the blue overcoat of a naval officer stood on the pathway between the ponds, a pretty woman, if his seventy-five- year-old eyes were focusing properly. He packed his analysis kit and approached her slowly.
'Mr. Essex?' She smiled warmly. 'I phoned earlier. My name is Heidi Milligan.'
'You failed to mention your rank, Commander,' he said, correctly identifying the insignia on her shoulder boards. Then his lips widened in a friendly smile. 'I won't hold that against you. I'm an old friend of the navy. Would you like to come up to the house for a cup of tea?'
'Sounds marvelous,' she replied. 'I hope I'm not interrupting anything.'
'Nothing that can't wait for warmer weather. I should be indebted to you for most likely saving me from a case of pneumonia.'
She turned up her nose at the odor that pervaded the air. 'It smells like a fish market.'
'Are you an oyster lover, Commander?'
'Of course. They form pearls, don't they?'
He laughed. 'Spoken like a woman. A man would have praised their gastronomic qualities.'
'Don't you mean their aphrodisiac qualities?'
'An undeserved myth.'
She made a sour face. 'I'm afraid I never developed a fondness for raw oysters.'
'Fortunately for me, many people do. Last year the ponds around us yielded over fifteen thousand tons per acre. And that was after extraction of the shells.'
Heidi tried to look fascinated as Essex went on about the spawning and cultivation of oysters while leading her up a gravel path to a colonial brick house nestled in a grove of apple trees. After settling her comfortably on a leather couch in his study, he produced a pot of tea. Heidi studied him carefully as he poured.
John Essex had twinkling blue eyes and prominent high cheekbones on the part of his face that showed; the bottom half was hidden in a luxuriant white mustache and beard. His body had no senior citizen fat. Even when he was dressed in old coveralls, mackinaw jacket and Wellington boots, the courtly manner that once graced the American embassy in London was still apparent.
'Well, Commander, is this an official visit?' he asked, handing her a cup and saucer.
'No, sir, I'm here on a personal matter.'
Essex's eyebrows raised. 'Young lady, thirty years ago I might have interpreted that as a flirtatious opening. Now, I'm sad to say, you've only excited an old derelict's inquisitive nature.'
'I would hardly call one of the nation's most respected diplomats an old derelict.'
'Times gone by.' Essex smiled. 'How may I be of service?'
'In doing research for my doctorate, I ran across a letter written by President Wilson to Herbert Asquith.' She paused to pull a transcript from her purse and pass it to him. 'In it he refers to a treaty between England and America.'
Essex donned a pair of reading spectacles and read the letter twice. Then he looked up. 'How can you be sure it's genuine?'
Without answering, Heidi handed him the two photographic enlargements and waited for a reaction.
William Jennings Bryan, portly and grinning, was bending to enter a limousine. Two men stood behind him in seemingly jovial conversation. Richard Essex, dapper and refined, wore a broad smile, while Harvey Shields had his head tilted back in a belly laugh, displaying two large protruding upper teeth, or what dentists termed an over bite surrounded by a sea of gold inlays. The chauffeur who held open the car door stood stiffly unamused.
Essex's face remained impassive as he studied the enlargements. After several moments he looked up. 'What is it you're fishing for, Commander?'
'The North American Treaty,' she replied. 'There is no hint of it in State Department records or historical archives. I find it incredible that all trace of such an important document can be so thoroughly lost.'
'And you think I can enlighten you?'
'The man in the picture with William Jennings Bryan is Richard Essex, your grandfather. I traced your family tie in the hope that he may have left you papers or correspondence that might open a door.'
Essex offered a tray of cream and sugar Heidi took two lumps. 'I'm afraid you're wasting your time. All of his personal papers were turned over to the Library of Congress after his death, every scrap.'
'Never hurts to try,' Heidi said dejectedly.
'Have you been to the library?'
'I spent four hours there this morning. A prolific man, your grandfather. The volume of his posthumous papers is overwhelming.'
'Did you conduct a search of Bryan's writings also?'
'I drew a blank there too,' Heidi admitted. 'For all his religious integrity and inspiring oratory, Bryan was not a prodigious author of memoranda during his service as secretary of state.
Essex thoughtfully sipped his tea. 'Richard Essex was a meticulous man, and Bryan leaned on him like a crutch to draft policy and prepare diplomatic correspondence. Grandfather's papers reflect an almost pathological attention to detail. Little passed through the State Department that didn't have his mark on it.'
'I found him to be an obscure sort of person.' The words came out before Heidi knew she had spoken them.
Essex's eyes clouded. 'Why do you say that?'
'His record as undersecretary for political Affairs is well documented. But there's no accounting for Richard Essex the man. Of course I found the usual condensed Who's Who type of biography, listing his birthplace, parents and schools, all in neat chronological order. But nowhere did I see a definitive description of his personality or character, his likes and dislikes. Even his papers are written in the third person. He's like the subject of a portrait the artist forgot to flesh out.'
'Are you suggesting he did not exist?' Essex asked sarcastically.
'Why, no,' Heidi said sheepishly. 'Quite obviously you're the living proof.'
Essex stared into his teacup as though seeing a vague picture on the bottom. 'It's true,' he said finally. 'Besides his day-today observations of State Department procedure and a few photos in the family album, little remains of my grandfather's memory.'
'Can you recall him from your childhood?'
Essex solemnly shook his head. 'No, he died a young man of forty-two, the same year I was born.'
'Nineteen fourteen.'
'May twenty-eighth, to be exact.'
Heidi shot him a stunned look. 'Eight days after the treaty signing at the White House.'
'Think what you will, Commander,' Essex said patiently. 'There was no treaty.'
'Surely you can't discount the evidence?'
'Bryan and my grandfather paid innumerable visits to the White House. The scribbling on the back of the photograph is undoubtedly an error. As to the letter, you've merely misconstrued its meaning.'
'The facts check out,' Heidi persisted. 'The Sir Edward that Wilson writes of was Sir Edward Grey, Britain's foreign secretary. And a loan to Britain one week prior to the date on the letter for one hundred and fifty million dollars is a matter of record.'
'Granted that was a,large sum at the time,' Essex said knowledgeably. 'But prior to World War One, Great Britain was grappling with a program of social reform while purchasing armaments for the approaching conflict. Simply put, she needed a few bucks to tide her over until laws for higher taxation could be passed. The loan can hardly be called irregular. By today's international standards it would be considered a rather routine negotiation.
Heidi stood up. 'I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Essex. I won't take up any more of your afternoon.'
The twinkle returned in his eyes. 'You can trouble me anytime.'
At the door Heidi turned. 'One other thing. The library has a complete set of your grandfather's monthly desk diaries except the final one for May. It appears to be missing.'
Essex shrugged. 'No great mystery. He died before he completed it. Probably lost in the shuffle when they cleaned out his office.
Essex stood at the window until Heidi's car disappeared into the trees. His shoulders drooped. He felt very tired and very old. He walked over to an ornately carved antique credenza and twisted the head of one of the four vacant-eyed cherubs adorning the corners. A small, flat drawer swung out from the bottom edge, a bare inch above
