The Foulest Things: A Dominion Archives Mystery

OTTAWA, 2010

CHAPTER ONE

QUICKLY, JESSICA, OLIVER HISSED, TUGGING ME ALONG THE THICKLY carpeted hallway. The deep pile absorbed the snow and salt melting off our winter boots, and I was already overheating in my parka. We’re late. His round face was nearly purple with the effort of hurrying down the corridor.

Calm down, Louise said. They won’t have reached our lot yet. Sixty-eight years old with close-cropped gray hair springing from her head like the bristles of a well-used toothbrush, my colleague Louise could have retired years ago. I think she mostly stuck around to annoy Oliver.

We could hear the auctioneer’s booming voice: Sold to the gentleman at the back.

I bit my lip. We were late because I’d left my backpack in the taxi. I’d had to chase the vehicle down Sussex Drive, slipping on the hard January ice, until it stopped at a light by the American embassy.

The auction room was like the rest of Van Cleef’s Auction House, elegantly appointed in muted colors and expensive finishings. Heads turned as we tugged off our heavy coats, Louise stomping the snow off her combat boots, but the auctioneer’s smooth patter didn’t falter.

We sunk into three chairs near the back of the room, and I caught my breath. Forgetting my backpack had been so stupid. I was on a one-year contract with the Dominion Archives, and I needed a ringing endorsement from Oliver to be hired permanently. So far, as Shania sang, I hadn’t impressed him much. Oliver made me nervous. Archival techniques that I studied for years flew from my brain when he was around. I hadn’t helped matters last month by spilling coffee on the white cashmere cape he wore instead of a coat.

He checked the catalog. Thank goodness, they’re not at our lot yet.

This was my first auction, and I had been looking forward to it all week. Things that people in the past touched and loved were being bought and sold like bags of potatoes or boxes of hair dye. This mixture of the romantic and the prosaic fascinated me.

I stared at the front to see what was on offer. Some canvases leaned against an easel, but I couldn’t make out details. The auctioneer opened bidding at $2,000.

A brunette in a red suit raised her hand with the elegant grace of a dancer.

Twenty-five hundred? The auctioneer nodded at a burly man with a thick neck and a nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. He could be a villainous thug from a James Bond movie, maybe a disaffected Communist carrying a couple of nukes in a suitcase.

I grinned. These were the types of glamorous figures I imagined at an auction.

Three thousand? the auctioneer asked.

The man in front of Oliver lifted his hand. I noticed his shoulders were covered in a generous layer of dandruff.

Maybe they weren’t all glamorous.

The action quickened now, and the auctioneer’s smooth voice slid swiftly between the bids, like a hockey puck passed between sticks.

I leaned toward Louise. What are they bidding on?

She shrugged. Nothing much. A Quebecer, Louise had a strong French accent, pronouncing nothing as no-ting. Amateurs always get too excited. Her voice was husky from years of smoking, though she’d recently quit, hence her deep crabbiness. She pointed to the entry in the catalog: Lot Three consists of eight oil paintings by various twentieth-century artists from the estate of Andrew Jarvis. Subjects include portraiture, streetscapes, and landscapes. Reserve Price, $1,500.

I tuned back to the bidding in time to see Scarlet Suit raise her hand.

Dandruff Shoulders frowned as the price climbed, and when he shook his head at $4,500, the crowd breathed a collective sigh. Now it was between Scarlet Suit and Burly Communist.

Scarlet turned slightly, so she could see Burly. Her lips parted with excitement. He looked anxious, but determined.

The rising tension seemed to make the room hotter. I tugged off my cardigan, yanking my arm up to pull the tight sleeve.

The auctioneer, noting my gesture, pointed his gavel. We have a new bidder at five thousand.

Oh my God. My head swam, and for a second I thought I was going to pass out. I swallowed hard. Oliver’s face had gone a deep shade of tomatoey red, and even Louise looked startled.

The auctioneer’s voice seemed to come from underwater. Do we have another bid?

Everything moved in slow motion. I stared at Burly Communist, willing him to raise his hand. He glared back, obviously annoyed that I was entering the bidding so late. I turned to Scarlet Suit and nearly cried with joy when I saw her hand flutter.

Fifty five hundred for the lady in red, the auctioneer said.

I sank back in my chair with relief.

Oliver wheezed beside me, clutching his chest. You gave me heart palpitations, he hissed.

