Chapter 3: The Academic Chasm

She pressed the red pen tip against the final character, and her phone screen flared to life with a new email. The sender was Charles Ashworth, and the attachment was a single, freshly photographed Star Chart. The missing corner had been filled in with a thin, black sliver, the edges fitting together with the seamless precision of a wound closing.

Harriet zoomed in on the photo. The surface of the black patch was matte, devoid of any reflection, yet in the bottom-right corner, three tiny white dots emerged. Their arrangement was identical to the pattern in the top-left of the original chart. She looked at William. The old man was staring at the glowing light, his finger resting on the clasp of the archive box. "He filled the gap," she said. "And he deliberately left those three stars. He wants me to know the answer is in my hands."

William clicked the clasp shut, his voice raspy. "Charles doesn't hand out clues for free. That photo could be from your sample, or it could be from a master copy he made a long time ago. Taking items out of the archives already puts you in legal jeopardy. Stop confirming to him what you can see."

"I'm going to Oxford." Hariette shoved her phone into her coat pocket. "Katharine can read a spectrum. At the very least, she can tell if the black patch was added later. While Ellis is digging into the safe records, I need to know exactly what the evidence in my hand is worth."

William raised an eyebrow. "You're talking about it like you're appraising stolen goods. It belongs to the municipal archives, and ownership isn't settled yet. Taking a fragment away... the test results might help you, or they might be the first thing the prosecution uses to find you."

"If the prosecution comes for me, that photo already opened the door for them." Harriet picked up the pencil case containing the sample. "As for Charles, he put the house number on his own face. I just need to confirm the shape of the lock."

The train from Liverpool to Oxford cut through the damp plains. Inside the carriage, Harriet reviewed the spectral diagrams; three dark lines held their position at the same angle. She photographed the paper pages with her phone, deleted the originals, then cleared the trash folder a second time. The process cost her a traceable backup but resulted in a photo that, for now, existed only in her hand.

Katharine was waiting for her outside her office in Oxford, a stack of printed papers tucked under her arm. "You're eleven minutes late," she said. "The journey from Liverpool to Oxford isn't an excuse for your tardiness, unless you spent the ride reinventing the clock."

Harriet set the pencil case on the desk. "No clock reinventing on the train, just verification. The fragment of the Star Chart showed three dark lines under blue light. The edge of the black patch reacted the same way. I need to know if it's part of the original piece."

Katharine pulled on her gloves and retrieved a portable Spectrometer. "Your sampling method is as crude as cutting a cake with a dinner knife. No unified angles, no blank controls, and you listed the light source as 'standard desk lamp.' If you submitted this record to a journal, the reviewers would use it to level their table legs."

Harriet didn't move the pencil case. "Even for table legs, you have to admit paper doesn't glow on its own. Look at the third dark line on the right. It appears continuously on both the black patch and the parchment, with a positional error of less than half a millimeter."

Katharine leaned in to check the screen. "The error margin is written beautifully; the source is written poorly. You used a phone camera—the auto white balance shifts the colors. You used glass slides to hold the sample down—the pressure alters surface scattering. But these three lines are genuinely valuable. They look like traces left by the same batch of mineral pigments."

"Does that mean the black patch came from the original?" Harriet asked.

"I'm only saying the pigments are similar," Katharine turned the sample case. "It could be from the original, or it could be from the same workshop. If you want a conclusion that stands up to scrutiny, you need to put the original, the black patch, and a blank sheet of paper through the same instrument. Let's cooperate. I'll handle the testing; you handle completing the chain of evidence."

Harriet slid the authorization form across the desk. "Cooperation requires your name, and it requires my sample. I can provide photos of the fragment and the test results, but the physical item stays with me for now."

Katharine looked up. "You're negotiating, which means you've already guessed that someone is going to take your sample. Charles sent you that photo for a clear reason. He wants you to hand the black patch to the police, and then he can buy the gap in the report from them."

"He wants to launder something whose origin is unexplainable," Harriet said. "As soon as the police seal the sample, the auction house can rewrite the story as 'an officially verified historical relic.' He's missing a stamp, and I'm not going to press it for him."

Urgent footsteps echoed from outside the office. Edward Ellis stood in the doorway, rain dripping from the seams of his coat onto the floor. He glanced at Katharine, then at the pencil case on the desk. "I came straight from Liverpool. I got a call from the archives on the way. William says you took a fragment of the Star Chart. There’s no loan permission for it in the municipal registry."

Harriet closed the lid of the case. "Did you find out who opened the safe?"

"The records have been tampered with. The original pages are still at forensics." Edward placed a document bag on the desk. "I'm dealing with the immediate issue. You're holding what is suspected to be a protected artifact. Unauthorized sampling and transfer will complicate the investigation. Hand the sample over to me. I can provide you with a formal receipt, and the police will arrange the testing."

Katharine picked up the document bag. "When the police arrange the testing, it usually means the sample sits in an evidence locker while different departments send letters back and forth. Charles will use that time to patch up his story. Your bureaucracy will provide him with the patience he needs."

Ellis frowned. "Ms. Mortimer, procedure protects the evidence, but it also protects the innocent. Retaining the sample privately breaks the chain of custody. The prosecution can use that to challenge every result."

Harriet stared at the black pencil case. Inside the lid, there was a fresh scratch, as if someone had tried to pick the lock with a key. She thought of William’s hand pressing the clasp, and the three white dots in Charles’s email. Handing it over would grant her legal protection, but she’d lose the chance to trace the patch's origin. Keeping it would allow her to keep investigating, but it could turn the whole incident into a record of her own illegal conduct.

"Ellis," she said. "If I hand over the sample now, can you guarantee no one touches it before testing? Not a verbal assurance. I need the seal number, the transfer time, and the names of everyone who handles it."

