Текст книги "Crescent Dawn"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Dirk Cussler,Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

27

Modern Dover is a bustling port city best known for its ferry to Calais and its world-famous white chalk cliffs up the easterly coastline. Julie drove into the historic city center before pulling over and asking for directions. They found Dorchester Lane a few blocks from the waterfront, a quiet residential street lined with old brick row houses constructed in the 1880s. Parking the car under a towering birch tree, the women walked up the cleanly swept steps of number fourteen and rang the bell. After a long pause, the door was pulled open by a disheveled woman in her twenties who held a sleeping baby in her arms.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” Julie whispered. “I hope we didn’t wake the baby.”

The woman shook her head and smiled. “This one could sleep through a U2 concert.”

Julie quietly introduced the two of them. “We’re seeking information on a man who lived at this address quite some time ago. His name was Norman Wingate.”

“That was my grandfather,” the woman replied, perking up. “I’m Ericka Norris. Wingate was my mother’s maiden name.”

Julie looked at Summer and smiled in disbelief.

“Please, won’t you come in?” Norris offered.

The young woman led them into a modest yet warmly decorated family room, easing herself into a rocking chair with the sleeping baby.

“You have a lovely home,” Julie said.

“My mum grew up in this house. I think she said grandfather bought it just before World War One. She lived here most of her life, as she and Dad purchased the home from him.”

“Is she still alive?”

“Yes, she’s a spry ninety-four. We had to move her into the old folks’ home a few months back so she could receive proper nursing care. She insisted that we move in here when the baby was on the way. More room for us, at least.”

“Your mum might still be able to help us out,” Julie said. “We’re looking for some old records from the war that your grandfather might have had in his possession.”

Norris thought for a moment. “Mum did end up with all of my grandparents’ belongings,” she said. “I know she got rid of most of it over the years. But there are some old books and photographs in the nursery that you are welcome to have a look at.”

She cautiously led them up a flight of stairs and into a pale blue room with a wooden crib on one wall. She gently laid the baby in the crib, eliciting a slight whimper from him before he drifted back to sleep.

“Over here are my grandfather’s things,” she whispered, stepping to a high wooden shelf. Old clothbound books filled the shelves, fronted by black-and-white photographs of men in uniform. Julie picked up one photograph showing a young soldier standing next to Kitchener.

“Is this your grandfather?”

“Yes, with Lord Kitchener. He headed up the entire Army during the war, did you know?”

Julie smiled. “Yes. He’s actually the reason we are here.”

“Grandfather often spoke about how he would have died along with Kitchener on his ship that sank during a voyage to Russia. But his father was gravely ill, and Kitchener had excused him from the trip.”

“Ericka, we found a letter from your grandfather indicating that Kitchener had sent him his personal diary for safekeeping,” Julie said. “We’re hoping to locate that diary.”

“If grandfather kept it, it would be here. Please, have a look.”

Julie had read Kitchener’s earlier diaries, which had been kept in small hardbound books. Scanning the shelves, she froze when she spotted a similarly bound book on the top shelf.

“Summer… can you reach that small blue book up high?” she asked nervously.

Stretching to her toes, Summer reached up and pulled the book down and handed it to Julie. The historian’s heart began to beat faster when she noticed there was no title printed on the spine or front cover. Slowly opening the cover, she turned to a lined title page. In neat handwritten script was written: Journal of H H K Jan. 1, 1916

“That’s it,” Summer blurted, staring at the page.

Julie turned the page and began reading the first entries, which described efforts by the author to boost compensation for new military recruits. She soon flipped to the last written entry, located halfway through the book, which was dated June 1, 1916. She then closed the book and looked hopefully at Norris.

“This lost diary has long been sought by historians of Kitchener,” she said quietly.

“If it means that much to you, then go ahead and take it,” Norris replied, waving her hand at the book as if it were of no consequence. “No one around here is likely to be reading it anytime soon,” she added, smiling toward her sleeping baby.

“I will donate it to the Kitchener collection at Broome Park, if you should ever change your mind about that.”

“I’m sure Grandfather would be thrilled to know that there are still people around with an interest in Kitchener and ‘the Great War,’ as he used to call it.”

Julie and Summer thanked the young mother for the diary, then tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house.

“Your detour to Dover certainly produced an unexpected bit of good luck,” Julie said with a smile as they stepped to her car.

“Persistence leads to luck every time,” Summer replied.

