Free Dead Letters by Sheila Connolly Page B

But why the secrecy?
    He steepled his hands and resumed, “I have come upon several documents . . . whose contents I do not wish to disclose at this time, but suffice it to say, they contain information that troubles me.”
    I had no idea what this charming gentleman might consider troubling. “Mr. Logan, what is it you would like me to do?”
    “I admire your directness, Miss Pratt. To put it briefly, I would like you to review the collections that your institution holds, to see if there is any corroborative information about a particular . . . unfortunate event. This is purely for my own peace of mind, you understand. I want to be sure that I have made the correct interpretation.”
    “I’d be pleased to assist you, but you must know that I’m not part of the research staff. One of our archivists would be better equipped to find whatever it is you’re looking for.” Especially since I knew we didn’t possess any documents from his direct familial line, and therefore whatever existed in our collections already—if anything—would be buried in any of the many collections donated by other families over who knows how long a period.
    “I understand, but I would prefer you to handle this yourself, for some particular reasons. One, I’ve spoken with colleagues of mine, and they have reported that you are unquestionably discreet. Two, I know you are familiar with your institution’s holdings, at least broadly, so you are equipped to initiate such a search. This is not a scholarly undertaking, merely an exploratory effort. Let me add that I think you will appreciate the incentive that I offer.”
    While it was true that I knew the collections in general, I was not familiar with the minutiae. This was getting odder and odder. He’d been talking to people about me? He kept coming back to “discretion”—what was the information? Potentially damaging? Personally? Legally?
    “If I find something . . . illegal, you know I’d have to tell the authorities.”
    “Understood. I would expect nothing less from you. However, I do ask that you apprise me first of your discoveries.”
    “Mr. Logan, I appreciate the compliments, but what is it you hope I would find?”
    “I’d rather not say. But I think you would recognize it if you found it.”
    Great, now he was playing coy. I was supposed to mount a search through what could be tens of thousands of documents in our extensive collections, with no idea of what I was looking for? “I assume I can’t ask anyone else to help?”
    He shook his head. “I’d prefer you did not. I would like to know the . . . parameters of the issue before it becomes common knowledge. Aren’t you going to ask what I’m offering in exchange?”
    Of course I did. “All right. What is it you’re offering?”
    “All the Logan family papers, as an outright gift to the Society.”
    All that I could have hoped for! Even though I wasn’t an historian, I knew full well the scope and the importance of what he offered—nothing short of magnificent. “When would this take place?” It seemed a polite way of asking whether we’d see them soon, or only after his death.
    “I’m prepared to transfer them to you upon the completion of your inquiries.”
    “Regardless of what I find?”
    He dipped his head, once. “Yes. Without restrictions.”
    “Even if I find nothing at all?”
    “Yes. I want only to know if there exists any additional information about this particular event and its aftermath. I assume that once the documents have been transferred, there will be scholarly interest in them, at least among Pennsylvania historians. And before you ask, I am not suggesting that you to destroy or conceal any relevant documents—only that you let me know of their existence and their contents.”
    I took a moment to think. Not that there was much to think about: the man was asking me to do a quiet search of documents and, if I found anything damning, to let him know about it. I had to