“Nae at all, Mr. Standish. Shall we?” Arthur gestured toward the waiting room.
“Yes, thank you, My Lord,” Mr. Standish nodded, then went on about his intended business cleaning the blood from the floor. “There is a stack of wooden crates that I set just outside of the door.”
Arthur nodded and went to get a crate. Reentering the office, he walked over to the desk, setting the crate on the floor. “A lifetime o’ teaching and it all comes down tae crates filled with books.”
“And the memories he left behind with his family and his students,” Mr. Standish reminded Arthur pulling him out of his maudlin state of mind.
“Aye, and may he ne’er be forgotten.” Arthur sat down in the professor’s chair and began packing up his friend’s books and papers. There were the usual Greek tomes and other academic paraphernalia to be expected in the office of a Greek studies professor, but what surprised Arthur was the sheer number of books and papers pertaining to the legend of Arthur Pendragon, Guinevere, Camelot, and the Knights of the Round Table. Arthur had never seen such a collection. It was nigh on obsessive.
Arthur frowned down at the innumerable notes and scribbles that decorated every piece of paper. Some notes were straight forward and understandable. Other notes were not in English or Greek or any other language that he understood. The letters were jumbled in a way that made no phonetical sense whatsoever. Stacking them all together, Arthur placed the collection of Pendragon papers inside of their own crate to examine later.
As he was doing so, Arthur’s knee caught on a hard object against the inside surface of the desk. Bending down to see what it was, he found a hidden metal latch on the underneath side of the desk’s smooth wooden surface. He pulled on the latch and felt a section of the wood give way revealing a hidden panel. Arthur opened the panel and found another stash of papers hidden within, all written in the professor’s hand and addressed to his daughter.
Why would Henry hide these?Not feeling that it was honorable to read something that was clearly addressed to Cleo Wallace, Arthur discreetly stuffed the papers into his coat pocket so that he could deliver them to her safely.Why Henry hid them, I dinnae ken, but I am certain that he thought he had good reason tae do so and I will nae be the one tae undo his caution. I cannae escape the feeling that within these pages lies the answer tae Henry’s death.Arthur sat and stared out of the office window at the rain that had begun to pitter-patter upon the glass.
“Henry, what did ye get yerself in tae?”
“What was that, My Lord?”
“Och, nae at all, Mr. Standish. it is nae but thoughts spoken aloud.”
“As you wish, My Lord.”
Henry turned his gaze to the man on his hands and knees, scrubbing the floor and wondered if he knew more than he was saying.I dinnae ken the man. For all I ken he could be the one who killed Henry.The thought that it could be anyone that killed Henry, that Arthur could pass his friend’s murderer on the street and not even know it, made him angry. The notion was infuriating, and Arthur balled his hands into fists, rising to stand over the man before he even realized what he was doing.
“Is something amiss, My Lord?”
Arthur shook his head, tamping down the anger and grief that threatened to overtake him. “Nae, my apologies. I must get another crate.”
“You are angry over the loss of your friend,” Mr. Standish noted looking up at Arthur with sympathy in his eyes.
“Aye, ye are a keen observer, Mr. Standish.”
“A necessity of my profession, My Lord. I have had to learn the needs of those in my care before they know them themselves. It is why I am certain that Professor Wallace did not kill himself. He did not show any of the signs of a man who is about to leave this world of his own accord.”
“And ye are certain that ye did nae see anything that might tell us who did this?”
Mr. Standish shook his head. “I cannot remember anything that would be of aid.”
Arthur’s eyes bore into Mr. Standish’s, but he found no sign of a lie in their depths. Nodding, he turned and went back to work.Someone, somewhere, has tae have seen something, and I will find them one way or another.
* * *
“You cannot bury him here! He is to be buried with my mother!” Cleo stood at her father’s graveside, with bloodshot eyes and a stomach tied in knots. Feeling a few gasps away from heaving, she argued with the gravediggers and the local minister.
“Suicides are not allowed to be buried in consecrated ground. Your father must be buried on the northside of the cemetery with the unbaptized, excommunicated, and criminal dead. Be glad that he is not being buried at a crossroads as is the tradition for such sacrilegious deaths,” the minister scolded her.
“I will not stand by and allow you to do this!”
“You, Miss Wallace, have no choice in the matter.”
A crowd had started to gather, and Cleo caught sight of the Earl of Irondale entering the cemetery. “What is happening here?” he asked Cleo gently.
“They will not bury my father with my mother. Instead they are laying him to rest amongst the criminal and the damned.”
“That is unacceptable!” The Earl turned angry eyes on the minister. “I will nae see an honorable man treated in such a fashion. Professor Wallace did nae kill himself, but even if he had, this is nae how his remains should be treated.”
“And who are you when you’re at home?” one of the gravediggers asked indignantly.
