by C T Cassana
“Good afternoon, Miss Rotherwick,” he said. “Do you know where our mother is?”
“Oh! She’s in a meeting, my dear. Several other museums have informed us that they will not lend us their pieces for the exhibition,” explained Miss Rotherwick, with a worried look. “If things go on this way, it will be a disaster for the museum. Our reputation could be seriously damaged.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said Lisa.
“How can I help you two?” asked the woman.
“Oh, don’t worry. It’s nothing,” replied Lisa in a casual tone.
“I heard that you needed to translate something in Latin. I don’t think you’ll see your mother until dinnertime, so if you show it to me, I’d be happy to help,” offered the woman kindly.
Lisa hesitated for a moment. This was not what they had planned, and she was worried that Miss Rotherwick might find it suspicious that they seemed to have so many poems in Latin to translate. But the woman’s innocent smile suggested that she saw no significance in their need for her to be their translator once again.
“We don’t want to bother you,” said the girl apologetically.
“Come now, my dear,” responded Miss Rotherwick, holding out her hand toward her. “It really is no bother at all. It will only take me a few minutes.”
Lisa stood motionless for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. Refusing Miss Rotherwick’s help now would be most impolite and much more suspicious than accepting it. After mulling it over a little while longer, she put her hand in her pocket and pulled out the professor’s poem.
Miss Rotherwick opened it and stared at it in silence for a few moments, which to Lisa seemed an unusually long time. Finally, the woman recited the lines slowly, translated into English. This time she offered no explanations of Latin grammar or verb declination. She simply translated while Lisa wrote down what she said.
“Not a crossing for those condemned to death,
but for those thirsty for wisdom.
Dwelling place of Normans and kings,
and residence of more than a thousand wise men.
Although there are dozens,
only in the oldest of all
shall the lion and the unicorn
bid you welcome.
The third letter is on some,
but only on the one you seek
the letter is the number one hundred.”
“And what do the words inside the book mean?” asked Charlie, pointing to the drawing in the margin. “‘DOMIMINA NUSTIO ILLUMEA’.”
“You don’t read them right across like that, my dear,” replied Miss Rotherwick thoughtfully. “You have to read the left page first and then the right: ‘DOMINUS ILLUMINATIO MEA’. ‘The Lord is my light’.”
“Oh, I see!” exclaimed the boy. “That’s why we couldn’t work out what it meant.”
“Thank you so much for your help, Miss Rotherwick,” said Lisa. “We don’t want to waste any more of your time. We’ll go back home.”
“Don’t worry about it,” answered the woman. “I wasn’t doing anything important. You can stay a little longer if you like.”
“It’s late,” explained Lisa, in rather a blunter tone than she would have liked. “We should be going.”
“In that case, I’ll see you out,” said Miss Rotherwick pleasantly.
“Oh, we don’t want to trouble you,” replied Lisa in a nervous voice.
“It is no trouble at all, my dear,” was the woman’s rejoinder. “It’s my pleasure.”
Miss Rotherwick walked out of the office ahead of Charlie and Lisa, while she began a casual conversation about the rainy weather they had been having and how the children were doing in school. When they reached the end of the hallway, she turned to the right.
“Isn’t it that way?” asked Lisa, pointing to the left.
“This way is quicker, my dear,” explained Miss Rotherwick somewhat absently, before resuming their conversation
Lisa answered her questions as they passed through a room filled with huge portraits. Charlie walked a few steps behind them, looking at the paintings, when suddenly one caught his eye.
“Look at that! It’s the old grouch!” he blurted out.
Only then did Charlie remember that they were not alone, and he looked to see whether Miss Rotherwick had heard what he said.
“What was that, my dear?” asked the woman, visibly annoyed. “I suppose you are referring to the illustrious Professor Conwell.”
“Yes, that’s what I meant,” said Charlie apologetically.
Lisa glared fiercely at her brother. It was the second time he’d put his foot in it that afternoon.
“A true gentleman. Unfortunately, these days there aren’t many like him left,” said the woman with the utmost solemnity. “Possibly the most admirable man I have ever known in all my life.”
“You mean you knew each other?” asked Charlie in surprise. “Aren’t you a little young for a man that old?”
Miss Rotherwick blushed for a few seconds and cleared her throat. She didn’t quite know what to make of Charlie’s question.
“Well, I suppose I should take that as a compliment, my dear, although you should be more careful with the way you express your opinions,” she said. “I was very young when I began working for Sir Horatio Conwell.”
“I didn’t know that Sir Horatio worked in the museum,” remarked Lisa, as she tried to recall the story of the Conwell family that her mother had told them some weeks back.
“He did not, my dear,” replied Miss Rotherwick. “I was his personal secretary for six years, until he died. Then I came to the museum to work for his son, Solomon Conwell.”
“And if the ol... I mean, the professor didn’t work here, why do they have his portrait here?” asked Charlie.
“This room contains portraits of the museum’s biggest patrons and benefactors,” explained Miss Rotherwick. “And Sir Horatio was one of the biggest of all.”
