Digging Up History Read online

  “No rush.”

  As I took a shower I reviewed my tasks for the day. The report to the board wasn’t due until next week, and while I wasn’t exactly finished with it, I knew I could get it done in time. I wasn’t sure most of the board members would read it anyway, or more than the summary page. I’d asked Dylan to finish his initial survey of the Featherstone collection, and I hoped he could extricate the mystery letter bound into that one book (would there be more to be found in other books? I wondered). From what I’d seen of his work, he was careful, and I trusted he would come to me if that task was too much for him. I’d give him until lunch before nagging him about it; I had to admit I was curious to see what it turned out to be.

  Then there was the question of who to ask to take a more skilled look at it, if it warranted further study. No way was I going to attempt to restore it, or even touch it, since I had next to no conservation experience. But I trusted James to handle it. I had to assume that any “evidence” presented to the FBI for analysis would be treated with kid gloves (or nowadays, latex). Besides, I wanted no more than a quick assessment from him, or his forensic people, so we could read it to find out if it was worth pursuing further.

  I amused myself by imagining what it might be. Reluctantly I rejected General George Washington as the writer, not that there weren’t plenty of documents in his own hand that had survived—he’d written a lot of letters in his lifetime. But he would still have been a household name back when the book had been rebound, so it seemed unlikely that the bookbinder hadn’t noticed or cared. Maybe he’d hidden the letter deliberately . . .

  Well, we wouldn’t know who wrote it until we could read it, if that were ever possible, so I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. If Washington had indeed written tens of thousands of letters, many of which had survived, I assumed many would not be extraordinarily valuable. But it might be worth a nice little piece of change, and the Society would have no trouble finding something worthy to do with it. Unless it was a bill for shoeing his horse, but if it was signed, even that prosaic item could be valuable.

  James and I shared a leisurely breakfast—it was nice not to have any crises to attend to immediately—and I finally carried the few dishes to the sink. “Is it still okay if I bring the mystery letter over to your office at midday sometime?”

  “Unless something unexpected comes up, sure. Don’t expect too much—we’ve got only a skeleton team in the Philadelphia office. The main lab of course is in Quantico, and I don’t think this merits their attention. But what you really want is simply to be able to read the handwriting and identify who wrote it and to whom, right?”

  “That’s a good start. It may be a receipt for a hat, for all I know, but I thought I should have it checked out. Of course, we museum people are always hoping for a big find, even though we know how rare they are. Maybe I should ask somebody on staff to check Harriet’s family tree—there might be someone up her family line who could have been the writer. Or the recipient.”

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” James said, smiling.

  “I am. I’m happy to have something to do that doesn’t consist of adding up columns of numbers, which never come out to as much as I’d hoped. And collecting and preserving is what we do at the Society. Sometimes I have to remind myself of that.”

  “Good point. Are we driving or taking the train?”

  “I hate parking in the city when I don’t have to. I vote for the train.”

  “Then I’ll join you.”

  One nice thing about summer in Philadelphia is that so many people take vacations and head for “the Shore,” which of course means New Jersey. That leaves the city much easier to get around in. But I still preferred taking the train—as long as the air-conditioning was working. When James drove, I actually had a chance to admire the scenery, take note of what had changed (things are always changing in the city), what had been knocked down, and what had been prettied up so owners and developers could demand a higher price. Still, it was a nice city to live in, although I admit I was enjoying a house in the burbs—particularly since James lived there too. And it was an easy walk from the house to the nearest train station, and once in town I could go all the way to the Society underground, so I didn’t have to get wet when it rained. I figured it was the best of all worlds, if you liked cities.

  I arrived on time and found Dylan hovering in the hallway outside my office. Not even my tireless administrative assistant had arrived yet, although she’d had to stay late a couple of times recently to work on those blasted budget pages, so I didn’t begrudge her the time off. “Hey, Dylan,” I greeted him as I opened my door. “Do I have time for a cup of coffee or have you made some amazing discovery?”

  He looked a bit bewildered until he figured out I was joking. “Oh, I already made some coffee. Want me to bring you a cup?”

  “If we’re looking at antique paper items, we probably shouldn’t put a cup of coffee anywhere near them. I’ll walk with you to the break room and we can drink a cup there and you can explain what you’ve found.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he said, and led the way to the far end of the hall. I was glad to see he wasn’t carrying anything—like the Featherstone book—because I was scrupulous about not exposing any of our collections to contamination or just plain dirt.

  Once we were settled, with reasonably fresh coffee, I said, “Okay, what’ve you got?”

  Dylan was looking very pleased with himself. “Well, I stayed late last night because I was curious, but I didn’t want to rush taking the binding apart. I looked up a few references on bookbinding and restoration, and I called one of my friends in my program, and then I very carefully took the thing apart. And I took pictures at each step, in case there’s something I missed. I must have finished up around midnight, but I did manage to separate all the pieces of the binding.”

  “That sounds good. The letter came out intact? I mean, it was a letter, wasn’t it? Not just a shopping list?”

