by R D Hathaway
She put the frame back into the box and carefully moved aside papers, books and folders with her gloved hand. She slid her index finger along the spine of a few books, leather bound and still in good condition. In another box, she noticed that a third of the box was occupied by a black, leather attaché case with a heavy leather strap. She grabbed the handle of the case with one hand and used her other hand to hold back the folders from the case. Rennie lifted the case out of the box and laid it on the table. She looked at the brass clasp that held the top shut.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Rennie said.
The door opened, and Angie McGrady looked in. “Hi, am I disturbing you? May I come in?”
“Come in, I was just getting started.”
“It’s a nice case; his attaché,” Angie offered.
“Yeah.” Rennie looked down at the case. “It’s kind of weird. I didn’t expect to feel so invasive.”
Angie put on a pair of cotton gloves she was carrying and pushed aside some files in one of the boxes. “It’s interesting that our lives can come down to a few boxes of stuff. Here at the library, we keep in mind that what we have in storage is not just the item but also the meaning of the item. It’s natural to feel something ‘deeper’ about them. In this case, it’s a man’s life, or a piece of a life.”
She adjusted her glasses. “We don’t normally have this much personal stuff on a person. I think in this case, there may not have been any relatives found, and of course, back in the 1920’s things were a little less formal in terms of archival science. They might have considered Professor Justus as something of a celebrity, with the royal visitors and all. Did you see the article about the royal woman who attended his burial?”
Rennie was still looking back and forth across the boxes and the leather case. “No, I haven’t got there yet.”
Angie put her finger on one of the file folders. “It’s in here, I think.”
Rennie removed the file and laid it on top of the attaché case. She opened the folder and leafed through the yellowed newspaper clippings that had been slipped into clear plastic sheet protectors. She noticed that three were from August of 1923 and one was dated June of 1935.
Angie pointed at one. “This is it.”
Lifting up the item, Rennie skimmed the first few paragraphs.
“Wow, this is interesting.”
“Also in attendance at the site were two people from England. The gentleman accompanying the woman spoke for them, and he acknowledged the honor and excellence by which Professor Justus had served the British Museum. He referred to the woman as ‘her Ladyship’ but would not further identify her. He indicated they simply wished to offer their respect to the Professor, his family and colleagues.”
Rennie looked up. “Who were they, Angie? There must have been some connection for them to come all the way to Iowa for this guy.”
“I don’t know. I only looked at a few things. There may be more on them. I’ve got to get back. Let me know if you need anything.” She left the room and closed the door.
Rennie didn’t notice her departure. She sat down and began to scan the newspaper articles. She wrote notes on a yellow pad of paper and made an outline of the resources. After a few minutes, she placed the articles back into the file folder and slipped it between other folders in the box. She removed one of the books and looked at the title on the dark leather cover. It read, “Field Notes, British Museum.” She opened the cover and leafed through the first pages.
“Boring,” she muttered.
Rennie closed the cover and laid the book on top of one box. She removed the framed photo and looked at the two people. “What happened over there?” she asked them.
Sliding the frame back into its place, Rennie looked through each of the boxes.
She grabbed her yellow pad, labeled three sheets of paper as “box 1,” “box 2,” and “box 3,” then inventoried the items of each box. Suddenly, her cell phone began to chime loudly.
“Oh, dang it!” She looked at the door as she ran around the table to her bag. Fumbling through the contents, she grabbed the phone, and hit the “talk” button. “Yes,” she said softly but with intensity. “Thanks for calling back.”
She was eager to speak with this caller to close in on the key details of her story on the city’s condemnation of downtown properties. Ending the call with an appointment to meet, she set the phone to “vibrate.”
Now, that’s a story.
Nearly an hour later, the door opened and Angie McGrady peeked in. Rennie had both elbows on the table and leaned her cheek into one hand as she flicked her pen in the air with the other hand. “You doing okay?”
Rennie looked up and tugged on her lower lip. She said nothing.
“Sorry, I’ll leave you alone.”
“Oh, no, it’s okay. I was just deep in thought. Come in.”
“So, did you find out about the royalty?”
“Not much. They stayed in Des Moines, separate suites, under the name of ‘Brown.’ Came in and left very quietly.”
Rennie looked over at the boxes. “It’s really kind of sad. He seems like a nice guy, but something went bad over there in England. His wife, Hope, I guess she died here. There’s a note from some guy at the museum. His title is he’s the ‘Keeper’ and he says he would appreciate the Professor’s cooperation with the police. That bothers me.”
Rennie stared at the boxes. “Then, he died. According to one of the articles, he drowned or was killed. They apparently didn’t look into it. They just boxed up him and his stuff.”
“So, do you have your story?” Angie leaned against the door jamb.
“I’m not sure what I’ve got here. This could go in a lot of directions.” Rennie grinned. “It’d be a lot easier to interview the guy; pick him apart.”
“Yeah, well, like before, if you need anything, you know…”
As Angie began to withdraw, Rennie asked, “Oh, yes, there is one thing. Where would the cemetery be?”
