Lost Books and Old Bones

by Paige Shelton

  Boris looked at me as a new horror pulled at his features. “Do you think those women, people my daughter thought were friends, killed Mallory? In some way because of the books?”

  “No, I really don’t,” I said, though I had no sense of it at all. “They were friends, Mr. Clacher, no doubt in my mind. But since they were friends, Sophie and Rena might have more information that they’re not sharing, or they might have seen something they’re afraid to talk about. With what you’ve told me, that’s all I’m thinking right about now.”

  The horror spread back into sadness and confusion. My heart ached for him.

  He blinked it all away, but it would return momentarily. Like all uninvited guests, grief always stayed too long.

  “Thank you for your time, Delaney.” Boris stood and smoothed the front of his unwrinkled dress shirt and tie. “Please ring me if you think of anything else that might be … important tae all of this.”

  “I will.” I took the business card that he’d pulled from his breast pocket. It was simple, with his name, “University of Edinburgh,” and a phone number. “Dr. Clacher, is there any chance … I mean, you mentioned Dr. Glenn earlier. Do you think he might have come back and is killing … killed…”

  “Oh, goodness, no!” Boris said. “No, he might have been a killer, but he would never have killed my daughter. Never.”

  I felt a million protests dancing in my head and my mouth, and even in my chest.

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  He bid Rosie, Hector, and Hamlet a polite goodbye and left the shop just as a young couple entered. They were happy to the point of distraction, thankfully, and Rosie and I spent the next twenty minutes helping them.

  But after they left I was no longer distracted.

  “Rosie, I’ve got to go talk to someone,” I said. “That okay?”

  “Lass, no one involved in this mess, I hope.”

  “No. Just Artair,” I said.

  “Aye? Weel, then, always a guid visit. Hector and I have things under control here.”

  THIRTY

  I ran into Artair as we were both walking into the university library. He’d smiled when he saw me, sobered as he held the door, and whispered, “Are ye here because of the murder?”

  “I am,” I’d said.

  “Let’s get tae work.”

  I’d been in the subbasements before, so the path to the set of microfiche machines was familiar. The machines down here weren’t as often used as some throughout the library and offered us some privacy as we searched.

  “When Dr. Glenn’s true colors came out … weel, it was a sad and tragic time,” Artair said when I told him what I was there to look for.

  “Do you remember anything about him specifically, before things turned tragic?”

  Artair brought his eyebrows together. “He was always curious about the newest medical discoveries, as were many in the medical school, of course, but he even more so. He found me one day and asked me tae be on top of any sort of news. This was at least a decade and a half ago, lass. The Internet was going strong, but not like it is now. There were items of interest that didn’t become readily available immediately like they do now. I have contacts throughout the world in all sorts of areas of interest. Dr. Glenn was enthusiastic tae know what he could learn before everyone else.”

  “Did you find things for him?”

  “Aye, but nothing extraordinary. I believe there was some stem cell research and some promising leukemia treatments that he was grateful tae know, but if he learned of anything before anyone else, there was only a brief difference in time.”

  “Enough that he might have been able to speak intelligently about topics that were brought up, I bet.”

  “That’s what I thought about when things turned so terrible.”

  “That had to be rough.”

  “It was.” Artair shook his head. “I even thought long and hard if I’d somehow contributed tae his wicked ways, but I couldn’t see how, other than he might have been found oot sooner if I hadn’t given him a few bits of information.”

  “No, Artair, he was evil. His wicked ways were going to happen no matter what.”

  He thought a moment. “I do remember something else. Have a seat and I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks,” I said as he disappeared through a doorway into a microfiche storage room.

  I sat and turned to face the machine. It was powered up and ready when a few moments later Artair returned with a box full of film.

  “There was an event that received a lot of coverage many years ago. It was a celebration, though I can’t remember what they were celebrating. The medical school held a dance, a formal ball so they could invite dignitaries, I think. Mostly, what I remember is the fallout that occurred. A fight,” he said.

