If a study of the box would be of interest to you and your Foundation’s work, please let me know and inform me of the best manner in which to get it to you. Thank you for indulging the whims of an old man.
I remain, Yours truly,
Warren Smith
Aurora set the letter aside and stared at the photograph. A wooden box sat on a table and the contrast and lighting were not good, the sepia tones blending too much for great clarity. She carried the photograph to the one exterior window where sunshine warmed the room. In the stronger light she studied the picture and felt her heart quicken. She had heard rumors of a box like this.
She dropped the photograph on her desk and picked up Mr. Smith’s letter, bustling past the work tables in the lab and heading toward her secretary’s desk.
“Charles, respond to this gentleman’s request in the affirmative. Tell him to securely pack the item for mailing and give him our address.”
“Certainly, Miss Potts.” He pulled a sheet of the Foundation’s letterhead from his drawer and inserted it into his typewriting machine.
“We shall hope this is not just another bendable spoon,” she said.
He smiled at that. Their work was filled with investigations into cheap parlor tricks and hucksters whose games bilked people out of their money while trying to make them believe in the magical. Whenever that was the case—a shyster taking money for performing his or her feats—The Vongraf Foundation was honor bound to turn their findings over to the police.
Aurora’s thoughts churned as she walked back to her office. Somehow, Smith’s story did not have that feel to it. A wooden box with healing powers. Stories of such a thing had floated about during her years in college and she had begun taking notes even that far back. Somewhere, here … She opened a drawer in the tall wooden filing cabinet behind her desk. Yes. She had kept the notes.
A sketch sat at the top of the pages. Someone had described such a box, had made this drawing. As she recalled, it was a young man whose ancestors from Ireland had spoken of it. At the time, Aurora had marked it up as just one of those Irish folktales, along with leprechauns and pots of gold. The boy, who had been somewhat sweet on her, offering to buy her a coffee now and then, might have simply been telling tales to keep her attention. But something about the story he told or the fact that the sketch was so detailed, something had told her to keep it. And now she had photographic evidence of a box that looked very similar.
She paged through the papers in the folder, a collection of notes made over time, refreshing her memory. One handwritten note stood out. At the top were three simple letters: OSM. She was familiar with them in name only, a highly secretive organization, a rival to The Vongraf, really. She had written this note the first time she heard of them and her notations reminded her that OSM had shown an inordinate interest in another artifact, some sort of religious icon. She had jotted her thoughts at the time, that this organization investigated religious miracles, although now she could not recall where she’d gotten that idea. The note was brief, without enough information to form any sort of conclusion. It must have related to the Irish box, though. Why else would she have filed it in this particular folder?
She stared at the photograph once more. How had such a box traveled from Ireland to Mexico to Panama? She read the other notes in the folder. One account told of the existence of other boxes, including one whose characteristics could change—good or bad—according to the person holding it. That seemed even more farfetched than Smith’s claims. Of course, anything was possible and her scientific side told her to make no judgments, to form no opinion, until the facts were in evidence.
The day the package from Panama arrived, Aurora was out at a fundraising luncheon in nearby Washington. It had been a long day and she’d been tempted to go straight home, but aside from her cat, Mittens, no one waited for her there. The lab was always an exciting place. Plus, there might be messages, telephone calls to return.
Charles had gone home to his young wife and most of the staff had left, as well. One of the senior scientists stood at the worktable, a dour older man named William whose opposition to having a woman as his boss was well known. Aurora greeted him politely but did not linger to chat.
On her desk sat a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with many rounds of twine. The sight of Panamanian postage stamps made her heart quicken. She pulled scissors from her drawer and quickly cut loose the secure wrappings.
The box sat there, a benign little object of carved wood, small stones and drab, dark stain. It was certainly not an example of fine art. An educated guess was that it had been made by a tradesman of European descent and was probably quite old. It was a bit smaller than she had expected. Now she saw what Warren Smith meant in his skepticism over this item having the mass to keep a grown woman afloat in water and to direct her safely to the shore. She took measurements of its dimensions, reminding herself not to form an opinion at this early stage.
William put on his street coat and left without a word, which was just as well. Aurora was eager to work on the box but didn’t especially want his observations. She carried the item to one of the lab tables and studied it carefully. Inside the lid there were faint traces of some sort of lettering or characters, unreadable now. She used onionskin paper and did a light rubbing but only scattered marks revealed themselves, no words. The piece had obviously been used and handled a great deal during its history.
She wanted to examine the molecular structure under the microscope but would have to take a sample of the wood first. Preparation involved using several chemicals and a stain, and if the box truly was ancient, it would not do to ruin it; she sliced a few centimeters of wood from one of the inner edges then pulled several bottles from the supply on the shelves above.
An hour later she had the tiny sample under her lens. She had seen this condition before, although not in a long time. To be certain that her conclusion was valid she located a book among the reference texts in their small library and consulted.
