More Bitter Than Death: An Emma Fielding Mystery - By Dana Cameron Page 0,68
included a couple of good shots of the crew working, and one of them goofing off, which was nice, and then some of the tastier artifacts we’d recovered. She loitered over the chatelaine that we’d found season one, a particular prize of mine because my sister Bucky had found it. And then she wound up her introduction with a description of the politics she believed caused the Chandlers to relocate.
“What I had originally decided was that it had become socially and economically prudent for Matthew Chandler both to marry into the Chase fortune—Margaret’s father was a successful merchant who married into a minor branch of nobility—and to leave London quickly thereafter, as the news of the corruption scandal from Woodbroke was just reaching Norwich and London at that point. It turns out I was wrong.”
I blinked; I hadn’t heard this part.
She took a deep breath. “I received an email just three days ago, from Professor Merton-Twigg, whose work focuses on the documentary history of Norwich in the early modern period. It turns out, however, that although the name Chandler is prominently mentioned in the city records of the time, it is not our Chandlers. I don’t even know if they are related, but it certainly wasn’t Matthew who was involved. The reason we can confirm this is twofold: The first is that a diarist of the time mentions that Matthew was already in London, having quit Woodbroke for Oxford some years before. The second was that Professor Merton-Twigg realized that the transcription of the document I hoped would prove my point was incomplete. A footnote that had been described as ‘illegible’ was in fact a remark that Matthew had served with good faith his family and their interests at Woodbroke, and that he never would have let this happen.”
Meg took another deep breath and smiled ruefully. “There goes chapter three of my dissertation.”
There was a shocked pause, some “awws,” and some laughter. I sucked my teeth, knowing what a blow it was to Meg.
She finished up smartly enough, discussing where she could go from here, what else remained to be done, and what were the other options for her research.
I ducked out of that session, went to another couple papers on osteology, and then snuck back in for the wrap-up, a rather dreary report on numbers of immigrants to a small town outside of Hartford during the late nineteenth century. After the question period, Meg was collecting her slide tray—she was still unable to afford more impressive computer hardware and display software—and I sidled up behind her. The lights were up, showing the dull gold wallpaper to no good advantage.
“That’s a pain, huh?” I said.
“What are you going to do?” She screwed up her face. “The email came a couple of days ago, and a copy of the letter came right as I was leaving for here. It just nailed down the lid on the coffin.”
“And is it really a whole chapter in your dissertation?”
She shrugged. “It would have been fun and interesting, but it’s really just a smallish part. I can revise it easily enough, make what I’ve got part of the family history, then get to the site itself. No biggie.”
“I have to say, you’re taking this remarkably well. I know you thought you had a hot lead there, that it would have been a nice, juicy scandal to work with. But you might be able to work it into an essay on historiography, or something.”
Meg frowned, darting a sideways glance at me, as she worked her carousel box into her backpack. “Well, what am I supposed to do? I’m not about to sit down and cry just because history didn’t go the way I wanted. It would be nice to shape the past anyway I want, but I’m not going to screw with the data we do have to suit my own prurient interests.”
Neal came up then. “So, how’d it go?”
“Good. Got it over with. Onward and upward. Or downward, as the case may be.”
“I’m taking it worse than she is,” I added. “Bummer.”
“Oh, well, there was some serious pissing and moaning at home, and on the ride up here, and for a while as she was rewriting,” Neal offered.
“Thanks, chum,” Meg said to her fiancé. “Way to get my back.”
“Oh, come on.” Neal squished her in a big overblown hug, guaranteed to wrinkle her shirt and rumple her serious demeanor. Meg was smiling by the time she wriggled free. “You’re fine now. Emma understands.”