Excited with their discovery, Julie was oblivious to the black motorcycle that followed them off Dorchester Lane and onto the road to Canterbury, holding a steady pace several cars behind. As Julie drove, Summer skimmed through the diary, reading passages of interest out loud.

“Listen to this,” she said. “‘March third. Received an unexpected letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury requesting a private viewing of the Manifest. The cat has finally escaped the bag, though how, I do not know. The late Dr. Worthington had assured me his secrecy in life, but perhaps he has failed me in death. No matter. I declined the Archbishop’s invitation while risking his ire, in hopes that the matter can be deferred until the time when we are once again at peace.’”

“Dr. Worthington, you say?” Julie asked. “He was a well-known Cambridge archaeologist around the turn of the last century. He carried out several high-profile excavations in Palestine, if my memory serves.”

“That would seem an odd connection,” Summer replied, skimming more pages. “Kitchener was right about upsetting the Archbishop, though. Two weeks later, he has this to say: ‘Called upon this morning by Bishop Lowery of Portsmouth, on behalf of Archbishop Davidson. He eloquently expressed a strong desire for me to donate the Manifest to the Church of England for the good of all mankind. He failed to elaborate, however, on the Church’s intended use of the document. From the earliest moments, my kindred hopes were for a benevolent quest for the truth. It is now regrettably apparent that my Church is reacting in fear, with suppression and concealment their primary aim. In their hands, the Manifest might disappear for all posterity. This I cannot allow, and I informed Bishop Lowery as much, to his extreme disappointment. Though now is not the time, I believe that at the conclusion of this great conflict, a public release of the Manifest will offer a spark of hope for all mankind.’”

“He certainly makes this Manifest sound profound,” Julie said. “And now Bishop Lowery has made an appearance. His cryptic letter to Davidson in June suddenly becomes more interesting.”

“Kitchener doesn’t provide much detail, but his anguish with the Church keeps growing,” Summer said. “In April, he writes, ‘Plans for the summer offensive in France are nearly complete. The constant harassment from the Archbishop’s minions is becoming overwhelming. P.M. has approved my request for a security detail. Thankfully, I didn’t have to specify why.’”

“So our friends Wingate and Stearns finally appear on the scene,” Julie noted.

Summer thumbed faster through the pages as they approached the outskirts of Canterbury.

“In his April and May passages, he is bogged down with war planning and an occasional weekend away with relatives at Broome Park. Wait, though, listen to this. ‘May fifteenth. Received another threatening call from Bishop Lowery. With his nefarious manner, I believe the country would be better served if he headed the Directorate of Military Intelligence rather than the Portsmouth Diocese.’ A day later, he writes, ‘Caught in a streetside confrontation by an anonymous C of E member who demanded the Manifest. Corporal Stearns disposed of the renegade without further incident. I’m beginning to regret ever discovering the blasted thing back in ’seventy-seven… or letting Dr. Worthington decipher it last year. Who would have imagined that an old slip of papyrus sold by a beggar during our survey of Palestine would have such consequence?’”

Summer turned to the next page. “Does that date mean anything to you?”

Julie contemplated her earlier writings on Kitchener. “That was well before his famous heroics in Khartoum. In 1877, I believe he was stationed in the Middle East. That’s about the time that he took over an Army survey party in northern Palestine, as part of the Palestine Exploration Fund established by Queen Victoria.”

“He worked as a surveyor?”

“Yes, and he took over the field survey team when its commander fell ill. They did quite top-notch work, despite being threatened on several occasions by local Arab tribesmen. Much of the Palestine survey data was in fact still being utilized as recently as the nineteen sixties. But as for Kitchener, he was traveling throughout the Middle East at that point, so there’s no telling where he specifically may have acquired it. Unfortunately, he didn’t begin keeping a diary until many years later.”

“It must be very old if it is a papyrus document.” Summer neared the end of the diary and halted at a late May entry.

“Julie, this is it,” she gasped. “He writes, ‘Another dire warning received from the Archbishop. I daresay they seem to be stopping at nothing in obtaining their desired wants. I have little doubt they haven’t already slipped into Broome Park for a look around. My response will hopefully put them at bay. I told them that I am taking the Manifest to Russia and placing it on loan with the Orthodox Church in Petrograd for safekeeping until the war’s end. Imagine their chagrin if they knew I actually safeguarded it with Sally, under the watchful eyes of Emily, till my return.’”

