Grace and Disgrace (19 page)

Tuohay and the others sprang to her assistance as a peal of thunder rumbled above them, marking the coming storm.

Inspector Dennis Frost slid the white lace curtain aside and peered at the hard gray rain with an impatient sigh. The trees on the front lawn of the Plymouth Brewster House swayed dangerously in the lamenting wind as the remnants of East Street swept by in a mass of chaotic brown. The tempest had made its mark on Plymouth in just four short hours, transforming roads into rushing rivers that seemed better suited for the heights of the White Mountains than here. It was not good for Frost, and his displeasure was etched on his face in deep creases. Tearing his eyes from the depressing scene, he dropped his gaze to the silver buttons of his vest. They needed polishing. He stared at them listlessly until the creak of a floorboard brought him from his tepid thoughts. He looked upon his companion reclining peacefully in a soft-back Renoir armchair.

“How in the blazes can you be calm at a time like this?” Frost snapped.

Lamplight flickered above Tuohay. A glass rested on a table at his elbow. “I am far from calm, inspector. Miss Hart resides in Jordan Hospital.” He held up the glass to the light, which held traces of a honey-brown liquid. “A harmless drink, the apparent poisoner.”

“Not a drink, an elixir,” Frost corrected. “Laudanum concocted by Doctor Kearney, it would seem.”

“Or whomever had access to it,” Tuohay countered.

“Fair enough,” Frost allowed. “Either way, someone wanted to harm that young woman. Silence her for good.”

“Not unlike Susan Lovelace and Katy Dwyer.”

“The other two prostitutes from Aiden Kearney’s trial against the archbishop?” Frost shook his head. “I do not think the circumstances are one and the same, not at all.”

Tuohay’s face was an immovable mask. “You should return to Boston, inspector.”

Frost emitted a throaty laugh. “After Miss Hart’s poisoning? No. Where you go, I go. But I would prefer if we were to do something.”

“Such as? You took statements from Doctor Kearney, McNamara and Thayer. You have my statement as well, for what it’s worth.”

“So we just sit calmly about.”

“As I said, what else is there to do?” Tuohay smiled thinly.

Frost glowered at Tuohay and turned back to the window.

Tuohay filled the ensuing silence with a rattling cough, rapid bursts that quickly led to violent heaves. The sudden occurrence left Frost staring uncertainly as Tuohay bent over his knees, loud blasts coming from the depths of his chest. Recovering after several minutes, he dispersed the approaching house manager with a wave and sat up. Reaching into his vest pocket with a shaking hand, he spoke. “It is nothing. I have been dealing with it since I was a boy.” His voice was barely a rasp when he finished. He wiped the red splotches from his lips with a stained handkerchief and leaned back with a small groan.

Frost shook his head. “You sound like the death knell itself.”

“Surely you have heard worse.”

Frost considered for a moment. “Miss Hart gave you a run today with her ghastly reaction to the poison.”

“Quite an unnecessary remark, inspector,” Tuohay admonished.

“There was another time,” Frost continued, unabated. “It was from a man shot in the throat. Came across him on the beat some years ago. I heard the shot in an alley, you see, a little clap it was. I came running, know’n full well I had heard a rounder pop off, and nearly run right past the poor bastard save for his gurgling. He was a goner, but it took some time.”

“Another splendid comparison,” Tuohay remarked dryly. “I feel the better for it already.”

Frost crossed his arms. “You asked.”

“Sound advice for the future. By the by, I have taken the liberty of requesting two rooms for the night.”

Frost scratched his head. “But we’ve been together since arriving. When did you have time to check us rooms?”

“You have been glowering out that window for nearly an hour, inspector. I had quite a sufficient amount of time to transact my business without disturbing you and your grumbling in the least.” Tuohay pointed to a table beside the cushioned chair. “Your key. It is for room 12, just beside my room, 13. If you do not mind, I will take my leave of you until the morrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Frost raised his hand hesitantly. “What if Doctor Kearney calls—”

“The clerk knows to wake each of us if the doctor sends word.”

