" ?" NA~hy
"Steel tips will leave a line at the outer edge of the stroke, easily seen with a trusty magnifier. And steel pen nibs weren't introduced until the nineteenth century, so we'd know it was fake if a steel nib had been used. And did you notice this tiny residue of dark sand on the paper?"
"Yeah, I saw that. Was the manuscript buried at some time?"
"Buried? You've got a hell of an imagination, DD. No. Probably sand from a shaker was used to blot the ink on the finished page, and a few grains caught in the fold and there they have remained.
"As to paper," he went on, "this appears to be all rag, which is consistent with manually laid paper used in Burns' time. See the chain lines that run across the paper? And feel how sturdy it is." He handed it to me.
"It does have a crisp feel."
"That's a good description, DD. Rag paper like this survives much better than modern machine-made wood pulp paper developed in the mid-nineteenth century. The acid in that paper causes a slow breakdown of the cellulose fibers, and the paper just fractures.
"Now, I didn't find any visible watermarks, but watermarks are a surprisingly complicated topic, with their own reference works devoted to them, like the chain lines."
"And what's your opinion? You do have one, I hope."
"Ali, DD, you know me so well. I always have an opinion. From my personal research, I believe that date watermarks, which were common in the early nineteenth century, were fairly rare in Burns' time.
"To sum up on the document," he continued, "the handwriting, the type of pen, the paper, and the absence of a watermark all check so far. But none of them are prima facie evidence to prove that this is a forgery. If it is a forgery, then the forger was very careful and prepared."
"What about the broken glass?"
"Aahh, the infamous green glass." He picked up a piece.
"Cracks on the top here have obliterated a few of the letters in the third line."
I held up a piece in which the letter "p" in the word "reptiles" and the letter "i" in the word "line," were missing. I stood silent, remembering what I'd read about the incident at the Golden Lion Inn on the Burns Internet sites. I could easily envision the young, handsome, virile Robert Burns smashing the window with his riding crop.
"Tom, if this is the famous window pane, could this damage be from Burns hitting it with his riding crop?"
He smiled. "DD, you know that the broken pane of glass proves nothing merely because it's broken."
"You're right, Sherlock. Any smart forger would break the counterfeit glass, too."
"Certainly the sexiest cause for the breakage would be from Burns bludgeoning it with his riding crop to eliminate the evidence. History does tell us Burns was fiercely loyal to the Stuarts and wanted them back on the throne. This poem he wrote was dangerous. It was treasonous for a person to do, say, or display anything connected with the Stuart kings."
"It's probably a good thing Auntie Dragon didn't live then."
"From all you say of the Gorgon Aunt, I'd have to agree. Good thing you didn't either."
"Never mind about me. Now from what I read," I said, changing the subject, "Burns did a lot of other dangerous things, too, like publicly celebrating Bonnie Prince Charlie's birthday in 1787. That was a treasonable act, too."
"He was known for speaking his mind on almost every subject-that's partly why he was and still is so revered. And that's also why everybody suspected that he was the writer of the poem on the window pane. The first printing of his Poems-Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect-Kilmarnock Edition came out in April of 1786," Tom cited from his nearly-infallible memory. "And in a few short weeks he was a national celebrity in an era before movies, TV, iPods, or YouTube. His poetry was new and fresh, and it addressed topics that had been forbidden for almost a hundred years. Remember, after the Stuart dynasty, the fortunes of Scotland declined. Scots were forbidden to speak or write their own native language, and they were forbidden to wear kilts. Burns wrote this "treasonous" poem on the window at the Inn at Stirling in 1787, only a year after his Poems was published. The timing is right here, and we could infer that he wrote it because his celebrity made him feel invincible."
"If this is genuine..."
"Then this glass would be worth its weight in diamonds, to say nothing of its historical, sentimental, and patriotic value," Tom said.
"But I can't believe any of this is genuine. Oh, I admit I got excited there for a minute. The fact is, Auntie's rolling in the hay with the guy who sold this to her."