“So he didn’t take it to Russia,” Julie said, her voice crackling with excitement.

“Apparently not. Listen to this. On June first, he writes, ‘My last entry for now. Prying eyes seem to be everywhere. I feel an uneasy dread about the trip at hand, but it is vital that the Russians stay with us and not negotiate a unilateral armistice with Germany. Will pass this diary to Corporal Wingate for safekeeping. H.H.K.’”

“I’ve read other accounts that he was uneasy when he departed and seemed to be dreading the trip,” said Julie. “He must have had a premonition.”

“Probably so or he wouldn’t have left the diary behind. But the bigger question is, who was Sally?”

“She must have been someone trustworthy, but I don’t believe I’ve ever run across anyone named Sally in my research on Kitchener.”

“Not an old secretary, or perhaps the wife of a fellow officer?” Summer asked.

Julie shook her head.

“How about a pet name for one of his aides?”

“No, I should think there would be references in his correspondence somewhere, but I don’t recall seeing it.”

“It doesn’t seem right that he would trust a casual acquaintance with the document. How about the other name, Emily?”

Julie thought for a moment as she waited to enter a traffic roundabout that led to downtown Canterbury.

“I can recall two Emilys, actually. Kitchener’s maternal grand-mother was named Emily, though she was long dead by 1916. Then there was his oldest brother, who had a granddaughter named Emily. I’ll have to check my genealogy records when we get to the hotel to see when she was born. Her father, Kitchener’s nephew, was named Hal. He used to visit Broome Park rather regularly.”

“So the younger Emily would actually be a cousin to Aldrich?” Summer asked.

“Yes, that would be correct. Perhaps we can talk to Aldrich about her in the morning.”

Julie had reached the city center and drove Summer slowly past Canterbury’s famed historic cathedral. A few blocks away, she turned into the Chaucer Hotel, one of the city’s modest old inns. After checking into neighboring rooms, the women met for dinner in the hotel restaurant. Summer devoured a large plate of fish and chips, not realizing how hungry the day’s excursion had made her. Julie nearly matched her appetite, pushing away a plate cleaned of pasta.

“If you’d like to walk the meal off, we can take a stroll over to the cathedral,” Julie offered.

“I appreciate the tour-guide offer,” Summer replied, “but, to be honest, I’d like to spend some more time analyzing Kitchener’s diary.”

Julie beamed at the reply. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve been anxious to study the writings since we checked in.”

“There’s a quiet lounge off the lobby. How about we order some tea and take another pass through the diary there? I’ll take notes while you read this time,” she added with a smile.

“That would be lovely,” Julie agreed. “I’ll go get the diary and a notebook from my room and meet you there.”

She climbed the stairs to the second floor and entered her room, then hesitated when she noticed her work papers strewn across the bed. The door suddenly slammed shut behind her as the lights were flicked off. A shadow approached as she started to scream, but a gloved hand quickly covered her mouth before her voice could resonate. Another arm slipped around her waist and pulled her tight against the assailant, who seemed to be wearing padded clothing. Then a deep voice grunted in her ear.

“Don’t make a sound or you’ll never live to see the dawn.”

28

Summer waited in the lounge twenty minutes before phoning Julie’s room. Receiving no answer, she waited another five minutes, then went upstairs and knocked on her door. Her concern heightened when she noticed a “Do Not Disturb” sign dangling from the doorknob. She saw a night maid was working her way down the corridor turning down beds and convinced her to check Julie’s room. Opening the door and turning on the light, the maid gasped in shock.

Julie was seated on the floor with her arms behind her back and tied to the bed frame with a sheet. Another sheet was wrapped around her ankles, while a pillowcase covered her head. A desperate wiggling of her arms and legs revealed that she was very much alive.

Summer burst past the maid and ripped the pillowcase off Julie’s head. Julie’s wide eyes looked at Summer in relief as the American untied a knotted stocking that was wrapped around Julie’s head in a gag.

“Are you hurt?” Summer asked, moving on to untie the sheet binding Julie’s arms.

“No… I’m okay,” she stuttered, fighting back tears of fear and relief rolled into one. “Just a little scared.”

She quickly regained her composure while finding a steady voice.

“He was actually quite gentle. I don’t think he meant to harm me.”

“It was just one man?”

Julie nodded.