I was too ashamed to say a word.

You would have put the Dominion Archives in an extremely difficult position, Oliver continued. We do not have money to waste on frivolous jokes.

It wasn’t a joke, I whispered back. I was hot and took my sweater off.

Louise leaned across me, not bothering to whisper. Câlice, Oliver, relax. No harm done. She fanned herself with the catalog. I don’t blame the kid. I’m hotter than a whore in church.

Her comment drew stares from our neighbors. Oliver ignored us both, turning his attention back to the sale.

I focused on the auction, willing back tears and hoping my latest blunder wasn’t going to end my career.

At $8,000, Scarlet Suit bowed out. The auctioneer banged his gavel, dabbing his forehead with a white handkerchief. Sold to the gentleman for seventy-five hundred.

Burly Communist grunted in satisfaction.

Ciboire, muttered Louise. That idiot dropped a pile on a bunch of junk. I hope he doesn’t bid on our ledgers, or he’ll fuck us.

I flipped through the catalog to read the description of our lot: Business records belonging to Henry Jarvis, cabinet minister during Prime Minister Bennett’s term. Lot consists of 116 leather-bound ledgers pertaining to farm business. Material is in excellent condition and comes from the estate of Henry Jarvis’s son Andrew.

As starry-eyed as I was about archives, even I could tell that this purchase wasn’t likely to cause a bidding war. My suspicions proved correct, and the only competition we faced was a couple of telephone bids from the University of Alberta, which apparently already held most of the Henry Jarvis collection.

Louise whispered advice on bids to Oliver, and we easily won the lot. Stealing the ledgers right from under those Alberta cowboys, Oliver said.

After the bidding, we were ushered to the office, a small space tucked between the reception and auction room. We crowded around the desk as a clerk wrote up the purchase and gave Oliver the receipt.

I’ll take the first box now, so we can get started immediately, Oliver said to the clerk. Send the rest to the Conservation Facility for barcoding. The facility was our state-of-the-art storage and preservation building on the other side of the Ottawa River in the province of Quebec.

Business done, we waited in the reception area for the cab. I tried to make up for my earlier blunder. Oliver, I’d love to work on the Jarvis material.

He frowned. You proved today you’re not equipped to process a collection. You’re not quite ready for the triple axel, my dear. Best to stick to toe loops.

My heart sank. Oliver was a keen figure skating fan and was eagerly awaiting next month’s start of the Vancouver Winter Olympic Games. He would never remove me from the drudgework I’d done since starting in the Political and Cultural Affairs section. I spent last week exiled to the Conservation Facility, examining hundreds of fragile glass lantern slides for an image of a lady in a hat, which Oliver needed to illustrate an article he was writing. I had to start doing real archival work if I was ever going to be hired permanently.

I think it would be a great learning opportunity for me to work with a collection from the moment it enters our possession.

I could tell by his face that I hadn’t persuaded him and was about to try again, but Louise interrupted with a cough. I wouldn’t let you handle this anyway, kid. Political material is my turf.

I was hurt. Louise was the only coworker to show any interest in me.

Oliver’s cheeks reddened. In case you are forgetting, Louise, I am the manager of our section, he said. I will determine workloads. As a matter of fact, Jessica, I think processing these ledgers would be an excellent opportunity for you.

I beamed.

Begin work on the first box immediately, and order the others once they’re barcoded, he said.

The taxi arrived, and Oliver rushed outside. Louise held back. Sorry about that, kid, but I knew he’d give the ledgers to you if he thought I wanted them.

I grinned. I didn’t know what was better, getting a shot at real work or knowing that Louise was on my side. Thanks so much. That was nice.

She shrugged. Not really. I’m sure there’s nothing important in them, otherwise I’d process them myself. I’m a greedy old bird, don’t forget it.

I’m grateful. This might be my chance to finally impress him.

You know, you don’t have to rely on Oliver to get a permanent position.

What do you mean? I asked.

The institution encourages academic work. If you can publish a scholarly article in a peer-reviewed journal, even that ass would have to hire you permanently.

