here.” She turned and led him toward the staircase in the great hall.
Matt was all business as he sat down on the stairs and placed the briefcase across his lap, as Emily had positioned it earlier. While she watched with her arms crossed tightly across her chest, he opened the lock-pick kit and selected a thin instrument with a long L-shape bend at the tip. He inserted the instrument into one of the locks on the briefcase and tried to turn it gently one way and then the other. While keeping pressure on the first instrument, he took a second one from the kit, a long thin tool with a slight hook, and inserted it as well. He drew the second instrument forward slowly, listening as he did so. When the second tool was almost completely removed from the keyhole, he turned the L-shaped instrument a little harder. The lock opened with a sharp
click
. “One down, one to go,” he said.
“So you need
two
at the same time,” Emily said, more to herself than to Matt. He heard, though, and nodded as he worked on the second lock.
“Usually. Most simple locks like these have pins of different lengths that come down and keep the plug—this middle-cylinder part of the lock—from turning. A key cut to reflect the lengths of those pins aligns them to allow the cylinder to rotate and unlock. If you don’t have the correct key, you use a tension wrench—the one shaped like a long L—to figure out which way the lock turns and then keep some torque on it while you push the pins up with your pick. Doing that lines up all the pins, just like a key would, except a pick does it one pin at a time. Once all the pins are up and out of the way, the internal cylinder is free to turn, and—voilà!” As he applied pressure to the tension wrench again, the second lock opened.
“Wow,” Emily said. It wasn’t every day that she learned something completely new about tool use, and she had seen enough master carpenters and craftsmen at work to recognize genuine expertise. Matt clearly knew what he was doing, and she was impressed.
He placed the lock-pick tools safely back inside their case and stood to hold the unlocked briefcase out to her. “I assume you’ll want some privacy when you open it,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Thank you,” she said as she accepted the briefcase.
“No problem. And again, I’m sorry about this morning.”
Emily nodded, but she was no longer annoyed with him or focused on what he was saying to her. Her heart pounding in anticipation, she waited until she heard the back door close before she moved. Once she was sure he was gone, she glanced around the great hall, settling her gaze on a sofa draped in a white dustcover. She had already sat for a long time on the hard wooden stairs, and if she was going to park herself somewhere for another good while, it would be on something soft.
She placed the briefcase on one of the cushions and took a seat beside it. Carefully, she positioned her hands on the two smooth leather corners of the lid and steadily raised it up.
The cloth-lined interior was filled with letters.
There must be dozens of them,
Emily thought as she stared at the yellowish envelopes bundled together and secured by neatly tied pieces of string. She picked up the first bundle and untied it. The top envelope, and each of those stacked beneath it, bore postmarks from 1973 and were addressed in a looping, handwritten script to Mrs. Mary McAllister. She turned the envelope over and saw a return address on the flap from Mrs. Anna O’Brien.
Emily didn’t know who Anna O’Brien was, but she and everyone else in town knew of Mary McAllister, the late recluse who for seventy years had been a secret benefactor for the people of Mill River. Carefully, so as not to rip the delicate, aged stationery, she removed the letter inside and unfolded it.
My dearest Mary,
the letter began. Emily’s eyes flew down the page, scanning for anything of particular interest before she read it carefully:
…I
Matt was all business as he sat down on the stairs and placed the briefcase across his lap, as Emily had positioned it earlier. While she watched with her arms crossed tightly across her chest, he opened the lock-pick kit and selected a thin instrument with a long L-shape bend at the tip. He inserted the instrument into one of the locks on the briefcase and tried to turn it gently one way and then the other. While keeping pressure on the first instrument, he took a second one from the kit, a long thin tool with a slight hook, and inserted it as well. He drew the second instrument forward slowly, listening as he did so. When the second tool was almost completely removed from the keyhole, he turned the L-shaped instrument a little harder. The lock opened with a sharp
click
. “One down, one to go,” he said.
“So you need
two
at the same time,” Emily said, more to herself than to Matt. He heard, though, and nodded as he worked on the second lock.
“Usually. Most simple locks like these have pins of different lengths that come down and keep the plug—this middle-cylinder part of the lock—from turning. A key cut to reflect the lengths of those pins aligns them to allow the cylinder to rotate and unlock. If you don’t have the correct key, you use a tension wrench—the one shaped like a long L—to figure out which way the lock turns and then keep some torque on it while you push the pins up with your pick. Doing that lines up all the pins, just like a key would, except a pick does it one pin at a time. Once all the pins are up and out of the way, the internal cylinder is free to turn, and—voilà!” As he applied pressure to the tension wrench again, the second lock opened.
“Wow,” Emily said. It wasn’t every day that she learned something completely new about tool use, and she had seen enough master carpenters and craftsmen at work to recognize genuine expertise. Matt clearly knew what he was doing, and she was impressed.
He placed the lock-pick tools safely back inside their case and stood to hold the unlocked briefcase out to her. “I assume you’ll want some privacy when you open it,” he said. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Thank you,” she said as she accepted the briefcase.
“No problem. And again, I’m sorry about this morning.”
Emily nodded, but she was no longer annoyed with him or focused on what he was saying to her. Her heart pounding in anticipation, she waited until she heard the back door close before she moved. Once she was sure he was gone, she glanced around the great hall, settling her gaze on a sofa draped in a white dustcover. She had already sat for a long time on the hard wooden stairs, and if she was going to park herself somewhere for another good while, it would be on something soft.
She placed the briefcase on one of the cushions and took a seat beside it. Carefully, she positioned her hands on the two smooth leather corners of the lid and steadily raised it up.
The cloth-lined interior was filled with letters.
There must be dozens of them,
Emily thought as she stared at the yellowish envelopes bundled together and secured by neatly tied pieces of string. She picked up the first bundle and untied it. The top envelope, and each of those stacked beneath it, bore postmarks from 1973 and were addressed in a looping, handwritten script to Mrs. Mary McAllister. She turned the envelope over and saw a return address on the flap from Mrs. Anna O’Brien.
Emily didn’t know who Anna O’Brien was, but she and everyone else in town knew of Mary McAllister, the late recluse who for seventy years had been a secret benefactor for the people of Mill River. Carefully, so as not to rip the delicate, aged stationery, she removed the letter inside and unfolded it.
My dearest Mary,
the letter began. Emily’s eyes flew down the page, scanning for anything of particular interest before she read it carefully:
…I
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