“But the cost of the room.”

“I covered it,” Tuohay waved dismissively.

Frost’s lips tightened. “I take no man’s charity.”

“Sir, I am in no shape to debate your moral compass at the moment. Consider it a regret for your getting wrapped into this affair.”

“It won’t do. I’ll straighten it out with the proprietor.”

“As you deem fit.”

Frost nodded impatiently. “See you at dawn, Tuohay.”

“The morning will bring new tidings, I am sure. Good evening.” Tuohay exited the small parlor, his cane clicking against the hollow-sounding floor. He passed another guest of the house who remained buried behind the ink-stained pages of
The Plymouth Sun
. Gold buckles on the reader’s boots glinted in the lamp light, catching Frost’s eye.

Shrugging it off, he turned to the window once again. “Curse it all,” he grumbled, eyeing the storm. It had come on quite suddenly and without warning.

Frost smoked in the parlor for a long, protracted hour, pacing to and fro for the majority. The guest had departed without him noticing. As the sky darkened with the approach of evening he paused to contemplate the great thunderheads, their underbellies glowing electric white. The storm had not let up, and even the Brewster House seemed to be suffering from the prolonged assault, its beams shuddering in the fierce wind.

“Nothin’ to do but sleep it out,” Frost murmured, snatching up the key Tuohay had left for him. He stalked out of the room and past the desk clerk without a glance. Reaching room 12, he placed the key at the lock and paused. The metal was etched with the number 13. Frowning, he inserted it into the lock but it did not turn.

“Bloody wrong key,” said Frost, shaking his head. He thought for a moment. “Or wrong room. Who can be sure what is going through Tuohay’s head?” Raising his fist to knock, he refrained. “Ah, the blazes with it.” He lowered his fist and proceeded to room 13, which opened with a well-oiled click.

The electricity had been knocked out by the storm and all was dark within the spacious room save a few scattered moments when a flash of lightning sent a faded glow through the rumpled curtains. Fumbling about for a candle or lamp, Frost found neither at hand. Cursing under his breath, he undressed and fell roughly into bed. The storm battered the walls and sleep did not come as easily as he hoped.

A vague amount of time later, Frost was staring at the ceiling, sleep at the tip of his eyelids. The door to his bedroom creaked open.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, the sleepiness vanishing.

The dim light of a hallway candle crept into the room and fell past the hidden face of an intruder. Something metallic gleamed in the doorway.

“Who—”

“Just a messenger, mac,” was the whispered reply, “And I gots a message for ya.” A short burst shattered the stillness, filling the room with the base odor of gunpowder. Frost’s ears rang painfully. He blinked with incomprehension as a sharp white light flared to life at the far window. Seemingly angelic, the light moved quickly from the corner of the room towards the door. Trembling where he lay, Frost watched as the light revealed itself as a hooded lamp, which was placed on the bureau by Tuohay.

“Get your things,” Tuohay ordered Frost, brushing past the bed. He had a gun in one hand and his cane in the other. The gun, which was still smoking from its charge, was trained on the door where the intruder had been. Swinging the door open, Tuohay gazed down the hall.

“What the devil is going on?” Frost cried.

Tuohay regarded Frost with a frown. “Danger has become deed.” He limped out the door in pursuit, leaving Frost gaping after him.

*

“Is that everything, inspector?” asked the grizzled officer. He wiped the pencil shavings from his notepad with the side of his thumb.

Frost sighed irritably. “Yes. We have been over the break-in
three times
.” The light from the table lamp flickered in the night-shadows. He tapped the remainder of his pipe into the ashtray with impatience. “I cannot sit here any longer. We need to find Inspector Tuohay.”

The officer scratched his silvered beard. “I have a dozen constables on the streets, and another two combing your rooms for clues. But there’s no sign of the inspector or the attacker. In the darkness and with this fog off the shore, a man can barely see beyond the length of his arm…”

“He couldn’t have just disappeared,” Frost growled.

“Stranger things have been known to happen on these streets during a mist.”

