“No, none from the window. Most were from the changing table and a couple from the crib railings.”
“All right,” Warwick was still hopeful, but she was having to work at it. “Anyone else?”
“Well, there were some that we couldn’t actually match up,” Richards started, “but given their relatively small size, and their locations exclusively inside the crib and on the changing table, I’m fairly certain they belong to the infant. We don’t have anything to match them against, of course—most one-year olds have never had their fingerprints taken—but the only other possibility would seem to be that he was kidnapped by another infant. An unlikely proposition,” Richards opined unnecessarily.
Okay, now Warwick was disappointed. “So, in summary,” she raised an upturned palm in emphasis, “no useful fingerprints.”
“No,” Richards admitted, “no useful fingerprints. But it is noteworthy that the room didn’t appear to have been wiped down in any way. Whoever did this simply succeeded in not leaving any fingerprints. And there are no marks indicating gloves. It appears they simply didn’t touch anything.”
Warwick frowned a tight little frown. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. What else do you have? Any hair or fabric samples?”
“Nothing useful,” Richards conceded. “The hair samples track the fingerprints: old man MacLeod’s, the nanny’s, or short and fine like an infant’s. The ones we think are the lad’s are blond and the photos we have confirm young Douglas was fair-haired. On the fabric, we found several threads of various types of fabric—cotton, wool, even silk—but nothing out of the ordinary, and nothing that really leads us anywhere. The problem is that the home was rather lived in. MacLeod had been in Aberdeen for two weeks already when the child was abducted, and he’s owned the place for years. So there’s bound to be fingerprints, hair and fabric all over the bloody place.”
“Right,” Warwick frowned again, and then leaned into a half-sitting position on the desk behind her. “Well what about the blood? That’s not commonplace.”
Richards laughed. “No, sure enough it’s not.” She took the file from Warwick and pulled out a few photographs of the bloody inscription. “I’m no linguist, so I can’t tell you what it’s supposed to say—”
“I’m working on that,” Warwick interjected.
“—But I can tell you a bit about the substance itself.”
“And? I guess the first question is: Is it human?”
“Yes, it’s human,” Richards face held no hint of additional information. Warwick would have to ask.
“Was it the boy’s? Can we know?”
“We can know,” Richards replied with a faint smile. “The blood on the floor matches the boy’s. Or rather it matches his parents well enough that I’m as certain as I can be that it’s the lad’s.”
“Okay. And what about the blood on the walls?”
“Well, I’m having a bit of trouble with that one yet,” Richard’s brow creased.
“Have you DNA-typed it yet?” Warwick pressed. “Will we be able to match it?”
“As to your first question,” Richards replied pointing to a single raised finger, “no, I haven’t DNA-typed it yet. As I said, I’m having a bit of trouble with that for some reason. Fairy dust, perhaps, from the MacLeod Banshee.”
Warwick didn’t laugh at all at this attempt at a joke; instead she offered an icy, impatient glare. Richards moved on.
“It should be done by early next week,” she assured. Then raising a second finger, she added, “And as to your second question, I don’t know if we’ll be able to match it. We’ll need a known sample to complete a match. But we’ll run it through the databases once it’s typed.”
“And if there’s no match in the database,” Warwick considered the suspects so far, “we’ll get you a subject sample to compare.”
Richards nodded, aware of the determination that lurked beneath the fatigue in Warwick’s voice.
“All right then,” Warwick wrapped up as she stifled a yawn. “Anything else?”
“Probably,” Richards laughed. “But I don’t know it yet. I’ll call you once the DNA typing is done.”
“Good. Great,” Warwick allowed the next yawn to come to fruition, but hid it behind a fist. “I should get going then. Thanks for your help, Richards.”
“Anytime, Sergeant,” Richards smiled and waved her guest goodbye. “Talk to you soon.”
And an exhausted Elizabeth Warwick walked slowly back down the long gray linoleum corridor.
