Scholar's Plot (18 page)

I really did like Lady Katherine’s giggle.

I turned to page 42.

“No pictures here,” Kathy said.

“Then it’s a good thing we can read.”

We could even read boring mathematical theory … that became unexpectedly interesting about two-thirds down the page, when the writer described how the force of leverage might be applied to a twisting motion. If one attached levers to the top of a screw, that 
leverage would then be applied downward at a ratio of…

“’Tis the screw thing.” Behind the spectacles, Kathy’s eyes were bright with excitement. “He found it in this book and he built it.”

The binding of the book in my hands looked older than the book she held, but I flipped to the printer’s page to make sure.

“This was printed in Stephen nine, almost twenty years ago. What about yours?”

She was turning to the front of the book as I spoke. “Stephen twenty-five, just three years ago. And in the back here it talks about the contributors. It says Willet Halprin is now working for High Liege Stephen, in the Bureau of Projects and Works. This Halprin, he did what they say Benton did. He copied his thesis.”

“He could have credited it,” I said. “He could have mentioned in his thesis that he got the idea from what’s-his-name, and modified it.”

“If he did that, then why is he paying Master Hotchkiss?”

She was right.

“You’ve been at court for a while,” I said. “Could Master Halprin be fired for having cheated to get his engineering credential?”

“I don’t know. That’s not what the sacrificial maidens usually gossip about. It might depend on how well he does his work, or how much his boss likes him. But even if it wouldn’t cost his job, ’twould be worth paying a reasonable sum to keep it quiet.”

Sobered, we replaced both books and went to find Scholar Flynn. She led us up to a very small office on the third floor, hardly more than a closet, with one narrow slit of a window. It held a table that all but filled the room, piled with books, chapbooks, pamphlets, and three great tomes, open on their own stands.

“This is Master Hotchkiss’ cataloging room. I’m told they put the thesis back here about a week ago, so he probably hadn’t time to work on it before he died. It should be in one of these stacks.”

“Where does that door go?” I gestured to another door, off to one side.

“That’s Master Hotchkiss’ office. But you don’t need to worry about being interrupted — it was locked up after his death. This room’s left open, in case someone needs to consult the master lists. And your passes… It’s not exactly a public room, but it’s not exactly not, either.”

Even a chance to browse through the complete alphanumeric system didn’t interest me now.

“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll try not to be caught here, and we’ll tell Professor Sevenson how kind you’ve been.”

“Don’t you want me to help look for the thesis?”

She clearly imagined herself heroically risking all for love.

“We’ll manage. I’m sure you have other tasks you need to get back to.”

“Not really,” she said. “I could—”

“Got it!” Kathy exclaimed. “It was right near the top.”

“Oh. Then I’ll leave you to it.”

And she finally did, though she still cast a wistful glance back as I shut the door.

“Did you really find it?” I asked. “Though if you didn’t, I’m not complaining.”

If she hadn’t, she’d been very quick-witted. Which she was.

“’Tis here. I wonder if Benton knows she’s sweet on him.”

“How could he miss it? My guess is that, unlike our friend PN, your brother doesn’t sleep with scholars.”

“Good for him,” said Kathy firmly. “And it’s not as if she’ll be a scholar forever.”

“Benton may not be a professor long enough for that to matter, unless we can prove this is forged,” I said. “Hand it over.”

It was a chapbook, stitched between two flat leather panels instead of bound up the spine. It certainly looked like a thesis, handwritten, and dated Rupert eighteen, nearly fifty years ago. There was dust on the ridges where the folded pages had been cut.

“Someone really wanted to nail your brother,” I said. “If this is a forgery, it’s perfect.”

“
If
?” Kathy asked indignantly.

“Look how the paper is beginning to yellow, not splotchy, like someone was holding it over a flame, just that gradual color fade all round the edge, like you get when it fades from time, light, and air. And every page the same. The only way to do that is by keeping it in a sealed case with some sort of smoke or mist, for days on end, so it creeps into the paper at a uniform rate. And if you make it too damp, the whole thing…”

Kathy was staring at me.

“What? All kinds of scams require forged documents. Maps, deeds, diaries. I had to know this stuff.”

“Can you prove it was forged?” Kathy asked hopefully.

“Prove it? Probably not.” I picked the book up and sniffed it; if whatever they’d used to age the pages had a scent, it had faded. “I can tell you this was done by someone who knew what they were doing, and they spent a lot of time getting it right.”

“How much time?”

“At least three days to write it up. No, more than that, because they’d have to do some research even with Benton’s thesis to base it on. Say five or six days. Three or four more to bind and age it. And that’s assuming their first try worked perfectly, which it usually doesn’t.”

“So if Benton saw or did something that alarmed someone, ’twas more than a week before he was dismissed,” Kathy said. “Over a month ago now. No wonder he doesn’t remember.”

“More than that. It had to be planted for Hotchkiss to find, too.”

“Unless they bribed him to find it, and bring it forward,” said Katherine. “I’d not put it past the man.”

“At this point there’s not much I’d put past our genius librarian. Which brings us to the next part of today’s program. Keep an eye on the hallway, would you, and make sure no one’s about to pop in?”

Kathy went to the door and peeked out.

“No one there now. What are you going to do?”

“Ordinarily I’d be trying to pick the lock,” I said. “Which is harder, and takes longer, than most people think. As it is…”

The fourth key on Hotchkiss’ ring opened the side door to his office.

“Be quiet in here,” I murmured, as Kathy whisked into the silent room. “And stay away from the windows. We’re on the third floor so we don’t have to risk closing the curtains, but if someone sees movement…”

“Of course. What are we looking for? Where do I start?”