Frost stood and slid into his trench coat. “Are we done here?”

“It’s three in the morning, Inspector Frost.”

“So?”

“You’re not going to help anything by searching the streets tonight. Leave it to my men.”

Frost glared at the Plymouth officer. Collecting his hat, he strode to the door of the hotel, checking under his frock coat that his pistol was unbuckled from the holster.

“You best not have gotten yourself killed, Tuohay,” he muttered as he swung the door open. The cold night embraced him with an eerie, billowing fog. “I was just at the point of figuring you out.”

“Be considerate, it’s hot,” said Eliza, handing Eldredge a steaming cup of tea on a saucer.

Eldredge accepted the offer with proper caution, setting the ornate cup to his lips. “Good, very good.”

His gaze wandered appreciatively about the small parlor. Sunlight streamed through the eastern window in a river of gold, splashing three dark Jiaoyi chairs with the translucent morning light. Eliza perched upon a chair like a dawn angel, though a tired one at that—a wrinkled powder-white gown, bleary eyes, disheveled hair, and bare feet peeking from beneath a crumpled hem all struck an atypically unfashionable yet surprisingly charming figure.

Eldredge was settled more conventionally in a cushioned American armchair and rumpled tweed suit, wisps of cigar vapors still lingering from the shared passage on the 7:15 express from Lowell.

“The morning is kind to you,” he remarked to Eliza.

Eliza pushed a stray curl from her eyes with a smile. “I look a fright. But thanks all the same, Johnny.” She stirred her tea.

“How is your mum?”

“Brilliant,” he replied. “Sharp as a tack, as they say.”

“Getting along fine, then.”

“Recovering from a cold, but out of the woods.” He smiled before taking another sip from the steaming cup. “So, Jack?”

“He’s in the next room.” She nodded her head in the direction of a closed door. “Were you followed here?”

“No, of course not. I read your telegram about starlight—our old code for staying concealed—why the secrecy?”

“There was an incident last night. I’ll wait for Tuohay to share more.”

“Whatever is best,” said Eldredge. “How is he?”

“I don’t think he slept a wink. He’s darkly bothered by the poisoning of Miss Hart.”

Eldredge sighed with remorse. “Any word?”

“Only that she is being moved to Boston for proper care, with accompaniment. Likely McNamara and Thayer, and the doctor,” said Eliza. “The transport alone will be dangerous for her. She’s in a fragile state, as I understand it.”

“A terrible business,” Eldredge said. “Have you seen her?”

“The authorities were not letting anyone near her, not even Jack.”

Eldredge frowned. “In your telegram, you said she drank laudanum that Doctor Kearney prescribed, and possibly concocted?”              

Eliza exchanged a glance with Eldredge. “He was questioned, but evidently the police have no reason to hold him.”             

“A terrible thing, the poisoning.” Eldredge’s face was strained with worry. “With everything going on…I just hope I can be of use.”

“It is good to have you back.” A brief silence fell, broken only by the small clink of the teaware. “Not exactly like old times, is it?”

“No. Not exactly.” Eldredge set his cup down and peered towards the door. “I didn’t think I would ever see Jack again when he left Boston to join the RIC.”

“The violent, mindless streets of Belfast. The seething tension that never goes away. Fixing the unfixable. It’s what he thrives on.”

Eldredge considered her words. “He rarely spoke to me of those things.”

“He speaks very little of himself at all,” Eliza commented. “He needs to help people. Not in the manner of a priest or a doctor. In his own way.”

“Should we go see him?”

“Not yet. I am sure he will be out soon, now that it’s morning.”

Eldredge lifted his briefcase onto his lap. “There is this, in the meantime. I’ve made progress on the code. Would you like to see?”

Eliza brightened. “Yes!”

“Well, you were spot-on regarding invisible ink as the technique,” he said, pulling the leather-bound codex from his case. “The remark about Sympathy, along with the wisdom you and Jack provided, led me to the solution in a rather straight-forward manner. Of all the varying methods that could have been used, one rose to the top during my research. Starch.”