“My mother mentioned something about that when she told us the story of our house,” said Charlie.
“He had a fascinating life,” continued Miss Rotherwick. “Perhaps you would like to know more about it.”
Neither of the two Wilfords knew how to answer. Although knowing more about the professor’s life could be of great help to them in their investigations, they didn’t know how they could justify their interest in his life to Miss Rotherwick. But the woman saved them the trouble of having to invent an excuse.
“Come see me tomorrow at the same time as today,” she said casually. “I’ll wait for you in my office and I’ll tell you about him.”
She then accompanied the children to the main door of the museum and said good-bye.
“See you tomorrow,” she said with a smile. “Don’t forget.”
The Wilford siblings set off back home. Lisa walked along in silence, feeling confused. She didn’t know whether to be happy or worried about what had just happened. Everything seemed to have gone well. They had the translation of the poem, Miss Rotherwick didn’t appear to suspect anything, and she had even invited them back to give them details about Professor Conwell’s life that would surely be of use to them. It had all gone well... too well. So well that it was troubling.
“Lisa, I’m sorry for putting my foot in it,” said Charlie.
“Don’t worry about it. I don’t think Miss Rotherwick suspects anything. Like you said before, who’s going to imagine that we’ve found a cape to travel back in time?”
A heavy silence enveloped them once again. Not even the noise of the cars or their footsteps on the pavement as they turned into their street seemed to break it.
“Are we going tomorrow?” asked Charlie.
“I don’t know if we should.”
The two siblings continued on their way down the quiet road. They were barely thirty yards from their home now.
“Lisa,” said Charlie, “if you don’t tell me what’s worrying you, I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.”
She kept on walking without a word, trying to sort things out in her head.
“Miss Rotherwick said that she was the professor’s secretary for six years,” she said at last.
“So?” asked Charlie, trying to work out what was bothering his sister.
“The handwriting, Charlie,” answered Lisa pensively. “When I gave her the professor’s letter, she didn’t seem to recognize his handwriting, which seems strange considering how long she worked for him.”
“You’re bonkers!” exclaimed Charlie, rolling his eyes and moving his hand in circles in a gesture that suggested his sister had a screw loose. “How is she going to remember after so many years? If the poem had the professor’s signature, it might be a little bit odd if she didn’t recognize it, although even then I’d understand, because when she started working with the old guy she was just a young girl and now she’s practically a mummy.”
Lisa felt somewhat reassured by her brother’s reasoning.
“Anyway, this time I didn’t understand a thing that the poem said,” added the boy. “And in the last letter the old guy said that the annuli were hidden in places that were important to him. We know that they’re libraries, but knowing something about his life would make things a lot easier. Don’t you think?”
“Yes, I guess so, although we might be able to find something in Wikipedia. I’ll think of some excuse to keep Dad from suspecting anything when he sees me looking up information on him.”
“Alright, so let’s check Wikipedia, and if that doesn’t help we’ll go see Miss Rotherwick. And don’t get paranoid on me. Remember that the professor never told anyone anything about the cape. It was his secret. After all...”
“... Who’s going to imagine that we’ve found a cape to travel back in time?” they said together in unison, as they started walking again.
. . .
Miss Rotherwick closed the door with her foot while she put down the shopping bags in the front hall. The house was quiet and dark, and she fumbled for the switch to turn on the light.
Ever since her old cat, Cicero, had died four years ago, she had been coming home a little bit later every night. Keeping herself busy helped mask the loneliness and monotony of her life, which left her little to hope for or to look forward to. That was why she put all her time and energy into each new project that the museum’s directors assigned her.
After taking off her coat, she slipped out of her shoes and walked with them in her hand over to her state-of-the-art stereo unit. For a few moments she stood thinking in front of the player, trying to decide on an appropriate musical piece for that night. At last she chose Mozart’s Concerto for Piano No. 21; dear old Mozart had a piece for any occasion.
While she listened to the music she got changed, put away her shopping and prepared a simple dinner, which she ate with little interest and even less haste. She then put down the tray on the coffee table and made up her mind to do what she had been putting off all evening.
She took the stepladder out of the kitchen, brought it into the study and positioned it in front of the storage closet. With some difficulty and trying not to lose her balance, she pulled down a heavy box wrapped in faded gift paper and placed it on the floor. She knelt down beside it, and before she opened it she took a deep breath, trying to undo the knot she felt twisting in her stomach.
The dust on the lid made her sneeze a few times when she removed it. After blowing her nose with a handkerchief, she took out some old notebooks and laid them down carefully next to the box, while she felt a wave of nostalgia wash over her. Then she picked up a brown folder, laid it on her knees and opened it. For years she had kept a collection of notes handwritten by her beloved professor, Sir Horatio Conwell. A great man, more learned and well-mannered than any other she had ever known; a true gentleman, for whom she had worked for six wonderful years. The best years of her life.
The professor had a very clear and elegant handwriting, fine but strong, plain yet at the same time enigmatic. She had never before seen handwriting that so faithfully reflected the personality of its owner. She would have recognized it anywhere, and that afternoon, when the charming Mrs. Wilford’s children had shown her that poem in Latin, she had known at once that it was his.