  “I think so,” he said cautiously. “I can’t say whether it was in lousy condition when it got bound into the book or whether something happened to it in the last two hundred years, but it’s pretty much illegible. But, yes, it was a letter. Only I can’t read it—it’s too faded and stained. I think there’s some kind of map on it, but it’s just a jumble of lines which might be streets, so I won’t swear to it.”

  “Any guesses?” I asked. I wasn’t too upset because I knew I had James’s lab in my back pocket.

  Dylan shook his head. “Nope. I couldn’t make out any words, though I think there are some, so for all I know it could be a map of the moon. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I had a brainstorm. You know I’m involved with an FBI agent?” “Involved” was kind of an understatement, but our ongoing relationship wasn’t exactly a secret, and I had to call it something. “There’s a lab at the local headquarters. Not a big fancy one with a whole bunch of electronic super equipment, but one that can handle small projects. Plus some well-trained people who work there, and who James knows. He volunteered to ask one of them if they could take a look at the letter. He’s been hanging out with me long enough to know how carefully this kind of thing has to be handled, so I trust him to keep an eye on the process. I told him I’d bring it over there today, assuming you had managed to retrieve it, and you did. You might want to go with him, if he can get you in—I don’t think he knows a whole lot about eighteenth-century handwriting, so he might need an interpreter.”

  Dylan looked as though I’d handed him an early Christmas present. “That’d be great! I did see enough to say that it’s not like a continuous letter. You know, with regular lines of text. Apart from the thing that might be a map, it’s more like occasional words scattered around in no obvious order. That’s all I could see. If I go, can I talk to the science guys? It might be useful to know what kind of chemicals or lights or whatever can work on paper without destroying it.”

  “We’ve got a few things here, but not enough for
really serious work. We can clean things if we’re careful, but anything delicate—which is most old documents—we usually send to a real expert. There’s no shortage of those in Philadelphia. You must have noticed that already.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty clear. But I’m not worried about competition—I just like doing it. Handling the old things. Like little pieces of history, in my hand.”

  “Good for you!” I said enthusiastically, and realized how little I knew about Dylan. I might have chatted with him when he applied for the summer internship, but I had no idea where he was from or what his longer-term interests were. My bad. “So, are you going to show me what you’ve got?”

  “Sure. Wish it was more. Should we go back to your office?”

  “Follow me—and leave the coffee here!”

  I led the way back to my office and sat behind the desk, moving what papers I’d left scattered on it. He waited until it was clear before he unwrapped his package—the same one as yesterday, only now it should be cleaner, I hoped—and laid out the letter, carefully protected by an acid-free sheet protector, and placed it gently on the surface.

  I had to work hard not to laugh. I hadn’t expected anything magnificent, but what I saw was a rectangle of paper that looked like it had been soaked in tea for years. It was interrupted by the occasional darker patch, which I assumed had once been handwriting. Plus a cluster of squiggles that must have been the hypothetical map Dylan had mentioned. It was disappointing, but I reminded myself that science had come a long way and sometimes it was possible to see things that were invisible to the naked eye. I hoped.

  Dylan was watching me with a rueful smile on his face. “Doesn’t look like much, does it?”

  “No, but we’re not done yet. This is just the first round. You’ve done a good job of removing it from the rest of the book without damaging it. Did you find anything else in the book cover?”

  “No. Mainly it was what you’d expect to find on a two-century-old job—mostly padding. I think it’s safe to say that nothing else there was as old as this piece of paper.”

  “Did you get any sense of whether it was concealed deliberately, or was used only because it was handy?”

  “It was one layer of a bunch of layers—nothing special. I’ve saved all the pieces, and numbered them in order. I thought maybe some of the letters might have transferred themselves to another layer.”

  “Good thinking, Dylan. Let me give James a call and see when he’ll be free. Or rather, his technicians—he’s just introducing us. You don’t have anything else on your calendar for today, do you?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait. I’m almost done cataloguing the Featherstone books, but they’re a real hodgepodge. Did you know the lady?”

  “Not well. She was already in her eighties when I started working here. She’d come to events that we held here, now and then, and she was kind enough to talk to everyone, including junior staff like me. I’ll bet she had some great stories to tell, but I never had the time to listen to them all. I don’t think she had a lot of money, although maybe she had come from a wealthy family. The book collection was all she left us, but nobody assumed they were rare or valuable. I think she just wanted to leave something for us to remember her by. Hang on while I call James.”

  I hit his speed-dial number, and he picked up quickly. “Hi, it’s me. Dylan has separated the letter we talked about from the rest of the book. Is there a good time to stop by and deliver it? And I kind of promised him that he could see what your lab people do with it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Now’s fine, actually. Did he learn anything more about it?”

  “No, it’s basically illegible, but there’s enough ink left to show that it had something on it. And squiggles—Dylan thinks it could be what’s left of a map.”

  “Interesting. I’ll meet you downstairs in, say, half an hour. That work for you?”

  “Fine. See you soon!” I hung up and turned back to Dylan. “We’re on, as soon as we can get there. Oh, maybe you shouldn’t mention the FBI angle if you talk about this.”

