Special Collection

Sequestered in the library archives, doctoral student Amelia Jenkins gazed at the 15th century manuscript that lay before her. As she lifted the curled edge of the parchment and studied the text, she imagined its author writing these words more than five hundred years ago. The ancient document described the seasonal rotation of crops and the annual harvests of wheat, oats, and barley. Halfway down the page, the manuscript ended mid-sentence, the writer's meticulous handwriting turning to light scratches and dark blots. The author had apparently run out of ink.

For the past two hours, Amelia had been typing research notes on her tablet, which had now dwindled to one percent battery power. As she looked around the dimly lit room for an outlet to charge her device, she noticed an electrical cord that snaked beneath a tall bookcase near the back wall. Shining her phone's flashlight into the narrow space between the wall and the bookcase, the light illuminated the arched outline of a gothic-style door.

Amelia squeezed behind the bookcase and crept toward the mysterious door. Its weathered oak panels were etched with intricate carvings and two massive iron hinges secured it to the wall. Amelia pushed against the heavy door and it creaked open, revealing a small room filled with shelves of books bound in leather and adorned with gold leaf. In the center of the room, an old man hunched over a desk scribbling notes with a quill pen.

"Ah, a visitor," he said in a raspy voice. "Don't get many of those these days."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Roger, the librarian of this special collection. Who are you?"

"Amelia," she introduced herself.

"Are you on the faculty here?"

"No. I’m a grad student in the history program.”

The squat little man with a mop of wavy white hair peered at her over wire-rimmed spectacles. He wore a faded tweed jacket over a crumpled white shirt half tucked into charcoal grey pants that sagged around his hips.

"How can I help you?"

"I was looking for an outlet to charge my tablet."

"Can't help you with that." Roger dipped his pen in the inkwell. "But I can help you find any book in this collection."

Amelia scanned the room. Dusty shelves lined with leather-bound books covered nearly every inch of wall space. "What are they about?"

"History, my dear. The unabridged biographies of every professor whose ever taught here at Wolcott in the last two hundred years.”

Amelia scoffed. “I heard that story during the admissions tour.”

Roger furrowed his brow. “What story?”

"The one about the library clerk back in the 1800s. Wrote scandalous stories about Wolcott faculty and published them anonymously in the local paper. Created quite a stir on campus.”

“Those society columns sold a lot of papers back then.” Roger tapped his quill pen in the inkwell.

“Until he wrote one insinuating that the dean’s wife was having an affair with a younger faculty member. The dean was furious, so he bribed the newspaper editor to reveal the writer’s name. When he confronted the clerk in the library, the clerk denied everything, but the dean was so enraged that he pulled out his revolver and shot the man dead. They say his ghost still haunts this library.”

Amelia peered at the neatly ordered books on the shelf above Roger's head. Their spines bore sketchy insignia beneath Latin titles.

ANNUS CONTENTIONUM

"Year of strife," she whispered.

"Ah, a scholar of the classics," Roger replied as he removed the book from the shelf and held it to his chest.

"Yes, it was a year of strife for Professor Anson."

"Who was Professor Anson?"

"A young astronomer who joined the university faculty in 1920."

As Roger laid the book on the desk and opened it, Amelia stared at the squared letters penned in neat script across the pages.

IN ANNO MCMXXII DOMINUS NOSTER, CHARLES LONGWORTH ANSON PUTAVERUNT ERAT PLANETA IN HORAM SYSTEMATIS SOLARIS.

"In the year of our lord, 1922, Charles Longworth Anson theorized that there was a ninth planet in our solar system," Amelia translated aloud.

"You know your Latin," Roger beamed.

"Yes, my dissertation's on the 15th century writings of Friar Giovanni Mancini." Amelia waited for Roger's cheerful expression to flatten into polite disinterest. No one on the Wolcott history faculty demonstrated the slightest interest in her research subject. Even her thesis adviser, Professor Robinson, dismissed her work in his clipped British accent as "paltry and picayune."

Roger, on the other hand, looked as jubilant as a leprechaun on St. Patrick's Day. "Friar Mancini was quite the Rennaisance man. Studied agriculture, mathematics and astronomy, played the lute and harpsichord, and wrote voluminous accounts of his frequent travels around Europe."

Amelia's mouth fell open. How did Roger know so much about Friar Mancini?

The elf-like man adjusted his spectacles as he leaned over the book. "You can read the original text in Latin or the English translation." He flipped through the pages "I think my handwriting's quite legible."

Amelia's curiosity drew her closer to the open book.