“Did you see what he looked like?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I think he was hiding in the bathroom, and I walked right past. He turned the lights off, then threw that pillowcase over my head. I don’t have a clue what he looked like. I just remember that his clothes seemed lumpy or padded.”

The hotel manager soon arrived, followed by a pair of Canterbury police officers. They carefully searched the room, then took a detailed report from Julie, Summer, and the maid. The historian had left her purse in the room, but it wasn’t taken by the thief. Julie looked at Summer with dread when she realized that the only item missing from the room was Kitchener’s diary.

“Typical hotel burglary attempt,” Summer heard one of the officers tell the hotel manager out in the corridor. “She obviously surprised him in the room, and he decided to tie her up before fleeing. I don’t have to tell you that there’s a slim chance of catching the bugger.”

“Yes, unfortunately I’ve seen it before,” the manager replied. “Thank you, Detective.”

The hotel manager returned to the room and apologized profusely to Julie, promising to have increased security on the floor all night. After he left, Summer offered to let Julie sleep in her room.

“Yes, if you don’t mind, I think I’d be much more comfortable,” she said. “Let me grab my toothbrush.”

Julie walked into the bathroom, then suddenly called to Summer.

“What is it, Julie?” she said, rushing in.

Julie stood with a grim look on her face, pointing to a small vanity mirror next to the sink. The room thief had left her a warning, written in her own pink lipstick, on the mirror. Pointed and succinct, it said simply, “Let K be.”

29

Julie awoke the next morning after a fitful night’s sleep. Her sense of fear and anxiety had gradually evolved into a feeling of indignant violation. Rising early, she found herself burning with anger.

“Who could have known that we discovered the diary?” she said, pacing the floor of the hotel room. “We had only just found it ourselves.”

Summer was in the bathroom, fixing her hair. “Perhaps he didn’t actually know about the diary,” she replied. “He might have just been trying to find out what you knew and got lucky.”

“I suppose it’s possible. But why the warning? What is it about Kitchener’s death nearly a century after the fact that someone would still be afraid of?”

Summer sprayed on a touch of perfume, then joined Julie in the bedroom. “I’d say one thing is certain. It has to be someone who knows more than we do about either the Manifest or the sinking of the Hampshire.”

“Or both,” Julie concurred. She caught a whiff of Summer’s perfume. “That’s a lovely fragrance,” she said.

“Thank you. It was a gift from a friend of mine in British Columbia.”

“The cologne,” Julie suddenly blurted. “I nearly forgot. The intruder who tied me up last night had the scent of men’s cologne. I’m sure it was the same fragrance as worn by that fellow we met at Lambeth Library.”

“You mean Mr. Baker? Do you think it was him?”

“I’m not sure about anything at the moment, but I think it could have been him. Don’t you remember? He asked us about the diary. I thought it was a bit odd, at the time.”

“You’re right. We’ll check with the library when we get back to London,” Summer said. “I’m sure there’s a good chance the librarian will be able to identify him.”

Julie was slightly relieved, but the revelation only fueled her inquisitiveness.

“In the meantime, I say we get on over to Broome Park and see what Aldrich knows about his cousin Emily.”

They ate a quick breakfast at the hotel, then hopped in the car and drove to Broome Park. Two miles outside of Canterbury, the car sailed through a deep dip in the road.

“Something doesn’t feel right,” Julie said, detecting a sharp vibration through the steering column.

The car struck another small rut in the road, and the passengers felt a sudden jerk followed by a wail of screeching metal. Summer looked out the window in shock to see the right front wheel bounding ahead of the car and onto the shoulder of the road. The car immediately veered sharply to the right into the oncoming lane. Julie yanked the steering wheel hard left to compensate, but there was no reaction.

The wheel-less right hub ground into the asphalt amid a spray of sparks as the car careened counterclockwise. The vehicle’s three remaining tires smoked and squealed as the car spun around and then slid off the road backward. Bounding over the shoulder, the car skidded across a patch of grass before slamming into a low embankment. As the dust cleared, Julie shut off the idling motor, then turned to Summer.

“You okay?” she asked breathless.

“Yes,” Summer replied, taking a deep breath herself. “Quite a jolt. I’d say we were a bit lucky.”

She saw that Julie looked pale and still had her hands clenched tightly to the steering wheel.

“It was him,” she said quietly.

“Well, if it was, he’ll have to do a lot better than that to take us down,” Summer replied defiantly, trying to lift Julie’s spirits. “Let’s see if we can get back on the road.”