  “Why not?”

  “More than one reason, I guess—I can fill you in when we walk over. Nothing underhanded or illegal, and we’re not paying for it, but I don’t need the board members asking me why the first thought I had was to bring in the FBI. Okay?”

  “Got it. I’ll put the letter in something sturdier to carry it. Meet you downstairs.”

  Chapter Three

  It was still cool and clear when Dylan and I set off for the FBI building. Another nice thing about Philadelphia: summer mornings. By noon it would be hot and sticky, but early enough it was very pleasant. I didn’t often get a chance to do a little sightseeing, once I’d checked off Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell from my Must-See list, so it was a treat to stroll along and actually look at the city blocks.

  “Did you grow up around here, Dylan?” I asked him.

  “Nope, Delaware, although my folks used to make family visits to Philadelphia now and then.”

  “So you’ve done the obvious places. What about Valley Forge?”

  “Not yet. I’m living in the city and I don’t have a car, so I don’t get out to the suburbs much. Is it worth the trip?”

  “I thought so—but then, I only saw it a couple of years ago. If you’re in the neighborhood for some reason, stop by and look around. It won’t take you long. You must have seen Winterthur?”

  “Sure. And the Brandywine Museum.”

  “I’m glad to hear that—I love that place. But how did you get interested in curatorship?”

  “It always made me sad to see old things neglected and falling apart. And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that people don’t often have the time or the skills to fix them.”

  “I know—sometimes it breaks my heart, what’s being lost forever simply because of neglect. And I can’t imagine living in a modern ticky-tacky house. I much prefer my Victorian. It takes work to keep it in good shape, but it’s worth it.”

  I watched enough network television to know that the important FBI crime lab was in Virginia, but I also knew that many items were given a quick once-over in the Philadelphia building and a few other nearby locations. Since I didn’t think we were dealing with something that contained an exotic new chemical, I thought we could learn enough from the local lab to point us in the right direction.

  Dylan and I took the scenic route, heading first toward the Delaware River from the Society, then turning north on Sixth Street until we reached the FBI building. James was sitting on a bench outside and seemed to be enjoying the sun—with his eyes closed.

  “James? You taking a nap?”

  James stood up quickly—not napping, apparently. “Hi, Nell. Just enjoying a moment of peace. This is Dylan?”

  “Yes, sir.” Dylan held out his hand, and he and James shook. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice, but we found the letter only yesterday, and I didn’t want to do any further research until I knew what to look for. It shouldn’t be handled too much—it’s probably from the late eighteenth century, and it’s kind of fragile.”

  “Interesting time to be in Philadelphia then,” James commented. “Nell told me a little about the letter, or at least how it came into the Society’s hands, but it sounds as though the survival of this letter was a happy accident, not deliberate.”

  “Probably, sir. But we won’t know for sure until we can read some part of it. Preferably a name.”

  “Well, it shouldn’t take long for our wizards to tell us whether anything is salvageable. This will probably be easy for them. And I promise we won’t damage the letter. Ready?”

  “Let’s do it,” I said with enthusiasm.

  James took us inside the building, vouched for our honesty, dependability, yadda yadda, confirmed we were not carrying any weapons, made us leave our cell phones at the desk, and finally escorted us to the elevators. I sneaked a glance at Dylan, who looked mildly terrified at finding himself inside the FBI bu
ilding. I knew his résumé hadn’t included a criminal record, so I assumed he’d be safe enough.

  We followed James down a couple of anonymous-looking halls until we reached something that looked like a lab. “Hi, Alice,” he said to the white-coated staff member, who looked to be about Dylan’s age. “These are the folks I told you about.”

  “Hi there!” Alice said brightly. Maybe she didn’t get many visitors here in the back of beyond.

  “Good to meet you, Alice,” I said. “Thanks for helping us out. This shouldn’t take you long. I admit I should know more about paper and things like that, but I’m an administrator, and I don’t get to play with the scientific toys. Not that we have many.”

  “Hey, I’m glad I can help out your place. Will you give me a tour one of these days?”

  “Of course! Anything in particular interest you?”

  “Family history. I never knew my parents, and I don’t know where to start.”

  “Don’t worry—we can give you plenty to work with. You ready to start?”

  “Sure. What’ve you got?”

  I nodded at Dylan, who carefully extricated the letter from its sleeve and laid it on a flat work surface. “I found this bound into the binding of an early-nineteenth-century book that was recently given to the Society,” he explained. “I could tell that it was earlier than either the book or its current binding, which was in poor condition. If I’m not overstepping, my guess was that the letter was just a random piece of padding that made the binding fit better, but I won’t dismiss the idea that someone chose to hide it. The problem is, we can’t read it. The ink has faded, almost disappeared, so we don’t know if it was important or just a scrap of paper. We were hoping you could tell us more.”

  Alice smiled. “Gee, and here I thought you might give me a hard question. Just to check, the book was American? And the binding?”

  Dylan replied, “The book was definitely American, and I think the new binding was too. It was not an important book, so I’m almost surprised that anyone had it rebound.”