Before I could question her further, Oliver gestured impatiently from the taxi.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, I WALKED DOWN THE HALL TO MY OFFICE AT the Dominion Archives’ Wellington Street headquarters. I deposited the box of Jarvis material on my processing table, which covered most of the room’s right wall. A computer with an ancient monitor sat on a cheap desk on the opposite side of the room. Above it hung a Successories poster of a kitten tangled in a ball of yarn with You Can Do It! emblazoned across the bottom. It belonged to my predecessor, who retired months before my arrival. As embarrassing as it was to admit, I left it up because I found its message encouraging.

I opened the box. I felt like a kid looking out on the first snowfall of winter. Four hardbound ledgers and the stale scent of old stationery greeted me. My job was to go through the box, flag documents that needed conservation treatment, and read every scrap of paper so I could write a comprehensive description of the material for future researchers.

I pulled out the first ledger and leafed through it, noting its contents and date. I worked steadily for an hour before pausing to stretch my back.

Louise was right. The material was uninteresting, consisting of accounting records from an Albertan cattle ranch, but I was still happy. I loved taking someone’s messy, complicated life and imposing a structure on it. Undoubtedly, my passion was due to my own chaotic childhood, with my mother taking in every stray and street kid she came across.

I took out the next ledger, still thinking about my mother, who disapproved of my musty, boring profession. It was our ongoing argument, and thinking of it made me open the ledger too forcefully, tearing the delicate leather binding. Shit.

Fortunately, it wasn’t a large tear and wouldn’t require expensive conservation treatment. As my finger traced the small rip, I felt a slit on the inside cover. I pulled the desk lamp closer to examine it. Someone had deliberately sliced an opening, which you’d never notice unless you were staring at the incision.

Careful not to further rip the old leather, I grabbed a letter opener and slid it into the space, meeting with resistance. My heart beat faster. Hooking the opener under the obstruction, I eased it out.

It was an old envelope addressed to Victoria Jarvis, General Delivery, High Plains Alberta. The return address was for Jeremy Crawford, 19 Avenue de Clichy, Paris. I swallowed hard. Even if the letter was nothing but a gossipy note between friends, it exemplified what attracted me about archives: the physical sense of touching a part of history. It was what I could never articulate to my mother. Now I held such tangible evidence in my hands, and it was obviously something that had been deliberately hidden.

CHAPTER TWO

I EXAMINED THE ENVELOPE. IT WAS SLIT OPEN AND CONTAINED A LETTER on brittle, yellowed paper.

August 2, 1914

Darling Victoria,

I have finally arrived in Paris. It is said that this is a city for lovers, and I am bereft without you. You promise there is comfort in knowing that one day we will be reunited, but I lack your faith. Your father shows no sign of relenting; indeed he is now exiling you as well! I cannot imagine you on a dusty Western ranch, attending to your uncle’s dreary bookkeeping, surrounded by cowpunchers and roughnecks. Instead, I remember the moment I first saw you, floating into the ballroom at the exhibition opening, your filmy white dress a perfect complement to your angelic expression. The electric lights glittered in your golden hair, making a veritable halo. Yet you, that angel, noticed me, the awkward artist in the corner.

Enough! I can hear you scolding me to stop my moping and channel my despair into something constructive. I shall tell you about Paris. It is good to be settled after the whirlwind of London and Amsterdam. I have rented a small flat. It is dingy and cramped, but it is in Paris, and that is enough. Simply to read the street names—Rue du Chat-qui-Pêche, Boulevard Sébastopol, and of course, the Champs-Élysées—thrills me. I have spent two days wandering, trying to absorb it all: the lights from the cafés pouring out onto the wide boulevards, the people laughing and tumbling from theaters. I feel like a dazzled country boy, and I realize how raw and youthful Montreal is. Paris is an old city, so old you can feel its ghosts seep into your bones. Even the Seine is a refined, subdued river, nothing like our noisy St. Lawrence.

A sound in the hall made me look up. Ginette Noiseau, a coworker, sauntered by, looking curiously into my office. Heart in my mouth, I shifted my body so she couldn’t see what I was doing. She moved along. I turned back to the letter.

Yet Paris is also modern. The Eiffel Tower is a thrilling example of originality. Remember poring over last year’s Armory Show catalog? Well, many of the artists who showed at that exhibit live here: Duchamp, Braque, Derain … I am soaking in the same atmosphere as they, imbibing the ideas and creativity that crackle through the streets. Indeed, I have already met some young artists—students at the Beaux-Arts. Like me, they are experimenting with color and form.