The molecular structure indicated that the wood had, indeed, been subjected to a massive jolt of electricity—most likely, the tree from which it was carved had been struck by lightning. Interesting, but certainly not proof that any supernatural powers were conveyed by it. Warren Smith had said that the box changed color when handled by certain people; however, obviously not every person got this reaction from it or Aurora herself would have immediately seen the result. He told her it held certain healing properties; she thought of a simple way to test for this. She held the box closely in both hands for ten minutes, then touched her index finger to a small cut on her left hand. She saw no reaction at all.
She raised the microscope’s lens and began a detailed study of the surfaces, inside and out. She discovered that the box had once held paper made from high quality cotton; it also bore traces of sea sand, wax crayons and a type of clay found in the deserts of the Southwest. Minuscule granules of salt verified Smith’s story that the box had once floated in the ocean. If only she could find someone whose handling would bring about the reaction he had described.
She stood up and stretched her aching neck and shoulders. The clock on the wall beside her office door chimed and Aurora was shocked to see that the hour was three-thirty in the morning. Mittens would be anxious and hungry, although this certainly was not the first time Aurora had worked nearly through the night. How fortunate that the old building had been wired for electric lights a few years ago. She gathered the bottles and tools, leaving her work area neat, and carried the box to her desk where she locked it safely away in a drawer.
Expecting to sleep until midmorning, Aurora was surprised to find herself wide awake at eight o’clock. A quick toilette then she pulled on one of her simple work dresses and walked the four blocks to the Foundation. She had awakened with an idea.
Rather than making an announcement, she made her way quietly among the staff, asking each person in turn to hold the wooden box for a few minutes and offer an opinion as to its
age and origin. The box showed no reaction, nor did its handlers, until she brought it to Charles. Within moments after he took the item she noticed that the wood began to lighten and take on a prettier, golden appearance.
Her secretary stared at it. “It’s becoming warm!”
So Smith’s story did have some validity.
“Do you feel any differently?” she asked.
“Not especially.”
“Thank you. What you have noticed is very helpful.”
She took the box back to her office and began to write down her findings for a report to Warren Smith. When she left for lunch she handed the notes to Charles, whose desk looked remarkably clear for so early in the day. He already had fresh paper in his typewriter. He began to strike the keys and Aurora paused, startled at how quickly he was typing the words.
“I plan to return in an hour or so,” she told him.
“I will have your letter ready.”
Out on the street, she was more determined than ever to conduct one final test with the box. She stepped in front of a woman who was pushing a baby in a pram and introduced herself.
“I wonder if you would mind holding this box for a moment or two. It’s in the name of science.”
The woman gave her an odd look but complied. Aurora asked about the baby and commented on the lovely weather, edging a glance toward the box every few seconds; it changed not one bit. The same dull finish, the same dark wood stain. She thanked the woman and went on to her favorite coffee house.
During her meal she found excuses to ask several other people to touch the box. No one elicited a reaction from it; Charles was the only one. Was it possible that the box’s enhanced molecular structure made it react only to people whose own bodies contained more electricity than others? Or was there some sort of destiny involved?
She shook off that idea—she was not a big believer in fate unless there was a scientific explanation. Perhaps this morning’s event was a one-time occurrence. She paid for her sandwich and walked back to the lab.
At Charles’s desk the finished letter to Warren Smith waited. She picked it up and asked Charles to hold the box again. Once more, it began to warm and to lighten in color.
“Miss Potts? May I set it down now?” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “It gave me so much energy this morning that I worry I won’t sleep all night.”
She covered her desire to laugh with a businesslike answer. “Of course. I shall take it. Perhaps you could put that energy to good use in sorting files and neatening the drawers.”
In the quiet of her office she closed the door and set the box on her desk. The fact that the occurrence had now happened twice filled her with elation. It was extremely rare that their investigations into the paranormal were validated. She wanted to leap and shout, to tell the world. But that went against the principles of the Foundation’s code. They were to investigate and document, not to sensationalize or create a public stir. In fact, of all the verified mystical artifacts and events they had researched none had been put on display. Each artifact went back to its owner. The Vongraf Foundation’s mission was about science, not vulgar publicity.
Still, she would see to it that their documentation was flawless. She called Charles and another man, the one most proficient with the camera, into her office. If at all possible she wanted to capture the box’s glow on a photographic plate and see how well it might print on paper.
The telephone rang as the men were setting up the camera on a tripod. Aurora reached for it herself.
“Aurora Potts, please,” said a male voice with a slight accent.
“Speaking.” She waved the two men out of her office.
“I represent an organization much like your own,” he said. “We are known by the initials OSM. I am in the Washington office.”
She waited, working to place the accent. European. Italian, perhaps.
“We understand you are currently investigating a very unusual item, something far different from the mundane artifacts we see regularly. Our group requests that we be able to examine it as well.”
