Winter of Discontent by Jeanne M. Dams Read Free Book Online Page A

wouldn’t go to the Cathedral of his own volition, there might be good reasons for someone to bring him here. So many hiding places in a fifteenth-century building … but Jane was right. The police would have looked here. We went out of the church into the hard bright sunshine.
    “Jane! Will the museum be open?” I put a hand on her arm as we turned into the High Street. “Young Tubbs can’t neglect his university work indefinitely.”
    “Don’t know. We’ll get in somehow.”
    The building was open, however, and Walter Tubbs was sitting at his desk. This time there were books in front of him and he seemed to be studying. He looked up when we entered, and blinked at us.
    “Oh, it’s you. Sorry. I was in the fourth century.” He gestured at the books. “Roman Britain and all that. They’re building roads and drains at the moment. Not frantically thrilling, but I’ve an essay due tomorrow. Have you heard anything about Mr. Fanshawe?”
    “No, but I suppose no news is good news.” Walter didn’t look impressed by the cliché, and neither did Jane. I realized it had been a pretty stupid thing to say, and changed the subject. “Walter, we’ve come with more roads for you to look at, modern ones this time.” I took the atlas out from under my arm and thrust it at him. “Or at least, the places the roads lead to. This is the book we found in Bill’s desk yesterday, and we found some markings in it. We wondered if you’d have any idea what they’re all about. Open it to the Indiana pages and have a look.”
    He studied it for a few moments and then looked up, bewildered. “I suppose he was planning to go and see these places. But I don’t know why, or when. He hadn’t said anything to me about a trip to America. I’ll take a closer look, if you’d like to leave it with me.”
    He was speaking about Bill in the past tense. I hoped Jane hadn’t caught it. “I suppose we might as well. We don’t seem to have learned anything from it, and you just might come up with something if you think about it for a little while. Or more likely, if you don’t think about it. At least that’s the way my mind works.” I was babbling. I took a deep breath. “Of course, the markings don’t have to have any significance. Maybe he was just doodling.”
    “He did that a lot. Mostly on his desk pad, though. I wouldn’t have thought he’d deface a book.”
    That was an aspect that hadn’t occurred to me. Yes, it was odd that a curator would write in a book. A modern book, true, and one whose lasting value was limited, but still … “Well, he did write in this one. For whatever reason. Or wait! I don’t know why we’re assuming the marks are Bill’s. We found the atlas in his desk, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he made the marks.”
    “I think he did, though. He had a thing about blue pencils. I don’t know anyone else who uses them.”
    “Ah. Well, we may never know why—um, maybe we’ll only know when we can ask him.”
    This time Jane did notice. She looked at me, her face dull with misery, and then turned away.
    I bit my lip. There was nothing I could do to comfort her, nothing, apparently, I could do to help. I’d tried every way I could think of to find Bill, but nothing had worked. I exchanged a look with Walter; we both shook our heads.
    “Well, Walter, I suppose we’ve bothered you long enough. You’re putting in an awful lot of extra time here, aren’t you?”
    “It doesn’t matter. I don’t really have anyplace else to go. I mean, I can study here better than where I’m living. And I’m happy to be here, if it’s any help to Mr. Fanshawe. I only wish …”
    We both wished. Wishing didn’t help. “It’s nice of you, all the same. Will you be here tomorrow, then, in case we think of something?”
    “I have to be. There’s some kind of donors’ meeting in a few days, and I need to try to get ready for it. I saw it in Mr. Fanshawe’s diary.”
    “Diary? He kept a