The Constable's Tale (16 page)

“I’m afraid I have sad news,” Harry said. “I knew your son, Noah, in North Carolina.”

Peter Burke made a coarse sigh and his face seemed to fall in on itself. He beckoned Harry inside and, in a tense silence, led him into a parlor on one side of the large central hall. The room was furnished with tables and chairs of simple manufacture that seemed more suited for an unassuming plantation house than a four-story brick-front mansion. One wall was given over to floor-to-ceiling shelves containing row upon row of leather-bound books. In the center of the room was a long pine table whose surface was mostly hidden by scatterings of books, large paper sheets bearing illustrations of plants and animals, and, lying on a metal dinner plate, the carcass of a small brown bird.

“Where is Noah?” Peter said.

“We were attacked by three men on a road outside of Annapolis. Robbers, I reckon. I’m sorry to say Noah was killed by a pistol shot.”

Harry heard a shriek. Turning toward the door, he saw a woman he took to be Noah’s mother. Peter hurried to her side to steady her.

Harry told his story, how Noah had agreed to accompany him on his search for a murderer. The proceedings that had led them first to Williamsburg, then toward Philadelphia.

“This attack,” Peter said. “Did you resist?” They were all seated now, Peter still cradling his wife, whose name was Martha. For a moment Harry considered saying Noah had fallen in a gallant attempt to defeat the robbers. But he told the truth. “They shot at us at almost the same moment they came out of the woods. We didn’t even have a chance to put our hands up.” Deciding a small lie now would be an act of kindness, he added, “I don’t think Noah even had time to understand what was happening. He was killed at once. He did not suffer.”

Martha uttered another cry.

“Could this attack have had anything to do with the business you are on?” said Peter. “Your search for the person you say killed this family in North Carolina?”

“It’s hard to see offhand how the two things could be connected. Though there is something else. We had seen these men before.” Harry recounted their run-in at the tavern the previous night.

“Is it possible this man was trying to provoke a fight? A brawl that his friends might have joined, resulting in your death or serious injury?”

Seeming to take Harry’s silence as a yes, Peter said, “Whatever may prove to be the case, I am at your disposal. I will help in any way I can.”

They asked more about the attack and what Harry knew of Noah’s sojourn in North Carolina. They talked of a journey to Annapolis to see the gravesite and put up a marble. After a while Peter tried to get to his feet, but his knees buckled and he nearly fell to the floor. Harry helped him back into his chair.

“He was so angry when he left,” Peter said. “It will forever haunt my soul that he went to his death with these feelings toward me.”

“He didn’t,” said Harry. “Noah told me he’d come to realize he was judging you too harshly. He was looking forward to seeing you again. I believe he wanted to make amends.”

“Did he really say that?” said Martha.

“Yes.” Then, to Peter, “He also spoke of how glad he was for all the things you taught him.”

Peter began to speak, but his throat tightened. “His anger was justified,” he finally managed. “I was too dismissive of his interests. As I’ve grown older, I fear I have lost some of my concern for the human struggle, the kinds of sorrow people are born into and make for themselves. I’ve been so preoccupied with the natural universe that I’ve been blind to the world at my doorstep.”

Harry stayed the night, falling asleep to the muffled sounds of wailing.

*

The next day, over breakfast, they insisted that Harry keep all of what he had found in Noah’s money belt. “Use every farthing to find your
killer,” said Martha. “And let us know if you need more. If your inquiries should bring clarity to the death of our Noah . . .” She could not finish the sentence.

After they had eaten, Peter went with Harry to the merchant’s store. It looked much like Bannerman’s except larger and with more of everything. A clerk went to get the owner. While they waited Harry drew a butcher’s knife from a slot in a wooden block. The oak handle gleamed softly under coats of lacquer. He tested its heft and balance and the edge, its thinness as it rasped sideways against the ridges of his thumb. As sharp as any blade he had ever held.

“May I compliment you on your taste in cutlery,” said Jacob Merkly as he swept through the door, still buttoning his waistcoat. “This is part of a set, the latest production of the Hunter Foundry in Sheffield, just arrived on our shore this week.”

“It is a handsome thing,” Harry said.