“Well, it’s probably the old one just south of town. It’s easy to find, maybe a mile, right side of the road. I don’t think there’s an office there, so you might want to call the caretaker’s office before you go out. It’s pretty big. I’ll get the number for you.”
A few minutes later, Angie returned with a slip of paper with the phone number.
“Thanks. Can I just leave this all out?” Rennie motioned to the boxes.
“Yes, of course. How long do you expect this to last?”
“Oh, not long, a few days, max. I’ll be back tomorrow to get at it again.”
“No problem. You can lock up and keep the key.”
As Angie left, Rennie took her cell phone out of her bag and dialed the number for the cemetery. She gave the person the information on Professor Justus and awaited a return call.
Rennie placed her phone on the table and looked at the boxes. After a quiet moment, she lifted a file folder out of one box. The label read, “Correspondence - Staff.” She let it fall open and slid a few pages back and forth with one finger. She stopped at one letter on college letterhead.
In a whisper, she read, “Please accept the heartfelt sorrow of all our staff. The loss of your wife and child has been a tragedy beyond measure. Please know that your well being and presence in this community is of profound value and we support you in the difficult days ahead.” Beneath an elegant signature was a reference: “Numbers 6:24-26.”
Rennie squinted at the reference. She scanned more memos and letters. She picked up one and looked closely at the short text.
“We highly recommend Professor Matthias Justus for the temporary assignment in the Egyptian Collection. He is a distinguished professor of Greek and Religion at Simpson College, and he has given scholarly presentations on topics relating to ancient Egypt and the Levant. His expertise in ancient languages
, his diligent and professional approach to managing a challenging workload, and his collegial regard for fellow staff have made him most valuable to this college. His enthusiasm for assisting The British Museum in properly cataloging and preserving items from the recent discovery in Egypt reflects the sincerity of his regard for the precious qualities of the artifacts and this assignment. Please extend to Lady Sotterfeld-Gris our appreciation for her benevolent underwriting of this opportunity.”
Rennie looked at the wall. “Lady?”
Her cell phone vibrated on the table.
“Hello, wait please, I’ll get some paper. Okay, go ahead.”
She wrote down instructions from the cemetery contact on where to find the gravesite of Professor Justus.
Putting the phone into her bag, she paused for a moment and looked again at the letter in the file. “Maybe, we found our Lady,” she said as she locked the room.
***
The cemetery was just south of town, as Angie had suggested. Rennie turned into the first driveway and slowed to an idle. She looked to her left at the field of upright stone slabs placed in long rows. Turning left, the car coasted forward. Long shadows laid at rest beneath the memory of lives indicated with names and dates.
Her fingers drummed the steering wheel. “There,” she exhaled.
She stopped the car and got out without taking her eyes off of a location near an old oak tree. She reached into the car through the open window and grabbed her bag. Rennie walked in slow determination toward the tree.
She counted down three rows, five markers to the right and read the inscription on the small stone. “Hope Felicity Justus, beloved wife and mother. July 30, 1890 – April 20, 1921.”
The next stone was identical in size and texture. It read, “Martha Elizabeth Justus, beloved daughter of Hope and Matthias Justus. April 20, 1921.”
Rennie crouched down to look at the inscriptions more closely. Then, she stood and took a step to the side and saw another monument. It was a red marble stone, twice the size of the first two.
“Matthias David John Justus, Scholar and Beloved Husband and Father, February 26, 1887 – August 11, 1923.”
Rennie covered her mouth. The afternoon sun behind the stone darkened the surface to a dull, sad glaze. She stepped up and brushed her fingertips across the name. “Wife and daughter. Both on the same day,” she whispered.
The pressure of tears came to her eyes.
London, UK
The British Museum
1923
II / 2
Kenneth Warrington paused when he reached the top of the staircase on the second floor of the British Museum. Matthias was almost amused with the ceremonial effort of entry.
“This is the Second Northern Gallery. It might interest you. The exhibits are mostly Semitic, with a variety of Phoenician and Hebrew writings. There are also Carthaginian, Sumerian and Assyrian items. At the end there are Coptic antiquities. We also have some Coptic objects of interest, mostly personal items, in the storage area.”
When he reached a doorway, Warrington made a sharp left turn and entered another large hall. Professor Justus stopped and did not turn. His arm floated up and he limply pointed across the room.
“Oh, Mr. Warrington, excuse me. Over there, is that, are those the Hammurabi laws?”
Warrington stopped but did not turn. “Not the original, Professor. It is only a cast. The original is at the Louvre.”
Warrington slowly, in his rigid form, walked forward with Justus following. “We are now in the Fourth Egyptian Room. Most of what we have here are burial items and personal items such as jewelry, some writing materials, a few frescoes, toys and other ordinary items. Up ahead, this is where you will be working. It is one of our student rooms. Since it is near the lift, we thought it would be a good sorting place.”
Another left turn and they entered a large, elegant room in which rows of wooden shelving had been built. The fresh lumber formed long sections of storage space, with each shelf about four feet long by three feet in depth, and two feet separated each of the six levels of structure. Only one quarter of each surface area held any items.
