The Book of Air and Shadows

was four, leaving us in a very precarious financial position. He was something of a wild boy and not at all interested in fatherhood. He’s dead now, as is my mother. Uncle Andrew, meanwhile, paid for my education, had me over to England during practically every summer vacation starting at age eight and…oh, God, why am I telling you all this? I guess I haven’t quite recovered from the shock of what happened to him. I’m sorry. I hadn’t intended to spill my guts like that.”
    “It’s quite all right,” I said. “Losing a close relative through violence can be a devastating thing.”
    “You sound like you speak from experience.”
    “Yes,” I said, but in a tone that did not encourage further queries. Changing the subject, I asked, “How long have you been in the city?”
    “Toronto?”
    “No, here. I’m sorry-when New Yorkers say ‘the city’ they always mean the island of Manhattan.”
    She smiled at this, our first shared smile. “Since Monday. Two days.”
    “In a hotel, are you?”
    “Yes, the Marquis on Eighth Avenue. I was expecting to stay in Uncle Andrew’s place, but there are legal complications. It’s still a crime scene and they won’t release any of his things, although Professor Haas very kindly let me look through his office and take some personal items.”
    “You’re comfortable there?” Making conversation here, God knows what I was thinking, I suppose I just wanted to keep her talking, prolong the moment. Ridiculous, as I say, but in the interests of an honest tale…
    She replied, “Well, to be frank, it’s fairly grotty. It’s supposed to be cheap, but cheap in New York is more than I can afford, especially with Canadian dollars.”
    “You’ve seen the police?”
    “Yes. Yesterday. I thought I would have to identify the body like they do on TV, but that had already been done. They asked me some questions, really, pretty awful questions.”
    “This is their theory that he was killed as part of some gay sexual ritual?”
    “Yes, but my God!-and I told them this-Uncle Andrew wasn’t like that at all. He made no secret of his, um, romantic orientation, but he was devoted to Ollie. He’s a don at Oxford. They were like an old married couple when they were together.” Her tone abruptly changed and she asked, “Do you think we can conclude our business today?”
    “Our business being…?”
    “Uncle Andrew’s manuscript.”
    Oh, that! I asked her what she knew about it.
    “Oh, he didn’t tell me much, only that it was a Jacobean manuscript. He paid several thousand dollars for it, but he thought it might be a lot more valuable if some things checked out.”
    “Like what?”
    “I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Again she produced that adorable wrinkle. “And frankly I can’t see that it’s any business of yours. It’s my property.”
    “Actually, Ms. Kellogg,” I said, somewhat prissily, “it’s the property of the estate. In order for you to claim it, you have to demonstrate both that you are who you say you are, and that you are the sole legal heiress of Andrew Bulstrode. In order for that to happen, you must produce a will and have it probated in surrogate’s court for the County of New York. Only then will the executor of the will have the authority to instruct me to hand over the estate’s property to you.”
    “Oh, gosh! Will that take long?”
    “It could. If the will is faulty or contested, it could take weeks, months, even years to settle. As in Dickens.”
    At this she gave a despairing cry, bit her lip, and brought her hands to her face. The clerk at the desk looked over at us disapprovingly.
    “I can’t wait that long,” she wailed. “I could only get these few days off. I have to be back in Toronto on Monday and I can’t afford to stay in a hotel. And…” Here she stopped and dropped her eyes, as we do when we are about to reveal something it’s best not to reveal. Interesting, that; I thought it might be part of why she was reluctant to come to my office. I decided to push on that door.
    “And…?”
    “Nothing.” A poor liar, I thought, observing the delicate flushing below the jawline.
    “Well,
not
nothing, I think. You ask me to meet you in a secluded place, you keep looking up at the door, as if you expect someone to barge in, and now you seem to be concealing something. Add to that the fact that your uncle died in mysterious, even frightening circumstances, and you strike me as a woman with something of a