8.29

The Violet, a criminal name I concocted for myself, is an unlikely burglar. Honestly, did you ever suspect me? I admit, it's a stretch to assume a thief in these clothings, but I'm prepared to confess all the same. You have your choice to believe me, of course: as in all things, you deserve your own opinions, untainted and un--
As I was saying, the Violet: the story begins somewhat cooly, somewhat coincidentally, as it turns out. I was in Sir Ranulph's house, as I recall, a somewhat stately and short-ceilinged mansion, a brickwork skeleton with a stone façade. There was something insignificant about the way he handled his artifacts, actually. I remember finding an ancient bit of Indus River civilization leaning up against a book about British mice having been nearly exterminated by the arrival of the Norwegian rat, at least, according to the archeological record, and picking it up to see the book, fascinated as I am by my own Norse heritage, I found no place to put it. It was some small stone artifact, I'm sure, or perhaps a bit of well-preserved pottery. I shouldn't guess, since I'm far removed from the expert in the room, my dear. Getting on with the book in one hand and the shard in the other, I found myself more and more indisposed by my juggling act until I gave up and placed the dull brown antiquity into my shirt pocket. You must believe that I intended the act to be purely temporary. Alas, the shard stayed in my pocket until I returned home, heavier for the thought that my ancestors had--even temporarily--destabilized the natural order of things with the unexpected consequences of their more obvious goals.
I'm sure you're trying to ascertain a connection between my puckish thievery and the more accomplished act you have interrupted tonight. Perhaps a bit of Viking pillage, even? Give me a little credit for subtlety, please.
I discovered the bit of ancient earth in my shirt pocket when I was preparing to drop a few items at the cleaner's. For a long time, I couldn't remember where it was from, so it was no use trying to take it back. In fact, it wasn't until I was in Professor Lindburgh's house just down Coventry way that I remembered. I saw that same edition of that same history of rodentia and had the old feeling sweep over me like a terrible déjà vécu. At that time, I was surrounded by friends in a comfortable study. I stood up unexpectedly, strode to the shelf, and slipped the volume from its company. I do remember some small talk of my good-natured curiosity, and then the conversation slipped away again. I rifled through the first pages, looking for the author's name, finding only the publisher's information. There was an empty envelope there, addressed to the good professor. I took pencil and envelope and recorded the significant information to follow up on it later, to find a copy of my own, somewhere. With the envelope light in my trouser pocket on the way out the door that evening, I remembered the Indus relic and had a sinking moment of guilt. But I haven't been back to Sir Ranulph's house, you see--otherwise I'm sure the pretty piece of history would be mouldering on his shelf once more. And as for the stamp on the envelope, well, I'm sure Professor Lindburgh had no idea of its value. I know I didn't until I was at the very office of the publisher, asking after the editor who had composited the aforementioned rodent volume. The young woman saw the envelope ready in my hand and gasped. Unnerved, I gave her a sharp "Excuse me?" but she was already lifting the envelope from my hand and explaining in a rapid pace the value of the misprint stamp, and I was already building a vast labratory of lament in my head for the honest mistake of twinned thefts one upon another. Upon hearing her breathy exclamation of "Ten million deutchmarks," I turned upon my heel and flung myself upon the door handle. She immediately saw my distress and cried "You didn't know--" to my rapidly retreating back. I hailed a cab and was whisked immediately to the University, you must believe me, to find the Professor and return his unknown possession. You cannot think me party to his mysterious disappearance that day, or his mysterious reappearance a thousand miles away in the arms of the foreign dowager regnant. His relatives being deceased and his will forfeit, the stamp in my possession and the Professor exiled, what was I to do? I sat on the steps of Cloysetter Hall, my head in my hands, and my hands themselves shaking.
You begin to doubt my veracity, I see, but I have no objective in lying to you. What gain is it?
