Marjorie Hart and the Tree of Life

by Amanda Vink

  But even as she thought it, she knew she couldn’t leave things as they were. Something foul befell her father in Cairo, and she had to know what. It was obvious to her: her father was murdered.

  A fresh wave of anger welled up inside her. Had the private investigator she hired done anything? Was he laughing at her this very minute while living in luxury half a world away on the money she had paid him? She had to figure it out for her father, and for herself.

  She bit her lip, considering. Maybe she had missed something important in his report. She dug through her desk, pulling out papers and cards from acquaintances. Finally, she retrieved an envelope, neatly compiled, that contained his findings. Written on the front was his name and address. Horus J. Wallace. Located in Haret El Sheikh Silim.

  She opened the envelope and pulled out a slim folder. Her eyes flickered through. Nothing out of the ordinary—the name of the person who discovered the body, statements from the last people who saw him alive. One of the names flashed in her mind in recognition. Dr. Gamal Hafez. Something about that name stirred her memories, but she couldn’t place it.

  After a long moment of trying to remember, Marjorie gave up. She dropped the folder unceremoniously into her travel case. She had many places to visit once she reached Egypt.

  A knock sounded at the door. Marjorie called out, and the door swung open, revealing Jenkins’s familiar frame. He looked about at the mountain of papers and artifacts scattered around Marjorie. Of course if he noticed the mess, he didn’t say anything about it. Instead, he stood composed as usual.

  “I’ve arranged your passage from New York to Alexandria,” he said. “Your boat leaves early on Tuesday morning. I confirmed with Mr. Vale: it’s the same passage Samuel is booked on.”

  “Very good,” Marjorie said, smiling at him warmly. She would miss him. “Thank you, Jenkins. Uncle Charlie and I will leave tomorrow, and we’ll stay at Gracewood to visit with Mary until it’s time to carry on.”

  “Will you need anything else at present?”

  “No, thank you, Jenkins,” Marjorie said. She exhaled dramatically, moving the hair out of her face, then turned back to packing. She was still trying to make some sense of it.

  As Jenkins began to walk from the room, Marjorie added, “Jenkins—”

  “Yes, Miss Hart?”

  She didn’t know quite what she was trying to say. “Do you believe all this nonsense?”

  “Nonsense?” he repeated.

  “I mean—about this Tree of Life. It seems pretty ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

  Jenkins considered slowly, and as he did so, his expression changed, like he was chewing on the question. “Faith can sometimes seem strange,” he said after a time.

  “It’s not just strange,” Marjorie responded. “It’s ludicrous. That people should harm others for things that can’t be true … It’s hard to believe.”

  “We can’t always know what’s true with our senses, Miss Hart,” Jenkins said.

  Marjorie shook her head, banishing the thought. “Give me facts. Give me what I can see and touch. That’s what I believe.”

  Jenkins lingered in the door. It seemed he wanted to say something, but then all at once he chose not to. After a moment, he said, “Don’t forget to pack your camera.”

  “I’m not going on a holiday,” she responded. As the words left her lips, she regretted how they sounded—harsh and unforgiving. But she was still flustered by the question that she had asked before.

  Jenkins didn’t seem offended. “No,” he said, “but it seems to me that a writer takes a pen with her wherever she goes. It’s an extension of herself. A photographer takes a camera.”

  She studied Jenkins from under her eyebrows. His expression didn’t break, but they both knew he was right. He nodded and left.

  She already missed him.

  Alone again, she picked up her camera from its perch on top of her dresser and held it up to look at it. It was made of dark leather strapped over a wood frame. Perfectly shaped, it had sharp edges and a round lens. She breathed on the glass and wiped it with a cloth. Then, she covered it carefully and packed it in the trunk. She also needed many rolls of film. She tucked them into the trunk. They looked like large bullet casings among her many layers of linen and wool.

  ***

  Marjorie and Uncle Charlie arrived early at Exchange Street Station in downtown Buffalo. The vast domed roof said hello and goodbye in a stately manner. Marjorie cast her eyes upward to the square of open windows in the small tower at the very top. A sparrow stuck its head out and then took off on the breeze. In the distance, Marjorie could hear the whistle of a train. Whether coming or going, she didn’t know.