In 1922, Charles Longworth Anson theorized that there was a ninth planet in our solar system. Until then, astronomers had documented the existence of eight planets and identified Neptune as the furthest from earth. Anson searched for two years for this mysterious ninth planet, studying telescopic images of the night sky that he captured on glass photographic plates. However the observatory director and senior faculty member Thomas Willoughby dismissed the young man's research because it countered his own studies of the universe.

"I can relate to that," Amelia huffed.

But just as Anson's research began to show promise, the photographic plates that contained evidence of a ninth planet disappeared. He confronted Willoughby about the missing plates, provoking a heated argument with him in the observatory. Anson demanded that he return the plates but Willoughby insisted he had nothing to do with their disappearance.

In frustration, Anson shoved the older man, causing him to hit his head on the telescope, then he stormed out of the observatory. The next morning, Professor Willoughby's graduate assistant found him dead on the observatory floor. Anson was arrested, dismissed from the university and ultimately sentenced to 20 years in prison for involuntary manslaughter.

Amelia gasped. "Were the missing plates ever recovered?"

"No, but another astronomer discovered Pluto and got all the credit for the work that Anson had done," Roger explained. "When Anson found out, he killed himself in prison."

"Oh my god!"

"A sad story indeed. Some people say Anson's ghost haunts the observatory, still looking for those missing plates."

"Another Wolcott legend," Amelia murmured as she closed the book. "You said these books contain the biographies of every professor who’s ever taught at Wolcott."

"That's right."

"Are there any books about a Professor Henry Morgan?"

Roger's face lit up. "Ah, yes. Professor Morgan. He taught at Wolcott in the early 1900s. Would you like me to find his biography for you?"

"Yes, please."

Roger reached for a book with a brown leather cover titled MAGISTER MORGAN.

"Why the interest in Professor Morgan?"

"My grandfather was one of his students. Said he was the best professor he ever had at Wolcott."

"Henry Morgan was a beloved professor, but he led a double life."

"What do you mean? A double life? Like a spy?"

Roger blew the dust off the book cover and handed it to Amelia. "No, not a spy. But he did keep a secret that nearly ended his career."

Intrigued by Roger's description of Professor Morgan, Amelia opened the book and began to read about his life.

Henry Morgan came from a wealthy family, and his father had hoped he would pursue a career in law or politics. But Henry had a passion for antiquities, and he chose to study archaeology at Wolcott University. After graduation, Henry was offered a prestigious job at the British Museum, but he declined. Instead, he accepted an offer from Wolcott to teach archaeology and ancient history.

Henry was a gifted teacher. His lectures were engaging and informative, and his students loved him. But beneath his charming exterior, Henry had a secret. He was gay, and in those days, homosexuality was considered a crime. While Henry was married to a woman, he indulged in clandestine affairs with his male students. And one of those students, Winston Riley, seemed to have found a special place in Henry's heart as well as his bed.

Soon they were embroiled in a passionate love affair that jeopardized both men. The university was not accepting of same-sex relationships, and they risked being ostracized or worse, expelled. Despite the risks, Henry and Winston continued their affair in secret, often meeting in the library archives or secluded corners of the campus.

As Amelia read on, she felt a pang of sympathy for Henry Morgan. Forced to hide his true self in a sham marriage, he must have been painfully conflicted as he continued his illicit affair with Winston. Would Henry leave his wife? Would he risk his academic reputation? Amelia held her breath as she turned the page.

One evening, another faculty member walked in on them kissing in the men's bathroom and reported the incident to the university president. The next day, Henry was called into a meeting with the president and given an ultimatum. He could either end his relationship with Winston and continue his career at Wolcott, or he could resign and leave the university quietly, without causing a scandal.

Henry was torn. He loved Winston deeply, but he also loved his job and the students he taught. Ultimately, he chose his career and told Winston that they had to end their relationship. The young man left the university and enlisted in the navy. He died on September 1, 1917 when his ship was torpedoed by a German submarine.

Amelia closed the book, a knot of sadness forming in her stomach. "That's just heartbreaking."

"It's a tragic story, but unfortunately, not uncommon for those times."

"My grandfather never said anything about Professor Morgan's sexual orientation."

"It was a taboo subject back then."

Amelia shook her head as she imagined her tough-as-nails grandfather learning about his favorite professor's closeted life. "Still taboo for some people today," said Amelia as she scanned the arcane titles on the shelves until one captured her attention.

MULIER SCIENTIA

"Woman of science."

