New York City – May, 2002

Being someone who digs around in old papers and books can be a fun thing; you never know what you may find. Sometimes it may be to your liking; sometimes it may not be something you particularly want to find out.

But that is what I do for a living.

Who am I, you may be asking. I am Moira Bailey, a private researcher. Which basically means I dig up information for people that range anywhere from the young kid wanting to know about where his family came from, to cops wanting to know information on how much a particular stolen antique would be worth.

I also do a lot of work for antique dealers, which means my job takes me out of the office, and onto the streets. Meaning, the dealers call me and want to know the history and value of things, so they can charge the fair – or unfair, as is often the case – price for a particular item.

This is where I came in contact with a particularly interesting person. I was just hanging around the office, finishing up a statement on what a particular set of Ming vases were worth for the Met, when my secretary, Madge came in my office. “Moira, can you possibly mosey on over to this address”, the secretary said, handing me a piece of paper with an address on it, “this lady called, wanting your particular talents.”

“Hudson Street,” I said looking at the piece of paper. “Ms. Rachel Ellenstein. Madge, hold my calls. Only put them through to the cell phone if it is an emergency, such as if my parents arrive from Dublin.”

“Yes, Miss Bailey,” Madge said, as she went back to billing Sotheby’s for some research I did for them. I expect a big paycheck from that one.

I walked down to the Subway and went through the usual myriad of trains that you have to take to get anywhere in this lovely metropolis of New York City. This travel was particularly confusing at first, being that in Ireland, they didn’t have anything similar to the Subway. Yes, there were trains, but never ones that you had to change an umpteen number of times to get where you are going. Finally, I arrived at the Hudson Street address. I walked in the front door of the shop and met a lovely blonde woman, sitting at a desk.

“Excuse me, are you Ms. Ellenstein?” I asked the blonde woman sitting at the desk.

“Why, yes, I am. You must be Miss Bailey,” she said to me in an accent that suggested she was of British origin, shaking my hand.

“Yes, Moira Bailey at your service,” I said, returning the handshake.

“I called you here, because Mr. Nash has a query, concerning an armoire,” Ms. Ellenstein said.

“Mister Nash?”

“Thank you, Rachel, for showing Miss Bailey in,” a voice said from a nearby doorway.

“Miss Bailey, meet Mister Russell Nash,” Rachel said to me.

“A pleasure, Mister Nash,” I said, shaking the man’s hand.

“Indeed, Miss Bailey,” he said to me, with a slight smile.

“Now, where is this armoire you had questions about?” I asked.

“It is over here,” he said, guiding me over to the armoire. “The question was not about the armoire, but about these papers we found in one of the drawers.”

“Hm,” I said, looking at the papers. “Looks like maybe 18th Century. Would you mind if I took these to my office? Maybe I can find out some information for you there.”

“I would like for these to not leave this place. If these papers were to perhaps get lost, then the value of this armoire would decrease,” he said.

“Okay, I have my laptop computer in my bag here. Maybe I can get into one of the many online collections at museums to see if there are similar documents,” I said, setting my laptop down on a table, and connecting it into a nearby phone line.

I scanned the archives of New York to see if I could come up with any matches. As I was doing that, I sneezed, rather loudly at that.

“God Bless you, Miss Bailey,” he said to me, and offered his handkerchief.

“Thank you, Mister Nash,” I said, and took the handkerchief.

“You are welcome,” he said, as he took the handkerchief back. “So, do you have a name, or do you just call yourself Miss Bailey?”

“My given name is Maire. But when I moved here to the United States, I changed it to Moira. Much easier for people to spell,” I said to him.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Ireland. I grew up just outside of Dublin. But I got an opportunity to come to New York University, because of my high grades in school,” I said. “I majored in history.”

“Ah, I see,” he said, just looking into my green eyes. He had such an intense look, that we just looked at each other for what seemed like hours.

The computer beeped as it hit on a match, bringing me back from dreamland. Papers similar to the ones that he found in the armoire turned up in an archive in the city. I clicked on the picture for the enlarged version.

“Hmm. It looks like you have a deed here, Mister Nash,” I said. “A deed to a property somewhere in the city. The deed approximately dates to the late 1790s. I will look up the exact parcel of land for you in the archives, and I will report back to you with my findings,” I said, pushing an errant strand of red hair behind my ear, as I copied the information on the deed into my laptop.

