“Are you-” Tess fished for the right word.

“Gay? No, but still one doesn’t want to be rejected so summarily. At any rate, I didn’t realize whom I had met until he was dead. I never saw him again.”

“Well”-Tess tried to frame the correction as gently as possible-“you saw him at least one more time. He came to the grave site. He told a lie, and it became a plan. He told Arnold Pitts that he had given you the gold bug and the locket. He repeated the same story to Daniel Clary. Then he realized he could do just that. It never occurred to him that Pitts would try to uncover your identity or that Daniel Clary would stake out the grave site. He never meant to harm anyone.”

“Daniel Clary-the librarian, right? I read about him in the newspapers. How is he?”

“Alive, but probably wishing he was dead. He has second-degree burns over his face and hands. The criminal justice system won’t do anything to Daniel Clary that’s anywhere near as bad as what he’s done to himself.”

“Oh, yes, it can; it already has,” he said. “It can take away his things.”

Tess was thinking about Daniel Clary and Shawn Hayes, both caught in the twilight world of intensive care. The children of Shawn Hayes simply could not give up hope, and the legal implications of their decision-that he might die outside the year-and-a-day time frame necessary to charge Daniel Clary with his homicide-meant little to them. Rainer didn’t care. He had his clearances. Hilliard was the only name on the board that mattered to him, and it was now carried in black. As was the Yeager case. Now if only they could do something about the other forty homicides that had already occurred in Baltimore this year.

“Speaking of things-” His voice was tentative.

“Yes?”

“They’re not mine, are they? I don’t get to keep them.”

Tess looked at the objects now on his lap but still spread out in his handkerchief. She touched the locket, marveling at the fact that it could have been in Poe’s hand once, that the fine design might contain a lock of Virginia Poe’s hair. She almost-almost-understood their power. Over Daniel Clary, over Hayes and Pitts and Ensor, over Bobby Hilliard, who so liked pretty things and cared nothing for their pedigree.

“That’s the reason, isn’t it?”

“The reason?”

“For your notes, your elliptical clues. You wanted to do the right thing, but you didn’t want to surrender these items. You hoped Bobby Hilliard’s killer might be caught, and you could keep the chain and the bug. Although the chain isn’t worth anything without the locket, and the bug’s pedigree can never be established. Poe’s admirer, assuming she ever existed, was much too proper a nineteenth-century lady to leave behind any evidence that she had given him this.”

“But it must have been dear to him, or else he would have sold it. He was so poor, it’s touching to think he had such a fantastic bauble on him at the time of his death. Perhaps he died trying to protect these very things.”

“Assuming,” Tess said, “he ever had them. It’s a legend, nothing more. Like many of the theories about Poe’s death, it can never be proven.”

“Still.” He held the bug aloft, turning it in the light. “You’re just trying to make me feel better about giving them back.”

“It’s up to you if you take any solace in doing the right thing. The fact that you asked me to meet you here suggests to me that you know what you must do. Either that, or you thought I would give you permission to walk away with the gold bug in your pocket. But I can’t. They don’t belong to you. They don’t belong to me. They should be someplace where everyone can see them and debate their significance. Think of the joy it will bring to Poe scholars to have something new to argue about.”

She thought of Ensor and Hayes, trying to corner the market on “Baltimore-bilia.” She thought of Pitts, foisting fakes off on his partners. Then along came Daniel Clary, who stole their precious contraband, convinced that only he was worthy of these items. Where would it have ended; when would they have been satisfied? What can break the deadly chain of such acquisitiveness?

He folded the handkerchief and handed it to Tess with a sigh. “I tried to tell myself that I had earned them, in a way. For my service. But the rationalization won’t hold, I know. I had them for two months. I give them to you now, hoping my show of good faith will inspire you to do the right thing.”

“To keep your secret.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know your name, only your face. I can infer you once taught high school and you live in North Baltimore, but that’s about it.”

“That’s more than anyone else knows. Besides, you could follow me when I leave here. Or you could take out your gun and demand my wallet, in order to examine my driver’s license.”

“Do you really think I would do that?”

He smiled. “No. No, I don’t. But now that you know what you know, do you think-could you be tempted…”

It took her a moment to figure out what he was asking. “To take your place? I think not. It’s too much of a commitment, year in and year out.”

“Yes. I wish I had understood that when I started. Well, so it goes. Eventually, I’ll find someone. Now that young man I’ve seen with you, he seems-”

“No!” Tess said. Crow would be all too happy to be recruited into this secret club. She saw an eternity of January nineteenths stretching out before them, saw Westminster Hall as the fixed point in their lives, saw Crow buying roses and cognac until he was as old as the man before her. “No.”

“Well, then, I’ll have to find someone else.” He checked his scarf, patted his pockets as if looking for car keys. “I’m off. I trust you to turn those things in to the proper authorities. I’ll let you be the judge of who they might be. I hope”-his voice was suddenly wistful-“I hope they end up somewhere I might see them again, every now and then.”

“I’ll do my best.”

He made his way down the hill. He had a slight wobble to his walk, an unsteadiness that suggested his age, whatever it was, might be catching up to him. Tess willed herself not to watch him go. She didn’t want to know what kind of car he drove or in which direction he might head. She knew so much more than she wanted to. About Poe. About people and the things of which they were capable. One of Poe’s favorite themes, actually.

She looked at the bug, which was clearly of great value, if only for its gold and sapphires, and tucked it into the breast pocket of her coat. She opened the locket. To touch something Poe might have touched, an item he would have cherished above all others-what did it mean?

It meant nothing. It meant far too much. She wanted to be immune to the sickness that had seized all these men-Clary, Pitts, Ensor, Hayes, even Bobby-but she knew she was susceptible as well. Most of us are. We might not kill for things, but we make other concessions to materialism. We rack up debt, we marry rich, we stay in jobs we hate. “The sickness that is living,” Poe had written, but Tess would change that to “The sickness that is acquiring.” Which was not living at all but a kind of walking death, pharaohs so intent on perfecting their tombs that they never knew life at all.

She would stop by her office, put these items in her wall safe, and figure out what to do with them later.

And then-why, then she was going to go to Nouveau on Charles Street and splurge on those cunning little drawer pulls, the ones shaped like starfish. The maple cabinets in her kitchen were finally finished, and Crow had started regrouting the bathtub just that morning. He thought green tile for the floor, but she preferred the old-fashioned black-and-white pattern, the style used in the house where she had grown up, a house now lost to the ages.

Baltimore (AP)-An anonymous donor has bequeathed two pieces of possible Edgar Allan Poe memorabilia to the Maryland Mu-sheum, a little-known institution even here in its hometown.