Page 20 of Unbroken
Damn it. Mortimer showed no sign of frustration, however, merely said, “Thank you. I’d be much obliged if she could contact me—at home or at the Ladysmith Museum, either is fine.”
Their luck failed to improve. Mrs. Norris’s door was also answered by a maid, who explained her mistress was unwell and not accepting visitors, but promised to pass along Mortimer’s card. Ian Fuller’s mansion was shut away behind a high brick wall and closed iron gates, which proved to be locked when Mortimer tugged on them. As there was no bell or any other way of alerting the occupants someone was at the gate, sending a letter would have to suffice.
Ves was beginning to worry their walk would be for nothing, when they reached the abode of Mr. Daniel Rulkowski. The house was one of the more modest on the street, which wasn’t saying much since it was twice the size of Bonnie’s. A large conservatory was attached to the house like an additional wing, the copper trim on its iron bones turned green from verdigris. Exotic plants lined the walk, many of them in pots so they could be moved inside during the harsh New England winter. All of them flourished with the same wild abundance they’d seen at the homes of the other WHS members.
A young man answered their knock. “Yes? Can I help you gentlemen?”
Mortimer held out his card. “Mortimer Waite, here to see Mr. Rulkowski. Is he in?”
“Dan’s just upstairs.” The man seemed to catch himself. “Mr. Rulkowski doesn’t put much emphasis on formality. I’m Tom Berry, his secretary. And cook, and valet, and sometimes his butler.”
That seemed odd to have only one person perform all those roles, at least based on the houses of the wealthy Ves had visited. But perhaps Rulkowski’s income didn’t extend to a small fleet of servants.
Berry began to usher them inside. As he did, a voice from behind called, “Wait for me!”
Startled, Ves turned, and saw Paul Tubbs hurrying up the sidewalk, a sheen of sweat on his face from the hot summer day.
“Mr. Tubbs,” Mortimer said, with all the effusiveness of greeting an old friend. “I’m so glad you were able to join us after all.”
Tubbs didn’t get the hint. “Really? I rather thought you librarians were intent on cutting me out of the investigation.”
Berry frowned. “Is everything all right, gentlemen?” he asked, voice noticeably colder.
Damn. Ves put on a smile and hoped it looked remotely genuine. “It’s a, uh, joke.”
“Indeed,” Mortimer said, and elbowed Tubbs hard in the side. “We’re old friends who sometimes forget not everyone is privy to our humor.”
Thank the trees, Tubbs finally seemed to catch on. Rubbing his bruised ribs, he said, “Yes. Old friends.”
“Of course.” Berry stepped back and gestured for them to enter. “Follow me—Mr. Rulkowski is just up in his study. Working on his masterpiece.” He rolled his eyes fondly. “A book on cultivating orchids, of all things.”
They followed the butler/cook/secretary up a sweeping flight of stairs, then another smaller stairway. A short corridor took them to yet more stairs, these a tight spiral leading up to a sort of tower at the back of the house.
“Sorry for the walk,” Berry said in a hushed voice. “He likes to work somewhere he won’t be disturbed.”
“Lucky man,” Tubbs muttered.
At the top of the stairs was a short landing, the door leading off it cracked slightly open. Berry knocked on the door, then stuck his head in. “Mr. Rulkowski, visit—no!”
Propelled by the horror in his voice, Ves surged forward and flung open the door, so hard it hit the wall behind with a resounding crack!
Sunlight streamed in through an open window. A man crouched half-in it, one foot on the sill, his expression one of utter terror.
After disembarking from the train, Sebastian’s first destination was the offices of the Ipswich Monitor newspaper, which fortunately lay within an easy walk of the station. The sun beat down on his straw hat, and the sea air was heavy with a humid stickiness. He’d brought an Oxford bag with him, in case he needed to stay overnight, and began to resent its presence within a block of carrying it in the heat.
A sprightly young man sat at a desk just inside the relatively small brick building; when Sebastian entered, he smiled and said, “Good morning, sir! Are you looking to place a want ad?”
“No, actually.” Sebastian took out his card and passed it over. “I’d like to examine your archives, if I may.”
The secretary studied his card. “An archivist! Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Your issues from 1830—I’m afraid I don’t know the month. I’m doing a bit of research concerning recent donations to our fair museum.” Which wasn’t entirely a lie, though to call the Books of the Bound donations might be stretching the truth quite a bit.
“I can show you to the archives, but I’m afraid I can’t help you much more than that. I don’t go down there very often—no one does, really, unless they need to refer back to an older article for some reason.” He stood up. “Just follow me.”
They went into the back, past a few offices and the switchboard, to a door marked Boiler - Archive. Behind the door, stairs led down to a basement with a vaulted brick ceiling, the boiler room to one side and the archive to the other.
“Good luck,” Sebastian’s guide said. “Stop by my desk on your way out.”
