Jane Actually

now back in London that he could call her. He surveyed the still groggy professor, her normally constrained red hair now an ochre nimbus lit by morning sun. She appeared to sleep in a University of Chicago T-shirt, which surprised him. Not that he’d previously thought of it, but he would have guessed she’d sleep in something more elegant.
    He debated telling her that her phone was transmitting video, not sure if she was aware of the fact, but decided against it.
    “Mrs Westerby has these boxes, just like Dr. Watson’s 1 . They’re full of journals—Jane’s journals. Take a look.”
    She muttered, “Jane never kept a journal,” but not loudly enough for Courtney to hear.
    Alice rubbed the sleep from her eyes and then reached for her glasses on the bedside table. She put them on and looked again at the screen and also noticed a tiny window displaying video of her. She quickly turned off the outgoing video and then paid attention to the image Courtney was sending her.
    She saw three dusty looking boxes, looking very much like the metal lunchboxes kids took to school but without pictures of Scooby-doo or My Little Pony. These boxes contained the same metal clasps with the addition of leather straps and buckles. To her eye, they didn’t look remotely Regency. One box was open and she saw a thick pile of paper inside fastened with what looked like red ribbon. Unfortunately the video couldn’t stay in focus enough for her to make out much, other than that there appeared to be writing on the paper.
    “What does it say?”
    “It says ‘Journal of Jane Bigg-Wither,’ or anyway I think it does,” Courtney said. He turned the camera back to face him. “I’ve only opened one box, the other two the latches have rusted shut. The second I saw the writing, I didn’t want to open them or untie the ribbon. I’m in London now and I’ve got to get them to an appraiser.”
    “Wait, Jane Bigg-Wither? Are you saying …”
    “It looks like Jane’s hand writing. I’m sending you a photo.”
    “Sotheby’s. They’ve done all the recent Austen auctions,” she said. She was quickly waking up. She tried to sound knowledgeable, but admittedly it was the only auction house in England she knew, but it was true that they’d handled the recent sale of
The Watsons
manuscript.
    “That’s what I thought,” he said. His words coincided with the sound of her phone indicating an email had arrived. She switched to her mail application and found the photo Courtney had sent and saw Jane’s handwriting. The “Jane” was clearly visible but the “Bigg-Wither” was harder to make out, although still recognizable.
    “Oh my God,” she said, “oh my God. But you went there to look at a letter?” Courtney said nothing in response and then she switched back to Skype.
    “You went there to look at a letter.”
    “Yes, and here it is.” He turned his camera, apparently the camera in his laptop, back around and trained it at a picture frame. She again saw Jane’s handwriting and the name and address of Harris Bigg-Wither. The letter, if that’s what it was, seemed in much worse shape than the papers in the box.
    “Bring me up to speed here, Court. Tell me everything that’s happened.”
    He turned the laptop back to face him and related the story of meeting the old woman and that he was ready to leave when she told him of the boxes in the attic.
    “Did you take photos of the attic?” she asked.
    “Yes, every step of the way. And I recorded a video of Mrs Westerby telling me about it and even of me carrying the first box downstairs and opening it.”
    “Good, smart thinking, Court. OK, what time is it there?”
    “About 11:30. Sorry, I didn’t think about the time.”
    “For this, you don’t need to apologize. Did you have a chance to contact Sotheby’s?”
    “No, the cell reception in Glooston was non-existent. And once I saw what I had, I thought I’d better get it to London.”
    “Mrs What’s-her-name let you take it?”
    “Yes, the old dear doesn’t get out much and she was practically pushing me out the door with it. I think she wants the money from a sale. The house is practically falling apart.”
    “God, we can’t let it go to a private sale.”
    “Just what I was thinking.”
    “OK, I’ll start making calls. This is … this is big, Court. Congratulations.”
    She finished the call with her adrenaline pumping. “Jane Bigg-Wither” was hardly a combination she’d expected to see. Harris had