"Hmmm" Tom looked disappointed. "That certainly adds a murky cast to the waters."
"The guy's her attorney, and he knows about Auntie's biggest weakness-Scotland and Scottish nationalism. I can't help thinking she's being conned. If I don't expose him, he'll try an even bigger scam on her next time."
"There are a few more tests I need to make, DD. I'll have to enlarge it under my binocular microscope to examine the pen strokes for irregularities and jerky movements. To authenticate the ink, I need to first see if it fluoresces under black light."
"But even I know both paper and ink can be faked."
"True, DD. Forged documents can be made on genuine, period paper, and often inks of any period can be imitated. A good example of that is the crackerjack forger, Mark Hofmann, who forged an Emily Dickinson poem that was sold at Sotheby's in 1997 for $21,000. He also imitated a number of Mormon documents, including a particularly interesting one said to be quite incriminating against their leader Joseph Smith, who..."
"Look, Tom, I know you know your stuff, but... "
"Sorry, DD. I'm rambling on. But don't worry. There's one more test. Forensic document examiners who work for the U.S. Treasury Department now do an atomic test that can be used to measure the migration rate of certain ions in ink. Somebody discovered that these ions migrate through paper at definite rates that cannot be faked and can prove very accurately how long the ink has been on the page. That way, even if the paper is the right age, and the ink is the right formula, they can calculate conclusively how long that ink has been on that paper"
"Oh, like carbon dating for a manuscript, huh?"
"Exactly. So I can promise you an authentication, one way or the other."
"And as for the glass?"
"That's another story, and one I'm not personally familiar with. I'll ask around." Tom removed his glasses and ran his fingers through his brown hair. "You'll have to leave these things with me so I can do those tests."
"Auntie's going to be livid when she finds out I've transferred possession."
"I'm sure you'll handle her. Meanwhile, did you already check with all the known institutional collections of Burns manuscripts to confirm that nobody knows about the whereabouts of this piece and that it hasn't been stolen from any archive, public or private?"
"I'm planning to get on that as soon as I can."
"I'll do it for you. All the information's already in a database in my computer"
"Great"
"One other thing. I'll check online at Book Auction Record and the American Book Prices Current for auction records for the past twenty-five years."
"What will that do?"
"That'll ensure these things haven't appeared at some auction."
"Or maybe they have," I said.
"Good point. Oh, and I just remembered a first-rate Burns scholar I met at the London antiquarian book fair. He lives in Scotland, but I'll contact him by e-mail for his take on this."
"Thanks, Tom. Let me know your conclusions as soon as you can. Oh, and by the way, I better tell you, someone broke into the house where my aunt was staying. I think they were after these things. So you better use all the security you've got."
"Don't worry. Saving paper is my life, and I'm good at it. You already know I'm alarmed to the gills with motion detectors, magnets, and sensors because you advised me to and you got me the rebate from my insurance company for installing it all."
"Sometimes I'm quite useful," I said.
"The police station's only a block away on Racine. And as luck would have it, I'm going to be babysitting a Northern Michigan timber wolf for the next six weeks. That should settle any question of a break-in."
"Oh, God. I have this vision of a Watch-Wolf eating Auntie's valuable artifacts, and it's scaring the hell out of me."
"Better not tell her," he suggested as I grabbed my coat and walked to the door. "Oh, by the way," he said casually, "there's a store room behind the kitchen area here, DD. It's my hideout when I need to evade a customer or take a nap." He smiled broadly. "My point is, the space is yours if you need it."
I'm not good at taking anything from anybody, but I realized if I didn't find other space, my office stuff and I were going to be dumped into the street.
"Thanks, Tom. I know I'm a difficult friend sometimes"
"Sometimes?"
"You don't have to rub it in."
"Haven't you noticed DD that you abhor change? You resist it like a vacuum abhors air. I've got a healthy streak of that same outlook myself. It's only temporary till you find a place. To make you feel better, I'll even charge you more than it's worth."