  They waited behind a string of cars lined up on the curb, but not for too long. Jenkins dropped them at the entrance, and he and Uncle Charlie carried their luggage inside.

  Exchange Street was perhaps the busiest place in the city. Already the platform felt crowded by people of every station. Almost everyone was dressed neatly. Women wore straw hats, and men wore light linen suits, freshly pressed or deeply wrinkled depending on the stage of their journey.

  Marjorie nearly ran into a capped newspaper boy. He gave her a dirty look before calling out, holding The Buffalo Herald high up in the air. Next to him, a stack full of newspapers rested on a wooden box. A man in a bow tie paid the boy and took the newspaper.

  The boy took a moment then kneeled and rolled his pants up just above his knees to cool himself. Yet despite his efforts, Marjorie could see sweat rolling down his skin. She watched as the boy took a second to remove his cap and wipe his brow with the back of his sleeve, and then he was at it again. He stood and yelled, loud enough to fill the space.

  Bemused, Marjorie decided to reward him for his dedication. She dropped a few coins in his hand, and tucked a newspaper under her arm. “Thanks. That’s berries,” she said, then hurried to catch up with Uncle Charlie and Jenkins by the ticket counter.

  “We’re ready, old gal,” Uncle Charlie said as she materialized. He stuffed two New York Central Railroad tickets into the inside pocket of his suit coat. Then he pulled out a cigarette case and took one out, placing it in his teeth while he prepared a match.

  “Do take care of yourself, miss,” Jenkins said, locking eyes on the woman he’d come to know so well.

  Homesickness bubbled up from Marjorie’s chest, even though she had traveled from home many times before. But this time she might find out something she didn’t want to know, and the thought made her hesitate.

  Stop being silly, she reminded herself. There’s no big conspiracy. Father was probably just in the wrong place at the wrong time, that’s all. You’re just going to confirm it. You’ll go to that monastery, and you’ll find whatever strange clue he’s left for you. Then you can turn it over to the museum or the authorities, and that will be the end of this Tree of Life business.

  Jenkins bowed, ready to say his goodbyes.

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” Marjorie said. “Come here.” She wrapped her arms around the older man, pulling him close. He looked somewhat uncomfortable, but he went with it.

  “There,” she said, letting go. She brushed off his shoulders—just to make sure everything was as he would want it to be.

  “I’ll take good care of her, Jenkins, at least until we get to New York. Then Samuel will watch over her,” Uncle Charlie promised. Then he turned away from them, lighting up the cigarette and shaking out the match.

  “Don’t worry,” Jenkins said. “She can take care of herself.”

  Uncle Charlie blinked, surprised. Marjorie loved Uncle Charlie, but he was so traditional at times. The idea of a young woman taking care of herself was likely something he hadn’t considered.

  Jenkins’s eyes darted to the ground, and then he bowed slightly and walked away.

  “What a funny old bird,” Uncle Charlie remarked. His voice sounded impressed and disapproving all at once.

  Marjorie laughed. “He’s a dear.”

  A high-p
itched whistle sounded nearby, and Marjorie turned to catch the front of a steam train pull into station, two flags at the very front moving in its own wind. Almost on instinct, she retrieved her camera and started taking photographs. Eventually, the train slowed, passing those standing on the platform and coming to a halt. The steam continued to hiss as passengers first exited the cars and new people boarded. It was a shuffling of coats and luggage.

  “Come on, old gal,” Uncle Charlie said, taking one last inhale on his cigarette and tossing the butt. He picked up her trunk and his small suitcase then, and after shrugging his shoulders back, he headed off toward the cars.

  Marjorie snapped one last photograph of the mad dash before her and quickly followed. By the time she caught up with him, Uncle Charlie was already handing their tickets to the conductor, a squat man with two poker straight lines of a mustache and graying sideburns sticking out from under his cap. He took the tickets and punched them accordingly. His hands moved with practiced agility.

