This bit of self-deprecation didn’t fool Logan. Maynard might be an administrator, but one possessed of great power should he need, or decide, to wield it. While it was true Lux was a think tank, it was also a privately held corporation that cared about profits. Naturally, it gave generous grants, awarded a number of annual scholarships, and funded chairs in various areas of academic pursuit — but such things were made possible by a steady stream of revenue. Though it wasn’t often articulated, every Fellow at Lux knew that the most effective kind of research was the kind that could, ultimately, be put to practical use. Logan wondered whether Maynard was one of the three on the board of directors who had voted for his presence here, or one of the three who’d done the opposite.

Maynard settled himself in his chair. “No doubt you’d like to discuss Willard Strachey.”

Logan nodded.

“What an awful business. Awful.” Maynard shook his head.

“Gregory told me that you’d be in a better position to fill me in on just what Strachey had been working on recently.”

“Mmm. Yes.” Maynard leaned back and crossed his arms. “Well, you may recall that Willard’s specialty was DBMS.”

“DMBS?”

“Database management systems. He made some revolutionary progress in the relational database model first pioneered by Codd and others. Strachey’s database, Parallax, was one of the breakthrough applications of the early eighties.”

“Go on, please,” Logan said.

“It was a database manager with a built-in programming language of Strachey’s own design. It was legendary for its speed, scalability, and small footprint: not a behemoth like, say, DB2. It was popular with the VAX minicomputers used on many college campuses of the time. The time, of course, was thirty years ago.” Maynard shrugged. “Programming languages have changed a lot since then.”

“Are you saying Strachey had come to believe his best years were behind him?”

“I don’t think he viewed it that way at all. He was exceptionally proud of the work he’d done. And he was a true academic: for him, the research itself was its own end.” Maynard hesitated. “It was Lux, if you really want to know, that had issues with it.”

Logan frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s like I said: programming has changed a lot. These days it’s all about objects, class inheritance, scripting languages. The very things that made Parallax so revolutionary when it was first released also made it difficult to reengineer. And, let’s face it, Willard was happy with Parallax as it was. He continued to refine it. But many larger clients were moving on.”

“And taking their money elsewhere.”

A pained look crossed Maynard’s face, but he nodded, conceding the point. “In any case, Strachey was fully vested at Lux. He was a senior Fellow. He’d had his successes, done us all proud. Even though he could have retired with a full pension, we were delighted to see him continue his relational database work. But a decision was made that such work should be more of a…sideline.”

“A hobby, in other words — rather that something he’d be paid for.”

“Oh, he’d still be paid for it. But several months ago, we did with Willard what we do with many of our Fellows who are transitioning away from their primary research. We gave him administrative duties, as well — duties that could directly benefit Lux.”

“Like a tenured professor transitioning to an associate dean. Making sure he was still of commercial use to Lux.”

“Something like that.”

“Could you tell me about these administrative duties?” Logan asked.

“It was Roger Carbon’s idea, actually. Willard was given overall responsibility for the restoration of the West Wing, which as you probably know hasn’t been updated in ages. In fact, it’s been off-limits for the last several years. It’s not unsafe, of course, but it’s old and needs a complete retrofit to bring it into the twenty-first century. I don’t have to tell you that the loss of all that square footage has put a crimp in our operations, even with the expansion of our outbuildings. So its restoration was viewed by Lux as a very important task.”

“Did Willard Strachey view it as important, as well?”

At this, Maynard looked searchingly at Logan. “If you’re harboring any thoughts that Will might have been unhappy with the assignment, or felt it demeaning, you’re completely off base. He knew the way Lux works. And he was passionate about architecture. Here was a chance to take a beautiful example of late-nineteenth-century design and repurpose it into a modern, utilitarian space. He wasn’t getting his hands dirty, wasn’t wielding a nail gun: he was designing the functionality, balancing the practical with the aesthetic. It’s like a homeowner telling his general contractor just what he wants done — only on a different order of magnitude. We had an architect working with him, of course, to vet the designs and verify the underlying engineering, but the ideas began with him. And by all accounts he was delighted with the task. Of course, I didn’t see much of him on a day-to-day basis. You’d need to talk to Ms. Mykolos about that.”

“Who?”

“Kim Mykolos. His research assistant.”

“The one he assaulted?”

A brief pause. “Yes.”

“Did you know much about Strachey’s behavior over the last few weeks?”

“I’d heard reports from various people, yes. In fact, I’d been intending to have a talk with him.” Maynard’s shoulders drooped, and he looked down at his desk. “Now it’s too late. I’ll never know if there’s something I could have done, some way I could have helped.”

“You mentioned he was working with an architect,” Logan said.

“As it turns out, the great-granddaughter of the architect who originally built Dark Gables. Pamela Flood. She’s carried on the family’s architectural firm. We were lucky to get her.”

Logan made a note of this as Maynard glanced at his watch. “I’m very sorry, Jeremy. There’s a meeting I need to attend. I’ll be happy to answer any other questions you have at some later point.” And he rose from his desk.

“Just one more, if you don’t mind.”

Maynard stopped. “Of course.”

“Last night at dinner, Dr. Carbon suggested I ask about ‘the others.’ ”

Maynard frowned. “He did?”

“Yes. He mentioned you specifically as the one I should speak to.”

Maynard shook his head slowly. “I’ve never understood Roger’s sense of humor. He may have been pulling your leg — you know he never took your line of study seriously.”

“I know. But what did he mean — ‘the others’?”

Maynard glanced at his watch again. “I’m sorry, Jeremy, I really can’t be late for this meeting. Please keep me and Gregory apprised of your progress. And whatever you do, be discreet in your inquiries. An old, upstanding institution like Lux blemishes awfully easily.” And with a smile, he waved for Logan to precede him out of the office.

An hour later, Logan made his way down the central corridor of Lux’s third floor, canvas satchel slung over one shoulder. This hallway, familiarly known as the Lady’s Walk, retained almost entirely the look it had sported when the mansion was a private residence. It was fantastically ornate, with wide, polished oaken floorboards; elaborate wainscoting; coffered ceiling; gilded sconces; and huge oil portraits in golden frames. It was also the longest unbroken hall in the mansion: running the entire length of the main building, it stretched nearly three city blocks’ worth from the East Wing to the West Wing. And yet despite its magnificence, it was almost never seen by visitors. This was, in part, because the third floor was given over to the private offices and apartments of the think tank’s Fellows. Another reason, Logan thought, could be the hallway’s nickname itself. Awkward questions might arise.

The lady in question was Ernestine Delaveaux, wife of the original owner of Dark Gables. By all accounts, she had been a beautiful and accomplished woman, the product of one of Boston’s finest families and Europe’s best finishing schools. But she was also possessed of a nervous temperament and weak constitution. When the couple’s only son died of smallpox, the shock proved too much for Mrs. Delaveaux. Uncontrolled weeping, lack of appetite, and insomnia followed. The doctors brought in by her husband, Edward — himself of an eccentric cast — could do nothing, save prescribe nostrums for what they pronounced to be neurasthenia. Then, one night in 1898, Ernestine Delaveaux saw, or thought she saw, her dead son, standing in this same hallway, hands outstretched toward her. After that, she wandered the hallway every night, tirelessly calling her son’s name. She never saw him again. Finally, on a stormy December evening two years later, Mrs. Delaveaux left the mansion, walked down to the sea, and threw herself into the Atlantic.