The School of Night Read Free Page A

name.”
    â€œConfound the man’s modesty! How could I fail to recall the paper you read at Oriel College back in ’ninety-two? ‘Empire and the Silver Poet.’”
    â€œYou were there?”
    â€œOh, yes, I found it quite a welcome blow against the idea of Ralegh as dabbler. And chauvinist that I am, I was surprised that an American such as yourself could grasp the true Englishness of Ralegh’s character. Only Shakespeare, I think, was more English.” He clucked his tongue. “All in all, a charming—a comprehensive lecture. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in expecting great things of you.”
    â€œThen I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
    â€œOh, but you haven’t,” he answered. “Not yet , anyway. But given your background and your long friendship with Alonzo—well, I can’t think of a fellow better suited to help me find my little document.”
    Still he kept polishing that rail. Back and forth, back and forth.
    â€œBut what is it?” I asked. “A deed? A tradesman’s bill?”
    â€œA letter, that’s all.”
    â€œWho received it?”
    â€œUnclear. Only the second page survives.”
    â€œOkay, who wrote it?”
    He said nothing at first. Only a slight trembling in his hands showed he had even heard the question. He turned to me at last with a smile broad as a river.
    â€œOh, God,” I murmured. “Ralegh.”
    â€œThe very man!” he said, clapping his hands in delight. “And imagine. The letter turned up just nine months ago. A solicitor’s office in Gray’s Inn Road was clearing out its archives—several centuries’ worth; you know how far back these things can go. Having heard something of my reputation, they called me in to appraise its contents and to see if I might be willing to offer them anything for it. Of course, they had no inkling of what they had, so I was able to acquire the letter for quite a reasonable sum.”
    No mistaking the satisfaction in his voice. Some collectors spend money like oxygen—Alonzo was one. Others hoard every last atom.
    â€œMr. Styles,” I said. “You’ll forgive me, but I’ve learned to distrust any document with Ralegh’s name on it. Having been burned before…”
    â€œI should be wary, too, if I were you. In this case, I can assure you it’s authentic.”
    â€œAnd you can assure me Alonzo took it?”
    â€œOh, yes.” A slow bobbing of his silver head. “He hid his tracks beautifully, I’ll give him that. For several weeks, we didn’t even know the thing was missing. And then, when we spotted the substitution, we had to dig very deeply into our security archives before we found the—the exculpatory evidence.” He smiled. “Even on grainy security video, there’s no mistaking such a distinct figure as Alonzo’s.”
    â€œBut there are other Ralegh letters already in circulation. Why would Alonzo go to such trouble to steal this one?”
    â€œI would guess he was intrigued by this particular letter’s content.”
    Styles let that settle in for a while and then, in a fit of mock astonishment, smacked his brow.
    â€œOh, but I quite forgot! I’ve a copy to show you.”
    The barest flutter of his fingers, and Halldor was standing over us, paper in one hand, flashlight in the other.
    â€œWhen I first acquired the document, I took the precaution of having it digitized. I assume, Mr. Cavendish, you have no objection to reading it yourself?”
    â€œNone.”
    â€œThen by all means,” said Bernard Styles, unfolding the paper.
    It was absolutely quiet in that balcony, and yet everything around me registered with the force of sound. The poplarlike altitude of Halldor. The slight inclination that Styles’s head made toward mine. My own hand, bathed in the flashlight’s puddle. The words themselves, which seemed to be