  Noticing Marjorie, he reached out a hand to help her into the cabin. Inside, the commotion of the station seemed more subdued, even though people were settling into place all around them.

  “Welcome aboard, sir. Ma’am,” he said. “You’ll be staying in one of our fine cabins, I see. Just a moment—Mr. Louis!”

  He caught the attention of a younger man, who finished pushing a bag of luggage into place for another passenger and then quickly came over.

  “Mr. Louis here, he’ll show you to your cabin,” the conductor said. He handed the tickets to this Mr. Louis, who took a swift glance at them. Marjorie noticed he was squirming, looking uncomfortable in his suit and very new to the profession.

  He bowed and said, “Follow me, please.”

  Marjorie followed first, with Uncle Charlie close behind her.

  Halfway down the corridor, Mr. Louis tripped over a misplaced suitcase. Marjorie was certain he would’ve tumbled to the ground had she not reached out and steadied him. Righting himself, he looked back over his shoulder and breathed a sigh. Marjorie followed his gaze to the conductor—he had already moved on to help the next couple waiting to board. Mr. Louis reddened and mumbled. Then, he turned back to Marjorie, a grateful expression passing over his features. “Sorry.”

  “That’s quite alright,” Marjorie said quietly so no one would pay them any more attention. “You’re doing splendid.”

  They worked their way through the open cabin to the front. As she walked, Marjorie enjoyed looking at the world through the series of windows clouded by coal dust. Inside was very cozy, the seats covered in plush velvet.

  Mr. Louis studied their tickets as they neared the private cabins then surveyed the numbers above the cabins, first glancing to the left and then to the right.

  “You should see a spectacular view of the Hudson from this side,” he chatted amiably.

  “That’s what I paid for,” Uncle Charlie muttered behind him. Clearly Mr. Louis had not impressed him.

  Marjorie rolled her eyes at her uncle. “That sounds lovely, Mr. Louis. Thank you.”

  “Here we are,” Mr. Louis said at last. They stood in front of a thin wooden door with an ornate brass handle. Mr. Louis pulled it open then stepped aside so they could enter, his spine and carriage straight and proud. But then it sagged quickly in confusion. He checked the ticket again with the number over the cabin, and a puzzled expression crossed his face. “Um, sir, I don’t think you’re supposed to be here,” he said.

  Marjorie glanced inside the cabin, and she was surprised to find that it was already occupied.

  ***

  A slim man in a dark suit already sat across one of the cushioned bench seats inside their cabin. He wore a fedora, pulled low so that his face sat partly in shadow. His long limbs were folded up, one leg stretched over the other. He glanced up at them warily behind an open newspaper.

  Mr. Louis squeaked then swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Sir, I’m afraid this cabin has already been paid for.”

  The man didn’t move. Instead, he stared at Marjorie. His gaze felt cold.

  Uncle Charlie instinctively moved in. “Come on, man,” he said. “You’ll have to find somewhere else.”

  “Sir,” Mr. Louis repeated, and this time he managed to be a bit more forceful. “Your ticket, sir.”

  For a moment, it seemed the mysterious passenger might cause a scene. His body language conveyed menace—perfectly straight, coiled tight like a spring about to let loose, a tiger about to pounce. But then he slowly unraveled himself and stood. He folded his newspaper, painfully slowly, making sure the original crease was folded over, and then retrieved a small briefcase from the overhead space.

  Upon exiting, finally, he tipped his hat. In this moment, Marjorie caught a better look at his face. A whisper of a scar crawled across his left cheek. At one time, a very long time ago, Marjorie guessed, the cut that made it must’ve been pretty gruesome. The way he smiled at her unnerved her—like the cat who was just about to eat the canary. Then he walked down the corridor without haste, never looking back.

  As he retreated, Marjorie kept her eyes on him. She had the feeling she had better keep track of him for some odd reason. Finally, he disappeared into another car. Only then could Marjorie breathe a sigh of relief.

  Mr. Louis was already inside the cabin, making sure things were neat and tidy. He pulled back a crushed gold velvet curtain and smoothed it down with a hand. “I apologize for that,” he said.

