Anonymous Sources by Mary Louise Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

grass—apparently not taboo in this particular part of the college.
    â€œHi, sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to find the room where John Harvard used to live. Isn’t it somewhere right around here?”
    She looked up, registered my American accent, nodded. They must get tourists in here all the time. And I’m sure the Americans all ask where John Harvard lived. “That building there.” She pointed. “Old Court. Don’t think he really lived there, though.”
    I thanked her and walked over. It was a graceful old brick façade. I counted three entrances, and I headed toward the one she had indicated. Inside a bike leaned against the wall. Music blared from behind a door. The dorm was clearly occupied, even over the summer. I started to climb. Steep, battered stairs. There was nothing to indicate I was in the right place. But on the second-floor landing I caught my breath. T. A. CARLYLE , read small letters painted neatly above a doorway.
    I tried the door. Locked. I knocked. No answer, of course. Now what?
    I scampered back down the stairs and into the sunlight. Presumably the same bedder would clean all three stairwells. Morning was the logical time to clean. So maybe she was around, busy in one of the other entrances just now. I checked the second entry. Nothing. But sure enough, the door to the third entry was propped open by a vacuum cleaner. I walked up the stairs until I spied an open bedroom door. Someone inside was whistling.
    I peeked my head around the door and rapped softly. A woman glanced up. Fiftysomething, baggy flowered skirt, permed hair going gray, a sponge in her hand. Bingo.
    I asked the obvious question. “Are you the bedder here?”
    â€œYes.” She looked wary. Probably pegged me for a tourist and was getting ready to shoo me out.
    â€œGreat. So I—I wonder if you can help me. My name is Alexandra James. You must have known Thomas Carlyle?”
    I could see that caught her by surprise. She was staring, trying to size me up. Finally she nodded.
    â€œI’m so sorry about the news. I . . .” I paused. It would be easy to pass myself off as a friend, a sister even. But I do have some scruples. It’sone thing to bend the rules to get into a place, another thing to lie to a source. So now I needed to tell the truth. But I would probably only get one chance, and this woman might slam the door on a reporter.
    I went with this: “I’m from Boston. Where Thomas was from. I’m trying to figure out what happened. How he died, I mean. I was hoping—I didn’t know if it might be possible to look in his room? To see if he left anything? Or just to see what it looked like?”
    She shook her head. “No, you’d have to ask the porters about that. But he didn’t leave anything. I mean, mind you—he left a right mess, but it’s tidy now. I’ve tidied it. Bless him. Poor lad.”
    â€œI see. I’ve come all the way over, though—could I just stick my head inside? Just in case?”
    She shook her head again, more firmly this time. “Are you family?”
    â€œNo.” It was time to come clean. “I’m a reporter, actually. With a big newspaper in Boston. But I don’t want to disturb anything or get anyone in trouble. I have to write a story about what happened to him. So I wanted to see what his life here was like. Can you—could you help me?”
    â€œNo, you’ll have to talk to the porters, love. Or the master. You shouldn’t be here.” As predicted, the woman was shooing me out, trying to close the door.
    I took a breath and changed tactics. “Sure. Sorry to trouble you. I guess I need to find someone who might know who he was friendly with. Or, you know, whether anything might have been troubling him. Someone who knows what was going on behind the scenes around here.”
    I stood back and watched her twitch. She would be struggling with