Lucid Intervals

40

They both must have been exhausted, because they slept until nearly noon, showered together, then had a late breakfast that Seth’s wife, Mary, prepared. They had no sooner finished than Felicity headed for Dick Stone’s little office and sat down at the computers while Stone tagged along.

Felicity typed in a few keystrokes and was connected with a security program that demanded her staff number and palm print. She turned toward Stone, who was standing in the doorway. “I’m sorry. I have work to do.” She reached over and closed the door in his face.

Chastened, Stone went into the living room, sat on the sofa and picked up The New York Times, which had come over on the ferry earlier. The doorbell rang, and Stone got up to answer it. There was a FedEx truck parked in the driveway and a young woman in a FedEx uniform at the door holding a box emblazoned with the company’s logo. “Ms. Felicity Devonshire?” she asked. “I need a signature.”

“I’ll sign for it,” Stone said.

She allowed him to do so and then left.

Stone took the box into the living room and examined it. The sender’s address was a Mount Street, London, number. Stone knew Mount Street, because it was where his tailor’s shop was located, and the Connaught Hotel was just down the street. Should he open it? He thought not; it was addressed to someone else.

He read the Times for an hour and was about to start on the cross-word when Felicity emerged from Dick’s office.

“Everything all right?” Stone asked.

“Pretty much,” she replied. “Is that the package from Hackett?”

“I assume so; it’s from a London address in Mount Street, and it’s addressed to you, so I didn’t open it.”

“That’s very discreet of you,” she said, patting his cheek. “Open it.” Stone pulled the tab, opened the box and shook out a heavy, dun-colored envelope of the sort that British businesses used.

“Open the envelope,” Felicity said, resting her cheek against his shoulder, as if she didn’t want to touch the package.

“You were expecting a bomb, maybe?”

“If I were expecting a bomb, I would be in another room,” she said. “Open it.”

Stone ran a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. A thick, brown file folder fell into her lap.

“Don’t touch it,” she said. “We need latex gloves. I saw some in a drawer in Dick’s office. I’ll get them.” She got up, ran to the office and returned with two pairs. She handed Stone one, and they each pulled theirs on. “Now,” she said, “open the folder.”

Stone opened the folder and was presented with what appeared to be the Royal Army Reserve service record of one James Hewitt Hackett, aged twenty upon enlistment. A photograph of a young man with a very short haircut was stapled to the upper right-hand corner. The photograph, yellowed with age, appeared to be the twenty-year-old Jim Hackett, whose nose had not yet been broken. “Looks like Jim,” Stone said.

“The folder and the paperwork look well aged,” Felicity said. “I’ll have that checked into. Keep turning pages.”

Stone went very slowly through the dossier, finding reports on the initial training of the young Hackett; his marksmanship scores, all of which were at the expert level; his physical training results, which pronounced him fit and fleet; his medical records, including the setting of the broken nose suffered during training, which pronounced him hale; and his annual evaluations by his superiors, which pronounced him of good character and high intelligence. He had been steadily promoted to his final rank of company sergeant, and the dossier included a recommendation that he be sent to Sandhurst and, upon graduation, be commissioned into the Royal Army. The file ended with a copy of a letter from the regimental commander regretting Hackett’s decision to leave the army at the end of his enlistment, imploring him to reconsider and, finally, wishing him well in civilian life.

“That’s quite a record,” Stone said.

“You notice,” Felicity replied, “that this dossier and everything in it appear untouched by water, whereas all the other regimental records lie, sodden, in a warehouse in Kent?”

“That seems to be the case,” Stone admitted.

“So, if the dossier is genuine, it was removed from the regimental records before they were shipped to Kent.”

“Apparently. How long ago were they shipped?”

“That information is as damp as the files themselves,” she replied, “but we estimate the transfer as having taken place about twenty years ago, leaving Sergeant Hackett about a five-year window for the appropriation of his dossier, which is, of course, the property of the Royal Army. He could be done for that.”

“Surely there’s a statute of limitations for such a crime,” Stone said, “which doesn’t seem of any great magnitude.”

“Perhaps there is such a statute, but I assure you, the Royal Army would not look kindly upon such a theft.”

Stone picked up the FedEx box to be sure it was empty and then extracted another, folded FedEx box and a sealed envelope addressed to Dame Felicity. Stone handed her the envelope, but she motioned for him to open it. Stone did so and extracted a letter, which he read aloud:

My Dear Dame Felicity,

I hope the enclosed dossier will be of help to you and your people in your endeavors to ascertain my identity. Perhaps you are wondering if it is genuine? It is. Perhaps you are wondering how I came to possess it? Some years after leaving the regiment I visited its headquarters on Salisbury Plain for luncheon, at the invitation of my former colonel. After a good lunch, during which much wine and port were consumed, the colonel took me into the regimental offices, where many boxes of old records were being packed to be sent for storage. He instructed a corporal who was working there to unearth my dossier, which the young man did with dispatch. We then returned to the colonel’s office, where he read the dossier to me and then presented it to me as a gift, saying that, since I was now an alumnus of the regiment, they would have no further use of it.

Having read it yourself, and no doubt having copied it into your service files, I would be grateful if you would return the dossier to my New York office in the box and with the FedEx waybill provided, since I hold a sentimental attachment for the history.

Cordially,

The letter was signed “Jim.”

“Well, he’s right about one thing,” Felicity said, standing and picking up the dossier. “It’s going to be copied into our files.” She went back into the office and closed the door behind her.