Chapter: 13
The orchestra began playing a waltz, and people crowded onto the dance floor.
The young ladies standing primly as they waited for someone to ask them to dance cast glances in his direction as well, but Patrick did not even look their way.
The only person he was looking for now was Edward Rockwell. He was growing increasingly impatient, unwilling to waste even a single moment.
There!
He was less than five meters away. Patrick was about to approach him, clutching at his pounding heart, but he had to stop before he had taken even three steps.
The crowd gathered around Director Edward Rockwell had already turned one side of the floor into a sea of people.
Gentlemen from the board of trustees stood in a line, waiting to shake hands with the new director, while curious society ladies and guests who wanted to introduce themselves to him hovered nearby, murmuring as they waited for an opportunity.
With the press joining in, the commotion grew even louder. Through the layers of people surrounding him, only Edward Rockwell’s brown hair could occasionally be seen before disappearing again.
“Director! When can we expect to read your next column? Will you be publishing it under your real name now?”
“Is there any particular reason you decided to abandon your pen name and reveal your face?”
“There are bound to be many changes in the museum’s operations from now on. What direction are you planning to take, specifically?”
As camera flashes went off in a frenzy, Patrick tried desperately to squeeze his way inside, but the tightly packed crowd was in no mood to make room for him.
Eventually, pushed back by the people, he could only stop once he had reached the most secluded corner of the hall, beside a large potted palm tree.
This is bad. Somehow, I have to get this research proposal to him….
Even so, he did not want to force his way through the crowd. Besides, even if he pushed his manuscript in front of the man like that, there was no guarantee he would be able to properly introduce himself.
Stay calm for now. Sometimes you have to take one step back to move forward.
Patrick gently tightened his grip on the paper he had been holding against his chest and exhaled.
The night was still young. A banquet of this scale was bound to continue until dawn anyway. There was no need to rush. It would not be too late to approach him after the crowd had thinned out somewhat.
Avoiding the noise of the banquet hall, Patrick slowly walked away and, before he knew it, found himself drifting into a dim exhibition corridor.
How far had he come?
He glanced around absentmindedly. Inside glass display cases, foreign spears, swords, and masks gleamed faintly under the light of gas lamps. Lost in thought as he walked, he seemed to have wandered all the way to the anthropology gallery.
“So, the part I find interesting is…”
Patrick stopped when he heard a voice from beyond the display cases.
“You can identify an incorrigible criminal simply by looking at the shape of a human skull. Isn’t that wonderfully straightforward?”
Oh, no. Who was bringing up that outdated pseudoscience now? A connection between skulls and criminality, of all things.
Patrick frowned and discreetly peered inside the exhibition area.
In front of a display case lined with skull specimens classified by race, a broad-shouldered man in a police uniform with a sword hanging from his waist was engaged in an animated conversation with a familiar middle-aged professor wearing round spectacles.
“Chief, phrenology is an outdated superstition. It has been a dead theory in academia for years. There isn’t a shred of evidence to support it….”
“Not because it’s a flawed field of study. It’s because scholars are far too timid.”
The chief snorted as he pointed at the skull behind the glass.
“Do you really think letting a theory that could prevent crime in advance go to waste is good for society?”
Oh dear.
Patrick knew both of them.
One was the police chief from Brionia who had appeared during the introductions of the guests, and the other was Professor James Whitmore of Collins University.
Patrick had attended two or three of his public lectures in the great hall of his alma mater.
To put it kindly, Whitmore was a strict traditionalist. He was a distinguished scholar who served as a reviewer for several academic journals, but, frankly, Patrick considered him stubborn and old-fashioned.
Professor Whitmore had been among those who had clicked his tongue and dismissed Patrick’s research proposal as a “waste of time” long ago.
“Claiming that crime can be determined by the shape of a person’s skull is not science.”
Professor Whitmore sighed and adjusted his glasses.
“And those statistics you believe in are nothing more than forced conclusions pieced together by cherry-picking the results that happen to suit you.”