I won’t abandon everything I learned at the Art Association, however. Heaven knows I paid hours of homage to the old masters while in London and Amsterdam. I have studied canvases by Titian, Caravaggio, Rubens, and Rembrandt. The sheer number of masterpieces in Europe makes me realize how meager our art heritage is. I laugh to think of how absurdly proud our museum directors are of their great treasure, the Learmount Rembrandt. Why, it is only a drawing! At the Rijksmuseum, they had dozens of Rembrandt’s oil paintings—beautiful, luminous things that force you to face truth, if only for the moment you stand before the work.

Don’t fret over the rumblings of war, darling. I am safe here. France is mobilizing, but it is surely only a precaution. The Germans will not risk the might of the British Empire. This talk is nothing but the business of lawyers, diplomats, and newspapermen eager to sell more copies.

I hope this letter cheers you in your lonely farm life. Undoubtedly you will miss Montreal’s energy and intellectual stimulation. Please, reassure me that you are not too unhappy. We shall be reunited. I will make a success of myself and return to Montreal in triumph. You will see. Your father will see.

I miss you. I love you.

Jem

My hands shook as I placed the letter on the table. I felt like I had peeped through a door and glimpsed another world. I rubbed the old paper gently between my fingers and reread it. Who were Jem and Victoria? What happened to them? I wondered if I was the first to touch the letter since someone slipped it into Henry Jarvis’s account book. Was that person Victoria herself? It seemed a likely explanation.

I pulled out the other ledgers from the box, looking for more slits. There were none, but I wasn’t discouraged. If there was one hidden letter, there might be more. I emailed the circulation staff, requesting the remaining boxes be delivered in the morning.

Too excited to settle back to processing the ledgers, I checked the Reference and Tracking Database to see if we held any information on Victoria Jarvis or Jeremy Crawford. I hit the jackpot when I located descriptions of four of his sketches in the Art Vault at the Conservation Facility. The Dominion Archives owned some Jeremy Crawford originals.

I wanted to keep the letter in my possession, but I’d be violating a hundred different rules if I brought it home. I bit my lip; it would do no harm to photocopy it.

I was surprised to realize it was past quitting time when I walked to the photocopier near Oliver’s office. It pleased me to think most people had gone home. Jem was my discovery, and I wasn’t ready to share him yet. Copying done, I put both the original and the reproduction safely into a file folder.

Now that my excitement was fading, I could think about the ramifications of my discovery. The letter contained many promising research leads, including Jem’s references to the art scene and descriptions of Paris before the war. If I found more letters, I could write a scholarly paper about them and, according to Louise, guarantee my future at the Dominion Archives.

Oliver emerged from his office and bustled toward me, his white cape flapping behind him as if he were the Phantom of the Opera. Jessica, you’re precisely the person I wished to see.

He talked as he walked me to my office, and I kept the folder out of his sight. The chief archivist’s office informed me that the Belgian prime minister is visiting Monday. We want to show him something from our collection related to his country. There is a congratulatory card from the king of Belgium to the prime minister over our 1964 Olympic gold in bobsleigh. Given Canada will soon be hosting our own Olympiad, I think it’s an appropriate talking point. Pull the document from storage tonight, and prep it for Monday’s consultation, please.

Sure thing, I said, my heart sinking. Getting to the Conservation Facility wasn’t simple at the best of times. It would take me at least forty-five minutes in Thursday evening rush hour, and I had dinner plans.

Oliver handed me the email. This has all the details. Now, unfortunately my secretary is gone, so you can’t get taxi chits. Keep your receipts, and we’ll reimburse you.

Keep my receipts? It would probably cost a hundred dollars to get there and back. That was two weeks of grocery money. I’m happy to do it, Oliver.

Marvelous. With a swirl of his cape, Oliver flounced off into the Music of the Night.

I stared after him in frustration. Then I remembered the letter. It was my ticket out from under Oliver’s thumb. I turned to the box of ledgers. While I should have placed the original letter in a dated and labeled acid-free file folder, instead I eased it back into the slit in the ledger where I first found it. I wasn’t quite ready to process it yet, and I figured it would be safe in its original spot, while I determined what to do. I popped the copy into my filing cabinet.

Next, I called Adela to cancel our dinner plans, but predictably, she didn’t take no for an answer, instead cajoling me into going out. Since I was dying to tell her about the letter, I didn’t need much persuading. After all, it would be just as easy to retrieve the document tomorrow morning before work. Oliver would never know the difference.