“There is nothing finer than a well-honed knife, don’t you think? Just let your mind go for a moment to that first cut through a piece of freshly dressed beef or a cauliflower still crisp from your garden. How the blade glides through the flesh. As if cleaving gossamer. Following your every command even as you think to issue it. I don’t know about you, sir, but I find the act of carving a good piece of meat a spiritual as well as sensual experience. It is transporting. Almost as good as a dose of laudanum and probably healthier.”

Harry realized he had allowed his jaw to sag on its hinge. He had never thought of a knife in such terms.

“My usual price for something so fine would be two pounds. For my best customers it is one pound, eight shillings, and six pence. That barely covers my purchase cost, but I am a generous man. Also, I buy direct from the foundry and vouchsafe its voyage across the ocean, no factor in between to skinny-up the price.” Merkly held up a forefinger as if to stave off an objection. “I can see by your dress and manner that you are a gentleman, a man of quality. And so, for an even pound-and-eight, it is yours to carry home with you this very day.”

Before Harry could speak, Peter said, “Jacob, I would like you to meet a young friend of mine, Harry Woodyard.”

“Well,” said Merkly, his face brightening further, “since you a friend of Peter’s, I would be pleased to make you an even better bargain.”

Harry decided the only way to get out of the shop without buying a knife was to be direct. He said, “I wonder if you could look at this piece of jewelry and let me know if it might have been sold from your shop.” He showed the badge. “I understand you specialize in this kind of thing, and it may have even come from your store.”

“I do indeed conduct a brisk business in Masonic
accoutrements
.” Merkly laboriously puckered his lips to give the word its French pronunciation, complete with guttural trill. “I keep them locked in a strong cabinet.”

“To guard against the licentious gaze of the uninitiated, I suppose,” said Peter.

“I myself am a member of our Saint John’s Lodge, along with my good friend and customer Benjamin Franklin.” He paused and looked at Harry as if awaiting reaction. Harry supposed that by his silence he gave away that he did not know the gentleman.

“Well, let us have a look,” said Merkly.

Holding an eyepiece on it, he affirmed Bannerman’s judgment. It was a piece of exceptional quality, with its artistic design and skillful execution in the cloisonné style. He also agreed the pine tree represented Massachusetts Bay Colony and that the markings were code.

“It is a cipher commonly employed by Freemasons, I can tell you that. But I could not say its meaning, even if by doing so I would not be breaking an oath. Before even beginning to unstring it, one would need to know a particular word. The author of the code would have selected that word himself. The word, quite literally, is the key that unlocks the cipher.” Merkly made an unlocking motion with his hand. To help Harry understand the idea, he guessed.

“It could be any word in the English language or any other that uses our alphabet. Only the author and those to whom he has divulged it
would know. Through use of this word, applied to this code, members of his circle of confederates would be able to communicate freely among themselves without fear of the messages’ being discovered.”

Inspecting the badge further, Merkly said, “This piece might have been commissioned by its owner as a gift to himself—an indulgence, perhaps, to proclaim his membership in the brotherhood in a stylish way. Or it could have been a presentation, something awarded in honor of some deed, some high level of service, by some person or organization with Masonic ties in New England. The inscription may be a slogan having some special meaning to the honoree.”

“But the markings aren’t even letters,” said Harry. “They are short lines and dots.”

“Ah-ha.” Merkly’s face arranged itself into the relieved smile of one who realizes he is finally able to make himself clear. “And therein lies the true ingenuity of our code. Each mark represents a letter of the alphabet. But to recognize the shapes, one must know not only the key word, but also the pattern into which the letters were assembled.”

Harry nodded. Not because he understood but out of politeness.

“More than that I must not say, on pain of disgrace and, well, death, I suppose. I fear I may already have given away too much.”

“Your standing among the Freemasons is completely safe. I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“And so, back to his original question,” prompted Peter. “Might you have been the one who sold this medal? Would you be able to identify its owner?”

Merkly’s smile turned apologetic. “Oh, I’m afraid not. This line of jewelry is produced especially for the American trade by the House of Wykes on Threadneedle Street in London. Edward Wykes operates under the patronage of the Prince of Wales himself, who, upon the by, is his third cousin once removed. I know Edward well. Good Anglo-Saxon stock. He provisions ladies and gentlemen of the highest quality throughout the kingdom, including the royal household.”

“And how might someone in America have come into possession of this particular brooch, if not through yourself?” Harry tried not to let his voice betray his impatience or growing anxiety over the possibility of having traveled so far only to have the road end at a stone wall. Or an ocean.

