Glimpsing the monitor closest to her, Cadence saw three large images suddenly illuminated. They were blow ups of the three pages, identified as simply “Tolkien Note,” “Manuscript I,” and “Manuscript II.”
“So it is up to you, Ms. Grande. The money … or the proofs?”
She thought about the upcoming auctioneer’s cant in Topanga, the “Sold!” exclamation on the steps of the Mirkwood Forest. Three weeks ago, twenty thousand smackers would have bought her soul. Now …
“I …”
“Yes?”
“… choose … “
The camera zoomed in as the barracuda leered.
“… the proofs.”
Betraying no reaction, Bois-Gilbert turned with a flourish. He raised his hand in the air like a conductor calling a vast orchestra to the opening note.
“Professeur Aranax, you may begin the verdicts.”
A breathy female voice-over intoned the first judge’s CV as a camera lingered on a grayed, somber-looking man at the judge’s table. “Professor Aranax is the Lecard Professeur of Archival Science at L’Université de Cité in Marseilles. He specializes in analysis of the physical characteristics of documents — inks, methods of inscription, papers and the like …”
A translator came and sat by Cadence. She intoned in English as Professor Aranax, who used a lighted cigarette held twixt two fingers Euro-style as a sort of signature prop for his pronouncements, rambled on. His speech was interlaced with long, fatigued, smoke-plumed sighs of impatience.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle. We have been allowed, thus far, to examine only three of your documents. A pity, and no judgments there, but let’s proceed. I speak first to the so-called Tolkien Note.”
He consulted his notes.
“The initials JRRT appear accurate as compared to numerous authenticated standards. I have used the Fabian Method to identify the age of the inks. As you can see, the note consists, in its entirety, of three typed sentences preceded by the date of October nineteenth, nineteen seventy, and the letters ‘NYC’. It is followed by the hand-scribbled initials ‘JRRT.’ The ink in the type is from a ribbon manufactured in nineteen sixty seven by Smith-Corona in Litchfield, Connecticut. It was not commercially distributed in Britain. The ink from the initials is from a BIC pen manufactured in Chicago, Illinois in nineteen sixty eight. The paper was manufactured at a mill in Georgia in the same year. Thus, the note is by my measure not provable as inauthentic. Be mindful, however, that my colleagues have other views. I provisionally give you that one, Mademoiselle.”
Bleep. On the big screen a green check mark went up by the Tolkien Note.
“Now, however, to the other two exhibits. They are puzzling. They are hand-written manuscripts, in what are probably different hands, and purporting to be, by your account, in a language called ‘Elvish.’ Such matters are of no importance to me for this analysis, as I have concentrated exclusively on the material in and on which they were written. That alone has led to interesting results. The gold standard for authentication of ancient documents is the Pressard-Lyons Gas Chromatograph. These pages have been subjected to analysis by this device. It identified three strange physical characteristics. They are on vellum, made from the washed, stretched, scraped and polished skin of young lambs. The result is a parchment that is quite durable and may be easily dated. The date for these examples is between twelve hundred and twelve ten A.D. The margin of error is plus or minus ten years. The lambs were from the variety Aoriscadea, found principally in England in that era. They were inscribed with a simple carbon ink made from lampblack of the willow tree mixed with a solution of gum. The soot in both cases is from a species of short heather bush unique to England and Wales and all but exterminated by the clearing of the lands in the period after one thousand A.D. Such inks remain black for centuries, and their stability is quite superior to the iron-gall inks, which appeared in the next hundred years. Unsophisticated but effective.”
“The age of the inks is consistent with that of the parchments. The inscriptions were made by quill pens, albeit ones with finer points and stylistic capability than is common to the era. But they are not anomalous. Most likely this means that the scribe or scribes worked in the extensive production of written documents at a place that could afford the finest materials. Thus, I find the documents physically consistent, but obviously at odds with the described provenance of coming from Professor Tolkien. Perhaps he merely had possession of them. Nonetheless, they are simply what they are. Their meaning and import I leave for today to the tender mercies of my most scrupulous comrades. You pass this blow of the gauntlet!”
Bleep. Bleep. Two more green checks went up.
Bois-Gilbert swept to the center of the room. “Well, Cadence Grande, you pass the initial test. But, as you Americans say, ‘Not so fast.’ For it seems we are left with even more mystery. Few fakes pass the probing intensity of Madame Litton’s eyes. She will assess the style and content of the documents. But first Cadence, I am going to make this more interesting for you. In this valise is the sum of fifty thousand dollars. A tidy sum. You may release all of the Tolkien Documents to us, take the money and walk out now. Or … you may stay to learn more of the truth.”
With exaggerated ceremony, he placed the black leather bag on the floor before her. Cadence pegged it for what it was: a classic payoff bag from a prop house. Cameras be damned, her mouth was dry and she had to wet her lips. Buyer’s remorse was heavy in her heart.
Bois-Gilbert waited. Patiently.
Cadence thought about the black T-shirted Topanga creeker, his warning of gifts-you-most-desire that would tempt her. She began. “I think … “
“Do you believe, Cadence?”
“I could …”
“Renounce this sham now and take the money!”
“But it’s got to be …”
“Truth is a rare and flighty bird, often misidentified.”
“I wish my grandfather …”
“Our wishes dictate much of our perceptions. But money is more constant, Cadence. A small fortune lies before you, within your grasp.”
“I’ll … stay.”
“So shall it be!” He swooped away the bag. “Madame Litton, please present your proofs.”
Cadence felt the ground go oozy under her straight-backed chair as the lady scientist leaned forward. She looked formidable, like a genius granddaughter of Madame Curie. Madame Litton carefully removed her spectacles and looked directly at Cadence before speaking.
“Cadence, something smells.”
She adjusted her bifocals and started to read, but then looked up to deliver her lines right to the camera. She had an intense look that she held for an unnaturally long time.
“Arêtes! Dix minutes!”
Madame Litton knew the drill. Camera people relaxed. One camera person, a young black man, hung to the side. He was hoping to steal a guilt-revealing candid shot of Cadence that might secure the pay-bump he wanted when they sold the pilot.
She got up and went out to the lobby. She checked her phone. Mel had called several times. She punched the return button.
He answered. “Hello.”
“I’m not signing anything or releasing anything.”
“OK, all right. I’ve been trying to call you back. Just slow down for a second and tell me what these translations say.”
“What? Oh. Well, it’s all about a female halfling named Ara. She’s been on a helluva journey. I like her. You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t be so testy. I still think I should send someone over to take custody of the originals. Let your friend work with copies.”