I put on my coat and found my car keys. "I just might have to take you up on it, Tom."
"Remember, it's here if you want it. Oh, and a very Merry Christmas to the Cavalier Cat." Tom waved and locked the door behind me.
I shivered, and all the way to the car I watched for unknown enemies in the bitterly cold Chicago night.
TWENTY-TWO
Tom WAS RIGHT. I hate change. His offer of office space made me realize I'd over-procrastinated. I would try to find something tomorrow.
Home at last, I could have used a little cuddling, but Cavalier remained aloof and pretended he didn't even know I'd been gone. I settled for a shortbread cookie and a stiff dose of Wild Turkey. Although today I'd made some progress on the trainees, I still had no clue who had killed Ken. At least no cops were hassling me.
As for Auntie's "wee Burns" artifacts, tomorrow I would have to tell Phil about the break-in at Mother's. I hoped those tests Tom was making would quickly supply some definitive answers on the artifacts. As soon as we confirmed they were fake, I'd return them to Auntie's paramour, Mr. Murray. Then I'd force him to give back Auntie's money. I only hoped she wouldn't be a target for further violence. In the meantime, I had to prepare Auntie to be disappointed. Somehow I knew that would be the hardest task of all.
Last on the tomorrow list, and only because I was curious, I vowed to research those mysterious initials, KB. The name Katherine Bruce presented a good starting point.
Sunday morning I woke with a jolt, thinking of all I had to do. I ran out to pick up a Chicago Trib so I could check for office digs, which I did immediately after finishing the crossword puzzle. I phoned two possibles and left messages. Hopefully I'd find something right away. Meanwhile I had to work on the HI-Data comprehensives and visit a lot of people connected with the new employees. Sundays are a great time to catch people at home, so after a second cup of coffee, I hit the road.
The doorman at Marcie Ann's saluted as I pulled in. I parked in the building's parking ramp, and on the way to the elevators, paused to admire a silver Porsche Carrera 4 with a convertible top parked in the stall for 2318. It was so new it didn't have plates, just a temporary yellow cardboard sign visible through the back window with an expiration date eight weeks hence. Apparently Marcie was already taking advantage of her big-time salary at HI-Data. I guessed I'd be wildly extravagant too if I were paying taxes in her income bracket.
New wave jazz was playing in Marcie's apartment, so I was relieved I wouldn't have to return a third time. My reflection in the door's peephole made me look like the fat lady at the circus. For all the good it would do, I primped my unruly hair and rang the bell. Maybe Marcie hadn't lied to me during our first interview. But if what Sparky had said about her and Ken was true, then Marcie was, at the very least, guilty of withholding valuable information. Tucking the tidbit into my mental kit bag, I smiled into the peep hole. I didn't like not being told everything. I was going to enjoy this interview.
Marcie couldn't hide her surprise at finding me on her doorstep at 11:30 on a Sunday morning. She opened the door barely wide enough to talk.
At our last meeting at HI-Data, she'd been wearing a red two-piece Chanel business suit, reflecting a sense of style not usual in twenty-two-year-old girls. That same lack of youthful informality was evident today. Her pale green and pink silk Lacoste jogging suit might be called leisure wear, but it was so strikingly trim and neat that I felt dumpy in my brand-new black Anne Klein tunic and trousers.
"Nice jazz," I opened, hoping to put the conversation on a friendly tone.
"Yes, it is. Jazz is all mathematics, and math always relaxes me." she observed with a thin-lipped smile. "Everything, Ms. McGil, comes down to math, if you're smart enough to understand it."
I don't like to show off. Usually.
"Lots of people call me smart, too," I said. "For example, I know that half the time twenty-three randomly selected people are gathered together, two or more of them will share a birthday."
Marcie's eyes widened. "So you've encountered the laws of permutations and combinations." She blinked, twice, then asked, "What exactly are you doing here? What more do you want from me? I've already spent hours filling out forms and answering your questions"
She shuffled her weight from one leg to the other, unwilling to invite me in.
