If you haven’t read The Professor of Eventide and you’d like to give it a try, the novel is now available at an autumn price of $1.99.
After all, we’re officially in my favorite time of year, autumn, which is back-to-school time. Here’s an excerpt from the book, a Gothic literary mystery set on the fictional campus of Eventide College. This is where the real mystery begins. Enjoy!
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We passed professors and students on Southshore Road who were cutting a fine show in their nineteenth-century finery. They chatted away, reliving the festivities, recounting the food, the champagne, the music, the dancing, and the new Poet of Eventide. For me, the joy of the ball already felt far away.
“I hope Amandine is all right,” Maeve said.
“I know we’re all expecting the worst because of what happened to Thomas, but I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Actually, we still don’t know what happened to Thomas. Why are the police being so quiet about their investigation?”
“I wish I knew.”
The Queen Anne mansion of Cavendish Hall beckoned with bright electric lights, a stark contrast to the glowing gaslight of Eventide Manor. English students blundered into the building with laughter buoyed by champagne and good spirits. Maeve and I stood on the lawn, watching the others pass, while the trees shuddered under the heavy weight of the whipping winds, the rust and lemon-colored leaves dropping skittishly to the ground.
“There’s something you need to see, Professor. It’s, well, it’s a secret, I think. I don’t think I’m supposed to know about it. Will you come?”
Without waiting for my reply, she walked toward campus. She must have seen the indecision on my face. “Do you know about the underground library?”
She had my attention. “It sounds like something from an Agatha Christie story.”
“One night, about a week before Thomas was killed, I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk and ended up on campus. I saw Thomas going into the library.”
“The underground library?”
“No, just the Chisolm. It was long past closing, though, and everything was dark. He pulled a key from his coat pocket and used it to unlock the door. He was in there for some time, and then he came out, went around the back, and disappeared.”
“Disappeared as in poof?”
“Disappeared as in I couldn’t see him anywhere. Then I saw him hiding behind a tree, hunched over, his hands on his knees, and he was panting as if he couldn’t breathe. I wanted to call out to him, ask him if he needed help, but there was something about the way he was holding himself, like he was trying to hide, so I stayed quiet. I went back the next night, but I couldn’t get into the Chisolm because it was closed and I didn’t have a key.”
The beam of the full moon was muffled under a blanket of wool-like clouds. The campus was deserted, the neighborhood silent. Instead of walking up the steps to the Chisholm Library, we went around the back to the grassy knoll where students liked to drink coffee and read between classes. When we arrived at the back door, Maeve pulled a key from her reticule. She smirked when she showed it to me.
“I told Thomas the next day that I had seen him. That’s when he told me about the underground library, and he gave me the key.”
“Where did he get it?”
“He didn’t exactly say. He also gave me the passcode for the alarm. He told me he thought I should keep the key, just in case.”
“Just in case? Did he think someone was after him?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. But then Thomas kept a lot to himself.”
She used the key to open the door, then punched the numbers into the alarm system on the wall. I may have peeked at the code. She led me to the back of the library, behind the circulation desk, and we went through a door and then down a staircase to the basement. She opened another door, and we walked into an open space that looked like an abandoned office. A few scattered chairs and a desk were all that remained. Another door stood closed at the far end of the room.
“There’s a tunnel through there. After Thomas died, I came to take a look at it. I was wondering if there was something here he wanted me to see.”
“That was dangerous, Ms. Lang.”
“Maybe. But I was curious. When I came the first time, I got to the end of the tunnel, but I heard voices. I was too far to hear what they were saying, but I could tell they were arguing. I didn’t want them to see me, so I left. I went back the next night, and no one was there, so I had a chance to look around. It’s really rather fascinating.”
“Did you tell the police what you just told me?” Maeve shook her head. “Someone killed Thomas. Perhaps more than one someone. If he was sneaking around the library and someone saw him, that could have something to do with why he was killed.”
“I can’t imagine anyone from EC being that brutal.”
“Sometimes people don’t realize how much violence they have within them until they’re pushed to their limit.”
Maeve opened the door. I stiffened, expecting an alarm to sound, but nothing. The space was just wide enough for one person to pass. There was nothing immediately to fear except a thin metal ladder, which didn’t seem too dangerous. I gripped the ladder and stepped down, one slow foot at a time, as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. What the hell am I doing? I wondered as I descended deeper into the black hole. Maeve followed, stepping carefully in her ball gown and low-heeled shoes. When we were both at the bottom, she put a finger to her lips. Anyone could have been there—the police, Thomas’s murderer, anyone.
“The light is here.” Maeve flipped a switch, and electric lights, white against the darkness of the tunnel, illuminated the way. Was there whispering? I was certain that I heard half-remembered tales calling to us, begging us to know them. Then I heard it. The Gentleman of Shadows. I brushed it aside with the thought that my mind was playing tricks on me. As we neared the end of the tunnel, a stone door creaked and swung open. Maeve jumped back. Above the archway, it said Rex Quisque Habet Regnum. Every king has his reign.
“Are you sure you want to do this, Ms. Lang?”
Maeve looked more certain than I felt. We stepped through the doorway into a cavernous room, windowless, close, as though the place had never known fresh air. The room was lit by candles and gaslight. Dust scattered and cobwebs covered the walls. The scent was unmistakable—aged paper, rotting leather, and something sweet and metallic, like iron, a scent I recognized but Maeve didn’t seem to notice. I chose not to draw her attention to it. Towering black bookshelves groaned beneath the weight of ancient tomes—scrolls, codices, grimoires, tablets, and books from the earliest days of the printing press. Some cloth-bound volumes showed gilded spines etched in Ancient Greek or Latin, while others revealed sigils and forgotten alphabets. In the center of the room was a long obsidian table, its glass top scratched with cryptic shapes and diagrams, graffiti-like scratches, as if someone had etched their notes into the furniture. Some of the books were filled with marginalia in a language that looked like German, perhaps, or Old Norse. In the center of the table stood a candelabrum, its white candles burned nearly to their nubs. I thought I had stepped into another dimension.
“May I help you, sir?”
The man’s voice was as wizened as his face. He was of medium height, slim and well-built, as though he had cut quite a fine figure in his younger days. He would have fit in quite nicely at our nineteenth-century ball with his black coat, blue waistcoat, pressed white shirt, and black trousers. His thin white hair appeared in tufts across his head. There was something about his pallor, ghostly and waxen, that appeared ghoulish in the gaslight. He stepped closer, inspecting my features.
“I have been expecting you.”
I struggled to place his face, but couldn’t. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Jonathan Ferrars.”
He closed his eyes, and his eyelids fluttered as though racing through a list of names in the Rolodex inside his head.
“I do not know a Jonathan Ferrars.”
“You must be thinking of someone else.”
He didn’t press the point, so I let it drop. It took me a moment to place his accent. It was German, or at least I guessed it was German. “Since you know my name, perhaps I could know yours?”
“Elias Venn, sir. The librarian.”
“Of course.”
He didn’t appear to notice Maeve, who was standing near the tallest bookcase, examining the titles.
“Would you like a tour, sir?” Elias Venn asked.
Curiosity killed the cat, my father used to say. One of these days, perhaps I’ll listen. I turned to Maeve, and she nodded.
“Certainly.”
“Very good, sir. Please to follow me.”