In one corner of the room, two wooden desks faced the wall. A window to another interior space hovered in the wall behind the desks. A young woman sat at one of the desks. She did not turn around.
Matthias turned to Warrington. “Professor, I mean, Mr. Warrington, did all of these items come from the discovery in Egypt?”
Warrington gazed straight ahead with his eyes half shut. “Yes,” he said.
“Fabulous. Simply, fabulous,” Matthias whispered. He looked again at Warrington. “May I go over and, may I …?”
Warrington shrugged his shoulders. “Of course. You are now responsible for them.”
With a broad smile, Matthias hurried to the shelves. On the nearest platform, there was a stack of four wooden wheels, each about three feet in diameter. Next to the wheels were what appeared to be wooden axels and large, curved sheets of wood with carved figures accented in gold.
Matthias looked back at Warrington. “Are these, or is this a chariot, disassembled?”
He slid a finger along the rough bottom of one wheel.
Warrington stood as lifeless as the artifacts.
“Mr. Warrington,” Matthias said breathlessly, “before this was disassembled three thousand years ago, someone, perhaps the Pharaoh, was riding in this chariot. The sand still stuck in the surface of this wheel was put there under his weight.”
Warrington said nothing. He turned and slowly walked toward the desks. Matthias followed but noticed each of the items on the shelves with boyish wonder and scholarly analysis.
Warrington stopped in front of an unoccupied desk. The woman at the adjacent desk continued sorting small, white cards and sheets of paper. She didn’t look up.
Warrington gestured to the desk. “This is where you will be, Professor.”
“Thank you, Mr. Warrington.”
“Glancing at the woman, Matthias stammered, “Oh, we met outside the entry. Thank you so much. I’m sorry you got a bit ahead of me there.”
She did not look up nor change her composure. For a moment, she stopped working.
Warrington tilted his hand toward the woman. “This is Miss Shefford. She will assist you, as you need it. She will not bother you.”
“I’m certain she will not. I mean I’m sure she will be of great help to me. I’m delighted to meet you Miss Shefford, and I look forward to working with you.”
Warrington glared at Matthias. “Professor, you will not be working with Miss Shefford. She is here to assist you and to do her duties.”
“Of course, I just assumed that since our desks were here together, …”
Warrington interrupted him. “We can separate the desks further if that would serve you better, Professor.”
“It’s no problem, Mr. Warrington. I look forward to proceeding with my work.”
Warrington turned and marched away. He stopped and looked back. “Miss Shefford will acquaint you with the room and whatever else you may need. I will be back in one hour.”
Matthias sat in an old wood chair at his desk. He placed the palms of his hands on the polished mahogany desktop and said, “yes.”
He turned to the young woman. “Miss Shefford, shall I call you ‘Miss Shefford?’”
She continued to sort through papers and small note cards with writing and numbers on them. Without looking up, she said, “If you wish, sir.”
“Oh, no, it’s up to you, really. We aren’t as formal where I’m from, so whatever you wish is fine. A first name is also workable. please refer to me as ‘Matthias,’”
“Whatever you wish is fine, sir. The first name is ‘Priscilla.’”
“I may use that when it’s just you and me. I wouldn’t want any problems with Mr. Warrington.”
&
nbsp; “Very well, sir.”
Matthias got up and walked to the nearest row of shelves. He looked at the strong timbers that formed the shelving units, and then he noticed a delicate whip, lying alone on bare wood. A small white tag was attached to it with a string. Clasping his hands behind him, he crouched forward to see it more closely. He studied the finely woven leather strands that ran its full length. After a few moments, he looked back at the woman.
“Miss Shefford, these items, what is the protocol for handling them?”
She slid her chair back from the desk, got up and moved toward Matthias as though she was floating across the surface of the floor. Her hands floated down to the great expanse of the black, cotton cloth of her skirt. “Professor, in order to handle them, you simply pick them up.”
“Really, we can just, —”
“Yes, Professor, you just pick it up.”
She turned, walked back to her desk and sat down.
Matthias reached forward and gently grasped the whip with the fingers of both hands and swiveled away from the shelf. He lifted the artifact as though he was holding a newborn child. Then, he returned to his desk. “You know Miss Shefford, this is an absolutely amazing moment for me. I don’t know if I can ever set this down.”
She continued working but turned her head slightly so she could see him. Her mouth revealed a delicate smile. “Well, Professor, that would certainly be an impediment to our progress.”
Matthias snorted a laugh. “It certainly would be Miss Shefford. I’m just stunned to think that the hand that previously held this whip may have been the Pharaoh of Egypt!”
“I don’t think so Professor. I believe my hand was the last to hold that whip.”
She offered a real smile but continued to look at her work.
“Okay, well then, maybe before that.”
“Well, Professor, I think that prior to my hand, there would have been the workers at the dig site, and of course Dr. Carter, and then of course, those who placed it in the tomb itself, and who knows how many that would have been, and of course, —”
“Miss Shefford, please allow me to enjoy this moment just a little.” He laughed.