24. Croeso i Gymru / Welcome to Wales
The Irish Sea can be surprisingly turbulent in midsummer and the passage from Dublin to Hogshead, Wales, had proved rather a bit too choppy for Maggie’s tastes. But she had taken her motion sickness pills. And she’d tried not to think of the Lusitania. The subsequent train ride south along the Welsh coast was quite smooth by comparison and she arrived in the Welsh college town of Aberystwyth, relaxed and refreshed, at a little after three in the afternoon. Her hotel was conveniently located only a few blocks from the train station and within easy walking distance of the University of Aberystwyth, with its affiliated National Library of Wales. But first she had to check in.
“Good afternoon, ma’am.” The young man behind the reception desk flashed a pleasant, toothy smile, apparently unaware or indifferent of the entirely untamed state of his thick brown hair. Faint stubble colored his chin and Maggie could see the pierced holes in his earlobes, although he’d apparently been instructed not to wear earrings while on duty. He appeared twenty, twenty-one tops. Still, he didn’t need to call her, ‘ma’am.’
“Good afternoon,” she replied. “I have a reservation. Under ‘Devereaux.’”
“Devereaux,” the young man repeated, looking down at the computer screen hidden below the tall reception counter. “Let’s see…” His eyes scanned the names: Hewlin, Stiles, McCusker… “Ah, here we are. Devereaux. Margaret, right?”
“Right.”
“Two nights?” the clerk confirmed.
“Yes.”
He tapped a few keystrokes. “Smoking or non?”
“Non, please.”
“Right. Non-smoking.” A few more keystrokes, then he pulled a plastic key-card from a drawer and inserted it into an apparatus that looked half-toaster, half paperweight. “Would you like a view room? We’ve one left.”
“A view of what?” A fair question, she thought.
“A bit of the bay, but mostly of the college up the hill. It’s quite picturesque actually. Wonderful gothic architecture.”
“That does sound nice,” Maggie started.
“It’s ten quid more,” the clerk finished.
Maggie paused. Ten quid would more than cover her dinner—for a few nights. But then again, a view of the college sounded nice. “What’s my other choice?”
“Ah well.” The clerk grinned. “That’s the thing. The other view is the back of the shops across the alley. Loading docks. And it’s ground floor. Otherwise, all the other rooms are smoking.”
“The view room it is,” Maggie quickly agreed and accepted her computer-coded key-card from the clerk.
“Room 407, ma’am.” Maggie cringed at this second ‘ma’am,’ but declined comment. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you, sir.” Maggie turned toward the lift as the clerk shook off his surprised grin and typed the ‘407’ next to Mr. Hewlin’s 201, Mr. Stiles’ 316, and Ms. McCusker’s ‘405.’
***
It’s like music, Maggie decided as she walked up the street toward the university.
The sidewalks were filled with people finishing the business of their days, leaving work early, returning from shopping, heading out for tea, and to Maggie’s genuine surprise and utter delight, almost all of them were chatting away quite unintelligibly in Welsh.
She found herself ridiculously pleased, as she crossed Thespian Street and began her ascent up the steep hill toward the university, that the language seemed so alive. Majoring in Celtic languages, let alone seeking a Ph.D.
in the subject, could sometimes be a disheartening experience. The leading linguistic literature in the field tended to be analyses of how the latest dialect of Gaelic had succumbed to the hegemony of English. But rather than having to travel to the farthest reaches of the Scottish coast or the rocky, windswept fields of the west of Ireland to find Gaelic the everyday language, Maggie found herself strolling in the heart of Wales’ premier university town surrounded by the lyrical cadence of an obviously still quite vibrant Celtic tongue.
Maybe I’ll take another Welsh course after all, she thought as she continued up the hill.
This fancy was reinforced by the majestic spectacle which filled her eyes as she turned round to take in a view of the town from halfway up Penglais Road. The hill, and the city with it, sloped down and away from her, banking to the right to spill into the harbor and the Irish Sea beyond. At the bottom of the grade, nestled right against the crashing waves of the sea, stood the clearly recognizable bastion of the Old College, mammoth and gray, its gothic turrets rising into the sky as it sat guard along the seaside ring road.
Maybe I’ll take that class here.
