The Book of Air and Shadows

them ever did an honest day’s work in their lives and they lived like emperors. But…”
    “What?” Paul asked.
    “It’s difficult to explain. Come with me, I’ll show you something.”
    We followed her out of the office and down a dim corridor lit by wall sconces holding fifteen-watt bulbs. The chill in that room was coziness itself compared with the damp cold of the corridors, cold as the grave I recall thinking, slipping easily into Gothic mode. We went through a door and she pressed a light switch. I gasped.
    “This was the Jacobean dining hall and later the breakfast room. It’s considered the finest example of linenfold walnut paneling in the Midlands, not to mention the carving on the sideboards and the inlaid parquet flooring. Look at the detail! This was done by English craftsmen for thugs who couldn’t tell a dado from sheep dip, so why did they put their souls into this walnut? Love is why, and I honor them for it, which is why I’m in the business of preserving it. Come, there’s more.”
    The next room was a ballroom. “Look at the ceiling. Giacomo Quarenghi, circa 1775, Britannia ruling the waves. There she is in her amphibious chariot drawn by dolphins and all the darkies paying homage around the border. The room itself is by Adam. Look at the proportions! The windows! The parquet! No one will ever build a house like this again, ever, even though we have people in this country who could buy any of the Lords Dunbarton with the change in their pockets, and that means that something wonderful has gone out of the world, and I’d love to know why.”
    “So would I,” said Paul. “I know the feeling. It’s one I often have in Rome. Corruption and vice of every sort, the ruin of real religion, and yet…what gorgeous stuff they made!”
    After that, they chatted animatedly about Rome and aesthetics while I stared up at Britannia and tried to ID the subject peoples. Then we went back to the half-warm office and the business of the day. Paul did the talking, he having already established a relationship, and besides he had the collar-who cannot trust a priest? After he’d finished she said, “So you’ve come all this way because of a miscarriage of justice? You’re following the track of this Bulstrode fellow in the hope of pulling a thread that will lead you to his real killer?”
    “You have it,” said Paul. “Do you recall his visit at all?”
    “Oh, yes, of course I do. I don’t get many vistors with whom I can discuss anything more than the football and the price of petrol, so I’m afraid I rather seized on them and simply chatted their heads off. As I did with you, shame upon me. Yes, Professor Bulstrode, ex Brasenose, seconded to some university in the States, and he had a young woman with him, Carol Raleigh? Is that right?”
    “Close enough. Do you happen to recall what they were looking for?”
    The woman considered the question for a moment, staring at the coils of the electric fire. “They said they were researching the family history of the Dunbartons, but there was something else going on, I think. They were exchanging looks, if you follow me, and they were rather short on details. Scholars, I’ve found, are typically expansive on their subjects, and Professor Bulstrode and his assistant were distinctly not. But it was none of my affair after all, he had the proper scholarly credentials, and so I gave them the key to the muniment room and went on with my own affairs. They were up there for the entire day, remarkable really, because the place is a mare’s nest, never really been properly cataloged, and they descended covered in the dust of ages. I asked them if they’d found what they’d been looking for and they said yes, and thanked me and the professor made a contribution to the trust to help with the restoration, a hundred pounds, actually, very generous, and they left.”
    “Did they take anything?”
    “You mean make off with a document? I shouldn’t think so, but they might have taken rafts of them. I wasn’t looking, and I certainly didn’t search them before they left.”
    At that point the telephone rang, and Miss Randolph picked up the heavy antique instrument and listened, and said she had to take this call, it was the builder, and they thanked her and left.
    Back in the warmth of the car I asked Paul what he thought.
    “My guess,” he replied, “is that they did find something and Rolly ran off with it. She seems to be quite a piece of