  “Don’t think of it,” Uncle Charlie replied with a wave of his hand. He stood still in the door, tapping his foot and waiting for Mr. Louis to exit the compartment so they could enter and settle in.

  Mr. Louis fluffed a pillow, and Marjorie noticed his hands were shaking. He turned to them, speaking hurriedly. “You know, my grandfather prints railroad tickets for New York Central. You’d be surprised how often there’s errors. Repeated numbers, that sort of thing. Not that my grandfather’s not a competent man, mind you. He always says when it comes to machines, they tend to make human errors stand out a bit more.”

  “That’s fine,” Uncle Charlie said.

  Once Mr. Louis finished, Uncle Charlie tipped him, and he took it gratefully. “Much obliged, sir. Please let me know if you need anything.”

  When he was gone, Uncle Charlie shook his head in amazement. “Already it’s been an eventful morning. Do you mind if I sit on this side?” He gestured to the side facing the front of the train. “I can’t face the wrong way or else I get sick.”

  “Not at all,” Marjorie said, allowing him to sit first so that he was comfortable. Then, getting comfortable on the opposite side, she continued, “Uncle, what did you think about that man in our cabin?”

  “I’ll say, he seemed a strange one no doubt. But it happens. As the lad said, errors happen.” He took out some reading glasses and a book. Then, concern etched his features. “Why? Is there something wrong?”

  “I didn’t tell you much about the confrontation in the cemetery yesterday, did I?” Marjorie admitted. “Dr. Baxter wanted Father’s map. He said he wouldn’t be the only one looking for it.”

  Uncle Charlie frowned. A perfectly vertical line appeared between his brows. “This is my fault,” he said. “I should’ve told you.”

  “Told me what?”

  “Samuel was followed in New York. He was there to study some maps that some professor found for him. It just seemed a strange thing that happened one afternoon, very easily put out of mind. We didn’t even know your father’s map existed then.”

  “When did that happen?” Marjorie leaned a little closer, keeping her voice hushed.

  “Oh, about a year back. I’ll say, it would’ve been shortly after your father died.”

  Marjorie sat back with a long exhale, then turned her face toward the window. The passengers were almost completely boarded, and now the railroad employees made their final checks. Very shortly they would be off.

  “Well, we’re just going to have to be mindful,”
she said.

  “I think we need to be more than mindful, old gal,” Uncle Charlie said. He looked at her over the rim of his glasses, his expression more than a little troubled. “If something were to happen to you or to Samuel or Mary because of this, I don’t know how I would live with myself. If my health were better, if I were twenty years younger…”

  His voice trailed off. The skin pulled taut against his bones made him look ghastly. Marjorie was struck with concern for him. He never left Gracewood these days—maybe there was a deeper meaning as to why.

  “Are you alright, Uncle?” she asked.

  He opened his book, smiling. Marjorie sensed it was a bit of an act. “Me? Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “I just wish I could get a decent night’s sleep, that’s all.” He sat back in the cushion, getting truly comfortable.

  Marjorie thought he resembled a small bird inside a great big nest without the ability yet to fly. She wanted to comfort him, but she didn’t know how.

  “Uncle, we’re going to get to the bottom of this mystery.” She offered him a smile. He showed his gratitude with a weak nod, but Marjorie could tell he wasn’t convinced. The smile never reached his eyes.

  The train stopped in Albany for a half hour break, and all the passengers ambled to the platform to stretch their legs. After five hours on the train, Marjorie too was anxious to get outside, even for a moment. She considered staying inside, thinking about that man, but she figured she would be safe enough in Union Station, surrounded by hundreds of people.

  “I’m going to get up and stretch my legs.” She rose, folding the newspaper back to some semblance of its original shape. “Are you interested?”

  Uncle Charlie, deep in his book, didn’t even look up. “Hm, what? No, no thank you.”

  Marjorie took her ticket and exited the train. It felt good to be outside, to clear her head. She pulled out her camera and began to take pictures of the architecture.