As she opened her door, a black motorcycle came blazing up the road. The rider slowed slightly, giving the damaged car a long gaze. Then he applied a heavy throttle and roared on down the road.

“Don’t bother helping us,” Summer spat as the black shape disappeared around the bend.

She hiked over to the road and found the stray wheel lying on the shoulder. Standing it upright, she rolled it back to the car. Julie had climbed out but was sitting on a large rock, her hands still shaking. Summer opened the trunk and retrieved the jack, then worked it under the front bumper. The ground was hard and mostly level, which enabled her to raise the hub off the ground. Despite some deep scoring on the hub, she was able to mount the wheel, fastening it down with a trio of lug nuts cannibalized from the other wheels. She made sure the lugs were tightened all the way around, then stowed the jack back in the trunk.

“Summer, you handled that with ease,” Julie complimented. She had regained her demeanor and finally stopped shaking. “I thought we would have to ring the auto club.”

“My father has been teaching me how to work on antique cars,” she said with a proud grin. “He always says that any girl ought to be able to change a tire.”

Julie surveyed a slight crease to the rear bumper, then handed the car keys to Summer.

“Do you mind driving the rest of the way? My nerves are shot.”

“Not at all,” Summer replied. “As long as you don’t mind some slow going through any potholes.”

Taking the keys, she hopped into the right-hand seat and started the car, then eased back onto the road. They felt no more ill effects from the car, and soon pulled into the parking lot at Broome Park. The two women entered the manor, finding Aldrich laying out croissants and tea in the garden atrium. Julie made no mention of their auto accident as she pulled him aside for a moment.

“Aldrich, I wonder if I could ask you about Emily Kitchener?”

The old man’s eyes lit up immediately. “Why, Emily was a lovely lady. I was just telling a guest about her last night. She used to love walking the gardens here in the evening to hear the nightingales sing. Hard to believe she’s been gone ten years now.”

“She used to live here at the estate?” Summer asked.

“Oh yes. My father took her in when her husband was killed in a railway accident. That must have been around 1970. She lived in what’s now the Windsor Suite, on the top floor.”

“Do you by chance recall her having any friends or associates named Sally?” Julie asked.

“No, I don’t recall anyone named Sally,” he replied with a shake of his head.

“Did she ever mention being given any documents or papers from Lord Kitchener?” Summer queried.

“She never made any mention to me of such. Of course, she would have been quite young when the Earl died. You are welcome to take a look at her things, if you like. I have a few boxes of her possessions down in the basement.”

Summer gave Julie a hopeful gaze.

“If it wouldn’t be an imposition,” Julie said to Aldrich.

“Not at all. I can take you down right now.”

Aldrich led them to his private quarters and through a locked door to a corner stairway. Down the steps, they reached a dimly lit basement, which was little more than a broad corridor that extended beneath a fraction of the whole residence. Aged wooden crates and dust-covered furniture were stacked high along both walls.

“Much of this old furniture was the Earl’s,” Aldrich explained as he led them down the corridor. “I really must arrange for another auction one of these days.”

At the end of the corridor, they reached a heavy door sealed with a dead bolt.

“This was originally a surplus pantry,” he said, reaching for the bolt before realizing it had already been pulled aside. “They sealed it up tight to keep out the rats.”

He flicked on an exterior light switch, then grabbed a pull handle and yanked the heavy door aside, revealing a ten-foot-long compartment lined with shelves on either side and a wooden cabinet at the far end. The shelves were jam-packed with cardboard boxes, mostly filled with documents and estate records.

“Emily’s things should be right down here,” he said, stepping to the rear and pointing at a waist-high shelf where three boxes were marked “E.J. Kitchener.”

“Emily Jane Kitchener,” Aldrich said. “Might be easiest for you to simply look through the boxes in here. Will you need an escort back upstairs?”

“Thank you, Aldrich, but that won’t be necessary,” Julie replied. “We’ll lock things up and find our way out.”

“I hope you both can join us for dinner tonight. We’re having a fish fry in the garden.” The old caretaker then turned and shuffled out of the pantry.

Summer smiled as she watched him leave. “He is the cutest little fellow,” she said.

“An old-fashioned gentleman,” Julie agreed, pulling two of the boxes to the front of the shelf. “Here you go, one for you and one for me.”

