- Williamsburg, Friday evening, 28 March 1755

They continued past shops and houses. A loose sheet of paper blew from the north side of the street and caught beneath the chair’s wheel. Pike stopped before the horse could trample it.

A woman hurried from the doorway of a printing office. She was near Julian’s age, perhaps somewhat younger, dressed in a dark working gown with a linen cap and apron. Several folded newspapers rested against one hip. A faint streak of black marked the side of her right hand.

Julian leaned down and retrieved the sheet. The ink was fresh enough to stain his glove, “The Gazette?” he asked.

“The outside sheet of it,” said the woman. Her eyes moved from his face to his mud-stained coat, then to the paper. “You have put your thumb through an advertisement.”

Julian looked at his thumb. His gloved thumb had indeed blurred two lines of type. “Then I have performed my first service to colonial commerce,” Julian tried to be funny.

“You have obscured a notice for a missing horse,” said the woman

“I withdraw my claim.”

She took the sheet from him and examined the damage.

“You are Mr. Hunter’s printer?” Julian asked.

“I work in Mr. Hunter’s printing office,” said the woman.

“A cautious distinction,” stated Julian, admiringly

“An accurate one,” said the woman.

Pike cleared his throat. “Mrs. Mercer,” he grunted.

The woman glanced at him. “Mr. Pike.”

“This is Mr. Julian Harcourt,” said Pike. At the name, her attention returned to Julian.

The change was slight, but Julian saw it. “You knew my uncle?” he asked.

“Everyone in the printing office knew Mr. Thomas Harcourt,” said Mercer.

“That is not what I asked,” snorted Julian.

“No.” Mrs. Mercer folded the damaged sheet with the spoiled advertisement inward.

“My uncle appears to have inspired a colonial preference for indirect answers,” chided Julian.

“Perhaps, he asked dangerous questions,” said Mercer.

Before Julian could respond, a boy called from inside the printing office. “Mrs. Mercer, the form is ready.” She looked toward the doorway. Julian saw the dim interior beyond her: type cases, hanging paper, a press, and men moving in the close black-and-white labor of producing words. The woman shifted the newspapers beneath her arm.

“Welcome to Williamsburg, Mr. Harcourt,” she curtseyed. Her tone made the welcome sound less certain than Colonel Rooke’s.

“Will I see you again, Mrs. Mercer?” asked Julian.

“If you read the Gazette, you will see my errors,” said Mercer.

“And your work?” asked Julian.

“That will appear under another man’s name.” She returned inside. The press gave a heavy wooden groan, followed by the soft beat of ink against type.

Pike drove on. “Anne Mercer,” he said. “Widow. Printer’s daughter.”

“Does she always speak as though correcting a proof?” asked Julian.

“She generally has cause,” said Pike.

Julian glanced back. Anne had disappeared into the office, but the blurred advertisement remained visible in his mind. Missing horse. Missing man. Misplaced pin.

The colony seemed determined to introduce itself through absences.

They passed Market Square, where the Magazine stood behind its wall, then the turn toward Palace Street. The Royal Governor’s Palace was almost obscured in the distance past the Magazine.

Bruton Parish Church rose nearby within its churchyard. On this Good Friday, its bell sounded once in the late afternoon, solemn and measured. People in the street did not stop, but some lowered their voices.

Farther west, the College remained at the end of the long perspective. Pike turned south before they reached it; taking Francis Street, the southern back street, where the houses stood with more space between them and gardens extended behind fences.

Thomas Harcourt’s house occupied a narrow lot beneath two old trees.

It was a modest story-and-a-half dwelling with dormer windows, weathered boards, and a central chimney. A small kitchen building stood behind it. The front garden had gone untended. Dead stalks leaned across the path. One shutter hung lower than the other.

No smoke rose from the chimney. The house looked neither haunted nor mournful. It looked abandoned in haste. Pike stopped the chair at the gate. Julian did not immediately climb down.

During the voyage, Thomas’s death had remained an event described in letters. “A fall”. A bridge. Darkness. Drink. A body recovered from water. An estate requiring attention.

The house made his uncle dead in a new way. Its silence possessed shape.

Pike began untying the dispatch box.

“Who has the key?” Julian asked.

“You do,” said Pike.

“I was given no key,” rebuffed Julian.

Pike looked at him. “Then, perhaps Colonel Rooke’s office has it,” suggested Pike.

Julian examined the front door. The lock showed no obvious damage.

A brass plate beside it had once been polished. Beneath the tarnish, the name ‘T. HARCOURT’ remained faintly visible.

“What did you mean at Yorktown?” Julian asked.

Pike continued working at the rope. “When?”

“You said my uncle left more orders than living men,” stated Julian flatly.

Pike’s hands slowed. “I said some dead men do.”

“You were speaking of Thomas,” said Julian.

“I should not have,” explained Pike.

“That is not a denial,” noticed Julian.

Pike pulled the last knot loose and set the dispatch box on the ground. For several seconds he studied the empty windows. “Your uncle came to the Raleigh Tavern one evening back in January,” he said. “He had papers under his coat and mud to his knees. He asked who had passed on the York Road, who had gone toward Capitol Landing, who had hired horses, and whether any survey crews had returned after dark,” recalled Pike.

“What was he searching for?” asked Julian.

“He would not say,” said Pike.

“Did he appear afraid?” asked Julian.

Pike thought. “No.”

“What, then?” asked Julian.

“Ashamed,” explained Pike. The word struck harder than Julian expected. Pike placed the portmanteau beside the box.

“Thomas told a room full of men that half the colony had been measured with a dishonest chain. Most laughed. But Colonel Rooke did not,” explained Pike.

Julian looked at the house. A movement touched one of the upper windows. Not a figure. Only the briefest change in darkness behind the glass. He stepped through the gate.

Pike caught his sleeve. “Mr. Harcourt.”

Julian turned. The driver’s face had lost its customary uncertainty.

“Do not enter alone,” warned Pike. His face became stern as if giving a command, rather than looking out for the relative of a man he once knew.

“You have just told me the house is empty,” said Julian.

“I said no such thing,” said Pike. Julian’s brow furrowed.

From somewhere inside came a faint metallic sound. One small click. Then another. Julian looked toward the door. The sound was regular, delicate, and unmistakable.

A clock was ticking inside Thomas Harcourt’s dead house. Julian drew the silver watch from his pocket. The second hand moved. For an instant, the two mechanisms seemed to answer one another through the locked door. Then the ticking within stopped. Julian closed his watch.

“Mr. Pike,” Julian said, removing his glove, “find me the key.” Pike did not move.

Julian placed one hand upon the hilt of his sword and looked again at the darkened window. Virginia had first appeared as a line. Before the day was finished, someone had already moved it.

Next Chapter: Chapter 5: The Clock