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every so often and
attempt to convince us to give them all of ours. I turned down such
a request myself just last week. Pure greed on their part, wouldn’t
you agree, Mr. Flaherty?”
    “Absolutely.” A shame Whyborne wasn’t here.
He would have gleefully joined in with Mr. Tubbs and heaped abuse
upon the American History department in general, and Bradley
Osborne in particular. “Was there anything of special interest on
this map?”
    “I don’t believe so.” Tubbs shrugged.
“Various geographical features, the locations of old Indian
villages, that sort of thing.”
    “I see.” I didn’t see, actually, but an
appearance of confidence never went amiss. “Thank you, Mr. Tubbs.
You’ve been most helpful.”
    “I’m grateful to have been of assistance.”
He rose and showed me to the door. We paused there, and he cleared
his throat nervously. “If you have any more questions, don’t
hesitate to send for me. Perhaps I could meet you somewhere more
genial than this office to answer them.”
    The poor fellow wasn’t exactly practiced,
which made his suggestion even more flattering, as it implied he
didn’t often arrange such meetings. “I appreciate the offer,” I
said with as much kindness as I could, “but I feel any questions
would best be answered here, in a professional environment.”
    A blush stained his cheeks. “O-of course.
Good-day, Mr. Flaherty.”

Chapter 6
    Whyborne
     
    “I have something for you to inspect,” said
one of the librarians. “A codex. Fifteenth century, if I’m not
mistaken.”
    I resisted the desire to check the clock.
I’d spent the day in the library, laboring over the Wisborg
Collection. As Christine had said, it wasn’t my job, but it would
hardly be the first time I’d spent my hours at the museum
researching the occult rather than comparing ancient languages.
Although to be fair, in this case there was some overlap.
    The librarians carefully opened the crates
and removed the volumes one at a time. Mr. Quinn had his best men
inspect each book and identify the language, if known to them, as
well as the name of the volume, if indicated. Any of interest he
brought to me.
    Most of the hundreds of
books were ordinary fare: a number of Bibles, one dating from the
medieval period and adorned with the fanciful artistry of the monks
who had copied it; the Histories of Herodotus; the works of Homer and
Shakespeare.
    But other, darker, tomes
lay mixed in, like adders lurking amidst a pile of sticks. A Latin
translation of the Al Azif, De Vermis
Mysteriis , fragments of the Pnakotic
Manuscripts, and of course Cultes des
Goules . Several others had no name
inscribed on them, but a cursory glance showed them to be grimoires
of the blackest sort. There was even a book similar to the Liber Arcanorum , but
oddly altered, as if copied by someone making deliberate changes.
That one I told Mr. Quinn to keep under lock and key, and to show
to no one but myself. An outrageous demand, but he’d merely bowed
and looked unaccountably pleased.
    A heavy iron latch held the codex closed. I
hoped the stains on the leather cover were from rust. I opened the
tome cautiously; although I couldn’t have said why, I felt almost
as if I touched something alive, an animal that might turn on me at
any moment.
    There appeared to be no
title, and the writing, while in a neat hand, was in no system of
letters I’d ever seen before. Was it a code, perhaps? Some
alchemists used them to conceal their knowledge from rivals, as did
sorcerers. The Liber Arcanorum was one such example. But the letters within it
had still been Latin, not...whatever this system of writing
was.
    “Pardon me, Dr. Whyborne,” Mr. Quinn said
from my elbow.
    I started, having not heard his approach.
“Oh! I, er, yes?”
    One spidery hand fluttered in the direction
of the clock. “It is after five.”
    “Oh, of course.” No doubt the librarians
wished to end their day and return home. I occasionally worked long
hours, although