still snared by thoughts of Chester Sears and the man’s coded note, which bore today’s date.
Once more he felt a flash of doubt over his decision not to accompany Lean and McCutcheon. There was nothing overtly rational in his election to spend the evening at the Athenaeum. That the professor’s esoteric and unconvincing writings had ended up here after his death seemed a tenuous connection to the case at best. All he could manage by way of consoling himself was the knowledge that his two colleagues should be perfectly able to locate and handle Sears.
Despite the tangle of thoughts that twisted through Grey’s mind, he couldn’t resist a glance toward the end of the hall and the glaring absence there of the grandiose Sumner staircase. The magnificent structure, which had formerly dominated the interior of the building, had been regrettably sacrificed four years earlier to accommodate the library’s ever-expanding collections. Grey had spent many hours within these walls, one of the favored places of his youthful school days. Memories pressed against the outposts of his mind, but his defenses held, repellingthe sentimental notions, denying them every possible inch of ground within his thoughts.
The electric lights flickered, signaling the approach of the night’s main event. The crowd began moving in earnest now, and Grey heard several references to the long room, meaning the first-floor sculpture gallery, which had been converted to a lecture hall for the evening. Though the Athenaeum numbered women among its list of proprietors, it still had the feel of a gentlemen’s private social club. The crowd reflected this, being made up of primarily male members of Boston’s cultural elite, a few of whom cast questioning glances at the copper-toned face of Perceval Grey.
Inside the sculpture room, hundreds of wooden folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows among the central space as well as in the room’s alcoves, which were separated by various classical figures in marble and carved busts resting on pedestals. Grey and Justice Holmes found seats not far from the windows that faced south, looking onto the open expanse of the Granary Burying Ground. Two hundred or so attendees, still greeting one another with self-pleased aplomb, settled into place with all the order and muted grace of a human landslide. Grey’s eyes sought out the peaceful contrast on the far side of the south windows. There, pale shapes, squared off or round-topped, gently faded into the night’s gloom.
One of Boston’s earliest graveyards, the Granary housed the earthly remains of such Colonial and Revolutionary luminaries as Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Crispus Attucks, and Samuel Sewall, whom Grey recalled as having presided at the Salem witch trials. Two hundred tombs and upwards of two thousand stones crowded into the two-acre graveyard, though it was home to more than three times that many souls. Most of the names had been lost to history through poor record keeping, alterations to the cemetery, the moving of stones, and the reusing of lots. Space was so tight in the Granary and its immediate environs that the Athenaeum ran right onto the burying ground. The library’s rear wall actually contained a short arch that maintained the building’s straight back line by carrying it over several old headstones.
The din in the room began to die away as the Athenaeum’s head librarian, Mr. Lane, who’d recently been given the task of living up tohis renowned predecessor, Charles Cutter, began to speak. After brief opening remarks, the librarian introduced a nervous-looking young man who’d earned the honorable position of reader this evening.
With little ado the man launched into the subject. His voice fluctuated over the first few sentences as he became acclimated to the acoustics of the full, and not-quite-silent, hall.
“ ‘The Frontier in American History,’ a paper by Frederick Jackson Turner.
“ ‘Chapter One: In a recent
Once more he felt a flash of doubt over his decision not to accompany Lean and McCutcheon. There was nothing overtly rational in his election to spend the evening at the Athenaeum. That the professor’s esoteric and unconvincing writings had ended up here after his death seemed a tenuous connection to the case at best. All he could manage by way of consoling himself was the knowledge that his two colleagues should be perfectly able to locate and handle Sears.
Despite the tangle of thoughts that twisted through Grey’s mind, he couldn’t resist a glance toward the end of the hall and the glaring absence there of the grandiose Sumner staircase. The magnificent structure, which had formerly dominated the interior of the building, had been regrettably sacrificed four years earlier to accommodate the library’s ever-expanding collections. Grey had spent many hours within these walls, one of the favored places of his youthful school days. Memories pressed against the outposts of his mind, but his defenses held, repellingthe sentimental notions, denying them every possible inch of ground within his thoughts.
The electric lights flickered, signaling the approach of the night’s main event. The crowd began moving in earnest now, and Grey heard several references to the long room, meaning the first-floor sculpture gallery, which had been converted to a lecture hall for the evening. Though the Athenaeum numbered women among its list of proprietors, it still had the feel of a gentlemen’s private social club. The crowd reflected this, being made up of primarily male members of Boston’s cultural elite, a few of whom cast questioning glances at the copper-toned face of Perceval Grey.
Inside the sculpture room, hundreds of wooden folding chairs had been arranged in neat rows among the central space as well as in the room’s alcoves, which were separated by various classical figures in marble and carved busts resting on pedestals. Grey and Justice Holmes found seats not far from the windows that faced south, looking onto the open expanse of the Granary Burying Ground. Two hundred or so attendees, still greeting one another with self-pleased aplomb, settled into place with all the order and muted grace of a human landslide. Grey’s eyes sought out the peaceful contrast on the far side of the south windows. There, pale shapes, squared off or round-topped, gently faded into the night’s gloom.
One of Boston’s earliest graveyards, the Granary housed the earthly remains of such Colonial and Revolutionary luminaries as Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Crispus Attucks, and Samuel Sewall, whom Grey recalled as having presided at the Salem witch trials. Two hundred tombs and upwards of two thousand stones crowded into the two-acre graveyard, though it was home to more than three times that many souls. Most of the names had been lost to history through poor record keeping, alterations to the cemetery, the moving of stones, and the reusing of lots. Space was so tight in the Granary and its immediate environs that the Athenaeum ran right onto the burying ground. The library’s rear wall actually contained a short arch that maintained the building’s straight back line by carrying it over several old headstones.
The din in the room began to die away as the Athenaeum’s head librarian, Mr. Lane, who’d recently been given the task of living up tohis renowned predecessor, Charles Cutter, began to speak. After brief opening remarks, the librarian introduced a nervous-looking young man who’d earned the honorable position of reader this evening.
With little ado the man launched into the subject. His voice fluctuated over the first few sentences as he became acclimated to the acoustics of the full, and not-quite-silent, hall.
“ ‘The Frontier in American History,’ a paper by Frederick Jackson Turner.
“ ‘Chapter One: In a recent
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