The Last of the Stanfields(87)
I awoke in a cold sweat and opened the hotel room window to gaze out at the early-morning sun over the old docks of Baltimore.
“Did you sleep all right?” asked George-Harrison at breakfast.
“Like a baby,” I replied, hiding behind the menu and avoiding his eyes.
After breakfast, we climbed into George-Harrison’s pickup and headed to the university. Morrison made us wait a whole hour, his secretary explaining that he was correcting papers and would receive us as soon as he possibly could. When at last we were granted entry to his office, the man appeared to be in a pretty good mood.
“And what can I do for you two now?” he asked.
“Tell me about Sam Goldstein,” I replied, taking the lead this time.
“He was an esteemed art dealer, the father of Hanna Stanfield. But something tells me you already know all that.”
“So then, tell us something we don’t know.”
“This is the second time I’ve humored you with a meeting, and in case you haven’t noticed, I do have other obligations aside from fielding riddles from strangers. So, how about you start by telling me what you’ve really come here for, and just why you are so interested in this particular family’s history.”
George-Harrison gently laid his hand on my knee, urging me to proceed with caution. If the professor really was the poison-pen, I’d be walking straight into his trap.
“Out with it now, I’m all ears!” he insisted.
“Hanna Stanfield was my grandmother. I’m Sally-Anne’s daughter.”
Morrison’s eyes widened, and his face froze with shock. He rose from his chair without any sign of pain, as though the sciatica was nothing but a distant memory, and glided speechlessly over to the window. He gazed out over the campus, rubbing his beard.
“If what you say is true, it changes everything,” he muttered.
“How so?” asked George-Harrison.
“First and foremost, it changes my level of interest in the two of you, which has gone from nonexistent to piqued. If you truly are a Stanfield, that’s another story entirely. I’m certain this new development means we can find common ground.”
“Is it money you’re after?” I asked.
He flashed me a condescending grin. “You strike me as either plain stupid or plain rude. I certainly hope it’s the latter. Otherwise, all of this would be a considerable waste of time. Neither of you seem especially well-off, so if you’re hoping for some kind of inheritance, you are out of luck. There’s nothing left.”
“You also strike me as either plain stupid or plain rude,” I replied. “But I’m not quite sure which one I prefer.”
“Why, you’ve got some gall talking to me like that!”
“You started it,” I told him.
“Well, how about we start over on the right foot? It just so happens I have a proposition for you.”
Morrison admitted to having lied. In truth, he had seen Robert again after the day Hanna sent him away from the estate. He maintained it was only a lie by omission, since there hadn’t been any reason to tell us until now.
“While Hanna loved her son most, Robert’s soft spot was for Sally-Anne. He suffered greatly when his daughter’s love turned to hate. Her exile to the boarding school in England only made matters worse. Robert blamed himself for everything that had transpired, and quickly sank to new depths of loneliness. He was ready to give anything to win back her trust and repair their father-daughter bond, and he would have . . . if only his own wife had not stymied his efforts. But it was always Hanna calling the shots, ruling now more than ever with an iron fist.”
“Why did Mum start hating her own dad? Did he abuse her?”
“Robert? He wouldn’t have harmed a hair on her head! Not a chance! Everything had changed when she overheard a conversation, one not meant for her ears, especially not at age twelve.”
“You talk about Robert like the two of you knew each other well.”
“Indeed, we did, eventually. A few months after that first encounter in his study, he paid me a visit. He sat in the very chair you are sitting in now. Having heard about my passionate interest in the Stanfield dynasty, he agreed to let me study the family archives, on the condition that I write a chapter recounting Robert’s own story. He desperately needed someone not directly linked to the events to confide in. Someone with an irreproachable degree of credibility.”
“Why would he need that?”
“To tell his side of the story. He hoped to win back his daughter with the truth so that she would forgive him and come back into his life. For me, it was an opportunity to advance my work, so of course I accepted. But I also had certain conditions. I would not make any concessions on his behalf. I would tell the facts exactly as they had occurred.
“Robert agreed to my conditions. We met every Wednesday, in this very office. Little by little, he brought me documents to aid my research, each smuggled out of the estate with utter care, so as not to raise Hanna’s ire. Our meetings went on over a period of months, during which we became friends. Robert insisted I carry out my work quickly, but between my duties at the university and the impeccable standards of research a historian of my caliber must maintain, it was a long and arduous process. Sadly, just as I was putting the finishing touches on the manuscript, Hanna put a stop to all of it. I cannot fathom what nature of threat she issued, but Robert begged me to pull the plug. Our friendship prevented me from going against his wishes.”