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Back Murder Past Due Save as PDF
Chapters (36)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Acknowledgements
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. TWENTY-NINE
  33. THIRTY
  34. THIRTY-ONE
  35. THIRTY-TWO
  36. THIRTY-THREE

While I scanned the precisely formed but tiny handwriting of the registrar of the 1840s, searching for one Bushrod Kennington, I heard snatches of conversation. I paid them scant attention, focusing on my task. But when I heard the words murder and Priest, I started listening.

TWO

TWO

I kept listening but could discern no other words. The voices faded.

I found the incident oddly unsettling, though I couldn’t say why. I supposed the conversation was about Godfrey Priest, since he was the hot topic in Athena at the moment. And hearing the word murder in conjunction with his name wasn’t that odd. The man did write murder mysteries.

I stopped listening and resumed my search until I located old Bushrod.

Back at my desk I made a few notes, planning to respond to the letter after lunch. This morning I intended to spend my time cataloging. I retrieved the truck of books I’d been working on and pulled the next book to catalog. After logging in to the cataloging module of our integrated library system (or ILS, in library parlance), I began to examine the book.

Part of a collection of nineteenth-century medical books, this particular volume was an 1807 treatise on midwifery by Thomas Denman. The binding was in excellent condition, but I opened the book with great care, as always. By now I was accustomed to handling books two centuries old and even older, but I still felt a sense of wonder when I touched them. So sturdy, able to survive two hundred years with proper care, but at the same time so fragile, so easily destroyed. A faint mustiness tickled my nose, and my fingers caressed the cool softness of the pages.

The particular fun of cataloging something this old was noting anything about the copy in hand—inscriptions, stamps, notations—that would set it apart from another copy. In the book I held, the front free endpaper bore, in faded ink, a previous owner’s name and date: “Dr. Francis Henshall, March 18, 1809.” As I delved further into the book, I found notations in ink in the same handwriting. Dr. Henshall had added comments to the text, based on his own patients.

I turned to the computer and called up the record I had previously downloaded into our system from a bibliographic utility. All the basics were there—title, publisher, date, and so on—and I added the notes to identify the copy in hand.

Engrossed in my work, I started when I heard the sound of a throat clearing on the other side of my desk.

I suppressed my irritation at the interruption as I turned to face the newcomer. Then my eyes widened in surprise as I recognized the man.

Hastily saving my work, I mumbled, “Just a moment.”

“Take your time, Charlie,” Godfrey Priest said, his voice booming in the quiet of the rare book room.