"I'm sure you won't mind giving me just a minute or two of your time to confirm a few details, Marcie."
"Couldn't this have waited till Monday at HI-Data?"
"I'm being forced to work on a tight deadline here. You were told that. So if being employed by HI-Data is important to you, then no, it can't wait."
"Oh, all right," she conceded and opened the door wide enough for me to enter. A large foyer opened into her living room, and I followed her there. The apartment, like Marcie herself, was minimalist chic. There was a black lacquer table on one wall with two computers and some books and paperwork. The golden wood parquet floors, peach walls, and clean-lined furniture could have been copied from an issue of Architectural Digest. Everything was neat as a pin. A few accessories provided slashes of color, but there was a noticeable lack of any clutter-no personal photos, no letters or bills, no amorphous disarray. George Vogel, my obsessive landlord, would love this girl. Her file said both parents were Methodists, and I looked around in vain for some sign of the Christmas season.
She watched me scrutinize her work-table. "I do a lot of my research here," she said, pointing me to an oversize cream chair with dark apricot piping
I sat down, she sat down, and we smiled coolly at each other. "Marcie, what have you heard about a hostile takeover of HI-Data?"
"How did you find out?"
"Just answer my question, okay?"
"Rumor. That's all it is. Just rumor."
"Well, who's supposedly involved as the second party in this rumor?"
"Oh, some European firm. I can't remember the name."
I was sure she knew more than she was telling. It was time to switch to personal data. "How long have you lived in this beautiful apartment?"
"You already know how long. It's on the form I filled out."
"What's your monthly rent?"
"That's on the form, too."
"Yes, I'm sure it is, but I wonder if you'd just confirm it."
"Twenty-nine hundred dollars a month," she said.
"Can I see your lease?"
"I'd have to go look for it. I'm not sure exactly where it is."
"Well, I'll need a copy. Now, let's review your income for last year and the year before." "
I don't know all that off the top of my head. The figures are all there on the forms I filled out."
"Yes, but I'd like to see the copies of your last two years' tax returns, please."
"As I said, I'm not sure just where they are."
Marcie's apartment was so neat,
I had trouble believing she could misplace a safety pin. I said, "Marcie, tell me, what kind of car do you drive?"
She sighed loudly. "I don't have a car. That's on the forms, too. Didn't you read anything I filled out? This is a waste of time. I'm going to let HI-Data know you're incompetent."
That did it. It was Sunday, and I knew I shouldn't swear, but I didn't have to be nice, did I? "So whose brand-new Porsche is parked downstairs in your parking spot?"
I could see the wheels turning as she stalled. "In my parking space?"
"Isn't number 2318 your space?"
"Oh, um, well," she stammered, clasping her hands together in a little ball.
I couldn't wait to hear her explanation.
"I forgot," she said. "I just bought it a few days ago. Up until last week I didn't have a car, and, it's so new that I forgot, really, that I owned it." She ended on a high note, perhaps convincing herself it was the truth.
She didn't convince me. Ken had been murdered, HI-Data was the target of industrial espionage, and someone had cut my brake line at HI-Data. Maybe Marcie was in it up to her smart neck. I needed a better read on her, so I decided to attack.
"Don't try to bullshit me, Marcie. Not if you want to go on working for HI-Data. The date on your license-applied-for sticker is from two weeks ago, which means you lied to me on the form you filled out two days ago."
She stared at me, clenched-jawed and a little pale. I was kind of enjoying this.
"So, tell me, does this have anything to do with you and Ken?" I settled deeper into her comfy chair, feeling as if we were going to finally get some answers.
"What?" she sputtered and looked down to her right.
"You know, your affair and all that. What you deliberately withheld during our interview."
Now there was no more talk about my being incompetent. She squirmed, and I wished Sparky could be here to see it.
"Well?" I coaxed. "Stop giving me crap and help me do my job, or I'm personally going to get you kicked out of HI-Data."
"I've told you everything I'm going to. My relationship with Ken was entirely personal and has nothing to do with you."
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