  “Fisticuffs or yelling?” I asked, watching him find a strip and thread the machine.

  “Both, again, if I’m remembering correctly. I’ve found the university newspaper’s coverage, I think. Both doctors, Glenn and Eban, were involved. Maybe Clacher too. Let’s see if I can pinpoint it.”

  I rolled my chair out of his way as he moved another one over and sat. We both loved research, but searching through microfilm wasn’t a favorite method for either of us. I waited patiently as Artair scrolled.

  “Here we are. Ah, aye, it was something from their drug discovery program. Ultimately, the program was about clinical evaluation that would eventually bring drugs tae consumers. It’s a process, of course, but the process, almost accidentally, led to a drug that was being used for one thing tae be helpful in something else.” He stopped on an article, and I read over his shoulder.

  It wasn’t about the celebration, but about the initial discovery. A drug, its name shortened to “Bedhead” for the article’s purposes and because, in addition to its intended effect of clearing up eczema, the program at the university found that it also helped patients sleep more soundly, without the side effects that most sleeping pills had.

  “This would be on the market by now,” I said. “I don’t need sleeping pills, but I know people who do. This sounds like a good option for them to look into.”

  “Aye, it did then,” Artair said.

  “I heard a ‘but’ in your tone.”

  “Correct. It didn’t turn out tae be all that it was advertised tae be. Give me another moment and I’ll find the other article.”

  The next article he found spread out over three different pages of the university paper. There were pictures to go along with the words.

  In a nutshell, the story began with the initial claim of discovery of Bedhead’s additional attributes regarding healthier sleep. In fact, it seems that researchers claimed that Bedhead might actually make people healthier because it worked in conjunction with good hormones, as well as serotonin. Those involved with these initial University of Edinburgh studies were listed, with four doctors as the leading researchers: Dr. Glenn, Dr. Eban, Dr. Clacher, and Dr. Carson.

  “The four of them were so connected,” I said.

  “Aye. Take a look at this picture.”

  The four doctors stood together. They looked at the camera, smiled just enough not to scowl, and kept enough distance between each other for me to wonder if they’d posed that way on purpose, or if the camera just happened to catch a moment that might be interpreted as aloof. Even Dr. Carson was smiling with less enthusiasm than I’d seen from other pictures from that time.

  “They look uncomfortable,” I said.

  “Not as uncomfortable as this picture.” Artair scrolled to the last page of the article. “I remember the day this was published. The picture is tragic, yet one couldn’t help but laugh. I’m sairy tae say that I laughed along, guiltily.”

  It was even more difficult to think that this picture hadn’t been somehow staged. It illustrated the aftermath of what must have been a fight, food included.

  Dr. Carson was in the middle of the picture, the focal point. She stood with her arms akimbo and her face forever frozen on the
page, distraught. She must have been crying or yelling or both as something that looked like pudding rolled down her head, covering half her face just as the camera’s shutter clicked.

  “Someone poured food on her head?” I said.

  “It appears that way, but the food flew because Dr. Eban and Dr. Clacher became angry at Dr. Glenn.” Artair pointed at the two men on the side of the picture, Dr. Eban on his back, holding his jaw, and Dr. Glenn sitting up next to him with his hand over his eye. Dr. Clacher wasn’t part of that picture. All around the men were spilled food items and serving dishes, as well as onlookers caught right at a moment of supreme shock. I didn’t know how the person manning the camera got so lucky, but I’d never seen so many people in such exaggerated poses at the same time. It was indeed tragic. It was unquestionably comical.

  We finished reading through the article. It seemed that in the midst of the celebration, the news was delivered that the research had been found to be either compromised or altered, or at the very worst faked. Investigations would ensue as to exactly what had gone wrong, but Doctors Glenn and Eban accused each other of a litany of wrongdoings, with the article writer doing her best to say that the resulting fight was a clash of two very big egos, neither of which wanted to back down in the least. Fists, platters, dinner rolls, and angry words had been the weapons of choice.

