“You’re not thinking about retiring, are you?” Theodosia asked in alarm. Professor Morrow was one of the most caring, humane professors she had ever encountered. It would be a profound loss to the University of Charleston if he were to retire.
“Considering it, but not planning my exit in the near future,” said Professor Morrow. “Anyway, I didn’t call to tell you my problems. You asked me to analyze the material on the linen tablecloth, and I did exactly that. Not the blood, of course, you’d need a chromatograph to do that, and our lab is simply not equipped that way.”
“I understand,” said Theodosia.
“Anyway, I took a look at the ground-in matter. It’s dirt, all right.”
“Dirt,” repeated Theodosia.
“Not flecks of metal or gunpowder as you had initially suspected. Just garden-variety dirt.” He paused. “I could run a couple more tests, see if I can break down the compounds, measure phosphorous and potassium, things like that.”
“Would you?”
“No problem. Those are simple chemical analyses I can do with reagents we have right here in the lab. Take me a day or two.”
“Thank you, Professor Morrow.”
Theodosia hung up the phone and hastily replayed their conversation in her mind. It wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. She’d been fairly convinced that the pistol had been tampered with in some way and that the fine dust on the linen tablecloth would reveal metal shavings or some type of unusual gunpowder.
But
“You look as though someone just delivered some bad news,” said Drayton.
“Professor Morrow just called with his analysis of Haley’s schmutz,” replied Theodosia.
“And?”
“Dirt,” she replied.
Drayton looked skeptical. “Dirt? That’s it?”
“That’s it. Now you can see why I’m disappointed.”
“You’re disappointed?
“Drayton, you watch too much crime TV,” said Haley, who had been filling teapots and eavesdropping at the same time.
“I rarely watch television,” he said with an imperious lift of his gray head.
“I stand corrected. Then you read far too many mysteries,” said Haley. She furrowed her brow as if to lend solidarity to Theodosia’s dashed hopes. “Sorry the tablecloth didn’t lead somewhere,” she said.
Theodosia nodded.
“What’s next, then?” asked Haley. Boundlessly optimistic, Haley was never one to be discouraged by a little bad news. She was always ready to move on, explore another angle.
“I think I’ve got to pay another visit to Timothy Neville,” said Theodosia.
“You mentioned that a couple days ago, but I haven’t seen any forward progress yet,” Drayton commented in a dry tone.
Theodosia undid her apron, balled it up, thrust it into Drayton’s hands. “On my way.”
“Mr. Neville?”
Timothy Neville looked up from the antique map he was studying, a schematic diagram of old Fort Sumter.
“Yes, Claire?”
“Miss Theodosia Browning is here to see you?”
“Is that a statement or a question, Claire?”
Flustered, Claire just stared at him. She loved working at the Heritage Society but had long since decided that Timothy Neville was the strangest little man she’d ever encountered. “Perennially puckish” was how Theresa, one of the longtime curators, had described him, and Claire had the feeling that Theresa had hit the nail squarely on the head.
“It’s both,” said Claire finally. “She’s here. Do you have time to see her?”
Timothy Neville smiled to himself. “Kindly show her in.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Claire?” said Timothy.
Claire hovered in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Thank you.” Timothy Neville smiled to himself as he carefully rolled up the fragile parchment map and slid it into a cardboard storage tube. He waited until he heard the Browning woman enter his office and cross over to his desk before he looked up. When he did, he was struck by the keen intelligence in her eyes.
“Hello,” he said to Theodosia.
Theodosia stared back at Timothy Neville, noting that his eyes were the sad, unblinking eyes of an old turtle. “Hello, Mr. Neville,” she replied.
Timothy Neville lifted his gnarled fingers slightly, inviting Theodosia to be seated in one of the French deco leather club chairs that flanked his desk. She did.
Watching her closely, Timothy Neville was somehow pleased that the woman sat poised so straight in her chair and kept her eyes focused directly on him.
“You have questions,” he said. “About antique pistols.”
“Yes,” she said.
Timothy bobbed his head and managed a half smile. “Drayton called just a few moments ago. Begged me to be civil to you.”
“Will you be?” she asked.
“Of course. I’m generally civil to everyone. It’s false benevolence I abhor.”
Timothy Neville sat down at his desk and faced her. Theodosia noticed that they were at eye level with each other and suspected that the small-of-stature Timothy had adjusted his chair to a higher level, the better to be on an equal parity with visitors.
“You have considerable knowledge about the workings of antique pistols,” said Theodosia.
“I have a collection of them, a small collection. Two dozen at most. But I’ve been collecting for more than fifty years, so I have a couple choice pieces that are now exceedingly rare.”
“Can you tell me how a person might cause an antique weapon to explode?” she asked him.
“I take it the antique weapon you so coyly refer to is the offending pistol that brought Oliver Dixon’s life to a crashing conclusion?”
“That’s right,” she said, wondering why Timothy Neville seemed to want to footnote everything. She supposed it was his lifelong involvement in all things historical.
“As chance would have it, I have a pistol of the same ilk. Crafted by the old E. R. Shane Company in Pennsylvania. It’s not a perfect mate, but it’s very, very close.”
“Have you ever fired it?” asked Theodosia.
“Not recently,” said Timothy. “But to answer your question, the simplest way to cause a pistol to explode is to overpack it.” Timothy folded his arms protectively across his thin chest and posed gnomishly, awaiting her next question.
“With gunpowder?” she asked.
Timothy Neville gave her a thin smile. “That’s one way. Not the best, though.”
“What else could you use?” Theodosia asked. “Dirt?”
“Pack a pistol with dirt, and you’re almost guaranteed it will explode,” said Timothy.
Pinwheels of color flared in Theodosia’s cheeks.