"Ah yes, that's Professor Mary Holt. She was the first woman on the faculty of Wolcott. Quite a fascinating story. Professor Holt was a brilliant scientist and a pioneer in her field. She was also a fierce advocate for women's education and worked tirelessly to increase the representation of women in science." Roger pulled the thick book from the shelf and handed it to Amelia.

Born in 1880, Mary Holt knew from a young age that she wanted to be a scientist. In those days, women were not encouraged to study science, much less consider a career of it, but Professor Holt was determined to pursue her passion. She enrolled at Bryn Mawr College, and after graduation, she went on to the University of Chicago where she earned a doctorate in physics. When Professor Holt first joined the Wolcott faculty, she faced tremendous resistance from her male colleagues who didn't believe that women were capable of doing science. They dismissed her research and often excluded her from important conversations about the field.

But Professor Holt did not give up easily. She continued to conduct groundbreaking research in her field and slowly but surely earned the respect of her colleagues. She became a mentor to many of her female students, encouraging them to pursue their dreams no matter what the world said.

Amelia read on, marveling at Professor Holt's determination and courage. But her admiration turned to shock as she read about the scandal that ended Professor Holt's career at Wolcott.

In 1928, she attended a conference in Europe where she met a young French physicist named Jean-Luc. They fell in love and began a passionate affair that lasted for several months. But when Professor Holt returned to Wolcott, she found that she was pregnant with Jean-Luc's child. She was fired by the university on the grounds of immoral behavior and banned from campus. Eventually, Professor Holt gave birth to a healthy baby girl, returned to Paris and obtained a teaching position at a French university.

Amelia could hardly believe what she was reading. It was appalling that Professor Holt was fired for something so personal and yet had no bearing on her professional abilities. She admired Professor Holt's strength and resilience, refusing to let anyone diminish her love for science and her commitment to paving the way for future generations of female scientists.

"Thank you, Roger, for showing me these books. They're fascinating," Amelia said, closing the thick biography with a sense of reverence.

"You're welcome. I'm always happy to share the stories of Wolcott's history."

"Most of these professors taught here in the early 20th century, but Wolcott's been around for more than three hundred years. Whose book is the oldest in this collection?"

"That would be the book of Professor Nathaniel Wolcott himself." Roger climbed a ladder to reach the top shelf, careful to avoid the piles of books stacked precariously nearby. He retrieved the ancient volume and brought it down to Amelia.

"Wow, this is really old," she said, turning the pages gingerly. The paper was yellowed and fragile, and the ink was faded in places.

"It's a record of Professor Wolcott's travels and his observations about the natural world. You could say he was a Victorian version of your Friar Mancini."

Amelia chuckled. "I wonder what Dr. Robinson would think of that comparison."

"Oh, I think Professor Robinson would be quite intrigued. They have something very much in common."

"What's that?"

"A fascination with the occult."

Amelia flinched. In Professor Robinson's office, she'd always felt creeped out by the 19th century plaster death mask that sat atop his antique bookcase. He claimed to have received it as a gift from a renowned anthropologist at Oxford.

"Professor Wolcott was interested in all sorts of mysticism and the paranormal. He attended seances in hopes of communicating with his deceased wife, who'd died from smallpox only a few months after they were married."

Amelia raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, it seems Professor Wolcott had a dual nature. On one hand, he was a respected naturalist and on the other, he was fascinated by the supernatural. Perhaps it was his way of coping with grief."

Amelia studied the squat little man as he closed the book and returned it to the shelf. “Who are you? How do you know all this stuff?”

A bell rang in the distance.

“Library’s closing. You need to leave now.”  Roger waved toward the door.

Amelia didn’t move. "You said these books contain the stories of all professors who've taught here. What about the current ones?"

"Like your thesis advisor, Dr. Robinson?"

Amelia grimaced.

"Yes, him. Is there a book about him?"

Roger gave her a knowing look. "Oh, yes. There's an open book on Dr. Robinson.”

"Can I see it?"

Roger shook his head.

“Is that who you’re writing about? Dr. Robinson?” She took a step toward the desk where the manuscript lay open. The entire room went dark. She opened her tablet, hoping it might have enough battery power for the light to work. It was dead. She stumbled forward, tripping over a pile of books. “Roger!” she screamed.

She heard the bell ring again and saw a flash of blinding light. When she opened her eyes, she was seated at her research desk in the archives. The Mancini manuscript was still open, but the ink scratches and blots at the end of the document had transformed into Latin words.

Mox Professorem Robinson plenam fabulam legebis.

You will read Professor Robinson’s full story soon.