  Dr. Carson and Dr. Clacher had tried to get the other men under control, but there came a point when it was all too late and the damage that was going to be done was going to happen no matter how they intervened.

  “What happened? Was the research faked?”

  Artair shook his head. “Later, the university released a statement that the study had been ‘compromised,’ but that’s all they would share. It might have ended up being further investigated, but no doubt something else came along to take up the spotlight. Dr. Glenn’s murders didn’t occur until about three years later, so that wasn’t it.”

  “Clearly, Doctors Eban, Glenn, Clacher, and Carson knew each other well.”

  “Aye, but that’s not unusual. They were colleagues, and seemingly all involved in medicine. When Dr. Glenn did what he did I remember thinking that the others probably felt horribly betrayed.”

  I thought about Boris Clacher’s words about Dr. Glenn. Had he been talking about more than murder? The past research too? What else might there have been?

  “This is a stretch, but Rosie saw Dr. Carson going into Dr. Glenn’s flat by herself when she knew Glenn’s wife wasn’t home. Maybe they were more involved on a personal basis,” I said.

  “At his flat?” Artair shrugged. “It’s possible they were that arrogant.” He looked at the article again. “Well, of course they were that arrogant, but I would think they would try tae hide an affair better. Perhaps they were just working together. It’s hard tae know.”

  I nodded. “Right, but if there was an affair, maybe the fight was about so much more. You know Dr. Eban’s reputation.”

  “His oddness?”

  I nodded again.

  “He is particularly taken with the Burke and Hare legend, I do know that. That would make him odd by itself, but I’ve heard he tries tae play a part in his class—spooky. Wears a cape sometimes,” Artair said.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that too, but I’ve yet to see anything like that.”

  Artair shrugged. “Medical school is difficult beyond imagination. I’ve often wondered if he does that just tae give his students a mental break. Add some drama, and maybe he interprets it as fun.”

  “He’s tough, I hear.”

  “The toughest, but if any professors need tae be tough, I think medical school professors need to. Though he’s thought highly of internationally as well, he’s respected, and he’s part of the medical school’s excellent reputation.”

  I hadn’t even thought of international reputations. I’d been so caught up in our little Scottish world.

  “Do you suppose he manipulates the students to do things for grades? The female students?” I asked.

  “My dear lass, ye are delicate when speaking tae me and I appreciate that, but there’s no need tae be. I’ve been around the block a time or two.”

  “Sorry.” I smiled.

  “Not tae worry. But, no, I don’t think he does that. I don’t know, mind, but I’ve never seen anything that would make me think such a thing.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Ah, there’s a question.” Artair thought a moment. “I don’t dislike him, but he’s not someone I would want tae socialize with. I don’t want tae discuss Burke and Hare at length, and from what I’ve heard, that’s exactly what he does. In fact, we had a replica death mask of Burke break two weeks ago, and his disappointment was deep; he was on the verge of inconsolable.”

  “A death mask broke?”

  “Aye. Not a valuable one but—”

  “Where was it? What happened? How was Dr. Eban involved?” I triggered off the questions.

  “Um, weel, just upstairs.”

  “Take me there while you tell me what happened. Please.” I stood and looked at our microfiche mess. “After we clean up.”

  “I’ll clean up later,” he said. “Come along and I’ll show you where it happened.”

  Though he didn’t understand my urgency, he respected it enough to hurry us up the two flights to a display case under an arched window that looked out toward the medical school buildings.

  “There’s not much tae tell,” he said as we climbed stairs. “We rotate items in the display case, but none of them are valuable. Mostly duplicates, copies, replicas. The case is locked, but not watched all that closely, so museum-quality pieces don’t get put there. We like to keep it interesting, though. We asked Dr. Eban for help with a wee Burke and Hare display. He was happy tae help, but he dropped the mask as he was placing it—he insisted on placing it himself. He was upset.”

