Chapter 1: A MESSAGE FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE

Monday, April 5th… 4:00pm in Reston, Virginia…

In a tastefully appointed office at the law firm of Grenville, Overton, North & Rye, a dapper elderly gentleman made ready to depart, adjusting his bow tie and uncrossing his legs. The generous proportions of the burgundy leather club chair in which sat Doctor Donald Mallard caused him to appear slighter than he actually was. In his youth, despite being somewhat vertically-challenged and spare-framed, his compact physique and robust athleticism had vanquished many an opponent on the playing field. Adherence to a healthy regime carried him in good stead throughout his active adult years and continued to do so, although nowadays physical exercise more often took the form of less strenuous activities such as golf and walks in the park.

Seated opposite, senior partner Harold Grenville—topping six feet and carrying more poundage than his wife and general physician would have liked—still evoked an image of offensive lineman, which position he'd played at Yale. Both men were of an age, well past seventy, at which point they could have retired from their respective vocations had they so chosen. On a first-name basis after their many years of professional association, they considered themselves friends and confidantes. However, as today's meeting was business rather than casual, they observed a line of appropriate demeanor as tangible as the antique mahogany desk separating them.

"I assume we're done here?" Doctor Mallard queried in his plummy British accent.

"Not quite, Donald," the native Bostonian rumbled.

"What do you mean, Harold? The terms of the will seem quite straightforward to me."

"I can assure you they are. Aside from the specific bequests of which you've already been made aware, you are sole beneficiary. To the best of my knowledge there are no other claimants."

"Is there a problem?" Blue-faded-to-gray eyes peered quizzically over bifocals.

"No… not a problem, exactly." With a resigned sigh, the portly attorney carefully removed his horn-rimmed spectacles and squeezed the bridge of his nose, anticipating with gloom the reaction the next phase of the meeting would elicit. He dreaded when clients entrusted him with secrets to be dumped—post-demise and after-the-fact—into the laps of unsuspecting heirs. Replacing the glasses with equal care, he cleared his throat. "One item remains… unrelated to the will itself, as it happens."

The unsuspecting heir resettled himself against the plush leather, recrossing his legs and clasping his hands in his lap—mildly annoyed… but curious. His plans for the afternoon did not include expending any more hours settling his late mother's estate. The previous four hours had been tedious enough and his fingers cramped from signing endless sheaves of documents.

On a corner of the desk reposed an oxblood leather courier case fitted with an ornate brass lock. Drawing it near, Grenville ceremoniously unlocked it with a key taken from the desk's center drawer. From it he removed a ten-by-twelve ivory vellum envelope, which he slid across the polished surface to Doctor Mallard.

The other man studied the envelope, noting his name rendered in a very familiar longhand with stylish flourishes indicative of an expensive education obtained in an exclusive Edwardian-era female seminary. Picking it up and turning it over, he examined the old-fashioned wax seal embossed in the traditional manner with a signet ring—an item currently secured in a safe deposit box along with the rest of his mother's jewelry.

"What's this, then?" he inquired mildly.

"A communiqué from your late mother," Grenville replied tersely, taking extra care to stifle even the slightest hint of humor.

"Yes. I can see that. What does it concern?"

"I would prefer that you read it for yourself," was the evasive response. "But if I had to categorize, I suppose I would describe it as a deathbed confession of sorts."

"When were you given this?"

"The week after she was diagnosed."

"Then it would hardly have been written from her deathbed, Harry. Please explain."

The lawyer had the good grace to appear discomfited. "A few weeks after rendering her last will and testament in your presence, Victoria requested I attend her privately to discuss another matter before she…" Here he stumbled but recovered smoothly. "While she was still able to do so. She produced a hand-written testament, which she asked me to read and sign as witness, whereupon it was placed in the envelope, sealed and given into my keeping until such time as… that is, until now. I was sworn to secrecy."

The lady had still been in possession of most of her mental faculties when, three years prior, her personal physician pronounced the onset of Alzheimer's disease. As the information had not been kept from her and she was fully aware of the ramifications, mother and son had planned accordingly, with the guidance of Grenville et al. Her descent into full-blown dementia was swift and terrifying. Now that death had released Victoria Mallard from her earthly imprisonment, it appeared not all preparations had been made in concert with her son: the decedent had undertaken some arrangements of her own without his knowledge.

"You're quite certain you can't… or won't… reveal the contents?" Though having gingerly picked up the envelope, Mallard seemed reluctant to open it.

"The contents are personal in the extreme, Donald. I gave my word… I hope you understand."

The other man felt of the envelope, palpating between his fingers a small hard padded lump. "It feels like a key. May I at least inquire as to its purpose?"

Grenville nodded, withdrawing from the document case a purple velvet drawstring bag, which in turn yielded a slim rectangular rosewood box with its own locking mechanism. "I was instructed to advise you to read her missive before opening this."

