The Department of Rare Books and Special Collections(59)

Finally, they were alone.

“He said that Miriam was mentally ill,” Liesl said. Vivek had not asked her to keep it a secret.

“Depression, or something else?” Max asked. “My father was a depressive. Terrible thing.”

“Could you tell?” she said. “The way that Vivek described it, I should have been able to tell.”

“In hindsight, I guess,” Max said. “But a depressive can be like an alcoholic. Masters of disguise.”

“He said there’s no way she could be the thief. That she wasn’t functional enough to do something like that. But she was functional enough to fake being well?”

“Not the same,” Max said. “And she wasn’t faking being well. If we were paying attention, we’d have seen it.”

“She got her work done. She functioned enough to get her work done.”

He straightened his tie. He was almost totally Max again.

“If you still suspect her, then go ahead and suspect her. You read the paper; you’re not the only one.”

“She stopped joining us in the staff room when we would stop for tea. I shouldn’t have let her do that. It was obvious she was ill, wasn’t it?”

“Quite obvious. But it’s an ugly thing, mental illness. No one will fault you for not asking.”

“Having a suspect would be a comfort.”

“Liesl. Try and show a little sense. You have a suspect. It’s not the same suspect who has an unflattering photo on the front page of today’s newspaper, but if we are playing Sherlock Holmes, then there is some bloody suspicious behavior you seem desperate to ignore.”

“What suspect?” Liesl said. The phone was ringing again. “Ignore it.”

“Don’t act as though we haven’t had this conversation before, as if I haven’t brought this up before. When you act this way, it makes me feel as though I’m grasping at something, as if I’m seeing something that isn’t there. But I’m not. I know suspicious behavior. And insisting, against all good judgment, that the police should not be called when it is clear that a crime has been committed. That is suspicious behavior.”

“You mean Francis.”

“Of course I mean Francis. Of course I mean Christopher’s protégé who even Christopher must have suspected of some sort of wrongdoing. Why do you think you were promoted to Christopher’s deputy when you and Francis have both been here for so long? Christopher must have suspected something shifty. He’s just not awake to point a finger.”

“Because I was better. I was promoted over Francis because I’m better than him at schedules and budgets and tax fillings and all the things that the leader of this place has to do but Christopher didn’t want to bother with. Can you not believe that?”

“How many languages do you speak then,” Max said. “More than he does?”

“There’s more to it,” Liesl said.

“Your education then. Better than his?”

If she asked him to stop, she knew he would. But she didn’t.

“Tell me,” Max said. “Tell me that I’m wrong.”

She didn’t tell him he was wrong, because their conversation ended. They were no longer alone. Francis walked into the reference area. There was no way to know if he had heard them.

“A fine morning for the library, wouldn’t you say?” Francis said. “The reference desk calls have been coming to my desk.” He held a pile of messages.

Did he look smug? Did he look suspicious? He just looked like Francis.

“Thank you for answering them,” Liesl said.

“Two were really reference questions,” Francis said.

“What a treat,” Liesl said.

“One was researching armorial bindings.”

“How are the donor calls?” Max asked.

“Plentiful,” Francis said. “Bit surprising, isn’t it, how many people still read the morning paper? Makes you think those doom-and-gloom stories about the death of print are overstated.”

“I’ll take the messages,” Liesl said.

“I suppose I should say I told you so,” Francis said. “Liesl, I warned you against calling the police, didn’t I?”

“Indeed you did.”

“Nothing to do about it now. The story named a suspect, which is helpful to us, I’d say.”

“I disagree,” Liesl said. “How is it helpful that the donors and everyone else think Miriam is a suspect in the theft?”

“Looks better than us twiddling our thumbs,” Francis said.

“It’s a woman’s reputation,” Liesl said. “I’d prefer to look bad.”

“The police suspect her,” Francis said. “That’s the simple truth.”

“We should know better.”

“Why are you all of a sudden so adamant?”

“Maybe I’m in receipt of new information. Maybe I’m thinking straight.”

“I’m not sure what’s going on,” Francis said. “It’s a stressful day, Liesl. Here are the messages. Let me know if I can help.”

A moment later, after Francis had made a statement with his exit, spinning on a heel as he delivered his last statement, Max and Liesl found themselves locking eyes. They were again alone; the graduate student’s pencil was sharp. He was hunched over a desk behind a glass door, tip of this tongue sticking through his lips in concentration.