The box is of carved wood, about the size of a toaster. Heavier than one might expect. And indisputably locked. Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis had forgotten about it, after tucking it away in a large cardboard carton he marked simply, "V." He studies it now, testing the latch. It is very secure. Something inside makes a clunk when he turns the box over.

He's making another go at clearing out, trying to trim down his collection of mementos of his wife, Valerie, now dead nearly eight years. He remembers setting this box aside the last time he let go of some of her things. He was curious about the contents but he could not get the box open then, nor could he bear to destroy it trying. What kind of secrets had she kept from him? He's not sure he wants to know. He doesn't want to take it to a locksmith. If there are secrets in here, he wants to be the only one to know about them.

He gazes sadly up at the photo of the two of them he keeps close at hand. What was it, Pet, that you never told me about? What did you think I couldn't understand? He knows he has to find out what's in the box. His knowledge can't hurt her any more.

He pours himself a scotch and contemplates the box. She had never mentioned it and he had never known about it while she lived. He found it hidden among her things well back in her wardrobe when he moved out of the home they had shared for so many years. At that point, he was still saving everything of hers. He twisted a knowing smile for his own benefit. Holding on to a person's things does not mean you can hold on to the person, he had come to learn. By now, he needs very few tangible reminders of his partner of roughly twenty-five years. A favorite scarf, still bearing her scent; a photo; a handwritten note of endearment. The rest was clutter, representing his illogical fear that if he got rid of her things, he would forget her.

But now, this box. It is too beautiful to destroy, not if he can find some other way to get in. If only he knew a safecracker!

He refills his glass with more scotch. He can feel it starting to affect him, but what the hell. It is unlikely he'll get called out, and the buzz helps him ignore the spiteful little voice that keeps whispering in his mind. She had some secret she never told you. A terrible secret. Why else lock it up? A lover? An abortion? God, he has to know.

The ringing of his mobile breaks his concentration. He answers it, irritated.

"Yeah, Lewis."

"Robbie, man!" The jovial voice is familiar and unmistakably Geordie.

"Danny! What are you callin' us for on a Sunday night?"

"Well, my local's shut and no one else will give me credit. I get me whack on Monday. But I need a beer tonight."

"You're always welcome to drink my beer, mate. C'mon over."

"Aw, thanks a lot, man."

Lewis's initial irritation gives way to a developing idea. "Hey, Danny?"

"Aye, what?"

"You're good wi' locks, yeah?"

Silence. Lewis knows he has to reassure his friend that he's not asking as a cop. "It's nowt to do with the law, Danny. I've got a lock here I can't budge. I need your help, man."

The relief is audible. "Oh, aye, man. I can do locks. A lock for a beer or two? Sounds even to me."

"Great. Get yourself ower here, man. Howay." As he hangs up the phone, Lewis remarks to himself how he naturally reverts to his native northern dialect when he speaks with his old mates.

He is always being pulled in two directions—the civilizing, sophisticated Oxford that is his home now but still does not feel completely natural to him, and the casual, comfortable Tyneside habits with which he was raised but now rarely practices. He can't help reaching the conclusion that he belongs to neither, rather than to both.

Danny arrives in short order and Lewis has him amply supplied with beer before showing him the box. "This is what I'd like you to look at."

Danny examines it expertly, sizing it up and sounding it out like a worthy adversary. At last he is satisfied. "Nothin' complicated, like. We've got the basics down on this type already. Only take me a few minutes."

"Er . . . Danny." The trepidation in Lewis's voice has the shorter man's immediate attention. He squints in concern.

"What is it, man?"

Lewis takes a deep breath but he doesn't speak.

Danny keys in on his old mate's anxiety. "Where'd you get this, anyway?"

"It was Val's. I dunno what's inside. Didn't know she had it, even."

"Ah." He's quiet a moment. "Somethin' you were never meant to see, then. You sure y'want us to open this? Might be like that box, that What's-Her-Name's Box. The Greek lass."

Lewis firms his lips. "Pandora."

"Aye, that's the one."

"I have to know, Danny. Or else, I'll imagine the worst. It can't hurt her anymore."

"She's not the one I'm thinkin' might get hurt."

Lewis scowls at him. "Just get the bloody lock. I'll open the box later."

Now Danny is stern. "I'll not let you be by yerself when y'open that. You'll do it now while we're here or we'll leave it locked." Lewis has no choice.

"Fine."

Danny pulls out a small tool and fiddles with the lock until a small click is heard. He sets the box on the low table and turns to his old friend.

"Now, I'm gettin' another beer. You see what's inside and I'll be over in the kitchen. You tell me if you want me to stay or go. Alright?"

Lewis says nothing but when Danny has his back turned, he slowly lifts the lid.

"Bloody hell." Whispered.

Danny spins and sees his friend's face has gone white. The lid blocks Danny's view of the contents. He starts to approach but Lewis holds up his hand.

"Stay there." Lewis sprints to his bedroom and when he comes back, he's pulling on a pair of the blue gloves they use for investigating crime scenes. He reaches inside the box and holds up a silver revolver, pinching it delicately by the trigger guard. He turns it around, examining it.

"It's loaded." There is wonder in his voice.

Danny remains where he is. "Is that it, man? Anything else?"

Lewis nods slowly. He carefully replaces the gun and reaches into the box again. This time he holds up a small, glass tube. His professional experience tells him what this is, but he shakes his head, disbelieving. "A crack pipe? And there's stuff in here that looks like rocks of it, or maybe some other drug. And marijuana joints. Money—a stack of twenty-pound notes. A box of cartridges for the gun." Utter confusion fills his face. "What the bloody hell."

Danny comes around and stands next to Lewis, peering into the box. "I s'pose it's good it's not love letters from some other man."

Lewis snorts. "Aye, well, that at least I'd know how to handle. This—I can't figure why she'd have this. She couldn'a' been into drugs. I'd've known." He searches Danny's broad face as though it holds the answers he seeks. "Wouldn't I?"

He's lost.

They stare at the improbable collection for some time. Lewis at last turns away, picks up his empty whisky glass and puts it back down. He drums his fingers, then closes the box and peels off his gloves.

"What am I gonna do with this, Danny?"

Danny grabs the bottle of scotch, pours a measure into Lewis's glass, and hands it to him.

"Well, ye canna go to the cops, man. Not til ya know what this is all aboot."

More silence. Lewis drains his glass in one swallow. Danny watches him, worried.

"Look, Robbie, man. She musta been keepin' it for someone. A friend or a relative, summat like that."

Lewis's eyes snap to him, a tentative relief filling them. "Yeah, that must be it." He takes a pencil and paper from the shelf and reopens the box. Turning the gun carefully with the pencil, he finds the serial number etched into it and writes it down on the paper. "Time to do a little detective work. Only, I'll have to wait til tomorrow. Don't want anyone wondering why I went into the office on a Sunday."

He feels a little better now that he has a plan and a possible explanation he can accept. By the time Danny leaves, he's able to smile a bit.

"Danny, thanks for your help on this. I don't need to tell you . . ."

"Divvn't fret, bonny lad. No one will hear it from us, not even Mack."

"Cheers."