Never Meant To Be by Stephen Seitz

Author:Stephen Seitz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Sherlock Holmes, mystery, crime, british crime, sherlock holmes novels, sherlock holmes fiction, sherlock holmes short story
ISBN: 9781780924540
Publisher: Andrews UK
Published: 2013-07-24T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

A uniformed guard shook Cynthia’s shoulder and said something in French. He appeared angry. Conscious of being clad only in a nightgown, Cynthia pulled the blanket up over her body.

“What is this?” she demanded.

“American,” the guard said, his voice heavy with a French accent. “I might have known. Have you been here all night?”

“Of course, I was locked in here.”

“That is not possible.”

As Cynthia’s head cleared, she saw that the room was cordoned off with velvet ropes, with tourists peering through the door, trying to get a good view. Some of them were taking pictures with their cell phones. It gave her a strange feeling of disorientation.

“Please find me something to wear,” she said. “Where am I?”

“You are in the Chateau Duquesne,” the guard said. “We are about 25 kilometers southwest of Paris. How do you come to be here?”

“I - don’t know.”

“Do you need a doctor?”

Cynthia reached under her pillow, relieved to find her cell phone had also made the trip.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m completely lost. Are there any Americans here?”

“Please come with me.”

Feeling vulnerable in the nightgown, Cynthia did not protest as the guard led her down the hall. Everything had changed. The 21st century suddenly bombarded Cynthia with its cacophony of electronics, bustle, and urgency. Where last night she was a prisoner in the most elegant of country cages, today she was a vagabond with nothing but a cell phone, a nightgown and an insane story. What had been comfortable furniture only a few hours (now many years) ago was off limits, tourists wandered about, staring and taking pictures as Cynthia was led past them. Air conditioning, electric light, music over loudspeakers (how intrusive it seemed now) ... she had come back to her present, but how close?

“What day is it?” she asked.

“It is September 14,” the guard replied.

Thanks a lot, Cynthia thought, knowing what the guard would think if she asked the year.

One of the costumed docents found Cynthia some period clothing, and once again Cynthia was dressed like someone from the 19th century. The guard led Cynthia to an office that had been the study down the hall from her room. It didn’t look much different: walls of books, portraits of the chateau’s previous denizens, photographs of landscapes, a sofa, coffee table with magazines, a steaming coffee pot by the desk on which, thank God, she saw a flatscreen computer. The guard bade her to sit down, as an attractive man a few years older than she came into the room, and spoke to the guard in French.

When the guard left, the man said, “I’m Guy Harrison. I’m the historical director here. May I ask who you are?”

“You’re not French.”

“No, I’m on sabbatical from the University of Massachusetts. May I have your name, please?”

“My name? Cynthia Kenyon.”

Harrison registered a look of shock.

“You’ve been missing for months,” he said. “You vanished from a museum in front of a dozen witnesses. Where have you been?”

“You’ll have me put away if I tell you.”

“I’m all ears.

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