With the smile that lingers after gazing upon a beautiful landscape, Maggie turned and continued her ascent toward the hilltop section of the University of Aberystwyth where stood the National Library of Wales. Somewhat short of breath, she finally reached the unnamed drive which led to the Library and turned right, passing a long, gray, stone building that looked suspiciously like the Welsh equivalent of a student dormitory. Ahead of her stood her destination and she found herself quite pleased with its initial appearance. Identified by a tasteful sign reading, ‘Llyfrgell Genedlaethol Cymru / National Library of Wales,’ the library was housed in a large, three-story building of white stone. Its neo-classical architecture was, while perhaps not regal, at least still impressive—it reminded Maggie of a very, very large bank. And somehow that worked for her.
A bank of knowledge, she considered as she pushed open the massive wooden doors and stepped inside.
The entry hall was the definition of grand, a red carpet extended across the dark hardwood floors and the walls rose in white columns to the vaulted, sky-lighted ceiling three stories above her.
God, I love libraries, she thought as she strolled through the lobby, her head tipped back so she could survey the full grandeur of the hall. And a national library at that! Who knew what treasures the collections held? Who knew what historical manuscripts peered down weightily from their bookshelf perches? Who knew what secret volumes hid in forgotten recesses? Who? Well, the librarian of course.
Maggie stepped up to the information desk.
“Hello!” she announced a bit too cheerily.
“Well, hello,” responded the 40-something brunette librarian in her quaint Welsh accent. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” Maggie beamed. “Yes. I was wondering if you could tell me where to find a particular book.”
“Most likely.” The librarian offered a bemused smile. “Do you have the call number?” A fair question.
“Oh.” Maggie frowned. “Uh, no.” An honest answer.
“All right then…” The librarian bent down and pulled out a lavender sheet of paper from under her counter. She slid it across to Maggie. “Here’s a map of the library.” Then she pointed to a row of computer terminals across the lobby. “You can search by title, author or keyword. Once you have the call number, you should be able to locate it on the map.”
“Uh, okay.” Maggie accepted the map with an embarrassed grin. “Right. Thanks. Thank you very much.”
She tried not to notice the three separate wall-mounted dispensers of the lavender call number maps between the information desk and the computer terminals, nor the two more taped to the wall behind them. She hoped no one had overheard her exchange with the librarian. She simply sat down on the stool at the terminal to the far left and pressed ‘t’ for a title search.
‘welsh book of souls,’ she typed.
The screen went white for a moment as the search page surveyed the library’s holdings. Then, in amber print against the black screen, she was presented with five choices for ‘welsh book of souls.’ The last two indicated English translations.
She typed ‘4’ and pressed ‘Enter.’
The screen flashed again and she was given the record for the first entry:
Title: Welsh Book of Souls, The—English Translation
Call #: 204.7 w.481.1
Location: Printed Materials
Status: Checked Out
Darn, Maggie frowned. But then she shrugged, pressed the ‘B’ for ‘Back,’ then typed ‘5’ and ‘Enter.’
Title: Welsh Book of Souls, The—English Translation
Call #: 204.7 w.481.2
Location: Printed Materials
Status: Checked Out
And darn again. Maybe I’ll be taking that Welsh course sooner than I’d thought. Another shrug, another ‘B,’ then ‘1’ and ‘Enter.’
Title: Llyfr Cymraeg Gwyffyn, Y (Welsh Book of Souls, The)
Call #: 204.1 w.480.1
Location: Printed Materials
Status: Checked Out
Hm. Her mouth squinched into a knot. ‘B,’ ‘2,’ ‘Enter.’
Title: Llyfr Cymraeg Gwyffyn, Y (Welsh Book of Souls, The)
Call #: 204.1 w.480.2
Location: Printed Materials
Status: Checked Out
Well, she sighed, this is going about as badly as it can. One more chance. ‘B,’ sigh, ‘3,’ sigh, ‘Enter.’
Title: Llyfr Cymraeg Gwyffyn, Y (Welsh Book of Souls, The)
Call #: 105.78 w.480.1
Location: Manuscripts
Status: Manuscripts
Maggie stared at the entry. What do you suppose ‘Status: Manuscripts’ means? she asked herself. Maybe this is the original? Well, in any event it’s better than ‘Checked Out.’
