names of the towns. I tried letter substitutions. I tried acrostics. I tried scrambling the letters. I even entered a few of them into a crossword diagram to see if any of the names took on a different meaning in combination.

  Nothing.

  I created routes from one town to the rest, circular routes, zigzagging routes, even alphabetical ones, starting first at one town, then another, through the whole list.

  Could the highway numbers have any significance? Or the names of the roads, where they had names? What about the rivers? Were there significant connections?

  I came up with a big, fat zero.

  At last I threw down my pen in disgust, got up, and stretched. “I give up,” I said to Alan, who had come into the study to bring me some coffee. “Bill was playing games, I guess. Maybe he had a new pencil and was just doodling. Maybe he collects place names and liked these for some reason.

  “Hmm.” Alan put the coffee down and looked at the open pages. “It would have been interesting if he’d marked some of the bigger towns near these ones, wouldn’t it?”

  “Why?”

  “Take a look.” He pointed with my pen. “Here, near Rolling Prairie. What a name, incidentally.”

  “It’s nothing like as bad as some English ones,” I said indignantly. “What about Upper Piddle? Or Lower Slaughter? Or my very favorite, Oswaldtwistle Moor?”

  “You made that one up.”

  “I did not. I knew someone who knew someone who lived there. It’s in Lancashire; look it up for yourself”

  “At any rate,” said Alan, dismissing this frivolity, “your delightfully named Rolling Prairie is quite close to New Carlisle. That must have been settled by the English, wouldn’t you think? And here’s Rochester, and Richmond, and North Manchester … English place names, or versions of them, dotted all over the map, some of them quite near the villages Bill marked.”

  “You’re right.” I looked more closely. “And look here. There are others, too, Dublin and Edinburgh—and look! European ones! Alexandria, and Frankfort—that’s pretty much like Frankfurt—and Versailles. They pronounce it Vur-sales, by the way.”

  Alan winced.

  “Yes, I agree. But you’re right, it’s interesting. In fact, Alan, every single one of these places is very near a bigger town with a British name, or a European one. That simply can’t be a coincidence.”

  “What do you reckon it means? If anything?”

  I sat back, my momentary elation gone. “I haven’t the slightest idea. Are we back to honeymoon plans, after all?”

  “Seems rather convoluted, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, and silly, as well. I think it’s time to get Jane back into the act. I want to know how she’s doing, anyway.”

  I phoned Jane and asked her over for lunch and consultation. She came in the back door as I was fixing sandwiches, and she looked awful. Again I wondered if she’d slept at all.

  “You haven’t heard anything?” I asked, though it wasn’t really a question.

  She shook her head.

  I wondered if I could get her to take one of my pills after lunch. She was going to be ill if she kept this up.

  I came straight to the point. “We’re going to have a bite to eat, and then I want to show you something curious about that atlas. Have a seat; we’ll eat in the kitchen.”

  She shook her head. “Show me now.”

  There is a time to insist on knowing what’s best for someone else, and a time to give way. I led Jane to the study, showed her the markings and the adjacent towns, and asked if Bill had said anything that might give a clue to their significance.

  She studied the pages for a long time before she shook her head. “Didn’t say anything to me. But might have, to young Tubbs. Let’s go.”

  This time I did insist on lunch, and made Jane eat something, too. When she had half a sandwich inside her, and had looked at her watch for the seventeenth time (I counted), I took pity.

  “All right. Off to the museum and Walter. You’ll let us know, Alan, if …”

  He nodded. “The moment I hear.”

  SIX

  JANE AND I FOUND LITTLE TO SAY TO EACH OTHER AS WE trudged across the Cathedral Close. Speculation was futile, and we didn’t want to talk about our fears. I saw the dean coming out of one door of the Cathedral as we went in another. I was tempted to hail him, but I feared that his kind sympathy would shatter Jane’s fragile composure. She had let me see her cry once. That, for Jane, was a lifetime’s allotment. Let her maintain her dignity as long as she could.

  “Do you suppose they’ve searched this place?” I ventured to ask as we traversed the shadowy south aisle. “It’s full of nice medieval nooks and crannies.”