"I don't suppose you're inclined to tell me what's in there, either." No effort to disguise the sour overtone.

"That I do not know. All I was told is that it contains the missing piece to a puzzle."

"Oh goodie. I do so enjoy surprises," the recipient uttered facetiously, without a glimmer of joy. As much as he loved unraveling a good mystery, he loathed surprises when they applied to himself.

The lawyer got to his feet. "I would suggest you read the letter now, before you leave here. That way, if you have further questions…"

"Yes. Thank you. I shall do that."

Grenville buzzed his secretary in the outer office. "Miss Belmont… please see to it a fresh pot of tea is brought in for Doctor Mallard. I'll be in the library if anyone needs me."

############

Thirty minutes later… a surreal revelation…

When Grenville returned, it was to find Doctor Mallard in a cold sweat and on the verge of shock. The hands clutching the pages of the letter were trembling and his face paper white.

"Donald... are you all right? Do you need a glass of water? Should I call a doctor?" Grenville struggled to remain calm. It wouldn't do at all to have the eminent forensic psychologist suffer a heart attack or... worse ... drop dead on the premises. Grenville knew as well as his friend that the information contained in those pages must never, ever be revealed by anyone other than Mallard himself and the likelihood of that happening was next to nothing. Whatever secret clearances the doctor possessed or ever had possessed would be revoked. Every aspect of his history from day one would come under intense and microscopic scrutiny. Why, the law firm itself might be investigated!

As the lawyer hovered ineffectually, wringing his hands, Mallard recovered sufficiently to speak in a measured croak. "Are you absolutely sure, Harry, no one else knows about... this?"

"I swear on my life, Donnie. That case went into our vault within the hour I returned from seeing Victoria."

"You do realize this letter must never fall into anyone else's hands as long as I'm living?"

"Yes, yes… of course. And to that end I recommend it either be returned to our vault… or at least placed in your private safety deposit box. Have you opened the… er… box?"

"I'm not sure I even want to at this stage… but I suppose I must. Can you unwrap the key for me? My fingers seem to have gone all wonky."

Grenville got out a small penknife and proceeded to cut through the layers of protective wrap and tape. "Shall I open the box for you as well?"

"If you don't mind."

Inserting the little key, the lawyer opened the latch and lifted the lid to reveal a tissue-wrapped object. With a nod from the doctor to proceed, he removed it and unfolded tissues from a slim volume bound in red leather. On the cover and spine a date was stamped in gold leaf. He knew what it was and so did the doctor. Victoria Mary Elizabeth Mallard, née Stewart, had kept a journal for every year of her life from age sixteen until she became too incapacitated to continue.

Donald Mallard had always known of their existence, just as he had always known where to find the key to the steamer trunk in which they were kept, but he had never been tempted to pry. Even after her death, he had not felt comfortable about delving into them, nor had he had the time. He had not known that particular year was missing until a postmortem inventory of her personal effects had marked its absence. Even then, he had not attached any significance to the fact that it represented the year of his birth. Obviously she had kept that one journal hidden for a purpose. Now, thanks to her letter, he knew why…

Donald Mallard was not the man he thought he was… and never had been. He wasn't even a Mallard by lineage. His true heritage lay between the covers of a little red book. Victoria's secret… how apropos, he thought idly.

############

"What do I do now, Harry?"

…Mallard plaintively inquired of his friend, who had subsided into his executive chair on the other side of the desk. "If I'm not Donald Horatio Mallard, who then am I?"

In contemplation of the doctor's situation, Grenville clasped his hands over his expansive girth. "You do nothing, Donnie. Nothing at all. You have been you for seventy-seven years. Legally you are a Mallard and shall remain a Mallard until you die. Says so right on your birth certificate and there's no one left alive to contradict the legality of your status."

"But I'm not… not really. And there's the… the other to consider. What if he's still alive? Do I not have a moral obligation to look for him?"

"Believe me, you do not. Just because your mother bore twins and chose to dispose of one of them…"

"Please, Harry!" Mallard shuddered. "Please do not use the word 'dispose' in such a cavalier manner… as if she'd drowned a kitten. I couldn't bear the thought…"

"I'm sure she did no such thing. Perhaps she adopted it out… 'rehomed' I believe is the popular phrase these days."

"Him, Harry… not it, if you please. But why… why would she keep one of identical twins and give away the other? It's unconscionable."

"I suspect the answer lies in yon diary. Why don't you take it and the letter home with you and look them over carefully. Have a good long think about it over a slug or three of Macallan. After seven decades, there's certainly no need to rush into anything. And Donnie, keep in mind… if you do decide to start making inquiries and turning over rocks, someone is going to notice. My advice: don't do it. Were I in your shoes, I would burn that letter and the journal… after I'd read it, naturally."

"Naturally."