Page 17 of When 're Silent

“We’d like to discuss yourresearch, particularly your work with antique documents,” Amelia said,unfurling photos of the fragments recovered from Dominique’s murder scene.

Hemingway’s gaze flitted to theimages before returning to his visitors, his composure seemingly unruffled.“Fascinating, isn’t it? The way history leaves its mark,” he mused, toocasually for Finn’s taste.

“Your expertise could help usunderstand how these came to be found where they were,” Finn pressed, watchingthe professor closely. “The fragments were found at a murder scene. The womanin question is Dominique Plantagenet. She was killed last night.”

Hemingway raised an Eyebrow.

“Do you know her?” Amelia nowasked.

“I know of her,” he said. “Asplendid Shakespearean actress. A real loss to the stage. I am sorry to hearthis.”

“Have you ever consulted with herover one of her roles?” Amelia continued.

“Not that I’m aware of,” the oldman answered with a wry grin. “You seem to be addressing me as some sort ofsuspect, correct?”

“We’re just following inquiries,”Amelia offered. “But you did consult for Rebecca Hanover?”

"Ah!," Hemingway replied,pushing back his chair with a creak that seemed to echo off the densebookshelves. Standing, he appeared even frailer than Finn had anticipated; thestoop in his posture spoke of many years bent over scholarly pursuits. Yetthere was something about the way his eyes darted, a tension in his shouldersthat belied his composed exterior. "Now, this makes sense. You think thetwo murders are related? No?"

“You did consult with Rebecca,helping her research a play?” Finn prodded.

“Yes, but I have consulted on manysubjects,” the old man grumbled. He waved his hand away as though batting afly. “I am, for want of a better term, a polymath. I have extensive knowledgeof a variety of historical periods and subjects from physics, to sociology,even cryptography, but as you can see, I’m a stuffy old academic. I’m hardlyfit for a murder, never mind two.”

“If I dig,” Finn said quietly.“You’re telling me I won’t find any likewise connection to DominiquePlantagenet.”

“Those who dig,” the man said,glaring at Finn, “will shape the soil into that which they look for,understand?”

“Rebecca. Hanover.” Amelia saidpointedly.

"I've no idea how any of mywork could relate to your investigation," Hemingway continued, shufflingpapers into a semblance of order on his cluttered desk. "I'm just ahistorian. Occasionally, those in the theater and television world ask me torun my eye over a script or two for historical accuracy, and I'm glad to. Butthat is it. I assure you."

“Speaking of assurances, where wereyou last night when Dominique Plantagenet was murdered?” Finn asked, his toneeven but firm.

“Here,” the professor answered tooquickly, “working on my latest paper on Anglo-Saxon runes.”

“Anyone who can confirm that,Professor?” Amelia chimed in, skeptical.

“Mrs. Penrose, the night custodian.She saw me when she locked up,” the professor retorted, an edge of paniccreeping into his voice despite the confident words.

“Thank you, we’ll verify that,”Finn said, exchanging a glance with Amelia.

Finn’s patience was waning as theminutes ticked by, the room feeling smaller, more confined. It was the samesensation that gnawed at his stomach during undercover stings—waiting for themoment when everything could unravel. The musty scent of aging paper andleather-bound tomes seemed to thicken the surrounding air. Prof. Hemingway’soffice, a cave of academia, was a stark contrast to the sterile interrogationrooms Finn was accustomed to.

Finn saw a bead of sweat on the oldman’s brow. He was sure the man was holding something back.

“Professor,” Finn asked. “How wouldyou like to join us down at the police station for a little chat?” His voicebetrayed none of the urgency he felt pulsing beneath his calm demeanor.

“Of course, I understand,”Hemingway replied, his tone oddly high-pitched. The old man’s hand quivered ashe reached for the phone, fingers tapping in a number with surprising speed.The harsh sound of the dial tone cut through the silence before being replacedby the muffled buzz of an answered call.

“Mrs. Penrose? Yes, it’s Harold.Could you send security to my office?” Hemingway’s eyes flickered toward Finnand Amelia, and the trace of panic they had sensed earlier now flared intosomething more akin to fear. “I do not seek trouble. Just a precaution, youunderstand. I want witnesses here.”

The tension in the room ratchetedup another notch. Finn could feel Amelia’s eyes on him, her own senses pickingup the shift in atmosphere. The professor was hiding something; his voice hadthe brittle quality of glass on the verge of shattering. Finn’s mind racedthrough the possibilities, each more damning than the last. What was Hemingwayafraid of? Or rather, who? The problem was, Finn knew they didn’t have enoughto force the man into an interview room.

He wanted to change tact.

“Professor, if you come...” Finnsaid, stepping forward.

Before Finn could speak further,Hemingway stood abruptly, his arm sweeping across the desk in a broad, erraticarc. A precarious stack of books teetered and toppled, raining down upon Finn’sfoot with the force of an unexpected blow.

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