“Just one more, if you don’t mind.”
Maynard stopped. “Of course.”
“Last night at dinner, Dr. Carbon suggested I ask about ‘the others.’ ”
Maynard frowned. “He did?”
“Yes. He mentioned you specifically as the one I should speak to.”
Maynard shook his head slowly. “I’ve never understood Roger’s sense of humor. He may have been pulling your leg — you know he never took your line of study seriously.”
“I know. But what did he mean — ‘the others’?”
Maynard glanced at his watch again. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, I really can’t be late for this meeting. Please keep me and Gregory apprised of your progress. And whatever you do, be discreet in your inquiries. An old, upstanding institution like Lux blemishes awfully easily.” And with a smile, he waved for Logan to precede him out of the office.
8
An hour later, Logan made his way down the central corridor of Lux’s third floor, canvas satchel slung over one shoulder. This hallway, familiarly known as the Lady’s Walk, retained almost entirely the look it had sported when the mansion was a private residence. It was fantastically ornate, with wide, polished oaken floorboards; elaborate wainscoting; coffered ceiling; gilded sconces; and huge oil portraits in golden frames. It was also the longest unbroken hall in the mansion: running the entire length of the main building, it stretched nearly three city blocks’ worth from the East Wing to the West Wing. And yet despite its magnificence, it was almost never seen by visitors. This was, in part, because the third floor was given over to the private offices and apartments of the think tank’s Fellows. Another reason, Logan thought, could be the hallway’s nickname itself. Awkward questions might arise.
The lady in question was Ernestine Delaveaux, wife of the original owner of Dark Gables. By all accounts, she had been a beautiful and accomplished woman, the product of one of Boston’s finest families and Europe’s best finishing schools. But she was also possessed of a nervous temperament and weak constitution. When the couple’s only son died of smallpox, the shock proved too much for Mrs. Delaveaux. Uncontrolled weeping, lack of appetite, and insomnia followed. The doctors brought in by her husband, Edward — himself of an eccentric cast — could do nothing, save prescribe nostrums for what they pronounced to be neurasthenia. Then, one night in 1898, Ernestine Delaveaux saw, or thought she saw, her dead son, standing in this same hallway, hands outstretched toward her. After that, she wandered the hallway every night, tirelessly calling her son’s name. She never saw him again. Finally, on a stormy December evening two years later, Mrs. Delaveaux left the mansion, walked down to the sea, and threw herself into the Atlantic.
Edward Delaveaux never recovered from the double loss of his son and his wife. He spent the rest of his life and fortune in seclusion, trying one scheme after the other to contact his family on the other side. He finally died himself, nearly destitute, in 1912. Dark Gables remained shuttered and unoccupied until Lux relocated from Boston to Newport and purchased it. Ever since Lux took possession of the mansion, however, rumors had circulated that, on certain stormy nights, the ghost of Ernestine Delaveaux could be seen roaming this long, extravagantly appointed corridor, holding a linen handkerchief and calling her son’s name.
Logan had never seen her. Nor had he spoken to anyone who had. But the legend persisted nevertheless.
Now he stopped before a large wooden door, windowless and gleaming, set into the wall to his left. It bore a brief legend:
382
W. STRACHEY
K. MYKOLOS
Logan paused a moment, then knocked. A female voice from beyond immediately called out, “Come in.”
Logan entered. The room he found himself in was fairly small, evidently an outer office, judging by the open door in the far wall leading to a much larger room. Nevertheless, the bookshelves here were stuffed full of technical journals, textbooks, boxed and labeled manuscripts; the lone desk was covered with notated papers and monographs. And yet the crowded space managed to look orderly rather than messy. The room had no windows, and there were no pictures or photos on the walls, but there were half a dozen glass frames full of butterflies: large and small, some monochromatic, others as iridescent as a peacock.
A woman in her midtwenties sat at the desk, fingers resting on a workstation keyboard. She had short jet-black hair, an upturned nose, and — although she was slender — was possessed of a rounded, dimpled chin that reminded Logan of Betty Boop. He recalled seeing her in passing at dinner the night before, talking animatedly at a table with other young people. She was looking up at him now with an expression of expectation.
“You’re Kimberly Mykolos?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “But that’s quite a mouthful, isn’t it? Please call me Kim.”
“Kim it shall be.”
She smiled. “And I’m terribly afraid I know who you are.”
Logan gave a melodramatic sigh. “In that case, would you mind if I sat down?”
“I would insist.”
Logan began to sit down when he caught sight of a brief Latin quotation, framed simply in black and set upon the wall beside the desk: Forsan et haec olim meminisse iuvabit. He froze.
“What’s wrong?” the woman asked. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“An occupational hazard in my line of work,” Logan replied. “But it isn’t that.” He sat down and pointed at the framed quotation. “Virgil, Aeneid. Book One, line 203.”
“That’s a remarkable bit of erudition to have at one’s fingertips.”
“I’m no savant. It’s just that I have the same quotation hanging over my desk.” And he quoted: “ ‘Perhaps some day it will be pleasant to remember even this.’ ”
Mykolos raised her eyebrows. “I guess that means we’re going to be the best of friends.”
“Maybe so. I like butterflies, too.”
“I don’t just like them. I’m passionate about them. Have been ever since I was a kid. When I’m not working, I’m out collecting. Look at this one.” She pointed to a relatively small butterfly in the nearest frame: brown with black eyelets and orange-colored terminal bands on its wings. “A Mitchell’s satyr. Very rare. I caught this at age thirteen, before it was considered endangered.”
“Beautiful.” Logan looked from the butterfly back to Mykolos. “You say you know who I am?”
“I remember seeing you on a PBS documentary. It was about an excavation of the tomb of a very ancient pharaoh — the first pharaoh, if I remember right. You stood out because of your occupation.” She frowned. “They had an unusual word for it. An…an…”
“Enigmalogist,” Logan completed the sentence for her. He decided that Betty Boop was an unfair comparison. This woman’s chin more closely resembled Claudette Colbert’s.
“Yes, enigmalogist.”
“Well, I’m glad you saw the documentary. It saves me a lot of time in introductions.”
She glanced at him curiously. “Are you here to investigate the Lady’s Walk?”
“Unfortunately not. I’ve been asked by the board of directors to look into the death of Willard Strachey.”
Mykolos’s eyes slowly drifted down toward her desk. “I was afraid of that,” she said in a very different tone.
“Ms. Mykolos, I know this must be difficult for you. I’ll try to keep my questions as brief as possible. But you were as close to Dr. Strachey as anybody. I hope you’ll understand why it’s necessary I speak with you.”