Part 7
“Evelyn?”
“No.”
“Did my mother ask you about the archive boxes?”
Nora’s mouth tightened. “She asked what Mrs. Vale had found.”
“Evelyn is Mrs. Vale.”
“Not in this house.”
The remark was not unkind. It was simply true. Beatrice had occupied the title for fifty years, and the staff had adapted by calling Evelyn Mrs. Daniel when confusion threatened.
“What did Evelyn find?” he asked.
“An inventory from 2004. Three boxes in the old list were not on the shelves.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“I know your father moved papers after Miss Clara died.”
“Where?”
“Some went to the safe. Some went to Mr. Ames’s old firm.”
“Frederick’s?”
“His father’s.”
Daniel straightened. “Why didn’t you tell Evelyn?”
“Your mother asked me not to discuss Miss Clara’s private affairs.”
“Nora, did you help my mother send a parcel yesterday?”
Her face changed.
It was small, no more than a tightening around the mouth, but Daniel saw it.
“What did she ask you to do?”
“I did not send anything.”
“What did she ask?”
Nora looked down at her hands. “She asked for the number of a courier the house uses.”
“When?”
“Yesterday morning.”
“Did she say why?”
“No.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“Yes.”
The old pipes knocked behind the wall.
Nora added, “She also asked whether Mrs. Daniel was attending dinner.”
Daniel left the flower room without asking anything else.
Simon Rusk was in the security office behind the garage. The room contained six monitors, a locked equipment cabinet, and a desk so clean it looked temporary.
Daniel placed the printed photograph in front of him.
“Who printed this?”
Simon did not touch it. “Your mother requested a still from the east hall camera.”
“Why?”
“She said an object was missing.”
“When did she request it?”
“Four thirty yesterday.”
“Did she identify the person in the image?”
“She asked whether it could be Evelyn.”
“What did you say?”
“That the image was insufficient for identification.”
“Why is there no footage of the person leaving the study?”
“There is.”
Daniel stared at him.
Simon turned to a monitor and opened the archived clip. The grainy figure entered the study at 3:14. Eight minutes later, Beatrice emerged in the same coat, her face fully visible as she turned toward the camera.
Daniel watched without moving.
“Why didn’t you show me this last night?”
“You didn’t ask me. Mrs. Vale gave you the still.”
“My mother gave it to me.”
Simon’s expression remained neutral. “Yes.”
“You knew she used it to suggest Evelyn entered the study.”
“I knew she asked whether the figure could be Evelyn.”
“And you did nothing.”
“I preserved the footage.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Simon folded his hands. “Your mother chairs the family office. My responsibility is to protect the household and its members.”
“Evelyn is a member of this household.”
Simon’s gaze held his. “That has not always been the position taken by the chair.”
Daniel felt an old, familiar shame rise beneath his anger. Not because Simon’s answer surprised him, but because it did not.
“Send me the full footage,” he said.
“I need authorization.”
“I am a trustee.”
“The system is controlled by the family office.”
“I am vice chair.”
“Your mother is chair.”
Daniel leaned over the desk. “Send it to me.”
Simon studied him, perhaps measuring whether this was a son’s anger or a trustee’s instruction.
Then he turned to the keyboard.
“There was one other irregularity,” he said.
“What?”
“The camera clock was changed manually at five twelve yesterday afternoon.”
“By whom?”
“The administrator account.”
“Whose account?”
“Mine.”
Daniel looked at him.
“I did not make the change,” Simon said. “My password was used from the terminal in your mother’s office.”
“Why change the clock after the still had been printed?”
“To create uncertainty about the timestamp if the full archive were reviewed.”
“Did you tell her you knew?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Simon’s face hardened. “Because before this morning, I believed my job required me to manage the situation without challenging her directly.”
“And now?”
“Now I believe my job may be part of the situation.”
By late afternoon, Evelyn had received three emails from museum colleagues asking whether she was ill. One included a row of heart emojis. Another offered to cover her donor dinner “while things settle.”
No one named the thing that needed settling.
Leonard called at four twenty.
“The trust’s attorney clarified that there is no formal allegation against you,” he said.
Evelyn sat on the floor beside the coffee table, sorting photographs of the package into a folder.
“What exactly did he say?”
“That your involvement may have been incidental.”
“Incidental to what?”
“He wouldn’t elaborate.”
“Am I still working remotely?”
“For the next few days.”
“Then there is an allegation.”
“Evelyn, the museum cannot ignore a possible dispute involving an object from a private collection you were cataloging.”
“I wasn’t cataloging the jewelry.”
“I understand.”
“Does the board?”
A pause.
“We have not discussed it with the full board.”
“Who has discussed it?”
“Marian, the board chair, and general counsel.”
Three people, which meant six by dinner.
Evelyn looked at the sapphire-blue blouse draped over a chair. She had not put it away. A small puncture marked the fabric where the brooch had been pinned.
“I want the museum to preserve every communication from the Vale trust,” she said.
Leonard’s tone cooled. “Are you anticipating litigation?”
“I’m anticipating accuracy.”
After the call, she opened the archive project files on her laptop.
The earliest inventory was a scanned document from 2004, prepared two years before Clara’s death. Three boxes appeared under a heading for personal correspondence:
CV-11, school and university.
CV-12, personal correspondence.
CV-13, medical and legal.
A handwritten note beside the final two entries read: Transferred per E.V. instruction, 9/18/06. See Ames receipt 4487.
May you like
E.V. was Edward Vale, Daniel and Clara’s father.
Evelyn had noticed the note the previous week but had assumed the receipt referred to another estate file. Now she enlarged the scan.