Something in his tone and his words caused the hairs on her neck to rise.
“I’m not familiar with OSM,” she said, hoping the lie sounded convincing. “Who do you represent?”
“Only ourselves. We are an independent research facility.”
Her mind tried to go back to her old college notes which she had reviewed weeks ago. The letters OSM, handwritten at the top of a page, and the vague notion that they had something to do with religion … but none of that made sense. This man could be behind any number of schemes.
“And exactly what item do you believe we have?”
“A box. An oddly carved wooden box. It has colored stones on it and is carved in a symmetrical pattern similar to the letter X.”
His voice made her skin crawl. His exact description of the box … she knew she could never admit to him that she was staring at it this very moment.
“I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Excuse me, but you do know. You know exactly what item I refer to.”
Something hardened inside her. “I was about to say that I do not have the item anymore. It was shipped back to its owner this afternoon.”
“Oh, that is too bad. Please, who is it? We would like to contact him.”
But Aurora refused to say. She was breathing hard when she replaced the receiver. How had this man, this organization if he did represent one, found out about the artifact?
Her street foray during the luncheon hour came back to her. Someone had seen her passing the box around, asking others to touch it. Among those who had spoken with her or someone observing at a distance, someone had reported it to this OSM. Her hands shook as she picked up the telephone directory and thumbed through the pages. There was no listing using those initials and as she perused the lines of type she saw nothing that could conceivably use the initials as its abbreviation. Of course, the entity could exist anywhere in the world other than Alexandria, Virginia. She considered the possibilities.
The telephone connection had been very clear, so the man’s assertion that he was in a Washington office could very well be true. Of course the organization could be farther away but with a local representative who tracked the activities of The Vongraf Foundation.
Charles and the photographer came back in when Aurora signaled them. As they set up the camera and took several images she found herself thinking furiously. The box would go into the evening mail by Special Delivery to Warren Smith. She penned a note to him, to go along with the typed report.
Dear Mr. Smith,
It has been our pleasure to examine the artifact you submitted. Enclosed is the scientific data forming our conclusions. On a personal note, I would like to caution you about sharing this information with anyone you do not know. We received a call from an organization called OSM. I am not familiar with
She stopped with her pen aimed toward the inkwell on her desk. What could she say, really? The man gave me an uneasy feeling? I don’t know this organization so you should not trust them either? She balled up the sheet of paper and tossed it into the waste basket.
“Make those prints for me as quickly as possible,” she said. They would go into a folder with a copy of her data and the letter to Mr. Smith. The folder would go into the innermost depth of the Foundation’s vault. She would ask two of their men to accompany her to the post office and see the box safely on its way.
Tomorrow she would see to the implementation of security measures for the building.
Chapter 9
The Great War Rages
The stink of a thousand male bodies—jammed shoulder to shoulder where they sat on wooden decking, anticipation and fear wafting off them—sent Patricio Sanchez’s stomach lurching. He looked down at his olive drab wool uniform, would have taken a whiff at his own armpit had he been able to lift the arm. No point in that. He knew he smelled as awful as the rest of them.
They had been marched aboard the former
cruise liner six days ago and no one had benefit of more than a damp sponge bath in all that time. At night they removed their hats, boots, puttees, and tunics so they could stretch out on narrow bunks, five high, but sleep did not come easily. For days on end the greatest fear was of a fate like the RMS Lusitania three years ago. To the Germans, the fact that the passenger liner was filled with families, women and children had made no difference. No one today was under any illusion about his own destiny should they be spotted by one of the dreaded underwater boats. Patricio could only hope and pray that they had already reached safe waters—the transport ship was due to dock within the hour. Otherwise, all he knew was that they were to be taken to various war fronts in the French and Italian countryside.
A few weeks of training and he hardly knew any of the men in his company, much less any of the others comprising the regiment. The one man he had to keep in his sights was his sergeant, a bulky man named Calloway. The ship bumped something and faces went a little greener. If a loss of breakfast felt inevitable you were expected to snatch the hat from your head and make use of it. He swallowed hard and thought of home, of sweet-faced Emelia who had given him her lace handkerchief and agreed to wait for him. Nothing of his former life in the high-desert climate of northern New Mexico had prepared him for this.
“Caramba! Una mala,” growled the man next to him who looked Latino but had the English surname of Smith. The poor fellow looked clammy.
Patricio glanced up to see if Calloway was nearby. The two of them had already been chastised for ‘jabbering away’ when their superior officer couldn’t understand the few words they exchanged.
“Yeah, that was a bad one,” he agreed in English, perhaps a trifle too loudly.
“All right, men! To your feet,” the familiar voice shouted from the other end of the hold. “On deck you’ll go to the gangway. On shore, assemble by companies and wait for your commanding officer. Transport trains are waiting.”
The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) Page 20