“We’re looking for whatever we can find.” I closed the door and locked it behind us. “But I’ve got an idea for where to start.”

Only a few days after the man’s death, his office had already developed that “unused” smell, which isn’t so much a matter of dust as of undisturbed air and emptiness. Like his office at home it was cluttered with books, and papers covered his desk. A large sturdy desk, that looked a lot like the one in his study.

“People are so unimaginative,” I told Kathy. “It makes a burglar’s life much easier.”

The hidden panel was even behind the same drawer, but there were a lot more papers in this one.

“That looks like a page from a play script,” Kathy said. “‘CON: Taking down walls is a bigger job than it seems. You’ve got to disassemble them, careful like.’ CON is a contractor?”

“Sounds like it.” I ran my eye down the page. “And I’m guessing BRD is a member of the university board. Look here, where BRD says, ‘Your bid for this job is 
one of the highest, Master D. I wish I could see a sample of your work. I’ve got a small job to be done at my home, but I’m afraid I couldn’t pay your price.’”

“Oh dear,” said Kathy. “The board member is hitting up the contractor for a bribe.”

“Do some work at my house for free, and I’ll approve your expensive bid for the job. Probably taking out walls right here in the library. Master Hotchkiss might have overheard this conversation himself.”

“And he wrote it up in the form of a play, in case someone came across this page.”

“And kept it, with all these documents, separate from his register of payments,” I said. “So neither set screams blackmail to anyone who might find them. He was no fool. But then, his system told us that already.”

“So hammer D, who was crossed out and hadn’t paid anything, he’s a contractor,” Katherine said.

“And A. is a member of the university board,” I added. “Who’s been paying for years. We have our second suspect.”

“Here’s our screw again.” Kathy picked up the next sheet in the pile. It was the same drawing we’d seen in the engineering book, but on cheap thin paper. It was also more roughly drawn and beneath it was a handwritten note:
from the thesis of Willet Halprin. In force multp. Or change dir.?

284.629 was printed in the upper corner, in Hotchkiss’ meticulous hand.

“This was probably written by whoever put the
Devices
book together,” I said. “I don’t know how Hotchkiss got hold of it, but when he did I bet he remembered that passage in the math book and checked it out.”

“This next page looks like it was crumpled up and then smoothed out,” Kathy said. “Do you think he pulled it out of the trash?”

“Looks like it.”

Spread on the desk and smoothed a bit more, it proved to be a course report for one Franklin Mabry. Judging by the topics he was being graded on
: considerations, revocation, dissolution, misrepresentations, fraud
, he was taking contract law … and failing.

“Only a sixty-three,” said Kathy. “Benton said sixty-five was passing.”

“And that a lawyer needed higher than eighty to get a decent job,” I reminded her. “The professor’s name’s not on this, but … let’s say that PB scales, otherwise known as Professor Bollinger, has totted up Master Mabry’s course score and finds he didn’t pass. He decides to break the bad news in person, instead of however they do it, and tracks Master Mabry down in the library, or maybe in the garden outside this window.”

It offered a good view of the garden, and if the windows were open we’d have heard the students’ voices.

“Mabry learns that he’s failing and loses his temper, rants, weeps—”

“You do know you’re making this up, right?” Lady Katherine, critical. “He could have known full well he was likely to fail, and been plotting what to do about it for weeks. Professor Bollinger is quite surprised at how calmly he receives the news.”

“Either way, Mabry makes Professor Bollinger some kind of offer, and the Professor accepts. He then gives Mabry this, the true report, and goes back to compose a fake one that raises Mabry’s score to a respectable number. M 87, Hotchkiss’ ledger said. High enough for him to get a job and then some. Mabry crumples this up and throws it away … and Hotchkiss, curious about what he’s just seen, unfolds it and learns that Franklin Mabry has failed. Only then he doesn’t, and his final score when he graduates is impossibly high. And Hotchkiss realizes that what he saw was Mabry offering Bollinger a bribe, and Bollinger taking it.”

“How long have they been paying?” Kathy asked.

“Over ten years. They were his first victims.”

The next four papers were all letters, written in a flowing, extravagant hand.

“‘My dearest Moonbeam?’” I couldn’t blame her for sounding incredulous.

“Why not? They’re signed, ‘Your devoted Mugglewump.’”

Kathy laughed aloud, then stopped with a guilty glance at the door.

“It’s not a bad way for PN to avoid signing his name,” I pointed out, running my eyes down the page. Which I then shifted quickly out of Kathy’s sight.

“Hey!” But she said it softly.

“It’s not so much the content.” Although it was. “I’m afraid you’d laugh.”

“I wouldn’t. If this is a professor writing to one of his scholars ’tis not funny.”

“Benton says there’s no sign Nilcomb coerced any of them,” I reminded her. “Or changed their grades.”

“Still, ick. At the best, ick.”

“I don’t object to that as much as I do to his prose.”

“Then you’re a horrible person,” Kathy said promptly. “This matters, Fisk.”

“So does good prose. ‘Your breasts are like the two moons, touching as they cross. Except yours are matched for color and for size.’”

Kathy made a choking sound, but at least it was quiet. “You’re kidding. No one would write that.”

“No, really. The rest is almost as bad.”

“Let me see.”

I turned to avoid her reaching hand. “No, fair maid, I don’t think so. Oh, ick. You
definitely
don’t need to see them.”

Neither did I. I folded them and added them to the pile, which I tucked inside my vest, rather regretting that she didn’t make another try for them.

Michael’s sister
, I reminded myself.

“Were any of them signed?” Kathy asked. “I wonder how Master Hotchkiss came by such … personal documents.”

“No idea. And they may not be signed, but I’ll bet Nilcomb’s students could identify his writing.”