  “But it wasn’t real?”

  “No, not that one. Just a replica, a contemporary plaster casting.”

  Based upon what Joshua had told me, I knew there were techniques that allowed one to get a pretty good idea of when certain things—materials, apparel, chemical makeup—had been cast in plaster.

  “You’re sure?”

  “That’s what Dr. Eban told us, that he had it created just for his own interest.”

  That was probably true, because if it had been valuable he wouldn’t have let them place it in an unwatched display case in the library, but I was just suspicious enough of him to wonder.

  “This is the case,” Artair said quietly as we came to the window.

  There were only books inside it currently, all of them titled something about Culloden.

  “We took out the Burke and Hare items last week, and whoever was supposed tae come up with something else hasn’t done their job yet apparently. There are usually more than just books.”

  “Can you remember the other items in the display?” I asked as I crouched and looked around the bottom edges of the case and the surrounding floor area.

  “Books, certainly, but also pictures of the murderers. Nothing valuable, Delaney. The death mask might have been the most interesting item if Dr. Eban hadn’t broken it.”

  I stopped my search and looked up at Artair. “Any chance there were scalpels like the ones we saw in the skull room?”

  “No, lass, sharp edges like that wouldn’t have been allowed. I see you’re disappointed. Sorry.”

  I smiled. “It’s okay. I don’t know what it would mean anyway, but it might mean something.”

  I resumed my search, and was well rewarded.

  “Artair, look!” I exclaimed as I pointed to the bottom edge of a nearby bookshelf. “What does that look like?”

  He crouched as I knee-walked over.

  “Looks like the cleaners missed something,” he said.

  “I bet they didn’t see it. It’s pretty flush with the shelf. It looks like plaster from a death mask, doesn’t it?”

  “Aye.”

  “May
I take it?”

  “I don’t know why not. Wait, what are you going tae do with it?”

  “Take it to a newspaper reporter and see if she’ll go to the police with me.”

  “Sounds fairly safe. Take it.”

  It wasn’t about the fingerprints, but I was careful nonetheless, because you never knew when fingerprints might be needed.

  It was mostly about seeing if this piece matched Bridget’s piece, and if so, maybe that would be evidence that Dr. Eban had been in the close, and if not to kill Mallory Clacher, then why else would he have been there? I’d be happy to give the information to the police and let them figure it out. I just had to convince Bridget to come with me.

  Carefully, I wrapped the three-inch piece of plaster in Artair’s handkerchief and put it in my bag.

  He escorted me to the doors with the promise that he’d call me if he found anything else.

  I got on the bus that would take me to the newspaper office, and hoped that Bridget and I might end up seeing eye to eye on more than just the fact that Tom was a really good catch.

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Delaney?” Bridget said as she looked up from her computer screen. I hadn’t waited to be greeted or escorted but had walked directly to her.

  The rest of the staff watched me cautiously but when Bridget didn’t seem in any way scared, they all went back to work.

  “I have something,” I said. “Can we go somewhere private?”

  Like any good journalist that could smell a scoop, she nodded eagerly, stood and led me to a small office in the back. Other than a desk, there was nothing else in the room, not even chairs. But we could close the door.

  “What do you have?” she asked.

  “This.” I pulled out the handkerchief and showed her the plaster I’d found. “I don’t know if there’s any way to determine that yours and mine are from the same original piece of plaster, but if they are, I just might have a scoop for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  It’s never a good idea to accuse anyone of murder unless you are more than one hundred percent sure he or she did the deed. I skated around an out-and-out accusation and told Bridget that it would certainly behoove the police to see if the pieces went together and if they did, I’d know without a doubt that a replica of a death mask was at one time in Dr. Eban’s possession, that he was the one who broke it, and that at least my plaster piece was probably from it.