“Starch?”

Eldredge released a frustrated sigh. “I should have realized it sooner. It is one of the simplest methods. The thought almost passed me by—until my eye caught the handkerchief.”

“You mean…”

“The handkerchief was heavily starched, nearly to the stiffness of a board,” Eldredge said. “It acted as a fine bookmark. But also as an excellent medium for the invisible ink, along with nitrate of soda.”

Eliza propped her foot on the coffee table, resting her elbow on her raised knee. She dropped her chin onto her fist in the manner of the thinker. “So the hidden message was not in the codex after all, but on the handkerchief.”

“Precisely.” Eldredge pulled the handkerchief out from the book and laid it flat on the coffee table between them. It was stained through, with a black discoloration in the center. “Iodide of potassium was all I needed to develop the message, which was expertly stenciled.”

Eliza bent forward. Close examination revealed a list of faded letters.

Ulwvihvzruiyfxafzvrhtexsvloaxijgwzbukelfpzxnogmijvbzekwvieotchtjwjmixsekmtbuinwijvhsemvidjlszi

She looked up with a quizzical frown. “Whoever put this together is mad as hops.”

“It is simpler than it seems, I am certain.”

“Did you make it any further than this gaggle of letters?”

Eldredge released a long sigh. “Unfortunately, no. There were no simple patterns to speak of. Is it a transposition cypher? A substitution cypher? I looked for repeating letters, employed statistical formulas, created deciphering tables in an attempt to create patterns from a possible random key. All to no avail.”

Eliza took the handkerchief and studied it. “Nothing whatsoever?”

“Nothing worth mentioning,” he said. He rubbed his hands together with tense energy, his brows furrowed. “I will not be beat, of course. I currently suspect that it is either a random or book key.”

“Fascinating,” Eliza remarked. “It has the feel of a secret society, doesn’t it? Freemasons, that sort of thing. I have always been intrigued by such things. You know, secret societies where nonconformists debate about God, about nature and the universe. It was where rationalists could study mathematics and science, hidden safely away from the repressive eyes of church and state. Freethinkers will find a way. ”

“
This above all: to thine own self be true
,” said Eldredge.

Eliza stared at Eldredge. “What did you say?”

Eldredge blinked. “To thine own self be true. You know, Hamlet. Your mention of Freethinkers brought it to mind.”

“Shakespeare,” Eliza whispered. She stared at the handkerchief. “Let me see that.” She took it into her hand. “The embroidery on this handkerchief.
Strawberries
. Strawberries….remember?”

“Remember what?” said Eldredge. “Are the strawberries meaningful?”

Eliza jumped up and began to pace. “Father Donnelly’s study was bursting at the seams with Shakespeare paraphernalia.”

“I am not following.”

“A handkerchief with strawberry embroidery.
Othello
, Johnny. Everyone knows that.”

“
Playwrights
may know that,” Eldredge said, “and Shakespearean scholars. Of which you are both. But not everyone—”

“
Anyone
who cares at all about the works of the greatest writer of all time knows,” Eliza said sternly. Eldredge looked hurt, and she waved the admonishment away. “But in any case, think of it. What if the handkerchief is more than just where the message was hidden? What if it is also a symbol for how to break the code that was written on it? Is there anything Shakespearean that comes to mind in the codes you have looked at? Or Othello? Yes, focus on Othello specifically.”

Eldredge scratched his head. “Ah… let me see. Othello…” He extracted his papers from the briefcase and sorted through them. Several pages fluttered to the ground in his haste.

After a minute he looked up with resignation. “I must admit, I do not have the faintest idea what I am looking for.”

He pointed at Eliza. “
You
are the expert, however. Perhaps there was an unwritten understanding between the sender and receiver of the code. Something that would have been triggered by a certain clue, such as the handkerchief’s reference to Othello. Are there famous characters in Othello? Famous themes, famous lines? Quotes?”

“There are all of those, and more,” said Eliza, her eyes wide with exasperation. “We are talking about one of the most famous plays in history.”