“Oh, come now. In the field, you can tell everything just by looking at a man’s bone structure. I understand that you’re overflowing with humanitarian sentiment, Professor, but you spend far too much time trapped inside books.”
“If such ideas were allowed to spread, they could lead to extremely dangerous consequences. There was a time when people would seize the heads of those living in slums and examine them in the name of preventing crime.”
As Patrick listened to their conversation from a distance, a sly idea crossed his mind.
Perhaps I should ask him to introduce me?
Although Professor Whitmore had once disparaged Patrick Bennett’s research, he was still a senior professor at Patrick’s alma mater. Perhaps Patrick could politely ask him to arrange a meeting with Mr. Greenleaf….
“By the way, what does the academic world make of our new director? That Mr. Greenleaf fellow, I mean. I’ve read a few of his pieces in the newspaper, and they’re quite easy to understand and entertaining. My wife was very fond of them.”
The subject changed at just the right moment.
“Well, no one can deny his talent for writing.”
Professor Whitmore shrugged.
“There is, however, quite a bit of talk about him in academic circles. To be frank, he may have a degree, but he has never held a professorship. You might call him a celebrity who prefers publishing in the morning newspapers rather than academic journals. I doubt he is viewed very favorably by those who quietly devote themselves to the pursuit of scholarship.”
Patrick had been just about to approach them and subtly introduce himself, but he stopped in the darkness.
“He does seem like a rather unusual fellow.”
The police chief lowered his voice.
“By convention, the director and his wife are supposed to stand together at an occasion like this. But he was standing there all by himself, which looked rather…. Well, isn’t it strange for a man of such social standing to still be unmarried? Is there some problem?”
“Well, as for that….”
Instead of answering immediately, Professor Whitmore took a sip of champagne.
“I suppose he simply wants to focus on his work. It is unusual, though.”
“Hm.”
The chief stroked his mustache.
“My wife was delighted, though. She said that fellow would be the talk of society for some time to come. She seemed particularly pleased that he was rather handsome. I can’t say that did much for my mood.”
“It certainly is unconventional.”
The professor nervously swirled the champagne in his glass. As he stared into the clear, rippling liquid, he suddenly added, as though he had just remembered something,
“There is also his talk of opening the museum to workers. And he seems to be quietly lending his support to women’s suffrage as well.”
“Women’s suffrage?”
The police chief’s thick eyebrows twitched.
“I thought he was merely saying he wanted to increase the proportion of women employed there. Does he have connections to that movement as well?”
“Actually…. The Marchioness of Somerset once wrote a petition on behalf of suffragettes who had been arrested. She is the director’s sister.”
Professor Whitmore lowered his voice as much as possible and added confidentially,
“Is that so? Why did the Marquess of Somerset allow such behavior? Those women are nothing but vicious troublemakers who cause social unrest.”
The police chief clicked his tongue and shook his head.
“Well, that family certainly ought to keep a better eye on its wife. A noblewoman shouldn’t behave that way.”
“I can’t say I know much about their family affairs. The board chose to bring that man here, so they must have their reasons. We should wait and see, shouldn’t we?”
Patrick quietly backed away, making sure to keep his footsteps as silent as possible.
Fortunately, neither man noticed him standing in the darkness.
For some reason, all his strength seemed to drain away.
The faces of the professors who had laughed at his research paper, asking whether it was merely “a nobleman’s son’s little hobby,” flashed through his mind one after another.
It was frustrating to think that even Mr. Greenleaf was subjected to such criticism and gossip.
In an atmosphere like this, would Patrick really be able to carry his research through to the end?
And yet, while witnessing the state of academia had left him utterly dispirited, his expectations for Mr. Greenleaf only grew stronger.
If he had not been appointed simply because he was a popular scholar, but because he was someone determined to tear down old customs and bring about reform….
Perhaps he would recognize the value of Patrick’s research, which no one else had ever bothered to acknowledge.
He would. Surely, he would….
Patrick gathered himself and prepared to turn back toward the banquet hall.
At that moment, someone suddenly grabbed him by the elbow from behind.
“Patrick!”