THERE WASN’T MUCH TRAFFIC AT SIX THE NEXT MORNING, AND THE TAXI zoomed through the quiet streets of Gatineau. I was tired. Dinner with Adela went late as we talked over my discovery. She’d then gone into a detailed analysis of our chances in Vancouver. Hosting the Olympics for the first time in years, the Games were a hot conversational topic. Our discussion devolved into a wine-fueled debate about who was sexier: Team Canada hockey captain Sidney Crosby (an adorable moron, according to Adela) or any member of the men’s speed skating team (have I seen the size of their thighs?). I’d crawled into bed quite late.

The taxi pulled up to the Conservation Facility. Built of shiny glass and steel, it looked completely out of place in the surrounding snow-covered fields, like a spaceship dropped onto the plain.

After I paid the exorbitant fare, the driver sped off before I remembered to ask for a receipt.

Pushing away my annoyance, I entered the building. The glass walls of the main hall sealed the interior from the elements, protecting the five floors of vaults that squatted like heavy cement animals in the building’s center. Glass, steel, and concrete were the primary construction materials because they were fire-, dust-, and parasite-resistant. Everything was designed to protect the archival records stored here. A series of offices were perched, five stories up, atop the vaults, and above that soared the roof of the building. It was a cathedral to preservation.

I flashed my pass to the sleepy commissionaire and pushed through the door behind his desk, which controlled access to the first floor of vaults. Glancing at the email Oliver had given me, I walked down the concrete hall to Vault Seven, where the Belgian document was held.

Directly across the hall from Seven was the Art Vault, where I had toiled on Oliver’s lantern slide research. It dawned on me that Jeremy Crawford’s work was housed there. If they hadn’t revoked my access since last week, it would be easy to have a look at his sketches.

Without giving myself time to reconsider, I crossed the hall, swiping my pass through the lock. The green light came on, and I heard the click of the door opening. I pushed my way into the Art Vault.

People associate archives with moldering secrets in dark, dusty basements, but this room was carefully climate-controlled and aggressively well lit. The conservation station to my right consisted of a white table covered with complicated-looking machinery, lamps, and magnifying glasses. The bulk of the room held rows of specially built metal shelving, stretching up to the ten-foot ceiling. The shelves were on rollers, allowing them to be pressed closely together when not in use, thus maximizing space.

Painters were grouped alphabetically, which meant that the Crawford sketches should be in the closest couple of rows. I went to the first set of shelving and turned the small handwheel on the side, which caused the shelves to separate, generating a narrow alley. I turned the wheel again. Usually you could create quite a big space, but this time the shelving wouldn’t squish together any further. I heaved on the wheel, but something stopped me from widening it.

I sidled down the narrow aisle, which ended at B. Crawford must be in the following row. I stepped out and was about to turn the next wheel when I noticed that the shelves of the C aisle were not pressed tightly together. Something large was wedged between the stacks.

I turned the wheel to open the aisle. The stacks moved apart, widening the row and releasing the thing that had been trapped.

Heart racing, I watched as a body flopped down in a bizarre parody of liveliness. The back of the man’s head hit the concrete floor with a smack, and for an illogical moment I worried he had hurt himself. A metallic tang reached my nostrils, and I noticed that his chest was covered in blood. I fought down the urge to retch, absurdly thinking that the conservators would not appreciate the cleanup.

Then I started screaming.

CHAPTER THREE

MY SCREAMS QUICKLY CHOKED OFF AS FEAR INVADED. WAS THE MURDERER still here? I was in a soundproof vault with two feet of solid steel between myself and safety. Lurching away from the dead man, I tripped on the edge of the shelving, falling to my knees. My fear turned into panic, and I stumbled to the door, pushing at it and sobbing with frustration when it wouldn’t budge. Finally, I remembered it pulled open, and I scrambled for the handle. Yanking as hard as I could, I opened it and ran down the hallway to the commissionaire’s desk.

Call the police, I yelled.

The commissionaire leaped up. What happened?

There’s a body in the Art Vault. The killer might still be here. Call the cops!

That’s not funny, he said. The commissionaire was about sixty-five, chubby, and white-haired.

I glanced behind me. I’m not joking. Call the police, please.

The guard must have seen