She had no idea what the poem meant, or what had driven the professor to write it, but she knew him well enough to know that it could not have been for mere entertainment. The poem was a riddle, just like the first one that the children had translated. That first time, the girl and her brother had been more cautious, bringing her a sheet that they themselves had written, but she now felt sure that it was the professor’s as well, and that there were more.
She put everything back in the box, while she pondered what to do. The best course of action would be to help the children, while ensuring that they suspected nothing. If she made it easy for them, perhaps they would get used to coming to her for help, and she might even win their confidence. And thus she would be able to unveil the mystery.
. . .
The following afternoon, Lisa asked her father for permission to look up some information about the British Museum on Wikipedia. Marcus acquiesced, although he kept his eyes on the screen while Lisa was at the computer, just as he had always done since her punishment had been established.
After a quick browse on Google, Lisa dove into the wealth of information on the website about the museum. Marcus was reading the information on the screen with interest when Charlie interrupted them.
“You’re a cyber-addict, Lisa,” he chided. “You always take the easy way, as if there weren’t better ways of finding things out.”
Lisa and Marcus continued reading on the computer screen while Charlie pulled out a heavy volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica from one of the bookshelves. As he did so the book fell to the floor and his father jumped as if he had just dropped a baby.
“Careful, Charlie!” he scolded him.
“Sorry, Dad,” responded the boy as he carried the book over to the couch and began thumbing through the pages noisily.
Marcus tried to concentrate on the screen, but the sound of the pages almost ripping took all his attention.
“Slowly, Charlie, slowly,” he said. “It’s a book; handle it with more care.”
Charlie slammed the volume shut and went over to the book case again.
“I can’t find it. Maybe it’s in this one,” he said, pulling out another which, incomprehensibly, also slipped through his hands to the floor.
Marcus couldn’t take it anymore and he got up to help him.
“For God’s sake, Charlie!” he said. “What are you looking for?”
“The British Museum.”
Marcus carried the volume gingerly back to the book case and pulled out another one.
“You have to look in this one, Charlie,” he explained.
Marcus opened the book carefully, turning the pages slowly. On the computer Lisa had opened a couple of new tabs, typing carefully so as not to make any noise. In one she did a Google search for the words “lion and unicorn”, while in the other she looked up Horatio Conwell in Wikipedia.
Marcus found the entry on the British Museum in the encyclopedia and was about to return to his seat when Charlie grabbed him by the sleeve.
“It’s more complete here, isn’t it?” he said.
“I don’t know, Charlie. I haven’t had the chance to see what’s on the Internet yet.”
Silently and at a frantic pace, Lisa read through the information displayed on the screen. When she saw her father coming back to her, she closed all the Internet tabs at once.
“I’m finished, Dad,” she said. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, darling,” he replied, jumping up again to help Charlie put the encyclopedia volume away.
“By the way, Dad,” said Lisa. “Do you know what that book is that appears on the coat of arms in the stained-glass window?”
Marcus turned to look at it.
“It’s part of the coat of arms of Oxford Univers
ity. What you see written there is the university’s motto, ‘Dominus illuminatio mea’. In English it means ‘the Lord is my light’.”
“You know so much, Dad!” said Charlie. “More than Wikipedia and Encyclopedia Britannica combined.”
Marcus smiled as he sat back down at the keyboard of his computer.
“We’re going to take a walk around the museum, to see if we can see Mum,” said Lisa.
“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” replied Marcus. “I’m afraid that she’s too busy right now to have guests dropping in.”
“Don’t worry, Dad. If she can’t see us, we’ll just go see some mummy that looks interesting,” said Charlie, in a cryptic allusion to the appointment they had made with Miss Rotherwick.
“We’ll be back soon,” promised Lisa.
Marcus nodded and returned to his work. He had used up precious work time searching for the British Museum.
. . .
“Were you able to you find anything?” asked Charlie as they left the house.
“Poor Dad!” replied Lisa, laughing. “When you dropped that book the second time, I thought he was going to die.”
Charlie smiled sheepishly. It was a bit low to strike at his father’s weak spot as mercilessly as he had done.
“But it worked,” he retorted with a shrug. “Did you find anything?”
“Only that Horatio studied ancient history at Oxford, and that later he was a professor there. That’s obviously why he put the university’s coat of arms on his window. But I didn’t find anything else. There was a lot of information, but I didn’t see anything that might be a clue for us.”
Moments later they reached the museum. Miss Rotherwick greeted them sitting at her desk, which was perfectly tidy and occupied only by a tray of cakes and a discreet tea set. In the background an opera was playing in which a baritone was singing in a dark and gloomy voice.
“Ah! You’re here!” she said when she saw them. “Have a seat, please.”
The woman picked up the coffee pot and poured hot chocolate into two cups.
“I hope you like it,” she said.
She then went on speaking, as if wanting to relieve the children of the burden of having to be the ones to start the conversation.