in frustration. She’d be lucky to get another chance at these papers. It would take forever to get the ownership status sorted out–she’d had to resort to a manufactured interest in the Ruabon Coal Company to arrange this visit. And she didn’t have a lot of time.
She went back to the shelves. The boxes were in shadow. She screwed her eyes up in the dim light, trying to read the rest of the inscriptions as she moved along the row, but it was no good, the lettering was too faded. 12_4_KBM. That could be…She lifted the box file out and moved closer to the light. She balanced it on her knee as she opened it. It contained a sheaf of papers, old and stained.
She shifted her balance to stop the box from falling, and lifted the papers out carefully, aware of their fragility. They looked like jottings for someone’s accounts–balance sheets, profit and loss. This wasn’t what she was looking for. She changed her grip to put them back, and something fell out from between the sheets on to the floor, something that had been slipped into the pile.
It was a book. She felt her heart thump, and she found herself looking over her shoulder around the dark library before she crouched down to pick it up. The cover was stiff card, marbled, and the pages were yellowed and brittle. She turned them carefully. They were covered with a minute script, neatly and economically written, wasting no space. The ink was brown with age. The writing went on and on, and then suddenly ended. The last pages of the book were blank.
She heard the click of the door, and a dragging sound. Nick came into view, pulling a small table. Instinctively, she snapped the book shut. ‘It’s a bit scruffy,’ he said, wiping the top with his sleeve and inspecting it. ‘Here.’ He pulled the table into the alcove and moved the light from its precarious balance on the shelf. He looked pleased with the result. ‘That’s better.’ Then he looked down at her crouched on the floor. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine.’ She stood up, dusting off the knees of her jeans. ‘Thanks.’
He hesitated for a minute. ‘Do you know how long…?’
‘Does it matter?’ she said, looking up at him.
‘I’m supposed to lock up at nine.’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m not going anywhere. When you’ve done, take the door on your right at the end of the corridor. I’ll be in there.’ His face was under-lit by the lamp.
‘I’ll be finished before nine,’ she reassured him. ‘Thanks.’ She put the papers on to the table.
He looked at her working arrangements with some dissatisfaction, and nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’ He turned and walked away up the aisle.
She sat down at the makeshift desk and went through the box file carefully. Tucked in among the accounts there was a large envelope that had probably contained the notebook. She looked inside it, holding her breath. There were sheets of paper, folded round something. She slipped them out carefully. The writing on them was dark and recent, and as she unfolded them, she recognized the hand as Gennady Litkin’s. She felt a stab of disappointment.
But they had been folded for a purpose. They were wrapped round a thin bundle of letters written on fragile paper that was starting to crumble along the edges. She pulled the shade of the desk lamp down, redirecting its beam. It was a cheap one, and the mechanism that was supposed to hold it in place was faulty. The slightest movement, and it lifted its head slowly, like a wading bird that had been disturbed, expanding its neck in alarm, cautious, checking.
She steadied it, then flattened out the first letter. She didn’t recognize the language at first. Russian? She only knew a few words. The script was minute. The first line had to be a salutation: My dear Captain Vienuolos…It seemed to be an acceptance of an invitation. She scanned down to the signature to see if she could work out the identity of the writer, but it was an indecipherable scrawl: P…E…She pulled the lamp closer, and the light flickered. Who are you? Who were you? But there was no answer.
She turned to the diary. There was a label on the front of the book, peeling at the edges, and handwritten in ink that had faded. She could barely make it out. The writing was Russian again and for a moment, she felt discouraged; then she realized that Gennady Litkin must have written it. She carefully transliterated the letters she could read. There were two words and what looked like dates. The last letter was
She opened the book. It was, as Litkin had told her, written in Lithuanian. Even though she’d been studying the language for years, she found the writing hard to decipher, and she remembered that Litkin had said something about making a translation. She looked at the pages of modern notes, suddenly hopeful, but of course, they were in Russian. If Litkin had translated the diary, he had written in his own language. Her Lithuanian should be sufficient. She applied herself to the diary again.
Her head was starting to ache by the time she’d read the first few pages. She checked her watch. It was after seven. She had been here for almost two hours. She hesitated, reluctant to pull herself away, but she wanted to check on Hannah who had been complaining of earache and a sore throat.
She switched on her phone. The beep as it found the network was an intrusion from the 21st century. She keyed in Daniel’s number, but his answering machine took the call. She left a message, feeling relieved that she wouldn’t have to talk to him. ‘It’s Helen. I’m just checking that the kids are okay. I’ll see you on Thursday.’ His usual day for having the children.
She was just getting back to the letters when her phone rang. It was Daniel. ‘I was working out front,’ he said. ‘Any reason why they wouldn’t be okay?’
She didn’t want to row. ‘Hannah felt poorly. And it’s not their usual night…’
‘Right. It isn’t. And you dump Hannah when she’s ill.’
She felt a stab of anxiety. ‘Ill? Has the earache…?’
‘She’s fine, since you’re so worried. They need their routine, Helen. Except when it suits you.’
‘I told you. I had to work. Like you do, you know? When you get a late call?’
‘Oh, sure, old letters and bits of paper. What does your wife do, Mr Kovacs? Oh, she’s got a BA in old shopping lists.’ There was a moment’s silence, then he added. ‘And a PhD in banging the boss.’
Not that again. ‘I’m working,’ she said. ‘Are the kids okay? That’s all I wanted to know.’
‘I told you. They’re fine.’
‘Can I speak to Hannah?’
‘It’s a bad line. She won’t be able to hear you.’
‘I’ll be home by nine. I’ll phone when–’
‘She’ll be in bed.’ His voice was cold.
‘I know. I’d just like to say–’
‘I’ll tell her you called.’ He hung up.
She felt depressed after the call. She and Daniel couldn’t even have a civil conversation about the children. At least it looked as though she wouldn’t have to take time off to go to the doctor’s with Hannah. She wouldn’t have to cancel her meeting with Faith.
She looked at the letters spread out on the desk in front of her, and at the diary. She was about to make a decision. She couldn’t finish reading these here. She’d assumed there would be some kind of copying facilities–the word ‘library’ had conjured up a different image from the one that had confronted her. But no one knew the letters and diary were here, so no one would miss them. She could slip them into her bag and take them away to study at her leisure. It would be okay–she was a bona fide scholar, and she could quietly return them when she’d finished with them. No harm done.
And