I returned home, freed of returning the stamp, shaking unbelievably. The peril had passed, but a strange feeling still held me, a feeling I was unaccustomed to and unable to place. You probably already know the feeling, this being your line of work, after all. But I set to pacing the floor in my chambers, wearing a strip out of the rug. I was frustrated with my inability to dissect my own brain, I tell you, and I went to see my good friend Doctor Antella, an expert in the psychological intricacies. The good Doctor was out for lunch, but the receptionist told me to wait inside. I continued my pacing, increasingly distraught with the absence of a friend in my hour of need, when I looked up on the turn, I saw a large volume detailing the careful breeding of labratory animals: doves, mice, guinea pigs, and rats. The shaking feeling that had obsessed me for hours intensified, and I could feel nothing in my hands and legs but an alien animus, frightfully strong. I ranged through the small room, crashing from one corner to the next, fighting like a trapped animal. I tell you, I fought it, but my fingers closed on a thick, smooth coin, worn down to indiscriminate design, resting near a bookend and the scabbard of an old army saber. It went in my pocket, but the feeling was still there, uncomfortably prescient and unsated. I cast about for anything I could tell was old, small, and valuable. I know how this must paint me, but I make no apologies to you. A first-edition collection of Coleridge was small enough to tuck into my waistcoat. A small jade cat from some Southeast Asian country. These joined my first theft, the coin. My time was rapidly dwindling, and my heart was still dancing a terrible tarantula in my chest. I rushed from my fair friend's office, guilt plaguing me, chasing me through the call of the girl's "Excuse me?" flying behind me. Doctor Antella was nowhere to be seen. I had escaped without consequence, and only after I had somewhat cleared the building did my heartbeat dissipate. I found my clammy palm wrapped tightly around the edges of that coin, its edges digging into my skin. I have since found out that the coin is Roman.
But I suppose that immaterial matter doesn't concern you whatsoever. I tell this story so that you can perhaps understand how we came to be locked in this unmitigated enmity without any intention of my own. Can't you see the pattern establishing itself? Can't you understand my fear, totally without equal, of the biology department of the university, the natural history section of the museum, the ratcatcher? It's merely your misfortune, honestly. How could I have known that Lord and Lady Bracebridge had an extensive collection of murine phenomena from their son's peculiar studies with the Society for Scientific Inquiry? Why would I have any reason to expect Judge Collury to leave open, on his side-table, the account of the bubonic plague, open to a spread with illustrations of vermin? Who could have anticipated the stuffed collection of mammalia in Orenwood Hall? I walked from those places with artefacts, documents, memorabilia, collectibles, and once a loose jewel from its setting in an ornate set of decorative jewelry boxes. I shouldn't guess that the items together would even amount to more than several thousand in value, surely. I didn't think I had crossed your radar. I had supposed even this theft--I recognize it's much larger--would be far below your notice. I recognize my casual name for myself, The Violet, as purple prose would have it, seems more than a little homage to your own criminal exploits. I understand. You must believe I had no idea you were breaking into these places, searching for these specific unnameable articles. You must understand the absolute impossibility of predicting a master cat-burglar and stealing exactly those items targeted by the next theft. You must understand I never once anticipated you, only reacted to the unspeakable animus that the presence of these works on rodents works in me. I do not wish you harm.
And yet, here we are in this dance, me holding the most famous painting in the country, you waiting patiently for me to finish the story so you can relieve me of it. Regardless, I don't ask for your forgiveness or your acceptance. I'm only asking that you understand how the painting of the stoat behind you could have precipitated this moment, improbable as it may seem, and that you understand how fortuitous it is that you should come along at this exact moment to relieve me of the guilt of the next few moments in which, inevitably, I escape out this door behind me, painting in tow, and you stay, locked into the art museum you accidentally freed me from.
Before I go, I'm just curious: which do you fancy yourself as? The foreign rat, or the native mouse? I suppose it doesn't matter. Good day, my fortuitous friend.