Ellis opened his notebook. "I can guarantee the registration process is complete, but I can't vouch for every single step. Your conditions are reasonable, but the sample still belongs in police custody. If you refuse, I'll note the refusal, and a judge will decide later."

Katharine spread three spectral charts side by side. "Give her two hours. She keeps the photos, I run the comparison on the instrument, and the sample goes to the police afterward. You get a verifiable record, she gets a chance to confirm the origin. That is exactly the kind of half-step evidence Charles is terrified of."

Ellis looked at Harriet. "Two hours doesn't mean you can keep chasing the black market. No contacting Charles. No transferring the sample. No more sampling. If you agree to that, I'll treat it as cooperation. If you refuse, I'm applying for a search warrant right now."

Harriet pulled out her phone and opened the email attachment. When she overlaid the three white dots on the black patch with the top-left corner of the original, a thin line remained in the empty space. She lowered the brightness, and the line formed three characters: A, P, 14. Next to it sat a cropped half-circle seal.

"Apollo Power, March fourteenth," she said. "The black patch isn't just a repair; it's marking the safe records. Charles wants me to treat it as proof of payment, because that’s how everyone will miss the date."

Katharine picked up a magnifying glass. "Finally, a testable hypothesis. But the date could point to the transfer date. The half-circle seal is the real key. Hand the sample to Ellis, keep the photos, and we'll use the test results to close in on that seal."

Harriet pushed the pencil case to the edge of the desk, but her fingers didn't let go. "I'm keeping the sample. You get the complete photos, the spectral records, and the original email. The handover is delayed two hours. If anyone wants it now, they can explain first why there's a fresh scratch on the black patch."

Ellis stared at the lid. "You know this will be recorded as a refusal to comply."

"I know," Harriet withdrew her hand. "I also know a record is easier to trace than a guess. In two hours, I'll hand it over to you personally."

Katharine powered on the instrument. The half-circle seal on the edge of the black patch gradually resolved on the screen. Ellis made a phone call, ordering the entry and exit points of the archives to be sealed off. Harriet forwarded Charles’s email to herself, then deleted the attachment from her phone.

She left behind the paper photo, the pencil case, and one choice that hadn't been made yet: report to the police now to chase down Charles, or take the sample back to Liverpool and find the safe that had been opened on March fourteenth, 1975.

The wipers slashed rhythmically across the windshield, making a dry, scraping noise, like an old set of bones working in the joints. Harriet pulled her car into the muddy shoulder of Ashton Road. After the engine cut, the cabin held only the dense drumming of rain on the roof.

That email from Charles Ashworth still sat at the top of her inbox, the attachment icon looking like a black nail, driven firmly into the background of the screen. She switched the phone on again. The light stung her eyes, forcing her to squint to make out the sender's name.

William Keane stood at the foot of the steps leading to the archive entrance, holding an unlit cigar between his fingers. Rain seeped over the collar of his dark grey trench coat. He didn't reach up to block it, just watched Harriet get out of the car. The wrinkles on the old man’s face seemed deeper as the rain soaked in, like an old map that had been folded and unfolded too many times.

He raised his old flip phone. The cold light of the screen looked thin in the damp air.

"You're three minutes late," William’s voice cut through the rain, dry and stubborn. "Charles’s people have circled this road twice. They’re wearing black raincoats, no umbrellas. They look like insects that don’t want to get wet."

Harriet hurried up the steps, her feet splashing through the puddles, soaking the tips of her shoes. A chill crawled up from her ankles—that specific, damp cold unique to Liverpool in March. She thought of the photo in Charles’s email, the black sliver covering the gap in the Star Chart, the three white dots in the bottom right corner arranged with a precision that made her heart skip.

That accuracy reminded her of the ruler she used to correct her students' calligraphy practice, but this time, a trap lay behind the ruler.

"I'm not late," Harriet pushed open the door, the creak of the hinges echoing in the empty hall. "I was confirming if that route was safe. William, did you see those black raincoats?"

"I saw them." William shoved his phone into his pocket, his gaze sharp as a blade. "They’re waiting. Waiting for you to hand over what you shouldn't, or waiting for you to die on the road. Which will it be?"

Harriet didn't answer. She just pulled out the black pencil case. The scratch on the lid reflected a pale light under the dim archive lamps, like an unhealed wound. Her fingertips felt cold, an instinctive reaction of her body to danger. She knew William was probing her, and she knew Charles was watching from the shadows.

Being watched from multiple angles made her skin crawl, as if dozens of eyes were focusing simultaneously on her hands.

"I'm not choosing," Harriet set the pencil case on the counter, it made a dull thud. "I just want to look. William, pull up the original safe records for March fourteenth, 1975. I know they were tampered with, but the original pages are still with forensics. I need to compare the handwriting pressure values."

William turned and walked toward the file cabinets. When the metal doors opened, the smell of aged paper wafted out. The scent mixed with the smell of rain and damp concrete, forming the distinct background tone of the archive. Harriet stood behind the counter, her fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the pencil case.

She needed to calm down. She needed to treat this like a complex historical exam paper, breaking down the chaotic information into a clear chain of logic.

Katharine Mortimer's voice suddenly cut through the air from the other side of the hall, sharp and clear, like a needle piercing the heavy silence. "If you plan to judge handwriting pressure with the naked eye, you'd better prepare a diagnosis from a psychiatrist."

Harriet whipped around. Katharine was standing in the shadow of the bookshelves, holding a printed spectral analysis report. Light reflected off her glasses, and a cold smile played at the corner of her mouth.

"You're saying," Harriet took a step forward, rain dripping from the tips of her hair, "that you think my method is flawed?"

"Let's get started," Harriet said. "Let's see who exactly Charles Ashworth is trying to fool."