Mrs McDougal took a plate out of the oven and put it down before me. Two eggs, browned toast, and a piece of bacon graced my plate. Real bacon. I could have wept.
‘However did you get bacon?’ I asked in awe, reluctant to touch it. California’s meat shortage had been in the headlines for weeks now, with no relief in sight, despite promises from the meat rationing board. Although sacrifices were necessary for the troops who fought overseas, I craved bacon and beef just as much as the next person.
‘It’s the last piece,’ Mrs McDougal said. ‘I just read that the food shortage is going to get worse. I can’t imagine it.’
‘They need farmers,’ Alice said. ‘My momma says that all the men who harvest the food have gone off to war.’
‘Pretty soon the women will be working in the fields,’ Mrs McDougal said.
‘Unless they join the WACS or the WAVES,’ Alice said. ‘My sister tried to volunteer, but they wouldn’t take her. She has bad vision.’
Mrs McDougal and Alice chatted while I ate. Every now and then Mrs McDougal would look at me, nodding in approval as I cleaned my plate. I hadn’t eaten this well since I left Bennett Cove. Dr Geisler came into the kitchen just as I finished my meal and reached for the pot to pour another a cup of coffee.
‘Ah, Sarah. Your timing is perfect,’ said Dr Geisler. He nodded at Alice. ‘Mrs McDougal, would you please bring another pot of coffee into the office for Sarah and me?’ He rubbed his hands together, eager as a schoolboy. ‘Come along. We’ve much to do.’
* * *
We walked through the foyer and up the staircase opposite that which led to my room. I gasped when we entered the room, not because of the view of the San Francisco Bay and Alcatraz, which was stunning. My fascination lay with the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that covered every wall, all of the shelves filled to the brim with books of all sorts.
‘May I?’ I gestured at the shelves.
‘Please.’ Dr Geisler nodded his approval.
Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, a well-worn edition of Balzac in its original French, James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, The Life of Samuel Johnson by James Boswell, and a series of blue leather books that were too big to fit on the shelves were stacked on a library table.
Books. Books. Everywhere books. There were leather-bound tomes with golden letters on the spine, classics, some so old they should have been in a museum. There were medical textbooks, music books, art books, books about birds, and architecture, and cooking. A small section of one shelf held a stack of paperbacks by Mary Roberts Rinehart, Margery Allingham, and Lina Ethel White.
‘The mysteries belong to my wife. She has her own library upstairs, too.’ He came to stand next to me. ‘Books are my indulgence. I love to be surrounded by them.’
‘You have a remarkable collection,’ I said.
‘Consider my books at your disposal, Miss Bennett.’
I sat in the chair opposite him. Alice brought in a tray of coffee. Dr Geisler poured us each a cup.
‘I’ve arranged the handwritten notes for you to type into sections and put them in folders on your desk. You can work at your own pace, but I hope you can finish at least one of the folders, approximately five pages, each day. After you have typed up the pages, if you could handwrite a short summary of what you’ve typed, that will be helpful. Does that make sense?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
‘I think I’ll just let you get to it. If you have any questions or difficulties reading my handwriting, you can let me know. You need to be mindful of my spelling, as it is not my forte. There’s a Latin dictionary and a medical dictionary on that shelf.’ He pointed to two books on the credenza. ‘Does that arrangement suit?’
‘Of course.’
‘Follow me, please.’
Dr Geisler walked over to the corner of the office, where another door was nestled between two bookcases. He opened it and led me into the small room, with its own bookcase, but unlike the shelves in Dr Geisler’s office, these shelves were jammed full of files, stacks of paper, and scientific journals, all in a state of chaos. My desk sat under a large mullioned window. In the middle of it sat a new Underwood typewriter. The promised handwritten notes lay next to it, anchored in place with a bronze dragonfly. A fountain pen, a bottle of ink, and a brand-new steno pad lay next to the notes. Dr Geisler flicked on one of the lamps.
‘Is this all right? I thought you might want some privacy, and I’ve always liked this room.’ He eyed the chaotic shelves. ‘Once you’ve settled in, I’ll get someone to deal with this mess.’
‘Yes, thank you.’ I sat down at the desk.
‘Well, I’ll let you get to work then,’ he said.
‘Dr Geisler,’ I called out to him before he left the room. ‘Thank you.’
‘I believe we are going to help each other a great deal, Miss Bennett.’
‘Call me Sarah, please.’
‘Very well. And you may call me Matthew.’
He nodded and closed the door behind him.
And so I spent my first day at the Geisler Institute. The work proved interesting. Dr Geisler’s handwriting wasn’t schoolroom perfect, but I managed. The new typewriter was exquisite, especially in comparison to the rattle-trap machines at Miss Macky’s. Those relics had many keys that were stuck or missing and ribbons that were often as dry as a bone. A student had to type fifty words a minute before they were allowed access to the precious ink bottles that would bring the desiccated ribbons back to some semblance of life.
On this machine, the keys were smooth and well oiled, the ink crisp and black on the page. I started to work and fell into a routine. I would type three pages, proofread them, write a short summary, and move on. At two-thirty, when my stomach growled, I had finished eleven pages and felt very proud indeed. I pushed away from my desk, stood up, and started to stretch out my arms and neck, when Bethany came into the room.
‘I see you’ve settled in.’ She hovered around my desk. ‘Is everything to your liking? I wasn’t sure what sort of a chair you’d want. We’ve many to choose from, so if you aren’t comfortable, I hope you’ll speak up.’
‘Everything is fine,’ I said.
‘We’ll be going out for dinner this evening, so you can either have a tray in your room or eat in the kitchen with Mrs McDougal. Just let her know your preference.’
After a few minutes, I grabbed my purse and stepped into the now empty office. Remembering Dr Geisler’s offer to use his library, I perused the books on offer and had almost reached for Middlemarch, but settled instead on The Secret Adversary by Agatha Christie. I tucked the book under my arm, ready to head to my room for a few hours of reading time.
‘Hello, Sarah.’
I stopped dead in my tracks.
Zeke sat in one of the chairs
