Historian Albert Winslow sat at his desk in a sparsely furnished London office. Using two large wooden tweezers, he gently unrolled the manuscript. Faded calligraphy on tea coloured paper revealed its age and fragility. With a magnifying glass he studied the almost illegible signature confirming the author, John Keats.
Winslow peered over the top of his wire-framed spectacles. He studied the gentleman sitting opposite, who repeatedly wiped his balding head with a handkerchief. ‘Sir, where did you say you found this manuscript?’
âI didnât exactly find it. Itâs part of my inheritance.’
Removing his spectacles, the historian studied the gentleman sitting on the other side of his desk fidgeting in his chair. ‘What did you say your name was?’
‘Kent. Michael Kent.’
âMr Kent, this signature doesnât appear to resemble a Kent.’
‘It was handed down on my motherâs side. My mother changed my surname when she remarried.’
‘I see. Leave it with me, Mr Kent. Iâll have it valued for you by tomorrow. Leave your details with my secretary on the way out.’ He rose and shook his clientâs hand.
Winslowâs secretary entered his office the following morning. He looked up as she reached his desk.
‘Miss Harwich, could you please place a call to a Lord David Keats of Hampstead? Give him my name and switch him through to my office. Give me a few minutes though, I need to talk to Scotland Yard.’
‘Yes, Mr Winslow.’
It took just moments for Lord Keats’s voice to be heard.
‘Lord Keats?’
‘Yes, this is he.’
‘I believe I have in my possession your great grandfatherâs missing manuscript, âEndymionâ.’
The line was quiet for so long that Winslow thought he had been disconnected when suddenly Lord Keats continued.
‘How can that be? It disappeared after he died, in 1821? Itâs been almost a century?’
‘Yes, I know. I also know that your father, Lord Alfred Keats, passed away last week, my condolences.’
âThank you, but how do you know and what does his death have to do with my great grandfatherâs manuscript?â
‘Your father paid me to know. You see Iâm a historian and a private investigator. Your father visited me here in London on December sixth last year. The manuscript had apparently resurfaced and he hired me to investigate its location. I sent him a wire last Monday about my findings before his heart attack. Did he mention it to you?’
‘No, and Iâm not sure why he would hire anyone. Until Christmas my father and I had been investigating the mystery disappearance together for almost a decade.’
Winslow carefully chose his words before proceeding. âPerhaps, Lord Keats, your father discovered he hadnât been told when someone had found it. That someone decided to use it for his own financial gain.â
‘What are you implying, Mr Winslow?’
‘Let me refresh your memory. Two years ago, your cousin, Michael Kent, inherited a meagre bequest. While clearing out his motherâs writing bureau, Kent discovered a key to a safe deposit box that contained a letter from his grandfatherâyour grandfatherâs younger brother. With that letter was your great grandfatherâs manuscript. The letter described in detail how your grandfather cheated him out of his share or their fatherâs estate. Your great uncle stole the manuscript after your great grandfatherâs death in 1821â before he could have it published. Are you following me Lord Keats?’
‘Continue, Mr Winslow. I find your hypothesis intriguing.’
‘Late last year, your cousin decided it was time to show his hand by attempting to blackmail your father. Because your father didnât want his conniving nephew to get his hands on his money, he came directly to me. We thought it was an open and shut case until I discovered that Michael Kent had an accompliceâsomeone who wanted revenge for an unrelated incident years before. Unfortunately, that piece of information inadvertently killed your father. The accomplice was you. Am I right Lord Keats?’
‘Youâre very clever, Mr Winslow. Thereâs one thing you havenât explained. How did you get your hands on the manuscript?’
‘That was the easy part. After your fatherâs death, you and your cousin-initiated plan B: to sell the manuscript to a publisher and split the profit. However, your cousin decided to have it valued first. Unfortunately for you both, he came to me. I advertise my professions separately and I only display my name on the door.’
There was another notable silence followed by a murmur of voices at Lord Keatsâ end of the line. ‘Youâll have to excuse me, Mr Winslow. Apparently, I have visitors.’
‘Ah yes, my friends from Scotland Yard. Blackmail is a serious crime. Good day to you, Lord Keats.’
© Chrissy Siggee
Authors Notes:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the authorâs imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
English poet John Keats, born October 1795 in Moorgate, London, died in February 1821 at the age of 26 from tuberculosis. His works had been the target of much abuse including his last epic poem âEndymionâ. John Keats never married, which should indicate that the contents of: âThe Mystery of Keatsâ Missing âEndymionâ â Solvedâ set in the early twentieth century, is completely fictional.
Archived in: Short Fiction
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