Summer stepped over and flipped open the top of the box, which she noted was not sealed shut. The contents were a disheveled mess, as if someone had hastily thrown the items in the box or it had subsequently been rifled through. She smiled to herself as she pulled out a baby blanket and laid it on an empty shelf. Next to that she laid some children’s dresses, a large doll, and several porcelain figurines. At the bottom of the box, she found some costume jewelry and a book of nursery rhymes.

“Box number one is filled with childhood memories,” she said, carefully repacking the items. “Nothing of relevance, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not faring much better,” Julie replied, setting a pair of sequined boots on the shelf. “Mostly shoes, sweaters, and a few evening gowns here.” From the bottom, she pulled out a flat tray of dinnerware. “And some tarnished silverware,” she added.

The women replaced the two boxes, then jointly opened the third box.

“This looks more promising,” Julie said, retrieving a thin packet of letters.

As she began scanning the letters, Summer inventoried the rest of the box. Most of the contents were prized books of Emily’s, along with a few framed photos of herself and her husband. At the bottom of the box, Summer found a large envelope that was stuffed with old photographs.

“No luck here,” Julie said, finishing the last letter and inserting it back into its envelope. “These are all old letters from her husband. No mention of our mystery girl. I guess the secret of Sally just isn’t meant to be revealed.”

“It was an admitted long shot,” Summer replied, pulling the photographs out of the envelope and spreading them across the shelf for Julie to see. They were all sepia-tinted images from nearly a century before. Julie held up one photo of a young woman in a riding outfit, holding the reins of a horse.

“She was a pretty young woman,” Summer remarked, noting a delicate face set with penetrating eyes similar to her famous uncle.

“Here’s one with Kitchener,” Julie said, pointing to an earlier photo in a garden setting. Kitchener stood in his uniform next to a couple with their young daughter, clutching a large doll, between them. Summer recognized the toddler as a younger version of Emily from the horse picture.

“She looks about four years old there,” Summer said, picking up the photo and flipping it over to see if a date was written on the back. She nearly choked when she read the inscription.

“April, 1916. Uncle Henry and Emily with Sally at Broome Park.”

She shoved the photo in Julie’s face. Julie read the inscription, then flipped it over and studied the image with a wrinkled brow.

“But that’s Emily with her parents. Her mother’s name was Margaret, I believe.”

Summer looked at her and smiled. “Sally is the doll.”

By the time the lightbulb clicked on in Julie’s head, Summer was already tearing through the first box of Emily Kitchener’s possessions. In an instant, she pulled out a porcelain-faced blond doll that was dressed in a checkerboard apron. Holding the doll up in the air, Summer compared it to the one in the photograph.

It was the same doll.

“He said the Manifest was safeguarded with Sally,” Julie muttered. “And Sally is a doll?”

The two women studied the doll, whose clothes and extremities were well worn from the attentive play of a young girl nearly a century earlier. With tentative fingers, Summer turned the doll over and pulled off its checkerboard apron and matching calico dress. A heavy seam was visible along the doll’s back, which kept the stuffing inside. Only the stitching was crude and uneven, not matching the workmanship of the rest of the doll.

“This doesn’t look like the work of an expert seamstress,” Summer noted.

Julie rummaged through one of the other boxes until producing a tarnished silver dinner knife.

“You care to perform the surgery?” she asked nervously, handing Summer the knife.

Summer laid the doll facedown on the shelf and began sawing at the topmost stitch. The dull-edged knife was a poor match for the tough catgut thread, but she eventually cut through the first few stitches. Setting the knife aside, she pulled apart the remaining seam, opening up the back side of the doll. Inside was a compressed mass of cotton wadding.

“Sorry, Sally,” she said, carefully pulling out the wadding as if the doll were an animate object. Julie peered anxiously over Summer’s shoulder, but slumped when she saw that the doll’s torso was filled with nothing but cotton. She closed her eyes and shook her head as Summer pulled out a large ball of it.

“Silly idea,” she muttered.

But Summer wasn’t through. Peering inside the cavity, she felt around with her fingertips.

“Wait, I think there may be something in here.”

Julie’s eyes popped open as she watched Summer reach into the doll’s left leg and grab hold of an object. Summer worked it back and forth until pulling out a linen-wrapped tube several inches long. Julie leaned closer as Summer set the object on the shelf and gently unwrapped the linen. Inside was a thick piece of parchment rolled into a scroll. Summer held the top edge down, then carefully unrolled it across the shelf as both women held their breath.