“Go on.”
“A few years back, during major renovations on the hotel, they worked in the basement. You’d know about that from your records. What you probably don’t know, and I didn’t, either, is that during that time, they discovered a tunnel in the basement that they assumed was for smuggling.”
“Wait, what? My secret door? They already found the tunnel? Why isn’t it on the blueprints?”
“The authorities at the time obviously didn’t want the tunnel to be used for smuggling anymore, so they sealed it off. That might explain it. We’ll have to look deeper into that. But listen to this. When they were renovating, they discovered a skeleton and a spent bullet in that tunnel. Forensics determined the deceased was a woman, but they’ve not been able to identify her. They also found a gun, but based on the bullet, it wasn’t the gun that killed her.”
“Oh no! It wasn’t Rosie, was it?”
“If it was Rosie, you wouldn’t be here.”
I roll my eyes at the obvious gaffe. “Of course. That’s embarrassing.”
“It’s all right. You have a lot on your mind, and I’m giving you more.”
He sips his coffee. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that at some point, we’ve gone down another muffin.
“During the renovation process, they discovered more items, and the workers gave them to the archives. They were catalogued but never put on display. Basically forgotten.”
“Like the Ark of the Covenant,” I say.
“Pardon me?”
“Remember that? After Indiana Jones found the Ark, government men came and confiscated it, and they filed it away in a warehouse, where it was basically buried all over again.”
The lines around his eyes crease with the memory. “I do remember that. Great movie. Bit larger archives than I’m used to, but yes. Along the same lines.” He downs the rest of his coffee, eager to continue. “Anyway, once I started finding records having to do with the Dominion and your long-lost relative, I found a note about this necklace, including information on where it had been found. I suppose normally, I might have turned to the next record, but then I saw this…” He picks up the locket and lays it flat on his palm. “What do you see there?”
Something is etched into the silver. I squint and angle his hand so it picks up the sunlight. “It looks like letters. Is that anR? Yes, and that’s—Oh, I see it now.RR & DW.What…” My jaw drops. “Rosie Ryan and Damien Walsh?”
“I believe so.”
I gawk at the letters on the little treasure, stunned. If this really is what we think it is—and Matthew’s eager expression is convincing—then this delicate chain once hung around my great-grandmother’s neck. It’s so hard to imagine, and yet I feel an immediate bond to it.
“But how did you get this out of the archives? I thought that wasn’t allowed.”
“This was a special case. The locket was never formally donated or classified as a significant historical artifact, so it was listed under ‘unclaimed personal items.’ So I contacted a curator, explained, and she approved its release. It was badly tarnished, so I got it cleaned up. I got a message that it was ready for me this morning, which is why I left so early. My apologies forthat, by the way.” He gets to his feet and holds out his hand to help me stand. “This is your great-grandmother’s necklace, Bridget. Now it belongs to you.”
Matthew fastens it around my neck, his fingers skimming over my skin. I touch the little locket where it lies against my chest, at a loss. I guess that’s when it really hits me, feeling the tickle of the thin chain, imagining how precious this necklace must have been to them both. My mind brings back the faded black-and-white image of the young chambermaids, and tears slide down my cheeks.
“There,” he says softly.
He cups my shoulders in his hands and rotates me toward a mirror. I wish I could envision Rosie Ryan staring back at me. Did she have my nose? What colour were her eyes? I have no idea, and it suddenly feels so personal that I never will. The locket, to me, becomes a symbol of Rosie. My history. I never want to take it off. Behind me, in my reflection, Matthew’s eyes are sparkling. This moment means so much for me, but as a historian, I realize how moved he must have been when he first made the connection.
“I’ve never been given such a meaningful gift,” I tell him honestly.
“It’s almost like Rosie left it there for you.”
I touch the locket, already connected to it. “Rosie didn’t kill Mrs. Evans.”
“I don’t think so, either, but we may never know the truth. However, I’m pleased to announce that there is more to add to the story.” He reaches for the binder and opens it to a page near the end. “Since I reopened this file, the skeleton and remnants of clothing I mentioned earlier have been taken away for more analysis. They know it’s from the late 1920s, and you and I know, based on the construction of the hotel, that it has to be 1929 at the earliest. I will be sending them a message to update their files.”
“So, who was it? Whose skeleton did they find in the basement of the Dominion Hotel? We know it wasn’t Rosie, and it wasn’t Mrs. Evans.”
“No one knows.”
PART 4ROSIE RYAN
1929