  “Bound to’ve. No reason he’d come here, anyway. Bill’s not religious.”

  “Mmm.” I wondered briefly how well that boded for their marriage. Jane is quiet about her beliefs, but they are important to her.

  I dismissed the thought. Just now other worries loomed larger on the horizon. I tried to shove another thought aside, as well. Even if Bill wouldn’t go to the Cathedral of his own volition, there might be good reasons for someone to bring him here. So many hiding places in a fifteenth-century building … but Jane was right. The police would have looked here. We went out of the church into the hard bright sunshine.

  “Jane! Will the museum be open?” I put a hand on her arm as we turned into the High Street. “Young Tubbs can’t neglect his university work indefinitely.”

  “Don’t know. We’ll get in somehow.”

  The building was open, however, and Walter Tubbs was sitting at his desk. This time there were books in front of him and he seemed to be studying. He looked up when we entered, and blinked at us.

  “Oh, it’s you. Sorry. I was in the fourth century.” He gestured at the books. “Roman Britain and all that. They’re building roads and drains at the moment. Not frantically thrilling, but I’ve an essay due tomorrow. Have you heard anything about Mr. Fanshawe?”

  “No, but I suppose no news is good news.” Walter didn’t look impressed by the cliché, and neither did Jane. I realized it had been a pretty stupid thing to say, and changed the subject. “Walter, we’ve come with more roads for you to look at, modern ones this time.” I took the atlas out from under my arm and thrust it at him. “Or at least, the places the roads lead to. This is the book we found in Bill’s desk yesterday, and we found some markings in it. We wondered if you’d have any idea what they’re all about. Open it to the Indiana pages and have a look.”

  He studied it for a few moments and then looked up, bewildered. “I suppose he was planning to go and see these places. But I don’t know why, or when. He hadn’t said anything to me about a trip to America. I’ll take a closer look, if you’d like to leave it with me.”

  He was speaking about Bill in the past tense. I hoped Jane hadn’t caught it. “I suppose we might as well. We don’t seem to have learned anything from it, and you just might come up with something if you think about it for a little while. Or more likely, if you do
n’t think about it. At least that’s the way my mind works.” I was babbling. I took a deep breath. “Of course, the markings don’t have to have any significance. Maybe he was just doodling.”

  “He did that a lot. Mostly on his desk pad, though. I wouldn’t have thought he’d deface a book.”

  That was an aspect that hadn’t occurred to me. Yes, it was odd that a curator would write in a book. A modern book, true, and one whose lasting value was limited, but still … “Well, he did write in this one. For whatever reason. Or wait! I don’t know why we’re assuming the marks are Bill’s. We found the atlas in his desk, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he made the marks.”

  “I think he did, though. He had a thing about blue pencils. I don’t know anyone else who uses them.”

  “Ah. Well, we may never know why—um, maybe we’ll only know when we can ask him.”

  This time Jane did notice. She looked at me, her face dull with misery, and then turned away.

  I bit my lip. There was nothing I could do to comfort her, nothing, apparently, I could do to help. I’d tried every way I could think of to find Bill, but nothing had worked. I exchanged a look with Walter; we both shook our heads.

  “Well, Walter, I suppose we’ve bothered you long enough. You’re putting in an awful lot of extra time here, aren’t you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t really have anyplace else to go. I mean, I can study here better than where I’m living. And I’m happy to be here, if it’s any help to Mr. Fanshawe. I only wish …”

  We both wished. Wishing didn’t help. “It’s nice of you, all the same. Will you be here tomorrow, then, in case we think of something?”

  “I have to be. There’s some kind of donors’ meeting in a few days, and I need to try to get ready for it. I saw it in Mr. Fanshawe’s diary.”

  “Diary? He kept a diary?”

  Walter looked puzzled. “Of course.”

  “Not the journal sort,” Jane explained to me. “Calendar. Engagement book.”

  Walter still didn’t understand, but I didn’t enlighten him about the differences in our common language. “Yes,” he said. “Quite a nice one, black leather, with his initials. Anyway, I don’t suppose I’ll be much use to the donors, but I thought I should be here. People like that can get awfully waxy if they feel neglected.”