“Ah yes, of course.” He tapped his fingers on his knee. “So?”

Eliza’s initial excitement faded from her face. “Now it’s suddenly sounding like a silly thought. No need to send us on a wild goose chase.” Doubt lingered in her voice. “Where would we even start?” She looked at the handkerchief as if hoping the answer would materialize on its surface.

“Fifty-two and fifty-three.”

Eldredge and Eliza turned to the doorway where Tuohay stood in a wrinkled shirt and breeches, the stub of a clove cigarette in his hand. He leaned against his cane heavily, unshaven and fatigued. But a tireless energy burned in his eyes.

Eldredge stood with a smile. “Jack!” He paused, contemplating Tuohay’s words. “Sorry?”

“The pages that the handkerchief marked, you ninny,” Eliza scolded Eldredge. “Don’t you remember? You even asked about them in your telegram.”

“Yes…” said Eldredge. “Pages fifty-two and fifty-three… of the play, perhaps?”

“Pages are not standard,” said Eliza, “those depend on the size of the volume.”

“But Acts and Scenes are,” said Tuohay.

“And so are lines!” Eliza turned to Eldredge, her voice brimming with excitement. “It may be a long shot, but we need a copy of Othello.”             

*

A plume of green-tinted smoke rose from the interior of the study, the scent of cloves and peppermint heavy in the air. Eliza pushed open a set of windows, breathing deeply as a cool autumn breeze brushed past her face. Tuohay watched from the corner of the room, a freshly lit cigarette in his hand and a small mountain of ashes in a bowl at his side. Papers were strewn about the table and floor, many with markings in ink.

The three companions stretched out at the corners of a squat table cluttered with paper and ink, maps, books, empty wine bottles and plates offering half-eaten baguettes and crumbs of cheese. Tuohay was seated on the floor with his back to the wall, his long legs stretched out before him.

“Well, old boy?” Tuohay asked Eldredge.

“Keep your knickers on, Jack,” Eliza said distractedly as she looked over Eldredge’s shoulder. “Johnny’s almost done.”

Eldredge pushed his spectacles up with one hand as he continued to scrawl with the other, referring to the codex often. After a few minutes more his hand relaxed from its maddened scribbling. Exhaling, he wrote a single word and set the pencil down:

revelation

“Revelation?” Eliza exclaimed. “That’s
it
?”

Eldredge scratched his jaw. “As far as I can tell.”

“Great.
Another
mystery. Or a joke.” Eliza crossed her arms. “So how did you come up with it?”

Eldredge pinched the bridge of his nose. “For starters, you got me the key when you retrieved Othello from the library.”

“You’d think I wouldn’t have to travel twelve blocks to get hold of a work by the greatest author on earth,” Eliza complained.

“Fifty-two and fifty-three.” Eldredge flipped the codex open to those pages. “Not only was the starched handkerchief found between these pages, but the pages themselves had small hand-sketches of strawberries along the border. Thanks to your cleverness, Eliza, we checked Othello and after some juggling of numbers, found what we were looking for in Scene Five, Act Two, Line Fifty-Three.”

“
Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin
,” Eliza recited.

“Precisely. And that phrase is the cipher’s key. When the key was run against the garbled letters on the handkerchief, aka the cypher, it gave the following.” He pointed to his penciled notes with a smudged finger.

Beseechinsulatingondontoknavebloomingnhabitlatherdisagreeadvocacyrevelationdeliverpalfreyshook

“A list of words,” said Eliza.

“Yes,” said Eldredge. “I spent the better part of an hour looking each of these words up in the codex, and writing down the pertaining meanings. I then summarized and reviewed the meanings as a whole—rearranging them, looking for themes, looking for duplicates, looking for indicators, for anomalies. In the short time I spent, everything came up nonsensical. But then it struck me. There was one word that was not in the codex. The only word without a translation. So I thought—perhaps
it
is the answer, plain and simple.”

“Revelation,” said Eliza. “So that’s it, then? You think the entire cryptic message boils down to that? It almost seems…”