“I hope you will. Just call my assistant when you do find something,” he said. “Maybe then, we can discuss the findings in a more intimate venue.”

“Of course, Mister Nash. If you have any questions, I’ll leave my cell phone number,” I said, as I scribbled my number down on a nearby piece of paper.

I walked out of the shop, confused at what I had seen. Had he planted those papers just to get me to come by, or what? But something about him caught my interest. He was not like the other antique dealers I have come across. It seemed like he almost knew the origin of the papers, but he wanted me to find out what they were; maybe it would provide a clue into the background of this man that I knew absolutely nothing about.

Part Two

My next stop was the main State archives. I walked over to where I knew the deeds were stored. I looked in the section marked 1789-1800. The book was about as big as I was, and I lugged the big book to a nearby table.

About two minutes after I opened the book, there was the master copy of the deed glaring at me from the parchment pages. The deed was for what was now the vicinity of the Lower West Side of Manhattan. I scanned the rest of the document for a name. And I hit on one: Adrian Montague. I quickly typed the name down, then went to scour the birth certificates.

I did find it, and it turns out that this Adrian Montague character had died shortly after birth. Then who was this Adrian Montague who owned this property. I went back to the book, looking for any details on what happened to the property once Mr. Montague passed on.

I found that the property went to a Mister Jacques Lafabret, a supposed descendant of Mr. Montague. Once again, I copied the name down, and went to the birth certificates.

Another dead end. Jacques Lafabret had, just like Montague, died shortly after birth. Now, this was turning into a rather interesting mystery. But I learned what I had found out was just the proverbial tip of the iceberg.

As I was digging about in the deed book again, I came across yet another name, Alfred Nicholson. Another trip to the birth certificates was warranted. Again, like the two previous names on the deed, Alfred Nicholson had died shortly after birth. This was getting crazy. I copied down the remaining names on the deed into my laptop, saved my work, and made my way to putting the books on the nearby cart to be re-shelved.

So, while I was there, I made a trip to Rick, one of the signature specialists on call at the archives, and someone I visited rather often.

“Rick, I was sent to find out the origin of a deed for a property on Hudson Street by an antique dealer. He found the papers in an armoire,” I said to him.

“What is the name on the deed, Moira? I’ll punch it into the computer and see what happens,” Rick asked me.

“It starts with an Adrian Montague, and just continues from there on.”

“All right,” he said as he punched the name into the computer.

Soon enough, a slew of names came up. Montague, Lafabret, and Nicholson were the top three names on the screen. The other names that were on the screen were Rupert Wallingford, and Mister Russell Nash.

“That’s the guy that sent me to get the information for him,” I said as I saw Nash’s name pop up on the screen.

“Who?” Rick asked me.

“Russell Nash,” I said. “Can I ask you something, Rick?”

“Sure, Moira. Shoot.”

“Is it just me, or do all the signatures look similar?”

“They do, and watch.” He he took elements from each of the names, and formed the name Russell Nash. I was stumped. Were Adrian Montague and Russell Nash one and the same?

“Do you mean to tell me that this guy has been around since the 18th century?” I asked Rick, astonished.

“It sure looks that way,” Rick said, just as amazed as I was. I got up and headed back towards the office, incredibly stunned.

“Oh, Moira, I’ll send the information about the papers for auction at Sotheby’s to the office,” Rick said.

“Oh, thanks, Rick,” I said from my own little world. I took the train maze back to the office, puzzling over the information I had found out. How could it be possible for someone to be kicking around for two hundred years plus? It just didn’t seem possible. I decided to put it together later when I got to my office. I walked to the elevator, got in, and went up to the fifth floor where my office was.

As soon as I got there, Madge had a message for me. “Mister Nash called. He wanted to know if you were available for a dinner meeting tonight.”

“Did he leave his number for me to call him back?”

“Yes, he did,” she said as she gave me the number

“Okay, I’ll be in my office,” I said as I walked into the office. I flopped down in my chair, and dialed the number that was left for me.

“Nash’s Antiques, Ms. Ellenstein speaking.”

“Ms. Ellenstein, this is Miss Bailey calling. Mister Nash left a message here at my office.”

“Yes, I see. Could you please hold for a minute?” she said as she put me on hold.

“Nash here,” he said as he picked up the phone.

“Mister Nash, it’s Moira Bailey. I am returning a call you left at my office.”