She stood up and crossed back over to the librarian, muttering only slightly over the bad luck that both English translations were checked out.
“Ah, yes,” the librarian replied to Maggie’s question, “that means that the entry is for the original manuscript. It may not be checked out, so its status cannot change.”
“Okay,” Maggie said slowly, her mind trying to catalogue her options. “Are the manuscripts accessible to the public? Could I go look at it?”
“Do you have the call number?”
Maggie grimaced; she hadn’t written it down. “No. I forgot to write it down. Should I go get it?”
The librarian nodded with an apologetic, but still irritating, smile. Maggie crossed the room again, obtained the call number, then crossed back and provided the librarian with the slip of paper upon which she had scrawled it.
“Ah,” the librarian began. “That is unfortunate.”
Maggie waited, but apparently she was going to have to ask. “What is?”
“Well, some of the manuscripts are available to the general public. This isn’t one of those.”
“Swell.” Now what? “What about graduate students?” she tried. It had worked the previous fall in Aberdeen.
“Yes, that will work,” the librarian smiled. “As long as you have faculty approval.”
Maggie grimaced again. “Oh. I’m not actually a student here.”
The librarian simply nodded.
“Does it have to be faculty here, or faculty anywhere?”
“Well,” the librarian began as delicately as she could, “certainly not North American faculty. Are you Canadian then?”
Again the accent. “No, American,” she replied shortly. Then, “What about other U.K. faculty? I’m a student at the University of Aberdeen. In Scotland.”
“I know it’s in Scotland,” the librarian sniffed. “And I think that will do. We have reciprocal agreements with most U.K. colleges, and Aberdeen is certainly among those.”
“Wonderful!” Maggie beamed. Then she shrugged, realizing that she was quite far from Aberdeen at that particular m
oment. “Uh, what kind of approval do you need? Written? A fax or something?”
“That would be preferable,” was the somewhat equivocal reply. “A fax on letterhead from a professor at Aberdeen should be sufficient.”
“Okay, great. Great.” Maggie scanned the lobby; no telephones in sight. But she’d find one. “Should they fax it to you then?”
“They could do.” The librarian fetched a scrap of paper from beneath her counter and scrawled out a number. “They can fax it here. ‘Attention: Circulation’ We should receive it.”
“And what time does the library close?” The clock behind the counter read 5:07.
“At six.” Then appreciating Maggie’s resultant frown, she added helpfully, “The telephones are downstairs, near the café.”
“Okay, great. Thank you. Thank you very much.” Maggie hurried away and toward the stairs, slinging her backpack again over her shoulders. She just needed to find those phones. And figure out who in the world she was going to call.
***
“Hamilton,” Maggie repeated into the receiver, a hand over her ear to block out what little noise there was around her in a vain attempt to comprehend the distant voice whispering into the other end of the phone line.
“Robert Hamilton.
“Okay, well, can I leave him a message?
“A message.
“Yes, my name is ‘Maggie Devereaux.’ ‘Ma—’ ‘Maggie.’ ‘Devereaux.’ Yes, ‘Devereaux.’ D-E-V— Okay. All right. D-E— Okay. Ready? Okay. D-E-V-E-R-E-A-U-X. Yes, ‘X.’ Right. ‘Maggie.’
“No. Uh, no, I’m not actually a student of his. No. Well, I spoke with him at a conference last week. Last week. Right. In Aberdeen. I’m a student at Aberdeen. Yes, I’m sure. Yes, I’m American, but I’m a student at Aberdeen. Yes, really.
“Okay, well, the message is this: Would he be willing to fax a letter to the— fax a letter to the National Library of Wales— Yes, Wales. Right. The National Library of Wales. Authorizing me to view their manuscript collection. Manuscript collection.
“Uh, well, no. Like I said, I’m a student at Aberdeen. Yes, the University of Aberdeen.
“Well, I don’t actually have a faculty advisor just now. Well, I just finished my first year, and well, it’s a long story. I said, it’s a long story. Anyway, do you think he might be willing to do that? Fax a letter to the library here? Right.
Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2) Page 14