“I mentioned that Edward Wykes is an acquaintance. Unfortunately I have yet to persuade him that I should handle his business in the colonies. That is done exclusively through a mutual friend of ours. His name is George Johnston. No doubt you have heard of him. Illegitimate son of some English earl or other. Forced to make his living like all the rest of us not born into fortune, by his enterprise.”

“I don’t expect Mister Johnston might be located here in Philadelphia.” Harry hated to even pose the question, so sure the answer would be disappointing.

“Oh, of course not.” Merkly stopped short and gave Harry a look that was becoming familiar. He had seen the same expression on the faces of several in Williamsburg, including Bannerman. A look that meant the person was readjusting, downward, his estimation of Harry and his familiarity with the larger world.

“George conducts his business in his adopted city.” Merkly pointed his finger toward the ceiling, indicating, Harry guessed, north. “Boston.”

CHAPTER 16

98: Drink not nor talk with your mouth full neither Gaze about you while you are a Drinking.

—R
ULES OF
C
IVILITY

My deareft wife
,

I pray thif Letter finds you & ye Plantation well. I feer I will not be back in tyme to help with the Tobacco Topping but Martin and the others shud be abel to get all the buds off and if need bee they can borrow tyme from one or too of the naybors. Also it is not too early to ftart thinking about burning off ye Underbrush so that Wee may move abowt freely among ye Pines for a feason of Turpentining. Laft year Wee made the fires a little to airly and they got out of hand and fome Trees were Damaged but there is not as much of a Build up now, fo I am not Overly Worried on thif Accownt. I would like to know how My Mother and Natty are faering? & if Judge McLeod and Sheriff Carruthers are very much upfet over My leaving New Bern without letting Them noe My Intentions. I noe that I have abandoned
my Dutees as Conftable for ye time being but there is not much work for Me in that Realm as Wee are between Court Seshons and there are not likely to be many Writf to be ferved or Prisoners efcorted & ye like. As far as I noe Comet Elija is ye only Prisoner of any Import bein’ held at Present and it do not appear to me that He if likely to goe Anywhere until the fuperior Court convenes in Oktober. God willing I will get to the Bauttom of thif Matter well before that happens fo that Poor Old Man may be Free to go about hif Bufinef as before and I will be able to rejoin you and Martin and ye Others in looking after our Plantation. The Trees Wee have been werking are near about empteed of fap & I think they’ll not laft Annuther 2 Years before Wee have to move on to ye next ftand for fome Virgin Dip, but they are probably good yet for 2 or 300 Barrels of Defent Turpentine thif Year and a fair amount of Tar & Pitch. Thif should pay off a confiderable fum of our Debt which You are fo worried of efpecially if Wee can once again find fome fmart Yankee Trader who is fkilled at getting his Ship around ye Kings Cuftoms Men.

My Attemps to find ye owner of ye Mafonic Brooch continue since I have been directed to a Merchant in Bofton who feems All But Certain to be able to tell me who ye Owner is & he might Interpret the Writing on the Back, &
etc.
It would confoom 8 Days of steady Riding to get there but Noahs father Peter Burke fed the Journey can be akomplish’d in about 3 Days by ship. This would alfo fave Labour for Faithful Annie Who is doing well confidering all ye Trials she has been threw. I have already rezerv’d paffage using ye money Noah gave me and expect to leave toomorow.

Yr. moft ob. & Loving Hufband,
etc.
,

Henry Woodyard

HAVING DELIVERED HIS MAIL TO A SOUTH-BOUND PACKET, HE LOCATED
among the thicket of masts waiting at the dock the vessel that would take him north. Two other men fell in behind him in the line of people and horses waiting to board. He realized they were staring at him and then
placed their faces. One he knew only as Mackay, from Bath, a portly, red-cheeked planter about the age Harry’s father would have been were he still alive. Mackay’s companion, a Mister Nelson, was about ten years younger and only slightly less plump. He was captain of the Edenton militia and a representative of that village in the General Assembly. They owned plantations of more or less two thousand acres apiece and were married to sisters. Harry had seen them in New Bern when they were there on business but knew them only in passing. Now it seemed he and they would be spending some time together. He made a note in his mind to get out his
Rules of Civility & Decent Behaviour
, which he had brought along in an act of foresight. There were some subtle points he needed to review regarding persons of higher quality and on which side of them one should place one’s self. It varied from one situation to another.