“Ah, yes, Moira. I just wanted to know if you were available for a dinner meeting at my place tonight?”

“Yes, I am. Plus, I got your information that you requested.”

“All right. Meet me at the shop at around seven.”

“Would you like me to bring something?” I asked.

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you for asking. See you tonight,” he said as he hung up.

I went out of the office, and went home to my apartment. I walked in the hall, and my dog greeted me as soon as I walked in the door. My boxer, Jeff, was more than happy to see me.

“Okay, Jeff, you can go out in a minute. Just let me get changed. Mom has a dinner meeting tonight,” I said as I scratched behind his ears, and received a rather wet kiss in return.

I walked into the bedroom, and Jeff followed me. He took his usual position of lying down on my bed, while I rummaged through my closet.

I found a black cocktail dress. Always good for a dinner meeting. I tried it on, and paired it with a pair of black onyx and diamond earrings that my grandmother gave me before I moved to America.

“What do you think, Jeff?” I said, looking at the lounging boxer on my bed. He gave me the “mom, it’s fine” look.

“Okay, are you sure?” I said looking at him again. He gave me the “yes, mom” look. “Okay,” I said, grabbing his leash, and taking him outside so he could take care of some business. I brought him back in the house, left him some food, and went to Nash’s shop.

Part Three

I walked from the subway station over to the small store on Hudson Street. Checking my watch, I noticed that it was near seven, and I was a bit early to meet Mister Nash.

Gathering up the courage, I walked over to the door, and rang the bell.

Mister Nash answered and guided me into the store, and to the elevator. The ride up to the loft was a rather quiet one, save for the elevator’s low hum.

The elevator reached its destination, and I walked into the apartment. I was floored by just the very space that the loft had.

"Please, make yourself comfortable," he said, taking my overcoat. "I shall return in a moment."

I meandered over to a rounded sofa area, and sat down, looking at the fish that he had in a rather large fish tank. The fish looked like ones that I had seen my father and brother catch in the many lakes that Ireland had.

"They were brought here from a lake in Scotland," he said, walking up behind me.

"They looked awful familiar. Like the ones my father and brother would catch in the lough near our home," I said, as I watched him set a bottle of something or other on the nearby table, along with two glasses.

"I think Ireland and Scotland do indeed have the some of the same fish species," he told her, pouring the amber liquid into each of the two glasses.

I picked up the bottle and glanced at it. Cognac. A sad smile crossed my face as I remembered my father and mother celebrating my eighteenth birthday with a few toasts of cognac.

"Cognac? Haven’t had that in a long while," I said, looking at him.

"Sad to say, it has been a while for me too," he said, handing me a glass.

I put the bottle down, and took the glass. I slowly swirled it around my glass, wondering if he was going to toast or anything.

Instead, he just drank it. I followed his lead, and took a swallow.

He looked at me after he was finished, and moved to sit next to me. "So, what did you find out in the deed?"

"I found out that this deed was a deed to a property very near here," I said, taking another sip of the cognac.

"Oh?" he said, seemingly feigning interest.

"Yes. As a matter of fact, it was the deed to this very building. I should have recognized it as such, due to the architecture of the building. This building just shouts Early Federal."

"Go on." he motioned.

"As a matter of fact, there has been a rather long succession of owners," I said, looking at his expression. "Starting with a Montague. Then, the property transfers ownership to a Frenchman by the name of Lafabret. It goes through two other owners, both Englishmen by the names of Nicholson and Wallingford. Finally, it all pools down to a Russell Nash, whom I would be looking at right now."

He looked at me. He was amazed that I would actually go through all that. Most of my cronies in the business would just look at him like he had three heads.

"Plus, here’s the kicker," I said, "they all had the same signature, only there would be a hint of the styles of writing of their particular period."

Again, he looked at me. I figured it out! I had more mettle than he had previously thought.

"Which leads to three possibilities. One, you are a bloody nutter. Two, you are really some guy that has been around for at least two hundred and fifty years. Three, you are a very clever forger," I said, looking at him. "I really hope that you aren’t a nutter. You seem too, well, put together."

"Would you excuse me for a second, Maire?" he said, actually pronouncing my name correctly. This wowed me quite a bit.

I sat on the couch, looking at the fish in the tank, and hoping that I did not offend him by telling him of my findings.

"Maire, can you please come in here for a second?" he said, calling from a smaller adjoining room with a simple silk covering over the door.

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