Her hopes dampened, she pulled open the old oak door. Inside, the floor groaned beneath her, announcing her every step. A man ensconced behind a massive desk looked up at the sound, candlelight dancing in his spectacles.
"Excuse me, miss," he said. "Are you lost?"
"No," Victoria replied. "I'm here to visit a friend of my father's."
The man smiled and rose to his feet. "You must be mistaken. You see, Blackfriars Hall has not been in use by the university for a very long time. We keep it open for historical purposes, but I'm afraid there are no offices here."
"But I'm certain he told me to meet him here." The paper crackled in her hand as she held it out to the man. "Blackfriars Hall."
The man took the paper from her and inspected it. "Yes, that is what it says. Perhaps you misunderstood?"
"Perhaps not," Victoria replied. "I'm quite capable of reading, sir."
He offered her a thin smile. "With whom were you exchanging letters?"
"A Mr. Townsend, an acquaintance of my father and scholar of some renown."
Behind his spectacles, the man's eyes widened. He looked back down at the scrap of paper and swallowed. "Mr. James Townsend?"
"Yes." Victoria stood up straighter. "He requested that I come visit him, and he instructed me to meet him in this hall."
"Of course," the man said, returning the paper. "If you'll follow me."
Surprised but pleased by her host's sudden acquiescence, Victoria fell into step behind him. He led her down a long corridor lined with closed doors. Some had names and titles carved into their ancient wood, but the doorman's pace was too brisk for her to get a good look. Their footsteps echoed through the empty building. Despite herself, Victoria pictured a procession of ghastly scholars with black robes and pale faces following them. Her skin prickled, and she pushed the thought away. She was here to speak with this James Townsend and learn from him how she might avenge her parents. Whoever he was, she was sure he wouldn't be impressed by a young woman who was frightened of echoes. He expected the bold, determined woman from her letters, and that was who she must be.
Her silent guide led her up a flight of stairs and down another corridor. Dust danced about his shoes in tiny swirls. The back of Victoria's throat began tickling something fierce. She tried to swallow it away, but it persisted. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she coughed as quietly as she could. The sound seemed to fill the building like a locomotive in a tunnel, but the porter did not turn or even seem to hear.
Some distance down the hall, he turned and approached a door indistinguishable from the others. She half-hid behind him as he rapped on the door with his knuckles.
"Yes? Who is it?" The thick wood muffled the voice behind it.
"You have a caller, Mr. Townsend," the man in the spectacles replied. "A young woman."
There was a muted exclamation of surprise, and the door opened. The man on the other side was small and stout. Light from behind him glinted in his glasses as he smiled and extended his hand. "Mr. James Townsend, erstwhile professor of religious studies, University of Oxford."
Victoria didn't smile as he kissed her hand. "Victoria Dawes of Oxford, daughter of the late Henry and Abigail Dawes."
"Yes, of course," James replied, placing his other hand on top of hers. "My sincerest condolences for your great loss. Your father was a remarkable man, and your mother a most worthy wife to him. Please, come in." He stood to one side and waved a hand toward the room beyond.
Victoria smiled her thanks as she stepped through the door.
"Thank you, Benedict," James said to the other man. Benedict nodded without replying and began retreating down the hall, his footsteps fading into the darkness. Closing the door, James turned back to Victoria, who stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Her face must have reflected her distaste for the strange porter, because James let out a chuckle. "Oh, don't mind him. A queer fellow, to be sure, but harmless. You'd be hard-pressed to find a man in this building who wasn't a curious sort."
Victoria's smile felt shaky. An uneasiness had been growing in her since she came into Blackfriars Hall, and neither Benedict nor this James Townsend made her feel any more comfortable.
"Please, have a seat." James motioned toward a pair of high-backed chairs facing the fireplace. Victoria obliged him, settling gingerly onto one of the